“John Helms does not want me dead,” I said aloud, 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 it could happen anywhere, at anytime. Why, it could happen now. 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. I noticed all the little empty liquor bottles I’d strewn all over the carpet. Bailey’s Irish Cream, Frangelica, Tia Maria, Kahlua. They’d formed some kind of a pattern, the way they were scattered, but I wasn’t sure what the pattern was supposed to be.

“Maybe I can’t sleep for a reason,” I reasoned. “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?”

Back and forth I paced on the carpet, now and then kicking the liquor bottles inadvertently. “What am I thinking? Microwaves! That’s ridiculous! Get real, Argus, get real . . .”

Inside the bathroom, I wet a hand towel with cold water and washed my face.

“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. “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 Colbert sits down. Better keep an eye on the door. Windows too. Anyone can climb a ladder.”

I searched the room for a makeshift weapon. But I couldn’t seem to find anything.

“What did they teach you at West Point, Argus? You remember. Best weapon in the world is the element of surprise!”

But how, I wondered, could I surprise them? Them. By them I meant whoever and however many John Helms sent to kill me.

I’d surprise them, alright. First thing I’d do, I’d fix it so I could hear them coming. I’d soak the carpet outside my door in the hallway. Hell, I’d soak the hallway end to end, so I could hear their footsteps squishing a mile off.

“Better start the tub running,” I said to myself and dashed back inside the bathroom.

* * *

The hotel manager slid an itemized bill in front of me and said, “We had to estimate the damage to the carpet and hallway floor. It’s a conservative estimate. We’ll contact you with the final, adjusted figure as soon as possible.”

I raised the bill to my eyes and scanned it quickly. The total charge for my overnight stay was: seven thousand four hundred thirty-nine dollars and forty-three cents.

I slipped my credit card from my wallet and gave it to the manager. “Better safe than sorry.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

He kept saying that, the manager did, every time I tried to explain something.

“Never mind,” I said. I leaned against the front desk, exhausted. I’d been up all night.

The hotel manager checked my ID before swiping the credit card through the scanner. When the authorization came, he had me sign my credit card slip with a pen. I handed the pen back.

“Are we done?”

“I wish you wouldn’t leave just yet, Mister Ward.”

“Why not?”

“May I say, sir, you don’t appear well, and we have a physician on staff—”

“Physician?” I said. “Doctor Shields?”

“No, sir, Doctor McClure.”

“He may know Doctor Shields.” I snatched my receipt and rushed toward the exit. I had to get out of there fast.

“Sir! Mister Ward! Wait! Please!”

The hotel manager didn’t understand. Doctor McClure could alert Doctor Shields to my whereabouts. And Doctor Shields, I knew, was trying to lock me up. Because I’d gotten the message from that lady in the gold dress.

I couldn’t be locked up!

I’d be a sitting duck!

* * *

“How do you know he wants to kill you?” asked Darth Vader. Or James Earl Jones. Or whoever’s voice was coming through the A/C vent in my car.

“I guess I really don’t know for sure. But people keep trying to convince me.”

“Why you?” said Darth. “Why would John Helms bother with a little shit stain like you?”

“You’ve been gone a long time, pal,” I said. “I’m a national hero now. Saved the president’s life. I own my own security consulting firm too. This car is a Beemer!”

“Shut up, little shit stain!” Darth said. “Just shut up, and go find out the truth!”

Some people can’t help living in the past, I thought, bitterly. Some voices too.

But Darth was right about what I had to do. So I turned off the George Washington Parkway at the Pentagon City exit and caught the 395 freeway toward Virginia.

Passing the Navy Annex, my engine began to sputter. I didn’t know what was wrong until I looked down at my gauges.

“I’m out of gas!”

“He’s out of gas,” Darth said.

“I don’t believe this! I never run out of gas!”

“He can’t believe it. He never runs out of gas.”

“No, not that game!” I said to Darth. “Please!”

“He’s begging not to play the game.”

“Stop with the fucking play-by-play!” I said and gave the dashboard a good bang.

“ ‘Stop with the fucking play-by-play!’ he says and pounds his dashboard in great anger.”

* * *

We walked back to Pentagon City. It was over half a mile, and Darth kept up the play-by-play the whole march and even as I cooled off with a soda at a table inside the mall. Once Darth got going, I remembered now, he’d keep it up for hours, days even, and only stop if I found a topic he found interesting.

It took me awhile, but I thought of one.

“We don’t tell him we’re coming,” I said. “We just show up unannounced!”

“Why?” Darth said.

“Element of surprise. Best weapon there is!”

“But how would this weapon work, precisely?”

Some little tike in a jumpsuit tottered near, trying to eavesdrop on our conversation. I gave him a roar. The tike wobbled back over to his mother, bawling.

“How will it work?” I said to Darth. “By watching his face. The instant John sees me, he’ll give himself away, I just know it!”

“Hmm,” Darth said. “Not bad. Not bad.”

* * *

We rode the metro subway. It was crowded. I found a seat next to a student from Georgetown University, according to her Tee shirt, anyway. She was reading an Algebra book.

I wish she wasn’t so creamy white and delicate, I remember thinking. She makes me think of things that don’t exist, like Spring corn.

“He peeks at the student some more,” Darth said. He was broadcasting from the ceiling now, one of his favorite spots.

I shut my eyes and dropped my chin to my chest, thinking, If I could just nod off for a minute or two, I’d be so happy.

“He’s trying to sleep,” Darth said. I pretended to ignore him. “He’s still trying to sleep … still trying … still trying …” I gave up, opened my eyes.

Oh, how can I stand anymore of this?

“He wonders how he can stand anymore.”

“Stop reading my thoughts,” I said. “It’s not polite.”

“Are you talking to me?” said the student.

“No. Darth Vader.”

The student got off at the very next stop—in some kind of hurry, it seemed. I tried to sleep again, but again had no luck.

Somehow, I missed my own stop. “Why didn’t you warn me to get off?” I said to Darth.

But Darth didn’t answer. Suddenly, he was gone. He never announced his departures.

I got off one metro station late at the Courthouse station. I took the escalator to the street, looking for a taxi. Walking by a gift shop, I caught a young clerk staring out the window at me—just for a second or so, but I’d caught him. Definitely.

Was that clerk working for John Helms? As a sentry, maybe? Keeping an eye out for me? Was that possible?

Of course, it was possible. But what were the odds?

I scratched my head, pondering. A moment later, I felt sure, though I couldn’t say why, that the odds were at least fifty-fifty.

The clerk was no more than high school age with short blond hair and a fresh, freckled face. Kind of stupid-looking, really. But that would be the perfect cover, wouldn’t it?

I better throw the clerk off my scent ...

Inside the gift shop, I grabbed an American flag tee shirt, then another one, different size. I picked out three kitchen magnets. One depicted the Jefferson Memorial, one the Lincoln Memorial, and one the Washington Monument. I selected a coffee table book on the art exhibits of the National Gallery.

I snatched up a pair of red-trimmed white boxer shorts with the University of Maryland’s terrapin—or turtle—mascot on one side, and the words, Slow and Steady, on the other. An ashtray. A bottle opener. A pen. A painting. Stationery.

“You must have a large family,” said the clerk at check-out.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do. I’m from Madagascar. We all have large families there.”

“Uh-huh.” The clerk smacked his bubble gum.

“I’m just passing through, I’m not really even stopping in Washington. In case you’re wondering.”

“Uh-huh.”

I left the store smiling. I was just about sure the clerk had bought my story.

* * *

“Get this thing settled!” Darth said. He was inside one of the plastic bags containing all the gifts I’d bought. The bags were near me on the floor of the cab.

I rolled the windows in the back seat all the way down, letting the air swoosh in, so the cabbie couldn’t eavesdrop. Not easily, anyway.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said to the middle bag. “Why in the world would John Helms want to kill me?”

“He have any secrets you know about?” Darth said.

“Yes!” I cried. “That’s it! That’s it! I know things! I know some of his secrets!”

The cabbie’s eyes peeked at me through his rear view mirror. I pretended that I’d only been singing—by starting to sing.

“Country roads! Take me home! To the place, I belongggg! West Virginia! Mountain momma . . .”

I was halfway through Barry Manilow’s I Write the Songs before the cabbie finally quit peeking at me. I stopped singing, slouched down in my seat, and whispered into the gift bag.

“That’s it, you know. I know things. I know who John’s trying to dump from his corporate board. I know he hates the Japanese. And I probably know more, if I think about it.”

“You stupid shit stain! It’s a wonder you’re still alive!”

“You really think so? I’ve always liked John. I almost consider him a friend.”

“We’ll wait,” Darth said. “We’ll wait and see what his reaction is when he sees you. But now I have a strong feeling you’ll have to kill him.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Stop whining!” Darth said. “You’re a West Point man!”

“Not true,” I said. “They kicked me out of the academy. Remember? Because of you.”

“Point is you know how to kill with your bare hands!”

I studied my hands. Flexed them.

* * *

Our cab zipped along Canal Road, north of Georgetown, atop the green palisades overlooking the Potomac River, then snaked through a shady suburb of upscale, eclectic homes before braking to a stop at the front gate to the Helms compound on Foxhall Road, near the old Nelson Rockefeller estate. The security guard, a former green beret and one of my newer employees—What the hell was his name, anyway?—hopped out of the guard shack and came to a stop outside my window at the rear of the cab.

I rolled my window down. “Here to see John."

The guard recognized me instantly. His sports jacket wasn’t buttoned as it should’ve been, to hide the shoulder holster. The Helms compound was a fortress, but John didn’t want it appearing that way.

“Mr. Ward?” said the green beret.

“Button that jacket," I said, "then open the God damn gate. But don’t announce me. Surprise inspection.”

“Oh, oh. Yes, Sir, yes, Sir.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” said the cabbie to the green beret. “You work for this guy?”

He heaved his thumb toward me in the back seat. I couldn’t understand why the cabbie was so incredulous. The green beret seemed puzzled too, shrugging his shoulders once before trotting inside his shack to handle the gate.

The cabbie shook his head a few times as he slipped the taxi into first gear and hit the gas. The driveway was made of shiny white Carrara marble, and the cab’s dirty rubber tires rolled over block upon block of it, braking to a stop in front of the main house a minute later.

“Don’t forget your bags,” said the cabbie, his engine idling as I stepped out of the vehicle. I reached inside and took my belongings, wondering if Darth was gone or not. The taxi cab pulled away fast, with a little screech of tires.

“Find him!” Darth said, now suddenly visible before me in his black-masked, black-caped fearsomeness. “Find John Helms! Now!”

Next Chapter: Chapter Eleven