SKELETON

by Peter Parkin

  Dennis knew Norfolk fairly well. It was the second largest city in Virginia with a population of just under 300,000, and was most famous for having a huge military strategic importance. The largest Naval Base in the world was located here, and Norfolk was also the defense headquarters of the world's most important military alliance, NATO. Needless to say, despite all the historic charms that the city possessed, the military presence drove the economy.

  Fiona had been quiet most of the trip down the coast. The day's events had clearly troubled her, and she wasn't used to violence. The day had troubled Dennis too, but he at least had the sad luxury of being desensitized to violence with the type of occupation he had.

  She suddenly reached over and rubbed his arm. "I want to make love to you."

  "Right now?"

  "Yes, pull over. Your windows are tinted. I can't wait—I won't wait.

  Now!"

  *****

  "She's dead. How do you feel about that, Denny?"

  He had just turned onto Brambleton Avenue, which, judging by the GPS meant that they were about fifteen minutes away from Brett's house.

  "I don't know how I feel yet. Not completely, anyway. It breaks my heart that a long-time friend is dead, but now that I know she was a fraud, a killer, and who knows what else, I'm just kind of numb to it. Know what I mean? Does that make any sense?"

  "I think so. The shock of it is just starting to sink in. I didn't know her as well as you, but I'm astonished at what an actress she was. How was Barb able to pull off that deception for so many decades, with every single person who loved her? And she killed her own lover for Christ's sake, for money and power?"

  "Barb was a monster, Fiona. I'll shed no tears for a monster. What bothers me the most is that because she was a fraud, a big part of my life has been a fraud. Because I cared for her. And my mother loved her dearly."

  "But Denny, did your mom really love her? Really trust her? She never shared this secret, whatever it is, with her at all. She didn't tell her anything. Barb had to go to these great lengths decades later to try to recover it through us. I think that in a lot of ways your mom was as big a fraud as Barb—but in a good way."

  Denny squeezed Fiona's hand. "That's an astute observation. Almost as clever as the way you instinctively picked out a great parking spot for us about 100 miles ago."

  Fiona hit Dennis on the shoulder with her tiny fist. "Don't you dare tell anyone about that! Especially Melissa!"

  "Melissa—oh, I hope she's going to be okay."

  "She will be. I believe Brett. I think I believe in Brett. Isn't that strange?

  We just met him, and he just killed three people. But I trust him."

  "I do too, Fiona. I don't know what it is, but after he and I almost killed each other, I felt this instant affinity with him. Like I knew him. Kind of like I felt about you the first time I met you—in a different way of course, but you know what I mean."

  "I do know what you mean. He seems so efficient and organized. Brett leaves you with the feeling that he has everything under control. And I know he's a killer, but I have a sense that he's also a decent honorable man. I don't understand this feeling I have, because it's such a paradox. But I think we can trust him, that we have to trust him."

  Dennis nodded. "As he said, we probably have no choice. And if he had wanted to kill us, he could have easily done it when he had the opportunity."

  Fiona was silent for a few minutes. Then she blurted out what she was thinking so hard about. "What was with that fighting you two were doing? I have never ever seen anything like that before in my life. It was thrilling to watch, but also damn scary. Where on earth did you learn to fight like that?"

  "China."

  "Why?"

  "Why not?"

  "Have you ever had to use it before?"

  "Yes."

  "Ever killed anyone with it?"

  Dennis pulled into Brett's downward driveway at 702 Brambleton Avenue, and answered Fiona's question with two three-second blasts and three one-second blasts on the horn of his Mercedes Benz.

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  "Get out of the car, both of you, and keep your hands very, very high." Dennis and Fiona exited on either side of the Mercedes, and did what they were told with their hands. One of the burly men spun Dennis around and shoved him down onto the hood of the car. He frisked him from top to bottom, opened Dennis' wallet and checked his identification. He then withdrew the pistol from Dennis' hip holster.

  "You won't be needing this for the time being."

  The man walked around to the other side of the car and spun the bewildered Fiona in the same manner—but frisked her with a bit more respect. He opened her purse and examined her driver's license.

  The guard stood erect and looked over at his partner who was seated at a desk against the wall of the garage. "They're clean."

  Dennis examined the two men carefully. With their broad shoulders, short hair, and brusque manners, they screamed 'military.'

  As he was driving into the garage, the first thing he'd noticed was the enormity of it—as Brett had told them, it was large enough to hold at least six cars. There were four already parked—an Audi, Brett's pickup truck, and two BMWs.

  Dennis' roaming eyes had next landed on the officious-looking men seated at desks next to the back wall. Both held sub-machine guns in their hands, trained on Dennis' windshield. He heard the air escape from Fiona's open mouth and the sound of a whimper. His first thought was—this is a trap.

  He calmed himself. Brett didn't need to summon them here to trap them. He could have had them back in Chesapeake Bay. He reconciled in his mind that this was just one more facet in the complex life of the fascinating man named Brett Horton. And they were being frisked because a man like Brett had to be cautious.

  The man seated at the desk put down his Uzi and walked over to Dennis and Fiona. He held out his hand. "Avery Duncan, Marine Colonel—retired. My associate is George Rickett, Army Ranger—retired as well."

  Dennis shook Avery's hand and then George's as well. A clearly relieved Fiona followed suit. "Pleased to meet you, I think. What's with all this?"

  Avery nodded. "We know who you are of course: Dennis and Fiona. Brett told us to wait for you, but you can appreciate that we can't be too careful. This is a very secure 'safe house,' and I'm the house manager."

  "So, you're here all the time?"

  "Only some of the time. Brett has other things for me to do from time to time as well. But supervising this facility is one of my responsibilities. Between George and I, one of us is always here."

  Fiona jumped in. "But it's just an empty house most of the time, isn't it?"

  "Hardly, ma'am. Right now, in addition to you two, there are six other people staying here indefinitely. Which brings me to a few simple rules that I have to ask you to observe while you're here.

  "Feel free to chat with the other guests, but use first names only— do not disclose your identities, what you do for a living, why you're here. No personal information at all. This is for your own safety, and the other guests of course have been given the same instructions. So, don't ask them any personal questions. Confine your conversations with each other to the weather, the Washington Redskins, movies, etc.—light stuff only."

  Fiona folded her arms across her chest. "Jesus, who are these other people?"

  Avery looked at her sternly. "Have you listened to a word I've said?" Fiona stammered, as if a teacher had just disciplined her. "I'm...sorry.

  Just...more of an...exclamation...than...a question."

  Avery nodded. "I'll continue. No cellphone usage—George will be taking those off you. No leaving the building without our permission. There's a large backyard, but you can't go out there. We do allow you to use a small courtyard in the back that has ten-foot walls, if you need a smoke or a breath of fresh air. All your meals will be taken in the main dining room with the other guests. However, discussions about your...uh...situation, will be conducted with Brett only and perhap
s myself and George as well from time to time. These discussions will take place in a separate wing of the house with its own dedicated computers and other electronic equipment.

  The other guests will be confined to their own similar wings."

  Dennis cracked his knuckles. "Okay, I think we understand. Anything else?"

  "Yes, one more thing. While you're here, you will do as we say. If you do anything to compromise the safety of our other guests...or us...we will kill you."

  *****

  "Sorry about the screening—almost as bad as trying to take a flight these days, huh? At least we didn't body-scan you guys!"

  Fiona shuffled her feet under the table. "Brett, I feel like we've just entered the twilight zone. What is all this?"

  Brett grimaced. "Just a necessary tool of the trade. I won't bore you or scare you with details, but trust me when I say that this is all sadly essential."

  They were seated at one end of a long dining table—the six other guests were busy devouring their steaks closer to the other end. The dining room was huge and could easily accommodate twenty people. Dennis and Fiona met the other folks when they had first entered the room, but it was clear that no one wanted to talk about anything. The stress on their faces was obvious—there were four men and two women. One man and a woman appeared to be a couple, but the other four seemed to be strangers to each other. Nothing distinguished any of them from normal everyday people. No remarkable features. If Dennis saw them on the street he wouldn't think that they were in any kind of trouble. But they obviously were, or they wouldn't be here.

  Dennis had placed the envelope with the microfilm on the table in front of his plate. He tapped his finger on it. "When are we going to take a look at this? You said you had the equipment?"

  "Right after dinner. We'll go to one of our private conference rooms— there's a fiche reader in there that we can use. Brace yourselves. I'm pretty sure I know what you're going to see. When you do see it, you'll understand why I had to hide you here until we sort this out."

  Fiona took a sip of her water. "We can't stay here forever. I hope we're going to talk about a way out of this mess."

  Brett strummed his fingers on the table. "Death is a way out, Fiona. Do you like that option?"

  She stared back at him, speechless.

  "I didn't think so—that's why you're here." Brett waved his hand toward the three men on his side at the other end of the table. "It's been three months for him, a year for the one next to him, and two years for the one at the end. They didn't want to die either."

  Dennis shook his head. "We have to review the package fast."

  "Yes, right after dinner as I said. And luckily, in your case, I think we have a solution that will work much faster than what was available to these guys." Brett waved his hand again. "It will be dangerous, but I'll throw it out to you and you can decide."

  Fiona looked up from her absent staring at the radish salad. "You're a private operator now. I presume these people here are paying you for your services. Why are we here? We haven't agreed to pay you anything. What's in it for you?"

  Brett nodded. "Sometimes there's more at stake than money. I never thought I'd hear myself say that, but I'm an angry and confused man right now. My sense of loyalty has been compromised...confused. This 'package' of Dennis' mom is the most serious thing I've ever tackled—you'll see what I mean when you browse through it.

  "This whole thing has become personal for me—so no, you don't have to pay me anything. I'm doing this more for me...and all the rest of us naïve people out there. Trust me, I'm not being a hero for you two. You'll understand when you read what's on the microfilm. As I said, I already have a pretty good idea about what you're going to see. I think you'll share my outrage."

  Dennis leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "How do you know what's on there?"

  Brett smiled. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

  Dennis smiled back. "Barb once said the same thing to that little nursey spy, Felicity. That girl was yours, wasn't she? You were the other voice on the tape, weren't you?"

  Brett nodded. "Yes, I was. That was sad about your mom. And Felicity seems to have disappeared into thin air. Are you aware of that, Denny?"

  "Yes, why do you ask?"

  "No reason. Just curious."

  The other six people had long since left the table for other wings in the house, so the three of them were alone now.

  Dennis leaned his elbows on the table. "I think you know more than you're admitting. Be honest with me."

  Brett sighed. "I know that you've been relieved of your duties temporarily until they get to the bottom of the serial killer case. I know that you're a suspect because you had a motive in the two disappearances that they're trying to tie in to the serial killer. I know that the serial killer is some kind of vigilante and that he kills with very unique weapons. Or...he knows how to kill like you and I do."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "Denny, you'll have to just accept that there are aspects of the 'overworld'

  that I'm not going to tell you. It would serve no purpose."

  "You seem to know a lot—like what's on the microfilm. I would at least like an answer to that question."

  Brett nodded his head. "I can tell you that I was hired to retrieve the package. And I did some of my own research. I have contacts with special talents who I pay when needed. They were needed."

  Fiona leaned towards Brett. "You were the one wearing the mask who attacked me in my home that night—the one who I told what I knew about James Layton."

  Brett lowered his head and nodded again. "Sorry about that."

  Fiona ran her fingers through her hair, then rubbed her tired eyes. "This 'overworld' you live in is one strange and brutal place, Mr. Brett Horton."

  "You don't know the half of it...or even a tenth of it."

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Dennis got up from his chair and started pacing the room. He went over to a sink at the wet bar, turned on the cold water tap and splashed the refreshing liquid all over his face, around his perspiring neck, and through his thick hair. He was exhausted but could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  He felt like he had been reading the script to a horror movie.

  Fiona was still sitting in front of the microfiche reader, head in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Brett was smoking a cigarette. It was his house—he could do what he wanted.

  Dennis forced himself back to the conference table, and settled down in his chair in front of the fiche reader. He put his arm around Fiona's shoulders and squeezed. She nestled her head into his chest and covered her eyes with her hands. Her shaking head betrayed the tears she was trying desperately to hide.

  Dennis raised her head up by her chin and kissed her lips. She kissed back, but weakly, uninspired—her mind elsewhere.

  He turned his head toward Brett as he was stubbing out his cigarette. "Is this all pretty much what you found out on your own?"

  "Pretty much. This microfilm gives us official documents, orders, authorizations, names, dates, places. What I found out was more general. This is dynamite—in the right hands."

  "Brett, I can't believe they would be so reckless as to explode a nuclear bomb on the surface of our moon."

  "Yeah, not only a clear violation of the treaty they signed, but we have to ask ourselves—what damage has it done? Do they know? Do they care? If there's damage, is it reversible? It's hard for me to believe that a nuke of that size hasn't done something permanent. Ten megatons is not a small bomb."

  Fiona pulled her hands away from her face and turned toward Brett. "They're creating monsters here on earth! Right under our noses!"

  Brett got up and started pacing the room. "It's even worse than that. Did you read that stuff about choosing cities in the Middle East—in Iran and Syria—and droning the hell out of them with genetically modified versions of the moon creatures? They've been testing prototypes of these things—death is in
visible, silent, and quick. And capable of killing over a wider airborne area than any other contagion known to man. They've created a brand-new contagion—and its alien."

  Dennis was wringing his hands. "It's barbaric. Everything I read is barbaric. I can't believe this is my own country that has done this. I mean, they're modifying these creatures in so many different ways, to fight whatever war they want to fight. If it's an economic war they want to fight against Japan or China, they now have the capability by what I read, of "dumbing their populations." A modified version of these organisms can simply be dropped into their water supplies or sprayed into the air, and millions of people will, within mere months, have their intelligence quotients decimated. No longer capable of creating or innovating, having no choice but to buy our products and giving us world supply dominance.

  "And they're talking about using commercial passenger jets to spray the shit right out from their jet engines and undercarriage nozzles. A different kind of chemtrail than the world has ever seen before. And everyone's so used to seeing those damn chemtrails that no one up until now seems to be prepared to tell us the purpose of anyway, people won't think anything of it. It'll just be more of the same—chemtrails blotting the blue sky around the world."

  Brett lit another cigarette. "It's horrific—all of it. The tests they're doing on chimpanzees are particularly scary. Removing all sense of fear, while at the same time boosting their strength threefold. And it seems to be working. My research tells me they're close to being able to create super-soldiers. Let's remember, everything we're reading in this microfilm dates back to 1978 when your mom buried it. I shudder to think about how advanced all of these theories and intentions are now.

  "Their theory with these test chimps was that they could eventually inject young recruits with these organisms and transform them quickly from scared young men and women into gung-ho fearless killers, with the capacity to wage war with no natural desire for self-preservation. These kids will be recruited by Uncle Sam, their naïve patriotic parents urging them on, only to have them genetically modified forever.