Sunrise Destiny

by Mark Terence Chapman

  The next question was what to do now that we never had to work another day in our lives? We pondered that question during a six-month ‘round-the-world cruise aboard our brand-spankin’-new yacht, named—what else?—Galla II. She was a 96-foot beauty, with all the modern conveniences. Well, all except for interstellar drive, of course. Her turbo-diesel engine couldn’t touch the original in that regard, and she wasn’t alive. Or telepathic.

  It was quite the life: breakfast in Crete, dinner in Cyprus, zipping through the Suez Canal and down the Red Sea, followed by deep-sea fishing in the Indian Ocean. The first two months were heaven. By the fourth month, the jet-set life was getting tiresome. By the sixth month, we couldn’t wait to return home and get back to work.

  Even though we were sick of sailing, we loved Galla II, our home-away-from-home—so much, in fact, that we decided to make her our home-not-away-from-home. We’d had plenty of time to plan our future while crossing the Pacific. We decided to make Washington our new home and get a berth at a local yacht club where we could live on Galla II. The decision to settle in Washington was due to the fame, if not notoriety, I had achieved through my connection with the Azarti. We decided that Washington was the best place to start our new business.

  * * * *

  I held the frosted-glass door open for Shari. “After you, Mrs. Sunrise.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Sunrise.”

  In the mirror behind the receptionist’s oversized mahogany desk, I read the sign on the office window lettered in tasteful gold leaf:

  Sunrise Confidential Investigations

  Discretion is Our Middle Name

  “Morning, Joyce,” I said to the starched brunette. We passed by the desk, heading for my office. The nameplate on my door read “Donatello Sunrise, Senior Partner”. The adjoining office door read “Sharinda Sunrise, Senior Partner”. There were no junior partners as yet.

  “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Sunrise.”

  Joyce’s clipped British enunciation fit her prim-and-proper brown tweed business attire. We had hired her expressly to project an image: the image of a successful and classy private investigation agency—exactly the kind of agency I’d always wanted to have. The reception area and private offices—full of walnut paneling, antique chairs upholstered with rich brocade, Tiffany lamps, and working fireplaces—were designed to augment that image. The agency was housed in a stately brownstone in the historic Foggy Bottom district, within walking distance of the White House. You didn’t get any classier than that.

  Like Joyce, I dressed the part of a successful businessman, in a tailored steel-gray flannel Armani suit. The matching rhinestone-studded gray eye patch added a rakish note to the outfit. Similarly, Shari wore a smart hunter-green Halston suit that set off her emerald eyes to perfection. These were not the outfits of field investigators—we had a crack team of young up-and-comers to do the dirty work. No, our jobs were to schmooze with the rich-and-famous and pose for photo ops with the mayor and senators.

  Between the fame that came with being the only known human telepath on Earth, and an experienced P.I., I was beating prospective clients off with the proverbial stick before we even hung our shingle. There aren’t many talents that would benefit a P.I. more than the ability to read minds. How could a suspect, or cheating spouse, hope to get away with a lie?

  Of course, what none of those beating down our doors knew, and I wasn’t about to volunteer, was that I couldn’t read minds. In fact, I could only communicate telepathically with another telepath, of which there were precisely three on Earth, and two were aliens. The sad truth was that away from other telepaths, I was like Superman on a planet with a red sun—just another Joe. No telepathy and no sledgehammer. But that didn’t mean the Sunrise agency couldn’t solve a case the old-fashioned way. After all, we’d had our pick of the litter when it came to hiring field agents. Everyone wanted to move up to the big-time, and the scuttlebutt around town was that we were the biggest.

  If a suggestion that a suspected embezzler might as well spill the beans—because Mr. Sunrise would get the answer out of his head anyway—happened to get the suspect to confess, well, who was I to argue? As I said to Shari, “This must be what it’s like to be the boogeyman that parents use to keep their kids in line. The very mention of my name terrifies people and gets them to spill their deepest, darkest secrets.”

  And what city has more secrets than Washington, D.C.?

  Three months after opening our doors, we were already looking to hire additional field agents and expand into the adjacent brownstone. Business was that good. Unlike my former practice, where I’d had to deal with deadbeat clients, we now accepted only the cream of the A-List, and they were happy to pay top dollar for the hippest/coolest/trendiest/best (take your pick) P.I in town. If we hadn’t already been independently wealthy, we would have been well on our way to getting there.

  * * * *

  On a cool, crisp, autumn afternoon, with leaves settling around us like multicolored snow, Shari and I decided to have lunch outdoors alongside the Reflecting Pool. The sober countenance of Honest Abe, at the western end of the pool, seemed to be watching over us.

  Shari had suggested the lunch—sort of a last-chance picnic before winter closed in on us. After we ate, she said she had some good news to share.

  “Hey, I’m always up for good news. Did you land a big client?”

  “Better.” She paused a moment, before her face lit up. “I’m pregnant. We’re pregnant.”

  I took her hands in mine, grinning from ear to ear. “That’s wonderful! How far along are you?”

  “Almost two months. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. After—” Her face clouded up. “After what happened with Scarpacci, the doctors weren’t sure I could have children. So when the test came back positive, I wanted to be sure before I told you. That appointment I just got back from was my OB/GYN. She confirmed it.”

  “This calls for a celebration!” I gushed. “I’ll bet if I call that caterer we did a job for last month she’d be thrilled to send something over to the office so we can have a little impromptu party with the staff.”

  “No, Don,” she replied, despite clearly being thrilled with my reaction. “You know it’s bad luck to tell anyone before the second trimester. You never know what might happen before then.”

  “But—” I’m not the superstitious sort. “Oh, all right. If you want to wait, we’ll wait. Whatever makes you happy. We can have a quiet celebration aboard Galla II tonight.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  She hugged my arm and we walked back toward the office, discussing baby names.

  * * * *

  Three weeks later, returning from our favorite restaurant, we turned the corner onto our street, half a block from the office, and ran into the last person I expected or wanted to see. Shari gripped my arm tight enough to constrict the blood flow.

  “Greetings, Sunrise.”

  “What the hell are you doing in Washington, Weasel?” He wasn’t alone. Tiny was dead, but this other goon was just as big and probably just about as close to being Mensa material.

  “It’s Weisel, damn it, and I’m here lookin’ for you.” He sized up my suit and expensive camel-hair coat. “I guess it just proves you can take a pig and dress ‘im up and douse ‘im in perfume, but he’s still a pig.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  I was unarmed. A gentleman P.I. doesn’t carry a piece—it clashes with designer suits. What I was really thinking was that this was a particularly bad time to be a gentleman.

  “What do you want Weasel? I’m busy. If you want to make an appointment with my admin— Come to think of it, don’t bother. My calendar is booked up for the next decade. I suggest you try another P.I.”

  “Funny guy. Always with the wisecracks. Too bad for you, your calendar just opened up.”

  He gestured with his right hand from inside his jacket pocket. Knowing Weasel, that wasn’t his fing
er he was pointing at me. “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em. Get in.” He pointed to the nondescript black van beside us by the curb. The door opened and another armed goon waved us over.

  My first reaction was to use my implant to call the police and report our kidnapping. I got nothing but static. Weasel still had that damn jammer. I sighed and walked to the van with Shari still clutching my arm. What was this, a cosmic conspiracy? Every time we got pregnant, Weasel showed up.

  “Didn’t we already straighten all this out? I had nothing to do—” I saw a blur out of the corner of my good eye and then the lights went out.

  * * * *

  I awoke to a throbbing headache and the sound of someone moaning. When I opened my eyes I found myself tied to a wooden chair and everyone looking at me. I guess I must have been the one doing the moaning. Shari was tied to a chair next to me. We were in some sort of office, with dusty furniture all around. It clearly hadn’t been used recently. The goons stood to our left and right. Antonio Scarpacci was before us, grinning that evil white-shark grin of his. That told me this wasn’t going to end well for us. Well, that and being tied to the chair.

  I tried my implant again. Still nothing but static.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living,” Scar’s melodious voice declared. “For now, anyway.” Weasel and the other goon chuckled. “We have some unfinished business to attend to. Did you really think that phony-baloney with the midgets in wetsuits would scare me off?” He snorted.

  “They weren’t midgets. Don’t you watch the news?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Little aliens. Sure. I don’t know how you managed to fool everyone else, but I’m not buyin’ it.”

  “I’m not making it up. They are aliens. We’ve been to their planet.”

  Scar laughed. “Yeah, sure, and I’m a two-headed kangaroo.”

  “Now that you mention it, I do see the resemblance.” A mighty swat by the unnamed goon told me that probably wasn’t the best comeback at the moment. I licked blood off my lips. “Look, Sca— Mr. Scarpacci. We don’t have to do this.”

  “Oh, but we do. My Sara was traumatized by what you did to her, you filthy—” His face went flush with rage.

  My god, had she been injured after all? Even though I hadn’t had anything to do with her abduction, I still felt sick that she might have been hurt. But all the Azarti did was knock her out and take some blood. That couldn’t have caused any injury, could it?

  “Did-did she tell you that?”

  “Tell me? Tell me? My Sara is too strong, too brave to ever admit to being hurt like that. Oh, no. She puts up a brave front and acts happy and carefree like before, like nothin’ is wrong. But I’m her father. Don’t you think I know when she’s hurtin’ inside?”

  Oh. In other words, his guilt feelings over not being able to protect his baby were festering in his belly, and gutting me like a fish was going to be the cure. Terrific; just terrific. This psycho had to pick me to obsess over, and it was going to get not only me killed but Shari and our baby as well.

  “Look, Mr. Scarpacci, your beef is with me, not Shari. She had nothing to do with this. Besides, she’s pregnant. You’re a father; you know what it’s like to have your daughter hurt. You know the pain. You couldn’t hurt a baby—kill a baby—could you? An innocent child who hasn’t harmed anyone? Just let Shari go. I won’t fight back. I promise.”

  “Fight back?” Scar snorted. “I’ll say you won’t fight back. You’ll sit there and take whatever I care to dish out. Jus’ like the last time. As for Lola and your baby…well,” he chuckled, “that makes it all the sweeter. You hurt my baby, and now I get to return the favor.”

  “Again? You killed our first baby the last time, you bastard! That’s two children of mine you’ve killed already. Isn’t that enough for you? Your child is still alive.”

  I took another smash to the mouth from the unnamed goon, but it was worth it to get that off my chest.

  “Really. I had no idea Lola—or should I say Sharinda?—was pregnant the first time.”

  I started to hope he would spare Shari. After all, it was really me he wanted anyway.

  Antonio Scarpacci, Mob boss and father, smiled. “How ‘bout that. It looks like I hit the trifecta. I’m really gonna enjoy this.” His smile widened.

  At that moment, I understood that he was beyond reason. I swallowed my feelings of guilt. Shari was going to pay the price, just like before, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

  I turned to look into those gorgeous emerald eyes for the last time. What I was about to say wasn’t for the ears of those animals. I opened my mind to Shari’s. “I love you, sweetheart. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, and I’ll love you forever. I’m sorry I got you into this mess. I’m sorry for a lot of things. Remember this: no matter what happens today, we’ll be together—always. After all we’ve been through, I’m not letting go. You’re stuck with me.”

  “Oh, shut up, you idiot. I’d kiss you if you weren’t way over there.”

  “I can fix that.” I expanded my consciousness further and merged my mind with Shari’s. We were a gestalt of two—one mind, one consciousness. No matter what happened to our bodies now, we would be together. Forever and ever. Amen.

  “Do it.” Scar stepped back and watched with a cold, bitter smile.

  The beating began. Individually, the punches were like hammer blows. Collectively they felt like no more than the pitter-patter of a gentle spring rain. Pain was irrelevant. Bodies were irrelevant. Death was irrelevant. We were together. That was all that mattered.

  We reached out to Karsh and Keldor. Not because we thought there was any hope of help. They were too far away to reach us in time. Even their ability to command obedience, as they used on Scar and his goons before, couldn’t reach this far. No, we reached out to say goodbye and to beg forgiveness for abandoning the gestalt.

  Instead of saying goodbye, the fullness of the gestalt welcomed us back into its embrace. We were going to die, but we wouldn’t cease to exist. We would live on in the collective energy of the gestalt. What more could we ask for?

  Except for bringing that rat bastard and his junior rats to justice for their crimes, that is. I was determined that somehow, some day, some way, I would make Scar pay. I had to.

  My world went blood red. Then everything went dark.

  * * * *

  I awoke to find two D.C. police officers untying Shari and me. “What-what happened?” I was groggy and my jaw hurt. Shari didn’t look any better. She was bruised and bloody, but at least she was alive. We both were. That was all that was important. “How-how did you know where we were?”

  The officer who was untying me answered. “Your friend, Prime Minister Karsh, insisted that you were in trouble. Apparently someone at the U.N. pulled some strings and we got the call. We were here within three minutes. What happened?”

  “Scarpacci and his goons kidnapped us. A grudge that he wouldn’t let go of.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. What I meant was, what happened to them?” He pointed behind me. I turned and looked over my shoulder. There on the floor were Scar, Weasel, and the other goon. At first I thought they were dead. But after a moment, I realize that they were twitching intermittently. More amazing was the soft whimpers I heard.

  I answered honestly. “I have no idea. They were pounding on us and I passed out. I woke up just now, with you untying me.”

  He turned to Shari. “How about you, ma’am? Did you see anything? Do you know what happened to them?”

  She shook her head no. “I just woke up, too.”

  “Well, we have an ambulance on the way. We’ll come see you at the hospital after you’ve been treated. We’ll take your full statement there.”

  “Thank you, officer…” I read his nametag. “…Sommers. My wife is pregnant. I’d appreciate anything you can do to expedite our trip. We’ll tell you everything we know.”

  “Happy to oblige, Mr. Sunrise.”

  The wail of the ambula
nce cut out as it pulled up out front. It looked like we were going to survive this after all. But how? How did Karsh know where we were? With my implant’s GPS locator jammed, I still didn’t know where I was.

  * * * *

  During the ride to the hospital, accompanied by an Emergency Medical Technician, I spoke telepathically with Shari. “How did Karsh know where we were? I was out cold the entire way there. I couldn’t tell him.”

  She snorted. “What an ego! You think you’re the only one who can play hero around here? I wasn’t unconscious, remember? I contacted Karsh as soon as we got in the van. But I couldn’t tell him where to find us until we arrived.”

  Oops. “Sorry. You’re absolutely right. We’re a team; I don’t have to be the hero all the time. I apologize and prostrate myself before thee, O mighty heroine.”

  Shari chuckled. “You’re forgiven, you idiot.”

  “What I don’t understand, though, is why you and Karsh didn’t tell me what was going on when I instituted the gestalt, or while I was saying goodbye to you.”

  “Oh, that. I wasn’t sure we’d be rescued in time and I didn’t want to distract you from any escape plan you might have.”

  “Oh, so you were giving me a chance to play hero after all?”

  She shrugged. “I know how much you enjoy the role.”

  I laughed, drawing a puzzled look from the EMT who wasn’t privy to our conversation. “I guess you’ve got me pegged. But why didn’t Karsh say anything?”

  “I asked him not to. Besides, I wanted to hear all those sweet nothings, in case we didn’t make it.”