Perpetual Motion

By Jeff Fulmer

In the middle of the night, two SUVs speed into an industrial wasteland, stopping at the one well-lit building on the block. A team of men break into the warehouse where they find a strange magnetic device with a heavy spinning bar on top. The demolition men go to work on the machine and, moments later, the SUVs take off as an explosion rocks the building.

A PI, “Cynical Jones,” is riding out a hurricane in the Caribbean when he gets a call to find a young man named Michael Dexter. Since he seems to be on the run from a wealthy investor (Mancuso), Cynical assumes he’s dealing with some sort of con man. Borrowing Michael’s identity, he locates the kid cheating at roulette in Las Vegas, only confirming his initial suspicions that he’s dealing with a swindler.

In his penthouse suite, Michael tells a different story. He says he’s on the run because someone is trying to kill him, and he only came to Vegas to make some fast money so he can disappear with his girlfriend who is waiting for him in LA. Michael agrees to go with the PI; however, as they are leaving the hotel, they are jumped by a professional abduction team. A former boxer, Cynical is able to fight back, allowing Michael time to escape.

At LAX, the PI is summoned to a private jet to meet his employer, Mr. Mancuso. After signing a confidentiality agreement, Mancuso tells him he believes Michael invented some kind of a perpetual motion machine that can produce more energy than it uses. Mancuso wants to hire the PI to continue to look for his investment. Smelling money, Cynical negotiates a huge bonus if he can deliver the kid.

Cynical tracks down Michael’s girlfriend who is crashing with Desmond, a friend and former employee of Michael. Desmond explains that while they were testing their self-generating machine they were visited by men from the Department of Energy. A few days later, their prototype was blown up and the three frightened employees split up. Cynical goes to check on the third member of their little company (Fernando) and discovers that he’s been murdered in his house.
Their best chance to find Michael is for Karen to return to her apartment. Cynical is approached by two FBI agents who are looking for Michael too, although they deny planting any bugs in the apartment, much less murdering Fernando. When Cynical is informed that Michael has called Karen with his whereabouts, he rushes over to her but, along the way, he gets word that the apartment is under attack. Going to the underground garage, he manages to take a transmitter he found on his car a few days ago (courtesy of the FBI) and place it one of the abductor’s SUVs.

The abduction team has nabbed Karen, so Cynical takes Desmond and they flee the scene. Cynical and Desmond end up at an abandoned old oil refinery, where they find Karen being tortured for Michael’s whereabouts. When the FBI agents arrive, they create a stand-off, until Desmond cuts the power, throwing everyone into darkness. A blind shoot-out ensues and a wounded Cynical and Agent McCobb make it out with Karen and Desmond.

Desmond and McCobb get out at a truck stop, leaving Cynical and Karen to continue on to a small desert town, Borrego Springs. Unfortunately, the hit squad also knows Michael’s whereabouts. Once they get to the town, Karen directs them to a gas station, finally reuniting with Michael. When the hit squad (now known as Black Star) come to the gas station, Michael has a trap waiting on them.

It will come down to a chase through the desert between the fossil fuel based combustion engine and the technology of the future. Even if Cynical is able to deliver the goods, not everyone is who they say they are and the future is far from guaranteed. There is always more work to be done and an even more cynical ex-detective must decide if he wants to return to work or hide-away in Caribbean.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Fulmer
• Release date: Feb 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311385222

Jeff Fulmer

I grew up and live in Franklin Tennessee, just outside of Nashville. Hometown Prophet is about a reluctant prophet who must face the challenges that come with being a modern day spokesman for God.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Two pairs of low-flying headlights cruise over a bridge that spans the concrete banks of the LA River. Just beneath the overpass and beyond the river, rows of railroad tracks resemble a stitched up wound in the heart of the city.

Darting down an off-ramp, the mini-convoy descends onto surface streets. Behind the high beams, twin black Escalades with tinted windows shimmer in the night. If anyone were around to see them, these highly polished armored shells would look conspicuously out of place in the land of shipping containers and semi-trailer trucks.

Winding their way around the darkened industrial buildings, the SUVs pass a scrap metal refinery, followed by a cannery. Up ahead is a warehouse, distinctive only because it overflows with electromagnetic radiation, otherwise known as electrical light. Unlike all the closed businesses around it, dazzling brightness shines from every window, crack, and crevice.

The SUVs fly toward the beacon like a couple of kamikaze moths to a brilliant flame. Veering into the parking lot, they screech to a stop and, with no place to hide, park under the vast tent of illumination. Car doors open as four figures clad in black fatigues pounce out to the pavement.

The man leading the charge produces a sledgehammer as he passes a crudely welded sign announcing O-Motors. Using his forward momentum, he slams the hammer into the metal door, instantly snapping the lock and dislocating the hinges. The entry point swings wide, allowing the unit to move inside without missing a beat.

As soon as they are in the sparsely furnished office, one man begins rifling through a desk while another goes straight to a vertical filing cabinet in the corner. Opening the top drawer, he glances over the files before opting to simply pull the entire drawer out.

The other two team members are already into the adjacent warehouse. Stopping in their tracks, they openly gape at a big object in the center of the cavernous room: a metallic sphere, twelve feet in diameter, with an equivalent sized metal beam spinning over the top. The entire apparatus is mounted on a sturdy platform three feet off the ground.

One man nudges his mesmerized counterpart, bringing him back to the mission at hand. As they move within ten feet of the machine, they both feel a strong tug toward the swirling steel rotor, as if its centrifugal force is pulling them in. The motion of the bar is smooth yet it whirls with such ferocity that, if it were to come loose, it would threaten to destroy everything in its path.

Ducking underneath the staging, they instantly feel the upward rush of the air flow. Both men look up to take in the blur of the bar spinning overhead like a heavy helicopter blade. Should either of them attempt to stand up, their heads would instantly be batted toward the warehouse wall.

Reaching back into his duffel bag, one of the men takes out a soft brick and carefully pushes it up against the machine’s metallic underbelly. Following along behind, the second demo man pokes a pen-shaped detonator into the pliable pile of C4. In a well-rehearsed chorography, they began to work their way around the circular casing, placing their plastic bombs every few feet.

While the men in the office are busy taking bags of papers and hard-drives outside to the SUVs, the demo team completes its own circle of destruction.

Underneath the gyrating behemoth, thin lines protrude out of a dozen soft gray mounds, a spider web of wires coming together into a single blinking button on the concrete floor. With a slight nod, the men slither out from underneath the platform and scamper away from their handiwork.

The clean-up crew looks up as the demolition team double-times it through the office and out the front door. Finishing up, they gather the last shreds of evidence and make for the exit too.

As all four men jump into their two waiting rides, unseen drivers are already putting their cars into gear. Doors shut and brake lights flash as both vehicles accelerate away from the lighthouse on Alpha Street.

A moment later, from deep within the warehouse, an explosion rocks the cinderblock walls, raising the aluminum roof and blowing out the long, narrow windows.

The howling sound of ripping metal mingles with the low groan of a heavy cylinder pitching and rolling. Lights flicker before going out – plunging the building into darkness, and leaving O-Motors a smoking husk of its former self.

CHAPTER 1

The private detective carefully studied the man sitting across from him at the Sand Bar. Hunched over an empty glass, the sole patron looked like he’d been waiting a little too long for his ship to come in and no one had the heart to tell him it had sunk.

Under a tragically festive floral shirt, he noticed the man had packed on a few hard pounds around what had once been a middle-weight’s frame. While the man could still pack a punch, he would now be a cruiser weight in the seniors division, if such a thing existed.

With a nose that had been broken once too often, his looks were now more ragged than rugged. A formerly jet black head of hair was turning a gun metal gray; a dreary color that had spread down to the two days worth of beard stubble. Etched lines in his face underscored the painful reminder that his best years were behind him.

Shaking his head away from his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar, the private eye wondered if he could file a missing person’s report on himself.

With a heavy sigh, he rolled his hazy eyes toward the bartender who was nervously watching the television hanging over the bar. On the TV screen, multi-colored images were superimposed over a map of the ocean.

Man, this thing is practically right on top of us, Ted the bartender commented.

With a tap on his glass, Ted’s lone customer signaled for another drink. When that didn’t get a response, the PI cleared his raspy voice, Hey, if you’re still open, how about another one of these – what do you call ‘em - ‘Widow Makers?’

Breaking free from the TV, Ted began pouring an assortment of liquors into a blender, looking like he’d rather be anywhere.

While waiting for his next Widow Maker to arrive, the PI let out a loud laugh when he heard they were calling the white swirling mess Hurricane Ilene. The irony that Ilene was his ex-wife’s name was not lost on someone named Cynical Jones.

Ted started to ask what was so funny about a hurricane; then thought better of it. He’d missed his opportunity to ask the man if he’d had enough to drink, which, in his experience, was a pretty stupid question to ask someone who was already drunk.

The news had cut to a weather woman who was reporting from a location just up the beach. St. Croix was hit with winds well over one hundred miles an hour and Ilene has only picked up steam since then, she shouted with one hand on top of her blonde mop. Cynical wondered if the concern in her voice had more to do with the hurricane’s impact on the island or her hair. St. John can only brace itself as Ilene comes ashore.

As if on cue, a loud thud was heard outside the bar, like a VW had just crashed into the wall. Ted muttered something as he threw a fruit kabob on top of the toxic concoction and delivered it to his waiting customer.

I’ll take this to go, the punch drunk fighter said as he wobbled off his stool for the final round of the night.

Ted started to object to the customer taking a glass away the bar, but the sounds of the high winds outside distracted him to more important matters, like his own survival.

Pulling crumpled bills out of his pocket, the PI closed one eye to examine the greenbacks; then decided to leave the small pile on the bar. Taking his drink in hand, he performed a staggering foxtrot toward the exit; slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.

Thanks, Ted called out as he accounted for the drinks, one glass, and a pretty generous tip to boot. Get some place safe before Ilene hits!

Too late for that; she already KO’ed me, Cynical said, not caring that his inside joke was lost on the bartender.

Chuckling at his own dark wit, he missed the door by a foot, causing a mounted fish to smirk at his attempted exit. As if you could do any better, he told the plastered Wahoo.

His second attempt was more successful and he was rewarded with a cold wet slap in the face from Ilene. Getting a good grip on his cocktail, he gathered himself up and ventured into the violent, unforgiving storm.

Leaning at a sixty degree angle into heavy headwinds, Cynical crossed an empty street, dodging a flying umbrella, a hubcap, and several palm leaves. A grocery cart with a wobbly wheel sped by as if being pushed by a frantic shopping ghost. No people were out. The smart ones had fled; the stubborn ones had already hunkered down.

His cheap motel a block from the ocean was within sight. Taking aim, he tacked across the parking lot until he found himself underneath his room number. Lapping at his drink, he fumbled for his hotel key. All the while, Ilene whipped and lashed at him, sending an unidentified projectile into his neck.

Getting his door open, the private eye stumbled inside. Slamming the door behind him sent the wind howling like a scorned witch.

It was his first real vacation since his divorce - almost four years ago. Cynical had come to the Caribbean to do a little deep sea diving and fishing. Who knew? Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d even hook a land mammal of the female variety. Instead, he had run smack into his ex.

Ilene roared again, banging the clapboard shutters and threatening to peel back the roof over his head. A long swig and the private detective started up the interrogation that always took place after he’d had too much to drink.

The line of questions went something like: What series of unfortunate events led you to this low point? Why did you fail as a husband? Why did you fail as a cop? How can you account for all the missed opportunities and broken promises? How can you ever hope to make up for all the lost time and long list of failures?

If this had been an actual interrogation, Cynical could have filed police brutality charges. But he wasn’t a real detective or even a cop anymore. He was just a washed up x-detective, all liquored up and no place to go.

Mumbling a plea for forgiveness into the hurricane that whirled above his head, he waited for absolution or destruction; he no longer cared which. But neither came. No one was listening, or so he thought.

CHAPTER 2

A far-away ringing broke up a fever dream involving an over-zealous internal affairs agent. Cynical looked around the room in a state of total confusion as the ringing grew louder and more insistent, like Quasimodo swinging on the bell rope.

Using what deductive reasoning he had left with his three remaining brain cells, he honed his search to his cell phone. Rolling over to the other side of the bed, he looked at the LA area code on the caller ID and answered it with a mournful, Yeah?

Cynical? The question came from a voice he recognized, but couldn’t quite place off the top of his splitting head.

Yeah, he repeated.

Paul Abrams, the voice reported. Where are you? I can barely hear you.

Abrams was a high priced LA attorney who held court on the top floor of a Century City smog scraper. They had run into each other when Cynical was a real detective with the LAPD. He had busted one of Abram’s clients and, even though they had been on opposite ends of the case, the lawyer had admired the detective’s tenacity.

When Cynical had gone out on his own, the attorney had thrown the new PI a few bones; digging up dirt on an adversary, doing light surveillance work, even arranging security detail for a visiting client. Abrams was well-connected and, most importantly, always paid on time. That made him aces in Cynical’s checkbook.

I’m on vacation, the PI said. What can I do for you?

A client of mine needs to find someone quickly and quietly, Abrams said, speaking slowly and loudly into the phone.

I’m not cutting my vacation short for a bail jumper. This is paradise, Cynical said, squinting through his blinds at scattered trash and a couple of beaten down palm trees.

This isn’t a bail jumper, the attorney insisted. This was a business deal that seems to have gotten off track. My client wants to find his missing partner.

Missing partner? Cynical repeated. So, did this guy take off with the company piggy bank?

More like intellectual property. I don’t really know the details, Abrams added. What I do know is he’ll pay fifty thousand dollars to find this guy.

Cynical’s eyebrows rose. Letting the curtain’s thin metallic slat pop back into place, he stepped away from the window.

Are you interested or not?

His big vacation had been a disaster, literally and figuratively, and it was time to cut his losses. Beefore starting to pack, he wanted to make sure he didn’t leave any money on the table.

What’s this ‘intellectual property’ worth? Cynical asked. I only ask because if I go out of state, I usually get twenty percent.

As you said, this is not bail jumper. Fifty thousand is the rate, and it’s generous, Abrams said firmly. Besides, the person you’re after isn’t dangerous. Just smart.

The smart ones are the most dangerous, Cynical said, all kidding aside. Anybody could be taken down; size didn’t matter, much. Getting your hands on them was the tricky part. Since Abram wasn’t taking his bait, he tried, I want my expenses covered whether I find him or not. Like you said, since this isn’t a bail skipper, those rules don’t apply.

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line.

Fine, Abrams relented. You can send your expenses directly to me.

Whether he found the guy or not, at least Cynical was going to get his return trip paid for. What can you tell me about the person I’m looking for?

Not much, Abrams admitted. Do you have a computer with you?

Yeah," Cynical said, looking around his room.

I’m forwarding a file on him now, Abrams said. It also has my client’s contact information. If you find him, call the client directly. He’ll come to you.

Yeah, okay, Cynical said. Who am I working for?

There was a momentary pause before Abrams said, His name is Mancuso, but listen, he’s very private, so, if anyone asks, keep his name out of this. This one is important to me, so I’m counting on you. I told him you were the best.

Now you’re making me blush, Cynical said dryly.

Just find this guy.

I’ll do my best, Cynical said.

You always do, Abrams said, before breaking the line.

Cynical tossed the phone down. Instinctively, he reached out to drain the watery remains of his Widow Maker; then thought better of it. He was on a case now.

CHAPTER 3

In the time it took his laptop computer to warm up, Cynical had managed to pack up his few clothes and coax a cup out of the room’s mini coffee maker. Taking his first sip, he sifted through a week of worthless spam.

The last email he received was from Abrams, a forward from his client, Mancuso. If this guy was important to Abrams, he was probably a big deal. Even his email looked impressive. Hailing from the City of London, all it lacked was a digital watermark and a 3-D embossed suit of arms.

Cynical opened the attachment and stared at a driver’s license photo of the man he was supposed to locate. Michael Avery Dexter didn’t match his expectations of a slick white collar conman. Instead, the baby faced boy was pale and studious looking.

Twenty-eight years old, six foot one inches tall, black hair, and big inquisitive blue eyes that sparkled under glasses. He needed those corrective lenses to drive a Chevy Nova circa 1970 that was registered to him…Cool car for such a nerdy kid…His address was listed in an industrial area near downtown LA.

The next attachment held photocopies of receipts for a couple of wire orders that added up to 450 thousand dollars. The monies had originated at a brokerage house in London and been transferred to an entity doing business as O-Motors. The business was the same address as Michael’s residence.

Cynical paused, drawing some preliminary conclusions from the electronic paper trail. If he had to guess, Mancuso had invested in Michael’s business, O-Motors, and probably didn’t have much to show for it. Now Michael was missing, along with his money; hence the frantic attempt to track him down.

A PDF dossier of Michael Dexter was the third and final attachment. Scattered with redacted passages, it was the type of report he’d run into the few times he’d come across certain military personal files and secretive corporate documents. The blacked out portions seemed to be hiding the specifics of the work he had been doing; however, some impressive academic institutions and accomplishments still came through.

Scanning down the page, he narrowed in on the nine digits at the bottom of the page. Armed with Michael Dexter’s social security number, he ran a quick credit check. Within minutes, a report popped up in his in-box. While a somewhat lackluster credit score wasn’t exactly newsworthy, it did give him Michael’s credit card company.

Grabbing his phone, he called up the company and punched his way through the phone tree. Early in his private detective career, he’d actually hesitated to use such techniques on ethical grounds. That notion seemed quant now.

He wasn’t sure which one was harder; stealing a person’s identity or getting a live person to answer the phone. After holding in easy-listening limbo, a far-away, heavily accented man named Kris answered.

May I have your credit card number please?

Well that’s the problem, Cynical said, putting a crease of concern in his voice. I can’t find my wallet and I’m afraid someone may have my credit card.

What is your name sir? Kris asked.

Michael Avery Dexter.

Yes, Mr. Dexter, can you please give me your social security number?

Cynical read the magic numbers from his computer screen.

And your home address please?

Again, Cynical read the information Mancuso had provided.

Thank you Mr. Dexter. Would you like for me to cancel your card and send out a new one?

Well, can you tell me if anyone has used my card in the last day or so?

Let’s see, Kris said, scanning his own screen. It looks like the last purchase was at the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas. That was two days ago.

Really? Cynical said, pondering the Vegas angle.

Did you not make that purchase sir?

Yeah, I mean, I’m not sure. I was a little intoxicated that night. I do remember swimming through fountains with showgirls.

Kris wasn’t sure what to make of American humor.

I’m just kidding, Cynical said, trying to sound reassuring. Yeah, that was me.

Actually, that wasn’t a purchase, Kris said after he’d had a chance to take a closer look at the transaction. That was just a hold on your card.

Hotels get credit card imprints up front. While they don’t charge them, they