Brainquake by Samuel Fuller

Author:Samuel Fuller
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Random House Publisher Services

29

Facing the camera for his passport photo, Paul was unrecognizable. Bronze makeup masked the tape tugging down his left cheekbone, changing the contour of his eyelid. Long-haired dark wig with ponytail. Dark brown beard. Earring, necklace. Battered brown leather jacket.

His picture was taken.

The baby was asleep in the chair.

Paul removed the gear, scrubbed off the makeup, removed wig, beard, tape, and donned his clothes.

Michelle checked her makeup, line of her mouth made slightly fuller, shiny black wig, gypsy earrings, gypsy necklace, gypsy blouse under old blue men’s jacket.

Her picture was taken.

She removed wig, makeup, jewelry, slipped back into her clothes. On his passport typewriter, Johnson had entered their new names and U.S. birthdates, making Paul one year older and Michelle two years younger.

Paul placed both wigs in a cardboard box, the jewelry in a small leather pouch, shoved them in with the makeup box and clothes in the bulging suitcase.

Johnson pasted their photos in their passports.

Paul signed Henry Smith on his. Michelle signed Gaby Smith on hers. Johnson stamped the date, then ENTRIES/ENTREES, POLICE NATIONALE, CHARLES DE GAULLE, FRANCE in both passports and looked at his watch.

“Time to go,” Johnson said. “Got the two hundred grand ready, Paul?”

Paul nodded.

“Twenty thousand for the car?”

Paul nodded. Then he opened his black bag. “Take some.”

Johnson stared at all that cash, pulled just the top $100 bill from one stack.

“That all?” Paul said.

“Enough for ice cubes.”

* * *

Johnson’s pickup passed Van Cortland Park, veered through a heavily wooded area, pulled up under a clump of trees. They got out, heard engines warming up.

Paul had the suitcase. Michelle held the baby and the blue diaper bag.

“Minute I get back I’ll get rid of that roadster.” Johnson pointed. “You’re going behind those trees. Hangar near a dirt runway. Go to their office. You’ll see two men, Woody has a beard, Cappy doesn’t. Give Cappy the two hundred grand and say only two words to him: Brobant farm.”

* * *

Silhouetted against the full moon, Cappy’s small two-engine plane headed toward Newfoundland. The steady drone had put the baby to sleep in Michelle’s arms. To make it more comfortable for her, Paul sat across the aisle by the window.

Michelle wasn’t disturbed. She’d had no chance to be alone to phone Eddie, but there was time. Paul was looking out the window. He turned toward her. His face was blank. She smiled back. Not a word had been exchanged between them. They were as silent as Cappy, at the throttle of the six-seater, staring out into blackness.

Michelle’s eyes roamed to the suitcase on the floor behind Paul. In it was their future. Hers. Eddie’s. The baby’s. It was a future that could only be created by angels, and each of them had a private angel. Thus far she didn’t even have a sliver of guilt about her plan. Paul had told her about the tinge of red in the pink brainquake. He had told her how his father’s brainquake exploded in red just before he died. He said he wanted to write a poem about how the slow change from pink to red meant death.

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