"Listen to this one, hon'," said a fit, balding man, eyes fixed on a computer monitor. "'Ever wish you could get rid of someone at the push of a button?'"
Edie chuckled and poked her head past the entrance to the kitchen. "I can think of a half-dozen people right now - and that's only students."
Silently, he read further. "...Former fed employee on the run, looking for revenge against those who wronged him... Supply very limited. First come, first served. Act now before I vanish from this earth. Absolutely free, no strings. Just leave name and address, which will be deleted once the order is filled. Click here to eliminate any doubt as to the effectiveness of this product."
He moved the mouse, and an article appeared: "Mysterious Rise in Coronaries Puzzles Officials."
"Turn it off now, hon'," said Edie. "They just pulled up. And don't you dare order anything else."
After dinner they retired to the living room. When the baby kicked the others rushed to touch Edie's belly. Although she was five years older than Jan, her sister, who had two teenagers, this was her first child.
"I can't wait," she said, beaming. "Five months seems an eternity. We put it off so long. I didn't think it was ever gonna happen."
She was pained by memory. She'd been pregnant in the first year of the marriage. They decided it was too soon. Only Pete knew. She'd never even told Jan, to whom she felt closer than anyone. She hoped the birth of her child would vanquish that pain forever.
They conversed idly, slouched, completely comfortable with each other. Pete had removed his glasses. The familiar faces were a blur.
"Find anything interesting online lately?" said Ted, Jan's husband.
His wife smirked. "Are we gonna hear about smut again?"
Pete mentioned the page he'd last visited.
"Oh, wow," said Ted, "think of all the good you could do."
"Politicians, lawyers," said Pete, "actors who tell you how to vote."
"Drug dealers, degenerates," said Jan, perking up. "It wouldn't take long to make the world a better place."
"Televangelists," said Ted, raising hackles.
"Telemarketers," said Pete, forging a unanimous consensus.
"If only it were real," said Jan wistfully, sighing.
"I'm not so sure," said Edie, suddenly troubled, wondering if the presence of the baby were influencing her. "I don't know if I'd be able to do it."
"But you wouldn't even have to look your target in the eye," said Ted, leaning forward. "Wouldn't there be a lot more killing if it weren't for that?"
"Isn't that why abortion's so popular?" added Jan.
Pete felt Edie flinch. He was annoyed, and surprised. She hadn't been blue about it in a while. He'd thought she'd finally put it behind her when the pregnancy test came back positive. 18 years had passed - she should've gotten over it long ago.
He spoke up to move the conversation away from her pain. "Who would you off?" He found his use of gangster vernacular curious.
Suddenly there was silence. They experienced a rare discomfort as a group. Other than internet pornography, this was as dangerous as their conversation had ever become.
"I know who I'd pick," said Jan somberly, looking away.
The others looked at her, waited. The light of realization came to Edie's face.
"Do they still picket his house?"
Jan's eyes glazed. Ted slung an arm around her. Edie caressed her pregnancy.
"How do they let a savage like that out of prison?" said Pete angrily.
The conversation died. Soon Jan and Ted left. Pete returned to the computer. He found the site closed.
Vanished, he said to himself, amused.
Two days later, upon arriving home, he sensed coldness as he kissed his wife's cheek.
"Did you order something?" she said, nodding at the counter, where a small package lay. "I told you not to. We're gonna have only one income soon. We can't be frivolous any more."
"I didn't," he said, brow furrowing. "Did I?"
"What d'you suppose it is, then?"
"A gift from the Unabomber?"
"That's not funny."
He was surprised by her tension. "Why would anybody wanna kill us? We're so ordinary. Did you fail anybody last year?"
"We're not allowed to. It's not good for their self esteem."
He stared at her. "Wanna throw it out?"
"Suppose somebody finds it and opens it up?"
She put the stop in the sink and turned on the taps.
"Oh, come on," said Pete. "You're being ridiculous."
"Isn't this what they do in the movies? Better safe than sorry."
"You didn't order new checks, did you?"
"There'd be a return address on it."
They dined quietly, the atmosphere charged.
"You suppose it's safe to open now?" said Ted ironically.
He pulled the package from the water and let it drain. As he placed it on the counter and began to peel away the paper, Edie left the room. He was unable to laugh.
There was a jewelry box within. He opened it. Inside, sealed in plastic, was a device half the size of a domino. He chuckled. He'd forgotten about it. He pressed the little red button at the center. The beep was barely audible. Edie poked her head past the entrance of the kitchen.
"Who do you wanna kill first?" said Pete.
She chuckled, then slapped at his arm. "You lied to me. How much did you pay for that piece of junk?"
"It was free."
"I bet."
"I swear."
He pointed it at her and beeped.
"Stop," said Edie, smiling nervously, backing away.
He did it again. "Why isn't it working?" he cried in mock frustration.
Soon he was chasing her around the house. They ended up on the sofa, making love.
That night he tossed and turned and finally left the bed. In the morning Edie found him asleep in the easy chair, device in hand. He awoke with a start as she caressed his shoulder. He flushed when he'd gathered his senses.
"Well, did it work?" she said ironically as he entered the kitchen.
"No, your mom's still alive."
"That's not funny. Throw that thing away."
As he was driving her to work, they paused at a red light. At a nearby corner, beside a pay phone, stood a young man who seized the receiver at its first ring. Pete bristled. How he hated the fact that his wife worked in such an area. He consoled himself with the thought that she'd soon be retired, safe at home with the baby.
"Look at him," Edie sneered. "Busted a million times and right back on the street laughing at us all."
The next morning, after dropping her off, Pete entered a coffee shop. He went directly to the pay phone, turned his back to the man at the counter, and held the device to the receiver. Through the glass front, across the way, he saw the young man leaning against the booth. He dialed.
"Yo?"
He beeped. Instantly the young man's body convulsed. He clutched at his chest and fell to the ground. His lackeys rushed to his aid, gazing about as if they suspected gunshots.
Pete was frozen in place, breath bated. He waited a moment, then hung up and left without looking back, legs like cement. He tried to be casual but found himself speeding away, heart pounding. He was passed by a sports car barrelling from the other direction. It screeched to a halt near the fallen dealer.
He was late to work. Seated at his desk, staring blankly, he wondered if he'd killed someone whose life eventually would have been redeemed. Or had he prevented the dissemination of misery and, therefore, saved lives? He would have felt better about it were it not certain that the dealer would be replaced immediately.
Work piled up before him. He was unable to concentrate on anything but the device. At lunch time he strolled aimlessly, head down, hands in his pockets. He was brushed by an unkempt man mumbling incoherently, who reminded him of Edie's Uncle Charley, who was afflicted with Alzheimer's and whose constant raving was torturing his family.
He stepped into a phone booth. Aunt Margaret answered. He hung up and tried again at the next corner, and the next. The fourth call proved decisive.
At the wake Aunt Margaret, perplexed, said: "It was as if God was calling to take him." Pete was relieved that Edie suspected nothing. The family agreed the death was "for the best," which corroborated Pete's belief that he'd done right. Still, he was not entirely without guilt, as he'd always liked Uncle Charley.
The device remained locked in his office desk, untouched for days. He told no one, not even, especially not Edie. She was an angel, as far as he was concerned. He did not want to be responsible for her, or anyone's corruption. He became withdrawn, troubled by the awesome responsibility upon which he'd stumbled. He considered tossing the device into the bay or mailing it to the Pentagon. It required a user of conviction, not a softie like himself. He shuddered at the thought of becoming mad with power and self importance. Would he have the strength and decency to use the thing as a force for good, or would he succumb and use it for his own advancement?
"Pete?" said Edie across the dinner table. "Honey?"
He snapped alert, a glaze in his eyes.
"What's wrong, babe? You've been so quiet and serious lately. Believe it or not, I miss your gallows humor."
He shrugged. "I'm just a little overwhelmed by the thought of becoming a first-time dad at forty-three."
"Awwww."
She sat in his lap and kissed his cheek. He held her tightly. Even five months pregnant she was light as a feather. He was relieved she'd bought the lie, then realized it'd been engendered by the device. He did not want it to be the cause of any negativism whatsoever. He feared one slip would begin a downward momentum he would be powerless to stop.
The next morning he approached a woman who'd made a home of a cardboard box. He pulled five dollars from his wallet and leaned toward her. She snatched the bill. Pete patted her on the shoulder and raised a hand toward her left ear. He beeped, and the woman, unharmed, looked at him askance. Although he was not surprised, he could not fathom why the device was lethal only over the phone. Then again, he did not understand how so much information could be stored in tiny computer chips. That's why they're geniuses and you're an average Joe, he told himself.
He was tempted to take a hammer to the device. What good was it, really? Anyone in power who deserved to die would not answer the phone directly. He would not be able to call terrorists. His targets would remain small-timers, like the dealer.
He stopped dead in his tracks, realizing he was disappointed at not having even more power. Scary, he thought, breathing fast.
He was late. As he entered the office, he heard "the old man" railing. Retire already, he thought, annoyed; day hasn't even started yet, for cricesake.
"And you," the old man called as Pete was passing; "get in here."
Pete bristled as he was humiliated in language that might have made a dominatrix blush. His face was flushing hotly as he plopped at his desk. His heart was pounding as he reached for the phone and raised the device to the receiver. Soon the secretary was screaming.
Within a week the atmosphere had changed markedly. Morale was at an all-time high, although no one was so insensitive as to state why. Several employees moved up a rung. Pete was bypassed - again. He didn't care. The office, if not the world, had become a better place. He felt no guilt whatsoever. How many times had the old man been warned: "You're gonna give yourself a heart attack"? The sons had assumed the reins without missing a beat. There was a rumor of across the board raises.
As he negotiated the turn on Jan's street, he noticed a makeshift sign that had been driven into the lawn of the old house at the corner: "Beware of the Pedophile." Edie tensed and caressed her pregnancy.
It was a week before Pete, calling in favors, was able to secure the unlisted number. To his chagrin, the mother always answered. One morning, after dropping Edie off, he pulled into the lot of a small shopping center and kept his eyes trained on the old house, a distance of 150 yards. He saw Jan and Ted pass in their cars. Soon an old woman was walking away from the front door. Pete approached the pay phone at the side of the road. There were several rings. He was certain the creep wouldn't answer. Why risk humiliation, threat?
To his surprise, an answering machine activated.
"Yes," he said coolly. "Mrs. Smith? This's Bob Taylor at the medicare office. Please pick up if you're there. I have something important to discuss. Don't hurry, take your time. I'll wait."
He held the device ready.
"Hello."
Soon there was an agonized cry. Pete hurried away, unable to conceal a smile. He would even be on time at the office. He didn't care whether the man had been cured. Several families had suffered gravely, and there was no telling how many were suffering in silence, ashamed - and there was always the possibility of reversion to degeneracy. The victims were entitled to closure, even the old woman was. It had to be a terrible burden to have such a son, no matter how much she might love him.
He was amazed at his ease. He'd never imagined he would have had the will to commit such an act. He was completely without qualm. In fact, he was his congenial self again. The press had not established a link in the rash of coronaries. He'd used a different phone each time, donned gloves, making it that much harder to pinpoint him. His only fear was that the device was linked to some sort of data base. He decided to cool it a while. He was not yet ready to give it up entirely, however. Just don't press your luck, he told himself. Although he didn't feel as if he had become intoxicated, he was wary. At the last wedding reception he attended, after a few drinks, he felt sober as could be - and nearly drove off the road. Edie had to take the wheel.
He was mildly tempted to use the device on a persistent telemarketer. Instead, he purchased an answering machine. When the firm was beaten to a big account by a sleazy rival, he briefly considered making a call. It would have been wrong, he knew. Like Clark Kent, he wanted to use his gift only for good. And thus far he'd done so. He was surprised. He'd never given much thought to whether he was a good person. In fact, this was the first time he'd ever been really tested. He was far from being corrupted, he was sure. Still, in the hands of the CIA the device would do so much more good. One call and Saddam and a host of mass murderers might disappear from the face of the earth well before other perpetrators of evil realized their peril. Certainly that was more important than any use he might find for the thing. Then again, it wasn't likely that he was in possession of the only working model.
Seated in the office one afternoon, he was startled by the urgency of a colleague's entrance. A gunman had taken hostages in the bank across the street. Pete's gut contracted. He'd been doing business there for 15 years. The firm's account was there. He knew many of the employees by first name.
He locked the door and picked up the phone. He stood at the window, watching the police deploy, set up barricades. He was calm, collected.
He recognized the manager's voice. "This's Agent Taylor, FBI. Let me talk to him."
In a moment the crisis was past. On his way home, he purchased the afternoon paper. Authorities were baffled. He smiled broadly. He wondered if he should retire the device on this high note. Why tempt fate? he thought.
One night, whistling a happy tune, he found pasta foaming, overcooking on the stove. "Edie," he called, concerned, hurrying toward the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her on the couch. He made the detour. "Are you o....?" He froze. Her head was turned stiffly to the side, left arm lifeless at her side. Her right hand clutched the receiver to her pregnancy. He cried out and fell to his knees, bawling. Soon something was pressed to his temple. He coiled, quieted.
"Don't move," said a male voice softly.
Pete slumped into stillness.
"Anybody else know about it?"
"Not even she did," he choked. "You didn't have to kill her."
"How would I know that? How would I know she was...?" He paused. "It's your fault. If you wanted to be a soldier you should've joined up. You would've made a good one."
Pete hung his head.
"Where is it?"
"The desk in my office."
Suddenly there was silence.
"Do it," said Pete bitterly. "What do I have to live for now?"
"Move closer to her."
He knew why. He navigated on his knees and bent to kiss her thigh. "I love you," he whispered, then raised his head and straightened his back.
He waited. In the ensuing, profound stillness, he sensed hesitancy. "Want me to pick up the phone so you can do it from another room?" he said contemptuously.
"These things have to be in the hands of professionals. You might've fouled up really bad down the line."
"Spare me the lecture. I want your conscience to haunt you. You killed an angel."
There was another pregnant pause.
"To heaven now with your wife and kid."
He was found with a revolver in his right hand, his left clutching Edie's ankle.
Miles away, a man of conviction, alone in his apartment, was curled up in bed with a bottle of booze. There were empties on his night table.
I'm 51. I've had 21 stories published in small press print zines, half of which can now be found at various sites on the web. Half are speculative, half literary. I pay my bills working data entry in the gold pit in Manhattan.
E-mail: chingame@flash.net
URL: http://www.suite101.com/myhome.cfm/52150
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