The Man Who Murdered Tomorrow: Alex Cheradon, #7

By Jason Krumbine

They say flying is the safest way to travel. Clearly whoever said that has never traveled with a mad scientist in custody. 

After finding, and apprehending, his absentee father, Alex Cheradon and his team are ready for their flight back home to Clayton City. One six hour nonstop flight from Las Vegas and then everything's back to normal. 

Except that this isn't an ordinary flight. 

And Charles Cheradon isn't an ordinary scientist. Hence the 'mad' label. 

And Devon Christian…Well, obviously he's not normal. That just goes without saying. 

And Alex Cheradon has an excellent track record for being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons. This flight isn't going to be any different. 

Trapped on a flight that feels like it's going nowhere, Alex finds himself worrying about his crazy partner, having to go head-to head-with a terrorist and, worst of all, dealing with a deadbeat dad who just wants to have a heart-to-heart with his son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Stray Word
• Release date: Oct 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519933812

Jason Krumbine

Jason Krumbine loves to write! He's happily married and lives in Manhattan, NY where he enjoys reading in Central Park, going to movies and discovering new stand-up comedians. You can connect with Jason at either his website, www.jasonkrumbine.com, Facebook, Twitter (@jasonkrumbine) or good ole' fashion email [e-mail]. He's always up for a talk about the newest Star Trek movie or what's happening in the world of comic books and TV. 

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

ALONE WITH ME, MYSELF, AND I

This is the final boarding call for America Air Flight 280 to Fort Lauderdale, a nasally lady announced over the loudspeaker.

The voice echoed extra loud in the men’s restroom at McCarran International Airport, Terminal B, bouncing off the tile floors, making it sound like the lady was speaking from inside the plumbing, rather than the loudspeakers located overhead.

Following the announcement, three men; a businessman, an overgrown skater boy, and a guy wearing a One Direction T-shirt who was clearly a bigger fan of One Direction than any grown man had business being, stopped their unnecessary primping in front of the mirror and bolted out of the restroom. The taller of the three, the overgrown skater boy, who was, in reality, a black man suffering from a case of severe premature balding and looked like his elbows had elbows, nearly tripped over his own suitcase as he rushed out. He managed to save face, literally, and catch himself before he made uncomfortable contact with the disgusting bathroom tile floor.

The announcement repeated, This is the final boarding call for America Air Flight 280 to Fort Lauderdale, and a few seconds later there was a flush from one of the stalls and a man who looked like he had, unfortunately, slept through his tanning bed appointment rushed out of the stall, zipping up as he went.

And then the men’s restroom at McCarran International Airport, Terminal B, was empty.

Save for the man in the charcoal suit humming to himself that nobody seemed to notice. The tune was Catch a Falling Star by Perry Como. Eventually he transitioned from humming to singing.

Take a paper towel, stick it in your butt crack, save it for a rainy day…

The man stood in the far left corner of the restroom, studying his reflection intently. He was in his mid-thirties, clean shaven and had dark hair that was kept trimmed and carefully styled.

That’s not how that song goes, his reflection said.

What? he asked.

The song you’re singing, that’s not how it goes, his reflection said.

Really?

It’s ‘Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day.’

Devon Christian paused, studying his reflection. His eyes watched himself from behind full rim, rectangular glasses that were probably more for show than anything else. He had a look that suggested he was peering into the future, constantly always peeking around the next corner. Are you sure about that?

Of course I’m sure about that.

Huh. How ‘bout that? You learn something new every day.

Devon’s suit fit him like a second skin. As though, from day one, he had popped out of Lillian Christian’s womb dressed in a two thousand dollar baby-sized Armani suit.

Devon chuckled at the mental image of him, as a baby, wearing a charcoal suit and a little baby tie as he made his grand entrance into the world. He adjusted his tie. It was unnecessary, of course. He tied it perfectly the first time. But he was there, in front of a mirror, it seemed like a waste not to double check.

I would have been a cute baby, he said to his reflection.

You were a cute baby, his reflection replied.

Yes, I know, Devon said. But I’m saying, dressed in a suit, I’d’ve been an even cuter baby.

I don’t think a suit would have made much of a difference, his reflection replied.

Devon Christian was many things: a skilled marksman, a suave ladies man, an intuitive detective, an expert in explosives. But mostly he had a reputation for being nigh-invulnerable, thanks to a mysterious gem embedded in his chest, and completely one hundred percent, off his rocker crazy.

Nobody thinks of me as crazy anymore, Devon said to his reflection.

Everybody thinks you’re Gary Busey crazy, his reflection said. "Actually, they think your worse than that. Imagine if there was a female Gary Busey and she and the real Gary Busey had a baby and passed their craziness on to that baby. That baby then grew up, all crazy-like, and married the offspring of the guy who invented the goldfish walker and then they had a child. That child would be you. That’s the kind of crazy you are."

Devon tapped the small, gray device on his right ear. It looked almost like a hearing aid, save for the two steady blinking lights on it. Not since I got this, they don’t.

Please. His reflection rolled his eyes.

They don’t, Devon insisted.

They’re being polite, his reflection said. You know what they’re saying behind your back.

"I don’t know what they’re saying behind my back because they’re saying it behind my back." Devon shook his head, disappointed with his reflection.

They’re saying you’re crazier than goat cheese cashew caramel ice cream.

Now you’re just being mean. And you’re making me hungry. When was the last time I had some good goat cheese?

"I’m not the one saying it. They’re saying it."

Who’s saying it?

Them.

Who’s ‘them?’

You know who they are, his reflection said. I don’t need to tell you that.

Devon gave his reflection the stink eye. It’s not Alex.

His reflection rolled his eyes. Of course it’s not Alex.

Of course.

Of course. Alex is your best friend.

My bestest best friend, Devon said.

Okay, well, you should never say something like that out loud again, his reflection cautioned. You sound like a twelve year old girl.

I can’t help how I feel.

Second, his reflection continued. Obviously he would never say something like that behind your back.

Of course.

He doesn’t have to. He says it to your face all the time.

Hey!

He does, though, doesn’t he? He calls you crazy all the time. Hell, remember that time he wore that shirt that said ‘I’m With Crazy’ and then he made sure he was always standing so that the arrow pointed at you all the time?

Devon scowled at the memory. I burned that shirt.

But it was kind of funny. Because, you know, you are a little crazy.

Devon glared at his reflection.

You tried to burn the shirt while Alex was wearing it.

That’s only because he wouldn’t take it off, Devon replied. What else was I supposed to do?

Hey, I’m not arguing with you. I’m just telling you like it is.

Devon doubted that, and gave his reflection a skeptical look.

There’s no reason for you to doubt me, his reflection said. "Have I ever steered you wrong? Of course not. I’m you. If I steered you wrong, I’d be steering myself wrong."

Devon nodded. That does make a certain amount of sense.

Of course it makes sense. And no, Alex isn’t talking about you behind your back.

Right.

Nicky is, of course.

Devon closed his eyes and leaned forward, propping his hands against the sink. Of course she is.

She’s got that vlog, his reflection said.

Stupid vlog.

She does that bit on Sundays called Crazy Christian, his reflection continued. Where she’s recounting some crazy thing you’ve done that week.

Devon opened his eyes and looked at his reflection. I don’t do so much that she can do a weekly thing on me, do I?

You do enough for her to do a daily thing on you.

Devon frowned. That’s mean.

It’s true.

Devon sighed. I suppose. Maybe. He shook his head. No it’s not. I’m not that crazy.

You’re talking to your reflection.

Devon smiled and wagged a finger at his reflection, like he had caught him in some elaborate lie. "Ah, but you’re talking back to me. So who’s crazy now?"

That was when the last bathroom stall burst open and a man jumped out, wrapping a garrote around Devon’s throat.

CHAPTER 2

DADDY ISSUES BRING TISSUES

I wondered how long I could stand here in front of the technology vending machine that, improbably, sold headphones, MP3 players, tablets, and really small laptops before somebody asked me to move or, worse, somebody thought I looked suspicious.

(Seriously, though, technology vending machines? Who makes a four hundred dollar purchase at a vending machine? Who’s hanging around at an airport and sees one of those and goes, "Oh, a one hundred and sixty-four gigabyte iPad with cellular technology and preloaded with a hundred dollars worth of apps? Man, I gots to get me one of those right now. Instant buy!")

(Sidebar, does anyone actually talk like that? And if they do, would they really be the kind of person who carries around a credit card that they can drop a four hundred dollar purchase on it without even blinking? Because anyone that says ‘I gots to get me’ anything followed by a verbal description of what they’re about to do shouldn’t be allowed to have any money. Ever.)

(Back to the vending machine, though, I had a hard enough time justifying a buck fifty for a twelve ounce can of soda from a vending machine. Four hundred bucks for an oversized MP3 player that I couldn’t even transfer any of my songs over to right now and, even better, was probably going to be out of date within three months? I was having a panic attack just thinking about somebody else buying it.)

This is the final boarding call for America Air Flight 280 to Fort Lauderdale, a woman with a powerfully nasally voice announced over the loudspeaker.

And then I was thinking about how annoying that voice was.

I don’t want to speak ill of somebody I didn’t know, but her voice actually made me flinch a little. Was that her fault? Was it mine? I don’t know. Who could say? It was the Twenty-First Century, though. I was pretty sure that with today’s technology nobody should ever have to sound like Fran Drescher.

This is the final boarding call for America Air Flight 280 to Fort Lauderdale, she repeated.

Her voice actually made my eyeballs ache. That wasn’t natural. I don’t care how you spin it, it’s just not natural. Nobody should ever have a voice that makes another person’s eyeballs ache. That was a crime against nature. Or humanity. It was a crime against something.

This is the final boarding call for America Air Flight 280 to Fort Lauderdale, she repeated again.

Oh, come on, I groaned. Seriously? Who’s bright idea was it to put this woman in charge of anything where people could hear her? I mean, come on. This was an airport. Things in the airline industry were bad enough without inflicting the passengers with the audio terrorism of flight attendants who can only speak through their nose.

And, really, I’m no genius, but how many times can you make your final boarding call before you realize that it’s not final?

There was a click as somebody turned the loudspeaker back on. She was going to talk again. I just knew it.

I started to bang my head against the vending machine glass in frustration, but then stopped. If I wasn’t being suspicious before, banging my head against a vending machine was definitely going to raise some eyebrows.

Or was it?

They had a pair of headphones in here for fifty dollars. Seriously? Who’s going to spend fifty bucks on a pair of headphones? Just wait until you board the plane and they’ll give you a pair for ten bucks.

I thought I knew insanity, but clearly there was a whole new level of insanity that was previously undiscovered by anyone, save for the mad inventor of this evil machine.

I looked around, but nobody was paying me any attention.

So, how long could I stand here, avoiding somebody else before I couldn’t avoid them anymore?

I caught my reflection in the vending machine glass. Yikes. I looked tired. I poked at the dark circles under my eyes. Those weren’t there this morning.

Actually, they weren’t there now, either. I turned my head to the side and the dark circles disappeared. Stupid shadows. Making me feel self conscious for no good reason.

This was insane.

No, not the vending machine. Although, that was clearly insane. But what was I going to do about that?

No, me standing here was insane.

(It was also possible that I had broadened the definition of ‘insane’ to include acts that people generally wouldn’t consider insane. I’m a trailblazer like that.)

I’m too old to be standing around like some kind of neurotic twenty year old, avoiding his responsibilities. I’m thirty. By even the most generous standards, I was an adult now. I had to behave like one.

But I don’t want to, I said to my reflection.

Naturally, my reflection didn’t respond, because, hey, I wasn’t crazy.

Which reminded me, where did Devon go? I hoped he wasn’t, I don’t know, beating up a little old lady or threatening to blow up a group of jolly baggage handlers.

I closed my eyes and groaned. Just what I needed. Devon having an episode.

Suddenly I was aware of how loud I had actually groaned and quickly opened my eyes. Nobody was eyeing me yet. At least I didn’t think anyone was.

Devon kept trying to teach me how to read a room and I kept ignoring him. Mostly because his idea of reading a room usually ended with somebody, or everybody, being an agent for some kind of ancient Lovecraftian monster here to kill us all.

I looked at my reflection again. What did I have to worry about? Who was going to think I looked suspicious? I was a thirty year old white man. I was fairly attractive looking.

(I mean, I thought I was. So did one or two women, so it wasn’t completely invalidated.)

My black hair was getting a little long and I looked like I hadn’t shaved in a few days. Which sounded about right because I hadn’t shaved in a few days.

I ran a hand over the stubble. It wasn’t a bad look, honestly. I almost took myself a little more seriously.

Crap. Was that a gray hair in my stubble?

No.

No way.

Absolutely not.

I was too young for gray hairs.

Thirty was supposed to be the new twenty. Which meant forty was the new thirty and you weren’t supposed to get gray hairs before your forties, at best. So according to that math I shouldn’t be getting any gray hairs until I was sixty, which was, of course, the new fifty. I should have another thirty years before I started going gray.

I leaned in for a closer look.

Yep. That was definitely a gray hair.

Great.

This was just what I needed.

(It was not. I was being sarcastic.)

I finally get used to being thirty and now I have to deal with gray hairs.

Perfect.

In the reflection on the vending machine I saw a little old lady standing off to the side giving me a weird look.

Okay. Well, now I know how long I could probably stand in front of a technology vending machine staring at myself before somebody thought I looked suspicious.

Or weird.

(Probably it was just weird. I mean, I still had that whole ‘White Male Privilege’ thing going on. That, at the very least, had to buy me out of suspicious and into just weird. Maybe even eccentric.)

I decided to own it, though. This was Vegas. People were used to weird.

Smiling at the old lady, I stepped away from the vending machine and handed her a business card.

Hey, it couldn’t hurt, right?

I was pretty sure I’d be coming back to Vegas at some point. Might as well start building up some kind of customer base.

Alex Cheradon, I said to her, introducing myself. Private investigator. I can pretty much find anything, or anyone you’re looking for. Including, but not limited to, your misspent youth.

I am not a babysitter, Nicky said.

What? I rubbed my sore arm as I walked back to the seating area in front of Gate Twenty-One.

Nicole Brendon jumped up from her seat, grabbing her small carry-on as she moved. She was twenty-something, I think, with hair that was apparently recently dyed blue and questionable taste in clothes.

Your hair wasn’t blue earlier, was it? I asked. "I feel like if it had been blue earlier I would have noticed, or said something, or made a note to say something later. But when would you have had time to dye it blue? Also, why blue? How did you think blue was a good idea for your head? Aren’t you at all worried that somebody might mistake the top of your head for part of the skyline now? I feel like that could be a bad thing."

I’m your administrative assistant, she said.

I scratched my nose. Okay. Well, clearly we’re having two different conversations right now. You’re my secretary.

Administrative assistant.

The old lady had smacked me in the arm with her giant purse that must have been carrying a toaster for some reason. Because that was the only logical explanation I could come up with for why my arm felt like it had been hit with a toaster. Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, I said. You’re not really much of an administrative assistant. Also, if you were just my administrative assistant, I probably wouldn’t have brought you out here with us to Vegas. Which, in hindsight probably would have saved me a lot of trouble since it was your turncoat boyfriend-

Cabana boy lover, she corrected me.

Whatever. I was trying to say something nice.

You’re doing a horrible job of it.

Yeah, well, I got distracted along the way. The point is-

She cut me off again. I’m not your father’s babysitter.

No, definitely not the point.

She pointed to the old man she had been sitting next too. Okay, maybe ‘old’ was a bit much. He was in his sixties, I think. I honestly couldn’t remember his birthday anymore.

(To be fair, though, I don’t think I actually ever remembered his birthday. Or anyone’s for that matter. I’ve bought Christian birthday gifts twice this year and neither time was actually his birthday. I may have a problem. Or I could just be an awesome person who loves giving people gifts.)

Your dad is super boring, she said.

Okay, could we just-

Nicky started to walk away.

Hey, we’re supposed to be boarding soon, I said, blocking her.

Whatever.

"No, not whatever. Where are you going?"

Where do you think I'm going?

I don't know. That's why I'm asking you and now you're walking away from me.

Nicky disappeared around the corner.

Great.

I