I make a big loop around Molokai and the north shore of Oahu before rocketing back to the Big Island. I turn inland, buzz a group of burros, and climb to a couple hundred feet, slowing down to bird speed. Hopefully, I will look avian to the airport radar.
Into town, the view is cool, and I land carefully on the roof of my hotel. Probably another chance I shouldn't have taken, but I'm feeling adventuresome. The light is pleased with me.
I take what I mean to be one last look at the ocean, only there's a heavy duty light down by the shore, about where I went in. A boat is gliding quietly around off shore, using a searchlight on the water surface, and there's a Dodge SUV with a small blue light on its roof parked next to the rocks. On Hawai'i, most of the police drive their own cars, with a little blue light stuck on top when they are on duty.
I have a bad thought. Quickly shifting back to me, I run down to my room, get dressed and play the curious tourist out for a late night - early morning stroll. Two old people are standing there, kind of an odd thing for three in the morning. I wander over to them.
They confirm my fears. The old lady saw a man, about six foot six, black hair, tan swim trunks, go into the water and not come out. Old people are fucking dangerous to others. They aren't going to find me (him), but I don't need a police report with his description (even somewhat in error) out there, and I don't need a newspaper article with it either.
But the alternatives are also bad. If I change into him and show up, I have no ID. A fake name would eventually be found out as a fake name, and then there is a police report. If I give them my name, then his description and my name end up in a police report together. Fuck me. Better the known mystery than opening a door into something I can't be sure about.
I decide to go up stairs and change back into him so I don't have to worry about falling asleep. I hate this, I really hate this.
Four hours later when I check out of the hotel, I ask the desk clerk if they found anything. She makes my day by saying the police concluded that the witness most likely missed the guy coming back out either further up or down the coast, and they hadn't even bothered to send out a description to the hotels to keep a look out. I could have kissed her.
We have a few bumps on the way back, but nothing as bad as I have been through the past few days. Jen gets the biggest hug I can give her when she meets me, and a thorough full body massage when we get back to my place. No visit from the Fog Dude, most likely he's waiting to see what dumbass thing I'll do next. I wonder if he can bail me out of jail?
In the morning, she heads off to work on her own (we drove our own cars back to my place), after we agree that she needs to work late tonight, and I will be tired after my Denver run tomorrow, so a big Saturday night is in order.
Which means that this evening will be the first adventure out for him versus the bad guys. Whatever his name is.
I waste the day. Run a double loop. Go to the driving range. Think about coming back there later as him to see how far he can hit. Lunch at South Coast, and more shopping for XXL clothes. In particular, I buy a cheap pair of shoes in his size. I'm going to punch some holes in the soles as an experiment to see if they will stay on my feet. My eighth grade science teacher would be so proud.
Go home, punch holes in soles, and read newspapers until it's time to sneak out. Starbuck and I head to Anaheim, and park off Katella once more. I do need to find a new alternate spot on my next day off. Grab my bag and head into the alley.
I strip down to my underwear and say the magic word, "dumbass," becoming the mightiest dumbass in the world. Maybe the tallest too. I put on my leather outfit and cheap shoes with the holes in the soles. Grab a few wayward molecules and head for the roof. The shoes are on the ground, bouncing around when I get there. Not a bad idea, but aside from cutting the entire soles off the boots, I think that experiment has come to an end. Socks will not look as cool, but nothing I can do.
Put my bag on the cleanest spot I can find, clip the GPS and untraceable cel phone to my side, and head north. The area I want is above the 105 and east of the airport, so I can find it generally without help. Then I have to trust to karma, or to the spirit of Jack Lord, or to whoever is the god of crime fighters to help me zero in on something good (actually something bad).
It's not entirely obvious how high to fly. Too low, and someone will spot me, too high and I won't see anything useful. It's not as if I don't know how to use my powers. I'm not the clown on the old TV show who lost the instruction manual for his supersuit. I know what I can do, it's just a matter of getting enough practice so I can find the range at which it works.
There's a road out here with lots of sleazy rent by the week for cash hotels that are supposedly a sea of meth labs. The rough plan is to find one, catch the bad guys with the evidence, call the police, tie it up in a nice neat bow, and let justice be done. Without getting caught, filmed, or fucked up in the process.
The find part is apparently even easier than I thought it would be. I head right for one of the properties, colorful well lit sign out front promising low weekly rates, free cable, free wi-fi, and cleanliness. The building itself looks like a strong gust of wind would take it down. Paint older than I am, what was once tan stucco cracked and pealing, no elevator even though it's four stories high, roof mostly old red tile, but patched randomly with black shingles. Obviously cheaper to pay off the inspector than fix it up.
The hotel itself is a rectangle, with each room facing into a central courtyard, concrete with a few open dirt areas that probably held trees in the distant past. Loads of parking on all four sides, lights in the parking lot only in the front, and a single camera over the archway from the front lot into the courtyard. Seems to be there to protect the manager's office, not the residents. Or, just maybe, the residents prefer to be more anonymous than actual cameras would make them.
There is a single door that fascinates me. Third level up, closed, no lights on, can't make out the number from here, but directly across from the archway. In other words, way in the back, rear window facing only parking for this complex and another complex well to the south. I know evil is afoot in that room. The question is only what kind of evil, and how best to end it.
I think about landing and sitting on the roof, but even here that might be suspicious (and the roof might not hold my weight), so I just talk a few molecules into letting me stand on them, a couple hundred feet up. Nice and dark, provided a police helicopter doesn't wander by. Somehow, though, I'm betting the police come here only when absolutely necessary.
Two hours later, bored out of my frakking mind, a beat up 1980s vintage blue and rust colored pickup truck enters the parking lot. Lots of cars have come and gone, but I know this is the one. I like these feelings. I am going to try them out on the lottery tomorrow. Two redneck losers exit the vehicle. Male. One five three, one six three. Probably 250 pounds, each. If anything, the five footer outweighs the six footer. Sandy brown pony tail on shortie, shaved on the other. The tall one leans over the bed and lifts two over-stuffed plastic shopping bags out of the back.
Definitely need to drain my bank account more this weekend. I could have brought my binoculars, nice 10 power jobs I use to watch the cheerleaders at Chargers games, but what I really need is a camera. High power, digital, works well in the dark.
Sure enough the two of them wander all the way to the back of the courtyard, slowly climb the stairs, wait at the top while Mr. I'm Too Fat to Have Rented a Third Floor Walk Up catches his breath, and then let themselves in. Door closes, light goes on, I can't see shit of what is going on inside.
I push ever so gently on my molecules, wondering if they were happier floating, and head around to the back. Doesn't take a genius to figure out which room is it, only one in the middle third floor with the lights on. The curtains are not exactly high quality. I put myself up against the wall, window high, floating, while I decide how best to position myself to see without being seen.
Other side. I can stay to the left of the window, and see sideways into the room through a rip in drapery (if you want to call it that), feet floating out in space. That should also be quieter. The right side of the window is cracked open, and there is no screen. Any noise I make would go right in. Everything except my head and hands is covered in black, and even my hair and eyes are mostly black. Should provide decent cover.
Still, I'm trembling slightly as I start my peeping. What I see makes me shake even more. They are cooking something, and it's not dinner. Masks on their faces, plastic covering much of the apartment, pots, tubing, and empty fast food containers scattered across the room. This is definitely it. These two "gentlemen" are going to have the honor of being my first arrests. OK, not arrests, but what word should I use? Victims? No. Subjects? No. I'll have to think on that.
I bump the wall and scrape my leather jacket as I pull away and head skyward again. Nerves. I don't think they can hurt me, and still I'm shaking like the proverbial leaf. Makes me think better thoughts of the cops who come to rooms like these with only a little flak jacket on.
Back to my aerial perch, I float for another hour or so, until the two leave their lab and head back for the pickup. They head west to the 610 and then east on the 60 to a very normal looking residential neighborhood, then two blocks over and into a standard two car garage, attached to a normal looking house. I put the coordinates into my GPS. The light goes on in the front room of the house, then out, then on in a back room, presumably a bedroom, and then back out almost immediately. I assume that means off to bed, so I am off to Anaheim and home.
Friday means a round trip to Denver. My head is somewhere else, but I manage not to hit any mountains. Spend a quiet evening looking for a new parking lot I can use as a changing spot. Find a couple of likely places, but I'll have to check them from the ground as well.
Saturday morning means a comfortable breakfast with the cat watching SportsCenter. The Angels are, of course, so far out of it that it's not even painful to watch anymore. I briefly entertain the notion of going out for the team, but dismiss it on the grounds that I'd just get walked every time at bat, and there's no one to hit me home.
I check that my binoculars are where I left them, and head to the local big box retailer to buy a camera. It's fifteen hundred bucks for what I want. Fifteen hundred bucks for a decent camera with a telephoto lens, which is ridiculous, but what can I do? They try to sell me an expensive case to go with it, but I grab a solid black backpack big enough to hold all my crap. I'm going to ask Fog Dude to reimburse me. After all, he and the other fog bastards decided not to give me super eyes. I don't know if they have money in Fog Land, but they must have something I could use.
Spend an enjoyable evening with Jen, dinner, dancing at a new club in Irvine, back to my house for chandelier swinging. In the game of throes, though, I have a brief flash of insight, something about not having been at her house in months, then I forget that and slip back into slipping in to her. We curl up together as usual, Halloween nearby with a fresh ball I just gave her.
Sunday is the normal hang out then visit the parents. Jen comments on my fidgeting, which I can't really explain to her. "I was floating outside a meth lab, and I want to get back?" Lots of uncertainty in my life, but I am certain that my big secret needs to stay that way for a while at least. We do it on the couch watching some stupid dancing show, don't remember the action (on the show that is), but the music works great for other pursuits. Just wish those stupid judges would talk less, or time it better. Halloween wakes us up just before the alarm, and we get ready to go our separate ways.
Ms. Mankat is waiting for me at dispatch, hands me my folder without saying a word. It makes me ask, "Problems?"
"No." That's a lie, and I don't need the light to tell me. Normally I wouldn't care, but she must be nice if my dad is trying so hard to keep her away from me. Then I have an insight.
"Matt's a jerk," comes spilling out of my mouth before I can look around to see if he's within earshot.
She smiles at me, laughs a little, and motions me on my way. Turns out I'm working with a new captain I barely know, so the question about where in Matt's plan Ms. Mankat applied the thrust reversers will go unanswered. I fidget all the way to the islands, fidget through a sloppy round of golf, fidget through dinner, fly all the way to French Frigate Shoals in an unsuccessful attempt to fight off the fidgets, then fidget all the way home.
No Jen at dispatch, no text either, but that's ok with me. I'm home, change clothes, into Starbuck and racing to Anaheim at warp speed (actually the correct metaphor should be "using my faster than light drive"). I park, change my face, revel in the spreading power, get leather, and hit the molecule thrusters toward my favorite meth lab. In addition to my phone and GPS, I have a coil of rope I keep in the house for camping.
Now it hits me that I have no plan. How to get in? How to get out? How to not be seen getting in and out? How hard can I hit the guys to not kill them, but incapacitate? What to say to the police to get them out? The light has its answer, which appears to be go for it, who cares about that other stuff. Trust the light. That's what I was told. Trust the light.