More Deaths Than One by Pat Bertram Page B

pushed back her hair. “Okay, but if he
bothers anyone, you have to get rid of him.”
    “All right. When you get a chance, will you
bring two meatloaf specials? Also a cup of coffee for him?”
    She nodded. Writing the order, she hurried
off.
    The man in the foil helmet neared and shoved
something toward Bob’s face.
    Bob’s hand shot out reflexively and he
grabbed the object.
    The man jumped back. He looked at Bob for a
second before sliding his gaze away. “Sissy will get you. Sissy
gets everyone in the end.”
    “Probably,” Bob said, gesturing for the man
to sit.
    The man furiously shook his head no.
    “Why not?”
    The eyes darted back and forth. “They don’t
like me here.”
    “Tonight it’s okay.”
    The foil man hesitated, then lowered himself
onto the seat as if he were afraid it would blister him. He gripped
the edge of the table, trembling with the effort to hold himself in
check.
    Bob examined the object the man had given
him: a red nametag about the size of a credit card, with a nickel
alligator clip attached to it. At first glance, the card seemed
imprinted with only the name Herbert J. Townsend, a barcode, and a
photograph bearing a vague resemblance to the foil man, but when
Bob slanted the card, he saw the words Information Services,
Incorporated encircling a holographic eagle with the letters ISI
inscribed on it.
    The last time Bob had seen the man he had
asked for his name. Showing the nametag seemed more than Herbert’s
way of responding; he seemed to want Bob to know he had once had a
real life, been a real person.
    When Herbert’s hand inched its way across the
table, Bob gave him back the card. As Herbert carefully stowed it
in his shirt pocket, it suddenly dawned on Bob the man didn’t
harangue about a girl named Sissy, but about ISI, which he
pronounced Issy.
    Kerry paused by the booth long enough to
place a cup of coffee on the table and give Bob a look that clearly
said, “I hope you know what you’re doing,” then she moved on to the
next customer.
    “Are you Herbert Townsend?” Bob asked.
    The foil man gave a start as if it had been a
long time since he’d heard the sound of his own name. He hunched
over his coffee, shoulders curved forward. After a long moment, he
bowed his head in a tiny nod.
    “You worked for Information Services,
Incorp-orated?”
    Again that barely perceptible nod.
    Bob studied him for a minute. The photograph
had shown a man with slicked hair, a fleshy face, and a cocky
smile, while the man sitting across from him, noisily gulping from
the cup he held in both hands, was gaunt, almost skeletal, as
though his mission consumed him physically as well as mentally. He
dressed in threadbare jeans and a torn tee shirt, and despite the
nippy weather, he wore no jacket.
    Townsend looked down at himself then up at
Bob, a slight deprecating smile smoothing away his usual glower,
and Bob caught a glimpse of the man he must have once been.
    “What happened?” Bob asked softly.
    Townsend shrugged and drained the rest of his
coffee. Bob noticed he seemed less twitchy with the caffeine in
him.
    By the time Townsend had worked his way
through meatloaf, whipped potatoes with gravy, salad, a chocolate
sundae, and copious cups of coffee, he acted subdued. Bob
remembered coffee used to have a reverse effect on his father, too.
Edward had always guzzled several cups of coffee before going to
bed, claiming it helped him sleep.
    After Kerry had taken away the dishes and
refilled the coffee cup, Townsend gave Bob a sidelong glance and
whispered, “They put a microchip in my brain.”
    “Who did?” Bob asked.
    “Smeary people.”
    “Smeary people? You mean they looked
blurry?”
    A nod.
    “Were you drugged?”
    Townsend seemed to give this some thought.
“Must have been,” he said at last.
    “Why did they put the chip in your
brain?”
    “So they can control what I’m thinking.”
Townsend touched the aluminum foil helmet. “This protects me so I
don’t have to