Midnight Movie: A Novel (10 page)

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

SUBJECT: recipe

DATE: April 3, 2009

steve—

i kind of wrote this myself. haven’t done a test run, but somehow i know it’ll work.

barry

* * * * *

2 boxes of Contact 12-hour Time Release Tablets

½
bottle of Heet

1 gallon of Muriatic Acid

1 quart of Coleman’s Fuel

1 pound of IAMS Cat Food

2 cans of frozen orange juice

½ gallon of Acetone

2 bottles of iodine tincture, 2%

8 oz. of dried “oregano”

½ pound of mulch

1 lb. of Scott’s Rose and Bloom food

2 bottles of hydrogen peroxide

½ can of Red Devil’s Lye

2 gallons of distilled water

1 gallon of tap water

1 gallon of “used” toilet water

2 oz. of rat blood

EXCERPTED FROM THE PAPERS OF DR. AARON GILLESPIE,
RISK MANAGEMENT ANALYST FOR THE DEPARTMENT
OF HOMELAND SECURITY

April 3, 2009—And then I died. At least I felt as if I did.

I cannot stop thinking about the plane trip back to O’Hare. The moment I arrived at the airport, the second I set foot in a terminal, a terminal that was not particularly crowded, I felt claustrophobic. That was not a surprise, as I have many phobias, claustro being likely the most enervating. Nonetheless, it has been years since the last attack, an attack that I still believe was brought on by a stressful discussion between MariAnne and me, but that is not germane to this particular event. That attack was in private, whereas this was very public. I had never had an attack in such a wide-open area, and I certainly would never have guessed that it could even happen like that. Think about it. Claustrophobia and giant airports, in theory, do not mix. Then again, what do I know? I am not a doctor. At least not that kind of doctor.

I did not know if I was assigned a window seat, an aisle seat, or a center seat, but none of them sounded appealing, so I bit the bullet, so to speak, and upgraded to first class. Nine hundred dollars. From Texas to Illinois. Astounding, simply astounding.

I had flown first class only once previously, and enjoyed it immensely, but that was for a Department event, thus they footed the bill. Since this one came from my pocket, I was far more critical. But considering my mood, and my flop sweat, and my shaky stomach, and my trembling knees, and my hollowed-out joints, I believe I would not have been happy or comfortable anywhere.

We’d been in the air for about an hour when the
compulsion started. But “compulsion” might not be the right word. “Craving,” maybe? “Unquenchable desire”? “Fixation”? Call it what you will, but it was impossible to ignore.

The skies had become turbulent, and the “Fasten Seat Belts” sign was crystal-clearly on, but I stood up nonetheless, took a step toward the cockpit, and knocked on the door. The attendant was right behind me and said, “Dr. Gillespie, please return to your seat.” I would normally find it a nice touch that the flight crew remembered my name and title, but at that moment, it was unnerving.

I told her that I needed to speak with the pilot immediately. She put a hand on my elbow, trying to placate me as if I were a child or a crazy person. (It could be argued that right at that moment, I was both.) I have no clue what I said next. All I recall is the stewardess guiding me back to my seat, after which I again strode to the cockpit and pounded on the door. A large male crew member dashed through the curtain that separated first class from coach, then shoved me down into my chair and said, “Sir, if you do not calm down, we are going to have a couple of air marshals meet you in Chicago, and nobody wants that.”

I do not know whether it was the threat of arrest or the threat of physical violence that brought me down to earth, but whatever it was, just like that, I snapped back into myself. That compulsion to meet the pilot was gone. The irony is, on the way out of the airplane, when the pilot offered his hand, my first instinct was to punch him in the jaw. Fortunately, I was able to sublimate it.

When I returned home, I poured myself a stiff drink, gave my schedule a once-over, and cursed. Two
days from now, it is off to New York, for a meeting with some midlevel brass. I didn’t even bother unpacking my suitcase. I asked myself the same question I always ask myself when prepping for these meetings: How, after years of research and mountains of intel, can these people not know how to infiltrate a cell?

EXCERPTED FROM THE DIARY OF DAVID CRANFORD,
BARTENDER, THE COVE, AUSTIN, TEXAS