The Everything Box (26 page)

As he fell, Coop reached out and grabbed one of the swinging pendulums. That was the good news. The bad news was that he and Phil were now carried in dizzying arcs back and forth across the room. The hallway door was no more than twenty feet away, but there were three more pendulums between them and the way out. Coop looked up and saw the tarantula climbing down the pendulum he
was clinging to and did the only semirational thing he could think of. He jumped to the next pendulum, catching it just as it passed by.

Phil didn't scream this time. In fact, he felt like dead weight in Coop's head.
Can ghosts faint?
Coop wondered. Deciding to explore that bit of trivia later, he leapt to the next pendulum. Just one more until he could jump back into the hall and the way out. As he checked his timing, preparing to jump, his goggles went black.

The tarantula had dropped down onto his head.

Coop screamed and jumped. Or jumped and screamed. Later, he was never entirely sure what happened beyond the fact that his body did something explosive and he didn't die. He hit the last pendulum hard, sliding down to his knees on the top of the blade. Not being able to reach the bastard repellent from that position, he resorted to punching himself in the face until his goggles cleared. He didn't wait for Phil or look for the spider or anything else. He just jumped, landed on the floor, rolled against the wall and lay curled in a fetal position for a moment, hoping he hadn't set off any more traps.

After a couple of minutes had gone by, Coop got to his feet and ran back down the stairs the way he and Phil had come. Each killing curse—the heat ones, the cold ones, the ones meant to slice him in half—felt great, and not just because they reminded him he was alive. He knew there wasn't a spider on Earth, even one the size of a wagon wheel (the tarantula was already getting bigger in his head) that could live through that much dark magic.

Coop made it back to the basement and dove through the Stink Missile's hatch, locking it behind him.

“So, how did it go?” said Morty.

Coop tore off the respirator. “You didn't hear?”

“For a while, but then you both kind of faded out.”

Coop tore off the goggles and pulled back the hood on his suit. “Just get us out of here. I'll tell you about it later.”

“Good. Start with why you smell like a wolf peed on you while you were eating linguine.”

Coop kept checking the timer on the Missile's control panel. “Is this right? We're almost at two hours. It didn't feel like it took that long.”

“Relax. The tunnel's already dug. We've got plenty of time.”

“You do remember the part where Nelson said we'd blow up if we didn't get back soon?”

“Relax. I've been playing with the controls while you were gone. I can make it go faster this time.”

Coop looked at Morty as they started to move. “Is that a good idea? Why don't we just go out like we came in?”

“Relax. It'll be fine.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘relax'?”

Morty reached over and opened a small storage hatch to the side of the control panel. “I found these Xanax inside. They really make the trip easier. Want to try one?”

Coop leaned back in his seat.
Is a drunk driver worse on the freeway or in a sewer pipe?
he wondered.

Morty cocked his head. “Is that like one of those Zen koans?”

“Did I say that out loud? Yes. Contemplate it as we're blown to Kitty Litter all over Laurel Canyon.”

Morty frowned and touched his head. “Where's Phil?”

“I don't know. I haven't heard from him for a while. Can ghosts have an aneurysm?”

“You know, if you took a Xanax, maybe it would calm him down, too.”

“I'm not taking any pills. I just want out of this thing before we turn into the Fourth of July.”

“What shook you up so much back there?”

“Spiders. Lot and lots of spiders. There was a tarantula the size of a pickup truck. It reared up on its hind legs like a goddamn grizzly bear.”

Morty nodded. “Oh yeah. They call those bird-killing spiders. They're all over the Amazon. I saw a documentary. You know, what's really interesting about them—”

“Morty.”

“Yeah?”

“Give me a Xanax.”

They bumped through the ground back into the sewer pipe. Coop
watched the GPS readout and the clock. The clock he understood. He wished he'd paid more attention to the GPS on the way in.

“How much longer?” he said.

“You're really jumpy.”

“Morty. How much longer?”

The Missile shivered and stopped. Morty smiled at him. “We're here. I told you it was faster back.”

Coop grabbed Morty in a big bear hug as they felt something hook onto the front of the Missile and pull it out of the ground. Coop looked at the countdown clock.

It read 1:58.

The moment the missile leveled out, Coop pushed the hatch open and jumped out. He looked around and ran to Nelson. “We're back. Turn off the timer.”

Nelson looked at him. “What timer?”

“The two-hour timer. The bomb.”

Nelson laughed. “You poor dumb animal. You believed I was going to blow up federal property? I know Giselle thinks you're a moron, but Bayliss kind of liked you. Wait till I tell her I made you piss yourself with the oldest gag in the spy game.”

Coop's shoulders relaxed a little as the Xanax kicked in.

“Did you get the box?” said Nelson.

“Yeah,” said Coop. “It's right here.” He turned and swung his whole body around, slamming a fist square into Nelson's nose. Nelson fell back onto the asphalt. Coop unzipped his backpack and tossed the box onto Nelson's lap.

He went back over to Morty and put an arm around his shoulder. “Thanks for the Xanax. I'm feeling a lot better.”

IT WAS TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING. THERE WAS COF
FEE,
but it was still too early. Plus, Nelson had a wide strip of surgical tape across his nose. But it was the lack of donuts that made Coop think there was a better than even chance that he was about to be arrested.

They were back in the same DOPS office they'd been using since the day he'd been thrown in a van and almost eaten by a hellhound. Nelson stood against the wall across from Coop smirking. Bayliss was over there, too, but keeping a cool distance from Nelson. Her sympathy for her partner's medical condition appeared to Coop to border on the microscopic. At least that was nice, he thought. Giselle sat next to him on his side of the desk, which he didn't mind either. Coop was the only one drinking. He had vivid memories of the coffee in Surf City. Prison coffee was like someone had shouted the word
coffee
into a bag of potting soil and strained the boiled sludge through a dirty T-shirt.
If he was heading back to jail,
Coop thought,
he was going to float in on a wave of government coffee.

“How was your last night as a free man, dipshit?” said Nelson. “Salzman's on his way down right now with the paperwork to put you away again.”

Coop leaned his elbows on the table. “I can't say that going to prison for punching you sounds like fun, but if I have to go back, at least I'm going in for doing something I enjoyed.”

Bayliss looked even more uncomfortable than usual when she turned to Nelson and said, “You know, you don't have to press charges.”

“Of course I do. This mad dog is a menace. The next thing you know he'll be biting mailmen,” said Nelson.

Bayliss shook her head. “You're such an asshole.”

“Excuse me? Who's the injured party here?”

“You've done nothing but ride him—and Giselle—since he got here. Frankly, with your attitude, I'm surprised no one's taken a poke at you before.”

“Thanks for standing up for me, partner. I won't forget it,” said Nelson.

“Let it go, Bayliss,” said Coop. “I'm happy I punched him. In the same circumstances, I'd do it again. Hell, I'd like to punch him now.”

“Me, too,” said Giselle.

Nelson pointed at her. “You want trouble, too, sister? I have filing cabinets full of forms. I can write reports on all of you.”

“So can I,” said Bayliss. She looked at the floor for a minute before turning to Nelson. “When I think of all the times I kept my mouth shut when you showed up for work hammered . . .”

He raised his eyebrows. “You're going to take this jailbird's side?”

“No, mine. If you file charges, so do I.”

Nelson smiled. “Well, it's too late. The papers are all in. No matter what Goody Two-Shoes plan you have, Machine Gun Kelly here is going bye-bye.”

“This is good coffee,” said Coop. He was dog tired and just wanted everyone to shut up. He'd spent most of the previous night dreaming of spiders riding steel turds down an endless water slide. He'd almost called Giselle a couple of times, but chickened out. He looked at her now and she gave him a rueful smile. She squeezed his hand briefly before letting go and pulling away.

“Thanks for what you two did keeping Babylon out of the way last night. If he'd showed up, me, Phil, and Morty would have been double screwed.”

Bayliss and Giselle smiled at each other. Bayliss said, “I heard you left quite a mess for him when he got home.”

“Nothing a can of Raid and a bulldozer won't fix.”

“He'll know you did it, you know,” said Giselle.

“Good. He took a potshot at me once. I was just returning the favor.”

“Big talker,” said Nelson. “If he knows it was you, how long do you think you're going to last in prison?”

“About as long as you out here if I tell everyone that you're the one who forced me to pull the job.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“A bad boy like you with a drinking problem. Who knows who you owe favors to? You blackmailed me into doing your evil bidding. I begged and pleaded, but to no avail. A story like that wouldn't be a hard sell.”

Nelson started to say something, but Salzman came in, a folder under one arm and the box in a clear plastic evidence bag in the other. He sat at the end of the table, placed the folder in front of him and the box next to it. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything.” He looked at Nelson. “That's quite a shiner you have there, Nelson. Cut yourself shaving?”

“No, sir,” he said. “I made a report about it last night.”

Salzman waved a hand at him without looking up. He opened the folder and began thumbing through the pages. “We'll get to that,” he said. “Why doesn't everybody have a seat and we'll begin?”

Salzman looked up at Coop and said, “What did you think of our crawler? We have high hopes for it, but it hasn't had much field service yet.”

Coop sipped his coffee. “The Stink Missile got us there and back and didn't kill us. I give it a gold star.”

“Wonderful. It was a good plan you came up with, and without much time to do it in. We're all impressed upstairs. In fact, Mr. Woolrich sent me down here to offer you a permanent job here at the DOPS.”

Nelson cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but how can he work here if he's in jail? Aren't we going to deal with the fact this man assaulted me?”

“Of course. But first things first,” said Salzman. He looked at Coop. “Well, what do you think? Would you like to join us here at Peculiar Science?”

Coop turned to Giselle, who raised her eyebrows in a please-don't-be-stupid expression. He drank more of his coffee.

“Excuse me,” said Salzman. “I forgot something.” He got out his phone, hit a number, and said, “Roderick, would you bring me my silver pen? Yes, the one by the requisition forms? Thanks.”

“Sir, I have to protest here,” said Nelson. “This man is a professional criminal. All his friends are professional criminals. All of his interests revolve around crime, and he just about broke my nose last night.”

“As I understand it, most of the crew that pulled off last night's box retrieval were, at one time or other, professional criminals. My goodness, half of the mook and Fractal DNA departments are under indictment somewhere in the world. Are you saying we should clear out some of our most valuable agents?”

“No. Just the ones who punch me.”

“Really? Are you going to make this big a deal out of a little scratch? It's my understanding that most of your department has wanted to punch you at one time or other. Why do you think there's so much spit and other nastiness in your coffee?” said Salzman.

“What?” said Nelson.

“Let me put it this way, I wouldn't go leaving my beverages sitting around on my desk unattended if I were you. My guess is the only reason you've survived this long is that all that alcohol you swill has rendered most of your organs inert. And God knows what's going into any food you leave in the break room refrigerator.”

Nelson sat quietly with his hands on the table. Coop was pretty sure he was trying to calculate how much vulnerable coffee he'd left out on his desk over the years he'd been with the agency. Judging by the color his face was turning, it was more than he was capable of dealing with at the moment.

“So, Coop, back to you,” Salzman said, turning back to him. “Would you like to join our little family?”

Coop and Giselle looked at each other again. He thought he saw
the million-dollar smile he'd spotted the other day at Týden Divu. He liked seeing it pointed in his direction for once.

There was a brief knock on the door. It opened and something flew in. It was sort of like a large bat or a small flying manta ray with a slit mouth and fleshy wings. It flapped around the room a couple of times before hovering over Salzman and dropping a pen in his lap. “Thanks, Roderick. Tell Lillian to push back my noon meeting to one, will you? Thanks.”

The manta bat circled the room again and went out the door, somehow pulling the thing closed behind it. Salzman clicked his pen and set it on his papers. “Coop, I think the floor is yours.”

Coop stared at the door for a few seconds more and turned to Salzman. “What was that?”

“That was Roderick. One of my assistants upstairs.”

“One of your Peculiar Science projects?”

“Yes. What do you think?”

Coop sighed. “Don't take this the wrong way, but any job offer that starts with a kidnapping and ends with a delivery bat, it's one I have to respectfully decline. We had a deal before, and that's the one I want to stick to.”

Salzman frowned. “I'm sorry to hear that. And yes, for what it's worth, I think we could have approached you better at the beginning, but there it is. Even we can't go back in time and fix things. Well, we can, but people tend to return without bones or veins or some damned thing. I don't remember.”

“So, we're okay? The original deal stands? I can just walk away?” said Coop.

“Of course. We're men and women of our word around here,” said Salzman, stacking the papers in his folder. “I assume you turned in your company equipment from last night's escapade?”

“Yes. Last night before I left.”

“Very good.”

“I have a couple more quick questions. Will I get back any of the money I used to get Giselle and me out of that bar in Squid City?”

“Do you have a receipt?” said Salzman.

“No.”

“Then I'm afraid I can't help you.”

“Okay. How about getting reimbursed for the clothes Dick Tracy over there threw out of the van on the way over here?”

“Again, do you have a receipt?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well then, we can probably do something about that. Would one of you get him the forms to fill out?”

Giselle got up, went to a file cabinet in a corner of the room, and came back with some papers. She dropped them on the table in front of Coop without a word.

Nelson looked around. “So, that's it? This guy does one little job and he gets to walk away scot-free after attacking me?” said Nelson.

“That is the way it looks,” said Salzman. He stood up, took the folder and the box under one arm, and held out his hand while Coop was filling out the form. “No chance of changing your mind?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Coop.

“Well, thanks for your good work. And a great personal thanks for the box.”

“Sure,” said Coop. “Glad to do it.”

Salzman walked out with Nelson trailing after him. Coop filled in as much of the form as he could, but was stumped by a question on the bottom. When he turned to ask Giselle a question, her chair was empty. She was gone. Bayliss shrugged when he looked at her.

“Sorry,” she said. “Come and find me when you're done and I'll make sure the form gets processed.”

She left and he filled in a few more lines. Then he wadded up the paper and tossed it in a trash can. He got up and left.

To anyone who didn't recognize him as a hardworking angel with a malfunctioning Heavenly map of the world, Qaphsiel would have looked more than a little unstable. He wandered up and down North Gower Street staring at what to any mortal going by looked like a small tablecloth. He shook it. Folded and refolded it. Held it over his head. Turned it upside down. And occasionally whacked it against
the trunk of one of the palm trees that dotted the street. Nothing seemed to make him or the map happy.

Qaphsiel spotted some shade ahead and stopped to sit on the front steps of an out-of-business deli. He was so close. The map had led him step by step to Gower Street, even flashing the face of the sandy-haired man, before turning to static again. He closed his eyes and pictured a man's face. Qaphsiel knew he wasn't far. Somewhere in walking distance, in fact. But Gower stretched dozens of blocks from the hills north of Hollywood down past Beverly. Thousands of people lived along the road. Was this a test from Heaven? Was he supposed to wander up and down Gower, knocking on every door, asking if they knew a blond man who held the fate of the planet in his hands? Qaphsiel shook the map again and rubbed his eyes. Evening was coming on, but the sun reflecting off the map all day had given him a headache. He heard a horn honk the moment he closed his eyes. When he opened them, an LAPD patrol car was idling at the curb. The cop on the passenger side waved Qaphsiel along. The angel got up, raised a hand in a weary greeting, and returned to his walk. The patrol car drove on. Everything felt like a test today.

He was studying a certain spot on the map as he stepped off the curb at Santa Monica Boulevard, right into the path of a car in the process of running a stop sign. It hit Qaphsiel broadside and he flew end over end a good fifty feet down the street. When he crawled to his feet, a little sore but basically intact, he limped back to the corner. The car that had hit him was demolished, the front end a pancake with a deep U shape in the front where it had made contact with the angel.

“Are you all right?” Qaphsiel asked the driver.

“Holy shit. How are you alive?” he replied. He was a young man in a UCLA T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. “You flew like a fucking mile.”

Qaphsiel dusted himself off. He felt all right and didn't want to waste any more time. Holding his hands straight out from his sides, he smiled broadly. “See? No damage done.”

The young man's eyes went wide and he stumbled back into his pancaked car.

“It's all right. Look. I'm fine,” said Qaphsiel.

“You,” said the young man. The young man pointed with a trembling hand. “You have wings.”

Qaphsiel looked over each shoulder. When he'd skidded on the asphalt he'd torn his Windbreaker to shreds. Now, his wings were sticking out straight from his back.

“Oh, crap.”

The young man got closer. “Are you like a mutant?” he said.

Qaphsiel cleared his throat. “What's your name?”