Out of Spite, Out of Mind Read online

  “Good.”

  “Yeah. And I don’t know that we’re ready for that quite yet, but I do think I’d like to be married to you eventually.”

  Again, Gwen said, “Good.”

  Martin took a step closer to Gwen, and lowered his voice a bit. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s good to know where you stand.”

  “And where do you stand, Gwen? Do you think you’d like to be married to me eventually?”

  Gwen resumed walking, at a brisk pace. “I’d rather not discuss it.”

  “Just tell me how you feel. Your gut instinct.”

  “My gut instinct is that that would be discussing it, which I’ve already told you, I’d rather not do.”

  “You don’t want to marry me!”

  “I didn’t say that. Maybe I think I might want to marry you, but I worry I could change my mind later, and I don’t want to commit myself right now.”

  “Is that any better?”

  “I’m not saying it is. I’m not even saying that’s how I feel. I’m just saying that it’s a different reason.”

  Martin chewed on this for a moment, following Gwen as she double-timed it through Atlantis. Brit the Younger’s apartment was in sight now, and it seemed Gwen couldn’t get there soon enough.

  Finally, he said, “So, either you think you might want to marry me, but you fear that you’ll change your mind, or you don’t want to marry me, but you want to keep the option open in case you decide you can’t do better. I’m gonna be bummed either way, aren’t I?”

  Gwen remained silent.

  “Which, I’m sure, is why you didn’t want to discuss it.”

  Gwen stopped at the door to Brit the Younger’s apartment and rang the bell. She glanced over at Martin. “A smart woman keeps her options open.”

  Martin said, “All I’ve done is told you how I feel. My options are just as open as yours, and I’m just as likely to change my mind as you are.”

  Brit the Younger opened the door. She pushed her glasses higher up on her nose and smiled. “Gwen, Martin, I’m so glad you stopped by.”

  Martin and Gwen stopped looking at each other and instead focused on Brit, attempting unsuccessfully to hide the emotions their conversation had just dredged up.

  Brit said, “I think I’m glad you stopped by. Come in.”

  Brit the Younger’s front door entered directly into the main room of her apartment: a large, high-ceilinged space, one whole wall of which was a curved window that looked out into the dark blue depths beneath the surface of the ocean. Along the back wall there was a table and chairs, as well as a large kitchen where her domestic servant and close friend Nik was puttering away on some unidentifiable project. The other wall featured two incongruously rustic wooden doors.

  Gwen entered first and made a beeline for the long, low couch. She sat at one end and pressed herself into the armrest, giving the impression that no matter where on the couch Martin chose to sit, she wanted to be as far from him as possible.

  Martin didn’t make any effort to sit down, either on the couch or any of the other chairs. Instead he walked steadily toward the two wooden doors set into the wall.

  “Thanks for having us,” he muttered as he walked past Brit. “Where’s Phillip?”

  Brit said, “In his rec room. Would you like anything? I could have Nik—”

  Martin mumbled, “No, I’m good,” and went through the door on the left.

  He emerged from the door thousands of miles and thousands of years away. Physically, the door should have led into Brit’s bedroom closet, but both of the wooden doors were enchanted, programmed to act as portals from Brit’s home in the bronze-age Mediterranean to Phillip’s two properties in Leadchurch, a town in Medieval England. The door Martin chose led to the attic above Phillip’s office and workspace.

  Phillip had filled this attic with all of his favorite things from his original time. Being a product of the mid–nineteen eighties, that meant a lot of white leather and neon lights. At the far end of the room, Phillip’s pristine, white Pontiac Fiero occupied a place of honor. Through speakers the size of large tombstones, Sting advised that if Martin loved somebody, he should set them free.

  Martin walked to the bar, where an iPod he’d given Phillip as a gift was wired into Phillip’s high-end 1985 rack-mounted stereo system through an old-school cassette adapter. One of the advantages of having a friend who was from a time thirty years prior to his own was that Martin could give him wildly outdated technology, then laugh inwardly when it blew Phillip’s mind.

  Without asking permission, Martin pressed the cassette player’s stop button, ending the song with a resounding kachunk.

  Phillip stood with his back to the room wearing no shoes, his sky-blue robe hanging open like a dressing gown, and his wizard hat crammed half into one of the pockets. He hunched over his vintage arcade game, a full-sized cabinet labeled GORF. His staff leaned against the wall next to the cabinet.

  Martin stood beside Phillip, his body canted at a slight angle, looking down at the screen as he had since his early adolescence whenever a friend was playing an arcade video game. A ship maneuvered around the bottom of the screen, shooting up through a curved shield at an orderly formation of spacecraft, which drizzled down return fire.

  Martin shook his head. “Isn’t this just a rip-off of Space Invaders?”

  Phillip said, “No. The beauty of GORF is that it isn’t just one game. It’s made up of several different games. It’s a rip-off of Space Invaders, followed by a rip-off of Galaxian, followed by a rip-off of Tempest, topped off with a second, slightly different Space Invaders rip off.”

  “Ah. I see. I didn’t know that. I’ve never made it past the first level.”

  “Too difficult?” Phillip asked.

  “Too boring.”

  They heard a rapid knocking at the door, forceful enough that it was not so much a request for permission to enter as a warning that entry was imminent. The door back to Brit’s apartment creaked open, and Nik leaned in.

  “Can I offer you a cold drink? Maybe a quick bite to eat?”

  Martin shook his head. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  Phillip kept his eyes glued to the game and his hands on the controls, but said, “Yes, it’s kind of you to offer, but we’ll all be leaving pretty soon, I should think.”

  “I suspected as much, but if you change your minds, the offer stands.”

  “You take awfully good care of us, Nik,” Phillip said, most of his brain still preoccupied with shooting fictional invaders from what might be called space.

  “That’s my job.”

  “You do it well. If there’s anything I can ever do to make your job easier for you, I hope you’ll tell me.”

  Nik said, “Thank you Phillip. I will,” and withdrew back into Brit’s apartment and closed the door behind him.

  Phillip said, “That man is a treasure. I’d be lost without him.”

  Martin smiled. “Not lost. Just hungry and living in squalor.”

  Phillip’s eyes darted up to Martin for a second, then back to the game. “I don’t think that’s quite accurate.”

  “I knew you before Nik came into the picture. It’s accurate.”

  Phillip continued slamming the joystick back and forth and pounding on the fire button. “You’re in a mood. What’s wrong?”

  Martin groaned.

  “You and Gwen are fighting.”

  “Again.”

  “And you said something stupid.”

  “I sort of accidentally proposed.”

  Phillip laughed. “So that’s a yes. I take it her response was less than enthusiastic?”

  “She didn’t answer.”

  “She said nothing?”

  “No, she said t
hat she wasn’t going to answer.”

  “Ouch.” Phillip let go of the joystick, allowing his final spacecraft to be destroyed. Martin watched the animation, and heard the burst of static from the speaker that signified the spacecraft exploding and its entire crew perishing in the vacuum of space.

  Phillip stroked his short brown beard as he turned to face Martin. “Look at it this way. You and Gwen are meant to be . . .”

  Martin smiled.

  “Or,” Phillip continued, “you’re not. If you’re not, there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

  Martin scowled at Phillip. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “It wasn’t meant to. You’re fighting with the woman you love. You’re going to feel awful. For me to try to change that would be counterproductive.”

  “Phillip, have I ever told you what a good friend you are?”

  “No, I don’t believe you have.”

  Martin said, “Yeah, that’s not by accident. We can’t all be as happy as you, with your drama-free relationship. You’re lucky.”

  “I am very happy, and lucky, but Brit and I both put a lot of work into avoiding drama. She’s the most important person in my life. Keeping her happy is well worth all the effort I put in, and more. If I keep her happy, she’ll stick around, and that will keep me happy.”

  “That’s fine for you. But what if you were in a relationship with someone who wasn’t putting in the effort?”

  “Martin, you’re my best friend and one of my favorite people, but if you think being in a relationship with you hasn’t required effort on Gwen’s part, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  Martin opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when both men heard a distant knocking from downstairs.

  “You expecting anyone?” Martin asked.

  “No. I’d better see who it is.” Phillip started down the stairs, then stopped, bent down, and picked up a pair of canvas high-tops decorated with Union Jacks before continuing on his way, sliding a bit in his socks. Martin followed close behind. Phillip would have been more inclined to just let an unexpected visitor knock, or shout at them to come back during business hours, but the last time someone came calling unexpectedly at his office door, it had been to announce that the town was under attack by dragons. He was disinclined to ignore the knocking now.

  Martin followed as he walked down the stairs and through the séance room, where a small table and a crystal ball disguised Phillip’s Commodore 64 computer. They passed through a beaded curtain into the front room, where walls full of small, dusty shelves held countless small, dusty bottles containing old, dusty specimens, or powders—which in many cases was just old dust.

  Phillip opened the front door, but nobody was waiting outside. He and Martin looked out on one of Leadchurch’s many dirt roads, lined with buildings made of grayish-beige stones, wooden beams, off-white plaster, and thatched roofs. It had often occurred to Martin that here, in Medieval England, before the invention of advanced paints and dyes, everything was essentially dirt colored. This was lucky as it helped hide the dirt, with which everything was covered, because advanced detergents hadn’t been invented either.

  Phillip shrugged and started to close the door, but Martin stopped him, leaning outside. He looked to the right and saw nothing of interest—just Leadchurch at dusk. He looked to the left and saw a group of kids, one of whom was carrying away a rectangular package about the size of a hardbound book, carefully wrapped in shiny red paper. The kids were giggling quietly, as if trying to contain their amusement. One of them looked back furtively at Phillip’s door, and when he saw Martin, quickly looked away, shushing his giggling friends.

  “Hey,” Martin shouted. “Did you see anybody knock on this door?”

  The boy carrying the package said, “No, sir.” Then he and his friends darted around a corner and out of sight.

  “Those kids just totally ripped you off,” Martin said.

  “You think?” Phillip leaned against his counter and pulled one of the canvas Union Jack high-tops onto his foot. “More likely they just knocked on my door as they walked by as a laugh.”

  “I’d bet anything that whatever was in that package was for you.”

  “Oh, well. Whatever it was, I’m sure they need it more.”

  “What if it was something nasty? Some kind of practical joke or something.”

  “Then it would serve them right for stealing. Even if it was for me, I’m not going to go chasing them down for it, whatever it was. Bad for the image.”

  Martin cast one last rueful look in the direction the boys had fled, and started to pull the door closed. His gaze swept across the street and caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure across the way, lurking in the gap between a timber-and-plaster building and a thatched hut.

  The lurker was adult sized, and seemed to be built like a fairly husky male, but it was hard to tell anything beyond that, as he wore a rough, brown, full-length cloak with a large hood pulled over his head. He seemed to be looking in the same direction Martin had been, the direction in which the roving gang of untrustworthy youths had gone. The hood’s subtle movement gave Martin the impression that the person inside was shaking his head. The hood twisted around, and while Martin couldn’t see the person’s eyes, or any of their face, the way it stopped moving abruptly while pointed directly at Phillip’s door left Martin with the distinct impression that the robe’s owner had noticed Martin noticing them.

  “Hey,” Martin shouted. “What’s your deal?”

  The figure jolted, having either been startled or suffering a full-body spasm, then darted around behind the building, out of Martin’s sight.

  Phillip finished tying his shoes and stood, testing his weight on each foot to judge if he had tied them tightly enough. “Martin, you’re far too young to enter the yelling at young punks phase of your adulthood.”

  “What? No, I’m not yelling at the punks. They’re long gone. No, there was someone else.”

  “Where?”

  Martin pointed to a gap between two buildings across the street. “He took off, too, whoever he was.”

  Phillip looked where the person had been, as if the size of the empty space they’d left would help Phillip identify him. “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know,” Martin said. “He was wearing a big, heavy cloak with a hood. All I saw inside the hood was darkness.”

  “So, a Jawa. You saw a Jawa.”

  “No, it wasn’t a Jawa.”

  “Are you sure? Were they trying to sell any used droids? Always check the motivator—”

  “It wasn’t a Jawa! Jawas don’t exist, and if they did they wouldn’t be in Medieval England. Wrong . . . I dunno, what do you call it? The wrong surroundings? The wrong context?”

  “Milieu,” Phillip said.

  Martin scowled. “Yeah, that. The wrong that. Besides, Jawas were little, and had glowing eyes. This guy was . . . guy sized, and I didn’t see any glowing eyes.”

  “Then maybe it was Orko. He’d be a better fit for a medieval setting. You know, Orko, from He-Man?”

  “Yes, I am familiar with Orko,” Martin said, more than a little indignant. “And, again, Orko was small, and had glowing eyes, and he flew. He didn’t even wear a hood. Orko had a pointy hat.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Phillip pulled his wizard hat from his pocket and placed it on his head. “He was a silly-looking little git.”

  Both Martin and Phillip heard the beaded curtain behind them rustle. They turned to see Brit the Younger and Gwen.

  Brit the Younger handed Phillip his wizard staff, a long, knurled branch of wood with a small glass vial full of red liquid fastened to its head. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Martin replied.

  Phillip said, “Martin thinks he saw a Jawa.”

 
Brit and Gwen both asked, “Where?”

  Martin said, “It wasn’t a Jawa, just someone dressed like one, and it doesn’t matter. Whoever it was, they’re gone now. We should go.”

  Phillip pointed across the street. “Over there, between those two buildings.”

  Brit and Gwen stepped outside and looked across the street.

  Brit said, “I don’t see anybody.”

  “Me neither,” Gwen agreed.

  “Of course not,” Martin said, following the ladies outside. “Like I said, they’re gone now.”

  Gwen squinted at him. “Then why did you want us to look for them?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Brit rolled her eyes. “Then why did you bring it up?”

  Martin could see what was going on. Gwen was irritated with him, and Brit was Gwen’s best friend, so now they were a unified front against him. Martin turned and looked at Phillip.

  Phillip looked at Martin, his best friend, then at Brit the Younger, the woman in his life, then at Gwen, the best friend of the woman in his life. Phillip did some quick mental calculations, then stepped slightly closer to Brit and Gwen and frowned at Martin.

  Martin sighed. “Can we just go?”

  Gwen said, “After you.”

  Martin pointed his staff upward and lifted into the air, followed by Phillip, Brit the Younger, and, finally, Gwen.

  3.

  Agent Miller sat with his left elbow hanging out of the car window, right fingers drumming on the steering wheel. His eyes shifted focus at regular intervals between the building across the street he was assigned to watch and the car’s rearview mirror, which he’d decided to also keep an eye on.

  The car had been backed into a diagonal parking space. This had seemed like a lucky break at first, as it gave the agents an inconspicuous place to park with a clear view of their subject. Miller now realized that it left the rear of their car vulnerable to anyone walking down the sidewalk as he and his partner concentrated on their assignment, watching the Luxurious Rothschild Building.