The Click

All the way back to his hotel, Hitch couldn’t have been more delighted. Now

more than ever he knew he was on to something. Janine would not have sent her thug all the way across the world just to play games... and clearly she didn’t want him to use deadly force. He couldn’t help but smile as he threw pieces of clothing out of the convertible, one at a time. Once Mr. Oedipus Mertens had been scattered across the road, he had to think carefully. Why was she taking him so seriously? Did it really have to do with Christopher… but what else? Hell! Nothing else! But what had he learned? He learned that some unknown bloggers, probably before he was born, took issue with the Click and were expunged. And then there was Nagasi, an old man, quite probably delusional, who claimed to be 102. And he claimed not to have been vaccinated. Hitchcock swore he saw a V-Mark on Nagasi, but maybe he was mistaken.

As he approached his hotel, Hitch was no closer to solving the mystery he called Janine Rousseau. Early in his career he met her in Paris where she was a translator by day and an operative at night using seduction and charm where necessary. She had been recruited by an operative friend of his. It didn’t take her long to seduce Hitch, and thereafter their relationship became tumultuous to say the least. That lasted for almost a year. But then Rousseau blew her cover in one too many ventures and pissed off some higher ups, landing her on the streets of France where she disappeared. At the time Hitch was relieved considering the extra-marital relationship had begun boiling in a pot too hot to keep the lid on, a pot he was afraid might spill over into his private life. The next time he saw her she was wearing a black leather jacket with VAMA in yellow down one sleeve.

It was well after midnight when he reached his hotel and brought out the booze. After packing up for the morning flight and pumping out a hundred pushups on his knuckles, he found himself wandering into and out of the hall while listening on his scud

to the other end of a conversation. A half-empty bottle of whisky sat on the coffee table along with an empty glass.

“No, not to kill me. I believe the shit was out to scare me. … … Yes, damn it, I know this is Janine’s work and she knows I know it. The question is for who and why?”

Hitch walked out on the balcony and thought he got a glimpse of a VAMA shit, one of those ubiquitous black hearses. “Julian, I’m going to need your help on this. I’ll be home tomorrow morning.”

The following day after arriving at Washington Regis and passing through customs, he was once again on the phone with Julian Iscar racing through the airport dodging the crowd of travelers. “What? You’ll see what you can do?” Hitch became more incredulous as he listened. “Rousseau and VAMA! I already told you that. So what? … … Yes I know what I’m getting into, damn it! … No! Just find out what it is they’re getting into, and what an old fart who claims to be from some mysterious fucking village in the jungles of India has to do with anything?”

Hitch clicked off, still steaming. He decided to skip the people mover but practically trotted alongside, hoping to calm himself down.

Upon arriving home, he passed a VAMA hearse across the street and then from the driveway saw his front door ajar. He reached for his laser gun and opened the garage door at the same time. After pulling in and closing the garage door behind him, he jumped from his car and crept through the door in the back, then dashed down the brick steps and under the overhanging deck. He peeked through a basement window and saw nothing but his own reflection while the rushing river below carried away with it suspicious sounds, if any, including possible footsteps overhead. Taking advantage of the river’s roar, he unlocked the basement door and tiptoed through the dark to the head of the stairs. Inching his way up, step by step, with one hand gripping the handle of his laser gun, he no longer heard the river. The only sound he could detect was the squeals under his shoes. Then a CRASH just when he reached the top of the stairs. He raced through the door into the kitchen ready to fire, then the living room where the front door was wide

open and gusts of wind were blowing sheets of paper everywhere. A glass vase had fallen from an entry hall table to the tile floor below and shattered.

Hitch looked around dismayed, at first thinking the chaos was merely the work of nature. Then he noticed all the open drawers in his den and stuff thrown everywhere. “What the hell …” He raced for the door and looked out briefly. The VAMA hearse had vanished. He locked up and spent a good deal of time looking for video cameras and hidden mics. If they were there he’d find them. The place was clean. He took a deep breath, then turned and surveyed the mess that surrounded him.

It took several hours to put the house in order. When Hitch finally finished, he faced piles of printouts covering most of the counter space in the kitchen, the kitchen table, and much of his study. He checked the clock, 3:55 PM. He sat at his desk and tapped on his computation shell. RING, RING, RING. A hologram of Rajiv appeared. He was in his bed making love. “Oliver?

“Rajiv, are you free?” The hologram disappeared.

“Oops! Oliver. What did you ask?

“I asked if you were free, but now I’m not seeing you.”

“Better that way … Am I free? Not exactly, but I am available … for a moment.” “You were supposed to check in on Nagasi.” “I did. I’m afraid he disappeared.”

“What?”

“Discharged in the middle of the night. I checked all the hospitals. No record of a newly admitted patient named Nagasi.

“Shit!” Hitch swiped his hand across the desk causing papers to fly once again. “Do not worry my friend. When the school opens, I will let you know. Early

appointment in the morning. Must go.

“In that case, I hope she doesn’t keep you up all night.”

“She is twenty-two and gorgeous. I’m afraid she might just do that.”

Hitch watched the signal disappear on the screen of his computation shell only to be replaced by silence. He jumped up from his desk chair and kicked the papers on the

floor, then remembered The First Coming, still in his suitcase. Five minutes later he sat on the living room couch with a bottle of beer in one hand and the book in the other hand, the green dot still on its spine. Twenty minutes in and he was convinced it was a book of fiction. Something about the Queen of Sheeba in the Old Testament visiting King Solomon. The king supposedly seduced her and that seduction resulted in the Tribe of Dan, one of the lost tribes of Israel, defeated by the Assyrians and exiled from the land of Canaan. They eventually settled in Ethiopia but generations later found their way to an idyllic meadow in the underbelly of India where, according to the True and Rightful Prophesy they were to settle … settle and wait for the Messiah.

By the time Hitch finished the book, he wasn’t sure whether or not the Messiah ever came or who those people really were. They apparently lived for the first night of Chanukah each year in hopes that the Messiah would somehow appear in their village and take to the giant flagless pole in the village square. The sky would explode in celebration sending the power of a five million light bulbs through him ... and it was then and there that he would speak to God on behalf of his people. In between these annual festivals of hope the villagers seemed to do nothing but read books and argue over all types of philosophic issues. Clearly they were educated. Exactly how they managed all that in the Jungles of India, he wasn’t sure. But after looking at the clock in the kitchen he knew enough was enough. He needed sleep. Besides, it was a book of fiction.