afternoon, after which she and the Loathed One returned laden with strawberries. The sleek cameras with their optic wonder lenses and built-in transmitters required more time and care. He had stolen a PC-Pros’ van and used it to haul his own tools and equipment. No neighbor would remark on a van parked in the business owner’s driveway. He had wheeled in bold as a thieving politician, tool belt around his waist. Wonderful old house, filled with wasted space, nooks, crannies! A thousand and one sites from which to spy on his Scheherazade. Cunning Champ’s interior carpentry skills hid the tiny optical eyes as the most adept curbside three-card monte gamester concealed his jack of diamonds among queens.
Business finished, he had driven off and later smashed the computers and printer—Carson’s instructions. Hadn’t his master kept him busy since his arrival! He had ordered that PC-Pros’ phones be bugged and that a loaner computer be inoculated with a virus. No problem for Champ to enter the building in the wee hours using his Tumbler Tickler, another of Carson’s patentable throwaways. He had never found a tumbler lock it wouldn’t open. No problem, either, coding in the “Reconsider” message on Queen of My Heart’s PC or phoning it in to her computer on Sunday. And phoning her sweet self!—twice on that same Sunday afternoon—and saying nothing. Orders carried out to the letter, General Carson, sir!
Champ sat in a padded chair facing the control panel. The monitors for the two cameras glowed. The bugs in her old house and PC-Pros’ offices were all patched into the board, too. Each was identified with glowing LED letters. He could touch a tiny plate to bring up any of them to his earphones, to speaker. He could tape both sound and video. He had to admit the arrangements were seductively elaborate. One of Carson’s greatest talents was for too much of a good thing. He was a master of excess. “Nothing succeeds like a lot of excess.” Rewrite Wilde.
Champ chewed the inside of his cheeks, tasted the brassy drop of blood. He heaved meaty thighs, demonstrating further to himself the extent of his anxiety. Queen of My Heart would reconsider, wouldn’t she? How could she not, once she realized she was again the object of Carson’s particular attentions?
He had spent the better part of ten days here before the board, listening to her voice whenever possible. Previously he had heard it only on the ten Scheherazade tapes, savored its timbre tensed by arousal and pain. Now in more humdrum circumstances he gleaned from its lighter tone a suppler, happier personality. Today’s vulnerability and delicacy leavened yesterday’s wickedness that had sparked his arousal—and rage. Oh, no, he hadn’t forgotten the crimes she had committed against Carson or the ultimate goal of her total resurrection. It would come to pass, because parson willed it. Steps would be taken, each more daring than its predecessor. At what point the escalation would thieve its purpose he couldn’t guess. Yet for the first time Champ realized he would prefer not to have to pierce the flesh or break the bones of Queen of My Heart.
Carson had phoned him a new set of instructions only hours ago. He had outlined the nature of the devices with which Queen of My Heart would be guided a bit further toward her resurrection. Carson the conceptualizer, Champ the actualizer. Oh, grand team! Oh, worthy goal!
He flew toward the workbench and busied himself. He didn’t stop until he had to rush out to an electronic supply house. This week’s rental car was an ambiguous shade and model. The Blandmobile. Next week’s would be the same. Spare no expense. Carson sent a great deal of money. Who would not invest big time to perpetually share his life with Queen of My Heart and sweetest Melody? Champ’s frenzy of assembly lasted until midnight, his watch told him. It alone kept time. Resurrection Headquarters had been made windowless with plywood panels.
Business finished, he had driven off and later smashed the computers and printer—Carson’s instructions. Hadn’t his master kept him busy since his arrival! He had ordered that PC-Pros’ phones be bugged and that a loaner computer be inoculated with a virus. No problem for Champ to enter the building in the wee hours using his Tumbler Tickler, another of Carson’s patentable throwaways. He had never found a tumbler lock it wouldn’t open. No problem, either, coding in the “Reconsider” message on Queen of My Heart’s PC or phoning it in to her computer on Sunday. And phoning her sweet self!—twice on that same Sunday afternoon—and saying nothing. Orders carried out to the letter, General Carson, sir!
Champ sat in a padded chair facing the control panel. The monitors for the two cameras glowed. The bugs in her old house and PC-Pros’ offices were all patched into the board, too. Each was identified with glowing LED letters. He could touch a tiny plate to bring up any of them to his earphones, to speaker. He could tape both sound and video. He had to admit the arrangements were seductively elaborate. One of Carson’s greatest talents was for too much of a good thing. He was a master of excess. “Nothing succeeds like a lot of excess.” Rewrite Wilde.
Champ chewed the inside of his cheeks, tasted the brassy drop of blood. He heaved meaty thighs, demonstrating further to himself the extent of his anxiety. Queen of My Heart would reconsider, wouldn’t she? How could she not, once she realized she was again the object of Carson’s particular attentions?
He had spent the better part of ten days here before the board, listening to her voice whenever possible. Previously he had heard it only on the ten Scheherazade tapes, savored its timbre tensed by arousal and pain. Now in more humdrum circumstances he gleaned from its lighter tone a suppler, happier personality. Today’s vulnerability and delicacy leavened yesterday’s wickedness that had sparked his arousal—and rage. Oh, no, he hadn’t forgotten the crimes she had committed against Carson or the ultimate goal of her total resurrection. It would come to pass, because parson willed it. Steps would be taken, each more daring than its predecessor. At what point the escalation would thieve its purpose he couldn’t guess. Yet for the first time Champ realized he would prefer not to have to pierce the flesh or break the bones of Queen of My Heart.
Carson had phoned him a new set of instructions only hours ago. He had outlined the nature of the devices with which Queen of My Heart would be guided a bit further toward her resurrection. Carson the conceptualizer, Champ the actualizer. Oh, grand team! Oh, worthy goal!
He flew toward the workbench and busied himself. He didn’t stop until he had to rush out to an electronic supply house. This week’s rental car was an ambiguous shade and model. The Blandmobile. Next week’s would be the same. Spare no expense. Carson sent a great deal of money. Who would not invest big time to perpetually share his life with Queen of My Heart and sweetest Melody? Champ’s frenzy of assembly lasted until midnight, his watch told him. It alone kept time. Resurrection Headquarters had been made windowless with plywood panels.
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