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CHAPTER 5

Tim walked along JFK Street, mesmerized by the small aircraft swooping overhead, moving closer to the heart of the Square. The drones had a silver sphere at their center, the size of a basketball. Four rods were attached at the bottom of the sphere, suggesting thin steel legs. His immediate impression: metallic bugs. Enormous mutant mosquitoes.

In part, the scene disturbed him because he'd never seen anything like it. Worse, he didn't understand it. Not yet. He kept his eyes up and followed the drones. Even as he walked, he could feel himself being swept forward, pulled along in a dark tide.

Two teenage girls wearing hoodies, tights and boots moved past him, possibly heading to Sherwood Forest to rejoin Robin Hood. Blue Hoodie said to her friend, "Lucas texted me. Said hurry, they got one on the run."

Gray Hoodie said, "Twice this week it's been like flash mobs. Epic shit."

"Last time I got close enough to get a picture," Blue Hoodie said. "I post the capture on my Facebook wall. Jumper's all scared. You can see where he shit his pants. I got over 900 Likes."

The two girls ran into the street and waved at a drone directly overhead. They held up their cells for selfies, then vanished into the crowd.

Tim thought
flash mob?
He continued up the street, his good eye monitoring all aerial movement above buildings, telephone poles and trees. His left eye was clouded, blurring the world. Yes, he thought bitterly, this world was a blur. Never had he felt so lost.

Lost? He had moved beyond the Land of the Lost hours ago. An eternity ago. He was light years away from being lost. This was the Land of No Map, No Compass, No Flashlight, No Clue. No hope? Not yet. But things were sliding in that direction. Even with a bad eye, he could clearly see that. Then he did the easiest thing in the world. The all-time, absolute easiest.

He followed the crowd. And the drones.

He was caught within a burgeoning flow of pedestrians, bumper-to-bumper cars, all heading in the same direction as if responding to a dog whistle, a disaster siren that he alone couldn't hear. He was out of the loop, not plugged into social media alerts. Maybe this really was a massive flash mob, the intersection of social media and a lynch mob. He pictured Facebook fans descending on jumpers, howling for blood, cell phones poised to record the bloodbath. Rabble with Twitter accounts, tweeting the action:

@jumperthumper…Bumper-to-bumper jumper thumpers lynch jumper with jumper cable

Tim saw a stream of human lava oozing along the pavement. They zeroed in on some unseen spot in the Square. The pace quickened, forcing him to jog, faster. The surrounding scene, as he bumped shoulders and ran within a crowd, reminded him of a tourist event—
the Running of the Bulls
in Pamplona, Spain. This could be:
the Running of the Jumpers
in an alternate universe.

In this version, you run below a group of drones that have been let loose above the city streets. Until you get gored.

About a dozen silver spheres overhead seemed to have hit a sweet spot directly ahead. They stopped midair, swirling in a circle. Silver vultures.

Tim's rake bounced on his shoulder, his t-shirt flapped beneath his hat. The cool autumnal breeze did not reduce the sweat trickling down his neck. The landscaper from another planet could feel his heart pump in triple-time.

A black thought:
If I have a severe heart attack in a parallel world, am I still covered by Blue Cross Blue Shield?

With a rising sense of horror, he ran shoulder-to-shoulder within a sea of people. After two short blocks up the street, everything exploded.

Wailing police sirens pierced the air from somewhere nearby.

Weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…

Up ahead in the middle of the street, silver vultures circled over a man trapped between cars and a crowd. Nowhere to run. No exit. Tim heard shrill voices:

"It's him! A jumper!" It sounded like
sim, jumper
.

"Get the sunnabitch he's—"

"Mad Doctor Without Borders!"

The drones circled their prey from above. The crowd closed in, pointing their cell phones.

Louder now:
Weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…

Tim didn't fully understand the dark spectacle, but knew enough—knew, as he watched in terror, that this was a glimpse of what awaited him. A preview of his near future. As the movie industry would say, a trailer of Coming Attractions. Then another layer revealed itself. At this proximity, he now saw that each spherical drone had a dark circular region on its bottom. Inscribed on the blue area, in black letters, was a peculiar compound: EyeSoar. Tim immediately recalled hearing the word last night at O'Henry's. Patrons in the bar had shouted
EyeSoar
and
D R One
.

Tim stood on the sidewalk, his three-square feet of concrete real estate, and focused on a single drone, the largest one. It descended, sinking below a slant of yellow sunlight over a rooftop nearby, the blue spot dilating above its shadow on the street.

EyeSoa
r, Tim thought.
Eye.

The spot reminded him of a pupil. An iris closes a pupil in bright light, opens it in dim light. He stared at the blue spot, while a blue gas bubble floated inside his left eye.

Weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…

Black-and-white police cruisers and a police wagon arrived. Car doors opened.

Weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…weeeooo…

The crowd formed a noose around the police and the targeted jumper, blocking out Tim's view. All he saw was a thick daisy chain of bodies. The jumper's capture, the very moment, became a dynamite detonator—a plunger pushed down—setting off an explosion of voices.

On the bottom of the drone, a hatch opened. Three steel tentacles shot out, similar to a Taser. Someone in the crowd shouted, "Jumper cables!" When Tim heard those two words he swayed on his feet. He watched as the captive was lifted above the crowd, airborne, encircled by cables. A high-tech lasso. Tim thought of a roped calf at a rodeo, and wondered if things could possibly get any worse. But he knew the answer.

The landscaper clenched the wooden handle of his rake, his mace, ready to swing it and run. The sidewalk was the ultimate obstacle course. He stood jostled inside the boiling mob and attempted invisibility through sheer force of will.

You don't see me. I walk among you, but you don't see me because I'm the luckiest son of a bitch alive. I shall squeeze through you and make my way back to…

There.

Tim Crowe saw him standing directly across the street, a hand wave away. As soon as he spotted him, he felt a jolt.

The stranger both stood out in the crowd, and blended in. Tim couldn't miss the Phantom of the Opera, wearing a black cape and a sunlit white mask. Of course, it was Halloween. The afternoon crowd included a witch with a peaked hat, a pirate, and two zombies with stitches painted across their foreheads and cheeks.

After a moment, Tim noticed something distinctly unusual about the Phantom, which underscored his gut reaction. The entire crowd watched the jumper on the street, everyone except the Phantom. His mask was turned away. He was looking up the street, perhaps searching for an escape.

At that instant, Tim remembered the Boston Marathon bombing, a particular aspect of the story. A tip-off. Investigators, studying surveillance tapes, noticed that, when the bombs exploded, everyone on the street turned toward the explosion—except for two young men on the sidewalk.

Recalling this, Tim watched the Phantom with redoubled interest.

Last night in the alley, a caped figure had sprinted through the dark to the theater. As he had raced by, his face—the pale image still rushed by in Tim's memory—was unnaturally white, a full white moon in the night.

Now, Tim watched as the Phantom sunk back into the mob. The Phantom moved against the current of the crowd, a fish struggling upstream, escaping.

From across the street, Tim followed.

The entrance to the Gateway was directly ahead. The marquee cast a shadow on the sidewalk. When Tim passed by the theater's box office, he saw the Phantom turn his head very quickly, glancing at the theater, but his step never slowed. And he clearly saw the landscaper with the rake resting on his shoulder. Tim would not be able to follow him and blend in with foot traffic. He needed to speak with him, not spook him. He continued at the same pace, wondering how to approach the masked stranger. If his hunch was wrong, he risked revealing himself. And that could turn into a disaster. He imagined the mob, after encircling the jumper, charging up the street and coming after him. Still, he sensed the costumed Phantom had far more than Halloween on his mind.

The Phantom turned his head in Tim's direction, just for a second, and they exchanged a glance. Then the Phantom rounded the next corner, and picked up his pace. He was walking as fast as he could without running, clearly trying to get away from Tim without drawing attention to himself. Tim followed at equal speed, three storefronts behind him.

Tim wondered what his next move should be. Any element of surprise was gone. As he pursued from behind, he looked increasingly like a member of the mob, armed with a rake. He was tempted to discard the tool, but that could undermine his flimsy disguise. Whatever the case, he couldn't trail the stranger all day. Both of them moving in tandem might elicit unwanted attention.

Tim decided to go for broke. He quickened his stride, closed the gap, sprinting. They were alongside Cambridge Commons now, the city park. When he was within ten yards, he called out: "Phantom. I've been to the opera."

The Phantom didn't turn. He started to run, but pedestrians clogged his path.

"Phantom, wait!" Tim called, five yards away. "I've been to the theater. I want to go back. I need a ticket, Phantom."

The Phantom slowed, not quite stopping, nor running. His head whipped side to side, making a decision.

"I love Phantom of the Opera. I can relate. The Phantom is a man who doesn't fit in the world, a stranger in a strange land. Alienation, hey, who can't relate? I can't wait to get back to the theater."

The Phantom stopped on the sidewalk. People drifted past him in both directions. "What do you want with me?"

Tim walked up, catching his breath. "I admire people who are in show business. The theater is very unique. It provides the world with very unique people."

The Phantom didn't move, said nothing.

"I'm broke. I'm wondering if you might be able to get me a pass into the theater. I'd love to get inside."

"Who are you?"

"My name's Tim. I'm a fan of the movies. Have you ever seen a movie called 'Gone?' It has a twist ending. A complete surprise. You never see it coming."

The Phantom scanned the park, looked back at Tim. He motioned with his hand. They walked across the grass to an empty bench and sat down.

"Again," he said in a low voice, "who are you?"

"A theater fan." Tim decided to reveal a key detail that would clarify this exchange. If this didn't open the dialogue, he'd leave. "In fact, last night I was near the theater. I was in an alley, and I saw a fellow who may have lost his ticket. He was trying to get back inside through the rear door."

"Uh huh."

"And I thought to myself, now there's a fellow who shares my enthusiasm for movies."

"Do you enjoy all movies?"

"No, not all. I saw one recently that was so crazy…well, it really played with my head. I never saw anything like it—ever."

"Are you referring to the twist ending?"

"Exactly."

"Sometimes the endings are not what we expect, or like."

"This ending was a shocker. I would describe it as 'out of this world.'"

"Interesting," the Phantom said. Behind his mask, his eyes flicked in all directions, always aware of his surrounds. His voice remained low and confidential. "And where are you from, Tim?"

"I'm from Cambridge, so to speak."

"You're a local lad."

"In a sense. And yourself?"

"Same. In a sense, I joined a touring company for Phantom of the Opera. I'm on the road. The life of a thespian is filled with adventure and surprise." The Phantom's eyes glanced upward for a second. "Your headdress is quite singular. Is that a Middle Eastern keffiyeh by way of Cambridge?"

"My landscaper's ensemble."

"As a movie buff, you appear to be a fan of 'Lawrence of Arabia.' You look like Peter O'Toole without the camel."

"We landscapers must improvise, particularly during a sudden shift in the landscape." The exchange reduced Tim's anxiety. He didn't know the Phantom's name, but he was fairly certain about his identity. "So, you're active in the theater. By chance, have I ever seen you on TV?"

The Phantom turned slightly on the bench, and faced him directly. For a fleeting moment behind his mask, his eyes lit up with dark humor. "You are a clever lad, Tim. You may indeed have seen me on television. Are you familiar with the term, PSA?"