Free Crack-Up by Eric Christopherson Page A

a black bow tie at its base.
    “Alright, buddy, come along with me.”   The bartender gripped me roughly, just above the elbow, and jerked me toward the hotel’s elevator.   “Time to sleep this off, up in your room.”
    “If only I could,” I said.   “If only I could.”
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 10
     
     
     
     
    “John Helms does not want me dead,” I said aloud, though alone in my hotel room.   “He’s been my client for—How many years now?—five years.   For more than five years now, he’s trusted me with his own life.   Literally.   We’ve golfed together, sailed together, dined together.   We exchange Christmas cards.   He’s not my enemy, and I’m not his.   There can be no denying that.”
    Or could there be ?   It was as if a second voice living inside me and normally silent had spoken up.   Or could there be ?
    “Okay,” I said, pacing my room, “Let’s say John Helms is trying to kill me.   Let’s just say that.   As a thought experiment.   Anything’s possible, right?   Right.   And if he truly does want to kill me—murder me, ice me, end me, erase me—then I guess it could happen anywhere, at anytime . . . Why, it could happen at this very moment, right here in my hotel room, at—What does my watch say?—four in the morning.   That’s a good time to assassinate someone, actually.   Target would be asleep.”
    Only I wasn’t asleep.   There were too many thoughts racing circles in my head for that.   I noticed all the little empty liquor bottles I’d strewn all over the carpet.   Bailey’s Irish Cream, Frangelica, Tia Maria, Kahlua, Grand Marnier.   They formed some kind of a pattern, the way they were scattered, but I wasn’t sure what the pattern was supposed to be, maybe a constellation from some far off galaxy . . .
    “Maybe I can’t sleep for a reason,” I reasoned.   “A good reason.   Maybe there’s a damn good reason for everything that’s been happening to me.   There usually is, after all . . .
    “And maybe the strangers who keep giving me warnings about John Helms don’t know they are—they’re being controlled somehow, by some force.   The same force keeping me awake.   Maybe someone is tinkering with people’s brains . . .
    “Yeah, could be.   Microwave technology’s a possibility.   Big advancements lately.   Pentagon’s working on that, I’m fairly sure.   But who would use microwaves to protect me?   The Pentagon?   And why doesn’t the Pentagon—or whoever it is—just turn the machine on John Helms and make him not want to kill me?”
    Back and forth I paced on the carpet, now and then kicking the tiny liquor bottles inadvertently.   “Maybe the microwaves don’t work on John Helms.   Because he isn’t human.   Have you ever thought of that, Argus?   Maybe John’s some kind of bio-mechanical android.   From the future . . .
    “That would explain how John got so rich.   He could’ve landed his spaceship one day, found a nickel on the street the next, and made his first million overnight, knowing the future and all.   To start with, he could flip that coin and predict heads or tails correctly every time.   Scam people real good with that one . . .
    “What am I thinking?” I said.   “Android?   From the future?   That’s ridiculous!   Ridiculous!   Get real, Argus, get real . . .”
    I went into the bathroom, wet a hand towel with cold water, and washed my face with it.   I felt like I was burning up.
    “Middle of the night’s a good time to kill someone, alright.   That’s not ridiculous!   No, sir!   Hard to argue with that!”
    I tossed my wet towel on the floor, left the bathroom, and resumed my pacing at near frenetic speed.   “And who’s to say I’m not being kept awake for a reason?   I’m never up like this.   I’m usually out cold before Letterman sits down.   Better keep an eye on the door.   Windows too.   Anyone can climb a ladder . . .”
    I halted near the