Chapter 4

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die."

I rolled my eyes. Again? Were we going to have to go through this every single time? I dutifully pulled off my glove and once again satisfied my adversary that I was not the man for whom he was searching. We chatted a little longer this time, although he seemed to smile at my wish to become a swordsman. I was happy with the progress, although the whole thing was starting to feel a little like Groundhog Day.

"Don't you have a "save" setting?" I asked Wizen after that night's lesson had ended and I had filled him in on my progress.

"I don't understand."

"Like, you're playing a game, right? And you realize that you have to go to work, okay?"

He nodded.

"So you hit 'save, ' and then when you come home — assuming that you have nothing else in the world to do, which is probably a pretty safe assumption with most of us — you dive right back in where you left off."

"Of course."

"So if I had something like that with my new friend Inigo, I wouldn't have to convince him every night that I'm not the guy who killed his father."

Wizen didn't answer me directly. But the last thing I saw before he waved his hand again was his smile and nod.

"I'm not saying you're weird," Allison said. "I said it is weird. It."

"Like your dreams are perfectly normal," I said. We were finishing our lunch at a table in Tarber's Cafeteria. The food was good, cheap, and served promptly. Largely because we served it ourselves. For those reasons, and because it was right around the corner from the newspaper's office, it usually attracted a large crowd of reporters and editors. Rachel and some of her fellow editors, in fact, were sitting at a table about thirty feet away.

I never went there on Mondays. Allison and Eric had a standing lunch date on Monday. That would have meant me having lunch with Dan, since Shawn had never deigned to grace Tarber's with her presence. And I had no inclination to spend an hour of my day trying to find something in common with Dan.

Tuesdays, though — "Tuesdays with Allie," I called them — were different. The mayor had a peculiar habit of scheduling press conferences for noon on Tuesdays, probably just so he could jerk around the reporters that covered city hall. Dan's absence meant that Allie and I could spend the entire lunch hour trashing the latest American Idol winner, solving the world's problems, and chatting about life in general.

"Of course they're normal," Allison said with a laugh. "Everything I do is normal."

"As opposed to everything I do," I said.

"Will you stop getting so defensive? Jesus, Rick."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"Your dreams aren't any more or less normal than anyone else's," she said. "But if you didn't think they were a little weird, you wouldn't have brought them up."

Like most of Allie's arguments, it was indisputable.

"On the other hand," she continued, eyeing the unfinished brownie on my plate as she spoke, "I've never heard of anyone who dreamed like TV before."

"It's not like TV," I protested.

"It's just like it. You have two characters, you and this Wizen guy, and you get into all sorts of adventures. He's Peabody and you're his boy Sherman."

"Har har har."

"Except now you have Inigo Montoya as a guest star. I wouldn't mind having him in one of my dreams."

We heard the scrape of chairs and turned to see Rachel's group standing up to leave. We looked at each other and silently decided that it was time for us to go as well. As we were preparing to leave, though, Rachel and Bill McIntyre, the paper's assistant managing editor, wound their way through the dining room to our table.

"Handley," Bill said. "Nice job on that Jalegos piece."

He butchered the name so badly — pronouncing it Jallagose — that it took me a second to realize that he was talking about an obit that had appeared in Monday's paper. It was one I had particularly enjoyed writing. The Second World War had produced these marvelous stories about people from small towns who had metamorphosed into scientists and soldiers and strategists. Heroes every one of them. Jalegos had been a day laborer in a suburb of Charleston when he was called up. He had been awarded a Silver Star on Iwo Jima, and returned to the United States to found his own trucking company.

"Thank you, sir," I said.

Rachel had been pleased with the story as well, and was just as pleased with the compliment.

"I need to see you when you get back, Richard. My office?"

"We're right behind you, Rachel," I said.

It took us a little longer, of course. When we had Dan with us, I made an effort to keep his pace. On Tuesdays, Allie was happy to walk along at mine.

"Oooh," she said. "Must be a promotion, huh?"

"I'm sure that's it," I agreed. "Chief Obituary Writer, probably."

I wheeled myself up to the door to Rachel's office when we returned, and stopped short when I saw Shawn in there. I debated for a moment whether I should knock and announce myself or wait until Shawn was finished. Of course, I did use that moment to admire the view. Shawn was perched on Rachel's desk, kicking her long legs slightly back and forth. She was wearing a tight, short skirt once again, along with a white blouse and a silver necklace. As usual, Rachel's dress was more conservative. The skirt of her pale blue suit almost reached her knees, and her heels were a good inch shorter than Shawn's. Still, she could play in my dreams anytime she wanted.

"Rick." Rachel caught sight of me waiting and waved me in to join them.

"The Governor has decided to take a spur-of-the-moment vacation," Rachel explained. "So he'll be away starting this weekend for the next — what, two weeks?"

Shawn nodded.

"While school's in session?" I asked. "I thought his kids were in junior high or something."

"One's thirteen, the other's nine," Shawn explained. "This is a men-only trip. Dove-hunting."

"So anyway," Rachel said, "Shawn's asked for some time off, too. Which means we need someone to substitute at the statehouse."

"It's not like anything's going to happen," Shawn assured me.

"I'm sure that Richard could handle it if it did," Rachel said.

Shawn shrugged.

"You want me to cover the statehouse?" I asked.

"I do," Rachel said. "How 'bout it?"

I fought to keep the grin off my face, to keep them from knowing how eager I was.

"Who's gonna do the obits?"

Shawn laughed.

"It's not like it's going to take you the whole day, Hando."

Rachel shot her a glare.

"It's true, Rach," Shawn said with another laugh. "His press secretary's going with him, which means that Krissy Mackley is going to be doing the availabilities. They wouldn't let her announce her own resignation for fear she'd fuck it up and announce she'd been appointed governor."

Rachel turned back to me.

"She's right, Rick. Miss Mackley will hand out announcements at 10, and you can give the press office your cell phone number in case they need to get in touch with you. You don't need to be there full time."

"So you want me to do the obits and the state house?" I tried to keep my voice from seeming whiny, apparently without success.

"It's an opportunity, Rick," Rachel said. "The state's not going to shut down just because the governor's on vacation. You can keep any story that comes up while Shawn is gone. But she's right. You don't need to be there all day. The statehouse is about a mile from your apartment, in the other direction. So I'm thinking that you spend the morning there, and the afternoon working out of your apartment writing obituaries. I know you won't be able to get as many done and that's fine. You tell me which ones you want to write, and Alison, Dan, and I will do the others. Some can just wait."

I paused a moment. It was a lot of work. It could turn out to be shit. But it was an opportunity. And there had been precious few during my newspaper career.

"I'll do it."

"Good man." Rachel nodded. "You start Monday. Call in every day. You have the code for our intranet?"

I finally let them see the grin. I would be damned if I didn't file at least a story every other day. If Rachel didn't want to run it, that was her decision.

"Hello, my name is —"

"Oh, for Chrissake. Look here, Charlie. Five fingers."

Inigo gave me a quizzical look, but his sword never wavered.

"Then tell me why you wear the glove."

That was a damn good question. I found myself wondering why it hadn't occurred to him in last night's dream. Of course, if we'd used the fucking "save" button, I wouldn't be having to try to answer it.

"It was cheap," I said. I threw the glove on the ground.

"Fair enough. Who are you?"

"Handley. Ri — just Handley will be fine."

"What brings you to Spain, Handley?"

"I heard there was a master here."

"We have plenty of masters. Roberto over there is a master of bakery. Carlos is a master wheelwright."

"I'm looking for a master swordsman."

"Ah, a master swordsman. I'm afraid I have been here two weeks, my friend, and I have yet to find a master swordsman."

"I see. Well, how about I buy you a drink and we talk it over?"

I nodded at the tavern across the street. Inigo smiled and sheathed his sword.

"It is a thirsty town," he agreed.

I ordered us whiskeys, and paid with a coin I found in my pocket. Afterwards, I had my first fencing lesson.

"What did you learn?"

"That I'm going to have to go through this 'prepare to die' shit every goddamn night," I muttered.

"I beg your — oh, your 'save' setting."

"Yes," I said, mimicking his voice. "My 'save' setting."

"Well, of course, you didn't ask for it until after last night's session was over," Wizen said. "That would be like saving a video game after the game was over, wouldn't it?"

I sat up.

"So you put it in tonight?"

"Of course." Wizen smiled at me. "A relatively simple matter. An excellent idea really. I'm disappointed I didn't think of it myself."

"Yeah, well. Don't beat yourself up over it. So it will work next time?"

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What Feats He Did That Day

Marsh Alien

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