by Peter Darley
Her heart leaped and she ran to him, throwing herself into his arms with an all-consuming need for comfort. “Oh, thank God. I thought I’d lost you.”
“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry I left you,” he said.
“You did what you had to do. I am so proud of you.”
“Baby, we have to get out of here, and I know exactly where we’re heading.”
She looked up at him sharply. “Where?”
“About a quarter mile from here is a gas station with a restroom. If we can get to it, I can reapply our disguises, and then it’ll be safer to try to get to Union Station.”
“OK. Let’s get going.”
She clung to his arm, and Brandon kept his head bowed, his face concealed by the peak of his cap. With trepidation, she moved forward with him, away from the darkness.
They approached a more civilized area, and quickened their pace in order to lose themselves among the pedestrians.
The silence that had befallen the tough part of town was quickly replaced by a chorus of voices, sounds of traffic, and the ambiance of bustling city night life. Belinda kept her head bowed and eagerly strode toward the gas station.
As they stepped onto the asphalt, Brandon noticed a closed circuit TV security camera perched high on a pole. It was trained on the gas pumps, the store, and the restroom.
Before taking another step, he turned to Belinda. “We need to walk in line with that camera with our backs to it. Don’t turn around to look at it. Whoever is looking at the monitor can’t be aware that we looked different going in to what we’ll look like when we come out.”
“Got it.”
Facing away from the camera, they walked, hand in hand, into the camera’s range.
Brandon’s immediate concern was that the restroom might be occupied, but upon turning the door handle, he saw it was clear. They quickly entered, closed the door behind them, and bolted the latch.
They held one another in a brief moment of respite. Brandon had no choice but to cut it short, and threw the backpack from his shoulders. “We can’t reuse the old prosthetics. They’ll be useless now. We have to start with fresh appliances. Let’s get to work.”
The facility was somewhat grimy. The toilet wasn’t well-maintained, and neither was it particularly clean. However, the sink offered a bar of soap, and there was a paper towel dispenser fixed to the wall.
With frantic speed, Belinda washed the studio make-up off her face while Brandon sifted through the backpack for the prosthetics.
The instant she’d cleansed her face, he set about washing his own. He knew it was imperative that all foreign substances were removed from their skin in order for the prosthetics to adhere.
Once their faces were dry, he proceeded with the painstaking procedure of making them both look middle-aged again.
He considered how vital his ability to do this had been to his survival since his flight began. Having stolen a generous supply of skin-friendly, silicone prosthetics from Mach Industries, he’d customized the procedure from a skill he’d learned in the army. Disguise techniques were intended for soldiers to assimilate themselves as citizens of the enemy, either for infiltration, or escape purposes—not for evading the law on home soil. He smiled, rebelliously, at the irony.
The applications took almost an hour, during which time they suffered numerous starts with people trying the door handle. They were spared no moment of tension and anxiety.
Finally, they appeared to be a middle-aged couple again, and Brandon’s facial features were concealed by an extremely convincing, thin beard. He checked their appearance in the mirror, satisfied they would now have passed for their own parents.
He took out two false identity cards and handed Belinda hers. They’d taken photographs of one another in disguise for him to use in creating the fake IDs before they left for L.A. in case they were stopped.
She looked at her own ID card and frowned at the fake name he’d given her. “Jaime Branigan? Where did you get that name from?”
“I got the ‘Jaime’ from Jaime Sommers—The Bionic Woman. Thought you’d like it.” He managed a slight smirk.
“And the ‘Branigan’?”
“The late Laura Branigan. One of my favorite singers.”
“I see.”
She looked over his shoulder and noticed his fake name. “Kyle Summers? Sounds cool. Where did that name come from?”
“A magician I met once. He’s the only guy who’s ever fooled me. I figured since the point of disguise is fooling people, I’d use his name as a good luck charm.”
After strapping the backpack across his shoulder, he unlocked the restroom door, casually peered through the gap, and all seemed to be clear. “OK, let’s go for it. Just hold my hand, look as normal as you can, and smile like we’ve been in here . . . you know? Doing stuff.”
She assumed a suggestive smile and stepped outside with him.
As they turned the corner to walk parallel to the store, a police car pulled up on the asphalt, causing their hearts to pound. At all costs, they couldn’t afford to show fear.
“Just keep walking,” Brandon whispered. “Feel it inside you that it isn’t about us. If you believe it, they’ll believe it.”
Belinda focused on her own act, but shuddered as two cops stepped out of the squad car. The officers casually continued toward the store. They may have been looking for them. On the other hand, they may have been stopping for donuts.
They walked across to the sidewalk of the main highway and waited for a cab. One appeared within a few moments, and Brandon flagged it down. “This is it.”
The cab stopped and they climbed inside.
“Union Station,” Brandon said.
“You got it.”
In the back seat, Belinda was barely aware of how tightly she was gripping Brandon’s hand.
It was brief ride across to the northeast part of downtown Los Angeles, avoiding the roadblocks.
Brandon settled up with the cab driver, and they climbed out. “It’s all right, baby,” he said. “We made it.”
She forced a smile and walked with him past the palm trees into the ticket court. Her mouth was persistently dry and her were palms damp. Despite her wig, cap, and the fact that looked twenty years older than she really was, her sense of doom would not abate.
There were only two people in the line to the ticket window. The first took his ticket and made his way to the platform.
The second man’s turn came. His breathing seemed labored as though he’d been running. Belinda wished he’d hurry and get his ticket. She sensed Brandon was getting angry having to wait.
The man purchased his ticket and turned toward them. It was Payne.
Thirty-Two
Welcome Home
Brandon and Belinda held themselves perfectly still, trying not to attract Payne’s notice.
Caught in a vacuum, Brandon knew he was in a position to apprehend him. But at what cost? The man facing him was a killer. He was one of the men responsible for the attack on Carringby Industries and the deaths of many. However, the killer didn’t recognize them and appeared to be more concerned with catching his train. Unable to do anything, they watched as he ran from the ticket office and down the stairwell to the platform.
With another sigh of relief, they approached the ticket window.
“How’re you doing, sir?” Brandon said, feigning an ultra-friendly persona. “We’re trying to get to Aspen, Colorado.”
The vendor said, “Quite a trek. From here, you need to go to San Francisco. From there, you’ll take the California Zephyr to Glenwood Springs, and then a bus to Aspen. It’ll take a couple of days.”
“I know. When does it leave?”
“There’s been a delay due to a technical problem. The next one leaves at seven a.m.”
Brandon looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. “That’s over seven hours.”
“I know. I’m sorry, sir.”
Knowing he had no choice, Brandon conceded. “OK. Is there an
ywhere around here where we can rest while we wait?”
“Sure. You can use the waiting room. You can also buy coffee and food in there.”
“Thanks.”
The vendor calculated the cost of their journey and Brandon handed him the cash for the tickets.
The waiting area seemed to have a church-like quality, with tiled flooring, and rows of brown, leather-cushioned seats. Brandon and Belinda found two in the far corner and sank into them.
Belinda sat in stony silence.
Brandon draped his arm around her shoulder. “It’s all over, baby. We’ve done everything we can. Once we get back to the cabin, that’s where we’ll stay. I’ll drop the Turbo Swan off someplace where the army can find it, and then we’ll stay put.”
“It’s not just that, Brandon,” she said. “It’s you.”
He frowned, confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What happened to you when those guys pulled knives on us?”
He looked away trying to picture the moment. They’d arrived at the end of the street to find themselves facing a gang. The next thing he remembered was the disturbing vision of himself in Afghanistan. Then he was looking down at the leader of the gang with a gun in his hand. But what had happened in between? And why hadn’t he thought about that until Belinda just prompted him? “What did happen?” he said.
“The same thing that happened in Wyoming. You moved like lightning. You kicked the knives out of their hands with one kick, and then you beat the crap out of every one of them. One guy pulled a gun on you, and you caught his arm. The gun went off and he shot his friend behind you. You laid waste to them all within seconds. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He shook his head as he tried to process what she was telling him. It sounded utterly absurd.
“You get this weird look in your eyes, like you’re somebody else. And when it happens, that scar on your forehead becomes deeper. It’s really creepy.”
He touched the scar, almost without thinking. Belinda’s words were profoundly disturbing. He truly had no answer for her, neither did he have any understanding of what it all meant. He was aware of ‘something’ that came over him in a heated moment. He’d managed to pull it back and stay focused when they were in the deserted factory. But what did it all mean? “I was in the army. We were trained in armed and unarmed combat, and—”
“No way, Brandon. This wasn’t army combat training. This was expert martial arts and acrobatics. Do they teach you that in the army?”
He held her tightly, shaking his head. “I . . . don’t know what to say. Honestly, baby. I don’t.”
She looked into his eyes and then rested her head on his shoulders. “Just hold me.”
There was a considerable police presence in the station throughout the night. Photographs of Brandon, Belinda, and Payne were handed out around the building. One officer actually asked Brandon if he had seen himself, his disguise was so convincing.
The hours rolled on, and Belinda eventually fell asleep in his arms. He remained awake all night, his thoughts in turmoil.
Brandon and Belinda stood on the platform the following morning. Despite their disguises, they both struggled to avoid appearing apprehensive. Even the station attendants caused them to feel anxious, as though their uniforms suggested ‘authority.’
A middle-aged lady holding a Burberry purse stood beside them. She smiled politely and they reciprocated.
To their relief, they heard their train coming and turned to see it in the distance growing larger by the second.
“Here we go,” Brandon said.
Belinda gripped his hand and instinctively walked toward the train, as though the few steps would get them to their destination faster.
Without warning, a scream came from behind them. They turned with a start to see two young thugs charging toward them. Brandon noticed one of them holding the Burberry purse. Then he saw the look of horror on the face of the lady who had smiled at them.
Belinda instinctively backed away when the muggers were almost on top of them.
Brandon spun around, his left arm shooting out with perfect timing to collide with their solar plexuses. The blade of his hand caught one with devastating force, and his elbow struck the other. The Burberry purse fell from the attacker’s hand as he fell to the platform in a fetal position with his partner. They both writhed in agony, and three station guards hurried over to them. The commuters scurried away from the scene with sounds of distress all around.
The train pulled up and the doors opened.
Brandon grasped Belinda’s hand again and ushered her into the crowd of boarding commuters. “Come on. Keep your head down and get inside.”
Once inside the train car, they watched the commotion and unrest outside through the window. The lady retrieved her purse and two police officers arrived to assist the station attendants with the two muggers.
“What happened?” the first officer said.
“T-these men took my purse,” the lady stammered, “and then this man stopped them.”
“What man? Can you point him out?”
She looked around but there was no sign of him. “I don’t see him.”
“What’d he look like?”
“I-I wasn’t paying too much attention, but I think he was about mid-forties, brown hair, and he had a neatly-trimmed beard.”
“What was he wearing?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
The officer looked into the train through the carriage window, but he could only see a swarm of people inside scurrying to find places to sit. With only himself and one colleague to arrest the two thugs, he decided his priorities lay somewhere other than questioning a passing hero.
Brandon and Belinda took the last two seats facing the entrance.
After a few minutes, all was finally clear, and Brandon chanced glancing across at the platform. All of the travelers had boarded, but he could see the station attendants helping the police to escort the muggers away in handcuffs. Another attendant appeared to be lending a sympathetic ear to the lady with the purse.
As the train started up, he sat back and tried to relax. Glancing at Belinda, he noticed her eyes were closed as though in relief.
It gradually came to him that he’d just taken down two men, and he vaguely recalled the way in which he’d struck them. It had happened so quickly it was a haze to him. But it seemed to fit with what Belinda had told him about him seeming to display martial arts skills. He remembered her telling him in Wyoming that he’d beaten the man who’d accosted her with karate. He’d never practiced martial arts, and yet he’d just taken down two muggers without even thinking about it. It didn’t make any sense.
He considered the particulars of what had happened. His self-imposed mission to expose Treadwell’s conspiracy on national television had almost ended in disaster, and he always knew his credibility was challenged. For years, governmental conspiracy theories had been circulating in Western culture, never more so than since 9/11. Most people dismissed such ideas as the ravings of the disenfranchised and socially outcast, and they would have been correct—then.
But this time, it was for real. As he thought about it, he became certain such public doubt had played right into Treadwell’s hands. It would’ve encouraged his confidence that any accusations the attacks had come from within would be dismissed as ridiculous. This was another obstacle Brandon’s story had to overcome.
The train built up speed and the farther it took them away from Los Angeles, the easier they felt.
Exhausted from being awake all night, the mild hum of the train’s engine and the rumble of the track gradually lulled them to sleep.
***
The two lovers braved their way uphill through the snow after their long train journey and a bus ride from Glenwood Springs. It had taken mere minutes for them to feed themselves into their pre-packed snow boots. It was then a three mile trek to the wooded lot.
Driven to despair by the itching of h
er disguise, Belinda hadn’t been able to bear it any longer. Out of sight, she and Brandon finally managed to remove the prosthetics.
“Let me know when . . . we . . . get there . . . Brandon. ‘Cause then . . . I’m going to . . . throw . . . up,” she said, gasping for air.
“It’s not much farther. I don’t know why, but I can’t see the Swan.”
Night was falling as the exhausting ascent up the snowy mountain continued. The moon provided them with illumination, but it was becoming darker by the moment.
They arrived at the trees, but the Turbo Swan was nowhere to be seen. Brandon pointed to the area where he’d left it and noticed the snow was extremely dense. “It looks like it’s been almost submerged by a snowfall. Hang in there, babe. We’re nearly there.”
Out of breath, she didn’t respond. So, this is love, is all that went through her mind.
They plowed through a forest of aspen trees and fourteen inches of snow until they reached the aircraft.
“Do you think it’ll still fly?” Belinda said.
“It’ll be fine. Get in.” He opened up the doors and snow fell off them.
After climbing into their seats, they braced themselves for flight.
“OK, sweetheart. It’s over,” he said with a hopeful note of finality in his voice. “Let’s go home.”
She sank exhausted into the seat, and the Turbo Swan came to life. As it lifted off, a joyous smile spread across her face. There was nothing and nobody around who could possibly harm, or even find them. Her mind relaxed in anticipation of the wonderful, serene life they were returning to, once and for all.
They were finally free.
Brandon unlocked the cabin door and stepped inside, bewildered by a candle burning on the mantelpiece. He quickly detected a familiar scent. “Belinda? Do you smell smoke?”
She followed him in, and the unmistakable smell struck her. “Cigars?”
“Hello, Brandon.”
The disembodied voice startled Belinda as was evidenced by her chilling scream.
