Fook Page 7

  “It must be genetic,” he mumbled as he lowered the towel from overhead, remembering countless occasions being awakened to the same situation by his wife’s kitchen follies. It had been three years since her passing and since then his daughter had made it her mission to fill in for her departed mother, right down to her tragic inability to cook.

  “Sorry Daddy,” Katie timidly lowered her head as her father reentered the room.

  “That’s ok sweetie. I appreciate the sentiment. So, what were we having, bacon?” he questioned as he made his way back to the stove, turning on the hood vent. The blackened remains of the pan vaguely resembled bacon but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Eggs,” Katie replied.

  Looking at the pan again he couldn’t figure out how his daughter had messed up eggs so badly. The charred remains weren’t white or yellow but pure black and compressed into three relatively neat rows that he would have sworn were strips of bacon if it weren’t for the uncooked entrails of egg whites puddled on the stove top beside the burner.

  “The bacon’s in the oven,” his daughter quietly added.

  He knew what to expect as he opened the oven, but for some reason he kept his face directly in front of the door as he pulled it open and a thick cloud of smoke billowed from the inferno within.

  “Son of a…!” Phil yelped as the smoke struck his eyes, instantly drawing tears. Quickly he pulled his face away from the continuing plume, waiting for the burning sensation to subside. He was aware, however; that with every second the door remained open, the smoke detector was preparing for its next rant.

  Quickly he closed the oven and spun the knob to off, only briefly catching a glimpse at the cause of the fire within it. Apparently, his daughter had chosen to line the baking sheet with wax paper instead of aluminum foil and to make matters worse, she’d chosen the cookie sheet without raised edges to trap the abundance of grease. A river of flammable fluid poured from the edge of the pan to the hot surface below as the paper glowed a bright orange, ninety percent of its surface already consumed by white hot flames.

  “We’ll just let that burn itself out,” he coyly remarked as he wiped at his still burning eyes.

  “I’m sorry Daddy,” Katie apologized as she hurried to the sink, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser and running it under the faucet before handing it to her father.

  Still caught off guard by the near inferno that was his home, he didn’t notice the warmth of the wet cloth until he applied it to his face. His daughter wasn’t the brightest of girls. At age five she’d attempted to plant a nickel in the garden out back, claiming that a money tree would soon grow and help the family pay for her mother’s expensive treatments. Of course at the time he and his wife had found the claim adorable and thought nothing of it. They had even bought a small tree and planted it overnight in the exact spot where the nickel had been buried. The next morning they’d been awoken by young Katie jumping up and down on their bed, shouting at the top of her lungs, “It growed! It growed!”. She’d led them down to the garden, barely giving them time to put on their shoes before dragging them outside to show them her tiny tree with dollar bills taped to its branches. Now the tree was ten feet tall and on occasion he would still tape a few dollars to the lower branches for her to find, though at times he wondered if she understood the joke or really did believe that money grew on trees.

  Her questionable intelligence aside, he loved his daughter more than anything. She was the spitting image of her mother with the same long, blonde hair and hazel eyes; everything right down to the tiny dimple on the right side of her mouth whenever she smiled. And even though she’d managed to end up six months pregnant at the young age of sixteen, he couldn’t be mad. In his opinion she was perfect and the tiny grandchild in her womb was a blessing.

  “I’m so sorry Daddy,” she wet another paper towel before rushing to her father’s side.

  Anticipating the scalding cloth, he blocked her advancing hand with his. “That’s okay, sweetie. It happens,” he attempted to comfort her while watching the glow of the oven window and imagining what the inside of the appliance would look like once the flames subsided. He also couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever have a meal again that didn’t taste and smell of bacon or ash.

  “I could make something else.”

  “No, that’s quite alright,” he quickly interjected, discarding the now cooler first paper towel on the island beside the newspaper.

  “How am I ever going to raise a baby? I can’t even cook a simple breakfast,” Katie slid closer to her father, placing her head against his shoulder.

  “Listen,” he took ahold of her chin, lifting her eyes toward his. “You’re going to be an excellent mother. You know how I know? Because, just as you seem to have inherited your mother’s infamous inability to cook, you’ve also been blessed with her amazing ability to nurture.”

  A glassy quality took over his daughter’s eyes.

  “You’re going to be an amazing mother because your mother was an amazing mother and wife and I’m positive that you couldn’t be anything less.”

  “Thank you Daddy,” his daughter replied, obviously trying to fight back her emotions as her voice quivered and she buried her face deeper within his shoulder.

  “Now, how about a fool proof breakfast? A real American classic.”

  Katie raised her eyes from her father’s shirt, the evidence of her emotions displayed by the dark spots on his police uniform.

  “You get the Cheerios and I’ll get the milk.”

  NINE

  “This is the best system you have, right?” Bill continued questioning the alarm technician as he wandered from window to window, installing the sensors that would alert the Nesbits to any future intrusions into their home.

  He’d been amazed by the company’s response. After the police had left, Jennifer had demanded that he call about the security system immediately. He’d insisted that it would probably take at least a couple of days to get someone to come out and look at the house, let alone install it, but she’d continued throughout the night until he’d finally caved and called the alarm company around 3:00 am; if for no other reason than to satisfy her persistent nagging. To his amazement, an actual person had answered and after a five minute conversation, he had an appointment for 8:00 am that morning. With he, his wife and newborn son sharing the same bed, they’d been able to get a patchy three hours of much needed sleep.

  “This is your entry sensor,” the technician began the now familiar mantra as he pointed to the pair of sensors that he’d just attached to the window. “And this is your shatter sensor,” he motioned to the thin wire running from the previously indicated sensor to the large pane of glass. “Nothing can get through this window without tripping at least one of these sensors which in turn will trigger the alarm system, which in turn notifies us. There’s one of these sensors on every window and door, not to mention three security cameras which will begin recording at the moment an alarm is triggered. If someone even thinks about entering this house uninvited, we’ll know about it.”

  “What about the skylights though?” Jennifer questioned as she entered the room, clinging to little Oliver, still reluctant to let him out of her grasp.

  “The skylights too ma’am,” the young man answered, attempting to be as respectful as possible, but unable to fully conceal his frustration with his customer’s persistent interference and questioning.

  As if understanding what his mother was asking, Oliver lifted his gaze skyward to the skylight overhead.

  “We had a break-in last night. I just want to make sure that my family is safe,” Bill attempted to explain he and his wife’s constant questioning.

  “Yes sir. I understand. I’ll make sure that you and your family are as safe as possible,” the young kid assured them with what appeared to be the first moment of understanding and sympathy he’d shown since beginning his inspection of the property.

  “Thank you...” glancing at the name stitched on the
technician’s shirt, “…Ty.”

  “My pleasure sir.”

  *****

  It had been unexpected and frightening, yet a pleasant surprise when he’d arrived at work earlier that morning and had been handed his list of appointments for the day. Typically he didn’t read the list of customer’s names that he’d be visiting that day; only the type of services being requested. He didn't typically care who the service was for, only what type of day he was in for.

  Installations varied depending on the size and age of the house. Newer houses were typically built on concrete foundation with cinder block walls, stucco finishes and high vaulted ceilings. Such houses could be tricky when installing an entirely new system. On the other hand, many of these houses came wired with an existing system when built, so installation simply meant swapping out a couple of keypads, window and door sensors and maybe a motion sensor or two. Nothing too tricky.

  Older homes usually possessed the same style foundation but were built in a style more typically seen further north, away from the annual threat of hurricanes. Those houses typically had hollow, insulation filled walls and plenty of space in the low, flat ceilings to run and conceal wires from the system’s central hub to the numerous security points in the house. Unfortunately, those houses had been built before fear had taken such a fierce hold on society; back when a knock at your door was likely your neighbor welcoming you to the neighborhood with a dinner casserole or freshly baked brownies, rather than a 9mm and dufflebag in which to shove all your shit. This in turn also meant that the entire house had to be wired from scratch; a job that could easily take an entire day, not to mention countless hours squeezed into the sweltering heat of a tiny attic crawl space.

  Three upgrades and one install in a house built only six years ago, the list read as Ty had made his way across the parking lot toward the row of matching company vans. But it hadn’t been the list of services that had stopped him in his tracks mid parking lot. The name beside his first appointment might as well have been printed in 3D the way it leapt off the page at him.

  Nesbit, Bill

  Suddenly he’d recalled his boss mentioning the first appointment being very important. That the man who’d called the twenty four hour appointment line in the middle of the night had been very adamant about getting the very first appointment that morning. Even after the scheduler had informed him that they didn’t have an available opening until early next week the man had persistently argued that it was urgent and that he was willing to pay for the top of the line system as long as they got out first thing that morning. Eventually the scheduler had given in, bumping what would have been his first scheduled service that morning to later in the day and placing Mr. Nesbit’s name at the top of his list.

  He couldn’t remember how long he’d stood motionless in the center of the parking lot staring at the impossible name on the page before him. It hadn’t been until Bob Holvis had laid on the horn of his van that he’d been startled back to reality and continued the rest of the short journey to his company issued vehicle.

  Now he was standing in the living room of the very house he’d been parked in front of only ten hours earlier.

  “Thank you, Ty,” Mr. Nesbit smiled as he took a step back, apparently finally at ease with the young stranger’s ability to perform the job for which he’d been hired.

  “My pleasure sir,” he politely responded, though unable to look Mr. Nesbit in the eyes. All of his attention was focused on the young life nested in the arms and against the bosom of the attractive woman he feared his son would someday call mom.

  He’d contemplated reaching for a screwdriver from his utility belt and plunging it into Mr. Nesbit’s left temple. His cunt wife wouldn’t know what hit her, until another screwdriver had been drawn and firmly buried in her likely barren womb. She’d slowly slump to the floor, the look of shock and pain causing her eyes to widen as he slowly loosened her grip and removed the undeserved life from her grasp.

  But then what, he’d considered. The company knew who he was. They knew that he was there and he was driving their van. If he went back to pick up his car before his shift was over, he’d surely be questioned, especially if he was seen removing a newborn child from the passenger seat. Just the same, he couldn’t try to run either. The cops would find him in no time.

  No, his only option was to wait. He would lay claim to his son soon enough. For now, he had to leave it up to the Nesbits to take care of him. Besides, he wanted to know more about last night’s unexpected visitor.

  “So, tell me about this break in.”

  TEN

  “What are you doing!?” Derek gasped as he opened the door and stepped into the dorm room to the sight of half his wardrobe in a pile on the bathroom floor. The other half was hanging from an impromptu clothes line made of telephone and computer cables tied to the shower rod and haphazardly strung across the bathroom to the light fixture above the sink before crossing the room once again, ending in a knot on the other end of the shower rod.

  “I figured it out,” Jason laughed excitedly as he picked up another Calvin Klein dress shirt and dunked it into the watery, pale green concoction that currently filled their bathtub.

  Derek was sure that the white shirt would reemerge from the foaming green sea with a similarly unappealing hue, however when it did reappear, it was as white as when it had gone into the tub.

  “Figured what out?” Derek chose to ignore his roommate’s utter disregard for boundaries in exchange for an explanation.

  “Huh?” Jason distractedly responded as he draped the shirt over the indoor clothesline before grabbing a pair of jeans and sentencing them to the same watery fate.

  “What? What did you figure out?”

  “Oh, the clothes issue,” he continued in the same excited tone.

  Derek just stared, expecting an explanation as he again watched his assaulted garment reemerge from the opaque liquid and get tossed across the same sagging wire.

  “The electrical current wasn’t sufficiently transmitted through our clothing so they didn’t go with us.”

  “Yes, I know. I was there. Remember?” Derek reminded him, still unsure what this had to do with his wardrobe’s unscheduled bath.

  “The machine focuses electricity through the core, bending space and time around it, allowing for it and anything attached to it, with sufficiently conductive properties that is, to travel through time.

  He didn’t need an explanation about how the machine worked. He knew exactly how it worked. He’d built every component that had gone into that briefcase. He knew exactly what every chip, wire and tube in the thing did. The only components that he didn’t fully understand were the red liquid and the software used to run the amazing device.

  “Don’t you get it?” Jason questioned as he saw the still confused look on his roommate’s face. “Our clothes couldn’t conduct a great enough charge to bind them to the machine.”

  “So we’re going to do it wet next time?” Derek struggled to understand how his clothes taking an unneeded bath had anything to do with Jason’s explanation.

  “No,” Jason laughed as he tossed another of his roommate’s shirts into the water. “This liquid contains ultra high ion levels that I developed by using the school’s IDE plants, otherwise known as Electrodionization plants.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know what Electrodionzation plants are,” Derek interjected, feeling the need to remind his friend that he wasn’t a complete idiot when it came to chemistry, especially electrochemistry. “You're talking about pure water.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But you know that pure water simply means water with a higher concentration of ions, hence a greater ability to conduct an electrical current than standard, impure tap water. It doesn’t change basic properties, namely the inevitable fact that it will eventually evaporate. How do you plan on bonding the ions to the fabric?”

  “With this.”

  While continuing to hold his latest victim underwater with his righ
t hand, Jason reached for what looked like a large bottle of bleach sitting on the floor beside him. The typical Clorox label had been replaced by a hand written label displaying the unfamiliar and unpronounceable name, “Perchlorododecahedrane”.

  “As the water evaporates, the green stuff you see will chemically bond the additional ions to the individual fibers of our clothes, ensuring that they possess the conductivity levels needed to bond with the machine, hence allowing them to travel with us and ensuring that we arrive fully clothed at our destination.

  “Okay, but did you need to chemically alter my entire wardrobe. I mean, I don’t think I’ll be wearing pajama pants during our travels,” Derek motioned to the pair of cotton, flannel pants dripping over the toilet.

  Jason stared up at the flannel pants, realizing that maybe he’d gone a bit overboard in his excitement.

  Sensing Jason’s waning enthusiasm, triggered by his questioning, Derek rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a pair of his underwear from the pile.

  “Move over. I’ll need these.”

  ELEVEN

  “So, explain to me why we’re driving all the way out into the middle of nowhere this time. The basement seemed to work fine last night,” Jason inquired from the passenger seat.

  “If seeing your scrawny ass, squatting behind a pile of moldy boxes suddenly jumps to the top of my to do list, I’ll let you know.”

  “All I’m saying is that it’s safe. That building has been there for well over a hundred years. Other than a few electrical and piping upgrades, the basement has hardly changed in all that time. It’s the safest option I could find.”