Evasion (17 page)

As Scott reached the mid-level landing area, he saw Herb standing on the platform and glaring at him. There was a scowl of anger on his face, but still that strange glazed look that had come over him not much more than half an hour earlier.  He looked out the opposite window and saw the man in the gray sports coat standing half a dozen yards away on the train platform, glaring at Scott through the window with the same angry look, with that subtle glaze, that Herb had.

As the train pulled away from the station, Scott settled down into a seat in the mid-level section and put his head back for a minute, trying desperately to catch his breath.

He gave himself a minute before pulling off his backpack and pulling out his laptop.

He flipped the top of the laptop open and then dug into the backpack for the hotspot USB stick and stuck it into the side. He waited for the network to pop up then keyed in the passcode allowing him to connect to the cellular network.  Within a few seconds he was back online.

His computer was still on the web browser showing Mike Nottoff’s research into anesthetic practice to achieve a death meditative state; the process was, essentially, using nanotechnology to produce the same extreme slowing of the heart rate and circular systems that would simulate clinical death while the body lived in in a manner that was not discernable.  It was similar to a Tibetan Buddhism practice known as “Death Meditation” where the body can exist in a state that mimics death, preserving the body’s skin, organs, and central nervous system.

Could that be what they did with Dad, in order to fake his death?

That certainly made sense.

And there was, as Scott and Mr. Prescott had speculated, some deeper reason as to why it would become necessary to fake Lionel Desmond’s death.

Something Scott must have tapped into so deep that someone out there wanted him dead.

He must have been on to something; something so secret, something so powerful, that he had to be stopped.

He was looking at this page when Herb called him into his office.

But, for someone to hack into the air ventilation system of the Digi-Life offices, it couldn’t have been just because Scott had discovered this. Someone must have been tracking his research, understanding that he was getting ever closer to the bottom of this; and they’d gone in, some time before today, to set the trap that was launched when Herb first pulled out that gun.

Scott sat staring at the screen, trying to figure out what to do next, where to turn.

He kept thinking back to his conversation at that café with Mr. Prescott.

The man, the first and only mentor Scott had ever had, was a beacon of reason and perhaps the only person Scott figured he could trust.

It was time to call Mr. Prescott.

Scott clicked on the Skype icon on his computer.  He could use Skype’s phone function to make a call to Prescott and enlist his help in this bizarre mess he found himself at the center of.

The little yellow Contact button indicated a numeral one on an unclicked tab of the left nav bar of Scott’s Skype program.  He tapped it.

It was Gary.

Thirty seconds ago Gary had keyed in the words: 
Are you online?
 

The little pencil icon was dancing below those words, indicating that Gary was typing something else

Where are you?
  Appeared on the screen on the next line.

I stepped out
, Scott typed.

What the hell is going on? Can we chat?
 

The electronic ring-tone indicating that Gary was attempting a video call to Scott sounded.

Scott stared at it, wondering what he should do.

Since Gary couldn’t reach through the screen and strangle Scott, he figured he should see what was going on.

“Scott? What the hell happened? Where are you?” Gary was sitting at his desk in the office in his little sanctum sanatorium on the second floor.  “The last thing I remember, we were standing in the kitchen and I was wondering what the hell you seemed so worried about. Then it’s black. I have no idea what happened. I woke up with a massive headache laying on the floor in the nurse’s station just a few minutes ago. All I can remember is chatting with you in the kitchen. But when I woke up, you were nowhere to be found.

“Scott – what the hell is going on? What happened to me? Where the hell are you?”

Gary seemed genuinely confused. Scott wasn’t sure what to say to him.

“Scott. Answer me, buddy. I’m scared.”

“I’m not sure what’s going on, Gary.” Scott said quietly. “But you need to get out of the building. But before you leave your desk area, hold your breath, man. Hold your breath and get the hell outside as quickly as you can.”

“What the hell?”

“Just do it, Gary. I don’t have time to explain. I’ve got another call I need to make. Just hold your breath and get out. If you can, avoid every single person you spot, stay as far away from them as possible. Try not to let anybody stop you. Just get out of the building as quickly as you can.”

Scott pressed the hang-up icon on Skype and then toggled over to a browser where he’d stored Dr. Prescott’s number.

He had to call the man, try to figure out his next move.

He found the number and then toggled back to Skype and keyed the number in to the digital numeric pad there.

It began to ring.

And ring.

And ring once more.

Then it went to voice mail.

“Mr. Prescott. Tim. It’s Scott Desmond. I need you to contact me. My mobile phone is dead, so I’m not sure how you can reach me, other than Skype.” He proceeded to leave his Skype dial-in number for Mr. Prescott, then hung up.

The little yellow icon indicated that Gary was texting Scott again.

Then a second numeral popped up.

Someone else was trying to reach him.

Scott clicked on the button. Saw it was a new contact request – this time from Mr. Prescott – it was combined with an incoming video call.

Scott accepted the video call and Prescott’s face appeared on the screen.

Scott knew, immediately, that there was something wrong. He could see it in the glazed look on his old teacher’s face.

“Don’t say it, don’t say it,” Scott whispered under his breath.

But, as he fully expected, he knew. It was too late. They had gotten to Prescott. They had infected him as well.

“You won’t get away!” Prescott said. “You cannot evade us!”

Scott tilted his head back, closing his eyes. And, just as he did, he noticed three train ticket checkers wandering down the lower section, checking for people’s tickets.

Damn
, he thought, realizing he didn’t have a ticket.  Although, what would be the worst thing that could happen?  They’d toss him off the train once they arrived at the next stop, which was Union, which was where Scott had planned on getting off at anyway.

He sat and watched them make their way through the crowd. There were three ticket cops. Two of them were questioning people and asking to see their tickets or proof of purchase, and the third one, a short female with straight long hair tied into a pony tail, was making her way down the aisle when she looked up at Scott.

She made eye contact with him and then started walking toward him quickly, ignoring all the other passengers who were sitting in the rows she passed, some of them holding out their proof of purchase.

But she was oblivious to their gestures.

She was purposefully stalking her way toward Scott.

And she had that vacant, haunted glazed look on her face.

Twenty Years Earlier
 

Scott called Jessica the next day.

He left a message.

The first one was simple, and part of a script he had actually taken the time to write out because he hadn’t been sure what to say to her.  So it worked out really well; particularly since the script was more of a short speech anyway – conversation, particularly conversation with pretty girls, was not something that came easy to him, or even at all, really.

Conversation, unlike computer code, had too many variables, too many unwritten, unspoken nuances that were impossible to control and prepare for.

She when he got Jessica’s voicemail message of “This is Jessy. Can’t speak now, so lemme know what you got, sugar,” he consulted his script and mostly stuck to it, except for the fact this his verbal delivery was a little bit stunted and broken; not as slick and smooth as the words he had carefully composed.

“Hi Jessica. This is Scott Desmond. From the party. The Halloween party. I got your number from your friend Charlene. And I just wanted to call to let you know that I had a really great time. Er, thanks.”

That had gone okay. A simple message. But then, as he sat there, he realized that he hadn’t left his phone number, so how could she call him back?

So he dialed the number again. He had to leave his phone number.

It rang three times then went to her voice mail.

“Hi Jessica. It’s Scott again. I, uh, just left you a message. It’s Scott, from the party. Uh, I’m, uh, Grind Dance guy. From this past weekend. So, uh, I got your number from Charlene and she said I should call you. So, I’m, uh, calling you. Hi. The party was pretty cool, wasn’t it? I had fun. I really had a lot of fun. And I liked you. Er, I liked dancing with you. So I’m calling. Okay. Bye.”

Shit
! He thought.
What the hell was that? I had fun. I liked you. I liked dancing with you. What an idiot
. Not only that, but he’d forgotten to leave his phone number. Idiot.

So he called back a third time.

“Hi Jessica. It’s Scott, from the party. The dancing party. Anyways, I just left a couple of messages, but realize that I forgot to leave my phone number so you could call me back. I’d love to hear from you. So please call me back. My number is 867-555-3878. That’s my number. So now you have it. So now you know how to contact me. At my number. Okay. Bye.”

About fifteen minutes later, after spending the entire time staring at the phone and nervously thinking back to the words he had spoken on the last message, Scott called back again.

“Hi Jessica. It’s Scott from the party. I was worried that I left the wrong number. I can’t remember if I said “38” or “83” – I sometimes get those numbers confused. So my number is 867-555-3878. Three. Eight. Seven. Eight. Not Eight, Three. Okay, thanks.”

He let almost half an hour pass before he called again.

“Hi Jessica. It’s Scott. From the party. I left my number, 867-555-3878. I kept thinking, because I still get it wrong, that I might have not told you the correct number. So I thought I’d call again and make sure I did it right this time. I really like you. I had a fun time at the party. Dancing with you was fun. Call me, okay? 867-555-3878.”

When more than an hour had passed and Scott hadn’t heard back from Jessica, he became really nervous.

He had really liked her.

And he must have blown it.

I’m coming off too aloof
, he’d thought.
Too cool
. They had, after all ground into one another, kissed, gazed into each other’s eyes, and pretty much made love, though it was with all their clothes on. But they’d both orgasmed. They’d shared something truly intimate. And here Scott was leaving simple messages telling her to call him.

Sure, he’d said he liked her. But he also said he’d liked dancing. He needed her to know that he really liked her; that he was really into her. That he wanted to see her again.

Scott remembered hearing a song by Billy Joel on the radio called “Tell Her About It” – he didn’t realize, particularly since he’d never been in a relationship, that this was a song meant for a guy who tended to keep his emotions and deeper feelings to himself and was potentially pushing away his girlfriend by not letting her know his feelings, but not opening his heart to her.  Since Scott had never been in a relationship, he didn’t understand those dynamics. So he took the song to mean that a guy could win a girl over by expressing his deepest feelings to her.  As Joel sang, he had to tell her everything he felt and
give her every reason to accept that you’re for real
. He had to let her know he needed her. He had to let her know how much he cared.

It went even further downhill from there.

“Hi Jessica,” he said to her voice mail box. “It’s Scott. From the party. I’ve left you a few messages and I think I’ve made a stupid mistake. You see, I’m trying really hard to act all cool and confident. But that’s just not me. I’m not a cool guy. I’m pretty quiet and I don’t party much. I don’t party at all, in fact. The Halloween party was my first time.  I’ve never kissed a girl before. You were my first. And, I’ve never made love before, either. You were my first. Not that we had sex. But we did, sort of. It was really hot. But not just hot; I felt something. I felt close to you. I felt like we had something special. And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you. I told you that night that you were the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen. And I mean that. You are amazing, gorgeous. I had been admiring you all night. It wasn’t just the dancing, the grinding. I felt we had a thing long before that, when I’d been watching you earlier that night.  You’re a beautiful woman, Jessica . . . Jessybaby . . . that’s what your email address is. Jessybaby. Can I call you that? Can I call you my Jessybaby? Anyways, you’re a beautiful woman, Jessybaby, and I want to make you mine. So please, call me when you get a chance.”

He hung up, feeling good about it. Sure, he had left a series of silly messages. But this time he laid his heart out on the line, told her everything that he’d felt. Billy Joel would have been proud of him.

Billy Joel might have also suggested there was such a thing as coming on too strong too quickly. He might have cautioned Scott about just how easy it is to scare a woman away with coming on way too strong and with obsessive behavior.

But Billy Joel didn’t know Scott.

Scott didn’t have any mentors or any role models who had shared any sort of woman advice with him.