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The experiment was a modeling job. His latest creation was coveralls infused with an electro-chemical treatment that impeded radar impulses the same way the paint on his '56 did. In conjunction with other stealth devices, current applied to the material enveloped the wearer in a rejection field where impulses of phase-corrected gibberish rendered her electronically invisible given the proper frequencies and power ranges. Initial tests were more than promising. June McClunaghan! Boldly disappearing where no woman had disappeared before! In these post-Oreo days she hankered for her friends and again for her bass. The system needed more work and, thanks to involvement in the testing procedures, she was distracted from the prevailing state of funk. There were days of being in a decent mood, and if the whole fandango worked, there was a chance June could optimistically rise from the dead.
Going into May, he introduced a head-covering hood to the outfit and connected infused boots and gloves to the electrical current. There was greater and greater progress and she noticed tingling sensations on successive experiments and power adjustments. Hmm, he wondered, then recalculated everything and subjected himself to the same conditions. He acknowledged the phenomenon but concluded it was "no problem"-there would be no debilitating physical effects, no cancer issues to consider. "Trust me!"
"Oh boy." She hoped he'd purchased nothing from the Acme Corporation.
One nosy, snooping day, she discovered a stash of distributor caps secreted away in the hangar. There was also a trash bag full of rags, much of it flannel. In the junkyard between the hangar and the house, the old green Mustang tripped a memory of driving through Texas Canyon in Arizona. More baffling was the replay of the dream with Prez holding the distributor cap. This time he was saying something en espa?ol. Next evening, lying in the bomb bay of the B-17, the images in her brain were too vivid. In the garage, he was struggling with a wiring harness in the cockpit of the Cobra coupe. "JHH?" she interrupted, "Do you feel like talking?"
"In a minute. Just one second." Frustrated, fumbling a wire-tie closed, he grunted, "Dammit. Maybe a break'll do me good. What's on your mind?"
"I have an odd question," she said, sitting on his cooler.
"Shoot." He wiped his hands and leaned against a work bench.
"Umm, have you ever heard of the Seattle Capper?"
"The?who?"
"Seattle Capper."
"Uh. No. I don't think so. Why?"
"Oh?I found a bunch of distributor caps in the hangar the other day and I just wondered."
"Hmm. They're probably old caps from cars I've worked on. Sometimes you just save a lot of parts and junk. Who is this 'Capper'?"
"Well, a few years back someone was stealing distributor caps in Seattle and there's been a series of thefts here in the southwest, if that's where we are."
"And?"
"And we got hit by the Capper in Arizona."
"Are you sure it was this Capper fellow?"
"We found a sticker holding a piece of flannel to our bumper. That's how it works, isn't it?"
"Uh, I wouldn't know. You tell me."
"That seems to be the trademark."
"Hmm."
"And there's never been any fingerprints or anything."
"Ahh?" He laughed. "Maybe he could use one of my stealth generators."
"He?" She elevated an eyebrow at him. "How do you know it's not a she?"
He rubbed his chin, grinning. "You're right. I don't know that. Pardon me for assuming."
She returned the grin. "Y'know, I think you're ready to tell me about this other woman. I'd like to know about that."
"Not tonight, June." He pushed away from the bench and resumed grappling with wires. "I need to get this done with no distractions. Dinner tomorrow?"
"Is this a date?"
"I'd like to think so, yes."
"I'll be sure to dress up." She rose and exited. Heading back to the bomber she halted at the hulk of the Mustang; its hood was up. In the light of a quarter moon, she backed away and studied it from a distance, not concerned if snakes were watching. Resuming the journey, she climbed back into the Fortress where the rest of the night was outmaneuvered by the impossible leisure of getting past pages of Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus that grappled and groped. Thoughts of Dedra and Doug didn't help either. She craved the restful wood of the Jazz Bass in her hands, or fists full of cups and arms full of plates, and letting Bryan touch her was not out of the question. To seek out JHH again was a bad idea; this battle was lost. Taking off her T-shirt and bra, she could at least touch herself. Stripping out of her jeans, she envisioned the Titan missile silo and began the deep-fingered countdown of masturbation.