The Pandora Directive: A Tex Murphy Novel (12 page)

I visited at least a dozen boarding houses over a three hour period. My next stop was a palace called the Garden House. Opening the door released the smell of baking chocolate-chip cookies. The light inside was warm and friendly. It reminded me of Grandma’s house. Inside, a small, round woman was walking down the hallway, her huge serving tray piled high with large, chewy looking cookies, straight from the oven.

“Hello, there. What can I do for you?”

The warm smell of fresh cookies was killing me. I removed my fedora and smiled down at the plump little lady. “This is a wonderful place. Do you run it?”

“Yes, I do, thank you. Are you looking for a room?”

My eyes were glued to the cookies. “Maybe. Are cookies included in the rent?”

The little woman smiled. “Please, help yourself.”

I picked a fat one from the pile. It was a gooey, chocolatey piece of heaven. As I took a bite, my eyes rolled back into my head, and I was forced to steady myself. The sugar rush was overwhelming.

The plump lady nodded her head, as though this was the usual reaction to her cookies. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to take these to the guests. I’ll be right back.”

I finished the cookie and licked my fingers like a dog.

The woman returned quickly. “So, what can I help you with?”

I tried to look deeply concerned. “It’s my Uncle Thomas. We lost him last week.”

The woman’s face crinkled. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, I mean we lost him … as in… we can’t find him.”

The plump landlady seemed relieved.

“He’s getting on in years, and he’s not all there, if you know what I mean. He lives alone and, every now and again, he just takes off. Sometimes he gets away for weeks before we find him and bring him home.”

I pulled out the photograph of Malloy and handed it to her. “This is Uncle Thomas. A friend of mine saw him around this neighbourhood, so I’m checking out all boarding houses in the area.”

The woman looked up at me, then back at the photo. She seemed uncertain. “You say this is your Uncle Thomas?”

I nodded. We’re all worried sick about him.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure this is the man who moved in last week, but he said his name was Todd. Todd Mallory.”

I smiled reassuringly. “Like I said, he’s only got the one oar left to row with. It’s his… Murphy-Barr Syndrome.”

“My goodness… he seemed so lucid, so friendly.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Yes, it’s a strange illness. He usually appears normal. The only symptoms are an uncontrollable urge to relocate and, of course, compulsive lying. When Uncle Thomas has a relapse, it’s like pulling teeth to get a straight answer out of him.”

The landlady handed the photo back to me and shook her head sadly. “It must be quite a trial for you.”

“Well, I know that respecting and caring for her elders is old-fashioned, but it’s a responsibility I take very seriously.”

The woman took my hand and patted it gently, tears in her eyes. “I wish you were my nephew.”

“I wish you were my aunt. My real aunt buys her cookies at the grocery store.”

She released my hand and turned, motioning for me to follow her up the stairs. I now had absolutely no doubt that I would eventually burn in hell. We climbed the stairs and walked to the end of the hallway. Reaching the last door on the right, the landlady turned and knocked. She waited a few moments and knocked again, but Malloy/Mallory didn’t appear to be in.

“He must have gone out. If you like, I can let you in the room to wait for him. Or you can come downstairs and wait there. I made plenty of cookies.”

The thought of more cookies made me hesitate, but I had work to do. “I’ll wait up here. That way I can surprise him when he gets back.”

The woman unlocked the door and opened it for me. “If you need anything, you just let me know, OK?”

“I will. Thanks for your help. Everyone will be so relieved when Uncle Thomas is back home, safe and sound.”

She closed the door behind me. The room was cosy, with only a small, but comfortable looking bed, a roll-top desk, and a dresser. I decided to pass the time by searching the room. The roll-top desk was unlocked and chock — full of papers. I searched everything but found only one thing of interest: a notebook full of strange symbols. It didn’t look useful, so I left it where I found it. Then I turned to the dresser. I immediately discovered something that was either very significant or completely meaningless: all of Malloy’s socks were black. Other than that, I found nothing interesting.

I glanced around. There didn’t seem to be anything left to search. The bed covers were thrown up over the bed. I pulled them back to reveal a pair of rumpled trousers. Just for fun, I looked through the pockets. From the front left pocket, I removed a folded piece of pink paper. Opening it up, I saw that it was a receipt from a local realty firm for a one month lease of storage property. An address was written at the top of the page: 54 Front Street. Down by the docks — mostly old, condemned buildings. I knew where Malloy was.

The waterfront area had once been a teeming centre of commerce. Now it’s building sat decrepit and forgotten, like dust-covered blocks in an attic. I’d heard that most of the properties had been bought up by underworld types, who used them to store things like hot merchandise, drug shipments, and the occasional dismembered body. Some of the buildings could still pass inspection with a small donation and were rented out as practice space for aspiring rock bands and experimental dance companies.

The massive structure at 54 Front Street had no pulse. It look like it had died about the same time as black-and-white movies (may they rest in peace). From the front, no lights were visible inside. After scaling an eight-foot chain-link fence, I walked around the left side of the building. I glanced up at the windows pockmarking the wall and saw no sign of activity, no indication that anyone was home. From the rear, I caught sight of a faint, thin, halogen glow seeping out around a window on the sixth floor.

There were three doors at ground level: one in the front, one in the back, one on the west side. Of course, they all felt solidly dead bolted. I returned to the rear of the building and fired up a Lucky Strike. Smoking is good for a lot of things, one of which is helping me to think. It’s also great after sex, baths, and meals and goes with just about anything except milk.

I looked up at the sixth storey window, then scanned my way down the building, looking for any possible way I could climb up. When I was nine, I’d had an authentic Spiderman uniform. Whenever I wore it, I could scale anything. A twinge of nostalgia ran through me. Of course, even if I could find the uniform, it probably wouldn’t fit. No, I’d become a mere mortal and would have to resort to mere mortal methods.

A rusted metal ladder was bolted to the brick face of the building on the far left side and ran all way up to the roof. Apparently, the bottom section had rusted and fallen off or been broken off, leaving a jagged end about 15 feet above the ground. If I could only reach the latter, I could easily climb to the sixth floor. I searched the area around the back of the building. Plenty of junk scattered around, but nothing useful. Then I was struck by a possibility: it might be a tricky fit, but I could probably land my speeder close enough to use it to stand on.

Five minutes later, I was standing atop my speeder, pulling my ever-increasing body weight up onto the first rungs of the latter with my ever-decreasing muscular capacity. Despite some unpleasant burning sensations and several mysterious popping noises, I finally got my feet on to the bottom rung. I rested a few moments, then began the ascent of Mount Malloy. As I reached the fourth story, the kid in me was saying to look down. The adult, of course, was saying not to. I listened to my inner child and felt the world begin to spin wildly off its axis. It took several minutes before I was ready to climb again.

When I got to the sixth storey, I realised that the window I was trying to reach was much farther away from the ladder than it had appeared when I was safely on the ground. It was at least eight feet away, with no apparent way to bridge the gap. If it had been possible to get a cigarette, light it, and smoke it without using my hands, I would have done it. As it was, both hands were locked in rigor mortis on the ladder, and I was hoping desperately that I’d live to smoke again.

It didn’t take me long to realise that I wasn’t going to get to the window from where I was clinging to the ladder. I began to climb again. Despite sweating palms and slight dizziness, I reached the roof quickly. Thirty feet away I saw a roof-access door. I hurried over, but it was locked. A search of the rooftop turned up no trap doors or other means of entrance. I walked toward the retainer wall at the edge of the roof, directly two floors above the sixth-storey window. As I approached, I stumbled over something in the dark. It turned out to be a coil of steel cable.

An idea came into my head that was simultaneously ingenious and ridiculous. I looked around and spotted a metal vent pipe protruding from a rooftop surface. Kneeling down and examining it, I determined that it was sturdy enough. I unrolled the steel cable and fed it down over the side until the end of the cable reached the bottom of the six-storey window. Making note of the length, I pulled the cable up, then attached the other end to the vent. I wrapped the cable around my hands several times. With a deep breath, I took several steps toward the edge of the roof and hurtled over the side.

I fell for what seemed an eternity, then jerked violently as the slack in the cable was taken up. My eyes, which had closed involuntarily, opened to see the window rushing straight at me. I shut my eyes again and felt a strange sensation of bursting through solid matter. With a loud crash, the window shattered into a thousand pieces. Still not opening my eyes, I let go of the cable and dropped. My feet hit the floor, and my knees buckled.

I looked up and saw a man across the room. He was half turned toward me and appeared to be in shock. I stood up slowly and made a quick check to verify that everything was still intact. Brushing glass shards from my overcoat, I walked toward him.

“Thomas Malloy, I presume.”

The old man seemed paralysed. I looked him over. He obviously resembled his image in the photograph Fitzpatrick had given me, but in person he had the look of a biblical prophet. He seemed ancient, though his gnarly, hoary look was probably as much a result of cigarettes and booze as the labours of a long and fruitful life. He still didn’t answer, so I decided to break the ice. “You know, Dr Malloy, you’re a hard man to track down. I’m pretty good at what I do, but you sure gave me a run for my money.”

“You’re NSA, aren’t you? You’re here to kill me.”

I gave Malloy my warmest smile. “No. I’m just a simple PI. A friend of yours, Gordon Fitzpatrick, hired me to find you.”

The old man relaxed a bit, but was still on guard. “So what are you going to do now?”

I considered for a moment. “Well, first I’ll have a smoke.”

I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Malloy. He took it slowly and sniffed it, then turned and packed it on a countertop. He was obviously no stranger to unfiltered smokes. I pulled out a matchbook and held a lit match up in front of him. He lit the Lucky Strike and inhaled deeply, eyes closed and a faint trembling in his hand. After several seconds, he exhaled and opened his eyes. It looked like he’d caught a buzz.

“This is my first cigarette in four months.” his eyes were bright. He took another drag, savouring it. “My daughter made me quit. I think she was just trying to make my last few years as miserable as possible.”

Malloy sat down and motioned me towards a nearby chair. We sat and smoked without talking for several minutes. Malloy took a final drag and dropped the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under the tip of his shoe. “Thanks for the smoke.”

“My pleasure.”

He ran a hand through his unruly thatch of white hair. “So Fitz put you on my trail. Did he tell you why he wanted to find me?”

I shook my head. “He didn’t give me any details… he just said that he thought you might be in danger.”

Malloy chuckled, then coughed several times. “You don’t know much about me, do you Mr — “

“Murphy. Tex Murphy. I found out a little. I know you recently married a young woman named Emily Sue Patterson. I know that you used to work at Berkeley with Sandra Collins, and that you once worked as a research scientist with Fitzpatrick.”

“Is that it?”

“Pretty much.”

Malloy nodded and scratched his white-stubbled chin. “My life’s been in danger for some time now. You probably know I’m wanted by the N S A. Well, a few other little groups would like to get their paws on me as well, some in the government, some in other governments, some in private organisations. Hell, sometimes it feels like I’m running from everyone but the Girl Scouts.”

He coughed violently into a closed fist. He didn’t look very healthy. I didn’t ask if he was all right.

“I knew about the NSA. I had a little run in with them a couple of days ago. They mentioned your name, but I played dumb. It’s something I’m really good at. But I’m pretty sure they believed me.”

The old man glanced up at me sharply. “You didn’t let them follow you here, did you?”

I thought back to what I’d done over the past six or seven hours. I was fairly certain that I hadn’t been trailed. I shook my head. The old man didn’t seem one hundred percent convinced. “If they followed you here, our acquaintance is going to be a short one. Better give me another one of those cigarettes.”

I pulled out the pack. There was only one smoke left. I handed it over and lit it for Malloy. He leaned back in his chair and inhaled, French-style. “Do you want to hear a story?”

“Sure.” I tried to be casual, but I had a feeling that this guy had a lot to say. I wanted to know everything.

“You positive? What I’m gonna tell you could put you in the same danger I’m in.”

“Just knowing you has been dangerous enough. Besides, danger’s like Jell-O — there’s always room for a little more.”

Malloy grinned, coughed three or four times, then wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve. “You ever heard of Project Blue Book?”