Orb

By M V Anderson

Rookie private investigator Archer Bowman is trying to wrap up his very first official case when an elderly doctor solicits his services in finding a thirteen-year-old boy, a child prodigy named Randy, whos been missing for a week. At the same time, Archers girlfriend is being stalked by a mysterious stranger, and someone has just tried to kill Archer with a red Dodge pickup truck. In addition, Archer sees a very tall bald man at the scene of the attempted accident.
Has Archer seen him before? Is the bald man involved somehow in the bizarre events that have led Archer from a desolate spot in the California desert to an impossible complex filled with mystery, magic, and mayhem?
Is this newbie private eye up to the task of solving these small puzzles, or will they prove too much for his inexperienced mind to handle?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514438893

M V Anderson

I’ve spent most of my life watching and experiencing the dreams of science fiction writers turn inexorably into reality. I spent a career in the manufacturing industry as a quality systems manager with several top manufacturing companies and found it fascinating to be on the leading edge of new technologies. And I’ve wondered, as the steady flow of innovation spread its influence, for good and ill, around the globe, what mankind’s destiny may ultimately be. And for the longest time, I’ve wanted to express my impressions about how some of these changes may be affecting the world at large. Orb is an attempt to convey some of my thoughts on one of these matters. I graduated high school but never made it through college. I joined the marines instead and served a tour in Vietnam. I enjoy books (of course), movies, and poker, not necessarily in that order. I have made several attempts at writing Orb over the years, but now that I’m retired, I’ve actually had time to sit at my computer and let this story finish itself along with several short stories I’ve written along the way. The effort to write Orb spans a thirty-year period of my life that includes a divorce, a second marriage, some job changes, a move to Connecticut and back, and a successful bout with cancer. My wife, Beverly, and I currently live in Southern California, about an hour north of San Diego. I often find it difficult to categorize my stories: strange or weird perhaps, but all share a fantasy edge.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Thirateen Years Ago …

M elissa Fairchild, a very pretty but very shy junior, walked across the freshly mowed quad at Hemet High, home of the Bulldogs. It was nine thirty in the morning on the last school day of the year. She had been excused from applied sciences, her second-period class, because she wasn’t feeling well, and she was going to wait in the nurse’s office for her mother to pick her up. Her head was throbbing painfully, her stomach was turning flip-flops, and her throat had tightened up. Melissa was almost never sick. Today was a true anomaly. Suddenly, between buildings, just before she left the grassy knoll, her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the early-morning dampness of the freshly mown lawn.

One of Melissa’s campus friends, who had witnessed her fall, ran for the school’s nurse. A few minutes later, a very large woman wearing a too-tight green nurse’s uniform and huffing and puffing from the exercise of running finally arrived on the scene. Inexperienced with situations such as this, the nurse quickly became as shaken as some of the students who had begun to mill about the fallen girl. But she managed to maintain an outward air of professionalism, and an ambulance was called. Melissa Fairchild was taken to Hemet Valley Medical Center, still unconscious.

That was the last day any of her classmates ever saw her. Melissa was sixteen years old.

* * *

Last Week …

The comfortable large bedroom, filled with science projects and physics puzzle models, pulsed with a rich, vibrant blue haze for just an eyeblink. The young boy, asleep in his bed, did not see the blue haze or the tall bald man as he stepped from the shadows and stood at the foot of his bed.

The man said nothing as he stared down upon the sleeping boy, who began to toss restlessly as incoherent dream images fluttered in his young head, until he slowly opened his eyes. Then he did see the tall man standing in the semidarkness. Strangely, the boy was not afraid. He had seen the tall man before at various places around the estate, at school, and elsewhere. They had interacted together many times before, the man and the boy, but this experience was to be different. The boy had no real knowledge of this man’s purpose, but without hesitation, he left the security of his bed and extended his hand. The tall man clasped it reassuringly.

A heartbeat later, the boy, now wide-awake, did see the brilliant blue flash that took all the shadows out of the room.

ONE

A s I waited for the light to change from red to green, I had a feeling this was going to be a bad day. I could sense it like a bug caught in a web senses the spider; something was about to descend upon my unusually ordinary life, something inexplicable and dangerous. I just knew it. And then the electric sign changed to Walk. I stepped off the curb into the crosswalk on Ynez Road. I had taken only two steps when I heard the screech of tires to my left. I turned in time to see the truck squeal away from the curb and speed directly at me. I dived headfirst, like springing off a diving board, back toward the sidewalk. Luckily, I’d kept myself in decent shape since my stint in the military, and consequently, my reflexes were very good; otherwise, I’d have been caught flat-footed. But the truck cut the corner and flew up the curb, just missing the light pole. Had I been a nanosecond slower, I’d probably be dead, smooshed like roadkill under wide off-road tires.

As it was, the truck hit me while I was still in the air; the passenger-side headlight clipped my bad ankle and actually spun me around. After rolling a bit, I landed on the grass on the other side of the sidewalk and watched as the truck fishtailed down busy Winchester Road, weaving in and out of traffic. It had no license plates.

It took me a few seconds to make sure I was okay. My ankle would be sore for a couple of days, but the metal pins and wires that held it together probably kept it from breaking, again.

A small crowd was gathering. Others had seen what had just happened. One guy actually rushed across the parking lot in front of my building; it was Chino, the maintenance man who took care of the Laundromat next to my office.

My row of buildings was seated atop a low-rise hill that offered a grassy incline and was set up above street level, allowing for an unobstructed view of the four-way intersection there at Ynez and Winchester. The facade of the Spring Fresh Laundromat was glass tinted against the abrasive California sun, but one could still view a large panorama of the parking lot out front, across the street, and into some of the shops opposite our small strip mall. Even from the rear of the Laundromat one could see a good section of the active shopping facilities that dotted all four corners of this busy crossroads.

Chino had been cleaning the inside of the Laundromat’s expansive windows, which made up the entire front wall of the coin-op laundry, and he saw the whole incident.

By the time he got to me and kneeled down at my side, I was fairly certain that someone had just tried to kill me.

Are you okay, amigo?

Chino was an old guy, hard to tell just how old, but strong and quick. He was short, maybe five feet, five inches, but with dark, proud, confident features that made him look more Native American than Mexican—both of which offered a large population in Southern California—and he had more hair on his head, thick and wavy, than I have on my whole body. He was also just about the nicest man I had ever met.

Yeah, I’m okay, Chino. Thanks.

He wanted to keep me down, told me to relax, but I needed to stand and put some weight on my ankle. Chino reluctantly helped me up. My ankle hurt, but not seriously. I didn’t think it was broken. I pulled up my pant leg and rolled down the white sock on my left ankle. There was a bruise next to the old scars; it was already beginning to swell, and I would probably gimp along for a day or two until the pain and the swelling subsided. I still had the cane from the bad ole days and decided that I might need to take it out of retirement for a while.

As I was taking an anatomical inventory and trying to figure who might want to run me down, I spotted a man across the street where I had wanted to go before the truck brushed me off the crosswalk. It was his suit that had caught my eye, or rather, the sun glancing off it. It was of some dark (green?) material and shone as if lit from within. But the man himself was the type that naturally drew one’s attention—a big man with broad shoulders, bald as a river rock, standing stiff and almost as tall as the light pole he was next to, six feet, eight inches or six feet, ten inches at least, if not taller. He was staring directly at me, like everyone else right then, but he seemed … I don’t know … out of place and oddly familiar. Had I seen him before? And then he twitched slightly like someone with an affliction or nervous muscle spasms.

I put my arm around Chino’s neck again then glanced back across the street. The big man was gone.

Then I heard the siren; someone had called 911.

I left the Temecula Valley Hospital two hours later. X-rays confirmed that I had no broken bones, though I did gain a couple of minor scrapes from rolling across the concrete sidewalk, and the Hospital saddled me with a tightly wound ACE bandage wrapped around my thick ankle. And some pills for pain if I needed them.

Chino had followed the paramedics in his own truck, and we were now headed toward that old Ford Ranger in the hospital’s parking lot so he could take me back to the office—and the scene of the crime—where my car was parked. I knew I could actually walk if I took it slow and easy, and I was pretty sure I could drive, but Chino supported me like a war buddy who was helping me off the battlefield. I let him.

* * *

It was not exactly my row of buildings, as I boasted earlier; I only leased about five hundred square feet of the easternmost end of it. There were five businesses along that small strip: Retreads, a used-book store, on the west end; a bicycle shop and the office of a guy who sold all types of insurance in the center of the strip; then the Spring Fresh Laundromat, where Chino worked; and then there was the office of Archer P Bowman, private investigator. That’s me.

The small strip mall was located on the northwest corner of Ynez Road and Winchester on the fringe of Temecula’s business district and was like a prelude to the vast development of shopping promenades that populated the east side of Ynez. Blocks and blocks of commercial, retail, and service businesses surrounded acres of parking lots: Movie theaters, department stores, auto dealerships, boutiques, public buildings, restaurants, and a myriad of fast-food places that spanned as far as the eye could see on the east of Ynez and south of Winchester. There was a gas station with a mini-mart directly south of my office and across Winchester Road, which eventually headed north and became Route 79. A series of freeway off-ramps from I-15 preceded the mini-mart, and to the west of my little chunk of Temecula were more entrances to and exits from the same busy I-15 freeway that led south to San Diego and north all the way to Las Vegas and beyond.

It was pushing four o’clock that afternoon when Chino pulled up next to my freshly painted Avanti. I thanked him more than he wanted me to, and after testing my puffy left ankle by depressing the clutch pedal a few times (my right was good to work the gas and brake), I assured Chino that I could drive the few miles up the freeway to my place. I had nothing further that absolutely needed to be done at the office that day, and I had locked up before going out earlier to get hit by that truck, so I just sat in the Studebaker for a while, trying to figure out what had happened today.

I had been heading across Ynez when the attack occurred. I could think of it no other way; the driver of that big Dodge Ram had deliberately tried to run me down. He had been waiting for me at the curb. It had been lunchtime, and I was going to get one of the best cheeseburgers that In-N-Out could cook up. But the truck didn’t let that happen, and now I hadn’t eaten all day except for a cup of coffee this morning. Not even a bagel, which, by the way, I hate. What would this guy—I assumed it was a man because I didn’t get a clear view of the driver—have done had I not been hungry and tried to cross Ynez just then? Had I not dropped into the office at all this morning? Or had I decided to leave early in my car? Would he have waited all day? Would he have come back later or on Monday, considering today was Friday? Would he come back next week and try again? Would he have followed me home? He obviously knew where I worked; did he know where I lived too? Who was he, and why did he try to run me down?

Or was I wrong? Was I just too sensitive about being killed because I’d already been dead once?

My cell buzzed, and I answered it without really thinking about it. A smile came instantly to my face. It was Sam.

TWO

S amantha Eggers was busily polishing the top of one of the long glass cases that contained her within an island of fine jewelry at Macy’s department store in the main promenade mall. All four sides of her department consisted of expensive rings, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings as well as a variety of designer watches and other flashy baubles. But she wasn’t really paying attention to the streaks and fingerprints on the glass cases left by inquisitive customers. She was watching the man at the cosmetics counter across the aisle. His back was to her now, but moments ago, he had been staring at her intently as she helped an older gentleman pick a gold-and-diamond broach to give to his wife for their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

The man across the aisle was dressed casually in a blue sport shirt and jeans and two-tone deck shoes. Even though his attire was different today, Samantha had seen him before, not only here in Macy’s, but also in other places in the mall and at the gym where she worked out three evenings a week after work. He was not unattractive, but nothing that most women would look at twice or pick out of a crowd: pushing thirty, of average height and average looks with neatly combed, average brown hair. But his eyes were a bit too far apart, with deep squint lines between his eyebrows. His nose was slightly crooked as if it had been broken, and he had the overall mien of someone in a perpetual hurry, or maybe he was just the overly nervous type.

And Samantha was absolutely certain she had seen him around the mall. Okay, lots of people came to the mall often. Maybe he worked there or knew someone who did. But his appearances were not regular like he was on routine breaks or dropping off or picking up someone who had a regular schedule. And what about her gym? That was miles from the promenade, miles from any of the malls here in Temecula. How many times had she seen him in the past couple of weeks, five, six times? Too many to be coincidence. And on each occasion, she had caught him looking at her. He never said anything to her and disappeared quickly after making eye contact.

How long has he been watching me before I noticed him? she thought. Is he building up courage to talk to me? To ask me out? Is he stalking me? I don’t care, she thought, still talking to herself. I will mention him to Archer tonight when I meet him for dinner. Archer will know what to do.

Samantha turned around to put away the Windex and the polishing cloth. When she looked back across the aisle, the man was gone.

* * *

I wouldn’t worry about it too much, said Archer. After all, you are mighty good-looking. Any normal, red-blooded male should give you much more than a cursory glance. I do. All the time.

She smiled at this and shook her head slightly.

Samantha Eggers was twenty-three years old, fresh out of college, with an MBA from the University of California–Riverside. She had flowing shoulder-length auburn hair with streaks of natural blond, mint green eyes, and small dimples that formed in both cheeks when she smiled. A perfect smile.

An only child born and raised in California by middle-class parents, Samantha Eggers had spent most of her life just enjoying the lively amenities and attributes Southern California had to offer—less than two hours from everything: the beach, the mountains, the desert, the lakes, the rivers, and of course, all the sports and outdoor activities that one could imagine in these environs. Samantha had lived an easy, pleasant, relatively carefree life. If asked, she’d say she’d done it all, which, of course, was not true, but to her cloistered view, what more could there be?

Outgoing and affable, Samantha was usually found at the center of things and had always been a take-charge individual. Not necessarily a type-A personality, still she sought arenas of responsibility and hoped that one day, her management experience would help prepare her for the chair of a world-class marketing director. She wanted to change the way ordinary consumers viewed advertising by putting real truth into it.

Archer was aware of Sam’s inherent abilities and knew that besides being smart and witty, he truly believed that Samantha was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, certainly the most beautiful he had ever actually met. And he could totally understand why some guy might want to stalk her. What he could not understand was why she bothered with him, Archer P Bowman, a nobody PI with an uncertain future and no specific goals.

Archer had had only one other love interest in his whole life, a foster sister two years older than him. Someone he felt he could never divulge his feelings toward. Adolescent as his thirteen-year-old heart had been at the time, it still hurt when he was transferred to a new family after only a year of unrequited love. And now he was being careful with feelings he wasn’t able to control all those years ago.

Back to the stalker. Did you check with Macy’s to see if he works there? Have you called the police? he asked.

No. I don’t know his name or anything about him, and he hasn’t done anything wrong, said Samantha. I’ve seen him in the store before, but not regularly. I’m sure I’d know if he worked for Macy’s. She sipped her wine then resumed twiddling her fork in the pasta on her plate.

Mimi’s Café had excellent pasta, but Samantha was having trouble concentrating on it. She resumed her thoughts. You know I’m a department manager. I’m all over the building, front and back. I go to meetings. I know lots of people at the store. This guy, I don’t know, although I’ve seen him all around the mall.

Samantha had gotten lucky and clinched the Macy’s job right out of college. The wife of one of her professors was the general manager of the Temecula store. The open position was only for the manager of the fine jewelry department, but it was a start and, in this current lousy economy, a good start. And she knew that one day, she’d run Macy’s or something with an equally prestigious name, not one store in a chain, but all of them. She had had the manager’s job now for ten months and was doing well.

Having moved from her hometown of Corona, California, she was currently staying with her cousin Elizabeth in Fallbrook, about forty-five minutes farther south on I-15 and maybe twenty minutes from Macy’s.

Archer asked, When do you work next? Monday?

Yeah, till closing.

Okay, I’ll try to hang out near your department as much as possible next week. If you see him and I happen not to be near you, call my cell. But be careful, he added quickly. We don’t want to scare him away just yet. I’ll try to find out what’s on his mind first. I’m sure it’s harmless, but if he’s stalking you, we’ll put an end to it. He reached across the table and cupped her hand in his. I believe what you’re telling me, but it still might be coincidence. We’ll find out for sure, okay?

She smiled, forming those beautiful dimples again, nodded her head, and actually continued eating. The pasta was very good. She took a couple more bites then almost choked as she suddenly remembered something and tried to talk while eating at the same time. Okay, gimpy, I went first. Now, as promised, it’s your turn. What’s with the cane?

He told her the whole story, beginning with his lust for an In-N-Out burger and ending up with her call to him while he was sitting in his car, contemplating the day’s little mystery after Chino had dropped him off in front of his office. He did not mention that his ankle had been seriously damaged before. There was a lot about him Samantha Eggers didn’t know. They had only been seeing each other for about six months. Archer enjoyed every second he was with her but was not really sure how Sam felt about him. Maybe all she’d ever be was a friend, which was why he was being so careful with his own feelings—he didn’t want another Shirley McKenna.

The date to meet at Mimi’s for dinner had been hurriedly set earlier in the week. Archer received a call to his cell phone that caused him to leave Samantha standing alone near the cash register among all the sparkling jewelry at Macy’s. They had been talking casually, Archer in the aisle, Samantha in her glittering island. They had just made the date at Mimi’s when he’d had to leave abruptly. The call provided an important turning point in the case he was working on. His only case.

Samantha’s call this afternoon, which he’d answered in his Avanti, had sounded more insistent rather than urgent, and when she said that she thought she was being followed, Archer pushed his own worries out of his mind. He started the Avanti, a two-year-long dream project, drove the several miles up to Murrieta to his apartment complex, and changed clothes. He found the cane he’d hidden in a closet two years ago and raced back to Macy’s, where he met Samantha at five thirty.

Archer kept an eye out but saw no sign of the stalker that fitted Sam’s description.

They left Macy’s shortly after six and arrived at Mimi’s on Winchester Road ten minutes later.

Samantha was surprised and concerned to see him limping with a cane, but after assuring her that he was okay, he insisted she tell him about her stalker first. She went through all the sightings she could remember, all harmless, all passive, and she began to feel a little silly for engaging Archer’s professional curiosity. He assured her there was nothing silly about it and said he would do what he could to ease her mind on the matter.

Now that they were caught up with the dailies and trying to unwind after a long day, Archer had an additional thought about his traffic accident. He looked at Samantha. I know that red Dodge Ram was not at the curb when I arrived at the office this morning. I would have seen it as I walked across the parking lot, he said. So the guy might know my car if not exactly where I work. There aren’t many Studebaker Avanti’s on the road these days. He followed me, pulled up to the curb, and waited for me.

Could it be related to a case you’re investigating? asked Samantha.

My only case? It’s possible but unlikely. I only opened the office a month ago, and I have a grand total of one case. Some old guy wants his wife tailed to see if she’s cheating.

Is she?

I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, Sam, he said with a faux snarl. Seriously, it’s not something I can talk about right now.

He called her Sam most of the time, and she called him Archer and, from time to time, Arch, which was not his real name. Nor was Archer.

He was born Archibald P Bowman. No middle name, just the letter P. He hated the name Archibald. His mother died giving birth to him, so he could never ask her what she was thinking when she gave him that evil moniker. Even though he never knew his mother, the fact that she had died while delivering him often crept into his dreams. Archer wasn’t sure if it was guilt, a sense of responsibility, or some unnamed emotion he felt, but the death of his mother lay heavily on him. According to unreliable gossip, his parents had split long before he was born. He had never known his father either.

He grew up in