Trinity's Legacy

by P A Vasey

  “Adam…?” I said softly.

  His eyes snapped open and he started to get up and I screamed and kept firing and firing until the weapon clicked empty. The room was now completely opaque with gun smoke and my ears were ringing like Big Ben.

  Then the lights in the panic room went out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Brentwood Heights, CA

  With my ears still ringing from the blasts, and my nose full of acrid gunpowder smoke, I hesitatingly moved towards Adam. He was lying on his side, eyes closed, and not moving. The front of his white t-shirt looked to be a ragged mess, and the skin underneath looked blackened and ruined. Weirdly, there was no blood.

  I could just make out Lindstrom twitching and stretching on the recliner so I figured he was still alive. Keeping the shotgun trained on Adam I tried to see what was happening on the TV screens. I squinted through the smoke that was starting to drift downwards to layer the room like a winter mist. On one of the monitors I could just see the front atrium door and three LAPD officers, guns drawn, looking in. At that moment a voice came through a speaker underneath the screen. It was crackly but audible. There was a microphone next to the speaker so I picked it up and pressed a little red button on the stem.

  “This is Dr Morgan,” I whispered as loud as I dared. “I’m inside. ”

  One of the police officers, a well-built man with a buzz cut and wrap-around Oakley sunglasses could be seen talking into a walkie-talkie. He looked directly at me through what I assumed was a security camera above the front door.

  “We heard the shots,” he said. “Where’s the perp?”

  I glanced over at Adam who hadn’t moved. “He’s here with me in the panic room.”

  I still had the shotgun pointed on him but I realised it was empty so I put it on the counter by the speaker. My hands were remarkably steady, considering everything. “We have two casualties,” I heard myself saying. “Lindstrom is down, and Adam Benedict has been shot. Multiple times.”

  The officer nodded and pulled his radio from his belt with his other hand. He spoke quickly into it and I heard him say, “Captain, we have a GSW.” There was static, and I could see him watching me through the camera again while he spoke with his superior. He was saying, “I’ve got Dr Morgan on the intercom, sir. Situation seems under control. Need the code for the panic room ASAP.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling the tension and adrenaline leaking out of my system. I sank to my haunches and leaned back against the wall, blowing out my cheeks. On the monitor I could see the scene further up the road from the house. There was now a yellow and black barrier manned by a half dozen LAPD officers and squad cars parked diagonally and blocking entry from adjoining streets. A trim and dapper looking African-American man wearing a dark suit and tie could be seen leaning on a black limousine and talking into a phone. Despite the fading light he was still wearing sunglasses. He raised a hand towards the camera and waved. A new voice crackled from the speaker.

  “Dr Morgan,” he said, “I’m Special Agent Lawrence Mackie, FBI. It’s a real pleasure to hear from you. Are you alright?”

  The other monitor showed a view of the Lindstrom house surrounded by at least six police vehicles. A dozen or more officers with high-powered rifles were taking position behind the cars or fanning out along the street.

  “Dr Morgan? Are you there?” Mackie’s voice crackled. “It’s OK now, we’ll be in soon. You’re safe.”

  I glanced over at Adam, who remained statue-like lying on his side. Regret washed over me like the gentle breakers on a shallow beach. Each wave sent a tingle of ice down my spine. I still couldn’t see any blood, even as the smoke was settling. I moved closer. The front of his chest was in darkness, blackened and tattered, but there was definitely no blood.

  I keyed the microphone and took a deep breath. “The perp … Adam… he’s been shot.”

  “So you said,” replied Mackie. “Emergency crews are here.”

  The microphone quivered in my hand, the shakes starting now. “He took multiple shotgun blasts in the chest at point blank range. Through the heart.”

  Mackie looked nonplussed, and shrugged. “Then he’ll be dead already and this’ll all be over in the next few minutes.”

  I had a bad feeling about this but I couldn’t explain why. I glanced over at Adam and in the dim light from the screens I saw his hand twitch. I jerked backwards toward the speaker again and grabbed the mike. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t think he’s dead. He’s not …” I stopped, wondering what I could say that wouldn’t elicit a derisory laugh from Mackie.

  Mackie could be seen shaking his head. “Then the shots must have missed his heart but at that range there’ll have been some serious tissue damage. He’s not going to survive.”

  Behind him I could see that neighbours were starting to come out of their houses and gravitate towards the police lines. A TV news van had just arrived and was disgorging a pretty brunette reporter with her camera crew. I could just about hear the thrum of rotor blades through the speaker. Or maybe it was so close it was coming directly through the walls.

  Mackie spoke again, clearly trying to maintain my interest and morale. “OJ and Nicole used to live in this area you know. Had a condo not far from here. Made Brentwood famous.”

  “This could be bigger,” I said.

  Mackie pointed at the increasing crowd and the TV crew. “See those vultures gathering? We can’t wait any longer. Let’s get you out of there. We’ll talk when it’s all over.”

  I almost bit the microphone. “Agent Mackie, you don’t know what you’re dealing with here. I need to speak with someone in charge.”

  He smiled crookedly. “Well that’s me at the moment. Dr Morgan, there’s an APB out on him for killing police officers. The FBI wants to apprehend him more than any fugitive I’ve ever been involved with. Hell, my Boss is even flying over to be here at the sharp end.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling panic rising again. I grabbed the microphone and stared directly into the camera, willing Mackie to understand. “There’re things about Adam Benedict that you don’t know. Things I don’t know how to say over this line. Things you need to see to believe. To understand. Please, I need to talk with your superiors. Before this goes any further.”

  Mackie was about to reply when I saw another officer run over to him, holding a radio. He grabbed it, listened intently before nodding and handing it back. I glanced at Adam again, and could just about make out a twinkling green light through the lids of his closed eyes. His neck was twitching and both hands were moving, his fingers stretching.

  I gripped the intercom tightly. “Listen to me,” I implored. “People are going to die. You don’t understand who he is… what he is.”

  “Then tell me who or what he is, Dr Morgan?”

  “I can’t!” I shouted. “Please, just …”

  “Well, I guess we’ll have to find out the hard way,” Mackie interrupted. “SWAT’s gone in. It’ll all be over in the next few minutes.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Brentwood Heights, CA

  Like a zombie in a B-movie, Adam slowly got to his feet and fixed his glowing green eyes on me. The lights in the panic room abruptly came back up and through the thinning smoke I could see the ruined t-shirt and shotgun impacts on his chest and stomach. I could just discern a ragged hole in the skin about twelve inches wide and abstractly I noted a dull bluish tinge to the underlying tissue. I watched as he tapped the wound, using two fingers, and I heard a dull metallic noise, like body armour or a metal carapace. He looked up at me again, still scowling, but then his face abruptly changed, and all emotion faded from it, as if a tranquilliser dart had hit him.

  “Adam?” I said, tentatively.

  He ignored me and walked over to Corey Lindstrom, who was whimpering and had a slack look to one side of his face. There was a swelling on his jaw and his nose looked broken, blackened rivers of blood running down both sides of his mouth. Adam stepped over him and walked to the wall b
ehind the bookcase. He reached out a hand and gently caressed it almost like you would stroke a horse. He dipped his head and put an ear to the wall, listening for something. He looked sideways at me and gave a half smile. The green light had gone from his eyes, and he looked less, well, scary. He continued to run his hands over the surface of the wall.

  “There is a network of electronic nodules behind the inner plasterboard layer and in front of the lead lining,” he said. “I can feel the impulses and waveforms of the electronics as they are transmitted between the nodes.” He stopped with the caresses and stood back. “I have isolated the wave modulation of the room’s EMF jamming system.”

  Suddenly, as if a switch had been pressed, I was back inside his head, following his thoughts and seeing things as he was, in real time. It was incredible. His neural transmission and processing was lightning fast, like a computer chip with multiple input and afferent signals being dealt with simultaneously. The volume of data being processed was overwhelming and I was drowning in information.

  He crossed to the bookshelf, scanned it briefly and picked up a box from the bottom shelf labelled ‘Vienna, 1965’. He carried it over to the table and sorted through books, photo albums and journals until he came across a particular grey notebook, one inch thick and bound with elastic and string. He snapped the bands off and flicked the first page open. I could just see crude pencil sketches of electronic devices surrounded by labels and handwritten scientific formulae. He turned the page having apparently committed it to memory and proceeded to flick through the rest of the journal, reaching the last page and closing the book ten seconds later.

  “Adam,” I said, tentatively, trying not to think about the fact that I’d just shot him multiple times in the chest with a shotgun. “What’s going on?”

  His head snapped up and I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. The monitors showed dozens of LAPD officers armed with handguns and assault rifles taking up positions around the house and gardens. Adam noticed this too and waved a hand, enhancing a screen here and there, zooming in on surrounding paths, garden walls, and side-roads, seemingly noting the composition of the force being assembled against him. Then without warning the alien’s voice lanced into my head, penetrating my thoughts and pushing everything else to the periphery.

  [We must leave now]

  The alien was talking to him and it felt like I was hiding round a corner, silently eavesdropping. Adam walked back to Lindstrom, who was trying to staunch the flow of blood coming from his nose with the bottom of his shirt. With his senses no longer impaired, Adam could see through the damaged bone and connective tissue under the impact site on Lindstrom’s skull. There was a subdural haematoma starting to flood the tissues of his frontal lobe, a process that would undoubtedly kill him if he didn’t get help very soon. Adam looked back at me and I gave him a concerned look, but again I heard the searing voice of the alien.

  [We do not have time for this. We must leave]

  Adam shook his head.

  He must get medical assistance or he will die. I can help stabilise him.

  He constructed a neural command that he transmitted to Lindstrom, shutting down the conscious part of his brain. Another neural command slowed his heart rate by selectively increasing the vagal nerve amplitude and enhancing the parasympathetic neural pathways. Lindstrom slumped over and folded into the couch. Adam manoeuvred his feet into a semi-recumbent position and turned his head ensuring the airway was patent. As he was doing this, I could sense that the internal dialogue and battle of wills was still raging. He closed his eyes, addressing the alien.

  This will slow the bleeding. I will inform the police, in order that medical staff can treat him.

  The alien’s reply was contemptuous, and cold.

  [His fate is irrelevant. We must leave now]

  Adam accessed the screens again, switching to the view outside the panic room door. Six LAPD officers were crouched on the staircase while two more were working on the electronic keypad using some kind of handheld device. He addressed the alien again.

  Allow me to limit casualties. Ultimately, this will be beneficial to us.

  I took a deep breath and moved to Adam’s side. I set my face to neutral, or what I hoped was a kind of casual indifference. Inside, the fear was again coursing through my veins, and I concentrated with all my being to prevent it showing. I hoped he wasn’t reading my mind, and that the alien really was unable to hear me.

  “Adam,” I said. “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

  Abruptly, the alien’s presence seemed to vanish, and he turned to me. His face appeared pale and waxy, and the strain was showing.

  Come with me.

  “Why me?”

  I need you... to help me. You are part of this now.

  Doubt shot through me like an arrow, perforating my organs and blasting out the other side leaving a ragged hole. Then doubt became worry, its roots twisting and burrowing deeply, worming their way into my psyche.

  “I’m scared,” I said, my voice cracking.

  He reached out and touched the side of my face. His mind opened, and again I could feel the anti-anxiolytic proteins flowing out of my liver into my bloodstream, slowing my heart rate and relaxing me.

  “That’s not fair,” I said.

  Remember I said that everyone is in danger. I think I can prevent it happening.

  “What if you can’t? I said, swallowing hard.

  Then everyone will die.

  -

  We watched the screen that showed the police officers pouring into the house above us, and down the stairs to the panic room door. They were carrying fearsome black weapons, and wearing black uniforms and body armour and helmets.

  Adam mentally reached into the door’s electronics and scrambled the keypad, causing it to short out and overheat. On the screen, police officers could be seen jumping back as it started to smoke. He walked over to the panic room door and sent an override command to the lock. The cylinders tumbled, and the heavy door swung open inwardly. He turned to me and put a hand on my shoulder.

  Cover your ears and nose. I will protect you. My neurological abilities are still partially affected by the countermeasures, so this will be a physical defence. Stay close.

  I put my hands over my ears and screwed up my eyes just in time because a few seconds later two flash-bang grenades rolled through the open door and exploded in a paroxysm of noise and smoke. Suddenly I was seeing through Adam’s eyes as if I was wearing night-vision goggles. Noxious yellow smoke was pouring out from the canisters and the density of the gas in the room was now soup-like. My nose was filling with fumes and I started to cough and splutter. I could just about hear the whup-whup of rotor blades through the open door as the police helicopter arrived on station overhead.

  The first SWAT officer crabbed awkwardly into the room, gun first. Blinded by the dense smoke billowing through the small room, he couldn’t see Adam standing calmly by the side of the door. A few seconds later the SWAT officer was in the middle of the room, followed by two others who had moved left and right in flanking positions. They were wearing tactical vests and ballistic helmets, their Perspex eye protectors lifted up and over their heads as they breathed through gas masks. The leading SWAT was swinging his gun in a lazy arc, ready to shoot. Adam grasped the gun and the front of the guy’s ballistic vest in one movement and threw him into his colleagues who tumbled like bowling pins and crashed into the back wall. Another SWAT officer rushed through the door shotgun first but Adam slammed him against the doorjamb, denting the Kevlar shell of his helmet, and bounced him back through into the corridor like a pinball. He picked up the shotgun and, wielding it like a baseball bat, followed the disarmed police officers through the door and up the staircase. I sneaked a peak around the jam and watched him swatting policeman left and right with huge kinetic swings. In less than three seconds it was all over.

  I ducked back in and looked for a place to hide but Adam appeared in front of me and so I backed nervously a
gainst the wall. I was about to say something when he shook his head at me and knelt down beside one of the unconscious officers. He pulled the radio from the ballistic vest and spoke calmly and without inflection into it.

  “There are injured officers in here but there are no fatalities. However, Mr Corey Lindstrom has a subdural haematoma and requires urgent medical attention.” More footsteps and urgent voices could be heard at the top of the stairs and there was the sound of gun slides being racked. Adam flicked the radio on again. “I am leaving now, with Dr Morgan. You must withdraw your forces. I may not be responsible for what happens if you try to stop me.”

  He dropped the radio and picked the shotgun up. He seemed to be studying it, and once again I was inside his head. A specifications database was overlaid onto his visual fields describing the gun as a Benelli M4, gas operated semi-automatic 12-gauge shotgun, 6+1 magazine capacity. He knelt by the unconscious police officer and removed the handgun from his belt holster. This time the overlay read Glock 21, .45 calibre, 13 round capacity. Checking the load in the Glock, he glanced down at me.

  Kate, listen to my instructions and follow my thoughts. I will keep you safe.

  “Safe from who?” I said. “The SWAT guys won’t harm me. They want you.”

  He nodded absently and flicked the safety off both weapons.

  “I will keep you safe.”

  Taking my hand, he pulled me up the stairs. At the top of the first level he turned and gave me a benevolent smile. “‘The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong’.”

  My eyebrows popped up as I realised he just quoted Ghandi at me. And was he letting me know that it was okay that I’d shot him multiple times with a shotgun? I almost laughed out loud.

  As we climbed, I could see him analysing the number and composition of the waiting SWAT and LAPD, mapping their positions out to one hundred yards on a 3D grid in his visual field. He logged where every patrol car, law enforcement agent, and type of weapon was, and where all the civilians were corralled. At the top of the staircase he turned and I heard his voice again.