by Peter Darley
“When?”
“A few days ago.”
As the realization dawned on him, B.J. sat down again, still rubbing his head and cringing in pain. “That was you two?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I was there, Phil. I was in the basement with my aunt and uncle. We heard footsteps upstairs. You scared the hell out of us. We had no idea who it was. We weren’t sure if the authorities had found me already.”
Phil gave himself a face-palm, suddenly seeming mortified. “Oh, my God. I am so sorry, B.J. Please understand, I was desperate, and Woody just came along to keep me company.”
B.J. raised his hand passively. “Hey, I understand. Don’t worry about it.”
“But . . . what were you doing there?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“No.”
B.J. leaned forward and smiled, knowing how what he was about to say was going to blow this kid away. “It was my father’s cabin. My name, B.J., is short for Brandon, Jr. I am the son of the original Interceptor.”
Phil sank back onto the side of the van. “This can’t be happening. The son of Brandon Drake. I am so not worthy.”
B.J. chuckled and considered his new friends. They’d rescued Heather, and Woody had almost been killed on the freeway for his trouble. They still insisted on giving her shelter, and they had been there for him when he needed them the most. They were all shaken up when the cop pulled them over, but the way in which they’d pulled off their ‘chilled-out’ act was remarkable.
Society shunned them and treated them as outcasts simply for being different, but there was far more to them than met the eye. In that moment, he knew they were truly formidable allies. They were heroes in their own right.
And they were destined for far greater things.
Thirty-Two
The Appointment
Senator John Bambury’s gaze snapped up from his desk. He was aware the knock on his Capitol Hill office door was the prelude to an extremely painful discussion. “Yes?”
His twenty-something, brunette secretary, Laura, stepped inside. “Senator Sloane to see you, sir.”
Bambury stood anxiously and brushed a strand of long, black hair away from his face. A slender, impeccably-attired man of fifty-six, he’d always managed to maintain a youthful appearance, which had led to a number of envious, jovial comments in the Senate. However, such levity was not to be forthcoming on this occasion. “Thank you, Laura. Please, send him in.”
Sloane stepped into the office, and Laura closed the door behind her.
“Please, take a seat, Chris,” Bambury said.
“What’s this all about, John?”
Bambury pulled out a report and placed it on the desk. “You tell me.”
Sloane picked up the file and scanned the pages. It took mere moments for his jaw to drop. “Surely, you can’t believe this.”
“I have to believe what I see, Chris. We’ve been friends for over twenty years, and I want to help you. So please. Talk to me.”
Sloane began to perspire.
“All right,” Bambury said. “That report came from the Supreme Court. Jed Crane’s lawyers have initiated an investigation into your personal affairs, but I want to hear it from you. Have you ever been prescribed medication for paranoid schizophrenia?”
Sloane gazed at his lap, shaking his head as though he was trying to hide from his own demons.
“The report states you were first diagnosed through a private medical practice in Cincinnati in twenty twenty-one. The only way to control those symptoms is with a precise dosage of various medications, which you apparently stopped taking three months ago. That is what your bank statements seem to suggest.”
“I . . . I can’t talk about this,” Sloane whimpered.
Bambury stood with an assertive demeanor. “You had damn well better talk about it. You’ve failed to disclose this illness to the Senate all these years. Do you know what the implications of this are?”
“P-please—”
“No, Chris. This has gone too far. I supported you in suspending Project: Interceptor until they’d fixed the glitches. My concern was primarily for Agent Drake’s safety. But you went ahead and closed it down after they’d made the required modifications. You never even consulted the committee. You initiated a nationwide manhunt for Agent Drake with a forged Senate authorization, right under our noses. That’s a serious crime, Chris. Why would you do that?”
Sloane finally looked up with tears in his eyes. “How did you find out?”
“Well, let’s have a look here. Shall we start with the testimonies of the FBI officers who bore witness to your irrational antics at Jed Crane’s office? Or with Director Crane’s two secretaries? How about the reluctant FBI SWAT team you sent up to Aspen, Colorado? Or maybe the fact that EDID’s PR representative gave an identical account of the details of Director Crane’s arrest on national television?”
“They’re lying. Don’t you see? It’s a conspiracy to discredit me.”
Bambury shook his head, almost patronizingly. “There is no conspiracy, Chris. The fact that you thought you could get away with this tells me you are not well.”
Sloane stood rapidly with rage in his eyes. “I am well. You’re the one who’s sick. Why can’t you see? The Interceptor will take over the world. A world under the tyranny of a false god. He’s the one who’s causing the disasters.”
“Chris, that’s crazy. Agent Drake might have disobeyed your orders, but in doing so, he saved many innocent lives.”
Sloane stepped back toward the door, the look on his face indicating he was beyond reason. “I will destroy that bastard creation,” he bellowed. “I will destroy you all.” With that, he ran out of the office.
Bambury stared at the door, somewhat stunned for a moment. “Oh, Chris, my poor friend. What has happened to you?” He knew he had no choice but to put an end to this nightmare. Public safety, the reputation of the Senate, and the life of a courageous young man, were all on the line.
He selected autodial on his desk phone and made a call. “This is Senator John Bambury. Has the president returned yet . . . ? Good. Patch me through right away. This is an emergency.”
***
Jed Crane sat wearing an orange jump suit, his fingers nervously stroking his unshaven chin. His lawyer and only hope, Barrington Fleming, sat opposite him in an interview room at the DC Central Correctional Facility. He’d been confined to the jail for only four days, although the indignity and mind-numbing nature of imprisonment made it seem like four months.
“It’s looking very promising, Jed,” Fleming said.
“I hope you’re right, because I really need to get out of this hellhole. Have you spoken to Patricia?”
“Yes, I have.”
“How is she?”
“Not good, as you can imagine. And the frustrating part of it is you’re only still in here on account of paperwork.”
“Paperwork?”
“Yes. The usual red tape bullshit. You have to understand, this is a unique case made up of a very high stack of cans of worms.”
Jed sat up, slightly encouraged. “Then please humor me and run it by me again. I need to hear it. It cheers me up.”
Fleming gave him an encouraging smile. “I’ve submitted the necessity defense for both you and Agent Drake to the Supreme Court, and I’ve worked like crazy to get this rushed through as a priority. The necessity defense makes the commission of a crime lawful, if it’s intended to prevent a greater evil. And that’s before we even get into the unlawful nature of Sloane’s orders.”
“I know what the necessity defense is, Barrington, and I appreciate all your hard work. You’re a good friend.”
“I’ve also had my team taking witness statements from the FBI officers who took you in, and from Deborah and Juanita. The court is going through them right now, along with the evidence we’ve managed to obtain legally regarding Sloane’s illness.”
“Did Deborah and Juanita reall
y collect all this data by themselves?”
“As a matter of fact they did, but I needed a court order to obtain the same information lawfully.”
Jed looked at him astonished. “You got a court order to do that so quickly?”
“Believe me, they’re eager to put an end to this. I’ve never seen anything move so fast. The possibility of a senator operating for twenty years with a serious mental illness, and nobody being aware of it is . . . embarrassing, to say the least. He went behind the Senate’s back and initiated an unlawful manhunt. Now, combine that with The Interceptor’s public popularity. If any more of this gets out, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“How long do you think we’re gonna have to wait?”
Fleming shrugged. “Two days, tops. Injustice against a citizen can take years to resolve. But when the Senate’s own ass is on the line, they don’t mess around.”
“It’s still two more damn days, Barrington. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but—”
They were cut off by the interview room door opening. Two corrections officers stood to one side as four men in black suits stepped inside. One held a folded suit, white shirt, tie, underwear, socks and polished shoes between his hands.
Fleming stood. “What’s going on?”
Disregarding the lawyer, the official placed the pile of clothes on the desk. “Director Crane, you are being released. A private bathroom has been prepared for you. Please shower, shave, and get changed, sir. We will escort you to your appointment.”
“What appointment?” Fleming said.
Jed grinned. “Don’t worry, Barrington. I think the Senatorial panic has motivated them faster than even you imagined.”
Jed gazed out the window in the back of a stretch limousine with Fleming. Their four escorts in the front didn’t say a word. His mind reeled at the speed with which everything had occurred. Four hours ago, he’d been wearing an orange jumpsuit in the pits of depression.
He immersed himself in his moment of victory, and felt an unusual appreciation for feeling clean, shaven, and groomed. Strangely, the suit felt amazing. It reminded him of an old saying—You never appreciate what you have until it’s gone.
The ride across Washington D.C. took forty-five minutes, barely missing the rush hour traffic. They slowed down on the approach to their destination.
Jed braced himself as the White House came into view.
Thirty-Three
Soul Searching
B.J. walked up Woody’s stairwell and entered the spare bedroom. Heather looked across at him from the bed with a fourteen inch television playing atop a chest of drawers. Despite the fact that it was only mid-afternoon, he decided to climb onto the bed beside her. Woody had gone out to the convenience store for provisions, and they had nothing to occupy themselves with other than the television.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of security and serenity in this place. It was run down, the walls needed repainting, and it was in dire need of renovation. But nobody knew where they were.
Woody had quickly proven himself a determined and loyal friend, clearly fueled by his penchant for hero worship. Every time B.J. looked at him, he saw Tito. He couldn’t help his constant urge to put his arms around him.
The night before had been spent with them all getting familiar with one another. B.J. had no idea what their next move should be. The stress and anxiety he’d been through over the last few days played heavily on his mind. He continued to struggle over his mother’s revelations about his father.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Heather said.
He turned to her and shrugged. Then a thought came to him, and he knew she’d be the perfect person to talk to about it. “Do you believe a person has . . . a soul?”
She looked away thoughtfully for a moment. “It’s funny you should ask that?”
“Why?”
“When I was a little girl, I always used to believe my dad was watching over me.”
“Do you still believe that?”
She shook her head.
“How come?”
“I came to realize it has no place in reality. It’s just an abstract idea the ancients came up with to fill gaps in their knowledge. To me, it’s a ridiculous notion.”
“What brought you to that conclusion?”
“Well, first my grandmother died with Alzheimer’s. It was just a few months before they found the cure.”
“I remember. But why do you think there’s no soul?”
She positioned herself on the bed to face him head-on. “OK. What do you think the soul is supposed to be?”
“I don’t know. Our feelings. Our personality. Everything we are as a person, I guess.”
“Exactly. So, what’s the brain all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve just described the characteristics of the human brain. That’s what I’m getting at. Alzheimer’s was a condition where the brain deteriorated. The memory failed. Any ability to recognize someone vanished. Eventually, conscious awareness failed to the point where the person was literally no longer. If there was anything inside of you that had consciousness, other than your brain, it would’ve taken over and compensated for the damage. You could still have been you, and Alzheimer’s would’ve had no effect.”
He leaned back against the headboard shaking his head. It can’t be.
“You’re not convinced?” she said.
“I . . . I just can’t get my head around the idea that when you die, you’re gone forever.”
She smiled sympathetically. “It’s a tough call, I’ll give you that. But we have to meet reality on reality’s terms, babe. When I was a kid, a dentist gave me anesthetic. One second I was awake. The next, it was a couple of hours later. I wasn’t aware of anything that had happened in between. If I had some kind of ‘immortal soul’ inside me, don’t you think it would be immune to anesthetic?”
He looked down sadly. “What you’re saying makes perfect sense. But so much has happened to me that I can’t explain.”
“Like the visitations from your father?”
“Yes. I see him. I hear him. It’s always so real.” He noticed on the wall beside him a copy of Interceptor #1 in some kind of sealed jewel case. He climbed off the bed, took it off the wall hook, and became slightly curious about the certification details fixed into the top of the frame: CGC 9.2. What the hell does that mean? “There’s a copy of this comic back at the ranch.”
“Let me see.”
He handed it to her and sat back on the bed. “But it’s all total bullshit.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mom finally told me the truth.”
“What did she say?”
“If I tell you, please don’t tell Woody. It would practically kill him.”
“OK, I promise.”
“All right,” he said. “My father isn’t who I was led to believe he was.”
“So who was he?”
“He was a psychopathic killer called The Scorpion, whom they brainwashed. His Interceptor personality was manufactured to make him more manageable. They then faked his death and turned him back into who he was before. He slaughtered many people, but mom said his Interceptor persona won out in the end. He took his own life to protect her from The Scorpion.”
Heather recoiled. “Oh, my God, baby. That’s horrible.” She moved forward again and held him. “I can’t imagine what this must be doing to you.”
“What’s more is, my mom doesn’t believe I’m just his son. She thinks I’m literally his reincarnation. She believes I’m him reborn, but as he was always meant to have been.”
“Your mom has been through a lot, that’s all I can say to that. Damn, no wonder you seem so messed up.”
“I haven’t really had time to come to terms with it all,” he said. “The FBI came for me at the cabin, and I had to let them see me take off so they wouldn’t find my mom in there.”
“Is that where you were? Your father’s cabin?”
“Yeah.”
She pulled away and grasped his cheeks. “Babe, you wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for your father.”
“That’s for sure.”
“Just think of all the people you’ve saved. The children. Your father might have done terrible things, but you’re redeeming him. You’re making everything right.”
B.J. jerked back slightly, stunned by her words. “T-that’s what he says to me. Those actual words. Terrible things happened in the past, but you’re going to make it right.”
“Well, I certainly agree with that. It’s exactly what you’ve been doing. But babe, that wasn’t your father. It was your own inner voice. Your brain.”
They were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. “Hey, guys,” Woody said. “I’m back.”
“We’re up here,” B.J. said.
Seconds later, Woody poked his head around the door. “I’ve got us pizza for dinner. Here’s the change.” He handed B.J. a few bills and spare coins. “I really appreciate you helping me out. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you—”
B.J. held up his hand. “You already have, Woody. More than I could ever repay you. You are our hero.”
Woody’s lower lip quivered. “No way.”
“Yes, way.” He reached over and picked up the encased copy of Interceptor #1. “I hope you don’t mind me taking this off the wall, but I want to talk to you about it.”
“Sure, anything you wanna know.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Whoa.” Woody exhaled. “A fortune. At least to me.”
“OK, how much. Where did you get it?”
“My dad bought it when it first came out. He died with my mom in a car crash a few years back. He loved it, and kept it in as close to mint condition as he could. I sent it to CGC—the Certified Grading Company—and had it slabbed.”
“Slabbed?”
“Yeah, that transparent case it’s in. You can’t read it. It’s professionally graded and sealed so that it retains its condition. They gave it a nine-point-two.”
