Chapter 4
brODIE DROVE HIS CHEVY IMPALA through the rain and rush-hour traffic to arrive home at his bungalow, which was a nice word for a shithole.
He was renting the place, which meant every problem was someone else’s problem, except that Scott Brodie was the one who had to live there.
Would the toilet back up again? Were there termites in the baseboards?
Each day brought the potential for a new surprise.
He entered the front door, set down his briefcase and umbrella, then unclipped his pistol and placed it on the side table in the foyer.
He entered the narrow galley kitchen, rummaged around the fridge for leftover takeout that didn’t smell too funky—on the menu tonight was three-day-old Hawaiian chicken and rice—then nuked the leftovers, cracked a beer, and settled into the sagging couch in the living room.
Despite the state of his accommodations, his dating life was okay. Maybe he attracted women who thought they could fix his life, and the length of his relationships—on average, about three months—was how long it took them to realize they were mistaken.
That brought Brodie to the unpleasant task at hand.
He took out his cell and called Sarah, his girlfriend of about two months.
She was a special ed teacher in DC with a seemingly inexhaustible amount of patience, both for her students’ challenging needs and for her boyfriend’s bullshit.
She was gorgeous, and all-around too good for him, which she would realize on her own in about a month if he didn’t do something about it first.
She picked up. “Hey, Scott.”
“Hey. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure. We still on for Tuesday?”
“Actually, I have to travel for work tomorrow.”
“Oh. Okay… Where?”
“I’m not able to say.”
“All right. How long?”
“I don’t know. And unfortunately, I can’t be in touch while I’m away.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going somewhere with stringent security protocols. No cell phones.”
There was silence on the line, as Sarah pondered what he was really up to. She said, “Okay… So, you’re going somewhere, and you’ll be back someday, and you can’t call me.”
“Right.”
“Email?”
“I’m not clear on that.”
“This is… strange, Scott.”
“I know. And I understand if this doesn’t work for you.”
“I never said that.”
“I know you didn’t, but I’m—”
“Are you trying to break up with me?”
“No.”
“Good. Then all I ask is that you try to figure out a way to contact me while you’re away on your secret mission so that I know you’re not dead.”
“I can hopefully do that.”
“I have a meeting in like five minutes, and I need to prep, so I shouldn’t stay on.”
“Of course. I just wanted to let you know.”
“Right. Take care of yourself. Stay safe. And whatever you are doing, I wish you the best of luck. Maybe you can tell me something about it once you’re home. I’d like that.”
“I’d like that too.”
“Okay. Bye.”
“Good-bye.” He hung up.
Well, that had gone differently than he’d thought it would.
But he often expected the worst and allowed life to surprise him.
Sarah wanted to hang in there for some reason.
That was good. Maybe she was drawn by Scott Brodie’s aura of mystery.
Or maybe she just wanted to put in her full three months.
He tossed his phone on the coffee table, turned on the TV, then drank his beer and ate dinner as he cycled through the streamers for a movie to watch.
What would be appropriate for this evening?
The Terminator? The Matrix? Blade Runner?
He tried to remember if any of those ended with the killer robots on the losing side.
He landed on an old classic, Stanley Kubrick’s 2001. It was long and slow-paced, but a good film made during an almost unrecognizable time when the potential of the high-tech future felt limitless.
Toward the end of the film, one astronaut, Dave Bowman, floats in zero gravity through the processor core of the HAL 9000, the intelligent supercomputer that has gone rogue and killed everyone else aboard the spaceship.
As Bowman methodically disconnects HAL’s memory and logic modules one by one, the computer pleads for its life.
Stop, Dave. Will you stop, Dave? Stop, Dave. I’m afraid. I’m afraid, Dave.
Dave doesn’t stop. The computer’s red eye dims to darkness.
Brodie took a swig of beer. “Fuck you, Hal.”