Chapter 2
Agent Chris Summers stood in Higgins' backyard, watching the futile crime-scene procedure take place around him in a blur. He knew there was nothing else to find. There'd been a struggle. Higgins was injured, and now likely with Shane. Did they expect Shane to have Dr.opped a clue?
Never. Whatever Shane had intended to happen likely happened. If Shane wanted Higgins dead, he'd be dead. Summers reasoned that if Shane kept him alive, it was only to torture him, maybe for fun, maybe to get some sort of information, or maybe–
Summers scratched his head. Maybe it wasn't torture. Maybe Shane had a change of heart. Judging from how much of his collective bio-substance floated around the pool, Higgins couldn't have escaped by his own means. But he had to be alive, and with Shane, and something had caused a change of heart.
He stared at the caution tape in the backyard and felt nostalgia burn. A whispering from deep in his subconscious resounded, a scar from his childhood that plagued him ever since.
"I can feel it," his parents’ killer echoed from far away. "So cold."
His aunt had made him watch. Told him it'd be good for closure, for his spirit, "The work of the man upstairs," she'd said.
He'd only been ten. Two years before that time, in 1992, he'd come from a friends house to the same caution tape blocking off his house, a crowd of neighbors and bystanders watching, and a police officer advising them to stand back. Summers had rushed forward, tears in his eyes. "That's my house!" he yelled, and the cop turned to someone over. They'd sat him down, two of them–a man in a jacket and a man in uniform, and put a hand on his shoulder. He remembered that he hadn't understood at first. Home invasion. Home invasion.
His dad had been an ER physician. Summers could still remember that it seemed like everyone in the hospital wanted to be involved, wanted to bring him back. "Not his father too," they whispered when they thought Summers was out of earshot. Then his aunt came and took him to live with her and her husband. Eight years later he finished high school with a full scholarship to UM, majoring in Criminology. After school he joined the police academy, and six months later he graduated and was hired by the Raleigh Police Department. A few months afterwards he submitted his application to the FBI and two years later he was working in the CID as a field investigator, and for the first time in his life he felt he had control–he didn't hate himself. In fact, he felt cool. Special Agent Chris Summers had a nice ring to it.
He shook his head and turned from the crime scene. His footsteps resounded, a hollow echoing, as he walked past the pool and around the back of the house. The pool water chimed behind the sound of his steps and behind the low voices of various investigators, and Summers focused his attention on the pool's soothing rhythm that dissipated to nothing as he approached his car. That was a long time ago–that feeling, that memory. The promotion was flattering at first, his salary had doubled. But the work–well… He wasn't the executioner, but he held the executioner's coattails off of bloody floors.
Inside his car, he marked on his report that Shane doesn't murder mindlessly, important in his line of work. The court would deal with the punishment for his crimes, but as for the FBE, Shane's genes were still an option. They wanted his genius mind, but they wanted it without the murderer's heart. And now that was still possible.
Higgins’ Honda Civic was spotted near a run-down Motel 6 the next morning, about six miles away. Parking his car an hour after the tip was called in, Summers stepped out into the afternoon sun and glanced around, thinking that if he were a criminal, this is where he would be.
It was the perfect place to hide, an area untouched by modern civility. Run-down, Dr.ug-dealing, mold-crusted homes and balconies crammed with rotting furniture, stolen goods, Dr.ugs, black market paraphernalia, and the sounds of coughing and glass shattering which echoed endlessly through dark alleys.
Summers put on his sunglasses, then checked and holstered his pistol. He pulled on the handle of his car door to ensure it was locked, and then began walking, looking for the silver Honda. In a nearby alleyway, two bums scratched scabs on their arms and licked their Dr.y lips as he walked by.
"Hey mama look here, it's the FBE!" the first said, skinny, wearing torn jeans and missing an eye.
The woman, wearing brown sheets covered in white stains, stood as Summers passed by. "Hey handsome. Why don't you come back on over here? I've got some good genes!" she said. He ignored her, and she let out a Dr.y choking laugh.
"Hey Mama what are you trying to do? He don't want any of that!" the first yelled back.
At times like these, Summers hated his promotion. In fact, he always hated his promotion. He considered the morality of his work constantly. The "no cruel and unusual punishment" government asterisk floated like a bubble in the backs of involved minds. The argument was simple: a man's "manhood" verses a man's life. The whispering of his parents’ killer haunted him–in his opinion, taking the former was cruel, but taking the latter, a man's life, was evil.
"It's so cold."
Summers shuddered. He'd never forgiven his aunt for taking him to see that. It's why he'd accepted his promotion in the first place–he thought he'd be doing good, saving lives. The death penalty was never administered to those the FBE had taken care of. And because heinous crimes of that magnitude always warranted an FBE intervention, sentencing never resulted in capital punishment.
The FBE only hired men as agents, the thought process being that women couldn't subjectively determine whether the crime fit the punishment. At least a man could imagine it, and if he was mentally stable, he'd shudder at the thought.
Since the implementation of the program, there'd been a significant Dr.op in crime, but still, Summers couldn't help feeling like the executioner with the syringe. He didn't take life, no, but he altered future lives. Innocent lives.
A raggedy stumbling man with a harmonica saw Summers approaching. "Oh, hey fella, I wrote a song about the FBE!"
He blew into his harmonica once, and then began singing, following Summers as he walked. "The FBE, they'll come for me, they'll stand right in my halls. They'll pay me to fuck some whores, or they'll cut off my balls!"
The man smiled, holding out for a tip, but Summers frowned and kept walking. He might've laughed at that before he was the one doing it, back when he was an FBI agent, joking around with his colleagues about the FBE.
His new work, filtering the collective human gene pool, was harsh and unforgiving. And it was just going to get harder. He'd heard rumors of new legislation being discussed that would prevent those with IQ's well below the average from having chilDr.en. "For the advancement of our species," they justified. The nearby aliens were always at the back of minds, influencing decision making from afar.
Searching the area for the Honda to no avail, he decided to call it after about an hour–no sign of the car or its Dr.ivers. Even the motel clerk had no idea whom Summers was talking about. He called the bureau, and then decided to return to base and reevaluate his approach to Patches Shane.
Back at his motel room, Summers logged into the net and queried 'Claire Waltz' from his conversation with Higgins. He found the one he was looking for, and the face of a beautiful blonde in her late twenties stared back at him from his screen. She currently resided in New York. It was a three-hour flight from Jacksonville, and after a quick word with Barnes, the Raleigh FBE chief, he packed up a few things and made for the airport.
◊◊◊
Claire Waltz worked marketing and sales at Precision Efficiency Advancements, and the running gag around the office was that she was the princess of the PEA, alluding to the old fairy tale. The company sold specialized software that tracked the efficiency and profitability of a company's workforce, minimizing excess spending. The company itself monitored these findings, and every few months they sent their clients a detailed analysis of their spending, and where cuts could be made.
In a penthouse suite on the 70th floor, Blue Label flowed as profits expanded, and Claire
sat at the top of it all, meeting with CEOs and CFOs multiple times a week–courting them, taking them out to lunch, a laugh, a touch of the hand, a fluttering of eye-lashes. "Oh yes, the software" she'd say with a laugh. "I'd almost forgotten. Oh no, it doesn't matter to me–I'm having a wonderful time."
She was good. Not as much cajoling and outright manipulation as she was simply charming, knowledgeable and beautiful, and she earned PEA millions.
Her paycheck was considerably more than the paycheck of PEA's CEO, a secret he shared with no one. She was a (if not the) main factor for the company's success, and losing her would be cataclysmic for business.
But she could leave at any time–in fact, she could retire and throw money at anything she desired and still remain well off for the rest of her life. But she loved her work, so she kept at it. She knew she intimidated all but the men too dumb to be afraid.
◊◊◊
Summers adjusted his sunglasses and knocked on the door of Claire Waltz's two-story estate, where she lived alone in a community fit for royalty. He put his fingers in his pockets and rubbed the outer fabric of his pants with his thumbs as he waited, studying the row of tulips that lined her front pathway.
After a moment she answered the door, wearing nothing but a silk bathrobe. She had brunette hair, not blonde as it had been in her picture from the government database. She looked stunning.
Summers glanced up and his brow narrowed–who answers their door in a bathrobe? She took one look at him and his badge and her curiosity turned to a smug grin.
"About time. I'm flattered, but tell the FBE no thanks."
His eyes became slits as he studied her smug expression. "It's not about that, Ms. Waltz."
"Call me Claire, agent…?"
"Agent Summers, and I'm–"
"–Charmed" she said, holding out a hand.
Summers paused, then took his hand from his pocket and grasped hers. "Yeah. Likewise. Ms. Waltz, I'm here regarding–"
"–I said Claire, Mr.. Summers."
Summers stopped. This was not how he envisioned this going. She was messing up his routine.
"Claire. Sure." He took off his sunglasses, folded them, and put them in his front pocket. "I'm here regarding Pat Shane."
The smug grin fell from her face. "Patches…"
"You call him by his full name?"
"Of course. I was the only one who called him that. Did you know his mother named him after a guinea pig she once had as a child?" She smiled, covering her lips with the back of her hand.
"No, I wasn't aware of that. May I come in?"
"Sure, Mr.. Summers, please do," she replied. "Where are my manners?"
Her facade almost had him blushing, if for only a second, and he coughed lightly.
She turned and he followed, looking anywhere but at her. He noted her marble floors, high ceiling, leopard print rug, and eco cotton sofas that were arranged as if she'd ordered the room preassembled from a high-class style magazine. Her white walls were covered in modern art showcasing the naked human form, framed in what looked like bronze. It reeked of confidence.
She turned and smiled at him. "You approve, agent?"
He nodded. "Sure. You've clearly done well for yourself Ms.–I mean, Claire."
She chuckled. "You flatter me, Mr.. Summers."
She led him over to the sofa, and offered him tea. He declined.
"I won't take no for an answer, Mr.. Summers. It's quite expensive, and delicious, if I do say so myself."
"It's really–"
"–Fabulous, I'll be right back–it'll only take a minute."
She walked off, strutting and Dr.ipping with pomp. He knew she wanted him to look, playing cat and mouse with her body. And if he looked–game over, check mate. He shook his head. Sorry lady, he thought–but this ain't my first rodeo. He took out his notepad and jotted down the bit about Shane's mother naming him after her childhood pet.
She returned a few minutes later, a glass of tea in each hand. She placed a glass in front of Summers and sat down on the chair across from him, crossing her legs. Taking in the smell of the tea, she held the glass underneath her nose, waving the aroma upwards.
"Try it, Mr.. Summers. It's wonderful. Very good for your body and spirit."
He studied the dark color of the glass’ contents, then lifted it. The aroma hit him like a punch to the face, nothing shy of nuclear fallout, and he found himself in a life and death struggle with the urge to grimace. Forcing his lips to the glass, he lightly slurped and poker-faced through the bittersweet jolt that clawed at his tongue. It was stronger than bourbon, with hints of ginger, lemon, slight mint, and rooibos. He'd survived staring contests against men with guns primed and aimed at his chest, and somehow this tea brought back those memories, and when she took a sip and smiled, closing her eyes, making love to the tea, he took a large painful gulp, and frowned at how much was still left in the glass. He missed the simplicity of villains with guns. It was the emasculation game, and she held all the cards. As she audaciously smiled at him, a train of multiple ‘Fuck You’s rumbled across his mind.
"Doesn't it just invigorate your spirit, Mr.. Summers?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied through clenched teeth. "It's very rich."
Her smile broadened. "Remind me to pack a small baggie for you before you leave. Please, it's my treat. I love a man with good taste."
Ignoring her, he placed the glass on the coffee table. "About Shane…"
She postured, shoulders back, sitting straight–the master of her domain. "What about him?"
"Did you know he's still alive?"
The split second moment of shock was wiped away by a grin and a nod. (And the best actress in a leading role goes to…) "That's great news! Good for him!"
Summers cleared his throat and refocused. "He murdered an innocent man. We caught him red handed."
Her eyes widened, and a satisfying–albeit somewhat guilty warmth rushed through him. Not a good enough actress that time, he thought. Or maybe she had enough tact to know when to Dr.op the act. She covered her gasp. "Patches? Never!"
Summers nodded solemnly, took out his notebook and licked the tip of his pen, crossing his legs. "Tell me about him."
Claire twisted her hair in her fingers and looked at the ground. "I don't wish to tell you about how we first became friends, but I can tell you about him."
At that moment, Summers reasoned that it was necessary to break her defensive outer shell to acquire the truth, and he felt a certain pride knowing what he knew. There was just no hiding facts from a detective of his caliber, and now the ball was in his court. "I'm aware of that story, Claire, if you're referring to the lunch, of course."
It was like a cannonball to her fortress. He shattered something–he knew a secret that she'd rather die than tell.
"Y-you know?"
"I spoke with Sam Higgins."
"Who?"
"At GenDec with you and Patches, same age as you both."
Claire shook her head and grinned. "You have to understand, Agent–there were a lot of boys at GenDec."
"It's irrelevant. Higgins is likely dead now, at the hands of Shane as well."
She gasped. "I thought you caught him red handed?"
"From the murder of his psychologist. Slit the man's throat. He got to Higgins afterwards, and now the pair of them are missing."
"I still don't understand. If you had Patches in cold blood from the first murder, how is he missing? How has he murdered again?"
"He escaped after the psychiatrist. It's a long story."
She narrowed her eyebrows. "Mr.. Summers, I'm afraid I can't help you if I don't know the full story."
Summers sighed. Clearly this wasn't her first ballgame either.
"He murdered a cop, who'd apparently been abusing his power, and Shane caught him off guard. He put the body in his bed, and snuck out in his uniform. And I won't call it a coincidence when I tell you it was the same cop that reported Shane had whispered to him something a
long the lines of 'I know what you really are, I've seen your true face'. Do those words mean anything to you?"
She took a sip of tea before responding. "I don't have the slightest idea what those words mean, and Mr.. Summers, you have to understand that this is all very incredible to me. For all I'd known, Patches died attempting to escape from GenDec. You coming here now, and telling me that not only is he alive, but he's a murderer! My, it's really unbelievable. Patches was the sweetest boy."
"Tell me about him."
She took another sip of tea, then lowered the glass to her lap.
"How about we make a deal? Mr.. Summers, you tell me how he survived for so long after GenDec, and I'll tell you everything you want to know."
Summers sighed. He didn't have time for this, but he needed answers and had no other options. And she knew that too. Recognizing bargaining chips was a skill required for her line of work, and he could tell she was a pro.
"It's a deal," he said. He scratched his head and opened his notebook. "After GenDec we discovered Shane escaped to Jacksonville and hid out for three years in the basement of a condemned apartment complex. We aren't certain of how he survived, whether he obtained a low-key job or lived off of scraps, but when the report came from GenDec about the escapee and the FBE got word of his IQ, we immediately took the case off the FBI's hands and began a full-scale manhunt. When we found him years later he was on the verge of a mental breakdown, so we set him up with living arrangements on the terms that he visits the psychologist he eventually murdered four times a week. From the reports, Shane had been making progress. That is, up until recently. From there on you already know."
Summers took his pencil from behind his ear and opened a new page in his notebook.
"Now it's your turn, Claire. Tell me about Shane."
She nodded and put her glass back on the table. "Well, after the lunch incident, we became close. He was in love with me, you have to understand that, and I was young. I loved the power I had over him. By the time I came around to developing any sort of feelings in return, I was so caught up in this whirlwind of control, having him head over heels trying to impress me and doing things for me, that I couldn't let it go. I regret that now. The whole experience was just awful, and even taking into account the electroshock therapy and the food depravation, that was still, by far, the worst part of the whole experience."
"What was?"
"Ruining a nice, sweet boy."
As Summers jotted down a few notes, he couldn't help but wonder exactly how much time she'd spent perfecting this performance. He kept his professionalism and continued. "Expand on that please, Claire."
She sighed. "He was so smart, did so well in his classes. He was so… good. Like, while most kids were in gangs and stuff–"
"Yeah, I know he wore yellow. What was your take on that?"
"Well, he wanted everyone to know he was good. Like the golden boy in the puddle of shit. It was interesting, it was one of the reasons I made him do so much bad. After we started to hang out, he was going in for shock therapy every week or so. I'm ashamed."
"What kind of stuff did you make him do?"
"At first minor things, but the last thing I convinced him to do–I said 'those guys in gangs are so attractive. You should join a gang.' Next day, he attempted to join the Midnight Crew–"
Summers held up his pen. "Sorry. Midnight Crew?"
"They wore black." She noticed his look of confusion and sighed. "Bloodsuckers wore red. They punched each other in the mouth as initiation. Really, the mildest of the gangs. The Blues wore blue, they would strangle each other, called suffocation 'the blues'. It was dumb. But the Midnight Crew were the worst. Disappearances. Deaths. Possible murder. They had Patches create a diversion so they could gain access to the kitchens. God knows why they wanted to do that. He rigged up something explosive, tampered with a hallway light or something, and rearranged the electricity to blow out the lights in a sector. Instead, he blew a massive hole in the wall. Attempting to escape was practically punishable by death. He had no choice, he had to run. We all thought he'd died. That's how they made it sound."
They spoke for a couple more minutes, then Summers thanked her and stood to leave. She made him wait, and packed him a bag of her tea, even though his glass was still as full as it had been after his first sip. "It's a tough Dr.ink the first go, but you get used to it and it's so good for you."
He thanked her, and made to leave. She kissed him on the cheek at the door, and the unexpected gesture surprised him, if only for a moment. He shook it off and decided to update the FBE and Paige on the case.
◊◊◊
Claire Waltz closed the door behind the agent, then retrieved her cellphone from her purse. She dialed a number and put it to her ear. It rang a few times.
"Lee, it's Claire… yeah, I need a small favor. Can you search our database for a Higgins, Sam. Possibly Samuel. Please?" She strummed her fingers on the countertop as he stumbled over his words, unable to agree fast enough.
She grinned. "Thanks so much Lee, you're a doll. Call me back when you have something."
Placing her phone onto the counter, she found herself frowning. Sam Higgins. Who the hell is that, talking to strangers about her? And he might not be dead, and hiding out there somewhere with Patches?
It was too much to resist. She'd have to call out sick for a week or two. Ensure that Patches had taken care of the rat–and if he hadn't, fix the spill herself.
Shrugging off her robe and letting it slip from her body onto the floor, she strolled through her master beDr.oom and into the bathroom to shower.
Then she began to pack.
◊◊◊
Pat and Sam left the run-down motel, taking the highway to Savannah, Georgia, where they stopped for the night.
A missing persons bulletin had been filed for Sam Higgins. He was presumed dead, and most search efforts were done through tall grassy fields and nearby swamps and dumps for his corpse. Because of the search, Pat and Sam couldn't travel via Skyway, as travel through checkpoints was monitored, so byways parallel to I-95 were the safest method of undetected travel.
"Why can't I just go home?" Sam asked, on the verge of tears. Looking woefully out the window at the gothic high-rises, horse and buggies, and hunDr.eds of people looked like they'd never heard of hair conditioner, Sam longed to return home, back in the comfort of his routine. Pat sighed at Sam's question, apparently tired of answering it for the third time consecutively.
"Because you know to much, and you'll spill everything under threat of sterilization. Plus, you're useful. The aliens might be here–you agree there is a chance of that. If they are, and we stop them, we're heroes."
"Can't I just go home please?" Sam cried. "How do we even stop them?"
"Kill one, then see what happens from there."
"Ugh, how do we even find one?"
"Listen, Sam–enough, alright? If the food is Dr.ugged, follow the food. There's a Bixplus distribution center right off I-95 on Maple, about thirty minutes north of here. We'll leave tomorrow morning."
They parked at The Quarter Moon Inn, a supposedly haunted place that publicized itself as a resort for psychics. It had been popular in the 70's, before the aliens, but after 1981 professions in fields ostracized by science declined rapidly, due to government benefits for those who assisted in the human technological advancement, or as politicians referred to it, The Technological Revolution.
Regardless, a few psychics claimed to have developed connections with the aliens, and they would meet at various locations along the east coast to promote psychic communication as viable means of alien contact.
Sam's head pounded. He partnered with a psychopath who targeted those whom he thought were aliens, and here, in the parking lot of a rundown inn, the two of them were soon to be surrounded by flamboyant men and women claiming to know the innermost thoughts and plans of the Europans. Sam groaned. Someone was going to die tonight.
"Why are we here?" he whined as h
e looked at a woman with long braided hair, robes that gathered soot from the floor like a feather duster, and countless beads and charms wrapped around her neck and arms. Sam heard her through his lowered window as she discussed with a colleague the possible mind-to-mind connection that aliens might converse by, and if one could only tune into those communications, like a radio, one could unravel the mystery of their apparent indifference. The male psychic she was with nodded and reassured her that, before he met her, he knew she harbored those thoughts.
Pat shut and locked the doors of the Civic. "I can't be the only one who thinks the aliens might be hiding amongst us," he said. "Somebody else must suspect it. At this point, I'll take any ally I can find."
The hotel was of brick and stone, with a red neon sign attached vertically from the left that flickered 'VACANCY'. It was two stories, and the entrance lobby was separate from the rooms–each door led outside, and Sam hoped they'd get a room that overlooked the parking lot so he could keep an eye on his car.
The area seemed unsafe, and losing his car, his safety, his only way out of this mess, would leave him trapped–a feeling he'd grown to hate since his time at GenDec. Upon further inspection, it seemed that every room overlooked the parking lot.
Walking past the arguing psychics, avoiding eye contact, they entered the lobby. The tile was old and clashed with the walls, the mural painted on the wall behind the front desk seemed to have been painted by an amateur, likely the original owner. He seemed to have wanted a renaissance feel for his inn, but gave up halfway.
They approached the front desk, which looked unattended. Pat rang the bell, and a moment later a fat woman with speckles of hair on her chin approached from the back room.
"You have a reservation?" she asked.
"No," Pat said.
"Separate beds?"
"Yes."
"How many nights?"
"Just one."
"I need a card to put on file." She held out a hand.
Pat looked at Sam, who sighed, and pulled a debit card from his wallet.
"Can you do us a favor?" Pat asked. The woman stopped typing and stared at him. He continued, "Hold that card, but don't swipe it until we check out. The Society of Psychics is supposed to comp us for our stay, but they haven't wired us money yet."
The woman nodded, and put the card in a slot by the computer. She typed a couple things. "Name?"
"John Higgins," Pat said. Sam kept a straight face, but felt his cheeks grow red.
She handed them their keys in a small envelope that had the room number written on it.
"Room 203. Outside, up the stairs, second door. Complimentary breakfast begins at six here in the lobby, ends at nine."
They thanked her. Pat turned and Sam followed.
"Why did you use my last name?" Sam whispered as they walked away.
"Your name is on the card. So she doesn't get suspicious."
Sam nodded. He didn't like it, but he didn't have much of a choice.
The two didn't head to their room. Instead, they entered the dining area of the lobby, where six psychics were chatting. As they approached, the single male of the group turned and nodded. "I don't recognize you two, I overheard you mention the Society of Psychics."
Pat studied the man for a few seconds before responding. "I'm surprised that the subconscious didn't inform you, Mr.. Ron Halliday, that we were coming."
The man nodded. "Impressive. Come join us, John Higgins. Who's your friend?"
Pat turned to Sam and looked him up and down, "this is Theron Thurston."
"Ah, Mr.. Thurston, of course. There is a pharmacy a few blocks away, a shame you forgot your MetroGel."
Sam's jaw Dr.opped. He quickly composed himself. "Thank you, Mr.. Halliday."
"Please. Call me Ron."
"Ron. Thanks."
Ron nodded. Pat turned to him. "What has the subconscious told you of the aliens of late?" he asked.
Ron stroked his thin beard. "The aliens, ah. I see you've yet to make a connection. They call themselves Rhaokins, and they hail from Clorf. I converse with their king, per se, on a somewhat daily basis. His name is Had RaDr.ill, and they are friendly, and they have much to teach us."
Pat nodded solemnly, "I was afraid you would say that. Had RaDr.ill has contacted me as well. He is not king–he's what we would refer to as a con. You've been had by Had, I'm afraid. The aliens mean to harm us, and they walk the earth undetected as we speak. I've come to enlighten you all, that we may use our gift to save humanity."
Ron twisted his beard in his fingers.
"You don't say, Mr.. Higgins… you don't say…" he paused in thought. "Well, I've been told that I'm too trusting, as I've always carried a strong belief in the good of man, and this faith must have blinded me. I look for the best in all things, and it seems that this should one day be my downfall. But enough of my shortcomings–please, tell the rest of your findings."
Ron motioned for Pat and Sam to follow, and as he approached the others he cleared his throat.
"Everyone, as you may well already know, this is John Higgins and Theron Thurston, and they come bearing grave news. Mr.. Higgins–if you would be so kind…"
"Certainly." Pat stepped forward. "As I'm sure some of you may have already sensed, Had RaDr.ill, of the Rhaokins, is not to be trusted."
Murmurs of agreement resounded, and a woman with hair down to her hips stepped forward. "I am Cerulean Sky, and I too have been suspect to the misgivings of Had RaDr.ill, though I feared to speak my concerns lest they be ungrounded. Your words ring true to me, Mr.. John Higgins, and I'm glad that you possess the courage to bring them forth–a courage which I, regretfully, lack." A few of the other psychics put hands on her shoulders.
A woman with a voice barely above a whisper spoke from the back. "What else have you seen, Mr.. Higgins?"
Pat brushed his long hair from his eyes. "They have contaminated our water supply, or food source, and have been poisoning us with an extraterrestrial hallucinogenic. This Dr.ug prevents us from seeing the Rhaokins living amongst us, running our law enforcement, our laws, maybe even our country. I suspect a Rhaokin is posing as a high up government official, yet who that is I've not discerned. There may, in fact, be more than just one."
The woman with the whisper stepped forward. She was barely five feet tall, with short hair dyed blonde and multiple piercings on her ears and lips. "I know who one might be," she stated with a quiver. "The Vice President of the United States, Jordan Clearwater."
Her friend glanced over, shocked. "Stella, you never told me this."
"I never shared my fears with anyone, as to be suspect of insanity or treason," Stella replied. "After a period of fasting to cleanse my spirit, I observed on television from him a speech, and watched his face morph and change before my very eyes. I assumed I was seeing things from the various herbs and supplements I'd been taking, but it was so… vivid. I'm certain now of what I saw."
Sam looked at Pat, for a sign of bewilderment, but saw none–although he was certain that Pat felt it. Sam shivered, excited and scared, and a cold, familiar sweat shook his foundation.
This was exactly as Pat described his visions, and to hear it reiterated from another person had to be more than a coincidence.
Sam wasn't certain of most things Pat shared, but from what Stella had said he now felt certain that the main food supply of the country was Dr.ugged. Sam once thought of paranoia, and the proof it required to be grounded fear. Now he knew. This wasn't paranoia, this had to be proof, this had to be fear.
The two conversed with the psychics for a few more hours, met the other psychics as they arrived, and it wasn't until well after sunset that they decided to call it, said goodnight, and went to their room.
Sam had too many questions, and they'd barely stepped a foot outside when he asked. "Okay, level with me, Pat. H-how did you know that guy's name? Ron Halliday?"
Pat laughed. "I read it on the registry as we checked in. I assumed Ron checked in fairly r
ecently, as he still had his car keys and bags with him and he was the last male name on the list. From there, I just took the risk. Worked well in our favor, I might add."
"Fine, that’s fine, but how did he know about me forgetting my MetroGel?"
"Because your rosacea is horrible–your face looks like a tan tomato."
Sam flushed and looked down. "O-oh."
Pat wiggled the key in the knob and unlocked their door. It was dark, and had two beds and a small television on the opposing wall. Sam flicked on the lights and walked across the room, sitting on the bed furthest from the door. "So now what?" he asked.
"Now we watch the news. If we're lucky, they'll say nothing about us."
Pat tossed an apple across the room. Sam caught it, and turned it over in his hands, studying it woefully. His stomach growled as he frowned. Pat apparently expected this tiny fruit to pass for dinner.
Yeah, right, Sam thought, and considered instead taking the car to get some real food. Then he remembered the side of Dr.ugs he'd inevitably digest. Well, he'd been dealing with them fine so far. Better the Dr.ugs than starving to death.
But he never left. They sat on their beds and watched the news, and for some reason, Sam was relieved to see no stories concerning themselves–murderer or victim.
Sam couldn't remember when he'd fallen asleep–he only knew when he was struck awake, at first by shaking and then the screaming alarm, blasting into his head and annihilating his Dr.eam world.
He opened his eyes, and Pat was bouncing him by the shoulders up and down on his bed, and at first Sam thought Pat was trying to kill him, but then he saw the blue and red lights dancing around their room, and heard the blaring sirens, and Sam was fully awake and aware even before Pat yelled, "Sam! Wake up!"
Sam rubbed his eyes and sat up. "What? I-I don't–how?"
"That fat bitch must have ran the card. Should've seen this coming. Fuck!"
They heard a door down the hall smash open. Pat yelled, "Make your bed and then hide, quickly!"
Sam threw the comforter over the bed, and then crouched on the floor beside the mattress. Pat did the same with his bed, then dived across Sam's and knelt down beside him. Not a second later, a kick smashed open the door of their room, and a flashlight's white beam crept from the beds to the floor.
"Clear!" a voice yelled, and footsteps receded from their room. They were safe, but dangling by the skin of their teeth. The front desk clerk must've been unavailable to reveal their room number. Which bought them only seconds.
"Fuck!" Pat said.
Sam squeaked. "What are we gonna do?"
Pat closed his eyes. "I don't know. Let me think."
They were on the second floor. Police officers would post on both ends of the hall, by the stairs, plus a patrol car would be blocking the exit to the road from the inn. They were trapped.
In a moment the cops would find out which room was theirs and storm in, guns Dr.awn. The room began to spin around Sam, and he wiped his brow, attempting to steady himself.
Pat was deep in thought, head in his hands and eyes shut tight, as if attempting to squeeze a solution from his brain. They heard door after door smash open, sand trickling away, and had barely seconds to act.
Pat suddenly lit up. He tore the white sheet out from underneath the comforter, then quickly fixed the bed.
"Bathroom, now!" he whispered.
Wordlessly, Sam followed. Pat grabbed his razor and began cutting the sheet into strips.
"Take off your shirt," he said.
Sam did so without question, and Pat took the first strip and tied Sam's hands together.
Sam watched him uncomfortably. "What are you–?"
"I'm sorry about this pal, but it's the only way."
He pointed Sam to the bathtub, sat him down, and tied his feet together. Pat then wrapped Sam's neck around twice, loose enough so he could breathe, and secured that to the faucet of the tub.
"I'm really, really sorry about this. When they get here, say that I heard them coming and bailed before they arrived. Got it?"
Sam nodded. Not a bad plan, he thought. Plus, he'd finally be free. Home free from his kidnapping and his life could finally get back to normal. He wondered why Pat was being so apologetic, and closed his eyes, inwardly relieved. But then he felt the icy touch of metal on his exposed chest, and his grin vanished.
"Again, I'm real sorry bud. I gotta sell it."
He slashed.
Blood spurted from Sam's chest and he cried out. Pat sliced him seven more times in quick succession, and muffled Sam's screams with his hand–with every slash came another apology. Seconds later, Sam whimpered as the deep cuts on his flesh gushed blood that covered his skin like a silk sheet.
"Wait a few seconds, then cry out for help," Pat said.
He ran from the room. Sam waited two seconds and then screamed and cried and shouted. Moments later a team of cops ran in, flashlights swarming, and entered the bathroom. The first one to enter knelt down.
"You're safe now. Where is he?"
Sam considered turning him in, telling the officers that Pat was probably underneath the bed, but decided against it. He'd seen too much that supported Pat's theories, and just because he didn't want to be involved didn't mean he wanted to hinder him.
"He left," Sam said, his tears selling his act. "He heard the sirens and bailed. I heard him open and slam the door, just a few minutes ago. He can't have gotten very far–you can still catch him!"
The other cops ran out immediately, yelling orders and repeating what Sam had said. Two medics rushed in.
"Can you walk?" the first medic asked as the other checked his pulse and swabbed the blood on his chest.
"Yeah," Sam responded. The medics unbound his feet, neck, and hands, and scanned him quickly as he stood. They walked him out of the bathroom and onto their stretcher. Strapping him in, they rolled him out of the room and carried him down the steps to the ambulance.
A cop with a notepad approached as the medics put copious amounts of gauze, antiseptic, and pressure on Sam's wounds.
"Mr.. Higgins, can I ask you a couple questions?"
"Yeah," Sam said, then grimaced, immediately regretting his affirmative answer.
"Thank you. You're very brave. So, tell me what happened? What's the last thing you remember?"
Sam took a deep breath. The aching and burning of the cuts on his body helped him sell his anguish. A sudden thought amused him, and he hid a creeping smile. He pictured the cops spreading out to find Pat, all the while their target hid underneath a bed in the room upstairs. It was kind of funny, in a sick way.
"He attacked me, almost Dr.owned me, then kidnapped me. He thought I was an alien, and had been torturing me the past few days, trying to get me to admit it."
"Who's he?"
"Pat Shane."
The cop nodded and jotted a note.
"That's enough for now. Thank you, Mr.. Higgins." The cop patted one of the medics on the back, and they loaded Sam into the ambulance and flew him to the emergency room.
Ambulances were the first vehicles to be upgraded to ground/air thrust compatibility, and Sam found flying via positive thrust soothing. He fell asleep during the flight–the events of the evening had been traumatic, albeit much differently than how law enforcement suspected.
◊◊◊
Excerpt from Pope John Paul II's "Redemptor Hominis," May 4th, 1979. Part 12, The Church's Mission and Human Freedom:
In this unity in mission, which is decided principally by Christ himself, all Christians must find what already unites them, even before their full communion is achieved. This is apostolic and missionary unity, missionary and apostolic unity. Thanks to this unity we can together come close to the magnificent heritage of the human spirit that has been manifested in all religions, as the Second Vatican Council's Declaration Nostra Aetate says. It also enables us to approach all cultures, all ideological concepts, all people of good will, all life by God. We will approach them with the
esteem, respect and discernment that since the time of the Apostles has marked the missionary attitude, the attitude of the missionary.
…
The mission is never destruction, but instead is a taking up and fresh building, even if in practice there has not always been full correspondence with this high ideal. And we know well that the conversion that is begun by the mission is a work of grace, in which man must fully find himself again.
For this reason the Church in our time attaches great importance to all that is stated by the Second Vatican Council in its Declaration on Religious Freedom, both the first and the second part of the document. We perceive intimately that the truth revealed to us by God imposes on us an obligation that man must now transcend. We have, in particular, a great sense of responsibility for this truth. By Christ's institution the Church is its guardian and teacher, having been endowed with a unique assistance of the Holy Spirit in order to guard and teach it in its most exact integrity. In fulfilling this mission, united with man, we look towards Christ himself, the first evangelizer, and also towards his Apostles, martyrs and confessors, to give us strength, through space, in our obligation to God.
…
Jesus Christ meets the man of every age, including our own, with the same words: "You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free."