The Caller Read online

Kate and Roger were working together. I returned to my easy chair scissors in hand, rather proud of myself for figuring it out. I picked up the envelope and clipped it open. What were those envelopes called?

  Into my lap spilled a small packet of money, about five hundred dollars, all in twenty-dollar bills, a passport, a small white letter envelope and a folded sheet of paper. The passport was for Dr. John Michaelson and tucked inside were a driver's license for the state of Utah, two credit cards and a crisp social security card. All registered for John Michaelson.

  I set them aside and opened the smaller envelope. It wasn't sealed. Written on the inside of the flap were the words Armory exhibit 7 pm October 8th. I shrugged and looked inside. I almost leapt up and did a dance around the room when I saw the envelope's contents. A ticket to the re-opening of the museum!

  The museum had closed due to a massive fire that had taken out an entire wing. It was rumored that several exhibits, the armory exhibit for one, were on loan from some of the best museums around the world for the duration of the month long celebration. I had drooled over the advertisement, but reluctantly decided that the eighty-five dollar ticket would not be allowed by my budget. At least not if I wanted to eat. I would have to wait until the museum fundraiser was over and hope for a more general view. Now it appeared I had a ticket. When the joke ended I would have to thank Kate and Roger.

  I returned the ticket to the envelope. The 8th was tomorrow, or actually later today. I realized low, wobbly, early-morning light was seeping in through the cracks of the blinds. I would have to get some sleep, go early to the museum, meet whoever I was supposed to meet in the armory exhibit at 7 pm and then look at the rest of the exhibits until the museum closed for the night. I stood up and realized I had no clue who I was supposed to meet in the Armory exhibit at 7 pm. I plopped back down and picked up the folded piece of paper.

  It contained my instructions. I rolled my eyes skyward. It figured I wouldn't read the directions until last. According to my instructions, which I assumed were the rules for the game, at 7 pm in the armory exhibit I was to give the John Michaelson stuff over to the man who matched the photographs in the passport and drivers license. Seemed simple enough. In return, he was to give me a flash drive. Simple enough again. I yawned and put the letter down. If I was going to have any fun at the exhibit tomorrow I needed some sleep.

  I must have fallen into my bed like a rock because the next thing I knew, it was full daylight outside. 10:12 am my clock proudly proclaimed as I settled my glasses on my nose. I thought about rolling over for a little while longer before I remembered the events of the night before.

  "International mailing envelope," I said aloud. "Ha! That's what they're called!" Like a kid on Christmas morning I was out of the bed and into the living room. Everything was just as I left it. The case, the gun, the money and most of all the ticket. I did a hop-step and went to take my shower.

  In no time flat I was clean, dressed and ready to go. I picked up the envelope with the ticket and placed it in the right breast pocket inside of my coat. Next, I opened up the passport and checked to see that all the other IDs were still inside. It was, but the social security card looked wrong some how. I went to the kitchen table, took out my social security card and lay the two side by side on the table. With the exception of the name and numbers they were the same. Mine looked much more used of course, but that was understandable.

  "Ah ha!" I said aloud to the empty kitchen. That was the problem. The John Michaelson card looked too new. I decided to help it along a bit, just for fun. I bent it up a bit and turned one corner down. I even took a smidgen of dirt from one of my potted herbs in the kitchen to smudge it up a little. I held it up and admired my handiwork. No doubt a real spy would scoff at my efforts but I thought it looked pretty good. I put my card away, double checking that the right one went back into my wallet, and returned to the living room.

  The passport and id I put in the left inside pocket of my coat. The rest of the items from the case I put back into the case, snapped it shut and in keeping with the spy game in progress, slipped the whole thing under my bed so it couldn't be seen by a casual observer. After all it was their game, who said they couldn't send Randy in to steal the case and leave a menacing note? Especially since I had to pick up a flash drive from the man I would be meeting in the armory.

  With everything complete and my spirits high I went whistling out the door, preferring to walk to two miles to the museum since the weather was so nice. On the way I realized I had left the house without eating breakfast and made a short side trip to the nearby bagel shop.

  In due time I reached the museum and melted into the crowd. After a long wait in line, I presented my ticket to the attendant and entered the cool, marbleized halls of the museum. I was in heaven. For hours I wondered from exhibit to exhibit delighting in everything from Rembrandts and Picassos to Faberge eggs, Egyptian burial furniture, and jade carvings from Japan. I never wanted to leave. Around every corner was a new treasure. One day was simply not enough to enjoy it all to the full extent it deserved. As seven o'clock began to approach I started working my way towards the armory exhibit.

  This display delighted me no less than any other section of the museum. Life sized Samurai warriors faced off with equally impressive Hun figures and I swiveled my head from one side to the other, walking at a snails pace, trying to take in every detail. I was so entranced that I almost didn't see the man I had come here to meet. I blinked hard several times, trying to clear images of the past from my gaze so I could see the present.

  The two of us were the only ones in the exhibit area. I walked up to the man as he stood staring at an impressive display of medieval weaponry. The man looked nervous and matched perfectly the picture in my pocket. I stopped when I was beside him.

  "Fascinating aren't they?" I pulled the passport out of my pocket as he turned to me. He swallowed hard when he saw what was in my hands.

  "Yes, most intriguing," he said sliding a flash drive out of the front pocket of his somewhat worn sport coat. He handed me the drive and I handed him the passport. He opened it, checked the ID and smiled with relief. He nodded at me and with a swift turn, he was striding out the door. I shrugged my shoulders and tucked the flash drive where the passport had been moments earlier.

  I spent quite a bit of time in the armory exhibit, since most of it was dated around the same time frame as the period I was researching for my latest work. A few times, I came across several pieces of information I wanted to look up on my own and soon the back of my exhibit program was covered with scrawls of references I needed to check into. I was in mid scrawl when I felt someone watching me. I turned to find a small woman with curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes trying to see what it was I was writing. I laughed nervously.

  "I'm a historian," I told her. "I'm doing research for a book and I figured some of the works mentioned," I indicated the small information cards below the items in the display case, "might be useful."

  "Really," she said one eyebrow raised. "What is it you are researching?" For the record, she did ask, so good or bad I told her. I am afraid I, like many of my colleagues have the problem of not keeping quiet about a current project. Maybe the belief is that if we are so interested in what we are doing then obviously everyone else must be as well and so we can drone on and on for hours about obscure points and references.

  If you are into this sort of thing than the conversation is absolutely wonderful. If you are not than you begin to plan either an escape route or a homicide, which ever seems simpler at the time. At least this is what my sister always tells me. Whenever I go off on my tangents, she will wait until I either pause for a breath or to ask her a question, then calmly inform me she is fairly certain she could kill me with the shrimp fork (or whatever is handy at the moment). I usually take this as my subtle cue to end my diatribe.

  The blonde woman in front of me
did not threaten my life as Kate most certainly would have, but I did notice her eyes glazing over a bit.

  "Um, well, I suppose I shouldn't bore you with this. I'm sorry." I said simply, giving her the exit I thought she was looking for. She took it.

  "Thank you, umm..."

  "Dr. Hill," I supplied.

  "Yes, Dr. Hill. Are you from around here?" She asked unexpectedly.

  "Yes, actually I am," I answered. "Did you need directions?" She laughed.

  "No, not exactly. I was looking for a Dr. LaRue. I figured if you were from here than you might know him." The name didn't ring any bells in my head.

  "Does he teach up at the college?" I asked, trying to be helpful. She looked slightly puzzled.

  "I suppose he might," she said slowly studying my face. I felt quite badly for her. She was quite obviously not interested in the exhibit around her, just interested in finding Dr. LaRue. Luckily for me a small group of people came into the Armory exhibit at this time. Among them was a rather mannish looking woman named Emma