The Flinkwater Factor (16 page)

42

ELF

“
Tell me about this Brazen Bull,” said the Sasquatch as he stirred a spoonful of honey into his tea. “Since that seems to be where all this folderol started.”

“What's folderol?” I asked. That was a mistake.

“Folderol, brouhaha, fuss, commotion, ballyhoo, tempest in a—”

“Gilly!” said both Mom and I at once.

“Sorry,” he said. The man was a walking thesaurus.

Dad said, “We still don't understand what, exactly, caused the SCIC outbreak. I mean, we know it's somehow triggered by the visual sublimi­nals inserted by Billy George. However, when we extract the subliminals from the program and replay them on their own, they have no effect on any of our volunteers, but when combined with
the bull animation, the subliminals trigger SCIC in
one hundred percent
of our volunteers.”

“It didn't affect
me,
” my mom said with a hint of pride in her voice.

“Yes, not everybody who had viewed it in the wild, as it were, was affected—only seventy-two percent of the Flinkwater population who viewed the animation got bonked.”

“I looked at the screenie on Theo Winkleman's computer,” I said. “He bonked but I didn't.”

“It takes about thirty seconds for SCIC to set in,” my dad said. “At this point, we know that the bull animation plus the subliminals can trigger a coma, but we still don't know how. Or why.”

“Seventy-two percent,” said Gilly.

We all looked at him.

“You said seventy-two percent of people were affected.”

“That's right,” said my father.

“But one hundred percent of your test subjects succumbed.”

“Yes.”

“Elf sounds,” said the Sasquatch.

“Elf sounds?” I said.

“Seventy-two out of one hundred Flinkwater residents use D-Monix computers. Did you use D-Monix tabs for your tests?”

My father nodded slowly. We stared at Gilly as
he stirred another spoonful of honey into his tea.

“What do elves have to do with it?” I asked.

“E-L-F, stands for Extremely Low Frequency,” my dad said. “Infrasonics. Sounds below what the human ear is capable of hearing. Elephants and whales use it to communicate over long distances.”

“Like a supersubwoofer?”

“Precisely,” said Gilly.

“Why would they use speakers nobody can hear?” I asked.

“D-Monix claims that their infrasonic-enabled speakers enhance the listening experience on a subliminal level.”

“Subliminal,” said my father thoughtfully.

“Subliminal,” said Gilly. They looked at each other.

“That would explain why I wasn't affected,” my mother said. “I use a Google tablet.” My mom could be embarrassingly retro.

“Do you mean the Brazen Bull didn't have anything to do with everybody bonking?” I said.

Gilly shook his head. His hair kept on moving after he stopped.

“I suspect that the coma-causing infrasonics were already in the computers. The bull screenie, combined with the subliminals embedded by this boy Billy, acted as a trigger. Though how or why, I do not know. I cannot believe it was an accident.”

“I bet Billy could figure it out,” I said.

“Billy George—is it possible that he is behind this?”

“No!” I thought for a moment. “Well, it's
possible.
But he would have told me. And he wouldn't have tried to bonk the whole town. I mean, he was the one who figured out how to use the Projac to wake everybody up.”

“And he says he knows how to get a bomb through airport security?”

I kept on nodding.

“I would like to meet this boy,” Gilly said.

4
3

“Is This Going to Hurt?”

Once Gilly got hold of an idea, there was no letting go—and I'm not talking about the infra­sonics thing, I'm talking about him wanting to meet Billy. He wanted to go right then and there.

“Er  . . . ,” my dad said.

“What?” said Gilly.

“Ummmm  . . . ,” said my mother.

I knew what they were thinking, because I was thinking the same thing. Gilly might be one of the most brilliant and powerful people on the planet, but he looked like a  . . . well, a
Sasquatch
.

My dad cleared his throat. “You know the DHS has been combing the park in search of the Flinkwater Sasquatch, right? Don't you think they might find your present appearance somewhat  . . . alarming?”

“Royce is right, Gilly,” my mother added. “It
might be best if we get you cleaned up a bit so they don't shoot first and ask questions later.”

Gilly considered her proposal. “Is this going to hurt?”

“Not a bit,” said my mother.

Mom sent me on an emergency run over to Aunt Janet's to pick up a suit. My uncle Vaughn was about Gilly's size. It was awkward, because Janet had about a million questions, and I had been sworn to silence. Also, Kellan wanted to kiss me over and over again. I had taught him a new skill. Frankly, it was a little sloppy. But after several messy kisses and lots of unanswerable questions from my aunt, I was soon unicycling my way back home with the suit  . . . when I was cut off by a black SUV containing you-know-who.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ffelps,” I said.

“Hello, Ginger,” said Agent Ffelps, leaning out of the passenger-side window. “We've been looking for you.”

“Whyever for?” I inquired as I balanced on the WheelBot.

“What do you have in the bag?” he asked.

“That would be a suit,” I said. The bag was clear plastic, and the suitiness of its contents was obvious. “I'm taking it to the dry cleaner's.”

“I see,” said Agent Ffelps, giving the suit the fish eye. “And what dry cleaner would that be?”

“Milgrim's,” I said, naming the only dry cleaner in town.

“On Main Street?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Then why are you proceeding south on Water Street?”

He had me there. I thought quickly.

“Oops,” I said.

Ffelps smiled as if he had scored a point. Which he had.

“Ginger, I was wondering if you could tell me what you were doing at the airport this morning.”

I stared back at him.

“Ginger?”

“What?”

“I asked you a question.”

“Actually, you didn't. You said you were wondering if I could tell you what I was doing at the airport this morning. That is not a question; it is a statement.”

I detected a slight reddening of his neck.

“What were you doing at the airport?” he said, keeping his voice level.

“I was meeting somebody.”

“Who?”

“Professor Little's fiancée.”

“Professor Little—the nanotech expert?”

“Yes.”

“I have seen the surveillance videos, Ginger,” Ffelps said with a slather of faux patience, “and I am acquainted with Professor Little. He was not present at the airport.”

“He looks a little different now. No moles.”

Ffelps took a moment to absorb that, blinking like a very slow computer trying to process the sum of two plus two. Unable to reach a solution, he decided to change the subject. Sort of.

“What was Billy George doing there? Besides making bomb threats.”

“Billy was not making bomb threats. He was simply pointing out a gap in airport security. Have a nice day, Mr. Ffelps. I have to get to the dry cleaner.” I performed a perfect U-turn and set off down the sidewalk at the WheelBot's maximum speed of fifteen miles per hour. The SUV cruised along beside me, its tinted windows rolled up.

I was trying to be cool, but the fact was, I was pretty nervous. Agent Ffelps was kind of a moron, but black SUVs are scary. I rolled down Water Street toward downtown Flinkwater and Milgrim's Cleaners, the SUV never more than twenty feet away. I could have ditched them anytime I wanted—but then they would just drive over to my house and intercept me. What I had to do was ditch them without them knowing they'd been ditched.

Fortunately, I had a plan.

44

The Milgrim Maneuver

Mrs. Milgrim, who ran Milgrim's Cleaners, was a harried, frantic woman for whom every aspect of life was a dire emergency. On several occasions I had helped her out, folding sweaters and bagging suits and dresses. When I walked in carrying the suit, she looked up and said, “Oh dear, I hope you don't need that tomorrow!”

“Actually,” I said, “I don't need it at all.”

She cocked her head. “At all?”

“I mean, it's clean.”

“Oh!” she said, as if she had never heard of such a thing.

“I just thought you might need a little help out back,” I said.

“Ginger, you are an angel!” she said. “I have an order for Mr. George that he'll be picking up this afternoon, and I'm way behind.”

I could imagine that being late with an order for George G. George might be a problem. The man was fanatical about his suits.

“I don't suppose you could iron a couple of shirts?” she said.

“Absolutely. Just give me a minute.” I ran back outside, where the SUV was idling at the curb. Agent Ffelps lowered his window and raised his eyebrows.

“I just wanted to let you know that I'll be a while,” I said. “Mrs. Milgrim needs my help. I was wondering if you could keep an eye on my WheelBot?” Suppressing every visible trace of sarcasm, I added, “Crime is rampant in downtown Flinkwater, you know.”

I think Agent Ffelps was a little bit suspicious, but he nodded.

In the back room, Mrs. Milgrim was pressing a pair of trousers.

“I'm really really
really
sorry, Mrs. Milgrim, but I just remembered something I have to do. I'll come back and help you another time. Would that be okay?”

Her shoulders sagged. “Of course, dear.”

I felt terrible about disappointing her, but I figured I could make it up to her later. I grabbed the suit and ran out the back door into the alley. As I have mentioned before, when it comes to the
back alleys of Flinkwater, the DHS is no match for Ginger Crump.

Several backyard and alley shortcuts later, I arrived home to find a tall, thin, clean-shaven, deep-eyed man wearing a pair of my dad's boxer shorts sitting at the kitchen table typing rapidly on a tablet. He looked just like pictures I'd seen of Gilbert Bates before he had disappeared. Except in the pictures he wasn't almost naked.

He looked up when I entered the room.

“The Sasquatch has left the building,” he said.

The suit fit. Almost. It was a little short in the arms and legs, but Gilly looked quite elegant, I thought.

“You know, if you'd kept some of that beard, you'd look a little bit like Abe Lincoln,” I told him.

Gilly smiled. “Perhaps that will make it easier for me to emancipate the population of Flinkwater.”

My dad, who was looking out the front window, said, “Did anybody see you, Ginger?”

“I did run into Agent Ffelps,” I said. “But I left him at the dry cleaner's.”

My dad looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

“He thinks I'm in the back helping Mrs. Milgrim,” I said.

“Good. Though I'm sure he'll show up here eventually.” He looked at Gilly. “Gil? Ready for your triumphant return?”

“I am,” said Gilly. “First order of business, we get young Billy released and find out exactly how he opened this Pandora's box.”

“That may not be so easy.”

The doorbell rang. My mom went over to the window and peeked past the curtains.

“Who is it?” my dad asked.

“You're not going to believe this,” she said, and opened the door.

It was Billy George.