They Ate the Waitress Read online

  Donald Canard’s place was a few blocks from the Pearson Airport. The smallish ranch house was a textbook example of the “less is more, and by ‘more’ I mean ‘more expensive’” school of architecture. Donald had a black and yellow Cessna sitting in his front yard. There were deep ruts in the grass from where the tiny plane had taxied back and forth. While there were no rules against using a residential road as a runway, it was still frowned upon by security patrols, insurance companies, and the kids playing street hockey.

  The bell played the first few notes of Wild Blue Yonder. The door opened to reveal a slightly chubby man in a wool cardigan. “Hello? What is it?”

  “Mr. Canard?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you at the dinner hour, but it’s important. I’m Glen Ridwick. I do volunteer work for Scunner Consulting. I was wondering if I could talk with you for a moment.”

  “Certainly. Come inside.” Donald led Nick to his sunken family room. A recliner and couch lined one wall, and a glass computer desk stood against the other. The computer was running a holographic screen saver, tiny sparrows flying a few inches in front of the monitor. Nick took off his coat and sat on the couch.

  “Would you like anything to drink?” Donald asked. “I have coffee, ice tea, and Cloud Nine.” Cloud Nine was an energy drink, lightly fruit flavored and filled with caffeine, vitamins, and antidepressants.

  “Coffee would be great.”

  “Alright. …Oh, actually, I finished the last pot. I’ll put on a new one.”

  As soon as Donald walked out the door, Nick stepped across the room to the computer. Shooing away the holographic birds, he searched the hard drive for anything incriminating. Other than a few games, everything was locked. “Don’t have time to try to guess his password. I’ll have to try something else.” He couldn’t open any of the folders, but he could see their names. One file in particular was very interesting: Quick-E Backup Pro. The software made continuous backup copies of a user’s files. If their hard drive malfunctioned or they dropped their laptop in the hot tub, users could simply visit the Quick-E website to download copies of all their files.

  He switched the screen saver back on and returned to his seat. Moments later, Donald returned, carrying two steaming mugs on a tray. He set the tray on an end table and took a seat in the recliner. “What did you needed to discuss, Mr. Ridwick?”

  Nick suddenly realized he hadn’t planned a cover story. “So… I assume you know Reid Mason?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s my employer. I fly Mr. Mason to natural disasters, funerals, and other media events.”

  “What’s his connection with that pop singer Gabrielle?”

  Donald grabbed his mug from the tray and blew away the steam. “She read a few of Reid’s newsfeed articles and, apparently, her philosophical views were similar, so she decided to give his group some funding. Of course, this is all quite hush-hush. She doesn’t want Scunner Consulting’s more controversial actions to bring her bad publicity. Pop stars aren’t supposed to have opinions. They’re just supposed to sing, look pretty, and ‘accidentally’ expose their genitals to photographers. …Why do you ask?”

  “I, ah… I was just angling for tickets to her show. I guess she doesn’t give away concert tickets to the volunteers, if she wants her relationship with Scunner Consulting to remain a secret. Thank you for your time, and the coffee.”

  ◊

  Back at home, Nick put a few coins in his mouth, trying not to think about where they might have been. He filled a large plastic bag with ice and, holding it against his jaw, put in a transmission to TouchItsSoft, the makers of Quick-E Backup Pro.

  A woman with dangly, plastic earrings appeared over his transmitter. “Hello, this is TouchItsSoft,” she said. “How may I help you?” Her voice had the practiced quality of a foreigner who had studied to sound American.

  “Yef,” Nick mumbled, “I’m Donald Canard.” TouchItsSoft had millions of customers, so there was virtually no chance of anyone knowing what Donald looked like. “I fink I gave fomeone my paffword by miftake.”

  “I’m sorry?” the woman said. “I’m having trouble understanding you.”

  “I juft had jaw furgery,” Nick muttered. “I waf in a bar fight wif Nick Wergild, and he broke my jaw. He’f one raging, macho hombre.”

  “And you accidentally gave him your password?” the woman asked, bewildered.

  “Juft change my paffword, pleaf.”

  “No problem, we can change your password for you. Just tell me your original password, please.”

  “My original paffword? Its mmmgghh.”

  “What was that?” the woman asked, straining to sound patient.

  “My paffword is mmmgghhh.”

  “Why don’t I just look that up for you, sir?” the woman suggested, obviously tired of the conversation. The clacking of fingers tapping a keyboard. “Alright, your new password is ‘PenguinsAreDelicious.’ If you need anything else, feel free to call. After your jaw heals. Goodbye.”

  He switched on his computer and logged on to TouchItsSoft’s website. Moments later, he had copies of every file on Donald’s computer. There were flight simulator games, newsfeed articles on aircraft, airport-themed pornography, and other related material. Finally, came across a hidden folder. Inside were files labeled “Hand to Mouth legal records,” “Renée’s credit reports,” “processing human flesh,” and more. Records from the restaurant, and information only Renée would have known. He copied all the files to his computer, as well as a folder of photos.

  “So, Donald paid Gordon for information about the restaurant. Gordon told him about Renée and Clayton. Donald paid Clayton for Renée’s extra keys, broke into Renée’s apartment to look for dirt on the restaurant… She caught him snooping, so he killed her.” He laughed, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “I’ve got you, you son of a bitch! I just need a little more proof before I turn you in.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nick’s clock radio woke him early the next day with a song called “Defenestration Fascination” by Sylvester P. Nettling. He was famous for his bluegrass interpretations of old disco songs. They were simple arrangements, just a ukulele, an ocarina, and Sylvester’s singing, which sounded like a drug-addled chipmunk with anger issues. He was big in Japan. Nick bolted upright and tossed the radio out the window. After a quick shower, he headed for Renée’s apartment.

  Checking his rearview mirror, he changed lanes and pulled off the highway exit. A black van pulled off at the same time, just a few car lengths behind him. “It must be a security van,” he thought. “It has a MotoStoppa dish on the front.” The Schlock Products™ MotoStoppa3000 could short-circuit a car’s computer with a blast of microwave energy. This disabled the engine, but left the driver able to control the vehicle enough to bring it to a safe stop. It was a useful device if you needed to end a high-speed chase, clear your way through rush hour traffic, or catch up with the ice cream man.

  Smoke poured from his air vents. All the warning lights lit up at once, then immediately burned out. Finally, the engine died. He pulled the car to the side of the road, gliding slowly to a stop.

  He grabbed his laser stunner and jumped out of the car. “You’re not with the security patrol,” he called to the van. “They would have ordered me to pull over first. Or shot out my tires. Who are you guys? Is this about my student loans? Let me assure you, there’s no need to break my legs. I jog every morning, so my knees could go out as early as next Thursday.”

  The van’s doors opened and two men stepped into the street. The first was a bloated chimp with a ponytail and a t-shirt featuring characters from a thirty-year-old comic book. The second was a tall, sallow worm who wore an orange and black jumpsuit. It was a replica of the uniform worn by the cast of the hit television show Lesbian Vampire Space Pirates. Nick aimed his laser stunner at the fat one and fired. Nothing.

  The thin man giggled, pointing to the microwave dish bolted to the van. “It fries electronics, id
iot.”

  The fat one reached under his shirt, momentarily exposing his globulous, furry belly. He pulled a shockingly large revolver from his waistband, aiming it at Nick’s head. “However, this is fully operational. Stanley, shove the manhunter in the back of the van.”

  “Hold on,” Nick said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather fight hand-to-hand?”

  The fat man cocked his gun. “What are we, Amish?”

  “Oh, I see. You’re afraid! I don’t blame you. I’m a black belt in Tong Sui, Bak Choi, and Dim Sum.”

  “Those are Chinese foods.”

  “What’s your point?”

  The men decided it was probably best to just ignore him. The skinny one, apparently Stanley, pulled Nick’s hands behind his back and snapped handcuffs on his wrists. He shoved Nick in the back of the van. They made a quick u-turn and sped down the highway, driving for what felt like hours.

  The stench of fried circuit board drifted from Nick’s jacket pocket. His transmitter. With a groan, he realized that he had lost all of the data in its memory: clients’ contact information, notes on his cases, pornography, all gone.

  He struggled and stretched until he could reach the handcuff key in his pocket. It didn’t fit. Catching a glimpse of the handcuffs, he saw that they were engraved with the logo of a Japanese security company. “Well, no wonder that didn’t work. The hole’s the wrong shape. And these cuffs probably require a key with an immobilizer chip, like a ‘hotwire-proof’ car or a little girl’s diary.”

  At last, the van squealed to a stop. The fat one grabbed Nick by the arm and yanked him out of the van. They were standing in the parking lot of a large, dilapidated building. Other than the van, the lot was empty. “An abandoned warehouse?” Nick laughed. “What happens now? You give me a pair of cement shoes and make me sleep with the fishes?”

  “Quiet, jackass,” the fat one growled.

  Stanley grabbed his companion’s shoulder. “It’s my turn with the gun, Eric.”

  “I bought it!” he protested.

  “With our money,” said Stanley.

  “Fine, whatever. I don’t care.” Eric handed Stanley the gun. Stanley prodded Nick in the back with his weapon, pushing him up a short flight of stairs and through a small door. The door opened to an immense room, apparently the warehouse’s loading dock.

  The floor was cracked cement covered in oily stains and ancient chewing gum. In one corner of the room sat an immense, complicated-looking array of computers, a collection of printers, a Tesla coil, and several large boxes that didn’t appear to do anything but flash their lights and beep. On the far side of the warehouse lurked an immense, wooden contraption, apparently some sort of catapult. It had a large, canvas sling on one end and a gigantic, iron counterweight on the other. It looked large enough to throw a car.

  Eric wrapped a length of rope around Nick’s chest, tying him roughly to an old office chair with broken wheels. Nick’s legs were free, but the chair wobbled so much that he couldn’t move without feeling like he was about to tip over. Normally he enjoyed the feeling. In fact, he spent many of his weekends taking copious amounts of pills in an attempt to create it. However, in this situation, it was rather disconcerting.

  Eric sat down at one of the computers, typing furiously. Only Stanley appeared concerned with their prisoner. Stanley scratched his forehead with the barrel of the gun, smiling darkly. “So, Mr. Wergild, I suppose you’re wondering why we’ve brought you here.”

  “No, not really.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not interested? Not even a little bit?”

  “I guess I’m not the curious type,” Nick explained, shrugging.

  “Well, I feel like I have to tell you why you’re here. I’d hate to kill you without you even knowing why.”

  Nick was suddenly nervous. “So it’s to be torture, then? Fine! Torture me all you want!”

  “I was just going to shoot you,” Stanley explained, confused. “Torture would just be cruel. And I really can’t handle screaming. Reminds me of how my parents always used to fight…”

  “But I have secrets!” Nick insisted. “Did you know they’re making a Lesbian Vampire Space Pirates movie? I read the script! If you let me go, I might tell you how it ends!”

  “I wouldn’t want to know that!” Stanley gasped, clutching his chest. “I’ve been waiting three years for that movie! It would completely spoil the experience!”

  “Oh, right. What about… Wait, I’ve got something.” He paused, trying to remember the name of the star. “Jade Raven! I know her home address!”

  “You really know where she lives?” Stanley asked eagerly.

  “I sure do,” Nick said. “Before she got into acting, she was my sister’s roommate’s cousin’s accountant’s former hairdresser. But I’ll never tell.”

  Stanley placed the gun on top of the scanner. He rummaged through the pile of electronics, eventually coming up with an old car battery and some jumper cables. “Fine,” he said, “I guess I’ll torture you after all.”

  “Or you could bribe me,” Nick said, wishing he had thought through his plan a little more. “I know! Let me go, and I’ll transmit you her address later. How does that sound?”

  Stanley connected the cables and touched the ends, spraying sparks. The sound drew Eric’s attention. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? We’re just supposed to invite him to the warehouse, politely explain why we kidnapped him, and then shoot him in the face. That’s what our employer wants.”

  “Fine!” Stanley sighed, dropping the cables. Cocking the gun, he aimed it squarely at Nick’s perspiring forehead.

  Suddenly, Nick remembered the bullets he had taken from Gabrielle’s security guard. They were still in his jacket pocket. He didn’t have a pistol, but he might still be able to use them to escape. He just had to wait for the right time. He glanced over at the catapult on the other side of the room. “You’re just going to use a gun? Why not just throw more furniture at me?”

  “It was Eric’s idea,” Stanley said, gesturing at the medieval machine. “We were supposed to kill you, so Eric said, ‘Hey, why don’t we use my trebuchet?’ I kept telling him that it only works against stationary objects, like fucking castles, but he didn’t listen. Besides, when you only have to murder one person, using a catapult is overkill. It’s like brushing your teeth with a belt sander. Fortunately, after a few spectacular failures, he let me try technology from this century.”

  “And that’s when you tried to drown me in chocolate and sucked all the air out of my hospital room?”

  “Are you going to bring up all our failures? That’s just rude! We captured you and dragged you to our warehouse, but did we tease you about it? No!” He took a deep breath and, a little more relaxed, continued. “Now, what were we talking about?”

  “You were about to say why we’re going to murder him,” Eric offered helpfully.

  “Right, right. We work for Quentin Fairbanks. He saw our commercial and knew immediately that we were the right guys for the job.”

  “Hitmen have commercials?”

  “Actually, we’re writers,” Stanley explained. “Fairbanks saw the commercial for our new novel, Supernatural Undead Crazy Killers. He offered us ten million to murder you. At first, we didn’t want to do it. Us, hitmen? But then Fairbanks pointed out that the best writers draw from their own experiences, so we thought–”

  “Did he contact you from the nut house?” Nick interrupted. “He might have a hard time signing your paycheck with his arms in a straitjacket.”

  “What the hell are you babbling about?” Stanley asked. “He sent us a video mail. He said that you left his daughter at the altar and, for that, you had to die.” He raised his gun once more.

  “Wait!” Nick said, struggling against the rope. “I’m trying to tell you something! He’s in the McMurphy Insane Asylum in Seattle! Trans the place if you don’t believe me. With him locked up, how are you going to prove you killed
me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hitmen have to prove they’ve killed their targets before they get paid. How are you going to do that? Fairbanks is trapped in an asylum. You can’t exactly bring a corpse in there, not even during visiting hours.”

  “He’s right,” Eric said. “I forgot. We’re supposed to catch the whole thing on video. We can’t use our transmitters because the video would have our account data attached… Do we have an old-fashioned camera in this pile of junk?”

  “No, we don’t,” Stanley grumbled. “I’d better go to the antique store and get one.”

  “I’ll stay here, keep an eye on him.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Nick said. “I won’t go anywhere. Promise!”

  Stanley handed Eric the gun and, laughing, walked out the door. Eric turned his chair to face his captive, placing the gun on the armrest. “Don’t try anything. I’m perfectly willing to shoot you before Stanley returns. He wants to film your death, but video of your corpse will get the message across just as well.”

  For a moment, silence.

  “While we’re waiting for the camera,” Nick said finally, “would you like to see a magic trick?”

  “I’m not untying you.”

  “You don’t have to. Just watch closely.” He furrowed his brow, concentrating. “I simply say the magic words klaatu barada nikto, and all the bullets in your revolver disappear!”

  Eric aimed the gun at his prisoner’s crotch. “So I can pull the trigger, then?”

  “Certainly.” Nick tugged the hem of his leather jacket. The bullets in his pocket clacked noisily. “But first, you’ll need your ammunition back.”

  Eric laughed. “Alright, I’ll play along. Let’s see what’s in your coat.” He reached in Nick’s jacket and pulled out the bullets. “What the hell..?”

  “I can see you’re skeptical,” Nick said. “But those are really your bullets. Go ahead, check your gun!” Eric opened the cylinder and peered inside. Nick jumped to his feet, the chair still tied to his back. He ran across the loading dock, headed for the door.