Clark made sure to stop in and thank his division manager for allowing him two days off. He explained that the news of Elaine’s killers hit him harder than he thought it would and appreciated the time to reflect and compose himself. His manager, of course, understood and carefully reminded Clark that he was an integral part of the New World Reporter family. That interaction went better than expected, but his explanation to James would have to be handled differently. He could feel the suspicion hanging heavy in the air as he entered their office.
James immediately stood. He looked Clark over first with compassion, and then with a distinct irritation. “Are you alright?” he asked.
“Fine now, thanks. I just needed a couple days,” replied Clark. He never looked up or looked James in the eye. He proceeded to remove his coat and hat, adjust his glasses, sit down in his chair, and turn on his monitor.
“Now that I know you’re okay,” started James, still standing, “let me just say: I don’t know what you’re up to but whatever kind of bullshit you think you can pull on everyone else isn’t going to work on me. And furthermore, you’d better call your mother. She is worried sick. I don’t know where you’ve been but I know you weren’t home because I came over. The least you could’ve done is answer the phone. Damn it Clark, I’ve covered up for you with the boss for the last time. You’re not going to take me down with you. I need this job. I have a family, you know!”
“Well, I don’t,” said Clark in a whisper.
James sighed and continued, “I will help you personally any way I can but professionally you’re on your own.”
“I understand,” said Clark, and he really did. Before turning to his work, he finished with, “Thanks for always looking out for me, James.” He did not get a response.
As Clark plowed through the mound of work that had piled up on his desk over the past two days, he couldn’t help but think about James’ words. What he said stung, but there was something missing. James had not mentioned the break in at the Smithsonian. Surely he knew. Surely everyone knew. Clark activated the news scroll on his computer and watched for thirty minutes. The news stories started to repeat after only ten, and there was no mention of the break in. He then started clicking through web pages from other news sources trying to find some word on his covert escapade. There was nothing. He finally ended up on the Smithsonian website. The schedule of operations had changed for the Museum of Modern warfare. The curators had announced a three week shut down for “routine maintenance and repair” but gave no indication that anything was wrong. Sadly, Clark confirmed the security guard’s death by coming across his obituary as he searched. His cause of death was listed as “natural” and he had no family listed. That was it: a complete cover-up.
Perhaps the authorities were not releasing information for fear of embarrassment, but Clark knew there was another reason: they were looking for him. They did not want to tip off any suspects as to how much they knew or who they were after. He had covered this kind of investigation too many times not to recognize the routine. But Clark also knew that it was only a matter of time before someone inside the investigation let something slip. From that point, the F.B.I. would control the flow of information to the media. Clark knew then the hounds would be on him and his time was limited.
The day proceeded quietly. Clark and James ate separately at lunch. When Clark returned from the cafeteria James was already in his chair, on the phone. The two made eye contact as Clark closed the door behind him and took his seat behind the desk. James thanked the person he was on the line with and closed his phone. He sat back in his chair and ran his hands over his face. “That was one of my sources in D.C. Did you know that the Museum of Modern Warfare is closed?”
“Yeah, James. I saw it this morning on the net,” explained Clark.
“Clark, the personal flying combat suit has been stolen,” James said assertively.
“Now that’s a story. Were you able to get any leads on suspects?” asked Clark nervously.
“Is there something you need to tell me, Clark?” asked James in a forceful tone. “Where were you for the last two days? If you were involved in this I swear to god…”
Clark didn’t even stop to think. He stood up quickly and said, “C’mon, let’s go. Get your coat.”
“Where are we going?” asked James, standing up.
Clark opened the door as he put on his hat and said, “My place. I need you to keep your mouth shut and trust me.”
_
Forty minutes later Clark and James were standing in the apartment in silence. The place was spotless. All signs of a desperate inhabitant were gone. The dishes were clean, the counter and table were free of clutter, the couch was clear, the lamp was on the end table, books were on shelves, clothes were in the closet, the bed was made, the carpets were swept…
Most noticeably to James, the weight bench sat in front of a newly painted wall. The newspaper clippings, pictures, posters and notes had all been boxed and put away. The weights were on racks arranged by size and the cushion on the bench had been replaced. A stack of clean, white face towels sat folded at the foot of the weight rack next to a pair of running shoes. This was not the same place it was three days ago and its cleanliness and organization took James by surprise.
Now, the two old friends stood at the foot of the bed staring at the steel blue and gray combat suit. They had not spoken on the train, on the street, up the stairs, or into the apartment. Clark was especially nervous because, for once, James was speechless.
Clark spoke first, “I need your help.”
“No shit,” replied James. “But we can’t fix this, Clark. This is too much.”
“I don’t need your help fixing anything. I need your help learning how to use it,” said Clark. “You said you would do anything for me personally. I don’t need you to do anything further professionally.”
James interrupted, “Clark, I can’t…”
“Let me finish,” continued Clark. “I just need your help reading the plans. You majored in mechanical engineering before switching to photography. I know the schematics will make more sense to you than me.”
“Even if I said yes, where would you get the plans?” asked James. Clark knelt and pulled a rolled up set of blueprints and a thick, black three-ring binder from underneath the bed. James looked at the binder which was marked confidential, and then back to the suit. “Jesus, Clark. What are you going to do with this thing?”
“I’m going to fly it. I’m going to exact my revenge on Elaine’s killers and I will use this suit to do it,” said Clark with as much conviction as James had ever heard. He unfurled the plans in his hands and handed them to his best friend. “Will you help me?”
The two stood in silence for another few minutes while James looked over the first page of the print. Finally he spoke. “Ingenious. Voice commanded flight based on electromagnetic propulsion.” He paused, pulled his phone from his pocket and said, “Let me call home.”
“Then what?” asked Clark.
“Then we get started,” replied James. “Does this thing even fit you?”
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