Soul Identity
Copyright © 2007 by Dennis Batchelder
Published by NetLeaves at Smashwords
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2007932540
Ebook ISBN 978-0-9798056-1-5
Printed in the United States of America
prologue
The younger and cuter of the airport security ladies glanced down at my license. “Nice smile,” she said.
I put on an identical one as she looked up at me.
Her eyes narrowed and she swiped another look. “Just a second,” she said. She thumbed the microphone on her left shoulder. “I’ve got Waverly here at the head of the line.”
I put away the smile and tried a look of exasperation. “Is there a problem? My flight leaves in thirty minutes.”
“Just a minute, sir. They’re getting ready for you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Ready for me?”
She frowned. “Nice try.” She thumbed the mike again. “Tell me when.”
Her radio beeped, and a man’s voice came on. “We need another minute,” it said.
“Let me know.” She put a little pout on her lips. “You almost snuck by me with that smile.”
I sighed. “At least I have no carry-on.”
She checked me out and raised her eyebrows. “You have almost nothing on.”
“It saves time, with all the special treatment I get.”
Her radio squawked. “Send Mr. Waverly to the left line.”
She pointed. “Over there. You know the drill.”
I nodded. “Can I have my papers back?”
She held them out. “You won’t make it through. Not this time.” This with a stern expression.
“We’ll see.” I tugged the papers free of her grasp and headed to the left, toward the big man in the black and white uniform. I handed him my papers. “Hey, Fred, good to see you again,” I said.
He frowned at me. “I wish I could say the same. Where are we going, Mr. Waverly?” He looked at my ticket. “Chicago? Dressed like that?”
“I hear there’s a heat wave.”
He scratched his head. “Nobody flies on Sunday morning from Baltimore to Chicago wearing flip flops, a muscle shirt, and a bathing suit.”
“Just trying to make your job easier,” I said. “Can we get started? My flight’s leaving soon.”
He leaned toward me and dropped his voice to a whisper. “We’re gonna get you today, Mr. Waverly.”
“We’ll see.” I took my cell phone and wallet out of my pockets and handed them over. “This is all I’m carrying.”
He put my items in a tray and handed me my ticket. He pointed to the detector. “Keep them shoes on and walk on through. I’m right behind.”
I headed through the detector. No beeps.
Fred grabbed a portable wand. “Hold out your arms, please.”
I held them out. No beeps.
Fred aimed the wand at his watch and got a big beep. He pointed at a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Waverly.”
I sat. Fred wanded my feet. He took my flip flops and bent them in half. “You hiding anything in these?”
“They’re flip flops.”
“All the same, I gotta be sure. Sit tight.” He stood up, took them to the machine, and ran them through.
The two x-ray attendants huddled by their monitor and whispered to each other. They straightened up when Fred came over. “Nothing, sir.”
“Would you bet your jobs on it?”
They both gulped, rechecked the screen, then nodded.
Fred picked up my phone, wallet, and shoes. “Lemme hand-check these. Mr. Waverly, come and watch.”
I watched. Fred swabbed everything and ran the gauze through the spectrometer. “Clear.”
I smiled. “Nice to know I’m clean. You done?”
“I’m gonna tear everything apart.”
“Knock yourself out.”
He popped the back off the phone and pulled out the battery. Then he opened my wallet. “You don’t have much in here, Mr. Waverly. No pictures, no credit cards. Just a twenty dollar bill.”
“I told you. I’m making your job easy.”
“Easy would be if you gave up the goods.”
I shrugged. “You think that just maybe I’m flying to Chicago?”
“And maybe I’m Superman, moonlighting as a TSA employee. Don’t worry. We’ll get you.”
“So you keep telling me.”
Fred reassembled the phone. He handed it to me. “Call somebody.”
I dialed, held it to my ear, and then handed it back. “It’s for you.”
Fred took the phone. “Hello?” He glared at me. “Yes, ma’am, it’s Scott Waverly’s phone…no, he’s clean…I’m sure.” He nodded. “Of course you can.” He hung up.
“Now can I go?” I asked.
He laughed. “You had to be a smart ass and call my boss. Now she’s gonna check you out herself. Have a seat.”
“Hope she hurries.”
Two minutes later, the door behind Fred opened, and Jane Watson, a tall and shapely forty-something brunette, wearing a uniform identical to Fred’s but filled out so much better, walked out, looked around, and came over to me. “Mr. Waverly,” she said, “how nice to see you again.”
I smiled. “Now say it like you mean it, Jane.”
“I do mean it. I’ve been wondering all week if you’d be dropping by.” Then she frowned. “You’re not getting anything by me, Scott. Not on my watch.”
“We’ll see.” I stood up and held out my arms. “Come and get me.”
Fred held out the wand, but she waved him away. “I’m doing him manually.”
“Lucky me,” I said. “Can we go behind the screen? I don’t want to get your other passengers jealous of my free massage.”
Jane shook her head. “Fred needs to watch and learn.”
“Your call.” I turned around. “Start with the back first—I have a couple knots that need working out.”
“Very funny.” Her hands squeezed me up and under each arm, across my shoulders, and then down my back.
“Easy, Jane,” I said. “People are watching.”
“It’s for their protection.” She ran her hands over my butt, lingered for a minute, and then squeezed her way down each leg. She lifted each foot and checked between my toes. Then she patted me on the shoulder. “Turn around, please.”
“I didn’t know you were allowed to check my bare skin,” I said.
“I do what’s necessary to protect my country.” She felt my neck, chest, and abdomen. Then she looked down at my bathing suit.
I stepped back. “Don’t ask me to take it off, I’ve got nothing on underneath.”
“My lucky day.” She patted my waist, then stepped up close against me and shoved her hands inside while she looked me in the eye.
I cleared my throat. “I wish we could have cuddled first.”
“In your dreams, mister.” She withdrew her hands and looked at Fred. “You were right—he’s clean.”
Fred nodded. “Now what?”
She frowned. “It seems Mr. Waverly really is just taking a trip to Chicago. Let him go.”
Fred handed me my belongings. “You have fifteen minutes. You can make it if you hurry.”
“Thanks.” I looked at Jane. “Next time I’ll bring flowers.”
“Next time drop by on somebody else’s shift,” she said.
“And let you miss all the fun?” I slipped on the flip flops, walked into the terminal, pulled out my phone, and dialed. “I’m through, Dad,” I said when he answered.
“Took you long enough.”
“Full body search. You guys ready?”
“Your mother is wandering around. I’ll send her over. Keep an eye out.”
“Cool.” I hung up the phone and headed toward the exit. I stood right before the “Warning: any passengers crossing this line must re-enter through security” sign.
A security guard sat behind the wooden podium. “Busy day?” I asked.
The guard glanced at me and then back toward the exit. “Not too busy yet,” he said. “Sunday mornings are slow until after ten. You going out?”
“No, just waiting.” I stepped back, out of his line of sight. I watched my mom walk around the corner on the other side of the exit and head down the hall toward the guard. She wore a white wig and a slightly askew cardigan. She carried a green leather old-style suitcase and a large pink purse.
I pulled out my phone, held it down by my waist, turned on the camera, and started recording. I had to step back to get both the guard and my mother in the screen.
Mom tottered toward the guard, and he waved her back. She took another step and looked at him. “Is this the way to the airplanes?” she shouted.
“No, ma’am.”
She brought her purse hand up to her ear. “Excuse me?”
“You have to go through security.” The guard pointed behind her.
Mom nodded. “Thank you.” But as she turned around, she slipped and fell to the floor with a clatter.
Her pink purse went skidding to the far wall, and her green suitcase hit the ground and burst open. A large number of small items spilled out. I saw handkerchiefs, loose papers, and two prescription bottles of medicine. One of the bottles dumped out a handful of pills as it rolled along the floor. Mom lay on her back and let out loud moans.
She had put on quite a show.
The guard ran over. And as he helped her sit up and then repack her suitcase, I focused the camera on her pink purse.
A box the size of a thick book, colored the same gray speckled shade as the floor, slid out of the purse. I raised the camera up toward the exit and caught my dad fiddling with a black plastic remote control. I pointed the camera back at the box.
It slid along the floor toward me. When the guard turned around to retrieve the pink purse, the box stopped, and when the guard turned back to my mom, it came shooting my way. I stepped in front of it.
The guard turned and held up his palm toward me. “Stay back, sir.”
I nodded. When he handed the purse to my mom, I bent down, picked up the box, and walked to the security gate.
I caught Fred’s eye. “Where’s Jane?” I asked.
He used his thumb to point over his shoulder. “In her office,” he said. “Why aren’t you on your plane?”
I rapped on Jane’s door. “Come on in and I’ll show you.”
“Oh, man,” he said as he followed me.
Jane opened the door and smiled. “Why Scott, did you come back to congratulate me?” She looked down at the box in my hand, and her smile evaporated.
I pointed into her office, and Jane stepped aside to let us in. She closed the door and crossed her arms. “Tell me.”
I held out the box. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“Might as well get it over with.” She took it, turned it over, and spun the wheels that stuck through its underside. “A rolling box?”
I nodded. “It’s got a remote control car inside. Open it up. There’s Velcro along the edges.”
She ripped the side open and pulled out a large and shiny chrome plated pistol. “Dammit.” She looked up. “Now tell me how.”
I held up my phone. “I filmed it for you.”
Fred and Jane watched the replay. I tried not to look too pleased, but still ended up with a big smile on my face.
“You snuck it in the exit.” Fred said.
I nodded. “You’ve focused all your security on the entrance. That exit’s your weakest spot, even during the slow times.”
“Who’s the old lady?” Jane asked.
“My mom. She’s wearing a wig.”
“And your dad guided the car?”
“They said I’ve been having all the fun, and they wanted in this time.”
She sat down behind the desk and held her head in her hands. “Okay, Mr. Security Consultant, I guess congratulations are in order again.” After a minute of rubbing her temples with her fingertips, she said, “I’ll work on the exit. Send me the report.”
“You’ll have it next week.”
She nodded. “Hey, some guy asked me about you this morning. I told him you were the best.”
“You get a card?”
“He wouldn’t give it. Twenty-something, dark hair. A little freaky looking.”
“Thanks.” I paused. “You guys are getting better, you know.”
“But not fast enough,” she said. “Eleven months now and you’re still getting through.” She dropped the pistol in her drawer.
“You’ll get there.” I opened the door. “Oh, and Jane?”
She raised her eyebrows.
I winked. “Your massages are getting better too.” I stepped outside, but not before I heard Fred burst out laughing.
one
A delivery man in a green van carried a package down my dock later that afternoon. He should have delivered it to the house, but we were out back fishing, and he needed a signature.
I watched him as he walked out the dock. He wore a green long-sleeved uniform and a small pair of silver sunglasses. When he got close, he pulled a green pen out of his pocket and held out a clipboard. “Delivery for Mr. Waverly,” he said. “Can I get a signature?”
I took the pen and clipboard and wrote John Doe in the signature box. The loops on the J invaded the neighboring boxes. “Here you go.” I handed him the clipboard and glanced at the embroidery on his shirt pocket. “I didn’t think delivery companies worked Sundays, Robert.”
“Ours does,” he said. “And my name’s Bob. Not Robert.”
“Did you change your name after you ordered your shirts?”
“Another Bob started before me.” He shook his head. “They told me I could add an initial at the end, but then it would say Bob O. That sounds like a clown.” He looked at my signature. “Mr. Waverly, can I see some identification?”
I was still wearing the bathing suit from the airport work. “It’s in the house,” I said. “You got the right address. What’s the problem?”
“You signed John Doe in the box.”
“You claim your name is Bob, but you’re wearing Robert’s shirt.”
His frown made his forehead crinkle between his eyebrows. “I need to be sure that I deliver this package to Scott Waverly.”
“You have. That’s me.”
He sighed and pulled a small handheld computer out of his pocket, flipped open its cover, and typed on its miniature keyboard. “Just a second while I verify, sir.”
“Verify what?”
“You.” He tapped the screen. “Here we are. Five foot eleven, medium build, brown hair, hazel eyes.” He tilted the screen my way. “It’s you, all right.”
A photo of me standing in the airport this morning graced his screen, along with my address and information about our company. “So it was you talking to Jane this morning,” I said. Jane was right; he was a little freaky looking.
Bob flipped the handheld’s cover shut and shoved it in his pocket. “Yes sir.” He handed me the package and headed up the dock.
“Hey, you forgot your pen!” I called.
“You’ll need it, sir.” He climbed into his green van and drove away.
Dad examined the package. “It’s from Soul Identity—do you know them?”
“Nope,” I said. “Wait, I do. Somebody from Soul Identity called on Friday. I gave him the spiel about our security auditing services.” I handed him the bait knife.
He slit the package open and pulled out two yellow envelopes. He pointed at a READ ME FIRST label. “We should start with this.”
“I’ll get the other.” I tore the end off my envelope and pulled out a yellow plastic device, oblong in shape and flat on its sides. It looked like a bright yellow slice from the middle of a hard boiled egg. Instead of the yolk it had a button labeled “Soul Identity reader.” A lens the size of a pea glinted from the small end, and a key ring dangled from the other.
Mom plucked it from my hand. “It looks like a keychain flashlight.”
“It’s not a flashlight,” Dad said. “Listen to this. Dear Mr. Waverly, blah blah blah, we wish to engage your services, but in order to commence the engagement—” He looked up. “Commence the engagement? Who writes like that anymore?”
“Old people. Old companies. Old lawyers.” I said. “What do they want?”
“In order to commence the engagement, you must signify your acceptance by providing us your soul identity. Kindly use the enclosed reader, blah blah blah, return the reader by the same delivery company, blah blah blah, instructions for using the reader are attached.” He read to himself. “The rest is just legal stuff, and then it’s signed by Archibald Morgan, executive overseer of Soul Identity.”
“Scott, what kind of wackos are you involving us with?” Mom asked.
“Beats me,” I said. “We’re not involved. Yet. Let’s see the instructions.” I took the sheet from Dad and read:
Using the Soul Identity Reader:
Press and hold button for five seconds, until lens flashes red.
Place lens two inches directly in front of right eye. Do not blink.
Press and hold button for one second. Lens will flash green if successful. If lens does not flash green, start over.
Place lens two inches directly in front of left eye. Do not blink.
Press and hold button for one second. Lens will flash yellow if successful. If lens does not flash yellow, start over.
Just then the tip of my fishing rod jerked down. I handed the paper to Mom and grabbed the rod. I adjusted the tension and fought the fish in close. It was a bluefish, the only kind in the middle bay that puts up a decent fight.
Dad snagged him with the long handled net, and together we lifted him onto the dock. “Careful with his teeth,” he said as I grabbed the fish under his gills.
Bluefish love to bite, and they have razor sharp teeth. Many bluefish fishermen have lost a finger or two by not paying attention.
I got the hook out with my digits intact. “You’re one lucky fish,” I said. House rules: the first fish caught is returned to the bay to appease the fishing gods. I was about to toss him back, but then I stopped. “This guy can help us out,” I said. “We’ll read his soul identity.”
“From the fish?” Mom asked.
“They want an identity, so we’ll give them one. Dad, bring that reader over here. I’ll hold him steady.”
Mom looked at the instructions. “They say press the button for five seconds. Did it flash red?”
“It’s too bright out here.” Dad cupped his hands around the reader. “Let me try again. Yes, it’s flashing red.”
“Two inches from the right eye,” Mom read. “No, the fish’s right eye—that’s his left one. Press the button for one second. Did it flash green?”
“It’s flashing red,” Dad said.
“You must have held the button too long,” Mom said. “Do it again.”
Dad did the fish’s right eye, and the lens flashed green. He shifted to the left eye, and the lens flashed yellow. Mission accomplished.
I tossed the bluefish back into the bay and watched him swim off. I wiped my hands on my towel. “Now what?” I asked.
“We’re done,” Dad said.
The tricky part was figuring out where to send the reader. We could not find Soul Identity’s address in the documents. Bob was right about the pen: written on it in white was “Delivery,” followed by a toll free phone number. I used Dad’s phone to call.
A cheerful man’s voice answered on the first ring. “Dispatch.”
“May I speak with Bob?” I asked.
“Which Bob?”
“Sorry, it’s not Bob. His shirt says Robert. He’s a delivery guy.”
“Please hold while connecting to Robert.” I heard a click, and then another ring.
“This is Bob.” I recognized the voice of our delivery man.
“Uh oh. I was holding for Robert.”
Silence on the other end. Then, “Is this Mr. Waverly?”
I must have made an impression. “Yes, Bob, it’s me. I want to send the package back to Soul Identity. What do I have to do?” I slipped the key ring onto my finger and twirled the reader.
“Sir, I can be there in five minutes.”
“You left here a half hour ago,” I said. “Do you have turbo in that green van?”
“No, sir. I am waiting at the end of your street. I was instructed to stay close and wait for you to call back.”
“Am I your company’s only customer?” I spun the reader faster. It made a pretty yellow whirl.
“No, sir. Soul Identity is our only customer.”
The reader flew off my finger and landed inside the bait cooler. “You’re kidding,” I said.
“No sir, I do not kid. We are Soul Identity’s delivery service.”
I examined the green pen. The word Delivery and the phone number stood out in white lettering. But then in dark green I saw the initials SI. And after the phone number, again in dark green, I read “est. 1732.”
“Okay, Bob,” I said. “You’ve got me interested. But give me a half hour to clean up before you return.” I hung up and fished the reader out of the bait cooler. I flipped it over and brushed the seaweed off the back. A strand clung in a crack near the key ring, and I wiggled it out and saw small dark yellow lettering underneath. Holding the reader up to the sun, I read “Access Port.”
“Where’s that bait knife?” I asked. Dad passed it to me, and I wiggled the blade into the crack and twisted. The key ring end flipped open like the cover on a Zippo lighter and exposed a Universal Serial Bus, or USB connector. I could use it to see what was on the reader. “We’ll have to check it out before Bob gets here,” I said.
We packed up the fishing gear, grabbed the package and envelopes, and walked up the dock to my house.
I live on Kent Island, smack dab in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay, on the western edge of Maryland’s Eastern Shore. My parents and I must cross the four mile Bay Bridge to visit each other. This gets tedious on the summer weekends when the highways are stuffed with cars bound for Ocean City, but my house faces west and gets gorgeous sunsets, so usually my parents come my way instead of me going theirs. The fishing also helps bring them over, and since we run our company out of my house, they commute here to work a couple days each week anyway. This morning they had come early for our trip to the airport.
Dad put away the fishing gear and Mom got a mailing package ready. I fired up my laptop, plugged the reader into the USB port, and watched as the system grabbed and installed the driver software.
The reader had a mini file system, which meant I could read its data from a regular folder window, much like an MP3 player’s music files or a digital camera’s pictures. My laptop popped the reader’s folder onto my screen, and I saw one file named “1608-233052.SIR.”
Dad looked over my shoulder. “What’s a SIR extension?” he asked.
“I’m guessing Soul Identity Reader. The sixteen-oh-eight looks like the day and month, and the rest is probably the time.”
“It wasn’t eleven thirty when we did the bluefish,” Dad pointed out.
“Universal Time,” I said. “That would be seven thirty for us.” I pointed at the screen. “Sixteen minutes ago, and that matches the time on the file.”
I pulled up the file’s contents. It contained two sets of date, time, map coordinates, altitude, and spatial axis data. I scrolled down and saw a reader serial number and a large binary chunk.
“Can you figure out what it says?” Mom asked.
“We sure can.” Dad pointed at the screen. “Male bluefish, age six years, puncture wound on the lower lip and jaw.”
Mom crossed her arms. “How can they know all that?”
“He’s kidding, Mom,” I said. “Bob’s on his way, so I kept a copy to decode after he’s gone.”
She slipped the reader into the package and taped it shut. “I still think these guys are wackos,” she said. “Do you really want to send this?”
“We could use the work.” I walked out of the office and into the living room. “I’m going to wash off that bluefish smell. Say hi to Bob for me.”
While I was in the shower I wondered what had triggered Soul Identity to contact us. We do more than airport security work; we provide computer security consulting. Most of our business comes right after our clients discover somebody has stolen their customers, money, ideas, or intellectual property. They call us to protect them from further losses; they are proof that people really do love to fix barn doors after their horses are gone.
Soul Identity hadn’t yet told us what had been taken, but that was typical for our clients. Nobody wants to advertise their losses.
I walked back to the office and saw Bob sitting in my chair and drinking a cup of tea with my parents.
“Bob’s waiting for your signature,” Mom said.
“You look good in that chair, Bob,” I said. “You want to join our business? We could get you out of that green uniform and into a nice pair of shorts.”
Bob shook his head. “No thank you, sir. I have been with Soul Identity for many years, and they have always treated me well.”
Bob didn’t look old enough to have worked anywhere for more than a few years. “What does Soul Identity do, Bob?” I asked. “Why scan people’s eyes?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Sir, I am not authorized to talk to you about our organization.”
I grabbed the clipboard and scribbled another John Doe, this time with my left hand. The loops stayed inside their borders. I stuck the pen in my pocket and handed him the package.
“Well, sir, maybe I will see you again.” Bob opened the door and stepped outside.
“If I’m lucky and you’re not.” I waved goodbye and used the green pen to write down his license plate number as he drove away.
I went back to my laptop and opened the reader file again. Time to figure out what Soul Identity was up to.
Dad came over. “I looked on the Web,” he said, “and these guys have published nothing. There are a few sites out there referring to Soul Identity, but I don’t think they’re related, because they don’t mention anything about readers. No news articles, either. I’m going back to the public records.”
“I grabbed Bob’s license plate, if you want to try that.” I handed him the number.
“Did that already. Those plates are registered to SI Holding Corporation. And the only thing on them is a post office box in Baltimore.”
“If they wish to hide, why are we looking for them?” Mom asked.
We both looked at her as if she was crazy. “Because we can,” Dad said. “Besides, we have an hour before the bridge traffic lets up.”
Mom shook her head. “You boys keep playing detective. I’m going to download my pictures and read my email.”
“Pictures…that reader must be encoding pictures,” Dad said.
I nodded. “That would be the binary chunks—pictures of each eye.” I extracted the data and saved it as a file on my desktop. Then I opened a photo editor and dragged the file into it. “Let’s see what it contains.”
A window reading “Enter password to view images” popped up on my screen.
Dad looked over my shoulder. “What’s the password?”
I thought about this. If the reader collected eye images, either each reader had a built-in password, or the information in the attached file generated the password. Maybe it was both: the file contained the reader information. “I’m guessing it’s the reader serial number,” I said.
“Wouldn’t that be too primitive?”
“Many primitive people walk among us. We call them customers. Let’s try.” I typed the reader serial number into the password box and pressed OK.
Two bluefish eyes filled the screen. “That was it,” I said.
“But we still don’t know why,” Dad said.
After my parents left, I thought about how big and diverse our world must be to include people who make devices that capture eye images.
A person’s irises are as unique as his fingerprints. From a distance the iris looks brown or black or blue, but up close it contains many distinct shapes and colors. These change as you grow, but once you become an adult, they settle down and remain the same.
A couple of companies made iris scanners, but few security systems relied on them. It used to be that anybody could fool their scanners by wearing contact lenses with iris images printed on them. To counter this, the scanners grew in sophistication; they now shine a light into the eye to verify that the iris moves as the pupil contracts. This takes time to check, and as that time increases, the usefulness of the scanners decreases.
I figured that Soul Identity was collecting lots of eye images; otherwise they wouldn’t have their own reader. And if they were using the system because they needed my identity, Bob would have hung around to ensure I used my own eyes. He didn’t stay, so they were assuming it was in my interest to be accurate. They also read both eyes, even though a single iris image provides more than enough unique data points for identification.
I looked at the letter: Use the enclosed reader to obtain your soul identity. These guys were assuming that people wanted to have their eyes photographed, but I couldn’t figure out why. The whole thing was a bit creepy, and I decided I didn’t want them as a client.
Maybe it was tied to the airport. Bob did have a picture of me from this morning on his handheld. I wondered how Soul Identity had access to that kind of data. And the pen saying the firm was established in 1732: what was that all about?
I filed away the images. I’d worry about this only if Soul Identity called back.
two
Eight days later I sat on my dock with my coffee and enjoyed a Monday morning on the bay. The rising sun lit up the western shore in yellows and pinks. An osprey searched for his breakfast; he plummeted into the water and took off with a large fish gripped in his claws. The fish wiggled and struggled and eventually broke free, but the osprey dove down and snagged him in midair.
Maybe the osprey had caught the same bluefish we photographed with the Soul Identity reader. Probably not, but I get a kick out of searching for surprise connections. It’s part of my job, I guess.
I had better chances of winning the lottery every day for one week straight than I did of seeing an osprey scoop up the same bluefish. Still, I strained my eyes and hoped to spot a connection between me and the fish in the osprey’s claws. Maybe I could coax the osprey to drop the fish onto my dock, where I could verify its identity.
I shook my head. Soul Identity, although they had not called back, had wiggled their way into my morning coffee philosophy. Just like they had been doing all last week.
I walked back to the house, ready to begin work. I still owed Jane Watson her airport security report.
I waved to my neighbor as I opened my door. I secretly called him Santa because of his white beard and round belly.
Santa looked up from his plants and waved back. “Morning, Scott.”
“Morning.” Two years since he moved in, and I didn’t remember his name. I thought for the hundredth time that I should find it out before I embarrassed myself.
I sat behind my desk and pulled out the unfinished airport security report. I glanced out the window and watched a green van pull into Santa’s driveway. It looked like the SI Delivery van, but the bushes in Santa’s front yard obscured my view. Then I saw Bob the delivery guy walk over and speak to Santa. They both went into Santa’s house.
Interesting. Was Soul Identity running reference checks on me? Was Santa telling them if I was naughty or nice? The connection-seeking portion of my brain shifted into overdrive.
I wanted to head over and ask, but first I needed Santa’s real name. Maybe public records could help. The Maryland State Department of Assessments and Taxation had an online form. I entered the county, street number, and street name. Bingo: Santa bought his house two years ago, was up to date on his taxes, and did his official business under the name Arthur Berringer.
I saw nothing about a Mrs. Claus or any little elves. The name Arthur didn’t ring any bells. I probably had forgotten it, but just to double check, I searched for Arthur Berringer images on the Web. I located an unflattering, but a bit better groomed, photo of Santa boozing it up with his buddies at the Atlantic City Electric Wheelchair Manufacturers convention a few years before. I had found Santa.
I gave up on the airport report. Figuring out what Santa and Bob were cooking up was more interesting than documenting the security holes at the airport. I walked across the lawn and over to my neighbor’s house.
Before I could knock on the door, it flew open, and Bob burst out. He ran full tilt toward his van. My neighbor chased after him and waved a shotgun in the air. Santa had been replaced by an old man with a wild fire in his eyes.
“You’re a cheat!” Santa fired a blast into the air. Bits of leaves and branches showered us.
Bob backed out of the driveway. He knocked over my mailbox, swerved at the last minute to avoid the drainage ditch, and scuffed up the corner of my lawn. A cloud of dust and junk mail drifted in his wake.
“You all right?” I asked. If Santa wanted to shoot at me, I’d have to start running before he reloaded. Once I read that when you’re fleeing from somebody with a gun, you’re supposed to zigzag. I could get in maybe three zigs before reaching my door.
I watched the wild look fade from his eyes. “Come on inside, Scott,” he said. “Have some coffee with me.”
Why not? I followed my neighbor into his house for my very first visit and looked around. Two dusty electric wheelchairs sat parked along the living room walls where a couch and chair normally would have been.
Santa put the shotgun on the dining room table and wiped his sleeve over the wheelchair seats. “Have a seat—I’ll be right back.”
I noticed the pictures framed on the wall. One of them was the same Atlantic City photo I had seen on the Web. The other pictures showed more wheelchair conventions. I saw a red-haired Santa, a salt-and-pepper Santa, and an all-white Santa that looked pretty recent.
He returned in a minute holding two steaming mugs. “I added cream and sugar. That all right?”
I took a sip. “Thanks, Arthur. It’s perfect.”
He froze and stared at me. The wild look crept back into his eyes, and I realized I had made a mistake. He set his mug down on the seat of a wheelchair and took a step closer to me. “What did you just call me?” His eyes flickered to the shotgun.
Uh oh. Santa must not like being called Arthur. Or his name wasn’t Arthur. Maybe he went by Art, or Artie. I calculated the odds; there was no way I could guess this one right.
“I called you Arthur. Isn’t your name Arthur Berringer?” I held my breath.
Santa took another step closer. He stood less than a foot away. He breathed hard and clenched and unclenched his fists. “Yes, it’s Arthur, but nobody except my mother ever called me that.” He looked out the window and then back at me. “You’re with them, aren’t you?”
I got up and wondered if I would be able to defend myself with the coffee mug. We stood eye to eye with our noses almost touching. “No, I’m not with Soul Identity.” I bit my tongue. Damn, now why did I have to say the name of the company? Santa’s eyes flicked back to the dining room table. “Just give me a second to explain—that guy Bob stopped by to see me last week, and I thought he had come to ask you about me.”
“And why would he be asking me about you?” His voice came out in a growl.
“They wanted me to do some security work for them, and I thought they were running a reference check. I wanted to find out what they were asking you, but I had forgotten your name.”
Santa stared at me.
“So I searched the Web, and found you in the tax records. That’s where I saw your name was Arthur Berringer.”
We stood there, face to face, for what seemed like forever. Probably it felt a lot longer to me than it did to him. I listened to a jet ski go by outside, and wondered if anybody had heard the earlier shot blast and called the police.
Finally Santa spoke. “You forgot my name? Jeez, Scott, I’ve been your neighbor for two years now.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m so stupid sometimes. I wanted to ask you, but the longer I waited, the harder it became.”
The wild look receded. “Hell, we’re neighbors.” He smiled and stuck out his hand. “Let’s start over. Everybody calls me Berry.”
I shook his hand and looked him in the eye. I figured I might as well confess all. “And I’ve been calling you Santa behind your back.”
Berry laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. “You and the rest of the world.” He picked up his mug and sat down on the other wheelchair. “Sit down and tell Santa what you want.”
Whew. I told him about Bob’s visit the previous Sunday. “They sent me a reader in the mail, but I sent them the eyes of a bluefish.”
Berry raised his eyebrows. “You’re just gonna give it all away?”
I smiled, not sure what he meant. “I’m giving nothing away, Berry. They asked me for my soul identity, and I didn’t want them to have it. Why would they want my eyes, anyway?”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
I shook my head. “I thought they were crackpots.”
Berry shook his head. “They’re not crackpots. They’re for real. I believe it.” His eyes filled with tears, and his voice cracked. “And that bastard told me no.”
I separate how I handle people’s tears into four buckets. The first contains tears from those caught doing something bad or stupid. I wait until the histrionics end and offer them a tissue as they sort out what their next step will be. The second bucket’s tears come after I say something insensitive and hurtful. I apologize to these people for being such a blockhead. The third’s tears come on their own from those who cry at weddings and at the end of mushy movies. It works best when I act like I don’t notice these tears. Of course, joining in by dabbing my eyes and making sympathetic sounds can lead to happy endings on dates.
Berry’s were filling up the fourth bucket—the one that holds tears from deep, heart-rending losses. Usually I just say, “I am so sorry,” and I sit with them and reflect on the good times before the loss. But I had no clue of what Berry might have lost.
I leaned forward on the wheelchair. “What happened?” I asked.
He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and sat silent for a minute. “Do you believe in past lives?”
“Reincarnation?” I shook my head.
“Me neither, until a few weeks ago.” He blew his nose on a handkerchief. “In fact, for the last couple of years, I’ve wanted nothing except to hurry up and die and get it over with. Living out here has become so lonely for me.”
I had watched Berry putter around his yard many times from my office window. Until this morning, I couldn’t recall seeing anybody visit him.
“I moved here when I retired,” he said. He patted his armrest. “For forty-two years I sold these wheelchairs. I lived alone, but I was busy with work and my buddies. We did six conventions a year—see the pictures?” he asked as he pointed at the wall. “It was a good gig. But once I landed here I lost my way.”
I thought about how little I knew my neighbor. And how crappy that made me feel. “Do you have any family?” I asked.
“Nobody I talk to. My brother’s kids, but I haven’t seen them for more than a decade.” He sighed. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I planned to work until I keeled over, but then some bozo at the office cooked up a mandatory retirement age. And my buddy from work got married to our teenage receptionist and bolted to Puerto Rico. He died two months later. Too much stress on his heart, I guess. Lucky bastard.”
“So how does Soul Identity enter the picture?” I asked.
“They showed up right after I visited that palm reading place out on route fifty.” He counted on his fingers. “A little over three weeks ago.”
“That tiny cottage with the big hand outside?” I asked. It was just a few miles north and west of us, on the main route to Ocean City. “Why’d you go there?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I wanted to know how long before I kicked the bucket,” he said. “My life insurance agent claimed their actuarial tables showed nine years, but he didn’t know how much I’d been drinking. My doctor guessed four. I was looking for a third opinion.”
“Why’d you want to know?”
Berry shrugged. “The shortest path, I guess. I have no kids, no friends, and busy neighbors. Just me and the bottle keeping each other company. I wanted out.”
I thought how lousy a neighbor I must be, how I had been unable to see through the Santa façade and into the agony that made up Berry’s lonely days. “Did the palm reader help?” I asked.
He nodded. “I spilled my guts to this little old lady. And she predicted that somebody would soon give my life a purpose.” He stared at me. “She was right, you know. The very next day a Soul Identity member came by the house and gave me a reason to live.”
So it seemed Soul Identity preyed on lonely people, selling false hopes of reincarnation and taking their money. I felt better about ignoring them—they weren’t the kind of customer I wanted.
I thought both of us could use some fresh air. “Can we take a walk as we talk?”
“Sure.” Berry carried our mugs into the kitchen and set them in the sink. He nodded at a box in the corner. “I started recycling three weeks ago. Everything’s different now.” He pointed to a folder on the countertop. “Those are their forms. Bob had come to pick them up, but then we had a little problem.”
I glanced at the shotgun on the dining room table. The problem seemed more than little.
Berry helped me right my mailbox, and we collected the scattered junk mail. Then we headed north and walked along the road next to the shore. We could see the Annapolis capitol building and a swarm of sailboats over on the western side. Two container ships headed north toward the Port of Baltimore. The breeze filled our noses with the salty smell of the bay.
Berry pointed to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge four miles in front of us. The twin spans soared majestically over the bay and glittered in the morning light. “Have you ever thought about the changes that first bridge caused?” he asked.
I enjoyed having the bridge on the northern edge of my horizon, but I had given no thought to its impact. “No, not really.”
“Sixty years ago most people on this island were farmers and crabbers. The bridge replaced the ferry, and the islanders became commuters. People live here and work in Baltimore or Washington. You can reach the beach from the cities after work in time for sunset.”
I thought about the traffic. “Not on Fridays you can’t. Where are you going with this?”
“The bridge united two different worlds,” he said. “When that first Soul Identity member came to my house, he showed me the bridge that connects me to my own future world.”
“Aren’t we all connected to our future?”
Berry stopped walking. “Scott, my future was over in four to nine years. Soul Identity showed me how I could extend it forever, by building a bridge between my present life and my future lives.”
First past and now future lives. What was this organization up to, anyway? I resumed our walk, this time back toward our houses. “I thought that the common thread tying all the beliefs in past and future lives was that you could never really be sure where your soul had been, or where it was going next.”
“These guys at Soul Identity are different,” he said. “Don’t ask me how, but they can identify and track your soul. They read it, and after you die and come back in a new body, they find it again.”
Right. I stopped in the middle of the road. “You said that these guys can find you again in a future life? That’s tough to swallow.”
“They’re not looking for you,” he said. “They’re looking for your soul. It’s a big difference.”
That was interesting. We reached the front of Berry’s house. “But why would I want to keep track of my soul?” I asked.
“Think about it from my side,” he said. “I saved some money, and the school of hard knocks taught me some tricks on making it in this world. I have no kids to pass the money and tricks to. But what if I could give it all back to me? I could jumpstart my next life by using this bridge, Scott. That’s what is so exiting.”
I thought about it. The belief that people have a soul is common. But the idea that some group could track your soul, find it again in the future, and pass along the information and money you banked seemed pretty novel. And if they could really do that without cheating you in the process, it also sounded compelling. I could see why Berry was interested.
We went inside. I sat down at the dining room table this time. I moved the shotgun to the side and opened the folder.
Berry’s questionnaire mostly dealt with geography and dates: where, when, and for how long he had lived or visited different places. “Why so many questions on location?” I asked.
“They said it has to do with their recovery formula.”
“It sounds pretty complicated. If you missed a place on your questionnaire, are they saying that your soul can’t be found?”
Berry smiled. “No, but they did say it helps if they know where to look.”
Why wasn’t Berry seeing these guys as a pyramid scheme? Or a freaky cult? “Let’s say that I buy into Soul Identity’s bridges,” I said. “What’s in it for them? They can’t just be doing this because they love to help people.”
Berry shrugged. “Maybe they charge a commission for delivering your money back to you.”
This organization promised to deliver to a future person only if he turned up and asked to be identified. They could operate with virtually no oversight, because their clients were mostly dead. Whoever cooked up this scheme was a genius. “Do you really trust these guys to turn over your lessons and your money, and not to keep it, or give it to their buddies?” I asked.
“Dammit, of course I do! Even more so, now that they won’t let me play.” He sighed. “It doesn’t really matter if I trust them or not, does it?”
Back to the little problem. “So why didn’t they let you in?” Maybe Berry didn’t have enough money to make it worth their while.
“Bob didn’t want to tell me. He just said that I wasn’t suitable.” He patted his shotgun. “But when I got a little persuasive, he coughed out the real reason.”
“Which was?”
“This.” He tapped his left eye. “It’s glass. Had it for eight years now. I lost the original in a freak accident. I wore a patch for a year or two, until I got tired of looking like a pirate.”
I looked closer. I had never seen a glass eye before. It looked real enough to me, except now that I knew, I saw that its pupil was smaller than the right eye. “They told you they needed to read both your eyes?” I asked. “They told me that too.”
Berry nodded and started sniffling again.
I noticed that the glass eye cried just as much as the real eye.
Berry wiped his eyes. “So now I’m screwed. How could I have been so stupid to get my hopes up?”
Berry believed that Soul Identity was for real, more so now they wouldn’t let him in. They were the fish, or the girl, that got away.
I never took on clients that I felt stretched the law or exploited people. In fact, I regularly turned down working with groups I suspected had criminal or religious ties.
Soul Identity was creepy from the start, and Berry’s story only made it worse. My gut told me I should walk away. But these guys were still in my thoughts over a week later, and I was feeling guilty about being such a lousy neighbor for Berry.
I looked at him. “You really want in with these guys, don’t you?”
He sighed, then nodded. “I do.”
I took a deep breath and stood up. “Berry, I’ll take Soul Identity on as a client. And I’ll do my best to find a way to get you in.”
three
I put my feet up on my desk. Jane’s unfinished report glared at me until I flipped it over.
I thought about Berry and what might have driven him to Soul Identity. He was lonely and looking for something to live for, but he could have joined any number of clubs and charities that would have been happy to fill up his time and give him a purpose in life. He could have used his Internet connection to enter the wild world of online dating. He even could have joined a church; most of them offered some sort of eternal life.
With all those options, why did he latch on to something so far out of the mainstream?
We all have a strong urge to obtain or achieve something special. Maybe we build the largest collection of coins or stamps or beanie babies. Maybe we become experts in trivia or geography or famous movie stars. Maybe we join a church which teaches that only the select few who learn God’s real secrets will be saved. Whatever path we take, we want to be seduced into thinking that we are special and different and maybe even better than everybody else.
Churches employ this seduction to attract and retain members. Successful love relationships thrive on it too: both partners feel they’re the luckiest people to have found each other. Until one of the partners finds somebody else who makes them feel even luckier. Like my ex-wife did.
Soul Identity seduced Berry by offering him immortality and a purpose for living. When it dashed Berry’s hopes, I seduced myself by thinking that only I could help him. I guess we weren’t that different after all.
I had made a promise to Berry. Jane’s report could wait. Time for me to make nice with Soul Identity.
Archibald Morgan, executive overseer. How could I reach him directly? Our cursory search had turned up neither phone numbers nor email addresses. I would ask Bob the delivery guy.
I called the number on the green pen, and the dispatcher put me through. “Bob, this is Scott Waverly,” I said. “You delivered me a package last Sunday.”
“Hello, Mr. Waverly.”
I wondered if Bob had recovered from his scare with Berry. “Didn’t I see you tearing out of my neighbor’s house this morning?”
Silence on the line for a minute. Then, “yes, sir, you did.”
“You know you knocked over my mailbox? I had junk mail flying all around the neighborhood.”
Another long pause. “I am sorry, sir. If you fill out a damage form, my company can reimburse you.”
Yeah, he had recovered. “I need a favor from you,” I said. “I’d like to speak with Archibald Morgan. Can you give me his number?”
“Sir, the only way you can reach Mr. Morgan is through me. I’ll be happy to deliver a letter for you.”
“Maybe I can email him?”
“Sir, it really is a very fast service I offer. When should I pick up your letter?”
“When can you get here?”
Bob said he’d come by in forty-five minutes, so I cranked out a letter to Archibald Morgan and asked him to call me on my cell phone. Then I walked next door and told Berry to put away his shotgun. He promised to stay inside until Bob was gone. I spent the next fifteen minutes racing through the airport report. I emailed Jane my analysis, my concerns, my suggestions, and my invoice.
Bob reached my house on the forty-fourth minute. He looked at his watch. “I need to get moving to deliver this today.”
“Today?”
Bob smiled. “This is what we do, sir. We’ve gotten pretty efficient over the years.” He took the envelope and handed me his clipboard.
Just like last time, I signed my left-handed John Doe signature on his form, kept his green pen, and watched as he drove away. But this time I followed.
I’m a bad follower. I am reminded of this each time my relatives come down to visit DC; we pile into our cars and head to the mall. I get frustrated when I can’t telegraph to the leader to pass the slow guy, switch lanes, or watch out for the cop ahead. So I end up trying to lead from behind, which doesn’t work if the guy in front still thinks he’s in charge. Leader-follower situations work best when I lead.
But I couldn’t tell Bob to let me lead. Fortunately he drove a big green van, which is not that common on the Eastern Shore. The cars out here are SUVs and Beamers for the coastal dwellers, and pickup trucks and Mustangs for everybody else.
I stayed a quarter mile or so behind the van. This wasn’t difficult, as the road north runs straight. I expected him to make a left onto Route Fifty and cross the Bay Bridge toward Annapolis, but he surprised me and continued north. I sped up to keep him in sight.
Bob took the next right and drove parallel to the highway. This road had more turns, and for a few seconds I thought I had lost him. But then I saw his van parked on the right, next to the same palm reading outfit which Berry had mentioned earlier. There was a sign out front that read “Madame Flora’s.”
I doubted Bob was getting his palm read. And I hoped that the palm reading place wasn’t the headquarters of Soul Identity, because there would be no work for me, and I would have to break some bad news to Berry. Was this another pickup for Bob? I drove past him, parked on the left in front of a gas station, and kept an eye on his van.
Staking out a joint looks a lot more fun in the movies than it really is. I scanned the radio stations, fiddled with the AC controls, and played with the seat buttons. I wondered if I could take a chance and run into the gas station to buy some snacks. In about fifteen minutes, just as I was about to give up, Bob walked out of Madame Flora’s. I followed as he drove back toward my house.
My phone rang as we neared my neighborhood.
“Mr. Waverly, this is Archibald Morgan.”
“Hi.” I took a stab at being friendly. “Archie, where are you calling from?”
“Please call me Mr. Morgan.”
My stab missed; he wanted to be formal.
“I am calling from our Massachusetts headquarters,” he said.
Or maybe he was hanging out at Madame Flora’s place. I could at least check his area code if he’d give me his number. “I’m about to drive through a dead zone. Can I call you back?”
“I will call you again, Mr. Waverly. Would that suit you?”
No number for me. “Give me two minutes.” I hung up.
Bob’s van pulled into my driveway. I parked next to him and got out. “All delivered?” I asked.
“Yes sir. Mr. Morgan said he’d be calling you within the hour.”
I held up my phone. “He just called. Bob, where is he located?”
He looked uneasy.
“Is he in Maryland?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, sir. He’s rarely in Maryland.”
“Then how did you deliver my message?”
“Perhaps you can ask Mr. Morgan that question.”
“I did. He said he was in Massachusetts.”
Bob looked relieved. “Yes sir. That’s where he usually stays. At our headquarters.”
“I followed you when you left here. You only went to Madame Flora’s. No other stops. Are you sure Mr. Morgan isn’t at the palm reading place?”
“Sir, I delivered your message to Mr. Morgan by using equipment at Madame Flora’s.”
“What kind of equipment?” I waited for an answer, but then my phone rang, and Bob slipped away.
“Is this Scott Waverly?”
“Hi Archie.” I just couldn’t resist.
“Please call me Mr. Morgan.”
“Okay. Mr. Morgan, why does your delivery guy communicate to you from a palm reading joint?”
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