Perpetual Motion (18 page)

Maybe he had lost
it
… Or…

The next thought that crossed his mind sent
him scurrying down the stairwell, his mind racing ahead of him. The
elevator seemed to go three times as slow as usual; his conviction
getting stronger with each passing floor. Once he was in the
garage, he jogged to his car. Bending down, he started searching
along the undercarriage.

It took twenty minutes and cost him a grease
stain on his white shirt for him to find the little transmitter,
innocently blinking a tiny red light. Like an ingrown tick, he had
to give the device a little tug before the magnet released itself
from under the wheel well. His friendly FBI agents weren’t
following him; they were tracking him.

Cynical sat stewing in his Impala. There was
a lot on his mind, but, it was the fact that a transmitter directly
underneath him was broadcasting his whereabouts to the FBI that
really burned him. He had considered running over the bugging
device, setting it on fire, and/or tossing it off the Santa Monica
pier.

Then he thought about Karl and the
hyper-vigilant security guard’s question when he’d caught them
removing the bugs in Karen’s apartment. ‘If you take out the bugs,
won’t they know that you’re on to them?’

Maybe it was better to play stupid. So far,
he’d been playing that part to perfection anyway. Besides, if he
ever needed to lose the Feds, he could attach the little bug to a
fast moving train and let them follow it like greyhounds after a
mechanical rabbit.

While it was annoying that the FBI was
monitoring him, it was not totally unexpected. Agents McCobb and
O’Riley were just bird-dogging for someone higher up the food
chain. The question was who? And could they be connected to whoever
had murdered Fernando and tried to grab Michael?

When he didn’t have enough information to
solve a problem, Cynical tried to approach the question from a
different angle. Instead of going in circles over the FBI’s true
agenda, he jumped to the ultimate question…Assuming Michael had
invented something that actually worked, who would possibly want to
destroy a motor that could provide the world with free energy?

It took a moment or two before oil companies
and cartels came to mind first. They stood to lose billions if a
cheaper, cleaner energy source suddenly became available. So what
about his own government? Could the US be so intertwined with Big
Oil that they’d actually help suppress an invention like this? He
hoped not, but nothing would surprise him.

Contemplating the vastness of his potential
enemies, the x-detective felt a cold, sharp stab of fear in his
gut. If he was really up against a multi-national corporation, much
less a government, he was playing a game he couldn’t win. Being
monitored by the FBI was the least of his problems. He was lucky to
still be alive.

His next thought was abundantly clear: a
million dollars wouldn’t do him much good if he wasn’t around to
spend it. If he was going to put his life on the line, it needed to
be about more than the money. When he really thought about it, he
realized it came down to the invention. If the invention actually
worked, maybe it was worth it.

Getting out of his car, he made his way back
up the stairwell, questioning himself with every step. The smart
move was to drop the case; take another vacation for a month or
two. And yet, his bad knees kept climbing the stairs. A minute
later, he was ambling back down the hallway to 315. Knocking hard,
he waited; then knocked again.

“Hold on.” The door swung open and Desmond
stepped aside, letting the detective in. “What’s going on? You
bring us lunch?”

Looking around, Cynical didn’t see Karen, but
her bedroom door was closed. He took a seat on the futon across
from Desmond who had settled into the computer chair.

“I want to know about the device,” he said.
“The thing you guys invented. How does it actually work?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’d understand,” Desmond
said smugly. Starting to swivel back to the computer, the young
man’s motion was stopped short. Looking down, he saw a thick hand
was holding the arm of his chair firmly in place.

“Try me,” Cynical said in a low voice.

Desmond took a breath, as if summoning all
his strength to whittle the information down to a size that his
dim-witted audience could comprehend. Leaning back in the chair, he
crossed his legs and put his hands behind his head.

“Okay, basically, it’s a self-propelled
engine that runs almost entirely on super charged magnetic power.”
He hesitated with an idea. “Hold on. This might help.”

Turning back to the desk, Desmond grabbed a
notepad and pen. On the lined paper, he drew a broken circle with
one end curved below its original starting point. The recognition
was instant; it was the same symbol Cynical had seen on the factory
wall and on Desmond’s garage door.

“Michael got the idea to arrange magnets in a
circular shape, placing the stronger ones closer to the center. Of
course, the pull would naturally be more powerful as you moved
toward the closer magnets anyway.”

Laying the pen flat inside the circle, he
continued, “So, if you put a metal bar or a rotor in the center…”
Slowly, he turned the pen. “It will be drawn along by the
increasing pull of the stronger, closer magnets, creating
centripetal force.”

“Okay,” Cynical said, still following along,
more or less.

“Yeah, anyone can do that,” Desmond said
dismissively. “The problem is at 360 degrees, the magnets reverse
polarity.” Again, he provided a mock demonstration with his pen,
bouncing it back as it completed one full rotation within the
circle. “It creates a magnetic field that won’t allow the rotor to
continue all the way around.”

“The trick is to allow the rotor to pass
through the field so it will complete the cycle,” Desmond
continued. This time, he let the pen complete its rotation and
continue on a second turn. “And keep it cycling, so it can gain
momentum.” With a flick at the end, the pen was sent spinning.

“So how did you guys get around the...”
Cynical searched, “polarity problem?”

“Michael got the idea to fire a laser from
the center of the circle to where the rotor completes its full
rotation – the zero point.” Fully engaged, Desmond got up and
started to pace. “See, the laser produces a pulse that temporarily
blocks the magnetic field and allows the bar to pass, like it’s
going through a swinging gate. It’s really just a matter of working
out the timing.”

“Like predicting the timing on a roulette
wheel?” Cynical asked.

“I guess,” Desmond said, perplexed by the
comparison. “I would think this would be a lot easier since there’s
no ball randomly bouncing around.”

Cynical nodded, gesturing that the answer
would suffice and to keep going.

“As it builds speed, it charges itself – and
the electrically juices the magnets even more.” Desmond said
proudly, “It doesn’t just sustain itself; it actually gets more
powerful as it continues to run.”

“So, how would it slow down?” Cynical asked
dumbly.

“Resistance,” Desmond said with a nonchalant
shrug. “Enough resistance will stop anything.” Staring at his one
man audience, he paused, as if to reconsider the question for a
moment. “Of course, the motor has to be strong enough to pull a
certain amount of resistance too. So, to see how it performed under
load, we attached a gear wheel and hooked it up to a voltage
meter.”

Desmond’s eyes lit up as if he was attached
to the machine himself. “Our conversion efficiencies were through
the roof. We were generating real, usable voltage out of thin air,
except for what the laser used and that was minimal.”

“So this could really change the way we get
energy?” Cynical finally said.

“Oh yeah,” Desmond said definitively. “It
would change everything.”

Cynical still didn’t know if the machine
actually worked, but it was clear that Desmond believed what he was
saying. Realizing he might be sitting on the front row of a
breakthrough on the scale of Edison’s light bulb, the x-detective
felt a self-generated volt of electricity pass through him.

Maybe, just maybe, it was worth the risk. And
the prospect of a million dollar payday didn’t hurt either. Right
then and there, he made a decision. He was going to stay on the
case and follow it to the end, wherever it took him.

The thrill Cynical felt when he heard about
the possibilities of the perpetual motion machine slowly eroded
with every passing night that went by without hearing from its
inventor. Paying a small fortune to J.T. every night made it all
the more painful. Whenever he considered cutting back on the extra
protection, he remembered Fernando and booked J.T. and his unseen
back-up team for another night.

Karen was a good sport but, after almost a
week, her state of isolation was getting the best of her.
Increasingly irritable, she was short toward everyone, especially
Cynical, who she focused her frustrations on. Desmond was the only
one who seemed to be thriving in the unnatural arrangement; his
obvious infatuation with Karen making her all the more
uncomfortable.

During the day, Cynical hung out with the
kids. Since he didn’t even want them to even go outside, he took on
the responsibility of bringing in food. At night, he knew he was
leaving Karen and Desmond in the capable hands of J.T., but he
still worried about them. Sleepless nights were spent pacing his
floors, trying to identify his unknown opponents and wondering if
and when they might strike again.

A lot of time was also wasted trying to get
inside Michael’s head. There were just too many possibilities on
where the boy wonder could have gone. By this time, he might be in
Mexico or Canada. And, while he didn’t like to think about it,
there was a distinct possibility the abduction team in Vegas had
already hunted him down. If that was the case, he didn’t expect to
hear from Michael again.

As the days went by, he wished he could go
back in time to Mancuso’s jet and take the old man’s generous
retainer and offer to pay his expenses. Instead, he had greedily
gambled everything on the big, seven figure bonus. Now, he was
over-his-head, and sinking in a pit of debt and despair. The worst
part was there was nothing he could do, except wait and hope.

With a scotch in one hand, the PI sat at his
kitchen table, turning over the business card Amanda had left on
his nightstand. He hadn’t talked to her since she’d stayed over at
his place and slipped out the next morning. He’d been busy with his
case, but that wasn’t an excuse for not calling her.

So, late into the night and into his second
drink, he picked up the phone and punched in the number she’d
handwritten on the back.

On the second ring, she answered in a hushed
whisper. “Hello?”
“Amanda? Hey, it’s Cynical.”

“Oh… hi,” she said, struggling to sound
friendly.

“Is it too late?” he said, suddenly
remembering the three hour time difference. It was close to
midnight her time. “I woke you up. I’m sorry.”

“Its fine,” she said in a more normal voice.
“How are you?”

“I’m okay,” he said. “I just thought I’d see
how you were doing?”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

There was a slight pause as Cynical searched
for his next line. “How’s Samson?”

After allowing for a light laugh, she
answered, “Samson is fine.”

“So, you’re still in Maryland?”

“Yeah,” Amanda said. “I leave for
Philadelphia on Monday.” She paused. “How’s that case of
yours?”

“It’s pretty slow,” he admitted. “That’s
just the way it goes sometimes.”

She didn’t respond. She had never asked him
for details about his work and, while he appreciated that, part of
him wanted to confide in someone about it.

“I’m sure it will work out,” she finally said
into the silence

“Yeah,” he said weakly.

There was another awkward pause; Cynical
guessed Amanda was distracted or just tired. Who could blame her?
This desperate, broken down x-detective had awakened her in the
middle of the night to say absolutely nothing.

“Well, I’ll let you go,” he said. “I just
wanted to tell you, I was thinking about you.”

“Oh,” she cooed. “I’ve been thinking about
you too.” The words were there, but he didn’t sense any feeling in
them. “Can I call you back?” she suddenly asked. “Samson is barking
at something.”

He didn’t hear any barking, although he was
three thousand miles away.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to call back,” he
said quickly. “Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll talk to you
soon.”

“All right,” she said, giving up pretty
easily. “Good night,” she added in that silky seductive voice of
hers. But, once again, it felt flat.

Hanging up, Cynical felt even lonelier than
before the call. It turns out he had been a one-night fling and it
didn’t feel too good. Carrying a refreshed glass of ice and scotch
to the bathroom, he plugged the drain and turned the faucets on
full blast. As the bathtub filled, his tumbler slowly drained.

Settling into the wet warmth, he stared at
his kneecaps sticking out of the water, deciding they looked like
twin islands in a sea buffeted by sheer ceramic cliffs.

With another sip, he leaned back and let the
two sandy mounds sink below the surface. Moments later, he was back
on his own tropical paradise with beautiful native girls vying for
his attention. Even in his fantasy, the women kept morphing into
versions of Amanda and dancing away from him.

A distant ringing roused the island king back
to the real world. Looking around, he readjusted to his more
familiar surroundings, just as his answering machine kicked in.

“Hello, this is Cynical. Leave a message.”
Beep.