by Darren Swart
“Locals don’t work very well with this procedure. The protoplasm works so fast that the local is gone before it can take effect.”
He leered at her. “So, I guess you’ll just have to hold my hand through it, won’t you, Doc?”
Natalie was sure her heart was going to hammer out of her chest. Chou Mae rescued her. “Doctor Vergeef will be monitoring every aspect of your procedure. I will be by your side, Mr. McPherson.” Chou Mae’s eyes narrowed as she gave him a long thin smile. she looked like a Siamese cat, the kind of Siamese that was looking for a pair of shoes for some payback.
Irritated, he responded, “Whatever. Just get on with it.”
Within twenty minutes, McPherson was in the procedure room and prepped. Twelve needle electrodes formed a circle around the wound, with a plasma circulator pump moving fluids at a remarkable rate. As the fluids carrying the small programmable cell bodies and the electrodes began to furiously work, McPherson began to sweat profusely, while his breathing and heart rate increased proportionately. Dr. Vergeef nodded to Dr. Chun, who started the anesthesia in with the protoplasm. McPherson was unconscious before he could protest. It was just as well. He would have passed out from the pain anyway.
The beauty of Natalie’s system was that her protoplasm could communicate back and forth with a host computer. As it acted as an interpreter with McPherson’s own cells, she could focus the incoming fluids on knitting bones, tendons and muscles at high speed, while outbound fluids carried away contaminates and damaged tissues. It literally flushed damaged tissues out, as it progressed.
By inducing a signal directly into the body, she could send and receive messages to and from her little workers much like a computer program. Usually, her only involvement was to manage the nerve connections at a microscopic level. Once the PP learned the uniqueness of the person, they quickly adapted to the repair. In a scant hour, the PP had re-knitted his shoulder to its original condition.
An hour later, McPherson was conscious and impatient. He felt fine. He was needed in the field. Natalie insisted that he wait six hours to ensure that the process had worked.
The bedside phone chirped. It could only be one person. “McPherson.” His voice was crisp and professional.
“Good evening, Mr. McPherson,” was the response. The tone would have worked equally well had he been calling to invite him to tea.
“Good evening, Duke Lindenspear. Are you ready for a progress report?”
“Why yes, Mr. McPherson. That would be most helpful.”
“My understanding from Mr. Bernard is that Messrs. Bos-kov-ski had an altercation with an unknown American. We have lost contact with them. Bernard has taken up the surveillance and another team is on the way.”
The duke didn’t care about any altercation, so long as Wood was not endangered.
“Excellent, Mr. McPherson. When the other team arrives to relieve Mr. Bernard, please be kind enough to debrief him and turn the operation over to him.”
Damn. He knew that would happen. It was just the opportunity Bernard had been waiting for to assume the reins. “Yes, Sir. I understand.”
“Don’t sound so glum, Mr. McPherson. I need you here at the castle. What I suspect is that our objective is not in the United States, but here on the continent. I will need your skill here. Do not concern yourself with Mr. Bernard. He will not usurp your position in this endeavor.”
Despite his condition, he brightened. “Thank you, Sir.”
“Mr. McPherson?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Don’t dally. We have much to do.”
“Yes, Sir. I will be there directly.”
The line went dead.
McPherson understood that the duke always knew more than he let on. Somehow, he always had the uncanny ability to stay one step ahead of everyone else. It was eerie sometimes. He picked up the phone and touched the speed dial for Bernard.
The phone on the other end was answered almost immediately. “Oui?”
“McPherson here.”
“Ah yes, and how are you, Mon ami?”
Dick closed his eyes and visualized a lightning bolt striking Bernard dead on the spot. It gave him a little smile before he went on. “Do you have the other team in place?”
“Oui. They arrived shortly after dark. And it was a beautiful sunset, no?”
It was all McPherson could do not to throw the phone at the wall. He took a deep breath and visualized his hands around Bernard’s neck, crushing the life from his body. The thought calmed him again and he enjoyed another little smile. “I wouldn’t know, Bernard. I didn’t see it.” Wryness permeated his voice.
“A pity really. The subtle the hues of red and salmon…it’s most lovely.”
McPherson’s voice was tight, as he asked, “Where are you now?”
“I have found a charming little motel. I have just had an excellent glass of Grenache in my room. I am wearing nothing but a towel. And you?”
Dick clinched his jaw. His muscles bulged until they ached. The heart monitor above his head began to chime due to the elevated heart rate and blood pressure. A young dark haired nurse entered the room, almost immediately. The syringe in her hand carried morphine. McPherson picked up a stainless steel bedpan and flung it at her. The young nurse dodged, as the receptacle clanged against the wall. She quickly backed out of the room never taking her eyes away from him.
He unclenched his jaw and replied far more calmly than he felt. “Fine, thanks. I’ve just spoken with the duke. I’m to head back to the continent, so the duke has asked me to put you in charge of the operation for now. Do you have any issues with that?”
“Mon dieu; but, of course not, my friend. I would be most happy to do anything to assist you in this great quest.”
McPherson rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Mate. I’ll be in touch.” Bearing as much as he could, he disconnected the line before the Frenchman could say another word.
Bernard smiled. Nothing amused him more than irritating the little Scot. He was so easily baited. He slid the phone into the pocket of his filthy coveralls and continued to clean the interior to the cable van. Starting in the cab, he worked his way to the back. Methodically, he wiped every surface he had touched. The van smelled of bleach, as he systematically removed finger prints and trace evidence that would link him to the murder of the cable technician. The small battery powered shop vacuum whirred, as it grabbed the particles. He would wipe for prints and drop it in a place where it would be stolen. Thieves had their uses, as well.
The engine strained, as he pressed the van farther into the thick underbrush. At nearly twenty miles away from where he left the body, it would be some time before local police made the connection. By then, he would be gone. When it could go no farther, he shoved the door open into thick green pines. They slapped him, as he pushed his way to the back. He left the door open, creating an invitation to woodland creatures, further destroying any evidence left behind. Sweat soaked his sleeve as he mopped his brow. He hiked back to the older model Camry parked close to the road. Opening the trunk, he stripped the cable company coveralls and shoved them into a bag. The air felt cool and inviting after shedding the extra clothing.
The speed dial on his phone rang the second surveillance team. He waited for the boys from Atlanta to pick up. He had picked them personally. They were a non-descript pair that could leave a Bar Mitzvah and show up at a barbeque and have some elderly aunt pinching their cheeks in a matter of minutes. They were as adaptable as modeling clay. He guessed at their military training. In this line of work, people didn’t ask a lot of pushy questions.
The phone chirped. “Boyd here.”
“This is Bernard. Anything to report?” Unlike with McPherson, his accent was now practically imperceptible.
“No, Sir. We’ve taken a distant vantage point to avoid a similar mishap that occurred with the first team.”
“Very good. If they leave, follow them. If they split up, let me know immediately.”
“Understood,
Sir. Should we take any action other than surveillance?”
“No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll see to any interaction with the subjects.”
“Yes, Sir. We came prepared for a long engagement, if necessary.”
“Thank you, Mr. Boyd. I will check in within three hours. If you need anything, feel free to call me.” It occurred to Bernard that he did not know either Boyd’s or the Matthews’ first names. It was probably just as well. He didn’t expect they would survive all that long.
Chapter 12
The clock glared 4:00 am when Marty opened his eyes. Digger was still standing at his foot. “Dude, are you awake?”
Marty blinked a couple of times and responded, “Yeah, I’m up.” He half-hearted rolled his feet over the side of the bed.
Digger was working on his third Jolt cola. He was so wound up that Marty half-expected him to levitate. Marty, on the other hand, was a slow start in the morning. Still, within a short while, he was munching on a breakfast burrito in the front seat of the Bronco. Gillian sat in the driver’s seat, sipping on coffee strong enough to have a first name. Digger eased out ahead of them, striking off in the opposite direction that Gillian planned to take. They hoped the remaining surveillance teams would follow him and draw some of the attention away from Gillian and Marty. It was a small hope, but they clung to it just the same. The Bronco idled down the street, which choked out much of the rumble of the big V-8, but not all. She started off in a direction designed to draw out a surveillance team and give the appearance that they were trying to elude anyone behind them. This was far from the truth.
After a forty-minute ride of zig zags, they finally rolled up the dirt road that led to the driveway of the old farm. Stashing the Bronco like before, they made their way up the road to the old house on foot.
The sky was beginning to glow behind the house, making it a dark shadow on the horizon. Birds chirped in the early morning air. The old farm looked as though nothing had happened the day before. The basement doors were shut; no car stood in the driveway; no signs anything was out of order. Someone had done a grand job of tidying up.
Gillian’s gut told her that someone was in the house. Instinctively, she crouched from a distance and pulled out her small pair of field glasses to get a better look. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, which meant something was. All the curtains in the house were open, but there was no light within. It was dark and silent. They staked out the house for a while to watch for any movement.
Marty sat quietly in an alcove of overgrown hedges. He took a moment to realize that the once neat farmhouse was overtaken by English Ivy. The clapboard siding curled away in places accentuating the curled dots of butter cream paint barely clinging to the wood. The house was falling apart. The outbuildings fared no better. The old silo was covered by kudzu and the barn room was collapsed on one side. Wisteria cascaded through the oak tree in the front yard, filtering down fragrance in the early morning air.
The once picturesque pastures now lay overgrown and neglected. The green of Honeysuckle and moss now replaced the John Deer Green of the ’42 vintage tractor in the back. The tires were flat, the seat was missing. Something about that old tractor tugged at his heart.
He broke from his revere when Gillian gently tapped him on the arm. She gestured for him to follow. Suddenly, she was sprinting silently through the yard to the porch. He felt clumsy running behind her, just trying to keep up. They stopped at the edge of the porch. He tried to slow his breathing, as they strained to hear anything out of the ordinary.
Marty couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of adrenalin in his ears. Gillian was even breathing hard. Everything was quiet, except for the occasional coo of a mourning dove. This was just too easy.
Gillian eased up the first two steps. The dilapidated boards groaned and creaked. It made no sense in hiding their presence anymore. She eased up to the door from the side. She never stood directly in front of a door, as she wasn’t sure what was on the other side. Trying the knob, it turned so she was able to swing the door in easily. She rolled across the porch in front of the door to gain visibility of the other side of the room. It was empty. Sig drawn, she stayed low, as she eased into the house. After what seemed like an eternity, she motioned Marty to come in. Standing him in the corner like a child, she pointed to her eyes and then to the room next to them.
Gracefully, she eased her way to the next room, leaving him standing in the corner like a five year old. Within moments, she was back, coming from the opposite direction. She pointed up and eased her way to the narrow staircase.
This was the first time Marty had been in this house in fifteen years. His memories were two fold. For one, it seemed much smaller. Secondly, it was much filthier. His Grandma Barb had kept the house neat and orderly. His Aunt and Uncle did not. There were pizza boxes strewn across the small living room, while beer cans lined the stairs to the second floor. Trash littered the floors. The smell of rotten food made him cover his nose with his hand. Or at least, he hoped it was just spoiled food that he smelled.
Most of the furniture was the same—just more worn and tattered. His Aunt and Uncle did little to maintain the house and it showed. Barb’s favorite platform rocker was stacked with newspapers, pizza boxes and trash two feet above the seat.
Her prized autographed picture of Judy Garland in full Dorothy costume was crooked on the wall behind the rocker. The dust was so thick, it was barely recognizable. A proverbial straw broke Marty. The fact that Mal and Faye had underhandedly cheated him out of his grandmother’s estate didn’t matter. The fact that Barb and Faye were sisters didn’t matter. The fact that Barb had taken Faye in, and Faye had disgraced her sister’s memory was the last straw.
The stress and angst of the last several days punched through and washed over him like a tide. He found himself shaking with anger. Walking over to the chair, he snatched the stacks of discarded papers and pizza boxes from the seat and threw them into the floor. He cleared the cobwebs and dust as best as he could with his bare hands.
Barb had rocked him in that chair when he was little. It represented her very essence and the memories he held of her. All he had were his memories. Everyone was gone, except for him. He stared at the chair beneath him. Cleared of the debris, he moved it close to the window, where it was supposed to be. He sat down and began to rock. The anger slowly began to slip away, as he peered out the window. When he looked up, Gillian was watching him, curiously.
Marty looked back for a moment, “Sorry. It was my grandmother’s chair. It means a lot to me.”
Gillian nodded, but said nothing. Switching gears, she simply said, “We need to get started.”
Marty nodded.
Gillian prompted him. “So, what exactly are we looking for?”
It occurred to Marty that she was waiting for him to tell her what to do. He was so used to her taking charge. He had to pause for a moment to think of what they needed to do. “We’re looking for her Bible. It’s black and about this big.” He held up his hand to show her the size. He smiled wryly and pointed to the pile he just threw to the floor. “It’s not in that pile.”
That drew a smile from her. “So, where should we look?”
Marty gave her a sheepish look. “The last time I saw it, it was right there.” He pointed to the coffee table littered with beer cans and gossip magazines.
Trying to be more helpful, he said, “In this mess, there’s no telling where it is. I suggest we start in this room, grid it out and work our way to the next room.”
Gillian nodded, secretly admiring his logic. “Where do you want me to start?”
He pointed her to the corner opposite him. Like a well oiled machine, they worked toward each other, stacking piles of trash as they went. They found fish hooks, decaying rubber bands and empty liquor bottles, but no Bible. They moved to the next room and then the next. It was two hours before the main floor was searched and nothing was found.
He looked at Gillian. “Looks like we move upstair
s, I guess?”
Gillian put her hand on his arm. “There’s something you should see.”
He raised his eyebrows.
She put her finger to her lips. Then she smiled and patted him on the arm. “Let’s take a shower.”
She began walking upstairs. Marty shook his head. She sure had a weird sense of humor. Upstairs, the old master bath was everything Marty remembered, with the exception of the two people sitting in the floor. Ironically, the man could have been Marty’s brother and the woman was the spitting image of Gillian. Marty opened his mouth to speak, but Gillian gave him the finger to be quiet.
She walked over to the shower and turned it on. She really had a thing for running water. “Marty, this is Doss…” He extended his hand. “…and Cindy….” She had an equally strong grip. “They’re our decoys.”
Marty stared at both. “Wow. I can see why.”
Gillian quietly explained that when the time came, the decoy team would exchange clothing with Marty and Gillian and drive off in the Bronco, hopefully leading the surveillance team away. Digger would then meet them in the woods and they would get away in the yellow bug.
Marty thought. This might just work.
She turned off the shower and they exited the bathroom leaving Doss and Cindy silently waiting on the bathroom floor.
Gillian and Marty searched the upstairs, starting with Marty’s old bedroom. Marty looked around the room, which surprisingly had not been touched. Through the dust, he could see the trinkets he’d collected in his youth and had been forced to leave behind. He picked up a small wooden treasure chest and opened it. Inside were the oddities that had been so important to him: Three Morgan dollars, his lucky cat’s eye marble, a broken railroad pocket watch that had belonged to his grandfather. These things had been his prized possessions so many years ago. Now, they seemed a part of a forgotten past.
Gillian placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Marty, we’ve got to keep looking.”
He sniffed. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. Would you mind searching this room and let me move on to the next one? This place holds a lot of memories.”
