The Twins

by Arthur Davis

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

“I can give you ten minutes, but the journal goes back for years. There’s a lot in there. Since I don’t know what you’re looking for, I can’t help beyond that,” he said and stepped back out through the secret entrance.

I sat down and thumbed through the journal. A well-detailed log of 226 people in the Suspicions Visitors; highly detailed, height, weight, clothing, threat rating, and no-sense-of-humor rating.

Most bad guys shared that one quirk. No sense of humor. Did you ever hear of a comedian convicted of murder?

Nothing unusual, recently or otherwise. Mostly the same foot traffic from around the base curious about the condo.

“So?”

“Anyone extra-suspicious lately?” I asked when he returned.

“Like the brothers on your floor?”

“Something like that.”

“A bad pair, I’d say. You could tell. They shouldn’t have been let in. The Condo Board didn’t screen them properly. Maybe someone on the Board needed the money.”

“A bribe?”

“Whatever, it’s none of my business.”

“A few questions?”

Hollman thought a moment. “Sure.”

“I need you to tell me what went on the week before the twins arrived.”

“Nothing unusual.”

“The truth. I have a knife in my pocket.”

“Nothing unusual.”

“I have a bat in my pocket.”

“Nothing unusual.”

“I have a 9mm Glock in my pocket.”

“Nothing unusual.”

“I have an XM-42 Modular Flamethrower in my pocket.”

“Nothing unusual.”

“I have an AR-15, M4A1 in my pocket.”

“With armor piercing or incendiary cartridges?”

“Two clips of each,” I reluctantly admitted.”

“Nothing unusual.”

“I have a working Pear of Anguish in my pocket.”

“Nothing unusual.”

“I have an Ucho Professional Outdoor Hunting Sling Shot with High Velocity Catapult in my pocket.”

“Nothing unusual.”

“I have a whoopee cushion in my pocket.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” he said. “I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

The more he talked, the smaller he seemed to get. I know this is difficult for you to believe, but I was there and you weren’t, so obviously my memory of the incident, no matter how improbable, must be accepted without question. “So?”

“A small brass band passed by a day before the twins moved in.”

“And?”

“I got off three rounds before they fled. Took down a husband and wife from Cincinnati.”

“Then?”

“A military ambulance raced up before the two hit the ground, bagged the bodies, cleaned up the blood splatter and all the evidence that there ever was a brass band, and raced batshit back to the main Area 51 security gate.”

“And your take on that?”

“Just another freaking incident. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

With a sigh of relief, I went back upstairs to my apartment. From my darkened hallway, I could make out a lone Apache Guardian helicopter hovering in the distance. Except now it was pointed directly at me. I could clearly make out its nose art, its twin 3.5 inch rocket pods and 37mm Gatling minigun.

The nose art was a skull and crossbones, which I recognized as the emblem of a notorious Latvian and Tanzanian rogue splinter terrorist group only because it had an overcooked cheese omelet drawn over the center of black skull and crossbones.

Latvians and Tanzanians were notorious for overcooking omelets.

I was wrong. The squadron that hovered by my windows on January12 wasn’t American.

The Latvians and Tanzanians were coming for me, too.

February 2nd

The CIA agents stopped calling to reschedule.

I was a key witness, maybe the only witness to have so much contact with the brothers. And the band? That bothered me. Didn’t make a difference to Hollman, which meant he was either hiding something, had seen brass bands around the building before, or knew the couple from Cincinnati were part of a master plan to breach Area 51’s security. Then he had instructions to kill them both and make it look like he was simply defending the condo.

Who else in the building knew the brothers, and were those residents really part of the brothers’ plan, beyond simple confidence clowns?

OMG, I’m in real trouble.

“Yes, coming,” I said and got up and opened my apartment door.

“Girl Scout cookies, sir?” they asked in unison. Both striking women in their early twenties and leggy at nearly six feet in high heels, with formidable cleavages and black fishnet stockings that reached up to heaven.

“My mother’s uncle is a festering idiot from Florida, and I don’t trust him,” I said.

“All uncles are festering idiots,” the curvy ponytailed brunette said.

“You two ladies are gorgeous.” I said, offering up the last of the code to identify me as a registered “good guy.”

“Thank you, sir,” the other woman said and they moved on to another apartment.

Showgirl SEALS, ringers on a mission I didn’t want to know about, though a few boxes of chocolate mint cookies would have been welcome.

My nose itched.

February 3rd

Was up all night puking.

Nothing on television at 4 a.m. except War and Peace on all channels.

The primary historical setting of Tolstoy’s classic War and Peace was the French invasion of Russia in 1812, which was a turning point in the Napoleonic Wars and a period of patriotic significance to Russia.

That meant the Russians were on my doorstep, too.

More puking.

March 23rd

By the end of March, I had almost forgotten the events of the last few months. I went about my business. I settled back into my sense of life in a cocoon of comfort.

The incident with the twins was moving toward a distant memory, with all its twisting illogic and suspicions, and an endless conga line of irrational disconnected incidents.

Whoever they were, they were no longer part of my life. Their apartment was cleaned, painted, and new owners were set to move in by the end of May. Hopefully, they were more thoroughly vetted.

Most of all, my sleep improved and I was no longer looking over my shoulder, though I missed that singular movement. I was considering becoming a private detective. There were courses I could take online, and having the advantage of already being skilled at looking over my shoulder would put me at a distinct advantage during training and getting my first job.

I was just about to settle down for dinner when Henry rang up to let me know there was a “Top Secret” package waiting downstairs. I shut off the oven, abandoned my pot roast, and jumped into an elevator. Fortunately, the elevator door was open when I jumped in.

When it opened on the first floor, the lobby was crammed with a festival of characters, at the center of which stood the twins. Each was wearing an FBI badge slung down across their chest.

Henry walked up to me, read me my rights, and slapped on a set of handcuffs.

“Henry?”

“I know. Sorry. But it’s part of my job description.”

“And the charge?” I shot back.

“The charge?”

“Yeah, why am I being arrested and why are those two con men not in jail?”

“They’re not con men,” Henry said, adjusting his glasses. “They may even be French secret service military police for all I know.”

A police force under the administrative control of the French Ministry of Interior? Unheard of. Some froggy fast talking was going on behind the scenes. “I was told differently,” I said, trying not to scratch my nose as the biting itch raged on.

“I have no idea.”

One of the men in the crowd in expensive Brioni or Armani suits stepped out and holstered his 9mm Heckler Koch. “The charges are confidential and will be revealed to you after your trial and conviction.”

“We’re behind you,” Mrs. Hennessey from the third floor yelled from the depths of the crowded lobby.

“Yeah, don’t worry. It’s a frame job. We believe in you,” Hank, our garage attendant said while stuffing a meatball hero into his mouth.

The itch grew in ferocity, demanding attention.

I wanted to lift a hand, but the cuffs were locked tight around my wrists. Should I ask one of the police, or even Henry, to scratch my nose? Who would do such a thing for me? Would I do that for someone else? Someone who was suspected, and rightfully so, of a list of the most clever, erudite, sophisticated, stylish, diabolically outrageous of international crimes?

No, that wasn’t going to happen, and neither was there going to be an arraignment, much less a trial. None of that was going to happen. Sizing up the mob, I was going to die of mysterious causes and dumped in a patch of desert deep in the bowels of Area 51.

I couldn’t bear it any longer.

I jerked up both hands and bore down on the tip of my nose just as the crack of gunfire filled the lobby.

The first bullet grazed my right cheek. The second and third made a more distinct impression on my life.

I heard another dozen shots whiz by around me before I slumped backwards against the lobby wall. A tidal wave of people rushed to my side. I remember heads hovering over me before the air in my lungs burned through my chest.

March 25th

I was roused awake by a nurse. My eyes opened to a thick haze and a terrible throbbing in my head. My entire body felt like it had been stepped on by an elephant.

The nurse was pretty but fully clothed.

Tubes were coming out of me from everywhere. Digital monitors surrounded my bed with a cacophony of humming and bleeping.

I decided to make use of the brief time before I escaped and practiced saying, “I’m innocent. I’m very innocent. I’m more innocent than any of you can imagine.”

I looked around for an escape route. Three heavily armed guards noticed my gesture and immediately unholstered their .45 ACP SIG Sauer P320 pistols. One of the pistols had the emblem of a skull & crossbones clouded by a faint image of an overcooked cheese omelet on the barrel.

This was not my day, though my nose didn’t itch anymore, and that had to count for something.