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  "Who's asking?"

  "Maya Sepulveda. I am…was a colleague of your father's. I'm very sorry for your loss."

  The last thing he wanted right now was to talk to some stranger. "Thanks, Ms. Sepulveda, but—"

  "Please, call me Maya. I won't take up much of your time and normally I wouldn't bother you with this, but I have a rather demanding client."

  "I didn't have anything to do with the business."

  "That's okay. Your father was working with me to identify two service men reported Missing in Action during the two World Wars. There's probably a file on his desk."

  A manila file labeled "MIA" lay open in front of him, some of its contents spread across the desk. "Yeah, I'm looking at it now."

  "There's a form in the file. The last time your father and I spoke he told me he had found our guys. All I need you to do is fill in their names and dates of death and return it to me. As soon as I have the form, I'll forward payment to you."

  "Payment?"

  "Yes. It only seems right you should get the fee and I think Thomas would approve. I really appreciate this."

  "Yeah, okay. I suppose I can do that for you."

  "Thanks Addison. I'll be eternally grateful."

  After hanging up, he recalled Maya, a woman his father had dated a few years ago. I guess they stayed in touch. Flipping through the contents of the file, he found a piece of paper, folded in half with a date and a name written by hand, circled with a felt tip marker. This must be one of the MIA's.

  Died in the Battle of Cantigny on May 28, 1918

  Emmett Earl Pike

  All he had to do was fill in a form and this had the bonus of a paycheck at the end. I'll never get another chance to help Dad complete anything. Addison rarely used pens, opting for his laptop and the tablet his father had given him as a Christmas present. However, it seemed a good time to give his inheritance a road test. After finding the form Maya mentioned in the file, he lifted the fountain pen from its resting place once again. Where do I put the ink? He fumbled with it a bit, then found he could unscrew the bottom, revealing a small chamber. Opening one of the bottles, the ink moved as if alive, a green vaporous fog hovering just inside the neck. A small glass eye dropper lay nestled beside it. He placed the dropper's glass tube into the ink, squeezing and releasing the bladder to draw the green liquid. He squeezed the dropper again, releasing ink into the chamber. Screwing the bottom of the pen back on with his now green ink-stained fingers, he wiped the pen with a soft cloth he found by the ink bottle.

  No wonder the ballpoint was a big hit.

  As the mantel clock struck noon, he turned back to the page. Placing pen to paper he scratched the nib across the surface, copying the date from the slip of paper he had found in the file. Addison then scribed the name:

  Emmett Earl Pike

  He scanned the papers on the desk for the second name, when his body violently seized, as if he'd been given deadly neurotoxin. His stomach caught in his throat squelching any scream over a deafening jet-like roar. Ice cold air froze him to numbness, the world a vast kaleidoscope of color and pattern, his mind exploded into billions of particles, until he lurched from the chair face first into the muck.

  God, the stink of rotting flesh. Throat dry, goddamn smoke. What is that foul stench? Thunderous detonations like the footfalls of mighty giants slam into the ground, shaking the earth. Rats scurry, but nowhere to hide. A whistle blows in the cool, moist dawn air. I'm…in a trench? Men, their drab uniforms stained with mud and blood, rock anxiously, morning light reflecting off mounted bayonets.

  Where in God's living hell am I?

  Sarge shouts, "Over the top!"

  I don't want to move, but I'm not in control. Up and over the mud wall of a trench, the weight of a pack straining my back, the rifle heavy in my hands. A man to my left flies backward as if jerked by a cable, his cry muffled by explosions, his chest ripped open, organs spilling into the muck. I, we, plod forward through mud. A rhythmic takka-takka-takka, tat, tat, tat in the distance and more explosions vibrating through my feet.

  Sarge yells again, "Stay together! Look sharp!"

  A battlefield? But how? A slap on my shoulder. I look to my right to see a kid my age with blue eyes and a dirty face shadowed beneath a WW I doughboy helmet.

  "Emmett, this is it! We'll show these Huns!"

  I hear words tumble from my mouth. "Yeah, Jake. Don't get your arse shot off."

  A scowl crosses his face like I've never seen from my friend before. "Not to worry, Addison. You won't be here for long."

  Addison? Who…?

  Bayonet in hand, Jake slices a deep gash across his palm. He steps in toward me. "Time to say goodbye, Addison." His bloodied hand races toward my face.

  What the hell—

  A fiery white blast, like a blow of Thor's massive hammer, slams me to the ground. My insides hurt, my head throbs. I try to get back up, but, oh god, my legs. Gone. God. Jake? I see his blue-eyed face, the remaining half looks startled, his shoulder and arm and part of his torso ripped off. The mud smells of death. Falling back I see blue sky with large billowing white clouds floating like great ships at sea. So peaceful, so calm, so…

  My body's an empty shell. Matter flows into me—each corpuscle and vein, tendon and bone, organ and muscle. Am I dying? Or coming back to life? Like the wax of a spent candle, I am fallen to a puddle of life.

  ***

  Addison gasped, acidic vomit rising in his throat. Flailing, he fell backward, his chair crashing to the floor. He clawed at the carpet, in a blind panic, slamming into a wall. A caustic taste of death and cordite lingered in his mouth. He reached for bloodied stumps, but found legs, the agonizing pain gone, but still a memory. He pulled himself up, his back to the wall. Clammy and cold, his green ink-stained hands shook, each shallow breath struggling to keep up with his racing heart.

  The mantel clock in the hallway chimed. How much time have I lost? Addison looked at his watch, both hands at twelve. The clock continued, the twelfth strike reverberating through the room. Noon? Of the same day? He found his cane, leveraging himself into a standing position by his desk. The fountain pen rested innocently on the paper, a small green smudge at the end of Emmett Earl Pike. He tried to screw the cap back on, but his shaking hands made the task difficult. After several attempts he succeeded, weaving the fine threads of pen and cap together. He laid the pen back into the safety of its box and placed it in the bottom drawer of the desk, which he locked. Still light-headed and trembling, he limped out of the study, closing the door behind him.

  In the kitchen, he tossed open the refrigerator door, pulling out a PowerJolt.

  What the hell was that? Jesus. You're losing it, Addison.

  He struggled with the can. Losing his grip as he thrust the push tab down, the can spun away, PowerJolt splashing across the island counter. Reaching for the errant object, he hurled it across his kitchen, the can banging and clanging against cabinets and pots.

  He didn’t smoke, but the urge for a cigarette, a Camel, consumed him. Hell, I'd take a Navy Cut off a Tommy in a heartbeat. He rifled through the back of a drawer at the end of the counter until he found the cigarettes and matches his father thought had been hidden. Marlboros. No Camels? This would have to do. Fumbling with the box, he slipped one between his lips, lit it, inhaling, only to choke and cough as the smoke burned his throat.

  It felt so goddamn real, like I was actually there. The artillery fire, the stench of the place, and Jake. I knew Jake. We trained together, drank together.

  He took another tentative drag, coughing up another puff of smoke. In his dreams he walked and ran. But this experience didn't feel like a dream. He had run across a damn battlefield.

  And those two girls we met before we shipped out. I married mine. Esther. Esther Lawrence. We made love my last night of leave. God, I remember her. The soft skin, the curve of her hips.

  Addison floated in the memory of Esther, a woman he couldn't know, a woman old enough to be his great-
great grandmother. He tamped out the cigarette on the granite counter, and grabbed a loaf of bread and some peanut butter. Something normal. Something he did every day. Something unlike whatever just happened.

  There's got to be an explanation. If I'm having a hallucination, it's one realistic multi-dimensional hallucination. I must be stressing out. PTSD, that's what the shrink said after I killed Beth. Maybe with Dad dying and all, it's coming back.

  He lit another cigarette, this time taking a long drag, the smoke rising, twisting and turning away. A moment of calm flowed through him. He knew the feeling from playing baseball and soccer prior to the accident. Standing on a field, the game turning into a righteous shit storm, all hell breaking loose, his body strong, his mind sharp, his determination hardened like forged steel. In that moment of calm, his father's words emerged.

  "You, my son, are an Inker by calling."

  Alchemy

  Alchemy, a thirty-five foot sailing sloop, cut through the waters east of Kona off the coast of Hawaii's Big Island, its two white sails billowing with a late spring breeze. Azure Pacific waters stretched to the western horizon and to the east, the volcanic rock of Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea rose into a midday sky dotted with vast lumbering clouds. Jules McCullough stood tall in the Alchemy's cockpit in a bright yellow bikini, a small silver nose ring and another in an eyebrow glittering in the bright sunlight. Black micro-braids flowing across her shoulders, dancing in the breeze. A flowering vine tattoo spiraled up one arm, spilling over a shoulder to the base of her spine. Her mother, Alison, an athletic black woman with hazel eyes, attributes shared by her daughter, stood at the helm, keeping the boat keeled over just enough to maximize their speed.

  Kai stuck his head out of the cabin portal. At six foot, the native Hawaiian wore his signature camouflage swim trunks and no shirt. Jules had met the ripped surfer during a snorkeling tour he guided out of Kona. It wasn't a serious relationship, but Jules didn't want serious.

  He stepped into the cockpit, putting an arm around her. "The reef's on the other side of the point. I'll show you where to anchor for the best snorkeling."

  Jules snuggled into him, kissing him on the cheek. He smelled of salt and coconut oil. "I need something to drink. Mom, did we pack some beer?"

  Kai kissed her forehead, his hand slipping down the back of her bikini bottoms. She maneuvered deftly away as he gave her a mischievous grin. "Stay right there, Jules. I'll get us something. Want one, Alison?"

  Her frown didn't get past Jules. She enjoyed her mother's discomfort over this surfer. "Sure."

  After Kai disappeared into the hold Alison inclined her head toward Jules, speaking over the sounds of strained rigging and a warm breeze. "What are you up to with him?"

  "Just having some fun. Don't worry, Mom. I'm being safe.” Alison’s mouth curled into an approving smile, while her eyes hinted at a motherly panic.

  He reemerged from the cabin several long minutes later empty handed, his brow furrowed in frustration.

  Jules glanced over to him. "I thought you were never coming back up. No beer in the ice chest?"

  "What? Oh, jeeze." He laughed nervously. "I'm a little out if it." He turned to go back down.

  Jules put a hand on his chest. "Maybe you should stay topside in the fresh air. I'll go." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and climbed down the ladder.

  ***

  Kai offered a weak smile, scanning the cockpit. Alison watched his relaxed posture and surfer state of mind shift momentarily to something approximating an alert commando, as his gaze focused on a steel winch handle a few feet away. Her body went taut. He's just a beach bum, Alison. She shook her head, taking in a deep breath of ocean air. Part of the reason they had vacationed in Hawaii was to get away from everything, to give the paranoia a rest, if only for a few days. He glanced over to her and for the briefest moment her intuition, against her conscious will, whispered a suspicion. No. He couldn't be…

  ***

  Once in the hold, Jules let out a deep sigh. Physically, the deeply tanned Kai with the ripped, lean body was a dream. Even though part of her wanted to be with him, to feel her skin against his, taste his salty lips, she had hesitated to take the final step. There was something about the dark haired, brown eyed surfer that didn't add up, so that even when pressed up against her, hearts pounding, his hands fumbling with her bikini top, she would put on the brakes. What is it about him? He must have spent too much time in the sun, or swallowed too much salt water, or more likely, smoked too much weed. Today offered a perfect example. How do you miss a large red ice chest?

  Or maybe it's just me.

  Jules popped up from the hold, her hands full of beer cans. Kai looked over at her, and back to her mom.

  Alison spoke with a calm firmness. "Jules, go back below deck."

  Jules stood frozen, looking to her mother, over to Kai, and back to her mother. "Is… everything okay?"

  "Jules, get away from him. Now!"

  Before Jules could respond, he pushed past her, cans flying from her grasp. He leaped across the deck, tackling Alison to the ground. He had Alison on her back, hands around her throat. Jules stood paralyzed, her mind racing to catch up with the scene unfolding in front of her. Her mother struggled against his hold, but he was bigger and stronger.

  He yelled as he choked her, slamming her head into the deck. "WHERE'S THE PEN? WHERE THE HELL IS IT?"

  Jules pulled herself out of the dream. Kai—dear, gentle Kai—had turned into some psycho about to kill her mom. No way. No fucking way!

  She grabbed the steel winch handle. "Stop. Kai, stop. Goddammit, STOP!"

  He looked over his shoulder, his face red with rage as he turned back to Alison. "I'll kill your daughter. You know I will. Where is it?"

  Her mother choked and gasped, writhing under his weight. Jules stepped behind him, hesitating, then bringing the winch handle down on his neck and shoulder with a thud. He rolled off Alison, grunting in pain. Jules tossed the handle aside rushing to her mother.

  "Mom! Are you okay?"

  Alison blinked several times, taking in a deep breath. "Again."

  "What? What do you mean?"

  "Hit him…again."

  But it was too late. Kai got to his feet, kicking Jules in the chest, which sent her somersaulting. He grabbed Alison by the hair dragging her across the cockpit. She flailed, but he slammed her hard against the cabin wall, one hand with a fist full of her hair, the other slipping between her legs like a wrestler grasping his opponent for the take down.

  "The pen or you both die."

  Jules watched in horror as he lifted Alison into the air, body-slamming her head first down the hold. Rage exploded in Jules' chest. She spun the helm hard to port, the mainsail boom swinging toward Kai, throwing him off-balance as he ducked out of its path. Screaming, she flung herself onto his back, driving them both down the hold in a tumble. He attempted to rise, one fist poised to slam into Alison who lay dazed, her head bleeding, at the bottom of the heap. Jules wrapped an arm around his neck, squeezing with all her strength. Kai jerked left and right, slamming Jules into cabinets and gear, pans crashing around them. Alison squirmed out from beneath him, leaving Jules thrashing on Kai's back like a cowboy riding a killer bull.

  Through her rage Jules heard her mother's firm voice. "Let go of him, Jules."

  "What?"

  "Let go!" Alison reached in, breaking Jules' hold on Kai. He immediately flipped Jules off his back.

  Stunned, she cried out in desperation, "Mom, what are you doing?"

  He rose, a murderous monster intent on killing everyone in sight. "Goddamn Inker!"

  "MOM!"

  Alison stepped between Jules and their attacker. P-zzz-tttt.

  Kai froze for a moment before falling to the floor convulsing. Alison leaned over him, her voice calm, but menacing. "Don't ever threaten my family, you son of a bitch." She zapped him in the chest once more with her stun gun, the cabin filling with the acrid odor of burnt flesh.

  ***


  Jules dashed topside, returning with a coil of line. Kai lay still.

  Alison looked up from an open first aid kit, holding a gauze pad on her forehead with one hand and a roll of tape in the other. "What's the line for?"

  "To tie him up."

  "It's okay. We're safe now." She handed Jules the tape. "You mind tearing off a couple strips for me?"

  Jules tore two pieces of surgical tape, carefully applying them to the pink-tinged gauze over her mother's wound. "How can we be safe? The guy's a lunatic!"

  Alison stepped into Jules, whose whole body trembled with adrenaline. She melted into her mother's embrace, Alison speaking soothing words to calm her down. "We're safe. I promise."

  After going topside, Alison, very familiar with the rush of battle, put Jules at the helm, hoping the ocean's rhythm and Jules' ranting would calm her daughter down before the surfer came to.

  "Mom, how do you know we're safe?"

  "We are. I wouldn't leave him down there if I thought otherwise."

  "He tried to kill us."

  Alison grimaced, nodding. "Yes. I know."

  "Am I missing something? Why did he call you Inker…or was it, Ingrid? And was he talking about a pen? Like a ball point pen?"

  Alison absentmindedly coiled a nearby line.

  "Mom, what aren't you telling me?"

  "All you need to know is Kai didn't attack us."

  Jules inclined her head as if she had misheard. "Of course he attacked us!"

  "Yes, it was Kai, but…"

  "But what? He's got a brain implant and is being controlled by a satellite in the sky? He's a whacked-out meth head? I think 'he's a fucking lunatic' might be the best explanation."

  Alison looked to the sky, a lone seagull sweeping past. "Sweetheart, he wasn't himself. That's all I'm saying. What's important is Kai is…Kai again."

  ***

  Jules' introduction to Seattle a week later helped to balance the debacle on the boat. Her mom had set her up with a friend, Nicole—Nikki. She seemed nice enough and as promised, did help her find a little efficiency apartment and a job, albeit in an antique vinyl record shop. Jules pulled a band together and they'd even done a couple of gigs. Whatever was up with her mom, Jules needed a few months to get away, to relax. Seattle, to her surprise, seemed to fit the bill nicely.