Chapter 9 #2
The images stirred an unspeakable something inside me, especially in the parts of the comics where Dr. Nebula captured Nova Ranger so he and his cyborg army could unleash some sort of plague upon the humans of Earth.
Whether Nova Ranger was chained to the wall with shackles made of Stargazine—a fictional blue mineral known as Nova Ranger’s biggest weakness—or trapped in a tiny force-field cage, I always sensed this…
tension between Nova Ranger and Dr. Nebula.
Like their dislike of one another covered stickier, more intimate emotions.
It made perfect sense when I stumbled upon kink in college.
There are whole sites dedicated to guys who like to be chained, whipped, spanked, tickled, flogged, tied down, spat on, and made to feel like Nova Ranger in those impressionable parts of the comics I so loved.
Some even went so far as to sport the suits of their favorite heroes and role-play scenes with their sexual partners.
My world cracked open with this knowledge.
I became committed to finding someone who shared my interests.
Who’d hurt me in a safe way, and maybe even call me Nova Ranger if I donned my costume.
Because what I loved most about those stories was that no matter what Nova Ranger went through, he always emerged smarter and stronger for it.
In life, that wasn’t always the case. A slap on the face doesn’t make the skin of your cheeks tougher. It definitely doesn’t stop your heart from getting broken. But in comic books, the virtuous triumphed every time, and I still take a lot of comfort in that.
Actor Chase Miller appears on the screen as nerdy astronomer Dennis Peters, done up in a bow tie and glasses.
His normal person drag. I settle into the plush couch, hugging a fuzzy throw pillow to my chest as the score turns sonically eerie.
Dr. Nebula arrives. He is a tall, muscular, imposing man in a black turtleneck.
He speaks to his cyborg army in his spaceship, which is disguised as a hunk of space rock floating aimlessly.
I sit up as that taut wire of fear coils around my spine and lights up electric. It’s been a while since I’ve seen this, and Dr. Nebula’s plot to wipe out the human race sends chills rushing over my skin. This is going to be good.
Right as the first cyborg is about to be sent to Earth and the tremulous score swells, my phone lets out a piercing ring. I almost jump right off the couch. The number is not one I recognize, but I answer anyway because it could be someone from Wendell’s team checking up on me and the house.
“Hello?” I say brightly.
Crackling fills the speaker. Either the signal is bad, or whoever is on the other end is breathing heavily without saying anything.
“Hello?” I repeat.
The crackling only intensifies like a swarm of gnats nesting in my ear.
“Is somebody there?” I ask, holding the phone away a bit.
The line goes dead.
Weirded out, I copy the phone number into a search engine, but it doesn’t ping any matching results. No business. No spam risk. Nothing. It’s as if the number never existed before tonight.
On the TV screen, a cyborg crash-lands in the middle of Central Park.
As a kid from Wyoming, even New York City seemed as novel as outer space.
The cyborg emerges from its flaming pod, but he doesn’t look like space junk welded together into a robot minion anymore.
This time, he takes the form of a human person and blends into a crowd of tourists.
Nobody knows there is an impostor—an intruder—among them.
My phone rings again. It’s the same contact as before. Unknown Caller. Two words that become more menacing on a night like this, out here all alone.
I turn my ringer down, pause the movie, and answer.
Crackling, crunching. A sound like panting mixed with heavy footsteps. Not as loud this time, but somehow more unnerving. Unease tickles the back of my neck. I look over my shoulder out of habit.
“I’m pretty sure you have the wrong number,” I say and hang up.
Tensions mount in the movie as the first battle sequence between Nova Ranger and the cyborg masquerading as a human revs up. I relax into the couch again, laying my head against the armrest, enjoying the way the electronic, triumphant score buzzes in my chest from the high-quality speakers.
Not even ten minutes later, as Nova Ranger is blasting the cyborg with streams of stardust, the phone rings again. I don’t even bother checking the caller ID. I decline the call and go over to the downstairs wet bar.
As soon as I open the liquor cabinet, I’m staring at a wall of gleaming top-shelf bottles.
I deliberate what kind of cocktail I should make myself to take the edge off.
The brown liquor sings a siren song that’s difficult to ignore.
My hands shake at my sides, wondering if the loneliness I’m experiencing here is a preview of the rest of my life.
Brrng, brrng, brrng. It’s my phone again.
“Listen, I don’t know who this is, but you need to stop—”
“Reed Thompson?” comes a woman’s voice with a British accent.
“Y-yes?” I ask.
“This is Erin Pond,” she says. I place the name from my interviews.
I check the screen and confirm that it’s the contact I have saved for the homeowner, though I know she’s just one of Wendell’s many administrative secretaries.
Unfortunately, this number is also the one whose call I declined moments ago.
Shit. I’m not starting off on the best foot.
“I’m calling to check on how you’re settling into the house and ensure everything is going all right,” Erin says.
“Oh, okay,” I say, deflating against the wet bar. “Everything is great. The security system seems to be working fine. It glitches every now and then when the wind picks up, but it always comes back online within a minute or two. I watered the plants. I made sure the spa was clean. Yeah, all good.”
“Glad to hear it,” she says, uncertainty in her words.
“Sorry about before. I think I’m getting some prank calls, and I didn’t check the ID before I answered. It won’t happen again,” I say. I can’t jeopardize losing this gig before I hear back from Carson. He must be pulling a late night in the lab, given the hour.
“What sort of prank calls?” she asks.
“Oh, just somebody breathing. Nothing serious. Maybe it’s a wrong number, or some old person butt dialing me,” I say. “I’m not worried about it.”
There’s a lengthier-than-necessary pause from Erin, which makes me wonder if she’s worried about it. And if she’s worried about it, should I be worried about it? I bite my bottom lip hard enough that I almost draw blood.
“Good. Please remember you are not to entertain any visitors while you are staying in the house. We ask that you curb unnecessary trips off the property and that you remain vigilant when outside at night. Wildlife does tend to roam given the proximity to Yellowstone, and workers have reported wolf sightings,” she says in a matter-of-fact way.
“That means please be extra careful with food outside. Properly bin and lock the trash and recycling when you take it out.”
“Of course,” I say, worried now that I could come face-to-face with a slobbery, snarling wolf pack if I step outside at the wrong moment. Unlike Nova Ranger, I don’t have a shield or stardust to protect me.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Erin asks.
“None that I can think of,” I say.
“Right, well, if you do think of any questions or run into any trouble—any trouble at all—please call me first. The owner likes to handle situations his own way,” she says with a newfound firmness in her tone.
Confusion scratches at my hot ear against the phone. “Sorry, what do you mean by that?”
“Any incidents should be run through me first. I can direct the issue to the proper authorities should that be necessary,” she says.
“What sort of incidents?” I ask, uncertain. I fiddle with the empty rocks glass that I pulled down from the cabinet. It spins on the counter.
“Cooking fire, intruder sightings, prank calls,” she says. “To name a few off the top of my head.”
“If there were a fire, shouldn’t I call 9-1-1? Same with an intruder sighting?” I ask, concern growing in my belly. She can’t be serious, and if she is, I’m going to need something stiffer than any of these expensive bottles of liquor can provide to get through this week.
She smacks her lips with impatience. “As we reviewed during your interview, the owner is high-profile, very discreet, and prefers to avoid undue attention. This policy is in place to ensure minor infractions are not blown out of proportion. That is the way the owner likes it.”
“Will I ever get to interact with the owner?” I ask, breaching the topic while still waiting for the paternity results. If they come back positive, what am I going to do with that information? Hide a copy in his home office? Leak them to the media and hope it makes it back to him?
I’ve been playing the long game with this.
I took four other house and pet sitting gigs out here in Jackson Hole over the last couple of months.
Each time I expected it to be Wendell Blitz’s new place, and each time I showed up, only to be disappointed.
Making it to his compound finally is a miracle in and of itself.
I never even contemplated the next steps.
How do you share something that earth-shattering?
Erin chuffs on the phone. “Almost definitely not. The owner is a busy person who cannot be disturbed with domestic matters.”
“Of course,” I say. I’d be annoyed if that weren’t the sort of status I hope to have one day. I’d like to have my own Erin to tell people with their small problems to shove off.
I think back on the prank caller and decide my concern is silly. This house is off the beaten path and well secured—at least when the weather behaves. A vodka soda should chase any apprehension away. I’m safe here.
“It is strongly advised to contact me first in the event of an incident to avoid escalation. Again, these are all hypotheticals. You said the security system is up and working?” Erin asks.
I go to the nearest monitor by the back door to check. The green light next to the word “armed” glows on the screen. “Yes.”
“Perfect. There is nothing to worry about. I must go now. Enjoy your evening and reach out any time of day or night if necessary.” The call cuts off.
Had we really discussed not calling the police or the fire department during our interview process?
I wind through my memory and can’t place that conversation, though that doesn’t mean much.
I was mostly concerned with making a good impression and securing the job.
She could’ve told me I’d be required to swim in a tank full of piranhas or walk across broken glass every morning, and it probably would’ve gone in one ear and out the other.
Wendell Blitz does like to stay out of the press as much as possible. Having your house sitter get murdered would be the worst press of all, so I can stop catastrophizing because Wendell and his team would never, ever let anything bad happen to me.