Two from the Heart(30)

BAM! BAM! BAM!



“Who the f—??! Coming!”

I lurch across the living room. What the hell time is it? Six a.m.!? Christ.

I open the front door, hoping it’s a Jehovah’s Witness I can yell at. Instead…

“Mr. Crane? I’m Daisy DeForest. Tyler Bron’s associate. Mr. Bron said you’d be expecting me.”

Business suit. Hair pulled back. Thirty-five, maybe. Attractive, if you like the buttoned-up type. But way too intense for this hour of the morning. I rub my eyes, trying hard to focus. Truth is, after last night, I don’t know what to expect.

“Wow. Okay. I guess he wasn’t kidding.” I mumble my words, trying not to project too much. Right now, my breath would singe her eyebrows.

“No. He wasn’t. Can we get started? We’ve got a lot to get through.”

Quite the drill sergeant, this one.

“Now? Okay. Wait. So… I… what do I need…?”

“Nothing. Just you. Let’s go.”

I hold up my index finger in the universal sign for “wait a sec,” and go back in to find my shoes. I pop into the bathroom for a hit of Listerine and smear on some deodorant. When I head back through the living room, my new best friend is already in her car, engine revving. A jet-black Audi RS 7.

First observation: Daisy does not drive like a daisy. She peels out of my driveway spitting gravel, and before I can blink we’re on I-93, doing 95. She pulls up to within five inches of an eighteen-wheeler’s backside before drafting around it, punching it up to 110 as she passes.

To be honest, I’m only guessing at the speed, because I’m gripping the handhold for dear life and staring straight ahead. Conversation? Forget it. I’m just trying not to lose the mostly liquid contents of my stomach.

Somewhere near the New Hampshire border, we fly down an exit ramp and start winding down a back road like it’s Le Mans. I spot a speed limit sign, but it’s just a blur. Now we’re turning into a private roadway. The speed bumps slow her down slightly. We pass a rough granite obelisk with BRON AEROSPACE etched into it. Impressive. Classy. Expensive.

Up ahead through the trees, I see a building—all glass and steel, with a front that looks like the prow of a sailing ship. Some pricey architect’s wet dream. Daisy cruises into a turnaround right in front of the main entrance and turns off the engine. Guess she can park wherever she damn pleases.

The lobby goes up ten stories, with skylights that let you see clear into the clouds. Hanging there in the middle of all that open air is some kind of space contraption with antennas and probes and solar panels sticking out in every direction. Looks like a very expensive insect. Daisy sees me looking.

“The Bron-1. Our first. March 2002,” says Daisy. “Tick, tock. Let’s go.”

So much for the guided tour. We walk up a floating staircase to the mezzanine level. The whole place is buzzing with young techies. They’re all wearing jeans and T-shirts. Like me, only ten times hipper. In fact, I feel totally out of place. Daisy stands out from the crowd, too—and not just because of how she’s dressed. They’re kids. She’s a grown-up.

Now we’re in a conference room looking out over the atrium. Daisy pulls some papers from a binder and slides them across the table to me. For the next five minutes, I’m scrawling my name across legal documents. Confidentiality agreement. Indemnification policy. Liability waiver. You name it.

After every swipe of the pen, Daisy whacks a heavy-duty stamp onto the page. DAISY DEFOREST, PH.D. / ATTY. AT LAW.

Overachiever.

And now she’s starting in with the technical stuff, reeling off terms I don’t even remotely understand. Firewalls. Encryption codes. Authentication protocols. I’m pretending to pay attention. Truly I am. I’m looking right at her. I’m hearing her words. But she might as well be speaking Inuit.

Now she’s laying out the ground rules. One: We have no contact with Tyler Bron. Two: Whatever I create, Daisy and her team will make it come to life, no limitations. Three: She handles logistics, transport, communications, everything. All I do is write. My head is spinning. My guts are still churning. Then she slides a sleek new silver laptop across the table. Looks about as thin as a bar coaster.

“This is the only one of its kind in the world. I had our techs tweak it just for you. It’s got everything you need, and more.”

This is a problem. She’s talking to a guy who still has a flip phone. I’m embarrassed, but I try not to show it. I stare at the laptop and give Daisy the bad news.

“Sorry, I can’t write on that thing.”

“I don’t understand. You use a tablet?”

“I use a typewriter.”

This stops her for a second. She wrinkles her nose. I can see her brain whirring, trying to make sense of it.

“A typewriter. You mean like in All the President’s Men?”

“No. Not a manual typewriter. A Selectric. Very different.”

Daisy rubs her brow like she has a headache. And obviously, the headache is me. Not that she cares, but the feeling is definitely mutual. She takes a deep breath and gives me a tight little smile.

“Okay, then,” she says, “we’ll have to do a workaround for that.”

The drive back to my house is even faster—if that’s possible. I’m still a little wobbly when I climb out of the car. Daisy leans toward the passenger side window and calls after me: “Mr. Crane! Be ready tomorrow: 5:00 a.m. Packed. With your… machine. In the meantime, start writing.”