by Kipjo Ewers
Dustin shrugged, “Maybe they could have told us something…”
“Those people came to take their daughter home and bury her,” Mark cut him off; “They wouldn’t have a clue as to what happened to her, or how she got that way.”
“Good thing you emphasized to them the importance of not going to the press with this, with the promise that you’d bring their daughter home safe and sound,” Dustin chuckled, “Although you still haven’t told me how you’re gonna pull that off.”
“Do you have anything of worth to say Dustin?” Mark became irritated.
Dustin ignoring his friend’s usual temper tantrum, thought to himself for a second then remembered, “Got something on the C.O. that was killed.”
“Let’s have it,” Mark stopped in the hallway to listen.
“Turns out our “fallen hero” wasn’t squeaky clean at all,” Dustin rummaged through his files, “He was awarded six citations while working at the Allan B. Polunsky Unit, one of them was for assisting in stopping a prison riot, but he also was charged twice for excessive use of force. Nothing came of those charges; he transferred to Gatesville where he worked shifts between the regular women’s prison and the Mountain View Unit. There he had over four complaints of sexual harassment, none of them proven, one complaint of sexual assault, later dropped, and one complaint of rape which was an ongoing investigation.”
“How was he still working there?” Mark asked dumbfounded
Dustin checked the file again, “He was given desk duty until he was formally charged, but guess who the victim was?”
“Sister Shareef,” Mark snapped his finger.
“Close but no, Rosanna “Bishop” Mendoza, the car thief sharing a cell with Sister Shareef,” Dustin corrected, “She was also the person who filed the sexual assault complaint.”
“She was also friends with Dennison,” Mark added filling in the blanks, “That’s why she singled him out.”
“Also he was called “Big Buck” because he had a huge tattoo on his forearm of a stag mounting…” Dustin laughed preparing to go into detail about the late Wilford’s disturbing tattoo.
“I get the picture Dustin,” Mark waved him off not wishing to hear the rest about a stupid tattoo.
“All of this is gravy,” Dustin got serious again, “If she was “human” we’re no close to finding out what changed her, or how to stop her if it came down to it.”
“What about the assholes in black from the prison?” Mark had not forgotten about them or the incident at the lethal injection room.
Dustin hadn’t either as he screwed up his face looking through his files again, “Stanley Slater former SEAL Team Six Second Lieutenant with an IQ between 130:139, he is a special agent under the United States Government but the division he’s under is marked classified; he’s got a “Do Not Approach” in his file.”
“What the…?” Mark responded now baffled at what he was hearing.
Dustin not finished continued, “The toad’s boss, Arthur G. Rosen is a Director…there is nothing on him…division is also highly classified under the United States Government, and he also has a “Do Not Approach” in his file.”
“Holy shit,” Mark stood there totally stumped, “They really are the “Men in Black”…who the hell are these guys?”
“I don’t have the foggiest,” Dustin sighed shrugging his shoulders for the umpteenth time, “But I’d love to know why I’m the only one doing the research in regards to this case.”
To which Mark answered while walking away, “Keeps you from surfing for furry porn.”
Dustin stood there in disbelief that he would actually say that, “I…I only did that once!”
“Come on!” Mark barked.
Dustin cursed under his breath while power walking to catch up with Armitage.
As they neared the elevator to head to their temporary office they ran into a young male agent, who was apparently looking for them, “Special Agent in Charge Armitage sir, Executive Assistant Director King wants to speak with you and Special Agent in Charge Mercer ASAP.”
“Why didn’t he just call my cellphone?” Mark asked searching for his phone in his jacket.
“Said he needs you to call him on the secure line,” indicated the young agent.
Mark nodded as the agent walked off; he then turned to Dustin who had his usual annoyed look, ready to spit sarcastic venom, “I wonder what this will be about.”
Armitage does not answer as he walked onto the elevator; Mercer jumped in as well, taking it back up to the office. Inside the office they were borrowing from an agent on maternity leave, an agitated Armitage stabbed away at the telecom in an attempt to set up the secure line.
Dustin stood there watching the train wreck shaking his head, “You forgot your secure line again didn’t you?”
Mark growled jabbing the buttons with his finger as if trying to break it, “No, the stupid friggin thing isn’t working.”
“Move man…move…,” Mercer pushed him out the way, setting up the line, at the prompt he typed in his secure line code before dialing the Executive Assistant Director’s line, “Don’t feel bad my kid taught me how to do mine.”
“Shut up,” Mark snapped back.
Within less than a minute, Executive Assistant Director King’s voice came over the line, “Armitage…Mercer…?”
“What do you want Doug?” Mark said bluntly getting to the point with no mood for B.S.
“Let’s get to the point,” Executive Assistant Director King said dryly, “You came in contact with a Director Arthur Rosen?”
“Let me guess,” Mark leaned deeper into the comlink to speak, “You’re gonna tell us about the “Do Not Approach” hanging out of his ass. Who the hell is he Doug?”
Not very appreciative of Mark cutting him off, he ignored him going on, “That information…”
“Is classified, we know Doug!!” the duo barked into the comlink hoping it gave King an earache.
“Then get this through that one brain you two share,” the Director snapped back, “This guy has the wrath of God Brimstone type protection…do not fuck with him.”
“We’re not handing over this case over to some piece of…!” Mark slammed his fist on the table.
“No one is asking you to,” the Director cut him off with a tone reminding him who he was talking to, “Protection does not mean he can screw with the F.B.I either. This is now a dog race to the rabbit if you know what I mean. If you get to her she’s ours…if you don’t from what I can gather from the ass chewing I got from the top he probably has authorization to arrest and detain…probably even K.O.S…meaning she’ll be his.”
Armitage and Mercer gave each other unsettled looks.
“Look I don’t like this cloak and dagger James Bond shit as much as you do,” King came across with an uneasy voice, “Especially when it’s our own people doing it to us. You got a job to do, whatever resources you need, bring Dennison in, and keep me up to date.”
The Executive Assistant Director hung up on his end, a frustrated Armitage hit the button to hang up on his. A million and one questions were officially now swimming in his head, with no answer in sight.
“Why am I the only one asking the question how the hell are we going to bring this chick in if we find her?” Dustin let out.
Correction, a million and two.
Mark just stared into space, “Because you’re the only one making sense in this goddamn world.”
A somewhat disturbed look came across Dustin’s face, “That’s not a good thing.”
“No,” Mark huffed, “It isn’t...”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sophia was not having a very good day, on Charles’s assistance she stayed the night; actually, he threatening to burn the one good pair of pants she had despite her threatening him with bodily harm. He took the couch, and she his bed; even though she was not tired, he reminded her that even Superman slept. It did not make any sense to her, and when he tried to explain it; it still did not make
any sense to her; she just decided to humor him and go to sleep because she really did not want to hear about Kryptonian mythology, even though she was kind of living it. It did feel nice to be in a warm soft bed after almost four years on a thin mattress and a harsh spring cot in a near claustrophobic six feet by eight feet cell. Even though it smelled like Charles, she was able to “will” herself to sleep. Maybe because there were not a lot of memories other than parties and the one-day they had Thanksgiving at his apartment.
However in the middle of the night she woke up screaming and broke Charles’s headboard while caving in a part of his wall as she scampered back into it trying to brace herself. Her mental ability apparently also amplified her dreams as the horrible memory of the night Robert was murdered popped out of nowhere on her, it was the look of terror in his face that bothered her, as if he knew he was going to meet a gruesome end. The commotion startled Charles out of his sleep dropping him to the floor; he was not dreaming; his super human best friend was sleeping in his bed.
The next morning, she made breakfast to apologize for it; they agreed that she would go out for the day while Charles went to work as usual so as not to draw suspicion. He would test the blood and DNA samples he took from her; the saliva was easy to take, but her dreadlocks where as dense as steel dulling one his scissors and breaking another. In the end, she had to twist and snap apiece off to give him.
She walked the streets of Houston with no real objective at first other than to avoid familiar digs she use to go to, which was pretty easy because when she neared a place, a memory would pop out of nowhere, and she would just turn right around. Houston was big, but she had forged a life there, and it was not going to let her forget it. Going to “friends” was out of the question, other than Charles everyone else thought she was dead to rights guilty, and she was sure they would not handle the miraculous change within her as easily as Charles did. All of her family was back East in New York, contacting them in anyway shape or form would most likely alert the local and Federal authorities to her location. For now aside from Charles, she was alone and on her own.
Instead of wondering around aimlessly until he got out of work, which would heighten the chance of either running into someone that might remember her despite her appearance or the FBI, the police or whoever else might be looking for her. She decided to go to the one place, where she was sure she did not have a memory yet.
Houston National Cemetery, she could not attend the funeral, she made sure to buy some flowers on the way. He would never have admitted it, but he liked sunflowers and lilacs. The caretaker was nice enough to point her in the right direction. She took her time getting there; as she neared it, her heart fell deep into the pit of her stomach and never came back out.
“REST IN PEACE FIRST LIEUTENANT ROBERT OLIVER MATHESON…LOVING BROTHER…WONDERFUL SON…YOU WILL BE GREATLY MISSED” April 1, 1973 – June 26, 2005. Seven years of their life together, erased with the words on that tombstone.
Despite the justification, it hurt her to the point she could not hold back the tears. She knelt down and ran her hands against the tombstone; someone had been there maintaining it, probably Mrs. Matheson. She gently laid the flowers down; and kissed the tombstone. It did not help as she broke down crying; it was not fair, she should have been there, she should have been able to see his face before they laid him into the ground.
Anger and pain ravaged her heart, so many things robbed from her, and she did not know why. She raised her fist wanting to hit the tombstone, but remembered she would probably smash it to bits.
She let out a screaming sob frustrated that she could not even do that. All she could do was clutch her belly, rest her head against the cold of the tombstone, and ride it out.
She must have sat there for hours; eventually the caretaker stopped by and noticed her.
“You okay Miss?” he asked out of concern.
She came to her senses wiping her eyes, and got up dusting herself off.
“I’m fine, thank you” she threw on a fake smile, praying he did not notice her from some old news footage.
The caretaker, a nice slender old man with silver horn rimmed hair adjusted his glasses as he looked at the grave.
“I remember this young man,” he said wagging his finger, “Damn shame what happened to him. I heard his wife got what she deserved.”
“Yeah, I heard too,” she huffed looking off in a different direction. It would have almost been comical if it did not drive the dagger deeper.
“Can I ask how you know him?” the inquisitive old caretaker asked, no doubt making conversation because he had a fairly lonely and creepy job.
“He was my best friend,” she sighed, “from college.”
“Sorry for your loss,” he said somberly.
“Thank you,” she smiled, “Take care of yourself.”
She walked away knowing that this was another place she would never return to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at Charles Hampton’s house she did not bother tell him where she actually went. It was just another memory she had to lock away. She was in half a daze as Charles enthusiastically went over his findings that day. He ranted on for about half an hour until he realized she looked disinterested in what he was saying.
“Soph? Sophia? You okay?” he asked a little hurt she was ignoring him.
“Yeah, you said you never saw anything like this in your life, there was enough adrenaline in my blood to kill fifty men or the equivalent of twenty full grown bulls, and I have a mutated DNA with a quadruple Helix.” She recited effortlessly, “Please…continue.”
His hurt look turned to one of annoyance, having a superhuman memory also made her a smartass, “As I was saying, the blood cells you gave me are very much alive and healthy.”
Sophia gave him the “That’s obvious” look based on the fact that they had already covered the blood not coagulating after being exposed to the elements for days a half hour ago.
“Yeah I know we covered that…I also discovered that,” getting to his point, “You also don’t have any white blood cells or platelets.”
Sophia Dennison knit her brows in confusion as she finally got into the conversation now switching to doctor mode herself, “Then how am I fighting off…”
“Diseases and infections?” Charles finished her sentence, “I wanted to find out as well…so I introduced a common cold virus to the blood cells. Those cells wiped out the virus in a matter of seconds with extreme prejudice. For most of the day I was like that kid that wanted to find out what else we could stuff down the toilet bowl before it clogged up…I introduced almost every strain of virus to your blood including Ebola and H.I.V…and your cells destroyed them all.”
“Great…I’m Wolverine,” remembering the name because she went to watch the first movie with Charles, she remembered liking Halle Berry’s character, and getting annoyed when Charles started complaining in the middle of the movie about the violation of some of the source material.
“No…you’re better than him,” he explained, “I decided to do it in reverse. I dropped one drop of your blood in a test tube of blood both infected with the H.I.V and the Ebola virus combined…you blood wiped out everything while replicating itself, both strains and the infected blood…it did it until it was the only thing left in the vial.”
“So you’re telling me I have the cure for every disease known to man in my blood; and I’m guessing that my red cells are not only fighting off diseases. They’re also responsible for repairing my body at such a rapid rate now that I no longer need platelets…i.e. why there’s no scar tissue when I heal,” she was now in full doctor mode forgetting about this morning, “It still doesn’t explain how my body recognizes a threat and then instantly changes to adapt to it.”
