The Click

He tidied up the house, pulled out of his driveway for Charlottesville shortly

after 10 o’clock and charged toward the speedway where the minimum speed limit was 60mph and the maximum depended on how many horses rode under one’s electroatomic isothermal pedal, and how heavy a foot stomped on it. He was in a hurry and he knew his sorry state would relish the freedom to fly, quite literally.

Throughout most of the trip, as the speedometer hovered at 160 miles per hour and his wheels flew almost six inches above the road at times, he played out in his head where all this was leading and whether it made any sense. Assume the best, assume the worst, and assume all the possible ways of reaching either end result—standard operating procedures in the field. The worst seemed obvious—he wasn’t going to save his grandson. But could his best save him? That question ate into his bones and percolated through the pores of his skin as he raced past the other vehicles seemingly parked in the slow lane. He kept lining up the possibilities, like foot soldiers on a chessboard trying to protect their own King. They were all pawns fighting bishops, he, Julian, even Rousseau and her idiot minion, all of them.

Let’s say this Professor Emeritus really does wish to become involved, and suppose we magically discover the Click is a big hoax on unsuspecting seniors, and terrible fallout for innocent children. How is that going to help Christopher—in time?

Just for a second, Oliver Hitchcock thought about initiating reverse thrust and turning back towards home. Was he doing all this merely to anesthetize his own anxieties while his daughter’s only child died in front of his eyes? A repetitive thought; an unwelcomed visitor constantly reminding him of reality and his own ineptitude. Wouldn’t he be better off spending more time with Christopher while he has the chance or must he get beyond a single child and the unthinkable idea of surviving a grandson … two grandsons? He knew there would be hundreds of other kids following in Christopher’s shoes, and what about all those youthful seventy-five year olds who have so much to live

for, like Edna before she died. Whatever the reason, selfish or selfless, he had no choice, the rubber had to rise above the road. He had to zoom on.

His navigator easily found Barnaby Bloom’s house, a sprawling red brick ranch, sitting a good forty yards in from the country road that had carried him up and down the Virginia countryside without his wheels ever touching the ground. It was the only house within two acres of anyone else. The narrow road caused him to pull behind a black Trident Racer on a gray asphalt driveway blistered by age and the Virginia sun. As he did, Oliver noticed a table under a bright red umbrella behind the garage and thought he saw a young woman standing next to it, probably the professor’s daughter.

A voice, low but clear, greeted him as he opened his car door. “Hello there.” The man called out ambling onto the driveway from the long, narrow front porch that stretched across the entire front of the house. The owner of that voice was short and stocky with long white hair, somewhat bedraggled, clinging to his shoulders, and an equally white mustache painted thickly across his face.

Barnaby Bloom held out his right hand from the sleeve of a jacket at least a size too large. “Dr. Livingston, I presume?”

As Oliver stepped out of the car, he looked up somewhat puzzled. “Obviously you are not Dr. Livingston. But you recognize the name? No?”

Barnaby was smiling.

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m Oliver Hitchcock.”

“Quite so, quite so.”

“And you are Professor Bloom, I gather?”

“Barnaby, just plain Barnaby.”

Janine Rousseau sat in an unmarked beige SUV with tinted windows a half mile down the road from the Bloom house. She was aggravated; pissed was the word that rang through her mind, as she played snoop for General Roseshit. With the aid of binoculars she watched Hitchcock shake hands with the white haired old man through a crack in the

front passenger window while taking note of the black Trident in the drive way. Just as she jotted down its license plate her scud RANG. She looked at it and groaned.

“Yes, General?”

“Are you on him?

“Yes, but I’m no fucking Patrol Boy, damn it!” She continued to watch Barnaby Bloom as he walked his guest into the house.

“You are what I say you are and right now you are my eyes and ears. The Cūtocratic council is concerned. They’ve decided they want the son-of-a-bitch out of their hair.”

“I thought they needed him to find the Shmuckie Decretum … or whatever the hell it’s called?”

“That’s the smotec’s concern, and McGivney’s. The Council doesn’t believe the damn thing exists. So do what I say. And while you’re at it, they want that Wu woman to disappear.”

Rousseau couldn’t keep up with the schizophrenic changes in strategies. “But …” “No buts, Rousseau. Just remember I’m the one who pulled you from the gutter

when the CIA abandoned you. I’m the one who allows you to run a money laundering business for that kid of yours. Do exactly as I say or you’re fucked.”

Barnaby Bloom led his visitor through the house and onto the back patio. The woman standing there, with her back turned, was feeding a doe that first froze then scampered away when the patio door slid open.

“I believe you’ve already met my colleague,” the professor said to Oliver Hitchcock.

Elana Wu hesitated for a second, to add drama to the moment she had to admit to herself, then turned around, smiled, and extended her hand. Hitch grinned accepting it in both of his. For the next two hours the three of them talked through lunch and a large platter of chocolate chip cookies.

“So that’s the story. I was ready to give up … then this black Jew, Nagasi, Ethiopian from what I understand, popped into the picture.”

“Quite so,” Barnaby said, then turned to Elana who shrugged, and back to Hitch. “I think Elana and I will be of help. We will consider joining your team to save

Christopher, if that’s possible. But let us give thought to how that will happen.” Barnaby then rose and Elana followed suit. Hitch took their hint, following close

behind the two of them as they crossed through the house and onto the porch out front. Before reaching Hitchcock’s car, Barnaby said his goodbyes to his visitor and let Elana walk him the rest of the way.

“Oliver, you will forgive me?”

“Pretty sure that was the first time a beautiful woman offered to pick up the tab then stiffed me.”

“Oh. Do I owe you …”

“Definitely, but not the tab. That’s been taken care of.” “Then you knew why I had to …” “I’m not that retired.”

She chuckled. He opened the car door.

“Do you like pizza?” Hitch asked as he maneuvered behind the wheel.

She flashed a curious but playful look, she hoped, and nodded. He smiled back and drove off under ominous clouds gathering overhead. As Elana watched him turn the corner Barnaby joined her on the driveway.

“He doesn’t realize you’ve just accepted him into the Cause,” she said holding on to his arm with both of hers as they walked back to the house. “He thinks you have agreed to become a member of his team of one.”

“Quite so. Well, whether the drink flows into the pitcher or the pitcher falls into the drink, the pitcher will fill up. Besides, we need new blood, especially someone with a cause close to home—and a deadline.”

“What if he compromises my work? I surely won’t be much help in the dungeons of China.”

“From what I’ve learned, Oliver Hitchcock lives to survive. It’s an obsession. And now he’s obsessed with saving his grandson.”

“Sounds like a dangerous man.”

“Our people, the people I trust with my life, and yours, welcome him. That said, we need him for one very important reason.”.

“Which is?”

“His connections. India and the old Jew, Nagasi, may be our last hope.”

Elana was new at this and wasn’t entirely sure where Barnaby’s scheme would lead but she trusted him with her life. He stood by her when everyone else said she was too young to make tenure, when everyone else said her Chinese roots, and belief in God, would sabotage their goal. He was there when her parents died and she had no one else to turn to. Besides, she wanted what they wanted, and for the same reason … for the sake of humanity. The church hadn’t totally brainwashed her.