by Bobby Nash
Her hands felt dirty from the coupons and she slapped them against her pants. Those coupons were always covered in a fine layer of dust, which she hated. She assumed the dust came from the cutting and automated envelope stuffing in the dust-filled warehouse and settled in the envelope during transit. She really hated that scratchy feeling she got after handling the junk mail. She clapped her hands together and a fine cloud wafted skyward, some of it tickling her nose.
With a breath she blew it away before it made her sneeze.
Jacks opened her internet browser and checked her personal email. Only six messages were waiting for her in her inbox.
One of them was from Charisma.
Jacks sighed and prepared for more bad news.
She was surprised. The email had been sent from Charisma’s phone. In it she apologized for dropping in unannounced and making herself at home and thanked her “Big Sis” for being so helpful. Jacks almost felt guilty for yelling at her after such a heartfelt apology. Of course, she might have appreciated it more had Charri called and made her apologies. The email ended with a simple “Call me when you get home.”
The last thing Jacks wanted was to have yet another argument with Charisma, but she couldn’t put this off any longer. She moved over to the couch and propped her feet on the coffee table. She fished her cell phone from her pocket and pressed the appropriate contact button.
Charisma answered the phone on the second ring with a cheerful, “Hey, Sis.”
“Hey, yourself,” Jacks said, suddenly feeling very tired now that she was sitting in a comfortable position. She had spent most of the day running from one crisis to another, fueled mostly by adrenaline and caffeine, both of which were starting to wear off.
“I got your email. I thought you were going to meet me here?” she said, trying to keep her voice even in an attempt to forestall an argument.
“Yeah, that was the plan,” Charisma said with a laugh. “But you were gone a long time and I was hungry. Your cupboards are pretty bare, so we went out for dinner.”
Jacks couldn’t argue that point. She couldn’t remember the last time she had gone shopping for groceries. Despite her exhaustion, she had noticed the ‘we’ in that sentence.
“Are you coming back here after?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Jacks felt a headache beginning to build. She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Where are you going then?” she asked, dreading the answer.
“Home.”
Jacks sat up on the couch. That had been the answer she was hoping for, but not the one she actually expected. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I dunno.”
Suddenly, Charisma sounded very young and Jacks’ big sister instincts kicked in. “Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you head home and I’ll meet you there or I can pick you up and drive you. Then you, me, and the folks will sit down and hash things out. What do you say?”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” Jacks echoed. “You want me to pick you up?”
“Yeah. That would be cool.”
“Where are you?”
Charisma gave her the name of the restaurant and Jacks said she knew where it was and would be there in a few minutes. As soon as she was off the phone, she slipped her shoes back on and forced her aching body to get off the couch. If she sat there too long, she knew the chances of getting up again tonight were nil. Once she was back on her feet, Jacks closed her email and turned off the monitor. She left the computer running.
After a quick splash of water on her face, washing her hands, and downing another ice cold Mountain Dew from the fridge, Jacks was refreshed and headed out the door for a hart to hart with the folks.
She wasn’t looking forward to it, but the confrontation was unavoidable. The Charisma situation had been going on too long and needed to be dealt with before she ran somewhere other than Jacks’ apartment. Her circle of friends had widened as a teenager. Jacks wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days she ended up running off with Krieger, her Not My Boyfriend.
Traffic was light in her neck of the woods, so she made good time to the restaurant where Charisma was waiting for her. She was waiting alone, which didn’t really surprise Jacks. She had already heard her sister’s complaints that her friends felt uncomfortable whenever they met her sister the cop. Jacks had laughed it off, explaining that the only reason to feel uncomfortable around a police officer was if you had a guilty conscience. Charisma told her that they would have to agree to disagree on that score and that was the last time she had had offered to introduce any of her new friends.
On the ride back to the Jackson home front, the sisters talked about various odds and ends, though never touching on the major topic they should have been discussing. Jacks tried to steer the conversation, but Charisma wasn’t very obliging.
While they talked, Jacks kept checking the rearview, watching the headlights that followed them through the dark. For a few miles, she had the feeling that she was being followed so she pulled a couple of quick moves designed to uncover a tail. Her maneuvers didn’t bear fruit and she chalked it up to being tired, but that didn’t stop her from keeping an eye on the rearview mirror the entire trip.
You’re getting jumpy, Jacks.
Half an hour later she pulled through the main gate of her family’s estate.
“You ready for this?” she asked her little sister once they were parked.
“Not really. You?”
“Not even a little bit,” Jacks joked.
For the first time since she got in the car, Charisma laughed.
Jacks opened the driver’s side door. “Come on. Let’s go get this over with, okay?”
Charisma followed suit. “I appreciate this, Cat,” she said once they were walking toward the front door.
“Anytime, kid.”
The front door opened before they reached it and Mavis Jackson filled the space.
“My baby! I was so worried about you.”
She pulled Charisma into a hug that made the teenager squirm.
Mom,” she said, drawing out the word.
Charisma pulled away from her mother’s grasp and moved past her into the house.
“Well, now,” Mavis said when she saw Catherine standing there. “This is a surprise.”
“Hi, Mom,” Jacks said and stepped in to give her mother a hug.
Mavis returned the gesture, though with much less restraint that she had with her youngest daughter.
“Hello, Catherine.”
“Mind if I come in?”
“Not at all,” her mom said, stepping aside to let her inside. “Please, come in. Your father will be delighted to see you too.”
“Thanks, Mom. Sorry it took this long to get by.”
Mavis closed the door and they walked toward the living room.
“Thank you for bringing her home to me, Catherine. Was she out with that boy again?”
“Yes. Him, and a few other kids. I picked them up after they finished dinner.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with that girl, sometimes,” Mavis said. “She’s stubborn, willful, hard-headed…”
The apple doesn’t fall far, Jacks thought, but remained silent as her mother continued.
“Whatever’s going on between the two of you, we need to find a way to work it out. I can’t keep playing referee for the both of you.”
“But she ran away…”
“I know, and she needs to know that’s not the answer to anything,” Jacks said. “You two need to learn how to talk to each other like normal human beings.”
Mavis stopped and whirled around to face her daughter, anger reddening her cheeks.
“Are you blaming this on me?”
“I’m not blaming anyone, Mom,” Jacks said.
“Well, it sure sounds like it to me.”
Before Jacks could respond, her mother pivoted, then stormed off, slamming a door down
the hall.
Jacks stared after her, unable to hide the shock she felt.
“Welcome to my world, Charisma said from the entry to the living room.
Jacks sighed. This was not going to be as easy as she first thought.
###
The Controller watched and waited.
Detective Jackson hadn’t noticed the black Chevy Equinox that had been following her since she left her apartment. The Controller sat behind the wheel and kept a safe distance away as his newest opponent and her teenaged sister walked up the house owned by her parents. Naturally, The Controller knew all about the Jackson family tree. He had done his due diligence after all. A man in his position was ill accustomed to surprises.
Following her in person was a risk, bordering on stupid. On a conscious level, he knew this, but, much as he had with Parker Campbell, the Controller felt that there were certain times when a hands-on approach was far more preferable than simply orchestrating things from afar. The smart play was obviously to stay as far away from Catherine Jackson as possible and handle things remotely, but it hardly seemed sporting. He acknowledged the fact that it was possible that she might connect all of the dots that led back to him, but the likelihood of that happening was astronomically small. Based on her record alone, she was a competent investigator. His search had been much more comprehensive.
More than ever, The Controller was convinced that he had picked the best opponent for this little game. That’s what it was to him, a game. That meant he had to give her the opportunity to win, unlikely though that may be.
It had been a busy few days and he had only been off the plane from Atlanta about an hour or so. He had planned to catch a few winks on the flight, but the Chatty Cathy he sat next to on the plane had blathered on and on about one inane topic or the other for the entire trip. It had taken all of his willpower not to snap her neck with his own two hands right there in first class. The other passengers might have even cheered the action just to get some peace and quiet. Instead, he kept his cool and his cover identity intact. The loudmouthed passenger was a test, he decided, one that he was fairly certain that he had passed. The passenger did not know just how lucky she was to remain among the living.
Based on the conversation he’d intercepted, he suspected they would be inside for quite a while, so he set an alarm in his cell phone then leaned back in the cushioned seats of his rental and settled in for a quick power nap.
He was asleep within seconds.
Images of himself doing all sorts of nasty things to Detective Jackson and Agent Patterson danced through The Controller’s dreams.
Twenty-nine
Washington DC
Sunday
James McHenry was frustrated.
During the twenty-two years he had been on the job he thought he had seen it all. Secret projects were nothing new to him. When he had been an investigator, he, along with a few others in his office, had uncovered one such project that had its roots during the midst of the Second World War. The project’s ultimate objective was to create what the proposal referred to as “super weapons capable of eliminating the Nazi Threat.” With World War Two several decades in the past, he had been surprised to find that several million dollars a year were still being funneled into the account. With the project long dead the money should have simply been waiting to be collected and returned to the Treasury coffers.
Unfortunately, that was not the case.
The son of one of the senators who had co-authored the bill, now a senator himself, had been using the money to fund not only his own political career, but also that of his brother. McHenry’s team investigated and eventually brought charges to bear against the senator and arrested him. He was currently serving out the remainder of his sentence in a country club called a prison.
That had been McHenry’s strangest finding.
Until he read the Project Blood Shot file.
As Deputy Director of the Secret Service, McHenry no longer had to do his own research. He had whole departments at his disposal to handle the legwork and gather whatever data he required. He could have easily assigned the work to one of a dozen competent agents, but the case file was so compelling that he decided to dig into it himself.
After briefing the President, McHenry had sent Dr. Harrison Fairchild and Dr. Perry Leeke back to their duties. While he looked into the background of everyone involved with Project Blood Shot, they were attempting to unlock the secrets of the science behind the project.
On paper Project Blood Shot’s mandate sounded impractical.
Said aloud, it sounded absolutely ridiculous.
“Mind control,” McHenry whispered. He shook his head at the craziness of it, but he also couldn’t help but marvel at the possible applications if the project had been successful. In the right hands, such an ability could be used to stop crazed dictators bent on waging war against their neighbors in their tracks. Terrorists could be compelled to lay down their arms and come to a peaceful resolution. Riots could be quelled. People could be kept safe, protected. Uprisings could be squashed quickly.
But in the wrong hands…
It was too terrifying for McHenry to imagine.
Then he began to wonder exactly who the good hands belonged to in this scenario.
###
Two minutes later, Secretary of Defense, Jacob Conrad and his party entered the Oval Office. Handshakes were exchanged as Conrad introduced Dr. Harrison Fairchild, Dr. Perry Leeke, and Deputy Director James McHenry of the Secret Service.
“The President had some other matters to attend to so he won’t be joining us until later,” Conrad said. “What have your people discovered, Mr. McHenry?”
“It is our impression that someone has continued Operation: Blood Shot after the project was ordered shut down. I believe they are funding this rogue operation using funds set aside for the original project. Since no one actually killed the fund, roughly eight million dollars a year has been funneled into the still active account.”
“Can you tell who is accessing the account?”
“Not yet, but we are close. It is our opinion that someone from the original program has continued to push Ahead with the project.”
“Do you have a suspect in mind?”
“We have one or two suspects we’re investigating, but no concrete evidence as yet.”
“Anyone we should be aware of?”
“I’d rather not say until we have evidence, Mr. Secretary.”
Conrad closed the files, crossed his hands one over the other on his lap, and now gave the Secret Service Agent his full attention.
“Perhaps if I said please?” Conrad added with a pasted on smile.
McHenry grimaced and let out a quiet “hmph.”
“As you know, of the seven members of the Blood Shot team, only Richard Pearce, Greg Gulley, and Lana Creasy remain alive. I have agents on each of them. At this time, we do not consider Mr. Pearce a suspect based on his current government work and his cooperation with the investigation thus far.”
“That leaves Creasy and Gulley as your prime suspects?”
“At present, yes,” McHenry said. “However, we have not ruled out the possibility that there is another player we have not identified as yet. This character calling himself The Controller, who has made brief contact with a member of the investigation team could be someone we’ve not yet uncovered.”
“And your agent believes that this as yet unidentified person who may or may not be Gulley or Creasy is responsible for the deaths of the others associated with the project?”
“That is one current working theory, yes, sir.”
“Let’s not forget that there six others related to the project as well, Mr. McHenry, or that one of them happens to the President of the United States.”
“I have not forgotten that, sir.”
“See that you don’t.”
“We checked out the names who were part of the subcommittee that oversaw the project. In addition to President Montgomery, m
y agents have tracked down Alison Shaker, Regent Sloan, Simon Fitzgerald, Hubert Beel, and Alexander Bradley.”
“Could any of them be this Controller you mentioned?”
“It’s possible. Regent Sloan is a retired head of a military contractor. He’s got enough security to fight off a small-scale invasion and has refused our offer to protect him. He certainly has the reach to pull off the murders The Controller took credit for, but my gut tells me it’s not him. I have people on him though.”
“Good.”
“Senator Fitzgerald is still serving the people of the great state of North Carolina, although I hear he’s not very well-liked by the folks back home. He is a politician so that does make him something of a professional liar. We haven’t been able to connect him to any of the deaths, but I have agents digging into his life and we have him under surveillance in case I’m wrong or the real bad guy takes a shot at him as well.”
Conrad grimaced at the commentary.
“Alison Shaker is currently undergoing aggressive chemotherapy treatments in Atlanta,” McHenry continued as if he hadn’t noticed the Secretary’s irritation. “Her husband, Edward, took early retirement from his corporate position to be by her side for treatments. Her condition doesn’t eliminate the possibility of her being involved, but her whereabouts are pretty-well regulated. I don’t personally consider her a suspect. Still, I have a team investigating just to be certain.”
He paused, waited for comment. When there was none, he continued.
“Hubert Beel is in a federal minimum-security prison after being convicted of three counts of federal money laundering. He’s living the good life on the taxpayer’s dime in a country club prison, but his contact with the outside world is limited. My agents are verifying his call logs and internet activity just to be on the safe side before ruling him out as a suspect.”