Run! - Hold On! Season 3

by Peter Darley

  Something like an electric shock seized him, and the memory ended.

  He continued reading about who had given evidence at his trial. There had been Woodroffe, police officers, an agent from the FBI, and Professor Abraham Jacobson, from Mach Industries. He remembered Cassidy mentioning that place. It was some kind of complex in Washington where they’d sent him to after Dashti Margo. Why can’t I remember any of this? How could they have done this to me? How could I have lived another life and not remember it?

  He came out of the page and entered ‘Belinda Reese’. With shaking hands, he clicked the search button. Instantly, a thumbnail of a woman’s face appeared in the sidebar beside a long list of article entries. He swallowed hard, clicked on the thumbnail, and her face filled the screen. As his gaze fell upon her fully, the pain throbbed in his temples. But this time, it was accompanied by his ultimate Achilles Heel; that which was the very antithesis of who he was. He felt sadness. Tears poured along his cheeks at the sight of her. What are you? What are you doing to me? He clenched his fists as a means of suppressing the feelings her image was causing.

  Unable to bear it, he came out of the web page, and returned to the articles about her. Where was she? There was nothing to indicate her whereabouts. It was clear there was a desire to keep her location anonymous. She’d become a media sensation, all on account of him.

  As he read further, he came upon details of his brother and sister. Tyler’s name was now Faraday, and he’d been adopted by a helicopter mogul.

  But it was his sister that offered the greatest intrigue. She’d been raised in a convent and she’d escaped, but was then kidnapped by a human trafficking outfit. It seemed he’d been responsible for rescuing her just before his supposed death. There were references to a brief interview with her when she said she’d become close to Belinda Reese.

  Another search, this time for ‘Emily Drake’, offered a recent interview in The Dallas Morning News. Emily had stated she lived with Belinda, although it didn’t say where. The focus of the small article was Emily’s new posting with The Samaritans.

  Drake smiled. An end to his vulnerability was now in sight, but there was another he needed to meet during his search for Belinda Reese. And that man would provide him with the weaponry he needed.

  ***

  Kane Slamer approached the reception desk on the first floor of the Piedmont Medical Center in Rock Hill, North Carolina. Reports of Joe Cassidy’s ghastly death had been all over the news. The knowledge that Cassidy had been Brandon Drake’s foster father presented the likelihood that Drake was the killer.

  “Yes, sir. Can I help you?” a young blonde receptionist said.

  “Hi. I understand a lady was brought in here yesterday. A Gretchen Cassidy.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No, I’m a . . . private investigator. It would really help me if I could have a few moments with Mrs. Cassidy.”

  She looked at him with more than a degree of reservation. He knew, once again, that his appearance was the cause.

  “I’ll call the doctor,” she said. “Wait here.”

  “Sure.”

  Several minutes later, the receptionist returned with a tall man wearing a white medical coat.

  “I’m Doctor Josephs,” the man said. “How can I help?”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Slamer said. “If possible, I’d like to ask Gretchen Cassidy a few questions about the man who attacked her. I’m a private investigator.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. She’s under sedation right now. When she was brought in she was suffering from shock.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “However, it wouldn’t do much good to talk to her. All she remembers is walking down the stairs and then waking up with a pain in the back of her head. She was struck at the base of the skull. She never saw her attacker.”

  “Well, thank you for your time, Doctor.” Slamer turned and made his way out.

  In the parking lot, he climbed into his car and took out his cell phone. He selected his contact and waited for a response, which came in seconds. “It’s me.”

  Wilmot’s impatient voice came through the receiver. “I know it’s you. Who else would it be? What have you got?”

  “I drew a blank again. The Cassidy woman is under sedation. According to her doctor, she never saw her attacker. This guy Cassidy wasn’t popular, so there’s no guarantee it was Drake that killed him.”

  “It’s likely, though.”

  “Yeah, and that’s all I’ve got to go on.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “Guesswork is all I have. If Drake killed Cassidy, I can only try to pre-empt what, if anything, he may have told him. If they spoke, it’s probable Cassidy told him about the life he can’t remember. If he did, there’s a good chance he’ll be out there trying to trace those who knew him.”

  “That’s a lot of ‘what ifs’, Slamer.”

  “Look, you got any better ideas? He could be hiding out in Central England for all we know. I’m not even doing this in an official capacity, Wilmot. I can’t talk to the police, so why don’t you use your divine influence and find out what the story is with the Cassidy house. Did he leave fingerprints? Was anything taken?”

  There was a momentary pause on the line, and then Wilmot said, “All right, I’ll do what I can. Let me know where you’re headed.”

  “It’s like I said in the beginning, Wilmot. I’m following the blood trail.”

  “All right, Slamer, just find him.”

  “Oh, I’ll find him. And when I do, he’ll become a distant memory pretty damn quick.” Slamer ended the call and fired up the engine.

  Nineteen

  The Visitor

  Emily sat at her desk at the Samaritans, gazing at the phone. She’d only taken three calls all morning. The lines seemed to have gone quiet.

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in.”

  A twenty-something blonde female entered with a coffee in her hand. “Hi Emily. I brought you a coffee. How’s it been today?”

  “Oh, thank you, Jessie. You’re very kind. It’s been really quiet. How about you?”

  “Weird, actually.”

  “Weird how?”

  “We’ve been having calls from someone who keeps dropping the phone as soon as we answer. Laura had one, and Amber had it twice. I just had one too.”

  “Well . . . some people are seriously distressed with their lives. Too distressed to even talk about it, I suppose.”

  “I guess so.”

  Emily’s phone rang.

  “I’ll leave you to it. Maybe you’ll have better luck,” Jessie said, and left.

  Emily picked up the phone. “Samaritans. Emily speaking. How can I help?”

  There was silence on the line, but it remained open.

  “Please don’t hang up,” Emily said. “Maybe I can help. What’s your name?”

  A deep, resonating male voice came through the receiver. “It’s . . . John.”

  To Emily, he sounded quite strong, unlike the majority of callers. They were usually quiet, weakened, and defeated. “Hi, John. I’m here to help. Can you tell me how you are? How you’re feeling?”

  “I’m . . . lost.”

  “Lost in what way?”

  “I’ve never really had a family. I have no one. No one at all. I’m totally alone.”

  Emily felt compelled to do whatever she could to keep this caller on the line. “John, I understand what you’re saying, believe me. I grew up without my family, too. But I found my brother, and we’re very close now.”

  “You’re lucky you found your brother. It’s more than I have.”

  “Maybe you have family and you just don’t know it.”

  “Maybe. How did you find your brother?”

  “That isn’t important. What’s important is helping you.”

  “You are helping me just by talking to me. It’s nice to know someone else who has suffered too. Maybe if you tell me your story, it wil
l make mine seem not so bad.”

  “That isn’t why you called. Why don't you tell me your story?”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Then why did you call?”

  There was a short silence. Emily thought he’d hung up. Then, he spoke so softly she almost didn’t catch what he was saying. “I-I’m not sure. Maybe simply to get some reassurance that my problems aren’t as bad as they seem. Isn’t that why most people call The Samaritans?”

  “Hopefully yes, but they don’t ask us about our problems. I shouldn’t have mentioned my family.”

  “I think you were trying to show me you understood. Well, I also understand, Emily. You found your brother. What happened to the rest of your family?”

  She inhaled and decided to break the rules. Mutual empathy was a tactic she’d been considering, although she knew it was a gamble. “It’s a long story. Apparently, my father got drunk and killed my mother. I had two brothers. We were all split up when we were infants. I grew up in a convent, but I was very unhappy there. A few months ago, I escaped.”

  “You escaped?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you’re working for The Samaritans?”

  “That’s right. Now I can help people and have my freedom. I wouldn’t change my life now. I love it. If we work on it, maybe we can find a new life for you. Let me help you, John.”

  “I . . . I think I’d like that, Emily. Would it be all right if I called you after awhile? I need some time to think.”

  “Take all the time you need, John. Just ask for me when you call back, all right?”

  “All right. Thank you, Emily.”

  The call ended.

  Emily placed the phone on the receiver and sat back thoughtfully. She questioned if had been right to disclose personal details of her own life to that particular caller. Was it unprofessional of her to have done so? Or was it exactly the right thing in order to procure his trust? She was certain John was the caller Jessie had told her about. Perhaps she was just desperate to keep him on the line. Oh, boy. I sure hope he calls back.

  ***

  Night had fallen by the time Professor Abraham Jacobson returned to his home in Lyon Village, Arlington County, Virginia. At sixty-eight, he was beyond retirement age. However, the loneliness of being a widower had driven him to keep working until late every night. Coming home to an empty house was the most harrowing part of his day.

  Having parked his Lexus in the garage, he made his way up the steps between the porch pillars of his impressive, secluded home beyond the suburbs. His presence activated the light sensors.

  He took out his front door key and hesitated before inserting it into the lock. He could sense someone was there. He turned around and could barely make out a dark figure crouched in front of the garden bush. “Who’s there?”

  The figure stood and came closer, his face overshadowed by a dark hood.

  “Who are you?”

  The visitor raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Professor, it’s me.”

  Jacobson’s heart missed a beat at the sound of the voice. No. It can’t be.

  The man peeled the hood back and stepped into the porch light.

  “Brandon?” Jacobson said, astounded. “But how—”

  “I need to talk to you. I know this is going to sound strange but . . . I don’t remember you. I need you to help me.”

  Tears welled up in Jacobson’s eyes as he walked back down the steps. He threw his arms around Brandon in a display of deep affection for his most unexpected visitor. “I’m so happy you’re alive, Brandon.”

  Drake did not return the embrace.

  “Come inside with me. Let’s talk, OK?” Jacobson said.

  “Thank you.”

  They ascended the steps together and entered the house. Jacobson placed his keys on a small counter beside the door and turned back to Drake. He immediately noticed a darkness in his eyes that he’d never seen before. But what was to be expected? Brandon was supposed to be dead, and there was no saying what he’d been through in the meantime. “Come into the living room, Brandon. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I have a vintage Cognac, and I’ve been waiting for a special occasion to open it.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Jacobson led him into an ornate, opulent living room. An array of classic paintings adorned the walls, which complemented a collection of antique furnishings. “Take a seat, Brandon,” he said as he poured two brandies.

  Jacobson’s history with Brandon came back to him. He recalled the first time he’d met the handsome young soldier. Brandon’s genius had been so unexpected. With his IQ recorded at one-hundred forty-four, and the extent to which his technical ideas had accelerated their research, it had been a phenomenal vocational experience for the professor. Brandon’s knowledge of aviation mechanics, combined with the technology he had access to at Mach Industries, had helped them to design a supersonic VTOL vehicle. The Turbo Swan’s powerful miniaturized engines had been Brandon’s handiwork. That technology had gone through two further advancements since he’d fled from the facility.

  “You say you don’t remember me. How did you find where I lived?” Jacobson said.

  “A lot of internet research. I’ve lost four years of my life, and I’ve been spending a lot of time trying to find out what happened to me. Apparently I worked with you.”

  “Oh, indeed you did. We were very close, in fact.” Jacobson handed him a brandy and removed his suit jacket. After loosening his tie, he sat opposite Brandon. “I can’t believe you’re here. Tell me what happened and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Well, most of what I know is from what I read. I just can’t remember any of it. The last thing I remember was being in the desert in Afghanistan. That was four years ago. The next thing I knew I was waking up in a facility in the Mojave Desert.”

  “Mojave?”

  “Yes. They seemed to be caring for me, but after about ten weeks, they tried to kill me. I had no choice but to escape.”

  “Kill you? Who were they?”

  “As far as I could tell they were some kind of government operation.”

  “You don’t remember the crash in Los Angeles?”

  “Only what I read on the internet.”

  “All right, Brandon,” Jacobson said. “I can certainly tell you what I know. You were sent to my department at Mach Industries by Senator Garrison Treadwell after you were released from the hospital. Do you remember Senator Treadwell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not my favorite person, I must say, but working with you was extraordinary. You created the engines for the Turbo Swan. Does any of this sound familiar?”

  “No. What’s the Turbo Swan?”

  “An experimental test aircraft. It was as small as a car.”

  A glimmer of recognition appeared in Drake’s eyes. “Is that the flying car I’ve been reading about?”

  “Yes. After you discovered Treadwell’s plans to attack government facilities, you fled from Mach Industries in it. It’s what you crashed in during the fiasco in Los Angeles.”

  Drake shook his head as though attempting to assimilate his thoughts. “That’s amazing. And I don’t remember a thing.”

  “Well, it’s clear to me that you’re suffering amnesia from the crash. But that still raises the question of why they wanted the world to believe you were dead.”

  “I have no idea.”

  Jacobson squinted his eyes inquisitively. “Forgive me, Brandon, but there’s something I must ask.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You say they faked your death, and then tried to kill you. You must have discovered a wealth of information about Treadwell’s activities. Mach Industries is a military operation. How can you trust me?”

  “When I was researching my missing years, I discovered reports about my trial at Fort Bragg. I couldn’t access any transcripts, but there seemed to be a strong indication that you spoke in my defense
.”

  Jacobson smiled. “Yes, I did.”

  “Thank you.”

  They continued talking for another hour. The professor conveyed his sentiments toward Brandon, and the feeling of betrayal he’d suffered after Brandon had fled from Mach Industries in the Turbo Swan. It was only after his reasons for doing so became apparent that the professor’s sense of disappointment became one of great pride.

  Jacobson sipped his brandy and lowered his head in thought for a moment. “How would you like to pay a visit to Mach Industries? Just to see if it triggers anything.”

  Drake’s eyes widened excitedly. “Are you serious? When?”

  “Tonight. Most of the personnel will have gone home. There won’t be anybody there who knew you. Even the security boys are all new.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “I’ll get you in. Trust me.”

  Drake stood eagerly. “I do, sir. Maybe you shouldn’t have any more of that brandy if you’re driving us there.”

  Jacobson looked down at his glass and smiled. “You’re right. Shall we go?”

  “You got it.”

  Drake lay concealed under a dark blanket on the back seat of Jacobson’s Lexus, unable to see anything. He could only hear.

  After a twenty minute journey, the car finally came to a stop. He heard one of the front electric windows lowering and seconds later, a male voice could be heard:

  “Professor? It’s past ten. What brings you back at this hour?”

  “Oh, I apologize, Leon,” Jacobson said cordially. “There’s some business I need to attend to in my lab. Could you let me through?”

  “Sure thing, sir.”

  The mild hum of the window rising was followed by the car moving on again.

  “Brandon? Are you OK?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Good. We’re going to take a slight detour around the complex. There’s an entrance at the rear that takes us to a corridor leading directly to the lab.”

  “OK.”

  Drake smiled under the sheet with narcissistic coldness. His vulnerability act had enabled him to avoid even asking Jacobson to bring him to Mach Industries. That stupid, balding idiot bought it, hook, line, and sinker.