Johnny slammed the palm of this hand against the call button again, but still nothing happened. The main shaking had left with the Angel of Death, and peace reigned in the cavern again.
The door of the control room began to open until an aftershock hit the area and it slammed shut. Bits of the ceiling and walls, again, flew around the cave and, sparking cables flowed out of a cracked conduit which ran up one wall.
After a while the shaking subsided and Johnny looked at Erin as a gurgling sound filled the test hall. Suddenly, jets of water shot out from cracks in the hewn walls.
Erin screamed as Johnny desperately pressed the call button and, at last, the doors rolled back. The Threesome ran into the elevator. A rock fragment the size of a cannonball, propelled by a big jet of water, shot across the cavern and smashed into the window of the control room.
Although water flowed into the lift, the doors closed on the chaotic scene as Erin breathed a sigh of relief. But with only centimetres of gap left between the two sides a hand grasped one of them and the doors stuttered.
“Oh my God!” Erin shouted.
Johnny recognised a ring on the small finger with a swastika engraved into it and raised a foot and stamped the hand. The fingers released their grip, and the doors closed allowing the lift to begin its upward journey.
Johnny stared at Erin as they heard shouting and pounding. “Menzel’s not happy.”
“Do you reckon there’s another way out?”
“I don’t know–probably not.”
“So, we’ve condemned these men.”
“Like his grandfather did to the scientists in Germany,” said Johnny.
“What about the government people?” Michael asked.
Johnny shrugged his shoulders.
The lift suddenly came to a halt, and the lights went out.
“Shit!” Michael shouted.
“Looks like the waters got into the works,” said Johnny.
“What now?” Erin asked.
Johnny felt around the walls and then said: “Michael gives a lift. There’s bound to be a hatch in the roof.”
The young officer clasped his hands together and Johnny put his right foot in the
‘cup’. After being hoisted up he felt around until he found an indented square which pushed up to reveal the lift shaft. There were cables and pipes stretching up as far as he could see through the murky darkness and, much to his relief, a metal ladder.
“Come on!” Johnny shouted. “There’s a ladder!” He pulled Erin up through the hatch. “Start climbing,” he said, reaching for Michael.
Johnny watched Erin and then Michael climb up into the dark. “Look out for the outer doors they should be on your right!” He then stepped on to the ladder and ascended.
After a while there was a loud crack, and a bullet flew past Johnny’s head.
“Curses!” he growled as he looked down, “Menzel!”
“Another bullet flashed past him and ricocheted off the ladder causing sparks to fly through the dark.
“I’m at the doors!” Erin shouted.
Menzel was just below the lift when he stopped climbing and aimed the pistol directly up the ladder. He began to pull the trigger, but a rushing sound made him look down.
Water was gushing up the lift shaft. He turned and pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed; so he just gazed at the dark figures way up on the ladder as the water engulfed him and then pressed his body into the bottom of the elevator.
“I can’t get them open!” squealed Erin as sweat ran down her forehead and stung her eyes.
Michael climbed up beside her and looked around the shaft for something to lever the doors open, but there was nothing.
“You’d better come up with something–fast!” Johnny shouted looking down at the rising water.
The two agents clawed at the doors as Johnny felt the chill of the water bite into his feet. Mercifully the gush had turned into a seep. After all that’s happened, was this where it was to end, he thought. The cold climbed over his knee caps forcing him to pull up as close to Erin and Michael as he could.
“Come on you two get those fucking doors open!” he shouted as the water rose to his waist.
Erin screamed as the water touched her feet and then said with a sigh: “It’s hopeless.”
Then with the water still rising the doors suddenly rolled back, and a big figure stepped back as Michael and Erin tumbled out into the starry night.
Erin gazed up at the figure and then broke out into a broad, tear-filled smile as she got up and hugged Matthias.
“Matthias!” John shouted as he stepped out of the lift shaft. “The main man!”
“Nice to see you too John.”
“Great timing as ever, but what are you doing here?” Erin asked.
“I’ll explain later, you’d better come away from the water,” said Matthias nodding toward the flow out of the lift shaft, “and have a look at this.”
They followed Matthias across the empty helipad, climbed up and stood on top of the rocky spur.
“For heavens sake…!” Johnny said at the sight of the expanse of water that had filled the Mojave Valley. He shook his head as he watched helicopters, which looked like fireflies, fly over the surface searching for survivors.
Michael stepped back with raised eyebrows. “Where…did that come from?”
“The earthquake damaged the dams upriver,” answered Matthias.
Johnny turned to Erin. “So that’s where the water in the cavern came from.”
“Those poor people,” said Erin in a faltering voice.
“What happened down in the canyons?” Matthias asked.
Johnny explained the events of the last few hours.
“Well, my friends I am glad to see you after hearing that. I am here due to…; you will not believe this I think.” He took a deep breath and then continued, “my father came in a dream and showed me what would happen to you; basically, what you described, so I flew to Los Angeles and then drove here. I watched the valley below become flooded after the earthquake and then saw men from the cabins there leave in the helicopter. I heard your shouts and prised the doors open with an iron spike I found beside the cabin.”
“Well, we’re glad you came. This is my associate, Michael,” said Erin nodding toward the young officer
“Associate?”
“Yes Matthias, I’m a CIA officer, my name is Erin Rodgers. I'm... I was undercover to report back on John and your father.
“Günter in a dream” said Johnny, gazing at the stars.
“Ja, I wasn’t sure if I was being foolish coming here on the strength of a dream, but obviously it was no dream,” said Matthias as he stared at Erin. “The CIA; this has taken me by surprise. I don’t know what to think. And you and John were a… what do they say - a couple.
“Not any longer.” Johnny said.
Erin stared at him through the darkness. “Listen, I had orders to take you to another site and…”
“And what? Kill me! I’ve had enough of you and this whole thing. I’m going home to my kids.”
“Yeah, that’s it, on you go. You’re good at thinking of yourself,” said Erin with wrath.
Johnny shook Matthias’s hand and said farewell to Michael. He then scrambled down the mountain towards blue flashing lights.
Erin watched Johnny climb down the mountain with sadness in her eyes. She wanted to call him back; tell him she was going to quit the Agency for him, but pride, and the fact that Michael and Matthias were close by, stopped her. “Okay,” she said.
“We should get off the mountain and report back.”
Michael pulled out his mobile, “I’ll contact the LA office and get us a ride.”
“Where’s your car Matthias?” Erin asked.
“Down there, under the water.”
“I’ll get the Agency to sort it out.”
“Thanks. What are you going to do now?”
“Oh, there’s something I’ve got to see to back in Washington.”
Johnny drove along the homage to gambling that was the Las Vegas Strip. He passed a pirate battle on a life-size model of a galleon outside a casino called ‘Treasure Island’. On the other side of the street ‘The Venetian’ hotel/casino was a mock-up of St Marks Square in Venice complete with tower, bridges and gondolas.
The place was thronging with tourists. What had happened a few miles away had not affected business here, thought Johnny. Superficial damage, nothing to interrupt the intake of money!
He had spent the night at a small hotel after being dropped off by a coach, organised by the authorities, which was taking flood victims to alternative accommodation. Many of the survivors were put up in temporary accommodation such as a large sports centre in Boulder City, but Johnny, along with many others, opted to pay for a hotel room.
The Las Vegas airport was closed to normal business due to the disaster; so Johnny had hired a car for the drive to Los Angeles and planned to get a flight back to the UK.
The Interstate 15 took him out of Las Vegas and into the desert where a hot sun hung in a whitish blue sky, and little, white clouds drifted lazily over the dusty terrain.
He tried to keep thoughts of the previous day away, but they kept creeping into his mind. What would Erin do now? And was she right? Did he always put himself first?
Erin and Michael landed at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport as a summer shower swept up the Potomac. The aeroplane slipped into its allotted bay in front of the upturned egg box-like main building. They parted in the three-tiered main hall; Erin headed for her vehicle in the terminal three car park; Michael used an ATM
before collecting his car.
The George Washington Memorial Parkway took Erin along the south bank of the Potomac. Central Washington sat on the opposite bank, to her right, and the Pentagon and then Arlington National Cemetery lay on the left.
She left the built-up Metropolitan area and entered residential McLean–part of Fairfax County. She gazed down the banking at the quiet waters of the river and thought of Johnny and the look in his eyes as he announced that he was leaving. Then she thought of home and a hot bath, but that would have to wait. She had requested that the debriefing session with her director, Karen Blakely, take place right away.
Blakely and Erin had been recruited and trained up, at the Farm, at the same time.
Blakely came from a well-heeled Washington family - her father had been a director with the CIA and, to her, the Agency was just a game–a deadly game.
Two years previously Karen, while working undercover in the field, dismissed intelligence about an attack on the American Embassy in Angola. The building was destroyed by a bomb and ten personnel and fifteen civilians killed.
Erin thought at the time that Karen’s career was over, but three months later, during a period of turmoil in the Agency, she was promoted to Director of NCS. Erin, among others, from that moment on built up an unhealthy resentment for her boss.
After the security check she parked her car, attached her badge and then strolled along the walkway which led on to the arched entrance to the CIA building. She had to find out who was pulling the strings behind the surveillance of Johnny. Whoever, had almost killed her twice, so her safety was not of importance. Was there a demon in the CIA or the government? The way to find out was through Karen Blakely-tactfully. If she went in shouting and blaming people–tongues would tighten.
Erin stood outside Blakely’s door for a second, took a deep breath and knocked.
“Come in!” shouted a low woman’s voice.
She opened the door and entered. Karen Blakely sat in a dark blue suit tapping away on a computer keyboard, her hair shorter than Erin remembered.
“Erin,” she said, after looking up from her monitor, “take a seat.”
Erin pulled the seat out, away from the desk and sat down. The room had numerous photographs hanging on the walls; one, next to her framed degree, was of Karen playing baseball with an older man, whom Erin assumed to be her father.
“So, what happened in that old mine in the Mojave Valley?” Blakely asked.
Erin gazed past Karen out of the window at the old headquarters building. “I thought your trainee would have informed you.”
“Michael Catone is no trainee. He was to carryout surveillance on you because we thought you had been compromised.” The computer screen gave her face a light, blue complexion. “I want you, as the case officer, to tell me what happened before you write up your report. There’s a team on site at the moment, but until the water subsides, there’s not much they can do.”
“What made you think I was compromised?”
“The reports you sent in suggested that were the case.”
“I see,” said Erin. She decided that any more confrontational questions would be counterproductive; the way to get the answers she wanted was to turn the tables and spy on the Agency.
Erin went through the sequence of events, carefully leaving out any interaction between her and Johnny.
“What’s your assessment? Do you think that’s the end of the threat?” Blakely asked.
Erin laughed and then said: “Well, it’s the end of the neo-Nazis, but as for any supernatural involvement–who knows!”
“Okay officer, you can write up your report. Thank you!”
As she drove home Erin thought: one way to find out who was behind all this was to get into Karen Blakely’s computer, there were classified files she could access through her own terminal, but to get the juicy stuff on this case she would need to access the director’s machine; the only drawback being the password. But then she smiled as she signalled to pass a large, red truck.
Erin cruised along the street in Glenn Dale Maryland where her real house was situated. The house in Annandale was rented and set up to look like she stayed there.
The neighbour’s kids were playing baseball on their front lawn; the scent of magnolia’s filled the air–it was a perfect early summer evening. The sun had begun a slow descent as she pulled into her drive.
Inside, her house was humid and there was a stale odour; so, she switched on the air conditioning. A wave of cool air swept through the rooms and replaced the humidity.
Erin dumped two Wal-Mart bags on the breakfast bar. She opened the large silver fridge/freezer to start the process of scrapping out-of-date food and replacing it with new stuff. The house phone rang when she had her head in the fridge compartment.
She pulled her head out and slammed the door, then ran into the lounge.
“Hello,” she said holding the receiver to her ear, but there was a click and the line went dead.
Unnerved, she peeked out of the side of the closed blind. All was as it had been when she drove up: the kids were still playing; the sun was still slowly falling out of the sky.
“Oh, probably one of these computerised dial ups,” she said to herself.
She switched on the television, and the noise of an inane game show filled the room. The sound comforted her and calmed her nerves.
In her bedroom, Erin took off her clothes and donned a silk robe. She then entered the bathroom and ran a hot bath; she would have a soak before dinner.
Back in the kitchen she put half a chicken in the oven and turned on a gentle heat.
Her mobile rang; so she searched through her coat, which still sat on a breakfast bar stool. She looked at the small screen, but there wasn’t a number. “Hello,” she said as she held the phone to her ear, but, like the house phone, the line immediately went dead.
“Okay!” she shouted, “now I’m really spooked.”
She switched the cell phone off and then went into the lounge and pulled the landline cable from the wall.
After turning the hot water bath tap off, she entered her bedroom and drew out the top drawer of her bedside unit and took out her handgun, checked it was loaded and put it in the pocket of her robe.
After checking that the house was secure, she slid off her robe and slipped into the bath. The water soothed her as she rested her head on the top of the back end.
“Got to calm down,” she told herself, “got to think rationally. She let her toes play with the foam from the bath salts she had added.
Her eyelids became heavy as she slipped into a relaxed state of mind. Then, tottering on the edge of consciousness, she felt her skin tingle. The water was becoming hotter. She checked the tap, but it was off. Small bubbles rose through the water all around her. The water had begun to boil, and her skin was turning red. She pounced out of the bath showering the floor tiles with frothy water.
The bath was a frenzy of bubbling water as Erin grabbed a towel and gently dried her aching skin. Pulling on her robe she ran from the bathroom sticking her hand in the pocket which contained the gun. She felt assured as she ran her fingers over the cold contours of the firearm.
The front door bell rang; she ran into the bedroom and looked out between the curtains, but as her view was limited, she saw no one. The bell rang again.
Descending the stairs she drew her handgun and made her way to the front door.
She unlocked the door and opened it as far as the security chain allowed. She pushed the barrel of the gun through the gap and shouted: “Go away and leave me alone or I’ll blow your fucking head off!”
“Jeez, I just love you feisty American women,” said a familiar voice in a soft Scottish brogue, which washed over her in a wave of joy. She felt goose flesh spread up from her legs and flow over the rest of her body.
“Johnny,” she said as she slumped onto her knees. “Is it really you?”
“Are you going to let me in; or am I standing out here the rest of the night?”
She took off the security chain and then fell into his arms. “Am I glad to see you?”
Tears welled up in her eyes as she pulled the top half of her body away from him.
“How did you find out where I stayed?”
“Oh, I have my sources!”
“Don’t ever leave me again,” she said.
“I won’t,” he said, pulling her towards him. “I won’t.”
Erin and Johnny stood in her bathroom and looked at the foamy water, which was in a tranquil state once again. She had told him what had happened from when she had entered Blakely’s office.
“The water, just boiled?”
“Sounds unbelievable, but look at my skin,” she said as she held her arms out.
“What could make water boil in a bath?”
“Beats me,” she said, pulling the plug.
“Are you going to get a plumber to check the bath?”
“That was nothing to do with the bath.”
They headed downstairs and Erin headed into the kitchen, and shouted: “Coffee?”
“Please.” Johnny answered as he sat on the settee in the lounge and stared into space.
“Listen John,” said Erin, entering the living room with two steaming mugs, giving one to Johnny before sitting down. “I’m going to quit the Agency.” She held up her hand when Johnny started to say something. “Its true my orders were to take you to another site, but I… I couldn’t. Anyway, I think they would have killed me as well.
And please don’t take my decision lightly; I stayed with the Agency after nine-eleven when droves of officers quit and became contractors for huge amounts of money. I still put country above financial gain.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“We’ve got to flush out who’s behind all this.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“Well, I’m going into Langley tomorrow to write up my report and do a bit of info gathering.”
“Better be careful.”
“What made you come back?” she asked, sipping her coffee.
“I told you; I love you feisty American women especially ones that are CIA agents.”
Erin tipped her head back and roared with laughter.
“No, I realised I had walked out on something special and you were right: I do just think about number one.”
“I was angry.”
“And right.”
“Are you hungry?” she asked looking toward the kitchen.
“Oh yeah!”
The next morning Erin was at her desk in the officer’s room preparing her report. She had moved her seat closer to the outside edge of the desk to give herself a clear view along the corridor - and Karen Blakely’s door.
At ten past ten she noticed the director’s door open and Karen head out with a briefcase in hand. Well, it’s now or never, she thought.
Standing up she stretched and then looked out of the window. There was only one other officer in the room, and he was engrossed in writing up a report. She strolled out of the room and entered the corridor with her pulse rate rising.
Erin pushed open Karen’s door and walked into the empty room. She then closed the door as far as she could without actually shutting it and walked in behind the desk.
The monitor screen had dolphins swimming across it as she sat down in the swivel chair. She tapped the mouse; a rectangle appeared and asked for a password. Erin typed in ‘big red’ and the screen changed to one with icons on a blue background.
Karen Blakely had been nicknamed ‘big red’ as a trainee due to a fondness for the gum of that name and, because she was a tall redhead.
She scanned the folders, eventually finding one entitled ‘dimensions’. She clicked on the icon, and reports from her and Michael appeared along with a list of events.
At her car, Karen found that she had left her cell phone on her desk. She opened the BMW and laid her briefcase on the front passenger’s seat. Then, after locking the car, she headed back along the walkway toward the building.
Erin looked down the list and found nothing very interesting except one insert dated the 20th of April which read: ‘meet L to discuss Project Proteus’. She gazed thoughtfully out of the window at the large white cumulus which drifted over the building. She emerged out of the reverie with the sound of a voice from the corridor.
“Can I have a word, Karen?”
Erin froze; oh my God she’s coming back, she thought. She closed down the folder then stood up and moved toward the window as Karen and Jim Phillips, a director from another department, entered the room.
“Erin!” Karen said. “Can I help you with something?”
“I wanted to see you about some leave, but I’ll come back when you’re free.”
“All right,” said Karen stretching the second word as she looked at her computer screen.
Erin finished the report and then left the building with two things prominent on her mind: who was ‘L’ and what was Project Proteus?
Erin woke up and gasped: “The Lincoln Memorial - tomorrow three pm.”
“What?” asked Johnny sleepily.
“I… don’t know, just the Lincoln Memorial tomorrow.”
“Oh God, I thought we were getting away from this cloak and dagger stuff.”
“I have a feeling this will answer a few questions.”
“So, we just show up to meet what could be the Dark Angel.”
“No, I don’t think it’s a demon,” said Erin as she climbed out of the bed and wrapped her robe around her.
Johnny got up and pulled his jeans on then followed her down to the kitchen.
“What if it’s a CIA trap? I mean you’re not exactly flavour of the month right now,”
he said as he leant on the door frame.
Erin switched on the kettle. “So, the CIA are contacting people by telepathy now, are they?”
“Well…yeah, you know what they’re capable of.”
Johnny had a point, she thought as she put heaped teaspoonfuls of instant in two mugs. “Okay, I’ll take care, but I’m going - I need some answers.”
“What do you mean ‘I’?”
“You’re not coming, it’s too dangerous.”
“Whoever it is will hardly try something in such a public place, anyway just try to stop me; after what we’ve been through, I’m ready for anything.”
“Well okay James Bond,” she said with a smile, handing him a mug.
They crossed the Potomac by the Arlington Memorial Bridge on a cloudless, hot summer’s day. The pillared, white Lincoln Memorial building rose from behind some trees as Erin changed lanes.
She parked the car, and they strolled along the tree-lined Henry Bacon Drive until it merged with the Lincoln Memorial Circle. The pair walked around the outer perimeter sidewalk and then stood and gazed along the elongate Reflecting Pool toward the fawn-coloured obelisk that was the Washington Monument, which pierced the sky.
“Jeez, this is really impressive, said Johnny.
“Yeah, it makes me proud. No matter the bad things America has done, this makes my patriotic heart beat a little faster.”
Johnny looked at his watch. “It’s ten to three we’d better head over to the memorial.”
They climbed the steps along with a throng of tourists and then stood in between two pillars. A white marble Abraham Lincoln stared past them and out over the National Mall.
“Superb, isn’t he?” asked a gravelly voice.
Johnny and Erin spun round in unison to be greeted by the sight of a man with a grey beard and a black baseball cap above brown eyes. His long, grey hair, tied in a ponytail, hung through the back of the cap. He wore a dark blue sweatshirt above dirty Levi jeans.
“It’s you!” said Johnny.
“Yeah, I’m back in your life again Mr Duncan.”
“But, I don’t understand, your eyes… they’re a different colour,” uttered Johnny.
“Miss Rodgers,” said the bearded one, nodding his head.
“You two seem to know one another?”
“This is the tramp I told you of,” said Johnny. “You know–was in my bedroom.”
The tramp stared at Johnny. “Okay cards on the table time. Have either of you heard of Project Proteus?”
Erin nodded “Yes, I have, that is, I’ve seen the name.”
The man trained his brown eyes on Erin. “You would have seen this somewhere in Langley I assume.”
Three children ran excitedly past them as an overweight woman dressed in shorts and a loose, grey T-shirt shouted for them to wait on her.
“How would an angel know about Langley?” Johnny asked, after the woman had passed.
The tramp looked down at his old Levi’s and chuckled. “I’m no angel Mr Duncan; I used to work for the CIA. I was involved with Project Proteus: an offshoot of Project Stargate of which I’ve no doubt you’ve heard.”
Erin screwed up her facial features. “The remote viewing operation closed down after millions of dollars of taxpayer’s money had been wasted. Apparently, there was only a twenty percent success rate at the tests.”
“That was what was released to the media, and of course the Russians. We’re speaking about the Cold War here.” The tramp took a deep breath and stared at the Washington Memorial. “My name is Lindsay Koenig recruited by the CIA after I had shown exceptional telepathic skills at a special school in Philadelphia, which I detested.”
“So, you’re ‘L’.” said Erin.
The two men stared at her.
“It was just something written somewhere–that’s all!”
“Why did you tell me all that stuff in Scotland?” Johnny asked.
“Because I wanted you to stop the tests in California.”
“Why me?”
“Why not? You had written about the Bell and religion and had trusted media connections.”
“But in the Garden of Gethsemane …”
“Mr Duncan,” interrupted Koenig, “what happened in Jerusalem was a fabrication.
I was there. I made you see these things.”
“What …?”
“I can make people imagine things that would not otherwise be there. Just like this
…”
Johnny and Erin gasped. Koenig had gone and in his place was a radiant Christ, who gazed at them with piercing blue eyes. Then a second later Koenig returned and continued, “Proteus was a Greek ‘shape-shifter’, to use the modern term. He was a telepathist; incorrectly termed a ‘seer’ during his lifetime. The changes were not physical changes more a shift in the perception of the observer influenced by the telepathist.
Erin shook her head. “So why did you make me believe my bath water was boiling the other night?”
“Ah now we’re getting to the crunch. That wasn’t me. There were two main telepathists involved with the project. The other was a guy called Nathan Malloy; he was, and still is, more powerful than I am. He was irate when the government pulled the plug on Stargate, which of course meant the end for Proteus. It wasn’t the money; it was all the hard work we had put in; all the secrets we revealed to the CIA. Hell, we were in the Kremlin on several occasions–uninvited of course. I couldn’t have cared less about the abandonment, but Nathan took it bad, swore he’d make the US pay.”
“But, if you passed on important info why did they close you down?” Erin asked.
“Because of public opinion. They asked some of us to stay on as contractors, which I did for a while, but Nathan, well he told them to go to hell.”
“I’m getting confused how does all this tie in?”
“Well Mr Duncan, what better way of getting back at the US than to destroy something they’re proud of, something constructed using engineering genius, something that showed America could hold back the forces of nature?”
“The Hoover Dam,” answered Erin.
“Right, that’s what part of it was all about. That was Nathan’s bit.”
Erin looked at some people reading the dedication behind the Lincoln statue. “Why didn’t you stop him?”
“I didn’t really know what he was planning. Even if I had known; an army wouldn’t have been able to stop him.”
“So, what happens now?” Johnny asked.
“There’s one other person you need to fear; she is ruthless and has her own agenda.”
Erin gazed into Koenig’s eyes as understanding seeped into her mind.
“The neo-Nazis; they were just part of the plan?” Johnny asked.
“Yes, they needed the help of some extremist group to collect money and take care of things. He must have offered them some type of controlling role in the new world, I guess. Much like the Nazis offered their party members.”
“Will he strike again?” Erin asked.
“I wouldn’t think so; after all he got what he wanted.…!”
Koenig vanished leaving his sentence hanging in the air.
Johnny searched around the pillars, but the telepath had gone. “What do you reckon?”
Erin stared at him with fire in her eyes. “I reckon we get drunk then we see Karen fucking Blakley!”
Erin knocked and then strolled into Karen Blakely’s office followed by Johnny. Karen was on the telephone, but she signalled for them to take a seat. Johnny looked around the room as he sat down . Just like an office anywhere, he thought. The CIA had always been some shady spy outfit from films. He had never assumed that they operated from such normal rooms in such a normal building.
“Okay Karen, time to open up,” said Erin when Blakely replaced her receiver.
“I don’t have to divulge anything.”
“Like hell you don’t,” said Erin with menace,” you almost got us killed.
“Maybe you haven’t realised, but that’s an occupational hazard for a case officer.”
“Don’t give me that bull Karen.”
“Okay, since we’ve known each other for years. What do you want to know?”
“We’ve encountered Lindsay Koenig.”
“Right, he came to me about three months ago with intelligence on Nathan Malloy–
he was another telepath….”
“Yes, we know about him,” interrupted Erin.
“Well, Lindsay feared that Malloy was going to strike somewhere in the States. He reckoned it was to do with the tests that were to be carried out in the Mojave Desert.
He feared an attack on Las Vegas or LA, but he wasn’t sure as he couldn’t break through the mind barrier Malloy had built around himself.”
“Were the CIA involved in the tests?” Erin asked as she stood up and strolled over to the window.
“No, Officer Rodgers they were not. Now I must get on I'm afraid. You can have that leave you requested,” said Karen as she passed a note to a puzzled Erin.
Erin looked at the note and said: “Okay, Thank you.”
“All right, what did the note say?” Johnny asked, opening the passenger’s door of Erin’s Buick.
“We’ve to meet her in Reveller’s; a bar in Georgetown at one,” answered Erin, climbing into the driver’s seat.
“Because of bugs–yeah?”
“More, prying ears I would have thought.”
They crossed the Potomac by the Chain Bridge and then headed south along Canal Road. Erin turned into a built-up area. “This is Georgetown; it’s older than DC itself.”
Johnny watched as painted buildings, which stood shoulder to shoulder passed by as they cruised along M Street. The sidewalks were filled with lunchtime shoppers and browsers. People sat on wooden seats between the trees that lined the road and read newspapers.
She pulled up beside a two-storey building with deep, red walls and green windows. A yellow sign over the door said Reveller’s in red letters. There was a board on the sidewalk which told people that the establishment was open for business.
They entered the darkened bar, and Johnny followed Erin through to an area at the rear. Lunching businessmen filled some of the tables, who were either talking to other businessmen, or to their mobile phones. The worn wooden floor reminded Johnny of old shop floors from his childhood.
“How about some lunch?” Erin asked as the pair sat in a booth which had a low hung light shade, which cast bright light onto the old table.
“Yeah, I could use a little something. And I’ll have a juice!”
“You let me drink alone last night and now juice today; you don’t have to turn into a saint just because of what I said in the Mojave.”
A waitress in blue jeans and a red sweater appeared, and Erin ordered two salads and two orange juices.
At one o’clock Karen Blakely strode into the bar. She looked very much like a woman of power dressed in her pinstripe suit over a cream open neck blouse.
Johnny caught Erin’s eye and nodded toward the approaching Karen, who slipped past a couple easing their way into either side of a booth.
“Sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff, but I thought we would be better talking here,” she said, sitting beside Erin.
The waitress came over with Johnny and Erin’s food, and Karen ordered a club sandwich and an apple juice. After the girl left Karen looked at Erin and then at Johnny. “Officially the CIA had no involvement with the tests.”
“And unofficially?” Erin asked.
“Unofficially well, I tried to find out which directorate sanctioned them, but came up against a wall of silence in the male dominated corridors.”
Erin took a sip from her drink. “Why did you want us killed in Arizona?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on Karen. You gave me the orders: I was to take John to a site outside Parker where I reckon I was to be executed as well.”
“I never gave those orders. I sent Michael Catone to send back intelligence on you as you had gone quiet on me–now I see the reason why. You know these guys, Koenig and Malloy, have some strange powers. We’re really up against it; I’ve no idea who’s really who!”
Erin stared at Johnny through the spreading light beam as the full implication of what her boss had just said sank in.
Johnny watched the city flow past on their way back to Glenn Dale. “I don’t know who or what to believe,” he said.
“Welcome to the wonderful world of subterfuge a ’la CIA,” said Erin who ran a hand over her head while the other remained glued to the steering wheel.
“The steering’s become ropey,” said Erin as she fed the wheel back and forwards through her hands.
“We’d better pull in somewhere.”
“Oh my God!” she screamed, as she tried to control the wheel.
Johnny placed both his hands on the dash board. “Brake Erin!”
“They’re not working!”
They veered across onto the outer lane and hit a green Volkswagen side on, which pushed them back into the central lane where a truck crashed into the Buicks rear causing it to spin and then topple over several times.
Caitlin skipped across the grass with an ice-cream in her hand. “Come on Dad!” she shouted, as she headed towards brightly painted swings.
Brad was already swinging back and forward. “Yeah, come on Dad!”
Johnny felt tears well up in his eyes as he watched the children–his children. A bleeping noise filled the park and then he opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed in a room–a hospital room. The bleeping noise was coming from a monitoring unit to the left of his head. He couldn’t move his head; he stared at the ceiling; it was easier to stare at the ceiling.
A nurse came into the room. She was tall, thin and had shoulder length blond hair.
“Mr Duncan, you’re awake!” She looked at the unit to the side of his head. “I’ll have to tell Doctor Patel.” Johnny tried to speak, but nothing issued from his mouth.
The nurse left the room. He had wanted to ask her why he was in hospital. What had happened? He looked back at the ceiling, it was easier just to look at the ceiling.
An Asian/American man in a white lab coat came into the room. He had a receding hairline, and a well-trimmed goatee hung from his chin. “Mr Duncan, so nice to have you back with us, I’m Doctor Patel,” he said, as he looked at the monitoring unit.
“What happened doc?” Johnny asked in a croaking voice; he was surprised that he could speak.
“You were in an accident Mr Duncan. You’ve been unconscious from concussion for over twelve hours. We’ve run tests and there seems to be no serious damage apart from a severe whiplash which will soon go.”
The events came rushing back into his memory: the car crashing into the outer lane, being hit from the back and finally toppling over. Erin, he thought. What about Erin?
“How is Erin Doctor?”
“Now Mr Duncan you must rest.”
Johnny grabbed the man’s wrist. “What happened to Erin?”
A sadness spread over the doctor’s face. “I’m sorry Mr Duncan; Miss Rodgers didn’t make it–she died from her injuries on the way to the hospital.”
Johnny looked at the ceiling–it was easier to look at the ceiling. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he sobbed.
It was a warm day at Cedar Hill Cemetery. Johnny watched Erin’s coffin being lowered into the ground. He still had on a cervical collar and bruises were in the process of leaving his face. Apart from Erin’s mother and sister, who he introduced
himself to; the only person he recognised was Karen Blakely. She wore a black suit and brown sunglasses covered her eyes.
He stepped forward and threw a single red rose on top of the coffin and said:
“Goodbye Erin.”
A tall man in a grey suit with long, brown hair, streaked with grey caught up with him as he left the graveside and headed toward a waiting cab. “Mr Duncan, can I offer you a ride?”
“No thanks I have a cab.”
“Please, sir, you will want to hear what I have to say.”
Johnny stopped and looked at the man. He had deep brown eyes and looked to be in his early fifties. “I don’t care; I’m going home.”
“This is very important. My name is Nathan Malloy.”
The black Chevrolet Avalanche cruised along the neat road. Lines of headstones interspersed with trees stretched into the distance on either side. Johnny stared at the graves and wondered when the nightmare was going to end.
“Don’t know what you’ve been told Mr Duncan, but I’m guessing it has something to do with me,” said Malloy, as he stared ahead. “I’ve been followed lately by CIA spooks–agents. I Left the Agency years ago, but it seems you’re never really allowed to leave. I don’t practise telepathy anymore, but I ‘saw’ you and Officer Rodgers talking to Lindsay Koenig.”
“He said you were to blame for the destruction of the Hoover Dam. He said you wanted revenge on the US for the demise of the Stargate Project,” said Johnny.
Malloy shook his head and exhaled loudly as they drove past the light pink pillars of the main gate. “I run a successful IT business. Why would I want to destroy the Hoover Dam in some fit of revenge?” He eased the pickup into the traffic of Pennsylvania Avenue and headed toward central D.C. “No Mr Duncan, if I were you, I would beware of two people: Director Blakely and Lindsay Koenig.”
Johnny gazed at the yacht marinas as they crossed the river. The fact was he didn’t know who to believe, and he wanted to go home and forget all about it. But how could he? Someone had tampered with Erin’s car and killed her. Innocent people in the Mojave Desert drowned. Günter murdered in Germany. Didn’t he owe those people something?
“Where are you staying?” Malloy asked.
“At the Quality Inn on New York Avenue.”
They pulled up outside the sand-coloured, two-storey hotel, and Nathan Malloy put his arm on the top of the passenger’s seat as Johnny climbed out.
“Farewell Mr Duncan and be careful these people are dangerous.”
Johnny watched as the black truck merged with the traffic before he turned toward the hotel. “What now Johnny boy … what now?”
“Hi Caitlin, its dad,” Johnny said into the receiver of his room phone.
“Dad! When are you coming home, I’ve missed you?”
“Soon baby. I’ve missed you too. Where’s Brad?”
“He’s playing football for the school team.”
“How are you getting on? No more nightmares I hope?”
“Dad, you and I both know that was no nightmare, and no, I haven’t been bothered again.”
“Fine,” said Johnny, as he thought how grown-up she sounded. “Oh well I’ll go now. I’ll bring you back a present. Say hullo to your mother for me.”
“Bye dad, I love you.”
“I love you too baby”
He lay on the bed; the setting sun was pushing yellow rays between the slats of the blinds, which hung over his window. Better not to tell her about Erin he thought that could be done when he returned home.
The other call he made was to the Dundee Courier. They had run a gardening column in place of his, and the editor was wondering when he was to return. He assured the man he would write again soon. It would need to be very soon, he thought, as he could not afford to stay in the US much longer. He was already eating into his meagre savings.
The next morning he took the metro to tree lined Idaho Avenue where he walked into the Second District Police Station and asked to see Lieutenant Dewar - the detective who had turned up when Johnny had requested to see someone in Homicide while he was in hospital.
Heb Dewar came down the marble steps of the central staircase. He was a well-made man with thin, red hair. “Mr Duncan, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve come to see if the report on the Buick is in,” said Johnny, who had been sitting on a wooden bench in the reception area.
“Okay, if you’ll follow me, please.”
Dewar’s desk sat by a window covered in masses of paperwork. “Excuse the mess,” he said, as he pulled up a chair for Johnny to sit. He then grabbed his mouse and clicked a few times and then said: “the report on the silver Buick says it was an accident.”
“Lieutenant, someone tampered with Erin’s car; the steering and the brakes were okay, it was a new car for Christ’s sake.”
“Mr Duncan it was an accident.”
Johnny looked at the empty paper coffee cups on the window sill behind the police man. “Can I see the car?”
“It’s in a pound somewhere waiting to be crushed. Why don’t you do yourself a favour sir and go on home.”
“I can’t lieutenant, I need to carry on, I owe it to my friends.”
“Then here.” The cop passed him a white business card. “I never gave you this!”
Johnny read the card: “Kyle Miller P.I.”
“He’s your man; used to be a cop, and he doesn’t like spooks!”
The brown two-storey building, in Georgetown’s 36th North West Street, sat between a similar building painted red, and a three-storey modern office block. The window shutters painted yellow were black in places with grime from the road.
Johnny pushed the button for 14b at the side of the weathered, mahogany panelled door.
“Yes?” asked a voice through a metal grille under the button.
“Mr Miller its John Duncan–we spoke on the phone.”
“Ah yes, come up.”
A buzzer sounded and Johnny pushed the door open and walked into a white staircase. Red painted wooden steps led him up to two doors. one was black MDF
with a brass handle, the other, a glass panelled door, was opened by a fair–haired man in his early forties. He wore a red checked shirt, which was open at the neck, and black Wrangler jeans.
“Mr Duncan–come in.”
“Thank you,” said Johnny, as he closed the door and followed the man into a large, bright room. The ceiling was white and had an ornate, circular cornice around a central light pendant, which had a white cube shade. The walls were cream, and one had several glass shelves upon which sat a variety of African wooden carvings.
Woven rugs rested on the laminated wooden flooring, and a large, circular glass coffee table held the central position in the room.
Kyle Miller sat on a black leather swivel chair behind a pine desk, which lay in front of the large window. “Sit down please,” he said pointing to a large, black leather settee. “So, what can I do for you Mr Duncan?”
“I was involved in a car accident on the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge in which a colleague was killed, and although the police say it was an accident, I know the car had been tampered with at some time.”
“Why do you suspect this?”
“Because not only did the steering go, but the brakes failed–on a new car!”
“I see, and who do you suspect?”
“The CIA; or at least rogue elements within the CIA.”
The PI whistled and then stood up and looked out the window.
“I’ve heard you’re not exactly keen on the Agency,” said Johnny.
“Mr Duncan, I was a cop here in DC for twenty three years; let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of brushes with them and the FBI,” said Miller, as he remained looking out of the window. He then turned and sat on a corner of his desk. “What did you do to annoy the them?”
“I want you, Mr Miller, to find out what really happened to that car. Can you do this?”
“Sure, but it will cost, not only my fee, but also cash to grease a few palms.”
“Okay, I’m prepared to pay.”
“Right, I’ll need five hundred dollars up front and the relevant information.”
Johnny gave him the cash and the details.
“Now go home and relax. I’ll call as soon as I have something.”
Johnny needed a drink as he sat on the metro on the way back to his hotel. He had almost succumbed before Erin’s funeral, but he somehow held out. However, sitting on the train surrounded by strangers, any of whom could be spies, he felt lonely, like a small frightened boy stuck in a grown-up’s game. Drink was a comfort blanket–a shield from reality.
What was he going to do? Even if he found out the car was tampered with; the CIA were above the law, and he was nobody. Maybe it was time to head home? One good thing, he thought was that they wouldn't attack him again as his profile had been raised, by the police.
The train pulled up at the station close to his hotel and the doors hissed open. He stepped off and walked along the platform towards the stairs. He turned around and
watched as two people: a woman in a red jump suit and a man in a brown jacket and grey trousers walked towards and then past him.
That man got on where I got on thought, Johnny. “Jeez, I’m getting paranoid,” he said to himself as he shook his head and climbed the stairs.
Johnny strolled across the hotel parking lot and then, unlocking the door, he entered his room as a man in a brown jacket and grey trousers sitting by the window in the reception area lowered his newspaper and pulled out his cell phone.
Two days later Johnny’s mobile rang as he stepped out of the shower. He grabbed a large, white towel and dried himself off then, tying the towel around his waist, he answered the phone. “Yeah, hullo.”
“Mr Duncan its Kyle Miller.”
“Ah yes.”
“I have some information for you. Will you be able to come to my house?”
“Yes, I’ll be there in about an hour and a half.”
“Okay, until then.”
Johnny pushed the button and waited for Kyle Miller’s voice to flow from the metal grille. But nothing happened; he tried again, but still there was no answer. He was about to pull out his mobile when he noticed that the front door was slightly open.
Johnny pushed the door open and looked up the stairs. He noticed that Miller’s glass door was also open, so he climbed the stairs.
Knocking on the door, he shouted: “Mr Miller! Hullo, it’s John Duncan.” After receiving no reply, he walked into the hallway and looked around, then headed into the living room.
He froze because before him, by the large coffee table was the body of Kyle Miller lying on its side in a pool of blood. Then stars and darkness descended over him.
The disk of light at the end of the tunnel became larger and larger until he gained consciousness. His head thumped and nauseousness shook his body. He was lying on the laminated floor of Kyle Miller.
Johnny sat up; the body of the PI was on its back and a large knife handle protruded from the chest. Dollar bills lay scattered about the floor, some in the widened deep red pool of blood. Thunder rolled in the distance and became louder and louder until, suddenly, four uniformed police officers burst into the flat.
“Don’t touch anything!” shouted Sergeant Duane Ellis, as he surveyed the living room. He then pulled on a pair of investigation gloves and, crouching by the body, he felt for a pulse. “This one’s a goner.”
He then moved over to Johnny. “What’s your name, sir?”
“John Duncan.”
“McLeod, get an ambulance here, and you’d better alert forensics,” the Sergeant said to an officer. “Lowkowski, get a cordon set up downstairs–no one without authority in or out,” he said to another.
Johnny felt the thumping in his head intensify as he tried to focus on the dead body of Kyle Miller. “Jeez, I don’t feel too well.”
“Let’s help you up sir,” said Ellis, as he crouched behind Johnny and put an arm under each armpit and pulled him up.
Johnny felt the blood rush from his head and thought for a moment he would pass out. He put a hand on his forehead. “Christ, I feel dizzy. The body… it was on its side when I came in Sergeant; someone must have rolled it over while I was unconscious.”
“We’ll get you outside for some fresh air,” said the cop as he helped Johnny out of the house.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs a red and white ambulance screeched to a halt next to the area cordoned off with yellow and black tape. A tall paramedic in blue overalls came running up to the pair.
“Here you go son,” said Ellis leaving the paramedic to take Johnny to the ambulance where the other paramedic, a short, well-made female, opened the rear door.
“Lowkowski!” Ellis shouted.
When he had the young officer’s attention he nodded toward the ambulance.
Realising what he meant the officer headed toward the vehicle as three men in green overalls and one in blue coveralls passed him and presented themselves to the Sergeant.
“Up there guys; the victim’s in the living room.”
Heb Dewar was on his fourth cup of coffee when the call came in. He had spent the previous evening at his local bowling alley losing at ten-pin and drinking beer–
heavily in both cases.
“Suspected murder down in Georgetown Heb,” said Chris Gaft, a fellow lieutenant twelve years Heb’s junior.
“Jeez, just as well the coffee’s doing the trick.”
“Come on pal, I’ll drive.”
The address sounded familiar, but Heb couldn’t place it–not in his delicate state. He felt butterflies in his stomach, however, as they turned into North West Street, and he saw the white squad cars sitting outside Kyle Miller’s front door.
Chris parked his Mercury across from the taped cordon, and Heb jumped out and strode toward Sergeant Ellis. “Duane! What’s happened here?”
“Oh right, Heb. There’s a body up in that apartment with a knife in the chest; no real signs of a struggle - some cash lyin' around.”
“To whom does the apartment belong?” Heb asked with a sinking feeling.
“A Kyle Miller.”
“Yeah.” Heb said nodding.
“Do you know him?”
“I used to work with him–he was a cop. Don’t you remember him; he used to rub the CIA and the FBI up the wrong way.”
“Yeah, come to think of it I recognise the name. There was another guy up there claims he saw the body in a different position before being clobbered.”
“Where is he?”
“Getting treated in the ambulance. He’s in bad shape. His names John Duncan–he’s a Brit.”
“I know,” mumbled Heb as he headed toward the vehicle.
Johnny sat on the gurney and watched with one eye as Lieutenant Dewar walked toward the ambulance - the tall paramedic was shining a small torch in the other.
Heb knocked on the open door with his warrant card in hand. “I’m Lieutenant Dewar. How’s Mr Duncan?”
“In poor shape. We’re going to transfer him to hospital. He’s suffered several blows to the head.”
“He was in a bad car accident a week ago.”
“Right.”
“Okay. Which hospital?”
“GUH.”
Heb went over to where Sergeant Ellis and Chris Gaft were standing. “Could you send a unit with the ambulance Duane? Duncan doesn’t leave his room, and no one other than medical staff and police allowed in.”
“Okay,” said Ellis, as he moved off.
“Well Chris let’s have a look.”
Heb knocked on the glass door at the top of the stairs and shouted: “Lieutenant Dewar and Lieutenant Gaft, can we come in?”
A suited forensic officer complete with mask appeared at the front door. “Sure, as long as you put on gloves if you’re going to touch anything.”
They walked through to the living room where another suited officer was taking pictures of the body and another was searching over a rug by the coffee table. A man in a white suit who had been examining the body stood up when he saw the two detectives.
“I’m Doctor Weller–the pathologist.”
“Well doc what was the time of death?” Chris asked.
“Around ten-thirty this morning.”
“Anything apart from the obvious?”
“Not from an initial examination. I’ll be able to tell you more when I get him back to the centre.”
“Well, I can identify the body; that’s definitely Kyle Miller,” said Heb shaking his head.
“What was he doing now?” Chris asked as the two detectives moved away from the body.
“He was a PI, and doing pretty well,” answered Heb, as he looked around the room.
“It looks as if they had an argument over money and Duncan stabbed him.”
“Yeah, but how do you explain Duncan being unconscious?”
“He must have been hit with this,” said the forensics officer who allowed them in, as he held up a baseball bat in a sealed clear plastic bag. “We found it under the desk, it must have rolled there.”
“So, Kyle hits Duncan with the baseball bat and Duncan responds by stabbing him.”
“Hmm, or so we’re led to believe.”
“You reckon there’s more to this?”
“Let’s wait until we get the reports.”
As they left the apartment Heb asked the uniformed cop at the top of the stairs about the neighbours.
“Nobody in sir. We’ve knocked on the door a few times, but there’s never been a reply.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Dewar, as he and Gaft descended the stairs.
The next morning Heb strolled toward his desk with his customary coffee cup in one hand and newspaper in the other.
“Coroners and forensics reports are in for the Miller case Heb,” said Gaft who was sitting at his desk studying the sheets.
“What are they saying?” Dewar grunted.
“Pretty much what we assumed: Miller’s fingerprints only on the bat, but also traces of Duncan’s skin and hair on the business end. Duncan’s fingerprints, as requested, only on the knife. Time of death: ten-thirty am. Knife pierced the right ventricle of the heart.”
“So, we know when the fatal stab wound happened, but we don’t know if that was before or after John Duncan was hit over the head. And wouldn’t a blow to the head knock Duncan out?”
“Well, he claims he was knocked out, but the uniform guys found him conscious.”
“We’ll need to talk to the doctor who’s treating him I suppose.”
“I’ll go over; we need an official statement from John Duncan, anyway.”
The morning sun spilled over the red blocks of Georgetown University Hospital as Heb turned into the parking lot. The hospital as the name suggested was part of the college and, as a consequence, was at the forefront of some great medical advances.
Heb found, from a disinterested receptionist, that Johnny was being treated in Neurology, which was on the seventh floor of the PHC Building.
As he walked through the corridors Heb remembered why he hated hospitals: the odours of disinfectant, polish and other things.
There was a uniformed officer outside the room where Johnny was being treated.
“Hello son, I’m Lieutenant Dewar,” said Heb showing the young cop his warrant card.
Johnny pointed the remote control at the television set high on the wall next to the door and switched off a mind-numbing game show as Lieutenant Dewar entered the room. He then pushed a button on another remote control and the head of the bed rose a few inches.
“How are you Mr Duncan?”
“Lieutenant! Better, thank you.”
“Good. Look, if you’re up to it, I need a statement.”
The sun cast thin, horizontal shadows on the wall to Johnny’s right as it shone through the standard hospital blinds. Johnny related what he could remember to the detective, who sat on a chair at the left of the bed.
When he had finished Heb Dewar looked at his notes and asked: “Did you see anyone leave the house as you approached.”
“No.”
“And, was there anything peculiar in the apartment to suggest that someone else was there, like a noise or a movement now that you’ve had time to think over the events.”
“No–I was in shock at seeing the body, and the next thing I remember was coming round and the police showing up.”
“Okay, now how do you account for your fingerprints on the knife?”
“Lieutenant, I never consciously touched that knife. I’m being framed. They tried to kill me in that car crash along with Erin Rodgers, and now, because they failed, this is their next throw of the dice so to speak.”
“Who are they?”
“Rogue elements within the CIA.”
“So, you’ve said before, but why are they after you?”
Johnny told Heb a shortened version of the whole story.
“Jeez! That’s some story,” said the detective, as he stood up and ran a hand over his scalp. “Okay, I need to talk to the doctor who’s dealing with you. Don’t leave the country.”
“I can hardly stand up to go for a pee!” Johnny said with a grin.
Doctor Ahmed Khan watched as one of his Pearl Gourami’s chased a Cherry Barb through the thick aquatic plants in his bubbling fish tank, which sat on a sturdy cabinet in a corner of his small office.
“Yes,” he said in reply to a knock on his door.
A man with red hair dressed in a well-worn grey suit entered and said: “I was wondering if I could have a word with you about John Duncan.”
“And you are?”
“I’m sorry, I’m Lieutenant Dewar–Metropolitan police,” the cop said producing his warrant card.
“What do you want to know?” Ahmed said, as he pointed toward a seat.
Heb Dewar sat down. “How bad is his injury?”
“He’s recovering from concussion. A PET head scan showed no bleeding in the brain, but he has a linear fracture on the top of his skull at the front. The fact that he sustained this injury so soon after his hospitalization for the car accident has given us cause for concern.”
“Okay. Thanks doc. Oh, I wonder can you help me. A pierced heart ventricle; how long before death?”
“Minutes. The brain would be starved of oxygenated blood.”
“So, it would be possible for someone who had been stabbed through the heart to pick up an object and strike out.”
“Possible, but not probable, because you need to take into account the person would be suffering from trauma.”
Heb Dewar climbed the central stairs with a heavy heart; he knew what would unfold that day. He popped his head into the office he shared with Chris Gaft. “Hey Chris, what’s happening?”
“Captain wants to see you, well both of us really, about the Miller case.”
“Okay, let’s go,” said Heb throwing his newspaper onto the seat behind his desk.
He knocked on the varnished door which had Captain Brendan O’Neil on it in gold lettering.
“Come in,” said a gruff voice.
“Yeah Captain, you wanted to see us?” Heb asked, as he marched into the small office followed by Chris Gaft.
The captain, a man with thick, brown hair above a craggy face with tired grey eyes said: “The Miller case, how are things progressing?”
“Things are going well,” said Heb before he relayed the events of the past few days.
“Well, it sounds like you’ve got your man. I want an arrest made–there’s pressure from above.”
Heb gazed at his boss's family photographs on his uncluttered desk. “I’m not sure that Duncan did it. He claims he was framed. He was in a dubious car crash prior to this.”
“That crash was an accident. I want him arrested–today gentlemen.”
Where was this pressure from above coming from, thought Heb as he sipped a coffee at his desk and stared out of the window? Some CIA buddy of the captains; or a favour called in by somebody higher up!
Johnny dried his hair with a green hospital towel and looked in the mirror on the back of the shower room door and combed his brown locks. He walked into the main room and buttoned up his shirt and checked his wallet. He retrieved his shoes from the main cupboard to the side of the window and then sat on the bedside chair and put them on.
There was a knock at the door as he threw items into his bag, which the police had retrieved from the hotel. The door opened and Lieutenant Dewar looked in. “Mr Duncan–feeling better?”
“Yes, but I’ve to take it easy, especially around the head area.”
The lieutenant pushed the door open further and walked in looking at his feet.
“This doesn’t look like a social visit,” said Johnny.
“John Duncan I am arresting you for the murder of Kyle Miller…”
Johnny just watched the cop’s lips move, but never heard his rights. He was handcuffed by Chris Gaft, who had followed Heb Dewar into the room.
Johnny was put in an interview room at the Second District Police Station. The room was bare save for a table and four hard plastic seats.
“Can I have an attorney?” Johnny asked.
“We’re waiting on your attorney coming. Someone has paid for one for you,” said Lieutenant Dewar.
“Who?”
“We don’t know, but it seems you have a fairy godmother, because someone paid for your hospital bills as well,” said Lieutenant Gaft.
Guided into the room was a tall, thin man dressed in a dark, blue suit.
“Gentlemen,” he said as he nodded. “I’m Randall Page of Foster and Page Attorneys-at-Law.”
Heb Dewar pointed to the empty seat beside Johnny.
“Can I have a private word with my client please?” The lawyer asked the two policemen.
When the two detectives left the room Randall Page turned his chair to face Johnny. He was a man in his late thirties, had deep brown eyes and light brown hair the front of which receded toward the sides. “Okay Mr Duncan, tell me your story.”
“First of all, this may sound odd, but was it someone who works for the CIA who paid for your services?”
The man smiled. “No Mr Duncan the man who paid my company does not work for the CIA; if he did, I would not have taken the case.”
Fair enough, thought Johnny as he told the attorney the whole story. He didn’t leave much out–he needed someone to trust, and this guy seemed to fit the bill.
Johnny gazed up at the violet sky between the white spires. He felt strangely at ease as if nothing could harm him in this place. He walked around the base of one tower and saw a figure he instantly recognised standing by the entrance to a tower. “Erin!”
He shouted, as he ran toward the building, but she had gone!
He looked around and saw her by the entrance of another spire. “Leave me alone Johnny it’s… not time yet.”
“Erin–please!” Johnny shouted, as he ran into the entrance through which she had gone. The interior, however, was empty.
Johnny woke up and stared at the cell walls through the darkness. Tears ran down his face as his mind adjusted to reality–a reality he wished of no part.
The next day he was taken from the miserable prison in Washington DC back to the Moultrie Court building where his lawyer had entered a not guilty plea on his behalf at his arraignment
Bailiffs led him from a holding cell into a large courtroom where twelve jurors sat in two rows. He was placed beside Randall Page, who sat at a table at the front with his briefcase in front of him. Another table across the narrow aisle had the two men Johnny recognised as the public prosecutors.
The Judge, the Honourable Willard Truman, sat and peered at the proceedings from behind a pair of circular spectacles. He was a big man with a double chin and greying hair.
A clerk stood up and addressed the court: “The people versus John Duncan.”
The prosecuting attorney, Charles Scholtz, a short, bulky man in a black suit with thick, wavy, fair hair rose from his seat. He prepared to question the first prosecution witness: Sergeant Duane Ellis.
The sergeant was sworn in and sat in the witness box next to the judge.
“Sergeant, can you tell us, in your own words, what you saw when you entered the house at 14b 36th North West Street Georgetown?”
“Well, we found the street front door open, so we climbed the stairs and entered the apartment–the front door being open. Mr Duncan was sitting on the floor with his hands on his head. Over by the coffee table, which was in the centre of the room, lay the body of Kyle Miller with a knife in his chest. There was cash lying around the floor.
“Was there anyone else in the apartment?”
“No sir.”
“What did you do next?”
“I tested Mr Miller for a pulse, but finding none I attended to Mr Duncan.”
“Okay, thank you Sergeant.”
Randall Page stood up and walked around to the front of the desk while fastening his jacket. “Sergeant, you say when you arrived at the apartment the front door was open; anyone could have entered and then left before you?”
“Yes, that could’ve been possible.”
“Were there any real signs of a struggle?”
“Apart from the cash on the floor–no!”
“Would you not say, from your vast experience in such cases, that there should have been more signs of a struggle?”
“Yes.”
Johnny watched the proceedings in physical form only; his mind was searching for Erin; searching for that place of dreams; searching for that place where he wanted to be, away from this wearisome world.
The next prosecution witness was Doctor Ahmed Khan, who took the stand with a copy of the medical report on Johnny.
A clerk appeared at the table and handed two sheets to Randall Page, who scanned them before nudging Johnny with his elbow, “you’re a free man!”
“Doctor Khan, will you give the court a brief outline of the medical report on John Duncan,” said Charles Scholtz
The Doctor ran through the report.
“Would you say then, that he had been hit once?”
“Yes, I would, as the report says the PET scan shows one hair-line fracture on the skull where the skin had been broken–a compound fracture.”
“Okay, thank you doctor.”
“Doctor,” said Page, as he rose from his seat, “Your report says quite clearly that there was only one fracture on Mr Duncan’s skull?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Well, why does the actual PET scan show two fractures, which were not there when Mr Duncan had a scan done after his recent accident? To explain: I have been given a back-up hard-copy of the scan which is usually filed away and forgotten about. I also have an original hard-copy of the scan from the time he was hospitalized for the car accident. I will display them to the court. The original for the latest PET
scan seems to have been mislaid.”
Murmuring erupted throughout the court.
“Order!” Shouted the Judge, “Mr Page, Mr Scholtz–a word.”
Johnny walked out into the warm sunshine of Indiana Avenue. He shook hands with Randall Page. “Well thanks. But, Doctor Khan–why?”
“Your enemies had got to him–money, power, whatever!”
A black Pick-up screeched to a halt in front of the parked cars which lined the avenue. Johnny recognised the driver as the passenger side window lowered.
“Please get in Mr Duncan?”
“Nathan Malloy, Johnny said, as he waved goodbye to his attorney and entered the truck. "It was you who paid my bills.”
“And supplied the scan evidence - I didn’t want to see you banged up for something you didn’t do!”
“Unlike some others and thank you…thank you very much.”
“What now?” Nathan asked, as they drove along Pennsylvania Avenue
“I’m going to see this through. Come too far to just walk away.”
“I thought that would be the case, that’s why I’ve booked you into the Marriot Hotel on 22nd Street.”
“Oh no Nathan, I can’t accept any more from you.”
“Of course you can John. Stay as long as you need; you’re now one of my customers.”
They turned into 15th Street. “I’m taking you for a hire car. This is a dangerous city.
I’d feel better if you drove rather than walked and took the metro.”
They pulled up outside Enterprise Rent-A-Car on Vermont Avenue. “Its all arranged, just show them your driver’s licence.”
“Nathan–what can I say?”
“Here’s my business card: if you need anything just phone. And for Christ’s sake take care!”
Johnny lay back on one bed in his room. “This is living,” he said to himself. The receptionist had looked him up and down when he checked in, so he decided a shave and shower were in order before sampling the delights of one of the restaurants.
That night he slipped between the crisp, white sheets of his bed and thought how good it was to be in a real bed after many uncomfortable nights in cell beds where sleep was hard to find.
He dreamt of climbing through the different dimensions until emerging on the depressing thirteenth and greeted by the Dark Angel.
“Why do you seek me?” She asked in her rasping voice.
“Because I need your help.”
She laughed and then asked: “Why would I help you?”
“Because in return I will give you my soul.”
All traces of laughter left her features and her eyes focused on his, and Johnny felt an eternal sadness weaken his heart.
“Why?
“Because I would like to spend eternity in the spire city.”
“Ah–fantasy, but very well. What do you wish me to do?”
Lindsay Koenig sat bolt upright in his bed and switched on the light, which sat on his bed-side unit. Shadows jumped on to the walls. “Who’s there? I know there’s someone there!”
A figure stepped out of a darkened corner of the room, which caused him to stumble out of the bed. “You…but, that’s impossible, you’re…”
“Dead,” said Erin in a rasping voice. “And it was you or your associate that killed me!”
“But wait it’s me… we have a deal!” Koenig said when he realised who it was.
“Yes, but you’re not Christ and anyway you got what you wanted: the place destroyed” she said with a cackle.
Before Koenig could put up his mental shields, his mind was penetrated and images of the people whose shape he had assumed appeared. What gave him the right to steal their identities they demanded?
His eyes were open as his body rose into the air, but he saw nothing in his bedroom, instead he saw a dark, tumultuous world where a stairway led up to another smaller depressing world. He noticed people climbing the steps with bowed heads, before his lifeless body fell to the floor. The dull thump causing the light on the unit to topple over and make the shadows on the walls briefly dance.
The hotel room phone rang as Johnny read an article in the Washington Post about a man, Lindsay Koenig, being found dead in his Maryland home by the cleaner. There were no suspicious circumstances, and an autopsy was to be carried out.
He lifted the receiver and answered. “Yes?”
“Mr Duncan, its Clara in reception. I have a call for you–a Miss Blakely.”
“Okay, put her through please.”
There was a click and then Karen Blakely said: “Mr Duncan?”
“Miss Blakely.”
“All this has gone far enough; we need to talk.”
Panic setting in now her associates out of the way, he thought.
“Very well, but I don’t trust you!”
“I give you my word that there will be no more…actions. You can choose the meeting place.”
“Okay.”
The heat of the day gushed into the Pontiac as Johnny opened the door and climbed out after parking on Jefferson Drive SW. He strolled onto the National Mall and gazed at the giant obelisk that was the Washington Monument.
People on their lunch breaks mingled with tourists, who were busy taking pictures of one another standing before the great pillar. He crossed over two roads and walked over to the monument. Karen Blakely was standing by one of the group of flags which encircled the base.
“Mr Duncan,” she said without taking her eyes off the monument.
“Miss Blakely.”
She trained her tired eyes on him. “Right, I suppose I should start at the beginning.”
“All ways good, and the truth this time please.”
“When I was a kid, my grandfather told me stories about the power of the ‘Nazi Bell’, and he reckoned it was somewhere in the US. He was an SS officer that escaped to South America after the war and then entered the US with the help of the ‘Black suns’ – a group of former SS officers who had settled into life stateside.”
“Right,” said Johnny, nodding.
“As you know Mr Duncan, they were in all walks of life: banking, the military and the intelligence services-the Soviets being a prime target for their wrath. My grandfather, his real name was Jurgen Roth, worked his way up in the CIA-all the time trying to find out where the Bell was. He knew of course that the Americans had used the technology to help make the first atom bomb. My father, David, followed him into the Agency and then me. Some would call it nepotism, but we didn’t care, the Black suns bloodline felt strong–something special. When I heard some kids had found something that fitted the description of the Bell in an abandoned government facility in the Mojave Valley. I sent a special team to investigate. They confirmed that it was the Bell.
After seeing it for myself I had the place sealed off and brought in a trusted scientist.” She glanced over at Capitol Hill as if to seek approval. “I knew what was going on in the old mine would be noticed, so I put it about that a particle accelerator was being constructed–somewhere in the desert.”
“Why didn’t you release the news rather than hush it up?”
“Because, Mr Duncan, after hearing these tales from my grandfather I wanted the power for myself to outdo the male dominated hierarchy of the CIA. I would go to any length to achieve that; I didn’t care who I had to enlist.”
“Leads nicely onto Lindsay Koenig?”
“Ah, well, I’m CIA–I wanted a back-up in case the accelerator story didn’t work, so Johannes Menzel came onboard, to give the whole thing crank-appeal. People would reject the notion of the Bell with Menzel involved particularly the scientific community. The thing was, he wasn’t interested in dealing with the CIA, so I got Lindsay to persuade him to join us with one of his parlour tricks. We paid Koenig well for the work he did.” She paused for a moment. “Trouble with Lindsay was I didn’t know his family had escaped Nazi Germany–he was Jewish. There was nothing in his file about his religion or his family’s background. You see, Mr Duncan, during the Cold War the CIA lapped up people like Lindsay, their background and religion was of little or no consequence.”
“So, he went against you and made me see the visions and then appeared himself as if he was some divine entity to get me to announce what was about to happen. Why not tell the world himself?”
“Who would listen to some spook involved in the failed remote viewing scheme?
No, from his point of view you were the right man. Anyway, it didn’t matter because I brought the date of the tests forward.”
“And it was him, of course, who was hell-bent on revenge,”
“Yes, not only on the USA, but the whole Nazi thing.”
“What about all these people killed when the Hoover was destroyed?”
“I can only say I didn’t want that to happen, but Lindsay and the demon, if it was the Angel of Death, had other ideas. It wasn’t part of my plan you know. I wasn’t sure if what happened to Hitler and Himmler under the mountain was real or just something cooked up by the anti-Nazi scientists.”
“Oh, the Dark Angel is the real enough.”
“Well, you’ve seen her.”
“You killed Erin!”
“Okay, I gave the order to ‘fix’ her car - I was getting desperate!”
“Then I was framed.”
“Yeah well, congratulations Mr Duncan you’ve survived neo-Nazis, demons and the Black Corps of the CIA.”
“One more thing; why did Menzel send someone over to kill me?”
“I tried to stop that, but they’re hot heads it was something about Judas Iscariot.”
She looked around wearily; hordes of tourists were still taking photographs.
“Okay, you can call in whoever’s got you wired up, I’ve given you enough.”
Heb Dewar and Chris Gaft appeared out of the crowds and arrested her.
“I only did it for America!” She shouted, as she was taken away by another two plain clothes policemen.
“Thanks John,” said Heb, as he took back the wire.
“Yeah well, she gave herself up–just glad to get it all off her chest.”
“Hey John she killed Miss Rodgers and all these people out west.”
“Goodbye Lieutenant,” said Johnny as he shook the policeman’s hand.
He then headed back along the National Mall. “Time to go home,” he said to no one in particular.
Johnny climbed into the hire car and turned the key in the ignition, but nothing happened–no lights-no radio–nothing! He raised his head up to the sky as if to gain inspiration. Then he saw, from the side of his eyes, two figures approaching the vehicle. He pressed the handle on the driver’s door and locked the car down.
A hand reached for the front passenger’s door as the car unlocked and a man in a dark blue suit climbed in followed by another in the rear.
“Oh, what now?” Johnny asked with a sigh.
“We would appreciate it if you would you come with us. The gentlemen we work for would like to talk to you,” said the man in the front passenger’s seat, who had cropped fair hair and light grey eyes.
They don’t look like thugs, thought Johnny – no bulges in the jackets. “Why should I come with you?”
The man next to Johnny turned from looking at him to stare out of the windscreen.
“You are, of course, free to go, but take it from me this is a unique opportunity. My employers never talk to the media.”
Intrigued, Johnny agreed and a black limousine drew up alongside the car.
“Mr Duncan please,” said the man who had been sitting in the back as he opened the rear door of the limousine.
The two men followed Johnny in, and they were driven to a tower of black metal and glass on Massachusetts Avenue where he was escorted past the reception of
Transglobal Bank to an elevator with the doors open. A lift person pressed a button, and without a word being exchanged they rose though the floors at great speed.
The lift eventually stopped, and the doors opened with a ping and bright sunlight swept into the box. Johnny shaded his eyes and peered out at a black Bell Helicopter, the blades a blur, sitting within a black circle with a white ‘H’ in the centre.
“Just a short flight,” said one of the men as they led Johnny over to the aircraft, heads stooped.
Inside, he strapped himself in beside a window and put on the headphones that had been lying on the seat. The others did the same and then pulled the door shut.
“Welcome aboard,” said one of the two pilots, who turned and gave a ‘thumbs up’.
“Flight time: an hour and a half gentleman,” he continued as the helicopter then rose and flew over the city.
After a few minutes flying time Johnny looked down at the expanse of blue that was Chesapeake Bay. He then gazed the other way, past the two suited men, and saw the city of Baltimore ease by.
After a while, as the urban sprawl of Philadelphia stretched into the distance, he thought: we’re heading for New York. A thought soon confirmed with the appearance of the patina green figure of the Statue of Liberty with the Manhattan skyline in the background.
They flew over piers flanked by many sized craft before passing over the maze of towers of the city. The helicopter settled on the helipad of a black metal and glass building similar to the one in Washington DC.
After the ‘thumbs up’ from the pilot Johnny unbuckled his seatbelt and followed the two men out of the aircraft and over the roof toward black elevator doors as a ferocious wind swept over the building and sucked the breath out of his lungs.
The doors rolled open, and the men entered as a metallic voice welcomed them to the Transglobal Bank. And, after a short elevator ride, the doors opened to reveal a large reception area. The two men led Johnny past a large mahogany desk where two women sat-both on the telephone.
A party of people led by a man that Johnny recognised passed them going in the opposite direction. My God, he thought, that was the French President.
“Have a good flight sir,” said one woman from behind the desk who had come off the telephone.
“This way Mr Duncan,” said one of the men who had accompanied him.
As they led him toward two large, dark wood doors Johnny looked down at the black circular design on the white marble floor. Where had he seen that before?
One man knocked on the double doors and then opened them and announced: “Mr Duncan.”
Johnny walked into a spacious office where one wall was glass and offered a spectacular view over the Manhattan skyline. The other walls were of panelled mahogany and were interspersed with paintings.
“So very nice to meet you Mr Duncan,” said a man with thin, grey hair and blue eyes, as he walked round from behind a large desk which sat in front of the window wall. “I’m Albert Redman, and this is Harold Collins,” he said opening a hand toward a man who rose from a brown leather settee.
“Please have a seat,” said Collins, a thick set man with a shaven head and a grey drooping moustache.
Johnny sat at the opposite end of the settee to where Collins repositioned himself.
Albert Redman strolled behind a small bar which had glasses of all shapes and sizes stacked at one end. Bottles of various spirits and liqueurs lined a shelf at the back.
“Would you like a drink Mr Duncan?”
“Lemonade will be fine–thanks.”
After pouring two drinks Redman left the bar, handed out the glasses then returned behind his desk. “We asked you here today to answer some questions for you. We thought after what you’ve been through and where you’re going we, at the least, were due you that.”
“How do you know where I’m going?”
“Oh, we have our sources.”
Harold Collins crossed one leg over the other and sipped his drink. He had on a light grey loose-fitting suit. “Albert and I together are Colman Holdings; we own many companies and banks–including this one.” He turned and gazed out of the window.
“I’m afraid after all the effort you went through–Karen Blakely will be released and placed back in her position at Langley. The Bell will be retrieved and hidden in a better place this time.”
“What?” A puzzled Johnny asked.
“You see, Mr Duncan, it’s not governments, and therefore government agencies, that rule the western world, it’s the banks, despite what the media says. In fact, most of the world leaders come to see us at one time or another.”
Johnny chuckled.
“Mr Duncan please don’t treat this lightly; we never talk to the media. You're granted this interview because, as we said, of the position you’re in. Imagine how many people – conspiracy theorists - would like to be where you are now,” said Redman.
“The Black sun!” Johnny said. “I’m sorry, but I just realized where I saw that design on the floor outside your office. Are you members of the Black suns?”
Arnold Redman laughed as he swivelled his seat from side to side. “Ah, the nitty-gritty!” He looked at Harold Collins. “Both our fathers were SS officers, who were helped to settle in the US after escaping Germany at the end of the Second World War. The help was by a group known as the Black suns, who no longer exist.
We are the direct bloodline of a small group of people who came to this planet ages ago through what is now called a wormhole. They arrived through the black hole at the centre of this galaxy. The term black hole is a recent term before this it was known as the black sun.”
“So,” said Johnny, as he stroked his chin. “Your ancestors were Aryan people from another planet who tried to dominate this world.”
“No Mr Duncan, not tried, but has dominated this world through capitalism. When that wall came down in eighty-nine the revenge was complete. We drank a toast to the great Sixth Army beaten not by the Russians, but by the Stalingrad weather and a leader suffering from Parkinson’s disease.
“The theories were right then?”
“Mr Duncan, you will not be able to prove any of this and there is no way anyone from the media will get to us,” said Collins. “We will look after your family. This is not a threat. We would just like to help,” he continued.
“One more question, said Johnny as he placed his empty glass on the coffee table in front of the settee,” something that has bothered me through this whole thing: if Himmler knew about the powers of the Bell before it was moved to Germany why didn’t he tell Hitler?”
“We don’t know for sure,” said Redman,” but, we have two theories: the first is that he wasn’t sure what he had - unlikely; the second, and probably the right one is that
he despised Hitler – a man who espoused the Aryan and German ideals and was neither. He had just wanted him to fail. Now Mr Duncan, your helicopter awaits you.
The pilot is instructed to take you straight to Dulles Airport for your flight to the UK.
If you would leave the keys for the hire car at the reception desk everything will be taken care of for you.”
Johnny stood up. “Well, thank you, it’s been most enlightening.”
“Farewell Mr Duncan,” said Harold Collins, as he picked up a copy of the New York Times from the coffee table in front of the settee.
As the helicopter rose above the Manhattan towers, the Journalist in Johnny wanted to write an expose’, but he knew they were right: he had no proof. And he did want someone to look after his kids–who better than the banking elite of the world–even if they were Nazis!
Commuters with magazines and packets of crisps ran past the window where Johnny sat on the Edinburgh train in Aberdeen Railway Station. He had just flown up from Heathrow and was now on the last leg of his journey from Washington.
Four men sat around a table which was littered with cans of beer and spoke about what they would do on their time off from the oil rig they had flown in from.
There was the sound of the doors closing and whistles blowing and then the train began its journey south. Johnny sat back and gazed at the sky. Rays of sunlight shone through holes in the dark clouds.
Back home, in Arbroath, Johnny checked into a guest house in Old Shore Head, which advertised sea views. He threw his bags on the bed and pulled out his mobile.
“Sue–its Johnny.”
“Johnny! You’re back.”
“I was wondering, can I pick up Caitlin from school tomorrow and take her to McDonalds or something?”
“Sure, that’ll be okay; I’ll phone the school.
“Okay, thanks.”
He took his clothes off and climbed into the bed. He felt exhausted and there was a lot to do the next day.
The following morning after he saw his solicitor, Johnny went to the police station and asked to see DS Mitchell.
“Mr Duncan?” said Dave Mitchell, as he opened the door to where Johnny sat.
“DS Mitchell, it’s good to see you.”
“Likewise. Come through.”
They sat in the office which Dave shared with DC McAllister, who was out on a case.
“The case you're involved in, it's been dropped. The Home Office asked us to shelve it; would you believe!”
“Well, yes I would,” said Johnny, and he told the policeman what had happened to him–well most of it! “So, you see Sergeant, it would have come from the CIA.”
“That’s some story, but I’m glad to see you’re alive and well.”
“Goodbye Sergeant,” said Johnny, as he stood up and shook hands with the man.
Caitlin ran out of Hayshead Primary School into her father's arms. “Dad!”
“Baby!” Johnny shouted.
“Mum said you would take me to McDonalds?”
“Sure–let’s go.”
The restaurant was full of kids being treated by grateful parents: grateful in the sense they wouldn't need to stand in front of a cooker.
“Where’s Veronica Dad?” Caitlin asked, as she grabbed a packet of fries from a red, plastic tray, which Johnny had placed on the table where she sat.
He sat opposite her. “I've something sad to tell you baby.”
Johnny told her about Erin and his adventures in America. “So, listen Caitlin, I want you to be a big girl now, because I’m going to be with Erin.”
“What? Oh no, dad!”
“You know where I’m going, and you can come and see me anytime. All you have to do is contact this man, with Mum or Auntie Gemma of course.” He gave her Keith Moncliffe’s business card.
She threw down her fries and put her face on the fist of her upright left arm and stared out of the window.
He gazed at her sympathetically. “I wish it were different, but it has to be this way because of a deal I made. At least we still get to see each other.”
“Well, I suppose,” she said slowly while taking her face off her fist.
“I want you to do what your mum tells you and tell Brad that I love him.”
That night Johnny lay down on his bed, fully clothed, and fell asleep. He dreamt of rising through the air towards, and then through, the clouds. As he headed toward the twinkling stars, he looked back and saw four angels with small, delicate wings approach and overtake him. They guided him up until he could see a mass of white cloud.
The angels flew up above the large, puffy ball with Johnny following and hovered for a while which allowed Johnny to see the white spires, which protruded through a wide hole in the clouds.
He felt himself descend and, within the blink of an eye, he was standing by one of the gleaming spires. He looked around, but the angels had gone. Johnny entered the spire, but it was empty. He ran over to another and looked inside, but it was also empty. He looked in another and another, but the result was the same.
After a while he stood outside a tower and looked despondently at the ground when a soft voice asked: “You looking for me, mister?”
He looked up and smiled. “Erin!”
Her hair was longer than he remembered maybe it was because it wasn’t tied back.
She wore a long, pink gown. He ran up to her and they embraced. Johnny felt happier than he had ever done.
A short distance away a small girl in a cream dress hummed while she tended to her plants in the garden under a violet sky.
The child sat on the wooden slat, gripping the two lengths of rope either side and swung to and fro in the scented breeze that blew through the garden. She gazed at the grass as it flowed toward her and then ebbed away. Her golden hair tumbled down from under her white hat and flowed over her shoulders.
She thought of Caitlin and wondered what it was like to be human–truly human; to have a father who cared instead of a beast who asked her to undertake tasks she never wanted to do.
After a while the breeze chilled her as the light faded. Lilim looked around the garden; something was wrong because it was her who controlled the light and the breeze. Was something from the thirteenth dimension breaking through?
Suddenly, a man’s hand covered her right hand, then another over her left: someone was behind her! She stared in wonder at the hand covering her right hand because there was a ring on the small finger. The ring was made of a dull metal and had a funny cross-like shape engraved into it.
“Raphael!” she shouted as she leapt off the swing slipping her hands out from under the male hands.
“Lilim,” growled Menzel. “How is my young sister?”
“I saw you in that cavern. Are you still playing your games?” she asked as her eyes became black and her skin wrinkled.
“I get bored. And since father can’t join me in the material dimension I weary. I enjoyed being that dreadful little man-Adolf Hitler. Two physicals defeated the latest guise, however. Where are they by the way?
“Oh, they’re around. You have caused a lot of disruption in the Land of Trees and have sent us many dark souls. The Sin Gatherer will be most displeased!”
They both erupted into laughter, and, as Lilim grew in size, they embraced.
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