Agents of Change

Chapter Eight

  With the sun shining through the skylights, I roll over in my bed and look at my alarm clock.

  Eight o’clock.

  I look over to my closet and see my duffle bag, unzipped, stuffed with a few clothes that were given the short shrift. Next to me on the bed are the couple hundreds of dollars I pulled out of my safe.

  I grab my cell phone and see four more missed calls from Ronni and a text: U 4got about me. Indeed I did. I must have fallen asleep while packing, as evidenced by the money on my bed and the fact that I’m sleeping in yesterday’s clothes. When I roll onto my back and look up into the skylights, my phone rings. Ronni.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh my God, Calvin, where are you?”

  “I’m at h—I’m in Washington.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I…” This isn’t fair. I just woke up.

  “Tell me where you are.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please. I need to see you. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “You want to see me now? Are you outta your mi—” I hear a loud crash downstairs, followed by the ear-splitting beeping of my alarm system. Next, I hear multiple, quickly-paced footsteps in my stairwell. “Gotta go,” I say, looking around for my sneakers.

  “Wait!” I hear before hanging up.

  I toss the covers aside and stuff my money in my pocket before launching myself off the bed. I pick up my sneakers, laces already tied, and slide my feet in to them as the footsteps continue up the first flight. I snatch up my duffle bag and zip it, cursing myself for making too much noise in the process. I then hear footsteps downstairs in the kitchen/living room area. Sounds like two, maybe three people.

  I go over to one of my bedroom windows and slide it open, once again making too much noise. I look down into the alley. No cops. A pair of bionic legs would come in handy right about now.

  Swoosh!

  With the Bionic Woman on the brain, I change into Lindsay Wagner—or some semblance of her—jeans, flannel shirt, and all. I start to climb through the window, my long, dark blonde hair floating with the currents of the morning breeze. Waiting for me below is a small patch of grass, stretching eight feet from the wall behind the covered parking on street level. Beyond the grass is a short fence, separating my building from the coarse concrete surface of the alley behind it. I’ll need a controlled jump; too far and I’ll be impaled.

  I really need to find Jimenez. Better yet, she really needs to find me.

  I sit on the window sill with my legs flush against the back of the building and toss my duffle over the fence and down into the alley. As the footsteps re-enter the stairwell, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I let myself slide off the window sill, praying that I survive my fall.

  In a heap, I land face down in the grass. I stand up, gasping for air, my right ankle barking at me. I then struggle to climb over the fence, my slender legs flailing in the air. The top of the fence nearly rips off my shirt as I fall to the alley’s inflexible surface before I pick up the bag and limp towards the street. My mind tells me not to run but my legs—save for my ankle—are ready to go.

  “Hey, lady!” I hear. I look back and see a cop in my window. “You see anybody back here?”

  “No,” I say as I look around. “Sorry.” When I walk toward the end of the alley, I hear the cop curse me—the real me—before closing my window.

  I remember watching reruns of the original The Bionic Woman—not the gimmicky, cash-grabbing remake—when I was a youngster. I had crushes on quite a few actresses growing up, but Lindsay Wagner wasn’t one of them. Still, I’m glad I remembered her; she was the perfect choice to get me out of that pickle. Now that I’m older, I can appreciate Ms. Wagner’s beauty as I see it in the reflection of the cars parked in the alley.

  I reach the end of the alley, look to my left and see three police cruisers parked in front of my townhome. I take a right turn out of the alley before my phone rings. Because I don’t recognize the number, I let it ring a couple times. What if it’s the cops? What if it’s another would-be client? What if it’s Jimenez?

  “Hello?”

  “Calvin, is that you?” Elena says.

  “Yes,” I say as I exhale.

  “Where are you?”

  “Just left my house. Got quite the wake-up call.”

  “Cops?”

  “Yeah. You coming to get me?” I say as I cross the street.

  “That’s why I was calling. It might be a few hours.”

  “A few hours?”

  “Richardson’s pissed. He’s asked me to launch an immediate investigation.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re on your own, at least for now. I’m trying to find another A of I to come get you. Richardson’s with me and Hamilton’s AWOL at the moment.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “You’re the one with the Ivy League education. You figure it out.”

  I took a wide variety of classes at Penn. Fugitive Shape shifting wasn’t one of them. “But—”

  “Stay away from the cops. Stay away from the A of J.”

  “Wait—”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”

  If I didn’t know Jimenez to be such a gruff bitch, I’d say that the Agency of Influence has, in fact, formulated an elaborate plot to bring me down. If this was an honest mistake, Elena sure hasn’t gone out of her way to apologize.

  I look down the street and see a bus headed in my direction. It’s risky but I can’t stay here. I can’t really stay in any one spot lest an Agent of Justice exposes me in front of the numerous cops that are certain to be circling the city. Really, there is no safe place for me right now, save for the A of I branch, but that’s too far away to safely make it there by public transit.

  I pull two singles out of my pocket. My phone buzzes again.

  Ronni.

  I reject the call.

  Having had my computer for over twelve hours, I’m sure the cops know of our relationship and have approached her by now. They’ve probably asked her to seek me out, hoping they can draw me in to a trap. I may have blindly put my faith in the A of I but I’m not that stupid.

  With the bus eclipsing me, I realize that it’s the 57. It will take me south, through the historical section of the city and leave me in Southeast Philly—somewhat close to FDR Park—if I take it to the end of the line. Right now, a specific destination’s not important. As long as I’m in constant motion and avoid large crowds, I’ll be okay. I only need to simply blend in until Jimenez can dispatch an A of I to come get me. The bus stops in front of me and opens its doors. I step up to pay my fare and scope out the rest of the bus. It’s not empty but not packed. An empty bus would have been a surprise at rush hour anyway. I avert my gaze when I see that all eyes are on me.

  I check the skin on my hands as I slide my money into the fare machine. Fair and feminine. When I turn to find a seat, I begin to wish that I changed into a nondescript man. As I walk down the middle of the bus, women and schoolgirls stare at me, most likely because of my dated sense of fashion. Men and teenage boys stare at me, too, either because they’re horny or bored. Or both.

  After the bus pulls off, I take advantage of a pair of empty seats next to a window on the left side of the bus. I sit in the window seat and set my bag in the seat next to me, ensuring that no one can sit there. I look over to my right and see a man with worn hands and a rugged, five o’clock-shadowed face, reading a newspaper. His lunch pail sits on the floor, next to the work boots on his feet. The newspaper’s headline reads GOTCHA! in bold, white letters over my blown-up mug shot.

  I turn away from my maddening reality and look through the window. The passing, worn streets of East Philly lead even further east to the Delaware River. I then look back toward the laborer reading the paper. Sitting two seats down from him is an older woman. She’s seen better days. Her hair is untidy and she’s missing a few teeth. She also looks like she?
??s missed a few meals, although it’d be hard to eat with her dental work—or lack thereof.

  “He’s loose, you know,” the woman says, leaning in the man’s direction.

  The man folds a top corner of his newspaper down to look at the woman. “You’re kidding.”

  She shakes her head. “He escaped last night.”

  “Leave it up to Philly PD.”

  “Man, if he had been caught with some weed,” I hear a booming voice say, “they’d still have that nigga on lockdown.”

  I turn around. The booming voice belongs to a large black man, one who looks like he probably works at a barbershop. While I think there’s a hint of truth to what he said, he seems like the same guy who’d bitch about the political incorrectness and so-called stupidity of a black man killing a white girl.

  “You’re right,” the woman says.

  “Dude had help, too,” the black man says. “You see that shit? Somebody turned the camera off when he escaped.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “They’re saying he tried to rape the girl just before he killed her,” the laborer says, shaking his head behind the paper. Some of the other passengers gasp; others chime in on the conversation.

  Uncomfortable with the direction of the discussion, I turn back to the window and place my hand on my forehead. This is what the Agency of Influence’s negligence has done. Not only am I wanted for murder, there are wild stories being spread that I may have sexually assaulted a girl I never met. And this is on a bus. I can only imagine what the other one and a half million Philadelphians are hearing and saying about me?

  I look up and see more passengers filing on to the bus. People stand in the aisle, hanging on to the bars overhead. I check the skin on my hands. Still fair.

  My phone rings again. It’s Jimenez.

  “That was fast,” I say.

  “Get off at Arch Street and make your way to Reading Terminal Market. An A of I will meet you there.”

  “Shouldn’t I stay on? I’ll be closer to the branch if I take this to the end of the line.”

  “Negative. Get your ass off the bus and get to the Market.”

  I lower my voice. “And the A of I will be there waiting for me?”

  “By the time you get there, yes.”

  “And they know what I look like?”

  “Yes, yes. Blonde hair, flannel shirt.”

  I exhale and smile. “Thanks, Elena.”

  “Bye.”

  I hang up the phone and look outside. I’m still another three stops or so away from Arch. I check my hands again. Still fair.

  “This seat taken?” I hear someone say. I look up and see a briefcase-carrying man in his thirties wearing a suit and tie.

  I stand up. “Here, sit by the window. I’m getting off soon.” The alternative was to be courteous and place my duffel bag on my lap. I switch spots with the man, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. I ignore the man’s gaze as I sit in the aisle seat.

  “You take the bus often?” he says.

  “No.”

  “I just started. Car crapped out last week.”

  “Ouch.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a matchmaker.”

  “Really? That’s great. I bet your clients like working with you.”

  “More or less.”

  “You know, my mom’s been looking for a matchmaker. You have a business card?”

  “I don’t. Sorry.”

  “That’s alright,” he says, looking down at the floor and then through the window. He suddenly turns to look at me again. “Can I—can I have your number? Or take you out for coffee some time?”

  Well, that’s a curveball and not because I’m heterosexual.

  Not caring about what happened to this dude’s car—especially when one considers what happened to mine—is one thing, hurting his feelings is another. I obviously want to say no but I know how rejection feels.

  Besides, even if I was female and did want to see him again, you know how I feel about coffee.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he says. “Just asking.”

  I stare at the man blankly, still unsure of what to say. In turn, he lays his head on the window before taking a long look at the world.

  “You’re not usually aggressive, are you?” I say.

  He shakes his head.

  “Keep trying. Seriously,” I say with a grin. I add a concerned furrow of the brow and a tilt of the head for good measure. His eyes meet mine as he smiles before looking back out into the world. This reminds me of my infatuation with Denise, the girl at the movie theater. I’m not the only sucker for the too-good-to-be-true type.

  When the bus stops at Arch Street, a collective groan filters throughout the bus. Outside, a large crowd waits to climb on board. I get up and twist between a few passengers on my way into the bus’s back stairwell.

  When I yell for the bus driver to open the back door, I notice that my voice is suddenly masculine.

  There’s an A of J here, either on the bus or outside.

  Perfect.

  The manual laborer looks up from his newspaper and looks back in my direction. He then glances at the cover of the paper before glancing at me again.

  “Back door!” I say for the second time, pushing the vertical bars on the double doors.

  The laborer tosses his newspaper aside and inadvertently kicks his lunch pail as he stands up. He steps over, around, and through people on his way to the back of the bus.

  After the back doors finally swing open, I hop onto the sidewalk and walk away from the bus, my head on swivel. I look to the front of the bus and decide that the crowd there is too big for me to run in that direction. When I look to the back of the bus, there are too many pedestrians that way, too.

  I look up at the building in front of me. It’s the US Mint, and there is a horde of people standing in front of the entrance. There’s nothing positive to be found here. Instead, there is only anxiety on the faces of those who now recognize me. I’ll be lucky to make it to Reading Terminal Market.

  I turn around. Newspaper guy, work boots and all, is chasing me. I start sprinting west on Arch Street—which is relatively free of foot traffic— leaving the bus behind. In the far distance, one block down, I can make out Philly’s historical sites. In the near distance, however, are two overweight cops scoping out the menu at a food truck.

  “Hey!” the laborer says. “Stop that guy!”

  I run past the two cops before they’re even aware of what’s going on. I hear newspaper guy tell the cops who I am before I hear the cops’ heavy footsteps as they, too, start chasing me. One of them radios the chase into dispatch and calls for backup.

  I need to find an alley. Quick. Although I’m outrunning these guys with ease—one’s wearing boots and the other two are fat—I’m no track star. With the Mint’s high concrete wall to my right and a small cemetery to my left, there is no opening in which I can hide.

  I come to a red light as I approach Fifth Street. A steady stream of cars flows north on the road, coming from my left. With the three pairs of footsteps drawing nearer, I decide to go for it. I run past one car before stopping in the middle of the road to let another pass. When I start running again, the horn of a third car jars my nerves, stopping me dead in my tracks. When that car, an SUV, gets to within five feet of me, I hold out my hand to protect myself. With the thrust of my hand, however, the car suddenly swerves to its right and misses me by the erect hair on my arms.

  As I reach the sidewalk and stop to breathe a sigh of relief, I hear a loud screech and a boom. I turn around and find newspaper man in the air. He lands in the street, his skull cracking against the asphalt.

  Shit.

  When the Arch Street light turns green, the two cops cross Fifth while radioing the accident to the dispatcher. I turn on the jets once again as remorse starts running through my nerves.

  The closest historical site, the Constitution Center museum, looms large with its white,
stone frontage. I turn to my right and start sprinting up a red brick path leading up to the building. A museum would serve as a good hiding place with many exhibits, restrooms, nooks, and crannies in which to lose the cops and change forms. Getting in will be the hard part. Admission isn’t free.

  Closer to the building’s entrance, I notice the preamble of the Constitution slapped on the top of its façade. We the People. Yeah, right. Where’s the democratic justice in this?

  I reach the end of the path, pull on the front door and nearly lose my arm when it doesn’t open. I glance at the hours posted on the doors; it doesn’t open until 9:30. I look behind me and see the cops only halfway up the path. I peek at the time on my phone: 8:56.

  I start running again, this time down a second path, back toward Arch Street. To my surprise, I can see no cops other than the two officers chasing me. It makes sense, though. If there’s an ongoing manhunt, the city’s police have likely been dispatched to the most ordinary far reaches of the city. The last place they’d expect to find me is in the historical area, the city’s crown jewel.

  Back on Arch Street, I see Independence Hall—our nation’s maternity ward—off in the southern distance. There is a large, grassy mall, about two city blocks in length, leading up to the Hall. In the middle of that mall is a small building containing the Liberty Bell. Running through the mall will make it more difficult on the cops; more ground to cover and no roads on which cruisers can run me down.

  With the onset of fatigue, and with my ankle really bothering me, I cross Arch Street and dash down a small path into the mall. The two overweight cops are still well behind me, across the street even. As oblivious civilians sit on benches or pace during phone conversations, a cruiser comes to a screeching halt behind me in the middle of the street. I turn around and see two more cops climb out of the car. These guys look far more athletic than the first two I outran.

  I turn back around and focus my attention on Independence Hall.

  “Stop, or we will shoot!” says one of the new cops. I have no doubt that the cops have their guns pointed at me but I’m calling their bluff; they won’t shoot with so many civilians around. And even if they were the world’s sharpest shooters, the task of shooting a target is much more difficult when it’s moving.

  I cross another street and continue through the mall.

  Next, my heart almost skips a beat when a large, hulking man comes out of my periphery and tackles me to the ground. I look behind me and find that the two new cops are gaining on me, guns still aimed. When I look up at the man, I’m astounded by his size. He could pass for a professional wrestler. I, on the other hand, am nowhere near his weight class—this man has at least 150 pounds on me.

  “You’re not going anywhere, asshole,” he says.

  I look to my side and see a large rock, the size of a bicycle wheel, lying in the grass set next to the path. I focus on the rock, watching it as I telekinetically lift it off the ground and hurl it at Hulk Hogan’s head. The rock hits him in the face, knocking him back on his ass.

  “Sorry.” I get up and continue towards the Hall.

  Closing in on the Liberty Bell Pavilion, a large group of about twenty to twenty-five kids—first or second graders—gathers outside the building with the help a few chaperones. Surely, the cops wouldn’t shoot now. Given the option to run through the group or around it, I choose the former.

  I take one last look back and see the two athletic cops about twenty yards behind me. Meanwhile, Hulk Hogan has decided to sit the rest of this one out.

  “Get out of the way!” one of the cops yells.

  Some of the kids scurry out of the way while others are caught with the accompanying deer-in-headlights look.

  Delving into the crowd, I run into a little boy wearing a blue Transformers sweatshirt, nearly knocking him over. I hold him up before sprinting again.

  With Independence Hall about thirty yards away and a couple of cops gaining on me, my hamstrings start to tighten. I wish I had taken Ronni up on her offer to take me to yoga class. Speaking of, Ronni would be a welcomed sight right about now. If I manage to survive this catastrophe, I want nothing but to bask in the glow of her brilliant smile while enveloped in the warmth of her embrace.

  I make one last push, crossing Chestnut Street.

  Independence Hall features two archway entrances that flank the building on either side. There is a small, white door on the front of the building that is not open for public use.

  Before I can head for one of the Hall’s two archways, a police cruiser stops just shy of hitting me as I step onto the brick sidewalk leading up to the brick building. I spin away from the cruiser and use all my cognitive strength to lock the cruisers’ doors. As the cops within those cruisers fight their doors, the two athletic cops then join the fray, guns aimed at me. Onlookers behind me clear the area, leaving the spotlight on myself.

  “Don’t come any closer,” I say.

  Behind their guns, the two athletic cops gasp for air. “You’re out of options, Newsome!” one of them says.

  I take a peek over my right shoulder and look at the Hall’s west archway. A restroom waits on the other side.

  “Don’t even think about it!” yells the other cop.

  Short on solutions and even shorter on breath, I hold my hands up by my shoulders. The two cops draw closer, guns still aimed at my head.

  One of the officers takes his cuffs off of his belt. “You’re not getting away this time,” he says.

  I put my hands behind my back, waiting for the cuffs to be laid on my wrist. Instead, the other cop grabs his nightstick and whacks me in the back with it. Temporarily paralyzed, I fall to my knees. The other cop, cuffs still in his hands, simply laughs as his buddy stands behind me.

  “Stay down, you monster,” Nightstick Man says. He whacks me in the back of the neck, forcing me on all fours and causing to form in my eyes.

  I hear the other cops come out of the cruiser. The cop with the nightstick grabs the back of my collar and pulls me back up on my knees. “I hope the inmates do to you what you did to her.”

  With tears streaming down my face, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I let out one last cry, one last wail for help as I scream towards the heavens, cursing Elena Jimenez and the Agency of Influence in the process.

  In doing so, I’m nudged back to the ground, but not by a cop. With a huge rush of air and a rumble of the earth, the two cops closest to me fly backwards, losing their guns and nightsticks along the way. One of them crashes through a window, into Independence Hall while the other hits the building’s brick facing, knocking him unconscious as he falls to the ground.

  Some of the Hall’s windows shatter. The cops who had just arrived at the scene fly back to the other side of Chestnut Street. Their cruisers flip over twice and land on top of them. The poles on the curb, there to keep people from driving up on the Hall’s sidewalk, bend forward. The closest of the Mall’s trees nearly come out of the soil in which they’re planted. To my right, a horse falls on its side, shattering the empty carriage it was hauling.

  When the destruction stops, I feel lightheaded. I go down on all fours again as I attempt to gather myself. I hear sirens in the distance and finally muster the strength to stand up and plod toward the restroom.

  What the hell was that? Richardson told me I could move objects with my mind, but I nearly caused the apocalypse just now and I wasn’t even trying.

  I stumble to the archway and realize that I may actually get out of this. And, although unfair, the PPD’s reputation is going to take a major blow after this incident. Fool them once, shame on me. Fool them twice, shame on them. At least that will be the public’s perception. Given what they’ve done to me, however, I’ll chalk it up to spontaneous karma.

  Inside the restroom, I quickly throw a little water on my face in the hopes that it will wash away the wooziness. I enter a stall before closing and locking it behind me.

  Swoosh!

  I open the stall and pret
end to adjust my suit and tie. I don’t think anyone would confuse the real me with a Caucasian, white-collar worker. A new cop barges into the bathroom, gun raised.

  “Out of the bathroom. Now!” he shouts at me.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, hands in the air.

  As I leave the bathroom, I look back one last time. The cop paces between the sinks and stalls behind me. “Come out of the stall with your hands up, Newsome!”

  I leave the restroom, regaining my legs as I plod into the mild spring air. I look at my cell phone. It’s 9:13.

  The mass of police officers in front of Independence Hall has now doubled in size. I look around for a cab but find none. Philly’s taxis are scarce compared to those in a town like New York but I need to keep moving.

  I turn left down Chestnut Street and embark on my seven-block trek to Reading Terminal Market, envisioning the multitude of backstreets I can take along the way.

  When I take one last look at the scene, the cop who stormed the restroom emerges from the archway and shakes his head with bewilderment.

  I exhale and press on, never again looking back.