The Tattler

THE TATTLER

Copyright 2016

by Chad Descoteaux

For more quirky science fiction from this author…

www.turtlerocketbooks.com

This is 100% a work of fiction, a fact that will become pretty obvious pretty early on. Any references to actual persons, living or dead, is an example of social or cultural commentary and are not endorsed by anyone except the satirist that wrote this book.

PROLOGUE

Spending summers with his grandparents in their quaint little farmhouse in Westchester, New York would no doubt provide six-year-old Barry Young with many cherished memories. His grandmother’s cooking. Playing catch with his grandfather. Watching Grandpa play baseball with his friends, all of whom were very healthy for their age. But the thing that Barry looked forward to the most, especially this summer, was using the gift his grandfather had given him. It was under his bed right now, in the box it came in. It was both a relic from the past and something Barry would use to create new memories.

It was a camera, one his grandfather bought years ago and kept in pristine condition ever since. As Barry tried to sleep, he thought of all the things on his grandfather’s farm he wanted to take pictures of. He was inspired by some of the pictures his mother had on the wall back home, which were all very rustic in nature. Both her living room and her kitchen were decorated with pictures of rustic scenes, accented by miniature straw hats on the walls.

Barry could not sleep. He never could when he was this excited. He jumped onto his knees and peered out of the nearest window, above the edge of his bed. Immediately, he saw a scene that would make an awesome picture, a barn bathed in moonlight, so he hopped off the bed and got his camera. He looked through the lens and framed his shot, just like his grandfather taught him how to do.

Suddenly, a barrage of blinding light flooded into Barry’s room from this window. It startled him. He dropped his camera while attempting to shield his eyes. Multi-colored balls of light danced in his blurred vision as he fell backwards, off his bed.

The next thing Barry remembers is waking up in a hospital bed. There was an empty bed next to him with ‘get well’ cards covering the wall behind it. The print on a balloon told Barry that a kid named Scott was staying there. Barry heard the sounds of children at play coming from an adjacent room and assumed that’s where the other kid was. He looked up and saw one of his favorite cartoons on the TV above him. He only had to look at the TV for a split second before he realized his head hurt. The bright colors of this cartoon made him wince, burning his eyes. This had never happened to him before.

A cheery, twenty-something nurse walked into Barry’s room just then with a flower in her hair and a tray of food for Scott. Her name was Rosa. Her face lit up when she saw Barry was awake.

Hey, buddy! Rosa said, reaching down for the stethoscope around her neck. You’re awake! How do you feel? You had a pretty bad fall. Do you need anything?"

Rosa started checking Barry’s heart and blood pressure. I’m hungry, the young boy confessed, shivering because the stethoscope was cold against his bare chest.

I think I can handle that, Rosa said, maintaining her cheerful tone. She gave him the tray of food she was going to give to Scott. Here. I’ll get some more food when Scott gets back from the play room. If you need anything else, just let me know. I’ll be back in five minutes.

Rosa left the room and Barry started eating his food, biting into a piece of chicken. Restless, he got off the bed and started walking towards the play room with the chicken leg in his hand. There were at least twelve other kids in this room, about the same age as Barry. Some of them were coloring. Others were playing with action figures, dolls, cars or trucks. There were doctors in there, sitting with their butts on the undersized kiddie chairs and talking with their young patients.

Barry walked past a wall full of colorful drawings as he continued to eat his chicken. Barry was too focused on the abundance of toys in this room to notice the drawings and what was specifically odd about them. Each one of these drawings had a different, creative color scheme, but each and every one of these drawings was of the same thing. An alien with large, bug eyes and a long face, holding what looked like a screwdriver. It would have seemed unusual to an older observer that all these drawings were of the same thing, as they were free-drawn and not a picture the child had colored from a coloring book or something else. It was as if the hospital was having a drawing contest and ‘alien with a screwdriver’ was the theme.

Barry saw a toy fire truck he liked, sitting on a nearby table, and walked up to the kid who was sitting there, drawing with crayons as well. Hi, the friendly child said, greeting Barry. My name is Scott. This was Barry’s roommate.

I’m Barry, Barry replied, noticing the drawing Scott was doing. It (no surprise) was of an alien with big eyes and a screwdriver-thing in his hand. I like your drawing.

Thanks, said Scott, proudly holding up his masterpiece. Do you think it looks like them?

Like who? Barry asked. He wondered, was this supposed to be a character from a cartoon show I’ve never seen? He had been at his grandparents all summer and they didn’t have cable.

Scott looked at Barry like he was crazy. You don’t remember them? he asked with disbelief. How could you? Scott’s hands started to shake as he quickly became upset. He started to cry. They made you forget? How did they… Scott’s words were interrupted when a doctor came over and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He spoke consoling words and the child calmed down quickly. Barry edged away slowly with the toy fire truck in his hand, not sure what to make of all this. But he was soon comforted by hearing the voice of his grandparents behind him.

Spinning around in his socks, Barry saw them talking to Rosa. Barry’s grandmother pointed at Barry when she saw him coming her way. These were Barry’s father’s parents. Barry’s father is black and Barry’s skin tone is white like his mother, so the resemblance between Barry and his African-American grandparents is less obvious to some people. Barry quickly dropped the fire truck and ran over to give his grandmother a hug. His grandfather got down on one knee and, after hugging the boy, handed him his camera. You forgot this at home, son, he said, knowing how much Barry would miss it.

Looking down at his beloved camera, Barry thought about what Scott had said earlier. If I had this thing, I could have just taken pictures of whatever happened to me. The stuff I don’t remember, he thought. Then I would have all the evidence right here. I would at least know what happened to me. And to all these kids.

Walking towards his hospital bed with his grandparents, Barry noticed the TV was on, broadcasting a news story about fifteen missing children that were found on an abandoned farm in Westchester, New York. They took notice because this is what happened to Barry.

That’s MacGregor’s Field, Barry’s grandfather said to his wife.

The surrounding neighbors told us this farm had been abandoned for over a century, a news reporter told the camera. And that the only thing unusual about this field was the occurrence of a few freak lightning storms in previous weeks that could be seen from all the farms in the area.

Something unusual had happened to Barry indeed.

CHAPTER ONE

PAPARAZZI NINJA

Twenty years later.

Chronic night owl Barry Young woke up from a deep sleep at two o’clock in the afternoon, an uncommon schedule this freelance photographer had kept for quite some time. He rubbed his eyes and climbed out of bed as he did every day, thinking about how much he loved his job. He got paid for taking pictures, something he had been passionate about since he was six. He got to make his own schedule. And he got to meet celebrities, albeit briefly, before their bodyguards or security teams ushered him away from their boss with either threats or actual physical violence.

Walking over to an open window that overlooked the farm town of Westchester, Barry stretched and let out a yawn, still wearing nothing but the pair of torn white briefs he had been sleeping in. Barry’s nearest neighbor was about four miles away, so stretching near the open window in his underwear was not the flagrant act of borderline public nudity it would be if Barry still lived in New York City. Barry lived in the same well-maintained century-old house he had spent many happy summers in when he was a child. This house once belonged to his grandparents (on his father’s side) and it was bequeathed to the then-twenty-one-year-old Barry when his grandfather passed away. The house was paid for and Barry appreciated the peace and quiet Westchester afforded him, so he stayed here.

Barry walked over to a laptop, resting on a sturdy antique desk on the other side of his bedroom. He opened a computer program he had written himself. This computer program allowed him to hack into the computer system of every fancy five-star restaurant in New York City, which was about an hour’s drive away. It was not to steal money or do anything that illegal, but to see their reservation lists. This way, he would know what celebrity was dining at what fancy restaurant and when.

Scrolling down the guest list of a restaurant with the French name ‘Boui-Boui’, Barry’s eyes focused on one name he recognized. It was not technically the name of a celebrity, but an alias one Hollywood movie star had used multiple times before. Barry smiled, grabbing a pen off his desk, drumming with this pen as he grinned from ear to ear. Guess who’s back in town! Barry said with glee, writing the celebrity’s name and the time of his reservation. Barry jumped up from his chair, knowing it was time to get to work.

Opening the creaky door of a large closet, Barry pushed aside all his normal clothes and instead focused on a section of his closet that had restaurant uniforms for each of the fancy New York City restaurants he usually monitored. Each name tag had a different name on it. Barry had aliases of his own. He grabbed a heavy cardboard box from an upper shelf and slid it down. This box was filled with all sorts of things he would use as disguises while trying to get that perfect picture of a show business, sports or political hot shot. There were countless wigs, glasses, fake noses, fake teeth and moustaches. Looking through his collection, Barry’s creative mind searched for the right character, someone he had not become before and therefore would not be recognized so easily. He found a black, curly wig and put it on before slipping a pair of fake teeth into his mouth. He glanced into the mirror and studied his appearance, raising his eyebrow before shrugging. Eh, he said with a put-on voice that was a few pitches higher than his own. Needs a moustache, Barry noted. And he had many.

After selecting the appropriate disguise for his work, Barry lugged the clunky box of disguises back onto the upper shelf of his closet. Before turning off the light and closing the door, Barry took one prolonged glance at a collage of photographs he had scotch-taped to the inside of this closet door. They were all photographs of the same person, a shapely, dark-skinned biracial woman Barry had dated for some time. They had broken up a few months ago. Her name was Nikki Graves. Nikki was a focused, no-nonsense career woman who still worked as a city beat reporter for the Daily Chronicle, which is where she and Barry first met years prior.

The pictures in Barry’s closet were not selfies or pictures of the two of them from when they were dating. These were angled pictures of Nikki when she was alone, walking to her car or into a building, clearly taken without her knowledge. In each of the pictures, she was looking the other way, or the shot was from above, as if Barry had taken it while lurking in a tree, taking his skills as a paparazzo into a new and creepy realm.

***

An hour later, Barry found himself in the alley outside of the Boui-Boui restaurant, where most of the employees took their cigarette break, pretending to smoke an empty rolled-up sales receipt from the gas station. He watched the shiniest, most souped-up, purple Lamborghini he had ever seen pull up to the restaurant and, lo and behold, his target stepped out wearing a white suit, a silk shirt that cost more than the car, and matching Italian loafers.

It was Brandon Jagger, an Austrian actor who had become quite a noteworthy action movie star over the past decade, despite criticism from militant movie buffs on the Internet who said he didn’t actually have any martial arts training. In fact, he started his career working with a ballet company in his hometown of Vienna. Since dancing and movie martial arts are both heavily choreographed, Brandon Jagger found the transition from ballet to action star fairly easy. Lifting his camera phone, Barry zoomed in on this arrogant man as he tossed his car keys to the valet, snapping a few pictures of Brandon Jagger’s handsome smile, salon-quality hair and confident swagger.

The door on the other side of the car was opened by a second, vest-wearing employee of this restaurant. A pair of finely sculpted legs poked out from the passenger’s side of the car as Mr. Jagger’s date emerged from within. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder purple dress that matched the car perfectly. Barry got some great shots of this tall, fresh-faced blonde as well. The fact that she was at least twenty years Brandon’s junior did not faze Barry until the realization hit him of who this teenage beauty actually was. He mouthed the word ‘holy’ to himself before the steel door that led to the restaurant’s kitchen from the alley suddenly jerked open. Barry slipped his camera phone into his sleeve and turned around. One of the bus boys leaned out from behind this door and called out to him. Hey! The rush is about to start. Pete wants everyone inside!

What a stroke of fortune! Barry thought to himself, smirking like a six-year-old, as he followed his work mates back inside the Boui-Boui. He was only planning to blend in with the bus boys taking a cigarette break and get some pictures of Jagger and company from outside the restaurant. Now, this was his opportunity to actually go inside the restaurant for a closer look, which was even more fortuitous, considering who his date was. No one has broken the story of this relationship yet, Barry thought. This is going to be worth a lot of money to my editor!

Barry strapped on an apron and started working as a bus boy in this busy restaurant, keeping his eye on the table where the aged action star and his date were sitting. They seemed to be having a good time, laughing it up as they perused the same menu, sitting close to each other with the occasional peck on the lips. I gotta get closer, Barry thought to himself, eyeballing a potted plant in their section of the dining room that would give him a perfect shot of the couple. It was right next to a supply closet he could hide in if he was spotted by any member of the serving staff. He noticed a counter where all the finished food orders were being placed before being delivered by the serving staff. Grabbing a tray that was going to the same room as Brandon, Barry decided to promote himself to waiter.

He walked over to an elderly couple, who immediately smiled when Barry came over and