Ultimate Thriller Box Set (12 page)

“I can get you a computer,” Dr. Frank Belgium said.

The demon made a sound that Belgium swore was laughter.

CHAPTER TEN

“I like snow, but not a lot of it,” Andy mumbled, taking a bite of his turkey sandwich.

“Yeah, not a lot,” Sun agreed. “Too much snow and I hate it.”

“Exactly. Too much snow isn't good.”

Andy groaned inwardly. What the hell were they talking about? And why was Sun even bothering?

He stared at her across the cafeteria table and decided she must be patronizing him, hoping for an opportunity to escape. He couldn't really blame her. The only thing worse than their lame conversation was the food.

Andy looked down at his half-eaten sandwich. It needed fresh lettuce and tomato, neither of which were available. Canned tomatoes were a poor substitute. Even worse, the turkey was processed, and tasted it. Andy wondered how much was actually turkey, and what other chemicals, fillers, and by-products it contained.

“Good sandwich,” Andy said.

Sun nodded and looked at her watch. Andy decided not to talk anymore. He'd die if his ears turned red like that again. Last night he had to soak his head in the sink to get them to stop burning.

“You're an attractive guy,” Sun said, taking a bite of her sandwich.

Andy waited for the rest, the part where she told him that even though he was attractive, she wasn't interested and hoped they could just be friends.

That part never came.

Was she playing with him? What was he supposed to say back?

Andy opened his mouth to return the compliment, but closed it again when he considered his ears.

Their eyes locked. He realized he was going to say it anyway, but the phone saved him. He got up and answered.

“Who is this, Andy or Sun?”

“This is Andy, Dr. Belgium.”

“Andy? This is Dr. Belgium.”

“I know.”

“I'm in Red 14 with Bub.”

“I know. Sun and I are almost done. We'll be right by.”

“No no no. Not necessary. Bub said, he said... all of this studying, he needed to rest for a bit. He took—he’s taking—a nap. Rest rest rest, must have rest.”

“Bub's sleeping,” Andy repeated, for Sun’s benefit.

“He doesn't sleep long,” Sun said. “Maybe fifteen minutes at a time.”

“Sun said he doesn't sleep long,” Andy said into the receiver.

“I know, but Bub was clear that he wanted to take a break. Rest rest rest.”

“Bub needs to rest rest rest,” Andy told Sun. “How about an hour?”

“An hour. An hour an hour... make it two hours. I'll be here, when Bub is ready to resume I'll let you know.”

“No problem.” Andy hung up. “Frank said Bub needs two hours of rest.”

“Interesting. Perhaps mental activities leave him more exhausted than physical ones.”

“I've always heard sleep is for the mind, not the body.”

“I've heard that too.”
You're so damn beautiful,
Andy wanted to say.

Sun said, “So... have you had enough of this clever banter?”

“God yes.”

“Do you play racquetball?”

“I'm a racquetball king.” Andy tried on a small smile, happy to have the conversation change. “If it ever becomes an Olympic event, I'm sure I'll be picked to represent my country.”

“We have some time. Up for a game?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Are you sure? Most men have ego issues when it comes to losing, especially to a woman.”

“Not a problem. I'm good at being a loser.”

Sun smiled, and the realization of what he just said hit him. Open mouth, insert foot...

“I'll meet you in Purple 5. Say, twenty minutes?”

“Twenty minutes. Fine.”

Sun finished her sandwich and stood up.

“It’s a date.” She spun on her toes and trotted off.

What did she mean by that? Did she mean
date
as in a man and a woman having fun with a later possibility of sex? Or
date
as in a scheduled event on a calender?

Fifteen minutes later he was dressed in some blue shorts and a sweatshirt, walking down the Purple Arm. The Secret Service had forwarded his gym shoes, but no gym socks, so he was forced to wear none. None were preferable to argyle, especially around pretty women.

Sun was waiting for him, squatting on the floor with her right leg extended in a stretch. She wore bike pants and a sports bra top, both black.

Did she have any idea of how good she looked? She must have.

So this was a real date.

Right?

On the floor next to her were two racquets. They resembled their tennis counterparts, except their handles were less than half the length. A blue rubber racquetball was in her hand, the manufacturer's label stamped on it in gold.

Mixed signals and potential embarrassment be damned, Andy willed himself to relax and have fun.

“I see you mean to distract me by playing on my weakness.”

“What's that?”

“Spandex.”

“Nice socks,” Sun said. “You'll get blisters.”

“I don't plan on doing much running.”

“Maybe, since we both seem to be confident in our abilities, we should make a little bet on this game.”

“Fine.” Andy took a deep breath. “If I win, I get to kiss you.”

Sun's cheeks colored.

“I don’t think so.”

What little ego Andy had left shriveled up. But confidence isn’t about how you feel. It’s about what you project.

“Why not? Afraid you’ll lose on purpose?”

Sun smiled, projecting quite a bit of confidence.

“I’m not going to lose.”

“So you have nothing to worry about then.”

“Fine. So what do I get when I win?

“You get to kiss me.”

“How about a thousand bucks?”

“A thousand bucks? Can we afford it?”

“We're government employees,” Sun bounced to her feet and handed him a racquet. “Of course we can afford it.”

She gave him a heart-melting grin and trotted into Purple 5.

“You're not really serious, are you?” Andy called after her. “A thousand bucks?”

He walked into the room. It was a standard racquetball court, forty feet long by twenty feet wide. The walls were matte white, marred by several dozen chips and marks. Six florescent lights were set into the twenty foot high ceiling, making it as bright as an operating theater. The floor was wood, with red painted markings for the service area and the fault line.

Andy closed the heavy door behind him. The door had no knob on the inside; there were no protrusions anywhere in the room. The handle was shaped like a half moon and attached to a hinge, and when it wasn't in use it recessed into a depression. Andy likened the court to being inside of a large white box.

“Game is fifteen points, turn over the serve at fourteen, have to win by two. Do you want to stretch?”

“I'll be fine.”

Andy grinned but Sun was all business.

“Zero serving zero, for one thousand dollars. Ready?”

Andy bent his knees and held his racquet up. The pose was familiar to him. He'd played racquetball a hundred times, and though the last time he'd played was several years ago, he'd been pretty good.

Sun was better.

Within two minutes she was four points up. Racquetball didn't have bizarre scoring like tennis. It was actually more like Ping-Pong. The goal was to return the ball to your opponent by bouncing it off of the front wall, and you had to do this before it bounced on the floor twice.

By the time Sun was up six to zero, Andy realized she wasn’t intending to lose on purpose. So much for wanting to be kissed. 

But even though he was behind, he’d gotten a good feel for her game. She was faster than he was, and her ball control was better. On easy volleys she was able to hit the front wall only inches above the floor, making it impossible for him to return.

Andy, however, had the strength advantage, and could hit the ball harder than she could. It wasn't unusual for a racquetball to exceed speeds of ninety miles per hour, and when it was bouncing off four walls that didn't make for an easy return. Andy was also several inches taller than Sun, so he hit the ball high whenever he had a chance, and often the bounce would sail over her head out of reach.

After twenty minutes Andy was able to cut Sun's lead down to one point. His sweatshirt was soaked enough to wring-out, and it was becoming harder to catch his breath between volleys.

Sun didn't appear to be sweating at all.

“You can take a break if you need one,” she told him. Her smirk was barely concealed.

He pursed his lips and didn't answer. She served and scored.

“Twelve to ten, are you sure you don't want to get some water?”

Water did sound good.

“After the game. Serve.”

It only took four more serves for Sun to win.

She shook his hand with vigor, her smile wide and genuine. Andy handled the loss easily. He just wanted something to drink.

A few minutes later they were in the Mess Hall, each with a large glass of water. Andy was on his third.

“You're better than I thought,” Sun said. “You actually gave me a little trouble.”

“You could play professionally.”

“Well, I did, kind of. American Racquetball Association. Won a few tournaments. No big deal, really. Racquetball stars don't get too many product endorsements.”

“You might have shared that info with me before we bet a thousand bucks.”

“We’ve still got an hour before Bub is ready for his next lesson. Want to play again? Double or nothing?”

Andy could feel his muscles starting to cramp up. He knew he wouldn’t get through another game. But she was so earnest, so cute. Her eyes were wide and bright and her cheeks had a lovely flush to them. Such a change from the dour, strict women he’d met yesterday.

“Race said something about a pool table. Do you play?”

“I haven’t for a while.”

“How about a game of nine ball, double or nothing?”

Sun grinned. “You’re on. I need to shower and change first. See you in Purple 5 in twenty minutes?”

“It’s a date,” Andy said.

And as she trotted off, he sincerely hoped it was.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rabbi Menachem Shotzen ended his nightly kaddish by asking G-d to help his friend, Father Thrist, with his crisis of faith.

He took off his braided kippah—a skull cap he received at bar mitzvah, and put it in his tallis bag on top of his tzitzit and his tefillin, both of which were worn only for morning prayer.

The Rabbi glanced at his nightstand. He knew what it contained. And he knew that only minutes prior, he had pleaded with G-d to give him the strength to avoid it.

Shotzen turned away from the temptation and instead seated himself at a small desk to proofread the latest pages of his memoirs.

He hefted the manuscript, now over fifteen hundred hand written pages, and its weight pleased him. Not too bad, especially considering one day and two nights of the week, Shabbes, he was forbidden by Jewish law to write. The first line still made him proud, and he said it softly to himself.

“Blessings and curses, I have had many of both.”

He glanced at the nightstand again. One of the curses, for sure. Bub may indeed be demonic, though Shotzen doubted it, but in that drawer was something even worse. Yetzir ha- ra. A denial of G-d.

He approached it just the same.

The liquor was where he had left it, awaiting his return. Shotzen picked up the bottle—half-full of overproof peppermint schnapps—then put it back down. It was a familiar ritual, with a familiar ending. Once the nightstand was opened, the bottle won.

This time the internal struggle lasted barely a minute. Shotzen poured himself a generous glass, cursing his weakness. On his second glass, his curse became a resignation. On his third, it became a toast.

He wasn't sure if he imagined the knock at the door or not. He stopped in mid-gulp and held his breath, listening. The second knock gave him a start.

“Yes?” he answered, almost choking on his schnapps. The bottle was on the desk, empty now, but Shotzen placed it back into the nightstand.

“Menachem? It's Michael.”

Shotzen pursed his lips—this was his disapproving look—and he opened the door. Thrist was dressed for Mass, roman collar pristine and starched and green cassock meticulously ironed.

“May I come in?” he asked.

His tone didn't match his dress; it was dull and lacking conviction.

“Of course.”

Shotzen stepped aside and allowed him entrance. He closed the door quietly and found Thrist staring at his glass of schnapps. It still held a finger or so.

“Not on account of my reprehensible behavior, I hope,” Thrist said.

“My disease needs no provocation,” Shotzen answered. He and Thrist had talked many times about alcoholism. In fact, Thrist was the only one that Shotzen discussed it with.

“I am sorry, Menachem.”

“Passion is a refreshing emotion to see in you,” Shotzen replied. “In our many dialogs throughout the years I don't recall you ever yelling like that before.”

“It was inexcusable, both the tone and the content.”

“Nothing is inexcusable, as long as there is remorse. Apology accepted, Father.”

Shotzen offered his hand, which the priest clasped in both of his.

“You are a dear friend.”

“As are you.”

Thrist sat on the bed and nodded at the manuscript.

“Working on the memoirs?”

“Pathetic, no? There sits my life, never to be read by anyone under penalty of government execution.”

“Time passes, Rabbi, whether we want it to or not. At least you have something to show for it.”

“True. My legacy. How preferable it is to a wife and child.”

Thrist’s long face became longer. “Have you ever heard from Reba?”

“Not once since I granted her the get, the divorce. And why should I? Ha-shem told the Jews to be fruitful and multiply, and I... I have no lead in my pencil. Between the sterility and the alcohol, it is no wonder she grew to hate me.”

“You could have adopted.”

Shotzen smiled. “I could have stopped drinking as well. I'd still have it all; her, my synagogue, my congregation—perhaps even my father would still be alive. He died of shame, you know, when I showed up at Temple and read from the Torah drunk as drunk can be.”