“I’ve been watching him for a while. Always keep your eye on the little guy.”
~ James Chartrand
Please read the original Men with Pens drive-by unless you’re okay with an otherwise totally random post. Enjoy!
Writer Dad knew they’d been there exactly four seconds before he opened the door. Sean hugged his typewriter tightly to his chest, then slipped through the narrow opening.
His nostrils flinched. A recently oiled gun… he’d put his money on a Glock.
He inched into the room and pulled the typewriter from his trench coat, then set it next to the old one without looking. He was sorry to see it go, but it was heavy. The new one was two-thirds the size, but custom built and twice as fast – he’d have all the speed he could ever use.
Damn! he thought, spying the thin slice of open window, his cover was blown. He’d slipped into town a few months back, but they’d found him already. His fault for not keeping a lower profile.
He crossed the room, eyes dancing across the shadows, and lifted the sash. Wind smarted his cheek, and Writer Dad was certain he saw the last of a wayward footprint swallowed by a rolling whirlwind of snow.
“Daisy,” he called, one eye still on the room as he aimed his breath through a slit of open doorway. “Take the children to the basement and put on something by Pixar. I need a minute.”
She knew she didn’t need to answer.
Halfway to the typewriter he noticed his twitter askew. The intruders had combed the walls, but hadn’t found what they were looking for. He kept it in his Thesis, page twenty-three.
Everybody used Thesis; it was the last place they’d think to look.
He sat, pulled a sheet from the shelf, inserted it into the manual and rolled it forward in a single fluid motion. Only when his fingers were hovering above the home row did he notice the old iron giant.
BANG, the sheet peeped from the crown above the carriage.
James and Harry had left their card.
Writer Dad shook his head. They were the best. The only ones who had managed to track him across Paris, Singapore…. Kuala Lumpur.
A chill rolled down his body at the memory.
There wasn’t much time.
Writer Dad drew the shades and started moving things about the room, eliminating unnecessary text and darkening his navigation tabs. He pulled the Blog Boost icon from the frame, slipped it inside another, then nodded. A perfect blend. He paced the room, arms full, and placed the RSS icon in line with the doorway – it would be the first thing they saw the next time they opened the door – then hung the bottle of ink immediately beneath.
That should do it, he inspected the room a final time. He had to get back to the family. Another minute and the children would start asking questions. There was more to fix, but it would have to wait.
He walked to the window and peered through the snow smeared pane. He’d have to finish the job, he spied the neat row of four hovering eyes glowing in the dark. They were watching.
Writer Dad
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