A young woman opened the door. “Hello. How can I help you?”
“Uhh, I was told that someone from the Company wanted to speak with me?”
“You must be Jack Spade.”
“And you are?”
“Come in, come in. My name’s Ava, and this is my partner, Asher.” The woman motioned to a young man who was seated at the table in the corner of the room. The man she called Asher looked almost like one of those vampires from the movie Kid was watching the other day. He was pale, with long, straight hair—beautiful, but there was something strange about him. About both of them.
Jack walked in as the woman closed the door behind him. “Nice to meet you both, what can I do for you?”
“First of all, let me say how sorry we are that it took this long to find you. When you went off the grid after you were sent back, we didn’t have the technology to find you for another hundred years or so,” the woman explained.
Jack frowned, puzzled. “So, once you did have the technology, why didn’t you come find me four years ago when I first got here?”
“Hey, I just do as I’m told,” the woman quickly responded. Almost too quickly. “Orders are orders, you know?”
“Yeah, I roughly recall. So you’re here to take me back?”
The woman nodded.
“Great! When do we leave?”
“Once we pick up the boy, we can get under—” She froze, realizing her mistake.
Before Jack could curse himself for not bringing his gun, the young woman had her own pistol trained on him.
“Well, this wasn’t exactly the way it was supposed to go,” the woman said.
Her companion rose from his seat, his expression worried. “Ava, is this really necessary? There must be some other way.”
She turned slightly to remark, and when she did, Jack made his move.
He rushed for the gun, but the woman was faster. There was a light blue flash and then Jack was flying backward into the wall. He hit with a sickening thud, the air knocked out of him. Whatever weapon she had was new to him, and it packed one hell of a punch. He looked down at his belly expecting to see a giant hole where it used to be. He was pleasantly surprised to find he was still intact, despite the enormous amount of pain he was in. It felt like he’d been kicked by a horse.
“Oh my… That was… unexpected.” The woman appeared to be as surprised as he was.
“Ava, what have you done?”
“Hush, Asher. He’s fine. Besides, he attacked me first. You saw it.” She walked over to Jack and pointed the pistol at his head. “Sorry, but I can’t have you following us.”
She pulled the trigger and the world disappeared.
Jack woke for the second time that day. He was slouched against the wall, his head was pounding. He hurt everywhere. He tried to get up and immediately vomited. He considered laying back down and just going to sleep, but then he remembered Kid. He had to save him. Whatever those people wanted with the boy, they could not have him.
He stumbled out of the room, moving as fast as he could manage back to his apartment. His focus came and went, he had no idea how long it took him to get home.
The apartment door was slightly ajar. Jack thought he might be sick again. He went inside. “Kid?” he called out, expecting what he found, which was nothing, but he hoped, that maybe, somehow…
He searched room by room anyway. Maybe they’d left behind some kind of clue. In the end, the only thing he found was a few drops of blood on the floor by the door. Aside from that, there weren’t any signs of a struggle. All of the furniture was in place.
His breathing was rapid from the adrenaline and his mind was racing. He paced back and forth, trying to decide what to do. He needed to do something, to hurt someone.
Jack palmed a spot on the wall pressing in and to the right. The wall made a clicking noise and a small portion slid away to reveal the hideout gun that Jack had hidden there. Jack took the gun, slid the magazine out, saw that it was loaded to capacity and slammed it back in. He had just tucked the pistol behind his back when his pocket beeped.
Startled, he stuck his hand in and pulled out a wrist watch. A man’s voice spoke, sounding familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Sorry about all of this, Jack, I couldn’t talk her out of it. You should drop this watch and run, now.”
Jack turned the watch over as it began to beep. The watch showed a timer running down, 9… 8… 7…
He immediately dropped the watch and fled the apartment. Avoiding the elevator, he was already two flights down the stairs when the entire building was rocked by the blast from his apartment. Jack was thrown against the wall of the stairwell as bits of ceiling fell from above. The fire alarm assaulted his ears and people started pouring out the hallway onto the stairs.
Mass chaos ensued. People pushing and shoving to get out of the building, their regard for their fellow man replaced by the instinct for self-survival.
Jack finally made it out of the building onto the street where a large crowd had already gathered. Broken glass was everywhere on the sidewalk. He saw part of his couch embedded firmly in the roof of a blue Volkswagen. He loved that couch.
He sat on the curb outside his apartment in a daze. He felt numb all over. Kid was gone. His apartment was gone. The people responsible were gone. He didn’t know how long he sat there.
At some point he was looked at by an EMT. He was asked questions and he heard himself answer, but he only knew he was talking, he couldn’t make sense of any of the sounds he was making with his mouth. He barely noticed when the officer came and put him in cuffs to take him in for questioning.
The Flip Side
Jack Spade reached up and gently probed his aching head, trying to remember what had happened. He ran his hand over a giant bump. A wince crept across his face. With the pain came his memory—the betrayal, the kidnapping, the explosion, the pavement. What Jack couldn’t figure out was why he was locked up.
He was inside a cell, inside of a larger room. Got the whole place to myself, too. There were no other cells, or prisoners for that matter. Great, he thought. He was in some kind of isolation room.
Jack was familiar with the psychological uses of isolation from his training days at the Company. The police must have thought he was either extremely dangerous or had some information of great value. Whatever the case, it wasn’t good for him.
Directly in front of his cell was a door with no handle, seemingly the only way in or out of the room. An air conditioning duct was located on the wall above and to the right of the door, but even if he could manage to find a way out of his cell, it was much too small to use for escape. I guess we just wait, Jackie boy, he thought. He found the self-talk useful when the solution to a problem escaped his grasp, and it gave him something to do.
Jack was still pacing back and forth and talking to himself two hours later when the door opened and a man in a suit came into the room. He shut the door behind him, which was then locked from the outside.
“I’m Special Agent Nixon,” the man said, removing a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “I’m going to put these on you and then take you to another room for questioning.” With his other hand he pulled out a stun gun, making sure Jack could plainly see it. “We’re not going to have any problems, are we?”
Jack remained silent and passive.
“Place your hands through the bars.”
Jack complied, and Nixon handcuffed him. Jack retracted his arms and moved to the rear of the cell.
“Ah, you’re familiar with our procedures,” Nixon said. “We were wondering if you had any training.”
“What am I being charged with?” Jack demanded. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Ignoring Jack’s question, Nixon opened the cell and led Jack out of the room. “Come on, you’ll find out soon enough.”
The interrogation room was even less interesting than his cell had been. The walls were bare and white. There was a large mirror on the wall opposite of the door. Two-way, Jack thought. The only obje
cts inside the room were two chairs and a small table.
Another agent brought Jack into the room and placed him in the closest chair, his back facing the door. The agent removed the handcuffs from Jack’s wrists and left him in silence. After twenty minutes, Nixon entered the room, walking around to the other side of the table where he stood over the empty chair.
“Here’s how this works—I ask the questions, and you answer them. Got it?”
“What? No lawyer?”
Nixon ignored him. “Who are you working for?”
Who am I working for? Why would they think—and then it finally hit him, my gun! Damn it! Jack had forgotten all about taking his hold out pistol from the apartment.
“Last time I ask nicely, Jack. Who are you working for?”
“Well, I still haven’t found another job, since I got fired for what happened to my taxi, but I’ve got a few leads. Say, you guys aren’t hiring, are you?”
Nixon wasted no time. He backhanded Jack across the face.
Jack had expected as much. His lip started bleeding, and he reached up to wipe the blood off. “I’ll take that as a ‘not at this time.’”
Nixon walked around the table and grabbed a handful of Jack’s hair, pulling his head back and exposing his throat. He leaned down until he was right next to Jack’s ear. “Listen to me,” Nixon said. “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, but there are far more uncomfortable ways for me to find out what I want to know.”
Jack was about to laugh in reply when Nixon slammed his head down on the table turning the lights out.
Jack awoke with yet another headache. He was still in the interrogation room, but he had managed to pass out in his chair. Maybe he’d had help, he didn’t remember. You rarely do, he thought.
He felt his forehead and found dried blood. How long had he been out? With no clock and no windows, it was next to impossible to mark the passing of time. Even the air vent blew a constant breeze with no detectable pauses.
Jack tried to sleep at first, but quickly gave up. Though his head was still pounding, it turned out that being knocked out was oddly restful. Instead, he took up pacing, wandering back and forth, wall to wall, counting the steps it took to reach different points in the room.
As the hours (perhaps it was minutes, it was hard to tell) passed, he grew tired of pacing and began to draw stick figures and houses on the mirror, using his spit as a kind of smear pen. Well, it won’t make it to a museum, Jack thought, but it’s gonna be a pain in the ass for somebody to clean.
More time passed and Jack was finally out of ideas. He slumped down on the floor, leaning against the wall. Not focusing on anything, he let his eyes go cross, completely giving in to boredom. Slowly, he began to become unaware of everything around him, entering into some sort of trance.
Jack was still deep in his trance when the door opened and he heard footsteps. Very slowly, Jack came back to reality.
When his eyes finally focused, he made out the figures of Nixon and two other agents leaning against the table.
“Get him up,” Nixon told his acquaintances. They walked over to the wall where Jack was sitting and hoisted him up, dragging him back to the chair.
“Why did you blow up your own apartment, Jack?”
Here we go again, Jack thought. “I didn’t blow up my apartment.”
“Where did you get the gun?”
Jack had had enough. If the agency wanted to leave him stranded in the past, play tricks on him, and steal little boys from their protectors, then fuck them. “Alright, I’ll tell you everything,” Jack said. “What do you want to know?”
“Glad to see you’ve finally come to your senses. A little time alone usually does that,” Nixon said. “Who do you work for?”
“I work for an intelligence agency for the United States government. I got the gun from them.”
“Jack… you are aware that I work for the government?” Nixon asked.
“Oh, I’m aware.”
“Jack, there is absolutely no record of you working for the government or any of its agencies.”
“Of course there isn’t.” Jack watched Nixon’s brow furrow in confusion. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Not yet?”
“Not for another four hundred years or so,” Jack said smugly, rather enjoying himself. Truthfully, it would be another nine hundred years, but it felt good to talk to about it with someone, even if he was fudging the details a little.
Nixon rolled his eyes, not buying any of Jack’s story. “The bomb in your apartment, which killed two people and wounded a dozen others… how do you explain that?”
“That was the watch that some people claiming to be from my agency planted on me… Self-destruct sequence. They must have triggered it, hoping I’d be wearing the watch, but I already have a watch that I like to wear.” Jack held up his wrist for the agents to see. His watch was an antique, made over nine hundred—well, actually, it came out next year. Jack’s father had given it to him when he’d graduated from the academy. It was a family heirloom that had been passed down for generations. Jack hoped to pass it on to his son one day.
“We are aware of your watch, Jack. We let you keep it, after all,” Nixon said.
Jack continued, “I don’t know why they felt it was necessary to blow me up.” For the time being, he thought it best not to mention Kid, or his abduction. There was enough confusion for the moment. No need to go throwing a kidnapping into the mix.
“How does the gun work?” Nixon asked.
Jack laughed. “Can’t figure it out, can you? I’ll tell you, but you have to swear to keep it a secret.”
Nixon rose, another backhand on its way.
“Come on now, there’s no need for violence.” Jack put his hands up, holding Nixon off for the moment. “What would you like to know about it?”
“For starters, what does it fire? We couldn’t find any magazine or any sort of projectile.”
“It’s an energy weapon. It fires beams of light, concentrated and propelled by electro-magnets,” Jack said. If he remembered correctly, it would only be another twenty years before they started manufacturing early prototypes of energy weapons.
“Why can’t we fire it?”
“Because it’s coded to my DNA. Without my hand gripping the gun, it’s no more dangerous than a rock. Sounds a bit much, I know, but in the future it solves nearly every murder case where a shooting is involved. See, every time it’s fired, a transmitter sends the info to the police station’s computers, keeping track of who fired and when and where. It’s not completely accurate, but it beats the hell out of a ballistics report.” Jack was sure that Nixon didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. No doubt they’re recording every bit of it, Jack thought as he looked around for the hidden cameras he knew must be there, somewhere. Years from now, when they realize I was telling the truth, they’ll remember.
Nixon had listened to all he could stomach. “Take the joker back to his cell, and see that he gets his head looked at by the medic. I think he may have some brain damage.” He shook his head, disappointed with Jack’s story.
Out in the hallway, Jack struggled to stay on his feet as the agents pushed him back toward his cell.
“Hey, how long have I been here?” Jack demanded, not really expecting an answer.
He got what he was expecting.
The agents threw him inside his cell and locked it after him. Jack heard their footsteps echoing down the hall as they retreated back to their posts.
Jack had been pacing for several minutes when the phone rang.
A phone? I’m losing it, he thought, there’s no phone in here. They stripped the place clean.
Out of habit though, Jack began to pat his jail-issued jumpsuit down as if searching for his cell. He found nothing, but the ringing persisted. He whirled around looking at the bed in his cell. There was nothing on the bed except a pillow. Jack went over to the pillow and picked it up.
There was a cell phone under
neath. What the hell?
He answered it, bewildered. “Hello?”
“Jack, so good to hear from you. How are you? What have you been up to?” It was Desmond’s voice.
“You,” Jack said, anger creeping into his voice. “What have you done with him? Where is he?”
“Hold on a second, Jack. What are you talking about?”
There was something in the man’s voice that made Jack pause for a moment. Maybe he didn’t know.
Out of nowhere, Jack felt his eyes water, tears gathering at the corner of his eye. He tried to will them back to the place they came from, but more followed. He covered the receiver to muffle the raw emotion coming out of him. Where was this coming from?
“Jack? Are you still there?” Desmond asked.
Jack wiped away the tears and cleared his throat. “I’m still here,” he said. “Someone took Kid, and I didn’t even see it coming.”
“I’m sorry to hear that Jack. How can I help?”
“What do you want anyway? Why even warn me, if you knew they were coming?” Jack’s throat was raw. Get a grip, Jack, he told himself. What the hell is wrong with you?
“Kid is very important to me. I’ll explain everything, but not like this. We need to talk, face to face,” Desmond said.
“Well, that could be a problem, Desmond. I’m in jail.”
“I’m aware,” Desmond said. “How do you think the phone got there?”
Jack could almost hear a cocky smile on the other end of the line. “If you knew about me being in jail, then you must have also known that they took Kid.” Jack’s suspicion rose.
“Yes, I did know, and I promise to explain everything.”
“I still don’t understand. How could you know about me being in jail? How could you get a cell in here? Who are you?”
“I have certain, talents, Jack. They allow me to do things that might seem incredible to those who don’t possess them, and in most cases, don’t even know they exist.” Desmond went on, “Now, as I said, I’ll explain, but first you have to trust me. Do you trust me, Jack?”
Jack thought about it for a moment before replying, “What choice do I have?”
Strangers and Shadows Page 8
