Switcheroo
Authors: Robert Lewis Clark
Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Suspense, #Science Fiction
Switcheroo
by
Robert Lewis Clark
Switcheroo 1
st
edition Kindle.
Copyright © 2012
Robert Lewis Clark.
Published in The
United states of America
Cover photograph
and graphics by Robert Lewis Clark
Partial lyric to
“White Rabbit” from Jefferson Airplane
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by
any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of
the author, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters,
incidents, places and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. They are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to
actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In other
words, if you think you are in this book, you aren’t. However Turbo, Colombia is an actual place full of fun loving, hard working people who love to eat
good food and drink Aquardiente (like Italian Grappa). Also, trucker vitamins
do exist and they will keep you awake for forty-eight hours, guaranteed.
To the good teachers and the go-getters who inspire us.
Thank you.
Prologue
: Oakridge National Laboratories, Oakridge, TN
“
One pill makes you larger,
And one pill makes you small.
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all…”
Why was
that
song running
though his head? Two years of twelve-hour days with Kendrick bearing down on
him like a runaway train had finally yielded some results. The once mysterious
barriers to the science of teleportation had been erased by his mind- numbing
hard work. All the pieces were falling into place, but there had been a cost.
William Madison had become physically and mentally ill from the strain of this
research marathon-testing, tweaking, and advancing his invention.
Starting out, he had repeated
old-school 1980’s quantum teleportation experiments that moved atomic
particles. That wasn’t really teleportation. Object A was energized, then
became entangled with object B, and shot out the other end as identical object
C. Flawed, because the original is destroyed in the process. Kind of the way
Tom Jones destroyed The Talking Heads ‘Burning Down the House’ (also in the
1980’s).
What Madison had really been
looking for was a traversable wormhole. The process required was too large and
needed too much energy to be practical. Estimates for the necessary facility
were about the dimensions of Neyland Stadium. For months Madison had
systematically worked out ways to miniaturize each part of the process. The
device, now contained in a black box the size of a toaster, was powered by a
tiny nuclear reactor. It accelerated particles beyond light speed (yes! It is
possible!) using two tiny centrifuges spinning in opposing directions; then
dumping their contents together, creating the bang needed to start the teleportation
process.
The resulting wormhole is very
small. After a thorough scan, the object is blasted into its basic atomic form
and flushed down the wormhole along with a magnetic data-stream of instructions
on how to reassemble the whole mess. The object and instructions shoot out of
the hole on the other end and are reformed just like Julia Child whipping up an
atomic soufflé.
Madison forced himself to move on,
and installed the second device in the black security truck. Finished, he
slammed the hood down. Over the past few days he had painted each of two trucks
with a special epoxy which had a molecular structure that would isolate the
reaction and keep the universe from turning itself inside out. At the
prescribed time the reaction would happen. Madison would observe and report to
Kendrick, as he always had.
Madison’s IQ had always been
burden to him, and now the weight was about to crush him. He had no friends
outside the lab and zero love life. He dreamed of dropping out of the science
grind and taking up something more soothing, maybe knitting. He was drunk with
the fatigue of the eighteen-hour work days. He was still going, fueled by
coffee and snack machine junk food.
The time had nearly arrived. He
grabbed a small cage containing a white rabbit from the lab and stepped
forward. Madison opened the door of the truck and placed the cage on the
driver’s seat and gently closed the door. He hoped the little bugger would
come out the other end of Alice’s rabbit hole with his whiskers intact. It
would all happen at 3:17 p.m. because, hey, who doesn’t like St. Patrick’s Day?
It was dark. The city smelled like
an ashtray. Wait a minute, that's my sports coat. Oh well, no one would notice
my cigar smell where I was headed. They wouldn't smell me if I walked in
wearing a suit made of cigarette butts with ashtrays for shoes.
I was headed to Orby's Grill; a
cinder block hole in the wall down the way from several low class mobile home
parks. I had the top down, flying down Western Avenue, my workday almost over,
thank the Lord. It was October in East Tennessee, so I had the heat turned on
just a bit to compensate for the cold coming over the windshield.
On my prior field call, I had not
been able to make contact with Travis McHenry, but had no trouble locating his
home among the other mobile homes in Sleepy Acres Mobile Home Community on Sutherland Avenue. I would say trailer park, but I'm trying to be a little more politically
correct these days. Words like ‘trailer’ creeping into my speech could lead to
less pleasant references, like wobbly box or tornado magnet. I like to curb any
thinking that judges others. Other people enjoy using terms like manufactured
home or modular housing. Calling their house a trailer is like calling a flight
attendant a stewardess. What some think of as slang, others take as a slur.
There were only about twenty homes
in the neighborhood, so I found my mark pretty quickly.
This guy's place was hard to miss.
Sitting between two neatly trimmed lawns with nice looking, if older,
singlewides, was my destination. McHenry's was the oldest and nastiest on the
cul-de-sac. It had two foot tall grass going to seed, a brown couch monster in
the yard, and a dead Grand Am on blocks in the driveway.
On closer inspection, the high
grass actually helped the home’s curb appeal by obscuring about one hundred
quart bottles of Bud and countless pizza boxes that littered the yard. At the
front of the gravel driveway, there was a huge dent in the underpinning and
bottom of the house under the kitchen window. Somebody had obviously overshot
the driveway. Travis was not home. The door was unlocked, so I peaked in.
Just to show prosperity hadn't
totally passed him by, Travis had a cable box on top of an ancient television.
The kitchen reminded me of a certain cologne: Ode de Shitte. Since the power
had been shut off, his refrigerator was truly scary. Fur grew on leftovers and
the milk jug appeared to be filled with cottage cheese. The floor was littered
with stale Cheerios and scratch-off lotto tickets. McHenry was a real winner.
Judging by the expiration date on
the milk, I'd venture to say the home had been abandoned for at least two or
three weeks.
Since it was now dusk, I cranked
the LeBaron (yes some people still drive them) and pointed the headlights at
the mobile home. The car's beams plus the street light were good enough for me
to take some charming pictures of the property. I polished off my report for
the lender who was my client's client. I left a note with the bank's phone
number in an envelope on McHenry's door, just in case he showed up. Doubtful.
That was it, I left. Seventy-five bucks for fifteen minutes work, not bad.
Most dead-beats hang out at pubs
right outside their own neighborhoods, so I headed to the nearest one I had seen
on the way there: Orby's Grill. Not just an excuse to have a beer, there was a
twenty- five dollar bonus for each call where I made customer contact and
possibly collected money. This wasn't the most glamorous form of investigation,
but it helped cover overhead between more interesting jobs, of which there were
none.
There was one exciting thing about
my visit to Orby’s; it was my last call of the night.
Not taking my time on my way to
Orby’s, I spotted flashing police lights in my mirror. I glanced down at the
speedometer- the needle was dropping- but was still far above the speed limit.
Begrudgingly, eyes rolling, heart filled with joy, I pulled over. I rolled my
window down, which felt silly, since I had the top down on my 1990 Chrysler
LeBaron convertible. A sporty and elegant car for old guys in its day, it was
now a turd-on-wheels.
The patrolman walked slowly toward
the left side of my car. A hulking example of Knoxville's finest, he looked
like a black refrigerator in my rear-view mirror. Shucks, no cameraman
following him, I won't be on “COPS” next week.
Officer Billingsworth introduced
himself, and asked for my license and registration. This guy was about six foot
four. His tight, rolled up sleeves revealed what looked like a side of beef
hanging off each shoulder. I decided to behave myself and handed him my wallet.
“Russell Stover? Like the candy,
huh? ”
“Yeah, but my friends call me
Rust. Want to be friends?”
Officer Billingsworth didn't like
that, “Look, smart-ass, I'll ask the questions if you don't mind. Where's your
registration and insurance? ”
“In the glove box,” I braced
myself. “But I wanted to tell you before I opened it, there is a gun in there.”
“Freeze!” Billingsworth said as he
stiffened, right hand un-holstering his police special.
“Whoa, I have a private
investigator's license and a gun permit. Check the wallet. In fact, I used to
be in the force for a few years before the mayor had me canned for giving his
mother twenty parking tickets. I know, you’re thinking that showed poor judgment.
In hindsight, I definitely agree. I don't believe we’ve ever met. You must be
new to the force.”
“I was with the Atlanta P.D. until
my wife got transferred to Knoxville. Wait a minute! Just shut up and get out
of the car. Now!”
I got out slowly and leaned
against my car, wondering if it was getting my Dockers dirty. Meanwhile
Billingsworth scowled as he riffled through my glove box. He pulled my
registration and insurance card along with the six-shot paper weight that had
been on top of them. I did as I was told and kept my hands on the police
cruiser’s hood.
“What are you carrying a piece for
and where are you going with it in such a hurry?” He eyed my P.I. license
suspiciously.
Uh oh, a two-parter. Billingsworth
being the great thinker, and all.
“I'm working. I'm looking for a
guy named Travis McHenry, maybe you know him. My client, LISA, contracted me to
contact this guy about his delinquent house payments. Since you are a law
officer, maybe you could help me find him.”
“Maybe you could shut up for a
minute...”
“But you asked me a question.”
“I said, shut up! Now I pulled you
over for speeding, sixty-five in a forty-five. I feel like bustin’ your
gun-toting smartass, but your permit is legit and there ain’t no law against
having a smart ass mouth. Don’t move. ”
Billingsworth took my wallet,
registration, insurance card and side-arm back to the cruiser my tax dollars
had helped to purchase. It was much shinier and better maintained than my own
sorry excuse for a car.
He came back with a ticket carrying
a one hundred and thirty dollar fine, my pistol (now without the bullets) and
more free advice.
“Don’t let me see you speeding
around here anymore. A man was killed driving on this road just two weeks ago.”
I signed for the ticket and got
back in my car. I waited until my wheels were safely rolling to say,
“Thanks and enjoy the bullets.”
My rearview mirror was dirty and
as I said, it was dark, but I thought I saw Officer Billingsworth make the
sports symbol for ‘we’re number one’ with his index finger. Maybe.