Beyond Belief

by Roy Johansen

  “Hooray,” Howe muttered as he shook free of Joe's grip. “The cavalry has arrived.”

  The first man out of the first vehicle was Raymond Fisher, a forty-five-year-old agent with whom Joe had once worked to break up an interstate telemarketing scam. Fisher's grim face and authoritative manner alienated him from most cops and probably even from his fellow FBI agents, but Joe liked him.

  “Relax, guys,” Fisher said in his gruff monotone. “We're just here to screw up your investigation and complicate an already confusing situation. You don't mind, do you?”

  There was no smile, no glint in his eye, nothing to suggest that he was joking. That was Fisher.

  “Agent Fisher, this is Latisha Randall, the kidnap victim's mother,” Joe said.

  Fisher shook her hand. “My apologies. I didn't mean to be glib. We're here to get your son back.”

  Latisha nodded.

  “If you'll step to the last vehicle, there's someone there who will draw a sample of your blood.”

  “My blood?”

  “Whatever knocked you out is still in your blood-stream. If we can determine what it is, it might help us trace the abductors. We'll be testing everyone who was affected.”

  Behind the last truck, an agent was already setting up a small table and a medical kit.

  Latisha walked toward the table, closely followed by Dunning.

  Fisher turned to Joe. “Has the church been sealed off? “

  Howe stepped forward. “It's happening now. And we have guys checking the observation room vents for the knockout gas.”

  “I doubt you'll find anything. Any idea how many were involved?”

  “Three, we think,” Howe said. “One pilot to fly the helicopter, one sniper to pick off the officer and provide cover, one guy to make the grab. There may be a fourth involved, but we're not sure how.”

  This was news to Joe. “A fourth? What do you mean?”

  “The people in the church saw a man running down the aisle with his gun drawn. He was in here for the entire service. Then a witness from an apartment building saw who we think is the same man on the roof. She said that this Rambo wanna-be shot one of the guys as they were making their escape in the chopper, then hitched a ride himself.”

  Joe glanced at the roof. “Who would do that?”

  Fisher shrugged. “I guess it's too much to hope that it was one of your guys.”

  Before anyone could reply, a young uniformed officer approached with a walkie-talkie. “Gentlemen, I think you'll want to hear this.”

  * * *

  HVKJ100A.

  The helicopter license number was seared into Lyles's memory even though he knew it was probably bogus. But for now the chopper was the only real lead he had.

  He rubbed his bruised and bloodied arms as he drove down the gravel road in Jonesboro, a small town just a few miles south of the Atlanta airport.

  Please, please, please let the old man still live here.

  A light up ahead. Could it be … ?

  Yes. The old man's house. Somebody still lived there.

  He stopped the car. He'd stolen the gold Camry just outside the Coca-Cola building; he didn't dare go back to his van, which was parked two blocks from the church. The entire neighborhood would be overrun with cops by now.

  He reached into his pocket and felt the ivory squares.

  Focus. Direct your energy.

  He had failed. He had failed Jesse.

  No regrets.

  That was the key. No regrets. The past did not exist. All that mattered was the present and the future that he could create. A future in which Jesse Randall would lead mankind from an age of pettiness and ignorance.

  He cut the engine and looked at the white one-story house ahead. He'd been there only one other time, several years before.

  He climbed out of the car and walked up the road. Loose gravel crunched beneath his feet, shattering the night's silence. He stopped as he heard a different sound. Metal against metal.

  “Lester, don't shoot,” he said. “It's me. Lyles.”

  Silence.

  “I know it's you, Lester. Who else would be snapping in a nine-millimeter clip on some dirt road in the middle of East Bumblefuck?”

  A man rose from behind a tall clump of weeds. “Eleven millimeter. You're slipping. I heard you were in town.”

  “You're the third person who's told me that. Heard from who? It's not like I called a press conference.”

  Lester Post stepped forward and holstered his automatic. He wore a black jumpsuit similar to one that an auto mechanic might wear, and his scraggly gray-white beard waved in the chilly breeze. “What do you need, Lyles?”

  Lyles stepped forward, but Lester suddenly took a guarded stance. Not unreasonable, Lyles thought. The guy was used to dealing with some pretty tough customers.

  Lyles had met him over ten years before, when they had been part of a team sent in by a fringe animal rights group to hunt poachers on the African plateau. Lester had long since retired from the life of a mercenary, but he was now a major military supplies broker, outfitting militia groups and private security forces with weapons, vehicles, tents, and anything else a soldier of fortune could possibly need. If Lyles ever wanted to equip a small army, he knew Lester would be one of the top suppliers on his list.

  “I need to locate a chopper,” Lyles said. “I know it was in Atlanta earlier tonight. Can you help?”

  “Is this gonna be one of those freebie ‘do it for me for old times’ sake’ kind of deals, or do you have some cash to throw my way?”

  “Cash. Lots of it.”

  “Good answer.”

  Lyles followed Lester inside his house, which was surprisingly well decorated for a man in his profession. Things were different downstairs, however; the basement was stocked with enough firepower to equip several platoons. Hundreds of rifles and handguns hung on brown pegboards that covered every inch of the walls. A long wooden workbench centered the area, where several more firearms rested in various stages of assembly. The place reeked of oil and gunpowder.

  Lester walked to the back corner, where a monitor was surrounded by an array of loose computer components. He pushed a button on one of the circuit boards, and the monitor's screen flickered. “It's a mess,” he said. “But every time I put everything all nice and neat in a case, I have to open it up to upgrade something. Technology's just moving too fast.”

  “I'm just glad you're here to keep up. I have a license number for the chopper, but it's probably fake.”

  “Give it to me. We'll see.”

  Lyles gave him the number, then waited a few minutes while Lester established a link to a database of aircraft licenses. Lester entered the number, and after a few moments the reply came back: LICENSE #

  NOT FOUND.

  It didn't faze him at all. “Make and model?”

  “Aerodyne Banshee. Mid-eighties model, maybe fourteen hundred series.”

  Lester rolled his chair to a shelf loaded with spiral notebooks. He selected one and began flying through the pages, glancing at hand-drawn sketches and chicken scrawls. Finally he found what he was looking for.

  “The Banshee's rear rotor coupling is notorious for wearing out,” Lester said. “And only Aerodyne makes ‘em. For warranty purposes, the company keeps a good database of the parts they sell. If the password hasn't been changed, I can probably find out if that coupling has been shipped anywhere around here.”

  “How long will that take?”

  Lester didn't reply as his fingers raced over the keyboard. After a few minutes he turned the monitor's screen in Lyles's direction.

  “What is it?”

  Lester smiled. “About four months ago that part was shipped to a mechanic who works out of the Charlie Brown airport in De Kalb County.”

  “Does it say who the chopper belonged to?”

  “Nah, just the mechanic's name. A guy named Toby Cooper.”

  “You're a genius, Lester.”

  The Aerodyne Banshee 1490 helico
pter stood in the middle of an open field, surrounded by a perimeter of police tape and work lights. Many of the police officers, FBI agents, and news crews from the church had quickly relocated to this new scene after the call came in. Several motorists had witnessed the chopper landing only a few hundred yards from the I-20 freeway, and they had flooded the 911 lines with reports of a helicopter in distress. It was now apparent, however, that there was nothing wrong with it, and that this was a carefully chosen rendezvous spot for Jesse's abductors to transfer to a less conspicuous mode of transportation.

  “There are reports of a black Jeep entering the roadway shortly after the helicopter landed,” Howe said as he joined Joe and Agent Fisher near the chopper's front windshield.

  Fisher nodded. “I'm sure it's already been abandoned, probably within five miles of here. They knew the helicopter would attract a lot of attention, so they drove the Jeep to another location, probably some back road, and made the switch to a vehicle that would take them to the holding location.”

  Howe jammed his hands into his pockets. “I like the way you FBI guys talk like you're so sure how everything happened, like you were there.”

  Fisher shrugged. “I just play the odds.” He turned to Joe, obviously weary of Howe's attitude. “You know Jesse Randall, right?”

  Joe nodded. “Yes. We've spent some time together in the past week or so.”

  “So, is he a fraud, or what?”

  “In my opinion, yes, but I still haven't been able to discover his techniques. I wasn't able to supervise any kind of formal experiment.”

  “Okay, has he ever demonstrated any ability, genuine or not, to transmit telepathic messages?”

  Joe smiled. “I'm afraid not. I don't think we're going to be receiving any messages from him.”

  “Gotta cover all the bases. Tell me this: Do you think his tricks could actually help him in his situation?”

  Joe watched the fingerprint team converge on the cockpit. “That's hard to say, but he's very bright and he has an amazing ability to adapt to any situation.”

  “Let's hope he can adapt to this one.”

  Cold.

  Dark.

  Jesse's head hurt, and his mouth was dry. Was this another dream?

  He couldn't see anything. Where was he? He was lying on what felt like a big pillow. He pulled himself up onto his hands and knees.

  His stomach hurt in a way he'd never felt before. Oh, no …

  He vomited.

  He was still for a few moments, afraid that any movement would make him throw up again.

  How had he gotten there?

  “Mama?” he called out. “Mama?”

  Nothing.

  He crawled across the floor. It was padded. All of it. What kind of place was this? “Mama?”

  A buzzing sound. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. White, blinding light.

  He squinted at his surroundings. It was a large room, maybe fifty by fifty feet, which was bigger than his entire house. Every inch of the floor and walls was covered with thick cream-colored padding. There was no furniture, no windows, and, as far as he could tell, no doors. Just row after row of fabric-covered panels.

  He stood and pushed on the wall panel closest to him. It was soft, just like the floor.

  It should've been a dream, but he knew it wasn't.

  “Hello?” he shouted. “Can anybody hear me?”

  There was a loud, sharp clanging sound.

  One of the panels swung outward.

  A thin, blond-haired woman stepped into the room, and the panel closed behind her. She was dressed in a strange outfit that resembled a surgical scrub suit. It looked like it was made from paper.

  She gave Jesse an awkward smile and held out a large plastic tumbler. “You must be thirsty.”

  He nodded and took the tumbler. He drew it to his lips, then froze. He glared at the woman.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “It's only water.”

  He gulped it down and let the tumbler fall to the padded floor.

  The woman nodded approvingly. “That's very good, Jesse.”

  “Where's my mama?”

  “She's home. She's very worried about you.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “I wish I could get you out of here, Jesse, but I can't. There are some dangerous people involved in this.”

  “Who?”

  She bit her lip. “I can't tell you that, but they want you to show them your powers. Can you do that?”

  “I won't do it. Not until I can go home.”

  “It might make things easier, honey.”

  “I don't care. I want to go home.”

  She pointed at the cup. “Will you make the cup move for me, Jesse?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  Jesse reared back and kicked the plastic cup across the room. He folded his arms in front of him.

  The woman backed away. “Maybe this isn't the best time. You probably need to be alone for a while.”

  Jesse fought back tears. He was trying to look tough, but he knew that his watery eyes were giving him away. “When can I go home?”

  The woman also looked ready to cry. “I don't know, honey. I'm a prisoner here too.”

  He took a step forward. “You are?”

  She nodded. “And unless we can give these people what they want, I'm afraid that they're going to hurt us both.”

  She turned away and walked toward the door panel.

  Lyles pushed up the latch and swung open the gate to Toby Cooper's backyard. The aircraft mechanic lived in a modest ranch-style home in Smyrna, a working-class Atlanta suburb.

  Three-fifteen A.M. He should have waited until later, but the cops might follow his trail, and he needed to stay ahead of them. They had already failed Jesse once.

  Lyles pushed past the shrubbery growing on the side of the house. He stopped at the first bedroom window and pressed his ear against it. Silence. He stopped at the second window, which was cracked open an inch. He heard rapid, shallow breathing. A child, perhaps.

  He entered the backyard and passed a rusty swingset and a long-neglected Jacuzzi. With only the moonlight to show the way, he glanced around for signs of a dog. There were none. Hallelujah.

  He listened at the one remaining bedroom window, which was also cracked open. An adult was inside, he thought. Sleeping alone. Only one car was in the carport, so that made sense. Lyles usually compiled a complete profile of a house's occupants before venturing inside, but there just wasn't time in this case.

  He walked back to the window of the empty bedroom and pulled a glass cutter from his pocket. Definitely the best way in. A quick inspection assured him that there was no hard-wired security system, but that didn't preclude funky motion detectors or doorknob sensors. The bedroom window was a safer route.

  He cut a small wedge of glass near the latch and poked it through with his index finger. The wedge popped out and fell silently to the carpeted floor. He threw the latch, slid open the window, and climbed inside.

  He glanced around, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He was in a kid's playroom, decorated with Sesame Street posters, a rainbow-colored table, and dozens of action figures.

  He crept through the dark house, scoping it for occupants. As he'd suspected, a small boy was sleeping in the front bedroom. Keep sleeping, son, and you may live through the night.

  There was no one in the living room or den, so that left only the back bedroom. He pushed open the door and looked inside. A chunky, fortyish man was framed in the moonlight, sleeping with his mouth wide open. Lyles leaned in and scanned the room until he saw a wallet resting on the chest of drawers only a few feet from the door. He picked it up and opened it. The driver's license confirmed that the mouth breather was indeed Toby Cooper. Lyles pocketed the wallet and opened his nine-inch Smetson knife as he stepped toward the bed.

  His shadow moved across Cooper's face. The man woke with a start.

  Lyles shoved the knife tip into his chest, just
breaking the skin. A small stain of blood spread from the knifepoint across Cooper's white muscle shirt.

  Lyles leaned close and whispered, “If you want your little boy to live, nod your head.”

  Cooper closed his eyes and nodded.

  “If he wakes up while I'm here, I'll have to kill him, do you understand?”

  Cooper nodded again.

  “Good.”

  “I have a coin collection that's worth thousands,” Cooper whimpered. “You can have it.”

  “I don't want your coins. I want information.”

  Cooper blinked several times as salty beads of perspiration ran into his eyes. “Fine. No problem.”

  “A few months ago you replaced a Banshee tail rotor. Do you remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who owned the chopper?”

  “I don't know.”

  Lyles applied pressure with the knife.

  Cooper gasped. “Some guy I'd never met. And I haven't seen him since.”

  Lyles kept the pressure on. The bloodstain on Cooper's shirt spread faster.

  “I promise!” Cooper said.

  “Shh. Your son needs his sleep.”

  Cooper nodded. He was crying.

  “Do you have a name? An address? License number?”

  “Yes, but not here. I keep a little office—a closet— at the airfield. My records are in the desk.”

  “What airfield?”

  “Charlie Brown. I can tell you exactly where my records are.”

  “You're going to show me.”

  “Please. Nobody's there until five. You can get them yourself. I won't tell anybody about this, I promise.”

  Lyles backed away, picked up a pair of slacks from a stool, and tossed them to Cooper. “We're walking out the front door in thirty seconds.”

  “What about my son?”

  “He stays here and sleeps.”

  After Cooper dressed, Lyles guided him out to the stolen Camry. He bound Cooper's hands and feet in duct tape for the ride to Fulton County Airport's Brown Field, called Charlie Brown by the locals. It was a small airfield with three short runways and half a dozen small hangars.

  The airport was quiet, but Lyles knew there must be a guard on duty somewhere. He pulled behind a hangar and cut the tape from Cooper's ankles.