by Peter Darley
Unable to process it all, he sank to his knees and wept.
Twenty-Six
Shadow of the Scorpion
B.J. wandered aimlessly through the void. At a subconscious level, he was expecting his father to greet him, but nobody was there.
A cloud of fog rolled toward him, but he persisted. He reached out through the mist trying to grasp onto something. Anything. However, it was nothing but an empty vacuum. “Dad, I’m here,” he said. “Come on, man. I need to talk to you.”
Nobody came.
“Dad, I swear, I’m not gonna shun you. I understand, all right? You had no control over any of it. You were abused and then brainwashed.”
His father’s voice echoed all around him. Terrible things happened in the past, but you’re going to make it right.
He’d heard that line before, and he wasn’t sure if it was his father again or his own memory. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I swear, I will not judge you, Dad. We need to talk.”
I deserve all the judgment. I was a monster.
“The fact that you acknowledge that proves you’re not. Don’t hide from me.”
I am not worthy to face you. You are my second chance at life. You will save them all. I had to die so that you could live. The Scorpion would’ve killed your mother just as he killed all the others.
“OK, I get that. But who am I going to save? What is it that you know?” He sensed a hand on his shoulder and spun around rapidly . . .
B.J. shot bolt upright, coated with perspiration. After a moment of disorientation, he realized he was sitting on the cabin’s leather sofa. He glanced at the digital clock on the music system: 01:47.
He sat up, his heart pounding. There was a fluttering in the pit of his stomach, and he knew his blood pressure must’ve been sky high. The shivering and debilitating feeling of interchangeable hot and cold was unbearable. He knew he couldn’t control it. Acute anxiety.
Wrapping the blanket around him, he stood, knowing there was no possibility of him being able to sleep. Everything he had ever taken for granted had just fallen through his fingers.
He tried to come to terms with the circumstances that had led him to this moment. His family had tried to protect him from it all his life, but he’d persisted and demanded the truth from them. Only now did he realize ignorance was bliss.
Since he was a boy, he’d idolized his heroic father, through the positive messages his family had fed him, comic books, and The Interceptor movie series. It had driven him to emulate what he’d believed was true, shaping his persona into what it was. He’d wanted to be like his father so badly.
Now, it was all gone. He’d lived his life inspired by The Interceptor, only to find himself in the shadow of The Scorpion. The truth was the reverse of what he’d always believed and pursued as a virtue.
He wandered around the living room trying to find a semblance of comfort in his mind. His mother said his father had returned at the last moment and taken his own life in order to protect her from The Scorpion inside him. Surely, that meant he’d died a hero’s death, as tragic as it was.
Feeling of falling.
Why had that thought just struck him? It had to be his mother’s crazy delusion that he was his own father’s reincarnation. She was putting together similarities, while ignoring all of the dissimilarities. He knew psychics and clairvoyants had played on that human trait for almost two centuries.
His mind raced through the turmoil, surfing the line between reason and devastation. He made his way over to the liquor cabinet. He wondered if what he was going through was something similar to what his father had gone through when he’d learned he wasn’t who he thought he was. Was it really two incarnations of the same man carrying the same burden? Don’t be an asshole, B.J. She’s hysterical.
The anxiety symptoms wouldn’t stop. He opened the liquor cabinet, quickly spotting a half-consumed bottle of gin. He picked it up and gazed upon it with a sense of mysticism. His mom told him his father had become an alcoholic. He had to have been the one who’d drunk the other half. There was no doubt. His father had actually drunk from this twenty-six-year-old bottle.
With his nerves shaking him apart, he unscrewed the top and put the rim to his mouth.
“B.J., no!”
Startled, he spun around to see his mother standing there in her robe. He saw the fear in her eyes and held her gaze. Neither of them spoke a word.
***
Six hours earlier.
“And that was the scene on the Golden State Freeway tonight. Police eventually cornered the SUV responsible for pursuing the van. The SUV exploded in what appeared to be a suicide mission. It is still not known what became of EDID’s representative, Heather Addison, or whether the deaths of her two advisors are connected to the highway incident. Law enforcement officials have been unable to reach Ms. Addison. At this time, her whereabouts remain a mystery. This is Josie Ryland, for Channel 7 News.”
Heather looked around the humble living room in which she sat. Four open-jawed geeks stared at an old 2-D television set. Woody, Phil, Sharon, and their new arrival, some autistic kid named Payden Dalton, watched the broadcast with clear awe.
“Seriously?” Phil said, “That was you two in that footage?”
“Yeah,” Woody replied. “It wasn’t fun, Phil, believe me. I didn’t think we’d make it. Would you mind going outside and checking the condition of my van? I can’t face it.”
“I already have. It’s screwed. Damn, you guys really do need a drink.” Phil walked away into the kitchen.
Heather clenched her fists and stood.
Woody came toward her with a concerned demeanor. “What are you gonna do, ma’am?”
“Quit the ‘ma’am’ stuff, OK? Just call me ‘H’.” She then muttered, “He does.”
“He?”
“Yeah, you know? Your hero. The Interceptor.”
“You know who he is, right?”
Stressed and irritated, she looked away. “Just . . . shut up, Woody.”
“Yes, ma —H.”
She took a deep breath and sat down again, trying to process what had happened. She’d been accidentally rescued by a comic book nerd. The senate was most likely out to slap her with an injunction, or order her arrest. Some unidentified cult was trying to kill her, and she had no idea where B.J. was.
She looked around the impoverished, run-down residence. She was among strangers who idolized her, and she’d never experienced anything like it. It was the most unlikely place. Nobody would guess where she was.
Phil came back with a bottle of bourbon, a glass, and handed them to her. “Here.”
After a moment, she conceded. “OK. Thanks.”
“You can stay here,” Woody said eagerly.
She looked up from the bottle. “You know what, Woody?”
“What?”
“I really have no choice.” A thought struck her. Jed had given her a folded piece of paper a few moments before he was arrested. She’d never read what was on it. She reached into her pocket, opened it, and scanned the ballpoint pen ink: ‘B.J’s sat-scrambler Z-Watch number – 89423145975. Contact him, but DON’T ask him where he is.’
She folded the paper, placed it back in her pocket, and stood to face her rescuers. She was about to speak when blue flashing lights emanated through the window.
Phil turned away, walked over to the window, and peeled back the drapes slightly.
From the back of the room, Heather could see two police cars patrolling the cul-de-sac. “Oh, shit,” she said. “They’ve traced the van from the license plate on the news footage. I have to get out of here, guys. I’m sorry.”
“No, wait,” Woody said. “Let’s not do anything hasty.”
The police cars stopped and parked up just a few yards to the right of Woody’s house. Four officers exited the vehicles and approached every driveway.
“Why are they going door-to-door?” Phil said.
Sharon, Payden, and Woody went to get a closer
look.
Heather fearfully moved to the back of the room. She could see, through the window, a police officer taking a steady pace along the driveway toward the front door.
Phil snapped his head back toward her, perspiring. His skin had turned white, and he looked like he was about to pass out. “Ms. Addison, I think we’re in trouble.”
Twenty-Seven
Stranded
“We’ve got to think fast,” Heather said. “Woody, do you have a basement?”
She could see Woody was hyperventilating and not in a sound frame of mind. Regardless, he walked briskly out of the room and opened up the basement door at the end of the hallway. “Here.”
She raced over to him and scrambled down the steps. “Does this basement lead to another way out of here?”
Woody shook his head despondently. “I’m sorry.”
With a pacifying hand held before her, she forced herself to sound calm. “It’s gonna be OK, Woody. Stay focused and try to keep it together. You can do it.”
He took a deep breath, and then the front doorbell rang. Phil looked at Woody with ominous dread.
“I’ve got to go,” Woody said, and closed the basement door.
Heather found the light switch and looked around the basement. Just like the house, it was scruffy. Nothing was in its place. Empty boxes, tools, and a broken bicycle, were scattered across the floor.
At the far end was a long line of boxes piled high just ahead of the wall. Several of them displayed the word ‘Comic’. Nevertheless, they were substantial enough in number to create a makeshift shield. She squeezed herself around the side of the pile and crouched down between the boxes and the rear wall.
She considered how everything about her life was out of kilter. For now, she was stranded in a nerd’s basement, neck high in comic books. She knew virtually nothing about these people. Now, her need for them made her feel extremely vulnerable. They oozed inefficiency.
Woody summoned every iota of courage he possessed and made a move to answer the door. Nervously, he twisted the latch and pulled the door open.
The police officer, an older man, sporting a thick, greying moustache, seemed to have an unusually kind look about him.
“Good evening, sir,” the officer said.
“Hi, officer. What brings you out at this hour?”
“We’re investigating a series of burglaries and muggings that have been occurring around this area. They just hit a house over in the next block. We’re going door to door to see if this man looks familiar to you, or to anyone you know.” He handed Woody a composite image of a suspect.
Woody studied it with more than a little relief. It had nothing to do with Heather or the highway incident.
The man in the composite appeared to be in his mid-twenties and tough-looking with short-cropped hair. Woody assumed he was a gang member, but he didn’t look familiar. “I’m sorry, Officer. I don’t know him.”
“That’s OK. Can I leave it with you? If you show it around, it might prompt someone’s memory. There are three of them, but this is the only one we’ve managed to get a description of. There’s a strong possibility they’ve moved onto other parts of town by now.”
“I’ll certainly do what I can, sir. If we get a lead, where can we reach you?”
The officer took out a card and handed it to him. “Just call the desk downtown and ask for me if anything comes up. I’m Officer Steve Biasi.”
Woody smiled cooperatively. “Will do.”
Biasi glanced at the van. “Looks like that’s seen some action.”
Oh, shit. Woody’s heart raced, and he could feel perspiration forming on his brow. It was an involuntary reaction, but he knew he had to remain as nonchalant as possible. “It’s a fixer-upper. I got for a steal. Two-hundred dollars.”
“Good luck with that. I’ll let you get back to your night. You have a nice evening.” Biasi walked away and rejoined his colleagues.
Woody closed the door and sank to the floor.
After a few moments, he stood up, made his way over to the basement door, and opened it up. Descending the steps, he said, “H. Everything’s cool. It was just a false alarm. They weren’t looking for you.”
She shot up from behind the comics, her face painted with disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No. They were looking for some burglar guys.”
She exhaled and walked back up the steps. “What’s with all the comics down there? Are you an avid collector, or something?”
“And part-time dealer,” he said. “I sell ‘em at comic fairs.”
“I see. Is that why you have that van? To ferry the stock around?”
“Yeah.” He handed her the composite of the suspect. “This is who they were after.”
She glanced at the image of the common hoodlum and made her way back to the living room.
Phil entered with a stunning illustration of The Interceptor in a frame.
Heather noticed it, astounded by the artistry. “Wow. Did you draw that?”
“Yeah, and that’s what I need to talk to you about. What did I get wrong? Those news reports only showed him from a distance. I just drew it from what I had.”
“It’s incredible. You just need a bit more detail on the torso area. It’s in three sections, with five little horizontal blue lights going all the way down.”
“Awesome,” Phil said with a victoriously raised fist.
“OK, I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’m going to try and reach him. If I can get us all together, you can see for yourself.”
“Are you serious?”
Everyone in the room looked at her with unbridled excitement.
Heather took out the paper Jed had given to her, and stared at her Z-Watch. He’s a fugitive, and I might jeopardize him. Should I? Or shouldn’t I?
***
B.J. sat on the leather sofa. His mother handed him a bowl of cereal. “I’m not hungry,” he said.
“Try to eat something, honey. Starving yourself isn’t going to help.”
“I’m not starving myself. I just don’t have an appetite.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” she said. “You asked me. You had a right to know.”
“You’re right. I pushed you, and you granted me my wish. I have to go through this, Mom. This is part of the process.”
“What process?”
“Shock, denial, anger, and acceptance.”
She sank onto to the sofa beside him. “Oh, sweetheart. I truly regret telling you, now. When I saw you with that bottle, it scared the life out of me.”
“I needed to know. And I’m not an alcoholic, all right? I have to go through this. He is going through it too.”
She looked at him bewildered. “What do you mean?”
“He came to me again, but I only heard his voice this time. He wouldn’t show himself to me.”
She gripped his shoulders and held his gaze assertively. “B.J., you have to listen to me. It isn’t his voice you’re hearing. It’s yours. You. Are. Him.”
B.J. stood angrily. “Will you stop with all this? I am not my father. He died. He’s gone, OK? Deal with it. I know you loved him, but he made his choice. He died to save you. To save me. I am not him.”
Belinda stood with serenity in her eyes and placed her palms against his cheeks. “You don’t know it yet, but one day you will see the truth.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Let’s get back to reality, OK? Uncle Ty said the FBI knows about this place. Would you care to explain that to me?”
She became pallid and lowered her head into her hands.
“What?”
“When your father called me up here back then, I took off in Ty’s Porsche. The FBI got involved. Ty figured out where I’d arranged to meet Brandon, and Ty was the only other who knew the location.” She looked at him pleadingly. “You have to understand, they feared for my life. Ty led them here. Your father threw himself off that mountain just as they arrived in a helicopter. This lo
cation has been on their database ever since.”
B.J. sank onto the sofa again with despair. “That means there is no safe harbor. There is no utopia.”
Not yet. You will make the world a safe harbor.
B.J. looked up and roared, “Leave me alone. I can’t make a perfect world, Dad. I don’t want your responsibility. I just want a peaceful life. Why can’t I have that?”
Peace for all. That is what you will create.
Belinda gripped his shoulders. “You’re hearing him now, aren’t you? It isn’t him, B.J. It’s you. It’s your own voice. Your name is Brandon Drake, The Interceptor. You are him, but without all the trauma. You are who he was always meant to have been.”
His mother’s voice became an eerie echo that his mind couldn’t contain. “Please, stop it. You thought you saw him die twice. The first time was when you watched the car explode, and the second time was the Turbo Swan crash. You were lied to, and you held a funeral on account of that lie. He was still alive. Everything about his so-called deaths was your own misapprehension. He didn’t come back from the dead. I get it, Mom. It’s extraordinary, I’ll give you that. It has messed with your head, but I’m not going to let it mess with mine. My father is dead, and he’s not coming back. OK?”
“No. I know what I see before me, and I have no doubt.”
B.J. threw his hands up, exasperated.
His Z-Watch buzzed. Who the hell is this? He thought for a moment it might be the mysterious C.O.T. girl again. Urgently, he opened up the line and the hologram of some bespectacled geek appeared above his wrist. He stared at the image of the stranger before him, bewildered as to how this person could’ve contacted him on a sat-scrambler Z-Watch. Perhaps it was a fluke wrong number. “Hello?”
