Elevator Love part 8
By Tralla

There’s scurrying outside my suite’s entrance. I’d say it was rats. But rats don’t whisper, or move what sounds like large equipment, or try to muffle snickers.

I’m in bed. It’s 6 a.m. I close my eyes. Before I can drift back to sleep, loud organ music suddenly comes from outside my door.

I look at the clock at my side. 6:12 a.m. It’s too early for this shit. I’m out of bed. I head to the door. I reach out, grab the knob, twist it, and yank the door open.

I’m dreaming. I have to be. The organ music diminishes to a low hum as I step into the doorway. I see the blonde, Mr. Forehead, and the braid standing just feet away. They’re all in black suits, with white shirts, and black ties. They look professional and cultish at the same time. I look to the blonde. He’s holding a bouquet of white flowers. He’s staring at me like a nervous guy on a blind date. He also looks grateful that he wasn’t saddled with an eyesore.

I become aware of the organ music again. I look left. I see a speaker. I look right. I see another. I look at the trio before me. I can’t take this. I’m heading back to bed. Or so I think until a somber voice draws my attention from my retreat.

I see spidey. I hadn’t noticed him before. He’s dressed as a priest and is holding some sheets of paper. He opens his mouth and says, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together…”

My mouth’s hanging open and it is still hanging open when I see the braid turn around to hiss at spidey, “Trowa, not _that_ sheet. The _other_ one. Flip the page for Christ’s sake.”

Spidey flips the page and continues. “They say life is like a lit candle in a dark room. At first there is light. It’s small but it persists, it strives, and it struggles managing to bring illumination in a great darkness. But life like a lit candle cannot go on forever. It inevitably burns out. This is the reason we are here today to pay homage to the short and dim life of Heero Yuy.”

I’m stunned to the point of silence. But there are people all too eager to speak for me.

The blonde goes first. My eyes are drawn back to the flowers in his hand. They’re those white flowers people place around caskets. My eyes are twitching as he says, “I believe in giving everyone a fair chance…but I don’t think it’s legal to hire someone who is deceased.”

Mr. Forehead follows on his tail, “To pay a dead man a salary is not only farcical but also speaks harshly on one’s money management skills.”

“A dead guy driving a flashy car,” the braid snorts derisively, “it’s a B-movie in the making.”

I’m expecting spidey to also chime in and say something both cryptic and absurd. But he’s still holding his papers. He looks like he would rather be doing cartwheels than hanging around with this odd tribe.

Strangely, I’m now calm in this sea of rampant idiocy. I should have seen this coming. They’re going to kill me with their strangeness. But first, they’re going to drive me mad.

It’s spidey who finally clears everything up. He pulls something from the pile in his hand and holds it up. It’s a newspaper clipping and my picture is on it. “You’ve been presumed dead. None of your acquaintances has seen you since your apartment caught on fire.” He inspects me for a moment before he says, “Your building blew up. That’s why you made the news.”

“Blew up?”

It’s the braid who says, “Seems like in the excitement of escaping the fire someone left the stove on…and the gas going. Let’s just say it wasn’t a small “boom”. There’s a gaping hole where your apartment building was and the residence beside it lost its side.”

“I was outside…with everyone else.”

“You were overlooked,” said Mr. Forehead. “Flaming buildings can be quite eye-catching.”

“Heero.”

I’m in a daze.

“Heero,” says the blonde again but this time firmly. I actually look at him as he speaks. “You should go to the authorities and clear things up.”

“You might want to settle your banking affairs while you’re out. A bank card and some checks might come in handy as well as giving me official access to your account,” says Mr. Forehead.

“And don’t forget a license. You lost all your identification, right?” says the braid, “Wouldn’t want you stopped when you’re joyriding and taken to a jail cell over some plastic. There are better ways of getting you locked up.”

The blonde has the last word. “Heero, we’ll push back our appointment until you take care of this. I’ll see you when you return, in my office.”

It’s Thursday. I left my apartment Monday. Either someone just realized my probable passing or they spent that time looking for my body and came up empty. Or maybe they found a bit of an uncooked chicken that was later charred by the explosion and thought they found me, or at least a part of me. The morbidity of this whole affair is not palatable. Yet, I’m eating…heartily. It seems the blonde is more concerned about my nourishment when I have one foot in the grave. He’s foregone the muffins for something more gluttony-inspiring. I’m in the kitchen looking at the bounty before me. There’s enough food for a party of 5. I think of the head cases that woke me up this morning. I pick up a blintz and shove it in my mouth. I should gorge, while I still can.

It’s midday and I’m outside.

The braid informed me that my “toy” was back where I had originally stashed it. And now I’m standing in front of it. The car looks fine. It’s even shinier than it was before.

I open the door. There’s something on the steering wheel.

There’s a red bow and a note that says “Have a safe ride”. I tear the note and the ribbon from the steering wheel. I wish I had some bomb-sniffing dogs. I circle the car while trying to think of a good place to hide explosives. Somewhere connected to the ignition. A nice fiery, shrapnel-propelling bang resulting from a turn of the key.

I stare at the car.

For some reason, as I’ve noticed in the past three days, there’s one area that the blonde’s underlings tend to frequent. The lackey lounge, I’m heading there. The braid’s there and is simply milling about. Mr. Forehead is not too far away. He’s focused on the contents of his clipboard. The braid looks at me as I walk in.

“Got a problem, Heero?”

“My foot barely touched the gas and the car flew.”

“You’re a speed demon, right? I thought I’d help you out.”

“You tried to kill me. Again.”

He shrugs my comment off. “Look, get over yourself. No one’s trying to kill you. Just because you were one step from being in the obituaries--”

At this point Mr. Forehead forgets his clipboard and cuts in. “Maxwell, you were instructed to stay away--”

The braid turns on him. “Yeah, whatever, Wufei. Stick to accounting, ok? This doesn’t concern you.”

“It concerns me when your practical jokes lead to lawsuits.”

I’m bored. They can bicker on their own time. I have things to do. “Fix the car,” I say.

“W--”

“Fix the car, Maxwell,” growls Mr. Forehead.

The braid makes a noise of disgust. “God, it’s I’m caught between two parrots. Can’t even get a word in.”

I snort and Mr. Forehead says to the braid, “You’re responsible for the majority of the unnecessary speech.”

The braid sighs and manages to look disgusted. “The car’s fine. You’re both wasting my time.”

“It --”

He ignores me and begins walking off. He lifts a hand to wave me and Mr. Forehead away as he says, “In the immortal words of my mentor: Fuck this. I’m going home.”

I watch him reach into his pocket and take out what looks like car keys. My mouth starts moving without my volition. “You don’t live here?”

He looks back at me. “Only servants live with their employers.”

“You’re forgetting lapdogs,” comments Mr. Forehead from behind me. He’s addressing the braid. “Lapdogs always stay close to their meal ticket.

Apparently, they’re on truce and are tag-teaming me. It’s a mildly interesting turn of events.

Then the entertainment goes up a notch.

A voice comes from one of the archways. I glance in its direction. It’s spidey. He speaks as he walks in. “Duo and Wufei should be more forthcoming. We stay here on occasion but our homes are elsewhere.” He looks my way. “So that makes us part-time pets.”

“Speak for yourself, Barton,” snaps Mr. Forehead.

Spidey doesn’t spare him a glance as he says, “You’re right. My assertion was inaccurate. You’re part-time with a full-time salary. That’s an important distinction to make.”

The braid snickers. Spidey goes on his way. Mr. Forehead leaves with his clipboard in hand.

I head back to the car. I’ll drive it, carefully.

I’m no longer dead. I’m driving legally. Mr. Forehead can sift through my bank account without breaking the law. I’ve dropped out of night school and am no longer delinquent when it comes to attendance. I tied up those loose ends in 5 hours. And I’ve spent it. All of it. Every last penny of the money delivered to me as salary. I drag the bags into the study. I’ll deal with them later.

I haven’t forgotten about the letter written by the blonde’s female fan. I haven’t forgotten that I want the rest of that letter and anything else that’s similar to it. I’ll handle it….after I equip myself.

I reach into the bag that’s resting at my feet and pull out two items.

There were other things I didn’t forget about while I was out. I didn’t forget about the scorpions. But any interloping ones will soon forget about me. I’ve already attended my own funeral. Now, it’s time for theirs.

I attach the holster to my belt. And I slip a can of bug spray into it.

I’ve done my research.

You can take them out with bug spray, as long as you hit them between the eyes, all eight of them.

I’m prepared for my appointment with the blonde and any pincer-toting friends of his that have stopped by for a visit.

I walk into the blonde’s office. He’s nowhere in sight. It’s late. It’s after five, but he seemed like the type to stay busy after hours. Not my problem. He said to meet him here when I returned. There was no set time. There was no—I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck lifting away from my skin.

He’s behind me. And now I have a sneaking suspicion that he was hiding in one of the corridors and had waited for me to walk by.

He’s less than a foot away.

I feel him. I turn and look at him from over my shoulder. And that’s when I become aware of something else. I hadn’t noticed it before but his hand is on the can of bug spray that’s resting against my hip.

He meets my gaze. “About the scorpions and yesterday, I have to apologize,” he says while looking like he’s perfectly comfortable in his current position.

I eye him suspiciously. He’s getting good at violating my personal space without me noticing. Either that or I’m getting complacent, used to his creepy habits, or just plain lazy.

I turn my head. My gaze is focused on the windows in my line of sight. He’s talking to me from over my shoulder.

“I didn’t take your fears seriously until after your death,” he says. “I should have been more accommodating.”

He’s doing it again: explaining everything away, without my asking. Perhaps, that was the problem yesterday. I went to his office with complaints, and he disregarded me. And now in some ironic twist, I can’t get him to shut up. He’s in encyclopedia mode and still has his hand on the can of bug spray. He’s causing the holster to shift.

“Out of 1400 species only 25 are lethal to humans and none of those 25 is housed on this property. I suppose that covers mostly everything. Any questions, Heero?”

I do have one question. Why is he still invading my personal space?

“No,” I say.

“Good, I just have one more issue to address before we can begin our meeting.” He pauses and it sounds likes he’s trying to remain composed as he says, “I can’t take you seriously until you remove your holster.”

I removed the holster. He stopped shadowing me and began walking in the general direction of his desk. He’d asked me about the font and I told him I needed more letter samples in order to begin. Then I said what has been on my mind since the night before in a bald-faced fashion:

“I need all of the letters, those you wrote and received.”

The statement stops him in his tracks and he faces me. He’s looking at me as though I’ve just asked him to donate one of his nipples to science.

He goes red and then he goes white. “They’re personal,” he says while moving away. Actually, it looks like he’s trying to hide behind his desk. In fact, he does, but without sitting.

I surprise myself. I sound both sly and calm as I say, “They’re personal but they’re also data.”

“Data?”

“I can do what you requested, but it’ll defeat the purpose.”

“Purpose?” He still looks alarmed, as though I’ve offered to help him excise that prized nipple.

“You asked me to create a font in the hopes that your injury would be hidden. Without a wider sense of the patterns in your writing and what has spurred them, this assignment is a waste of time.”

“You’re talking more than usual, Heero,” he says as he pulls his chair away from the desk. He sits without taking his eyes off me. “Is there something you would like to ask me directly?”

He’s staring. I’m stone-faced. I’ve made sure of that because I plan on saying nothing else.

Finally he says, “I’m not handing over the letters. I’m sorry. However, I think there’s a way we can solve this problem.”

I jerk away as he says, “But first, I need everything I’ve given you back.”

Everything. Great.

I retrieved the pile, purposely leaving behind the letter that had spurred my suspect statements.

He’s taken the pile from me and is flipping through it. “The ink’s smeared, Heero.” When I say nothing he asks, “How did this happen?”

I remember how it happened. Sweaty-handed, I had rifled through the rest of the pile looking for another sordid page written by that tell-all female hand.

“My hands were wet,” I respond.

He looks appalled. “With what?”

“Moisture,” I say with a sudden need to exit making itself known within.

“Moisture,” he repeats. He sighs. “I suppose we should just scan everything in this pile. You’ve already gotten these wet. I wouldn’t want them to get sticky, too,” he murmurs.

I say nothing and do my best to think nothing as he begins walking into the room where he keeps all his office equipment. I follow.

He asked me to make copies rather than scanning. And he’s taken them back to where his desk is located. But, before he left, he’d dumped a load of documents on me that he wanted scanned and put on his server. He’s given me busy work. I wonder if it’s punishment for touching his letters with moist hands. He isn’t too bright. I just might begin sweating on these documents too.

Busy work or not, I need to cover my tracks. He’s suspicious of me. And it’ll be troublesome later if I continue to be a loud blip on his radar.

I’ve finished the grunt work and I’m in the doorway. He’s not at his desk.

He’s sitting on the floor…with the papers spread around him. As I walk in, he looks up. He has a pencil hanging out of his mouth. It falls to the ground. Apparently, he was gnawing on it. It looks mangled. It’s rolling across the sheets and that’s when I notice the scribbling. Red ink. I look to his left hand. He’s holding a red felt tip pen. I caught him in the process of writing.

He takes in the look on my face before saying, “I can write with this hand…for short periods of time. But look--” He drops the pen and quickly picks up a sheet and holds it in my line of vision. “The handwriting is different.”

I walk into the room. Guilty. The bastard looks guilty. I’m beginning to feel like a teacher who’s caught a student in the midst of not-so-adept cheating. Out the corner of my eye I see a ruler. Perhaps, he needs a slap on the wrist. I shake my head. I’m losing it. This place, the absurdity is contagious.

“Heero.”

I look down at him. He’s holding up a sheet but a different one. I look at the red marks. Is he showcasing his artwork or does he want me to—

“Take it, please. I believe these notes will be helpful.”

I take the sheet and he starts explaining what he’s been up to for the past fifteen minutes.

He sounds proud of himself as he says, “My handwriting varies during the course of each letter, but it varies systematically. That letter is the most common pattern, which I will follow, lengthwise in regards to the number of paragraphs for the next few weeks. Across paragraphs, the differences are only slight, but all you have to do is---”

“Create a font that corresponds with each paragraph.”

“And any consonants that are missing--”

“Improvise.”

I was only in his office for an hour. It seemed longer, much longer. I’m back in my suite and now I can focus my attention on the bags full of the equipment I purchased. I’m taking everything out of the bags. Surge protectors, extension cords, mini wireless cameras, wireless microphones with receivers and recorders, and a digital observation system with a 200 Gb hard drive to record the feed from the cameras.

I look at the equipment before me and think of what caused this accumulation of quasi spy paraphernalia. The four of them…they’re nutcases and they have to be watched.

My “funeral” this morning brought me to the next level in suspicion. I’m at full paranoia. And, once I set these cameras and mics up, I’m going to have unequivocal proof, on hard-disk media, to justify my unease.

Part 9