Authors: William Hutchison
Amanda looked the note over again and then took out the brochure of the Madonna Inn Pat had included in the envelope. It was beautiful and brought a smile to her face. Before she could finish reading it, though, the airplane jolted as the wheels hit the runway and broke her reverie. An hour and a half later after getting her luggage and renting a car, Amanda closed her eyes and fell asleep, not in the Madonna Inn, but in the Airport Marina Hotel in Los Angeles. The tear-soaked brochure lay on the floor next to her bed.
The next day was not quite a replica of the previous one. It was just as clear, but a little cooler in the morning as autumn made another weak attempt at bringing a change of seasons to the near constant temperatures of the California coastline. While Amanda slept until noon back in Los Angeles, Burt and Debbie had already begun their day up in Morrow Bay by taking an exhilarating jog on the beach at Burt's suggestion, something she found very curious because since she had known him, he had never been what she considered to be the athletic type. In fact, he had been quite the opposite, normally looking for an excuse not to exercise. But that day he was different. He had gotten up at dawn and by eight o'clock had already washed and waxed his car which Debbie thought very little of then, passing off his actions to merely a case of over-activity resulting from the change in his daily routine. She had no reason to suspect otherwise.
By nine, they had finished their long jog on the beach which started east of 101, went under the freeway and south nearly to Morrow Bay rock and as they walked along the beach toward Debbie's parents' house, Debbie was feeling more comfortable with Burt than she had since his hospitalization. As a result, she thought it would be the perfect time to get some answers to the questions she had had since seeing the tape in his dorm room. She liked the new him, in spite of some of his idiosyncrasies, but inside still felt he was holding something back from her, something she should know.
As she looked out into the distance, past the first set of breakers, she reached down and felt for his hand which she grasped tightly without taking her eyes off the ocean. They walked in silence like this, hand in hand, for another few moments while Debbie went over in her mind how she would be able to ask the questions she had without disturbing the good feeling that was growing between them.
"Burt?" she said coyly.
"Yes?"
"Did you like yesterday as much as I did?" She asked as she squeezed his hand playfully remembering how good he had felt inside her, how close they had become.
His answer wasn't immediate. Instead he self-consciously looked down at the sand and casually kicked at a broken shell that was in his path. Finally he answered, embarrassed. "Uh, uh."
"So----" she said, trying to get him to talk further, to explain his feelings.
"So what----" He answered evasively.
"So, I was wondering when you were going to tell me what went on back in your dorm room. You know-----with your experiment."
"What do mean?"
"You know. What did you do anyway? What did it feel like? And don't give me any scientific explanation, just tell me what you were thinking when you linked. Okay?"
"Why do you want to know that?" He answered sounding slightly annoyed. "You know my memory hasn't come back completely."
"I just do," she persisted. And then instinctively using her womanly charms, she put her arm around his waist and rubbed her chest lightly against his arm while she repeated her request. "I just do, honey. Tell me, okay?"
Unexpectedly, Burt wrenched her arm from his side violently and then slapped her hard across the face. He looked vicious and the shock of being manhandled and the glare in his eyes was alarming. It immobilized her.
"Listen, bitch! Don't pry! Okay? Just don't pry! Just because we screwed doesn't give you the right. You don't own me. I don't know what game you're playin', but count me ou------" He hesitated in mid-sentence, but didn't finish. He stopped walking forward and reached up and put his hands to his temples and grimaced in pain. He then blinked his eyes a number of times and shook his head and momentarily appeared dazed, and then looked up blankly.
He had metamorphosed from a loving, caring person to a demon and then back again in the span of less than twenty seconds. Debbie was paralyzed with fear.
Burt continued speaking in a normal tone of voice. All signs of viciousness were gone. He then reached down and grabbed her hand and replaced it on his hip and then, as if nothing had happened, as if the last few moments never even existed, he asked absent-mindedly, "what was it you were asking me, Debbie? I lost my train of thought."
Debbie couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Lost his train of thought? What in God's name was happening to him?" She pulled away from him fearful of what he might do next and, when safely out of his reach, she confronted him. "Don't you remember what you just did, Burt? You nearly broke my arm. And then you yelled at me! You yelled! And you scared me! You scared me then and you scare me now!" She was hysterical and nearly in tears.
Burt stopped abruptly. "I did?" His mind had gone completely blank during his tirade and to him, Debbie was the one who had gone over the edge, not him.
"Yes, you did!" Debbie screamed at him. You hurt my arm and then you yelled. And it all happened after I asked you about your experiment. When I asked you what you were feeling when you linked, you became an animal, and then you------you just changed back. I don't think it's funny!"
Burt, stunned, didn't respond immediately. He didn't understand what was happening in his mind, and he couldn't believe he had done the things Debbie had said he had done. He began to question his own sanity, but said nothing. He had been feeling different inside ever since leaving the hospital. He couldn't put his finger on it. He just felt different somehow. He had hoped the weekend away from work would help, but it didn't. Not even making love for the first time had been earth-shattering. It hadn't even phased him, and he had barely thought about it all day. He knew this wasn't normal, but yet he couldn't help himself. He didn't know what to think of her accusations either, and in spite of the fact what she said bothered him, he chose not to respond. Something inside him was ugly, and the ugliness was troubling him and it was slowly growing, like a cancer. It was changing him and no matter how much he tried to ignore it, its black tentacles were grabbing hold.
Finally, Burt spoke up. "I'm sorry, Debbie. I just don't remember. I just don't understand myself anymore, that's all. Maybe we'd better go back to the house."
His answer was short and pointed and not very satisfactory as far as she was concerned, but she was afraid to ask any more questions, fearing another schizophrenic outburst. He, too, was afraid to say anything more. Part of him believed Debbie wouldn't lie and that part of him kept him quiet as they walked in silence back to the house. The other part, of him grew angrier at the thought of someone prying into his most private thoughts.
Back at the NSF, Dr. Jerome looked at the brain tissue he had taken from
O’Shaunnesey and adjusted the electron microscope to bring the sample into view for the third and last time that night. "Nothing!" he said to himself. "Everything still looks normal. Yet the chemical analysis said his heart attack was only symptomatic of a more critical problem in his brain. But I'll be damned if I can find it." Dr. Jerome put his hand to his temple and rubbed. His headache was throbbing and he was exhausted. He had practically lived in the lab since getting orders from Huxley to find the reason for his prize scientist's death. Not that working late was anything unusual for Jerome. He often didn't get home until late, but that was when he was working on something of his own choosing. Tonight was different, though, it was only seven thirty and he was too tired to go on. Working under pressure just wasn't his style.
"O’Shaunnesey was lucky to live as long as he did," Jerome grumbled to himself. "He had cirrhosis of the liver in addition to his weak heart," he continued as he re-read the autopsy report. "The bastard should have been dead years ago." Jerome cursed. He had hoped the brain tissue would be the key, but the longer he stared at the sample, the more normal it looked and the more it became obvious to him he was stumbling down another blind alley and that he would soon have to face Huxley again and ask for more time, a prospect which had all the appeal to him of a root canal.
"Damn it! The answer's got be here somewhere! But where?" In disgust he snapped the lab light off and left, but not before verbally adding his feelings for his boss. "Damn you, Huxley! Damn you!"
Radcliff picked up the phone after only the first ring. For three days he had waited to hear from Walker only to be disappointed and each time the phone had rung and it was someone else on the line. This time he was prepared to be disappointed again, but the moment he heard Walker's voice, that feeling vanished and he eagerly said hello. He tried to hide his excitement, but he couldn't help himself. When Walker heard the enthusiasm in his boss's voice, it was obvious to him Radcliff was bubbling with anticipation.
"Walker here, sir," the agent began.
"What did you find out from Lassiter? Is there a messenger?" Radcliff queried rapidly.
"We have to meet. I have some good information. I'll tell you then," he said being purposefully blunt and evasive. In his many years working for the agency, he knew he couldn't trust the phone to be clean and anything he said he knew could be being recorded. He was surprised Radcliff was so forthright in using Lassiter's name. A senator should know better.
Radcliff sensed the urgency in Walker's voice and this time replied less directly taking the lead from Walker whose
intonation made the senator realize his mistake. Even though his curiosity was getting the best of him and he wanted to blurt out the questions he held inside, he knew he'd best keep his comments to himself.
Choosing his words carefully, Radcliff asked, "where should we meet?"
"Steps of the Lincoln Memorial, in one hour and twenty minutes. I'll be waiting in a cab. Don't be late."
"Got it," Radcliff said just as the line went dead.
One hour and eighteen minutes later, Radcliff stood at the steps leading to the huge stone statue of Abraham Lincoln, manic depressive, freer of slaves and author of the Gettysburg address, that short speech which, although it stressed equality and strength of nation, also incited scores of antebellum Americans to curse his birth for wanting to change their proud Southern traditions. Radcliff looked up and gloated to himself, happy his plan to have the general followed paid off and that he had at last found out what Lassiter had been up to. He also found pleasure in the fact he'd finally outsmarted the bastard.
He gazed at the inscription at the base of the statue and smiled. He no more believed the words of the address than he believed men could fly by flapping their arms. In his mind, all men weren't created equal and he despised his fellow congressmen who thought they were and who, each session of Congress, used Lincoln's words to appeal their bleeding-heart liberal cases for increasing needless social programs at the expense of more vital issues: his issues. He also knew he was better than them--and than Lassiter. It seemed fitting that he would be getting the information he needed to seal Lassiter's fate at such an appropriate place. Although Lassiter was a soldier and he admired him for his distinguished military career, to him Lassiter was no better than the senators he despised. No, he was nothing more than another self-serving, power hungry leech on society and he was happy to be the one to put an end to his plans.
Radcliff smiled broadly when he spotted Walker in the cab and quickly left the steps of the monument to join him. They drove in silence for fifteen minutes, each fearing to speak with the cab driver no more than a foot away. When the cab was halfway across the Key Bridge, Walker tapped the driver on the shoulder and motioned for him to stop. Traffic that night was light and the driver immediately pulled the cab over to the right as he had been instructed, and both men got out.
The November air was chilly and still and as they stepped out onto the pavement. Their breath visibly steamed around their heads. Walker paid the driver and they stood there and waited until the cab was well out of sight before Radcliff spoke.
"So, Walker, was there a messenger?" he asked. "Did Lassiter lead you to a messenger? Is Kamarov coming to the U.S.?"