Keyed Up in Seconds: Idiomerica Book 2

By J. M. Fagan

They’ve experienced a degree of success at peeling back the layers of secrecy shrouding the ruthless Pharma organization that resorts to kidnapping human guinea pigs for some kind of nefarious medical testing and murder to keep meddlers away from their sordid “business,” but Mason and the Jargonauts have barely scratched the su

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nitrous Oxide Press
• Release date: Feb 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999247365

J. M. Fagan

Sometimes called Dr. Death (no connection to Kevorkian), having survived over a dozen near-death experiences, J. M. Fagan has found a safer way to face danger vicariously through fiction writing. The fly fisher, woodworker, flamenco and classical guitarist, and forty-year Oregon educator graduated from Northern Arizona University and Lewis & Clark College and completed further studies at universities in Eastern Oregon, Madrid, and Tokyo.

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cover.jpgIdiomerica: The Quintessential Account of Mason and the Jargonauts in the Quests for the Gordian Keys, by J. M. Fagan

The IDIOMERICA Series

Book 1: Through the Keyhole to One L of a Mess

Book 2: Keyed Up in Seconds

Book 3: Key Figures Get the Third Degree

Book 4: Passkey to the Formulary

Book 5: Keystone of the Fifth Column

Book II: Keyed Up in Seconds

Keyed Up in Seconds

Nitrous Oxide Press, LLC, Tigard, OR 97223

©2017 by J. M. Fagan

All rights reserved. Published by Nitrous Oxide Press, LLC. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

No characters in the story depict real people, living or deceased, and any resemblance would be pure coincidence. Nor are the names of any products or businesses that were created for the story meant to represent or characterize any that may be real. However, the plants and substances, and many of the locations and businesses, are real. My apologies for any errors in their depictions. The story is meant to be a fun read, and no offense is intended toward any person, group of persons, company, entity, race, gender, religion, or creed.

Editing and design by Indigo: Editing, Design, and More

ISBN: 978-0-9992473-6-5

For my parents, who though deceased still influence me through their integrity, work ethic, and wisdom; my sister, Jeri, a beacon of optimism and compassion, and the inspiration for certain parts of the story; my daughter Lori and my daughter Becky in memoriam—no father could ask for better kids, both fonts of energy, accomplishments, and kindness, with adventurous natures and a readiness to lend a hand to serve others in need; and my smart and talented grandchildren, Garret, Lilly, and Evan, whom I thought of often while composing ideas for the story.

Contents

Series Title Page

Book Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1. Rhyme or Reason

2. A Stroke of Luck

3. Time to Face the Music

4. Hitting a Sour Note

5. A Method to Our Madness

6. Consorting with the Enemy

7. Dressed to Kill

8. Bushwhacked

9. Going Native

10. Hot on the Trail

11. A Match Made in Heaven

12. A Bitter Pill to Swallow

13. Clued In

14. Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button?

15. The Whole Nine Yards

16. Two Can Play That Game

17. A Lot of Nerve

18. Dead Men Tell No Tales

19. Doomsday

20. A Turning Point

21. Touching Base

22. Pilgrims’ Progress

23. The Last Thing You’d Expect

A Note from the Author

1

Rhyme or Reason

When the door opened, I found myself staring down the barrel of a shotgun pointed directly between my eyes. I should have known better than to come here. Or I could have at least scoped out the place first. Why didn’t I heed the warning? It was clear. Now I was face-to-face with the Pharma assassin’s welcoming committee. I was dead if I ran and dead if I stayed. I closed my eyes and braced for the blast. Maybe they’d be merciful and get it over quickly.

I had decided to drive to Oregon to follow up on TEX MESSENGER’s information about the possibility of Helen Gone hiding out with friends in the town of Zigzag. She’d escaped from the clutches of the evil Pharma organization that used her and other abducted victims as guinea pigs to develop powerful, complex, mind-controlling medications. Her information could provide us with keys to unlock the Pharma secrets, but she would undoubtedly be hunted down and captured or killed—unless we could find her first.

Our ragtag Jargonaut team had received an ultimatum—the death-threat email from Pharma operative Walter Ego—informing us that their nationwide organization had photos of us and knew our identities. They most likely knew my real name, Cliff Hangar, and those of the rest of our team, along with all of the aliases on ID cards that Tara Byte had made for us. If we’d left any fingerprints behind anywhere, it wouldn’t be too hard to identify us using a database that included all licensed teachers. Our mission to derail the enemy seemed all but crushed.

Dammit to hell! Mason Quark, our physics specialist, had said when we received the threat. Our big idea of wiping the floor with the Pharma Goliath—I guess we can kiss that one goodbye.

All right, said Ethyl Acetate, our chemist, we’ve been playing a kind of Russian roulette with Pharma for some time, but the world hasn’t come to an end yet. They’ve got us a bit discombobulated, but let’s think rationally before we get hysterical. What exactly are we up against?

For starters, I said, they might be throwing threats against the wall to see if they stick. It could be one big bluff.

Maybe they’re just blowing smoke, but they’ve somehow linked the right people—namely us—to the transgressions we’ve committed against them, said my best friend, language expert Vern Acular.

It could still be a lucky guess on their part, I countered. It may feel like our mission is falling apart at the seams, but are we ready to pull the plug on it yet?

I don’t know where they supposedly got surveillance video of us, said Tara, our computer wizard, but at the Miami lab/house we raided, it was nighttime. We wore dark clothing and hoodies. Any surveillance photos there would have shown shadowy figures at best. Maybe they took satellite photos of us on the beach today. Whether they have clear images of us or not, from the sounds of it, the formulas may be aimed at controlling everyone. And soon.

One thing’s for sure, we’re not going to turn ourselves in, said Donny Brook, our security and martial arts guru. And we’re not going to go belly up or quietly disappear. Even if they’re bluffing, sooner or later they’ll be onto us. They’ve made it plain to me that our only chance of survival is to step up our efforts to rout out the hoodlums and dismantle their depraved conspiracy.

I agree. We can’t let ourselves be demoralized by intimidation, said our history and psychology maven, Bertha Vanation. The threat at the end of the message is consistent with their others—‘If you’re inclined to butt into the wrong places, your butts may wind up at the bottom of a steep incline’—so we know it’s them and they mean business. But if our actions are inconsequential, why would they bother to send us the email?

Because until they actually have us, I replied, we’re still a threat to them and there’s still hope for us.

We have allies to rely on, said Vern. I know they’re putting their lives on the line too, but as Ethyl said, without them we’d be sunk.

Yeah, they’re the rocks we’re standing on to keep our noses above the quicksand, said Donny.

So, exalted leader, said Tara, looking at me, a few weeks till we’re owned, as the email from Walter said, doesn’t leave us much time. What would be the quickest way for us to emerge from the quicksand?

I’m confident that the inroads we’ve achieved thus far will soon pay off. Let’s keep our fingers off the panic button. This is definitely a setback, but the perps are afraid of us or they wouldn’t have bothered to send us the email. Now is the time to put on our smiley faces, sublimate any doubts or fears, and rise up to complete our appointed duty. I’d be willing to bet the farm that it isn’t just us they intend to own. I’m not exactly sure how they plan to do it, but once the formulas they’re concocting are unleashed, the criminals will be focused on widespread control. If they were to put a formula into the water supply, for example, the entire nation might be affected. With perhaps only a few weeks left, if that, we need to ramp up the pressure. Time and tide wait for no man. It’s time more than ever to be cautiously aggressive, unrelenting, and unfaltering. Take no prisoners.

The next morning Donny and I headed for Oregon to look for Helen Gone, leaving the rest of the Jargonauts to follow up on leads and to make themselves scarce. They would also provide an orientation to bring our newest teammate, biochemistry instructor Nora Pinephrine, up to speed.

What do you want? demanded the voice behind the shotgun.

Please don’t shoot, I managed, raising my hands. My name is Ben Ine. A friend told me—

Solicitors aren’t welcome here. And keep your hands up.

Sorry, I was told that you were friends of Helen Gone.

Don’t know anybody by that name.

I know she’s had serious trouble with some really bad people and may be in even more danger now. We have reason to believe she needs help, and we need hers.

Who’s we?

We’re a small group of citizens attempting to avert a huge disaster brought on by the administration of powerful drugs that have been developed and tested on guinea pigs like Helen, I said as my arms were beginning to waver.

Why should we trust you?

Consider this: I’m sticking my neck out and taking an enormous risk coming here. If they’ve already gotten to you, our lives and yours are probably as good as over. The options are few and time is running out. Please. You have the ability to save a lot of lives.

The door closed, leaving me in the lurch. I was no match for a shotgun, but I didn’t want to give up so easily. Donny was covering my back, concealed behind some brush where he had a view of the door and the driveway.

After a long minute, the door slowly cracked open, and a voice said, Come in.

I was cautiously allowed in by a suspicious-looking couple who introduced themselves as Chris Cross and her husband, Moto. We stood, sizing each other up. They were dressed in soiled, shabby-looking clothes and flip-flops. Hip-hop music blared from a back room. My first impression of the living room where I stood was that the strange occupants were hoarders. The place, not exactly in tip-top shape, was in fact a topsy-turvy mishmash of clutter. The occupants both had that look of wariness regarding my true intent. Moto came across as a bit of a flimflam man not firing on all cylinders, while Chris seemed like the light was on but nobody was home—a bit wishy-washy and dense. I was afraid I’d made a big mistake and wondered if those two, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, would be of any help. Maybe they were even dangerous.

My fears were gradually put to rest as they apologized for all the hoo-ha and mess. As it turned out, there was a good reason for the disarray. They pointed to the backyard and explained that the house was sitting on the bank of the Zigzag River. For years the house had been kept from being washed away with floodwaters by chunks of concrete riprap. But the temporary stopgap could no longer hold, and the house, which was seriously undermined, would soon be swept away. They were in the process of hurriedly packing up to leave their home of twenty-five years. All their worldly possessions, including the knickknacks and gewgaws from the gift shop they owned, were being readied for the move to the town of Sandy.

We soon revised our assessments of one another. I had been playing dumb, and they had been skeptical of me, fearing that I was a Pharma perp who had come to recapture Helen. I presented my predicament and as much of the mission as was necessary. They listened, nodded, and asked questions. Once we were on the same page, in spite of their own problems, Moto and Chris were gracious and relieved to know that there were people who had Helen’s best interest at heart. They had put on a good act, but when they showed their true colors, I knew they were good-hearted people. So good that it occurred to me that they were truly a matched pair—soul mates with the perfect balance of yin and yang. We had crackers, tea, and Kit Kat bars on half a Ping-Pong table while I listened to their experiences with Helen. I could see why Helen had chosen them as friends. When I asked him about his name, Moto said it was easier to say than Montgomery Tobias.

Before I left, the Crosses gave me the address and phone number of the place Helen had last been heard from, which was in Walla Walla, Washington. I did a double take. A flood of memories reminded me of the day Rosie and I had gone there to watch a jai alai game. Chris and Moto said they’d call ahead to let the person there know I was coming and that I could be trusted. I offered to stay and help with their move, but they said their son would be over soon to assist them. The best I could give them was the hope that when the dust settled, Helen’s pursuers would be eliminated and she’d be free to live a normal life again. On my way out, they revealed one more secret: Helen was now using the name May Day.

2

A Stroke of Luck

I had time to think as Donny and I began our rental car journey east. Walla Walla, the city so nice, they named it twice. It’s also famous for sweet onions. I hoped that if we were lucky enough to peel back all the layers of the mystery of Helen Gone and the leaders at the heart of the Pharma organization, it wouldn’t be like an onion, with only more layers and no treasure at the center.

There isn’t a road map or a precise plan for a hush-hush operation like the one we were conducting, but you can’t just expect things to happen by hook or by crook. What if we were going about things too higgledy-piggledy? Did we need a better strategy? When it came right down to it, would we be able to go mano a mano, with the bigwigs at the top of the Pharma food chain? It gave me the heebie-jeebies to think about the downside of things, but I didn’t share those thoughts with Donny. Pissing and moaning wouldn’t help much anyway. A leader is supposed to let stuff go, like water off a duck’s back, and be on top of his game. Right?

Just then my phone rang. It was Mae West.

Hi, Cliff. Just checking to see if the speed dial works.

Oh, hi, Mae.

You sound kind of glum. What’s up?

Nothing, it’s just…nah.

Come on. There’s trouble afoot, isn’t there?

It’s nothing specific, but…

When I’d finished explaining about the Pharma email, she immediately said, I can be there in a jiff. Quick as a wink.

The last thing I wanted was for her to worry or