by Peter Parkin
Sandy could feel in his bones that Lincoln Berwick would be the next President of the United States.
In yesterday’s papers, and viral online, there was another complication that Sandy felt gnawing at him in the pit of his stomach.
The sketch of him was everywhere. Monsignor Flaherty had given a good description to the police sketch artist, and it was now splashed all over the news. Sandy didn’t think it gave him away at all, but he admitted to himself that the sketch was pretty good. It showed him in a Boston Red Sox cap and sunglasses, but the shape of his face and jaw-line was bang on. Even though he’d had his sunglasses and cap off while he was in the church, it had been dark, and the Monsignor must have felt uncomfortable attempting to give a description without those two items. So, luckily the sketch was tainted by a cap and glasses.
But to those who knew him, it was admittedly a sketch of Sandy. And, Linc definitely was one of those who knew him. By now he would have reconciled in his mind that Sandy had intervened once again—as he had with the Triple-L sperm bank, and with Christopher Clark.
Three times a charm? Or, three strikes and you’re out?
The news reports described him as being some kind of a folk hero. Someone who had just wandered into the cathedral and chatted with the Monsignor. Outside the church when the public works imposter had disrespected the Monsignor, the hero had gone into action demonstrating fighting skills that the Monsignor stated had taken his breath away. Then the stranger had mysteriously left the scene, but only after hog-tying the imposter and advising the priest not to allow the pipe organ to be unloaded.
The Monsignor, as well as the police, were very complimentary about the heroic stranger. They merely wanted to talk to him, which was why the sketch was being publicised so widely. They invited tips from the public.
They wanted to talk to the stranger.
They wanted to thank him.
And they wanted to find out what he knew—and how he knew.
Sandy shuddered, then closed his eyes and thought about what he had to do next—or perhaps more appropriately, what he might be forced to do next.
He was stirred from his daydream by the ring of the house phone.
“Hello?”
“Sandy. It’s Judy.”
“Hey, Judy. How are the house guests doing? Bill and Lloyd still with you?”
“Yes. And, we’re getting along great. It’s such a comfort having them here. Cynthia just adores them, and we both feel so much safer having them around.
“But they can’t stay here forever, Sandy. We need to bring this to a close. The tape recording. What are we going to do about it? I feel so vulnerable having the darn thing, and I’m worried that someone will guess that I have a copy. And you know who I mean. I’ve been watching the news—the more powerful and popular he becomes, the more danger we’re in with the tape.”
“I hear you. I’ll drive down there tomorrow and we’ll talk about it. We need to contact the authorities about that young girl’s death, see if the case is still open or if it can be reopened. The tape is powerful, but I think we need more. I agree, we’re all in a vulnerable spot right now.”
“Especially you, Sandy. I’ve been watching the news. You were there, weren’t you? At the cathedral? That was you in the sketch, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“My gosh! I’m worried about you. As soon as I saw the sketch I knew it was you.”
“That’s only because you know me, and you know that I’m up to my neck in all of this stuff. Most people wouldn’t have a clue who that is in the sketch.”
“Bill and Lloyd recognized you right away, too.”
“Well, the same as you, they know me and we’re all involved in this together. Not to worry. I’m not in any jeopardy.”
Sandy heard Judy sigh at the other end.
“How did you happen to be there?”
“A long story. I’ll bring you guys up to date when I see you. But, the short version is that with a little help from my friend, Vito, I managed to extract information from that deputy mayor I told you about. He was involved in the terror attack that killed my family, as you know, and he confessed that another false flag attack was being planned by the Berwick campaign folks. One thing led to another and, luckily, I followed up on what I’d learned. Happened to be in the right place at the right time. So it wasn’t brilliant detective work on my part.”
“That was brave of you, Sandy. I’m so proud of you—you stopped what might have been a horrific attack. I just worry about you more now because of that sketch. It’s so weird seeing your face plastered all over the news.”
“Judy, don’t worry. It’s not my face. Just the image of a dude in a ball cap and sunglasses. A few hundred thousand men in Boston look just like that on any given day, particularly when the Red Sox are playing.”
“You’re not making me feel any better. Just hurry and get down here to New York. We need you.”
“I will.”
*****
They came during dessert.
Sandy had finished off his delectable meal of roast duck with all the trimmings. To cap off the meal, he had just settled down to a treat of Crème Brule.
While raising his glass of wine in a tearful toast to the family portrait resting on the dining room side stand, he noticed it out of the corner of one eye.
A movement outside. It was dark, but the movement had made it even darker in one spot for just an instant. Then the shade of dark changed again, indicating movement. Movement was what Sandy specialized in. As a physicist, movement was everything to him. Movement of matter, movement of particles, plasma in motion.
He stood up and walked over to the living room window. Couldn’t see anyone outside, but he knew without a doubt that someone had passed in front of the window mere seconds before. He glanced up and down the street. The only vehicle parked on the road was a dark SUV, several doors down; one he’d never seen before.
Then he saw movement again. Behind the large oak tree on his front lawn. It was subtle, someone less observant wouldn’t have noticed it. But, it was undeniable.
Sandy took one last look at the black SUV, then rushed over to the alarm panel installed on the wall in his front foyer. He didn’t want to overreact, but better to be safe than sorry.
He flipped open the cover, and poised his finger ready to punch the panic button.
The screen was dark. The alarm was inactive. Sandy pushed the main power button, but nothing happened. He cursed to himself that he hadn’t purchased the line security option. If the line had been cut or disconnected, a signal would have been sent to the alarm company. But, without line security, he was on his own. There was no way for the alarm company to know that he’d gone dark.
He knew now that he wasn’t overreacting. Something was happening.
Sandy rushed over to his landline phone and picked up the handset. Dead.
Ran over to his jacket and pulled out his cellphone. Punched the power button, and then 9-1-1. No signal. Nothing but static. Clearly, a jammer was being used.
Feeling the panic rising in his stomach, Sandy tried to remember what he’d done with the Beretta that Vito had loaned him. Then he remembered. He’d given it back. Silly boy.
He ran over to the circuit panel and flipped the main power switch. The house went dark, at the very instant that he heard a thundering crash at his front door.
They were in. From the dim light of the moon and the streetlights, he saw the outlines of two men crouching as they entered the foyer, one of them still holding the battering ram that they’d used to take down the door.
He dropped to the floor and quietly took off his shoes. Then crawled slowly over to a corner of the kitchen behind the center island. Thought about a knife, but he’d have to open one of the drawers to get one, which would give away his position.
Lying behind the is
land, Sandy considered his options—which weren’t many. He could yell out, or scream, but the houses were far apart. No one was likely to hear him. He could make a run, or crawl, for the back door, but they would likely cut him down before he could even grab the door handle.
His eyes were adjusting to the light now, which meant that the intruders would be adjusting too. Looked from side to side, for something, anything.
Then he saw it. Sitting on an open shelf along the side of the island. A long butane barbecue lighter, which was a back-up in case the ignition on his barbecue failed. It had an adjustment feature which lengthened the flame, making it into a mini blowtorch. Wasn’t much, but it was at least something. Sarah had bought it for him years ago, assuring him that he would need it one day, despite Sandy’s insistence that the barbecue he’d bought was top of the line and would never fail.
Sarah was wiser than he was. She knew that so-called man toys had their limitations.
Now, he said a silent prayer of thanks for her foresight. But she never would have imagined he’d be using the torch for something like this.
He slid the lighter off the shelf and adjusted the flame switch to full length. Then prayed once again, this time that this torch that he’d never even used would work. It was his only hope, and a slim one at that.
Sandy listened. They were quiet, but not that quiet. He could hear them cautiously working their way across the dining room in the direction of the kitchen.
Where he was lying on the floor.
His senses were on full alert. He knew his only chance was the element of surprise. There were only two of them, from what he could see when they came through the doorway. So, while he might have luck with one, the other would be the man’s backup. Whatever he did, he’d have to move fast.
Sandy focused once again on his senses. Remembered back to his training at West Point, which had drummed into his head over and over again exercises in “blind execution.” Eyes weren’t needed, only awareness was needed.
He focused. Listened. Gauged their distance.
Then he acted.
Pure instinct and awareness drove him from his prone position into a lunge. He threw his body upward and around the corner of the island. He could barely see the man, but he sensed him. And Sandy’s lunge had taken the man by surprise.
He aimed for where he sensed his face was, and then tempted fate by using the only weapon he had.
Clicked the switch on the butane torch.
The flame surged out of the unit and extended itself to a good six inches. Sandy’s senses and gauge of distance had been perfect. The flame licked the face of the intruder right around the upper nose area. Sandy slid it quickly to the side, tearing into the man’s right eye.
The thug screamed in pain as he raised his rifle. Sandy knocked it out of his hand with one hard chop to the wrist. He heard the weapon crash land over in a corner of the kitchen, but decided he couldn’t risk taking the time to dive for it. Instead, he went back to his safe harbor behind the island just as he saw the man’s partner rushing around the corner from the living room.
Sandy slid around to the back of the island, and decided once again that the element of surprise was on his side. He heard the commotion on the other side. The man he’d burned was moaning in pain, and the other man was trying to shush him up.
Time to act.
With an athletic move that belied Sandy’s age, he leaped into the air and landed his feet squarely on top of the island. The other thug whirled around at the sound, but it was too late for him to raise his gun and aim. Sandy leveled a kick directly at the man’s head, sending him down on top of his friend.
Sandy was on the move again. He stretched himself into a hurdle and cleared both men who were quickly stirring themselves back into action. He knew he had no time to find the errant gun, and he decided that trying to disarm the other man held very little margin for success.
He had no time for anything other than running for his life.
Sandy headed for his safe sanctuary. The basement. Hopefully the would-be killers would just exit the house, now that it hadn’t gone as smoothly as they’d counted on.
Despite the darkness, Sandy knew the house like the back of his hand. He could be blind and still find his way around.
He dashed down the hallway and yanked open the basement door. Took the stairs two at a time, guided by a flashing red light on a machine sitting in a corner of the basement.
The corner of death.
This corner of his basement had never killed anyone yet, but if those men dared to venture down into the bowels of his home, tonight would surely be a first.
Sandy spun the machine around and pointed it at the bottom of the stairs. Normally, under planned circumstances, a photo would be taken by the machine and memorized. However, it could be operated by aim as well, without the automatic recognition sensors.
This miniature version of the Directed Energy Weapon, was an exact tiny copy of the one Sandy and his team had been developing at the Lincoln Laboratory. In recent weeks, he’d perfected the objective of making the PEP both silent and invisible. It was an infrared laser pulse that forced rapidly expanding plasma at whatever target was chosen. In the absence of a photo dictating to PEP what the target was to be, it would hit the objects—or people—in closest proximity to the direction in which it was aimed. Sandy had perfected it to now be faster than the speed of light.
The PEP was the most advanced weaponry in existence, and as yet untested in combat conditions. It had its own power source, which was integral and portable. The fact that the power was shut off in the house would not affect this baby’s performance.
Sandy heard footsteps upstairs. And the creaking sound of the door to the basement stairs.
He pulled a tiny remote control from a slot in the PEP, then pushed the power button. The machine emitted a subtle whirring noise, indicating it was ready. He marveled at its ingenuity and silently patted himself on the back. The thing also had night vision, and the remote control unit in his hand had its own screen. He could see on the remote exactly what the PEP was seeing.
Footsteps on the basement stairs.
Sandy dashed over behind a wall and stared at the remote.
The men appeared, crouching. Only one was holding a weapon—the other guy’s gun was probably still lying on the floor in the kitchen. The armed man started firing, right in the direction of the PEP. He must have noticed the light on the weapon, which was flashing red every two seconds. Sandy ducked his head and cursed under his breath. Then, knowing time was running out on him, he quickly pressed the button of death.
The PEP gave one final whir—then activated.
No noise, no beam of light. Nothing but deadly quiet.
Just eerie silence, as the high-tech weapon emitted a pulse of energy that completely obliterated its targets in a millisecond.
If there were ever to be a sales brochure produced for the PEP, it should state: “The result will be immediate destruction and absolute collapse of its target matter.”
The silence was deafening.
Sandy punched the Deactivate button on the remote, and confidently stepped out from behind his protective wall. He reached over and turned on the spotlight feature of the weapon.
Strode over to the bottom of the stairs and studied the outcome. Two large piles of dusty residue were all that was left of the two men who had come to kill him.
Sandy glanced over at an old broom and dustpan leaning against the wall. He’d clean up the mess before calling it a night.
40
The glitz, the glamour, the history.
Palm Springs, California, had it all. Strangely, it even had more caché than Beverly Hills. Because this was where the stars of the Golden Era came to party, unwind, relax. Palm Springs was their “cottage country.”
Beverly Hills was fake, Palm Springs was real.
The stars were able to escape to Palm Springs and just be themselves, pretend to be normal people. It had a laid-back lifestyle, one that catered to simply letting hair down and chilling. No style requirements, no behavior stipulations. Stars could wander around in jeans and T-shirts, and no one cared.
Palm Springs was blessed with one of the best climates on the planet. It was built on an oasis, but there was no denying this was desert country. The unrelenting desert encroached on the town from all corners, and there was no escaping the reality of it.
Perhaps the lack of fakery was part of the appeal to celebrities whose lives were normally consumed by it. The mandatory green grass of Beverly Hills was supplanted in Palm Springs by the acceptability of having sand yards and cactus.
Simply beautiful, in an ugly kind of way.
Some of the most famous stars in Hollywood had either called Palm Springs their getaway, or, just as often, their real home. Not a home away from home, but just their preferred place to live. Truly live.
Such was the case with one of the most famous of them all—Frank Sinatra. He’d owned a couple of properties in Palm Springs, but the one that he loved the most and where he’d lived out the majority of his final years, was located on what is now known as Frank Sinatra Drive.
Situated along the seventeenth fairway of the Tamarisk Country Club, it had evolved into a sprawling compound by the time he was finished with it. A large main house and several charming bungalows. A couple of swimming pools, tennis courts, a restaurant-sized kitchen, theater room, gymnasium.
The compound was spread amongst almost three acres of desert-landscaped property. No grass, just sand and cactus. None of the buildings were lavish from the outside, but once inside you could easily tell that a man accustomed to the finest things in life lived there. It was, in a word, plush.
Even after he sold the property in the late ’90s to a Canadian billionaire, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Hung around with the permission of the new owner until the reality of his failing health forced him to leave. Reportedly, a good portion of his dedicated house staff of twenty-six, cried uncontrollably as a limousine chauffeured the icon out through the imposing estate gates for the last time.
