Future Tense

(July 2018)

11-Night and Anticipation

Friday was set aside for the great debate. Tyler decreed a legal holiday, Stan offered the Woodstick arena as the site, and the town council set the time as ten A.M. through noon, and then free beer. The Shack closed for the day, and—using a concession hut equipped with kitchen equipment—Teek and Abuelita would cook burgers, hotdogs, and fries which Mabel, Dipper, and Sheila would serve, while Lorena worked the cash register.

Ideally, everyone would have had a good, sound, night's sleep before the big event. Alas for the residents of the Shack, they did not have that opportunity. They stayed up past midnight researching, getting reports, trying to find the key that would unlock the mystery of Mr. Punt.

At Dipper's recommendation, they called up satellite images of the old Punt mansion. They found half a dozen good ones, the oldest dating back nearly ten years, the most recent having been taken in December of 2016. That one—Ford had to call it up from a classified web site—was exceptionally sharp and high-rez.

"All I can tell about it," complained Mabel, "is that it's big!"

It occupied a one-acre lot, with a reasonable front yard and a half-acre or more back yard. The photo had been taken about noon on a mid-December day, with minimal shadows. An overlay of dotted white lines showed the boundaries of the lot. Dipper agreed with Mabel, to an extent: "I guess what we really need is to reconnoiter the place if we can slip onto the property without being noticed. We'll need to see if we can locate a door or maybe a window where we can get inside without causing damage."

Wendy, leaning close to the screen, asked, "What's this in the back yard?"'

Ford said, "It's hard to make out. Dipper, can you boost the contrast?"

Dipper saved the file, a big one, and then loaded it in his Pictoshop app. "OK, let me fool around for a minute . . . you guys look one and tell me if I'm getting close to what you want. . .."

"There, stop there," Wendy said. She pointed a finger. "I thought this was some kind of weird-shaped building behind the house, but it's probably just a flowerbed or some biz."

"Odd shape, though," Dipper said.

The back yard looked groomed—mowed, at least—though the grass was yellow with winter. However, in one spot, not all that large, a roundish patch of still-green vegetation showed up. It was roughly in the shape of an artist's palette, an irregular, deformed oval.

Mabel stared at it. "How big is it?"

"Dunno how big the house is," Wendy said. "But it looks sizeable. 'Bout—what would you say, Dr. P?"

"I'd hesitate to claim accuracy, but given the scale, I would judge it to be perhaps five meters on the longer diameter, perhaps four on the shorter one."

"That's probably holly or something growing in it," Mabel said. "Or something that stays green in the wintertime."

"Don't think it's holly," Wendy said. "It's not that dark a green. Maybe Osmanthus heterophyllus, but when that's mature, it's three feet tall, and this stuff is short for that."

Ford said, "You never fail to amaze me, Wendy! How did you know—"

"I've had botany," Wendy said, smiling.

"She aced it!" Dipper added, beaming with pride.

"Well, wonderful. I'm not sure it's a garden, though. Perhaps the overgrown, spreading remnant of a flowerbed. If we have time, we'll try to examine it during our reconnaissance."

"Where'd Grunkle Stan go?" Mabel asked.

"Back home and to bed," Ford told her. "He has the debate coming up tomorrow."

"Yeah," Dipper said, "I'm kinda worried about him getting off the track and—what's that?"

"That" was the sound of the secret door opening and someone coming down the steps. "Anybody here?" asked a woman's voice.

"Through the lab, into the back conference room," Ford called.

Agent Hazard came in. "Mr. Pines is back home, and the alarms and cameras are online and active," she said. "Hi, Wendy. Dipper, chased any ghosts lately? How's the theater career going, Mabel?"

"Amy!" Mabel said. "It's good to see you! Man, in that skin-tight black suit, you look hot! Doesn't she, Dip?"

With a quick glance at Wendy, whose smile was enigmatic, Dipper said, "Um, I think it's more practical than dressy. For sentinel duty."

"Does show you off, though," Wendy said.

For a second the two ladies held each other's gaze, both smiling. And then Ford interrupted: "Agent Hazard, we've been discussing this local house that the subject has rented for short-term occupancy. I'll give you the address. We need to do a surreptitious examination of it, with a special eye to the possibility of obtaining clandestine access if that becomes necessary. I'd like you to undertake that, preferably just at first light tomorrow morning."

"Understood, Director. Give me the info, and if we're clear here, then I'll get some rest. I'll report to you tomorrow. Photographs?"

"Yes. You know what to look for, and I'll trust your discretion." Ford scribbled something on a blank notecard and passed it over. "Unless something unexpected happens, you can find me at the arena office at 1200 hours or later. In case of emergency, phone the backup line at once. Otherwise, call on the discreet line before you rendezvous. And in your recon, be very careful not to be spotted," he warned Hazard.

"Always am," she said. "Goodnight. I'll go now—or do you want me to accompany you to your place?" she asked Ford.

Ford looked at his watch. "Good heavens, fifteen past midnight. Yes, that will be as well. The Shack is protected." He stood and stretched. "Agent Hazard is staying in our guest room. We'll take our leave, and I'd suggest you three turn in as well. Tomorrow will be a busy day."

"Hey, Amy," Wendy said, turning the laptop. "Look at this in the back yard of the place. We're wondering what this green patch is, so when you do your recon, if you get a chance—"

"Sure, I'll take a look." Ford was shrugging into his coat—he still habitually wore his long coat when he was involved in an investigation. Agent Hazard asked Dipper, "How are you liking married life?"

"Loving every minute of it," Wendy said, and Dipper, grinning and feeling twelve years old, nodded.

"Great. Ready, Director?"

"Ready," Ford said. "Dipper, please see to locking up the lab."

"Got it," Dipper said.

They closed down everything and went back upstairs. Mabel let Tripper out for a last potty break, and Dipper and Wendy waited until he came back and made sure the door was locked.

Up in the attic, in bed, Dipper silently asked Wendy, Am I imagining things, or is Amy Hazard still kind of interested in you?

—Maybe a little bit. Don't let it but you, 'cause I'm happy with what I got, Dip. Show you maybe on Monday, after I'm back to normal.

Assuming Grunkle Stan doesn't screw up tomorrow, Dipper thought to her. You know, I can't blame Amy for being flirty. You're both beautiful. And like Grunkle Ford says, you'd be a heck of a great Agent.

—Yeah, thanks, Dip. But like I told you, I'm happy with what I got. And I got you, man.

They kissed—chastely, Wendy was just getting over cramps—and fell asleep in each other's arms.

Nothing disturbed the Shack or them.

That night, anyway.

Technically, Punt's rental of the old mansion began at one minute past midnight, but he certainly did not intend take possession of the house at such ungodly hour. As a hard-driving businessman, he had become accustomed to rising only around ten in the morning, and he had already scheduled his official move into the house for the next Wednesday—just after winning the Mayoral election.

He would need the power of the Mayor's office to find what he needed to find and deal with that. And to set his master plan for the Valley in motion.

Rarely did he ever go to sleep before one or two in the morning at the earliest. The evenings weren't so hot for doing business in the ordinary sense, but those hours were great for schmoozing, for doing the down-low kind of business—an under the table payment here, a threat of blackmail there, bribes to grease the skids, payoffs and collections, that kind of business.

On the Thursday night before the debate, he turned in at eleven and then lay there channel-surfing. Local news, who needed it, stupid concerns for stupid people in this stupid hick place. National news, terrorists blamed for a shooting in Canada, who worries about anything in Canada, the Administration in Washington dealing with detaining illegals on the border, boring, boring, no big financial possibilities in any of that, and then into the business report, worries about a trade war balancing strong earnings on stocks, blah, blay, blah, his own holdings had not grown or shrunk to any significant degree, so as far as he was concerned, there was no big business news.

No stock windfall, damn it. He could use one. Money was a problem right at that point in his life. Though he put up a good front, he had actually run through his multimillion-dollar payday from the reality show.

In fact, Punt was living on loans obtained from frankly dodgy sources. Which had led to his deciding to come back to dear old Gravity Falls. In the first place, he had a scheme to make a lot of money quickly. In the second place, he had unfinished business here.

He watched the news until the weather came on. Tomorrow was going to be hot but fine, no rain, few clouds, a high of 88, low of 47. He fell asleep before the weather girl wound up with, "It looks like a typical nice summer day, so get out and enjoy it!"

By then the time was about 1:20 A.M, and he was snoring.

And so on that Friday morning, in his hotel outside the Valley, Punt lay in bed, asleep, with a call for nine A.M. That would give him time to get up, dress, grab coffee and a breakfast burrito or sandwich, and be driven to the debate site, arriving perhaps one minute late. It's always good to make a big entrance….

Keeps the rubes on their toes, you might say.

He dreamed inchoate scenes of triumph and revenge.