by Peter Parkin
Sandy had never cared about being conceived by artificial insemination. For some strange reason, it had never bothered him. His parents had talked to him about it, but he always shrugged it off. Probably because he’d had such a great relationship with his dad, and didn’t really care to think that some other unknown person had actually fathered him anonymously.
They’d pushed him towards West Point, even though he’d wanted to attend Boston College. Thinking back now, he remembered how insistent they were. He never thought about it much at the time, but now it seemed weird. Why had they been so insistent? They talked some nonsense to him about how they’d been offered a full scholarship for him to attend. He never challenged that. Never asked them why, with the wealth they possessed, they’d even need a scholarship to afford his education. But, they also made the case that his dad had attended there, and it would be nice for Sandy to carry on the legacy.
So, he relented, and went to West Point.
A few days ago, when he was visiting Judy in Queens, she’d made the observation that all five of the boys involved in that wilding incident with the fourteen-year-old girl, were blonde and blue-eyed.
Just like Sandy.
He’d always been aware of that, but never gave it much thought before.
Sometimes the obvious is staring you right in the face, and you don’t see it.
Funny, when he thought back upon it now, the “special” ones like him and the other five, who’d each been chosen for the Honor Guild, were indeed similar to a lot of the other boys in the Honor Guild. They tended to have that look—blonde, sandy blonde, or light brown hair, and almost exclusively blue-eyed. There had been no dark complexions in the Honor Guild, and certainly no ethnics. Only white Anglo-Saxons.
Coincidence? Maybe. Sandy was a scientist. He knew that nature offered coincidences, and, because he was a scientist, conspiracy theories didn’t normally rest easy in his mind.
But, his mind was changing. The information that Vito had shared with him about the deputy mayor’s involvement with the Quincy Market massacre had twisted his thinking in a different direction.
And the involvement of two influential people who were part of Lincoln Berwick’s campaign—both of them shareholders in a private elitist sperm bank called Legacy Life Ladder Inc.
The fourth of his parents’ files that Sandy had leafed through caused him to pour himself a stiff scotch. He sat on his covered porch sipping it. The January rainstorm had given way to mild weather. It felt like spring, although cool enough that he still needed to wear a light jacket. But, at this moment he wanted the fresh air, and was willing to pretend it was spring to achieve that.
Buried way down in that fourth file was the contract his parents had signed to enable Sandy to enter into the big wide world.
With a firm named Legacy Life Ladder Inc.
Also referred to in the contract documents as Triple-L.
The contract stipulated that after he graduated from high school, he was required to attend West Point. But it didn’t state what the consequences would be for his parents if they changed their minds later.
He began to connect more dots.
Christopher Clark, the fat sleazy little deputy mayor, cleared the way for horse-drawn ice cream wagons to enter the promenade at Quincy Market that fateful day. The three terrorists in those wagons committed the most horrific act since 9/11.
The two operatives—Meagan Whitfield and Bob Stone—from Lincoln Berwick’s presidential campaign, had made sizeable deposits to Clark’s numbered bank account in Bermuda three months before the terrorist attack. At that time, those two operatives were consultants to Linc’s senatorial office.
That terrorist attack had horrified America and just like 9/11, the after-effects of fear and trepidation had worked their way into the psyche of the majority of Americans. The propaganda of fear had continued for the two years since the attack, non-stop from certain politicians and the media. Just as it had after 9/11, resulting then in several Middle Eastern wars and severe restrictions on personal freedoms. Politicians attracted votes just from talking tough, because who didn’t want to feel safe?
And now, more than two years since the Quincy attack, Lincoln Berwick was a presidential candidate, with those same two operatives working on his campaign. And in Linc’s speeches as a senator over the last two years, Sandy recalled that his theme had always zeroed in on the fear element.
His speeches since becoming a presidential candidate had ramped things up even further. He’d focused on the fear theme ad nauseum, and people were buying into the image. He was clearly the tough guy in the race, the one the media and the population at large were supporting as the “one who would keep them safe.”
He’d even used the image of Sandy in one of his campaign ads, showing him throwing that medal back at the general—denouncing Sandy as a bad and weak American.
All of Linc’s ads had shown horrific images of 9/11, the Boston Marathon attack, and the Quincy Market slaughter. All designed to foster the fear that his campaign revolved around.
Fear was clearly Senator Berwick’s hook-line.
Sandy drained the rest of his whisky in one quick slug, then poured himself another from the bottle waiting patiently on the table beside him.
He couldn’t get the images out of his mind.
All five had blonde hair and blue eyes, just like Sandy. That connection had always been there in the recesses of his mind, and he’d never challenged it—not just with those five, but with the vast majority of his classmates in the Honor Guild. It had taken Judy to point it out to him and drive it up to the surface of his consciousness.
Sandy knew that John Nichols had been the product of a sperm bank, and he knew that Linc had been, too. They’d joked about it back in the early days when they were jovial friends.
He wondered now about the other three—Hank Price, Bill Tomkins, and Lloyd Franken. Hank was dead now, so he’d probably never know about him. But, he’d have to ask Bill and Lloyd. He’d just talked with Lloyd the other day, warning him about what had been happening and about the tape recording of John’s that he had. They promised each other they’d catch up in a few days when they chatted again.
In the meantime, Sandy’s curiosity was on fire. He knew what he had to do.
He picked up his cordless phone and punched in a number that he only ever dialed reluctantly.
“Romano here.”
“Hi, Vito. It’s Sandy Beech.”
“So soon? We just talked yesterday, Dr. Beech. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I need your help with something, Vito.”
A pause. Then, “For you, I’ll listen.”
“I need a cover identity. New name, passport, driver’s license, all verifiable. Available online, that if checked will be seen as air-tight.”
“We can do that.”
“I need to be well-connected—in a power position of influence.”
“Easily done.”
“I’ll also need your help with changing my appearance—can’t take the chance on looking like me. I’ve been too public.”
“We have pros who do that all the time. Easily done. If you don’t mind my asking, who are you trying to deceive, Dr. Beech?”
“I need an appointment with that New York sperm bank, Legacy Life Ladder Inc. I want to make a pitch for sperm and see what I can find out.”
Vito sighed into the phone. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Yes, I’m sure, Vito.”
“Well, for you, we can do all these things. But, what do I get in return?”
Sandy took a deep breath and clenched a tight fist with his free hand.
“You were interested in a certain weapon.”
Vito chuckled. “The Pulsed Energy Projectile?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that would be sufficient payment.
I’d love to hear about it—out of curiosity only, of course.”
Sandy lowered his voice to almost a whisper. He didn’t know why, he just did.
“If your people can make me fool-proof, I can do better than just tell you about it. I can give you a live demo. In my basement.”
22
“Don’t move, dear. Just relax—I’m here with you, and I’m not leaving.”
Lloyd Franken gazed into the hazel eyes of his gorgeous wife and was instantly comforted. Her eyes always had that effect on him. That magical combination of confidence and girlish sparkle. He was glad to see her.
But, where am I?
She reached over to a side table and retrieved a bottle of water with a straw. Easing it towards his mouth, she urged, “Here, take a sip.”
The cold water rushing down his throat was instant relief. He hadn’t realized how dry he was until that precious first sip.
Cassidy stroked his forehead with one hand and squeezed his shoulder with the other.
“You’re very lucky, Lloyd. It could have been a lot worse.”
Lloyd gazed around the room for the first time.
“I’m in a hospital. How long?”
“Since yesterday. You were in a car accident out on the highway. No other vehicles involved, thank God. The police said it appeared as if you lost control and crashed into a tree.”
The highlight reel was now playing in Lloyd’s brain. Gun pointed at him, accelerating the car down an embankment, taking direct aim at a large tree trunk.
“James! His name is James!”
Cassidy slid her fingers through his hair. “Stay calm, darling. It’s okay. Your friend is alive. He’s not in very good shape, though. Your seatbelt and airbag saved you, but James apparently wasn’t wearing his belt. Went through the windshield. I’m sorry. Maybe you can see him later.”
Lloyd was about to blurt something out, but a little voice in his head told him not to.
Cassidy was still talking, tears in her voice this time. “You called from the highway. Phoned 911, and then you called me. I could hardly recognize your voice. I was so scared. But, you were alert enough to tell me where you were. I drove out, got there just after the ambulance. By that time, you’d gone unconscious. Followed the ambulance to the hospital. Another ambulance took your friend. He was in terrible shape, but you only had a few cuts and bruises. And, a minor concussion.”
Lloyd swallowed hard, then took the glass out of Cassidy’s hand and treated himself to another long sip.
“How long have I been out?”
Cassidy shook her head. “After you got to the hospital, you regained consciousness. You’ve been awake ever since, but not really with it. Not aware. You seem fine now.”
She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “They want you to stay until at least tomorrow, just to be on the safe side.”
“Okay.”
She leaned in close, nestled her cheek against his, and giggled in her girlish way. “Lloyd, you know I’m in my peak time right now, don’t you? I know you weren’t anxious for us to have a baby, but don’t you think having an accident is a bit extreme?”
Lloyd humored her with a laugh of his own, even though he didn’t feel like laughing. He wrapped his stiff arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the lips.
“I’ll make it up to you next month, okay? Promise. And, Cassidy, I do want a baby with you. I’m excited about it—just took me longer than you to get used to the idea. But, after this, I’m going to want a baby more than ever.”
Cassidy’s face broke out into a big smile. “Okay, we’ll set a day and time next month. Until then, maybe we can just practice?”
“You bet we can.”
Making babies was the last thing on Lloyd’s mind right then. All he could think of was the phone call from Sandy Beech, advising him of the deaths of John Nichols and Hank Price. Apparently, a suicide for John and a car accident for Hank.
But there had also been that attempt on Bill Tomkins’ life, right in his own office.
And Sandy had told him about the tape recording—the one that John had made of him and Linc discussing the rape and death of that young girl.
John, Hank, Bill, and Linc—and Lloyd himself, had all been in the van that night.
Two were now dead, and two others had suffered attempts on their lives. The only one who had escaped unscathed so far had been Texas Senator Lincoln Berwick.
Coincidence?
Lloyd eased Cassidy off of his lap and stretched his long arms.
“I think I’m ready to go home today.”
“No, no—the doctor said that would be a mistake. You’ve had a concussion, Lloyd.”
He raised himself up into a sitting position.
“Okay, this is what we’ll do. Let me wander around a little, see how my legs and everything work, and then we’ll decide.”
Cassidy held out her hands. “I’ll only agree to the wandering around thing right now. Let’s see how you do.”
Lloyd grabbed hold of her hands and eased himself to his feet.
Suddenly Cassidy snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot. There was a detective here before. He wanted to chat with you. I guess about the accident. He’s waiting out in the lobby. Do you want me to go get him?”
Lloyd shook his head. “No, show me to the room where my friend is. I want to check on him first.”
“He’s just down the hall. I peeked in through the window a few hours ago. He looked in really bad shape. In fact, he’s so bandaged up you can’t even tell whether it’s a man or a woman.”
“Maybe I can cheer him up a bit.”
Cassidy held onto his hand, led him out the door, and slowly down the hospital corridor.
She squeezed his hand tightly and watched him carefully as he walked. “You’re doing really well. I’m proud of you…and relieved.”
“I’m a tough old fart, hon.”
“Yes, you are. I’m glad. Hey, when I was down at James’ room before, there was a policeman standing outside the door. I don’t know why. A bit strange.”
Lloyd nodded.
Not so strange. Apparently, the police already knew something about the man named James Whitehead, or they’d found his gun at the scene of the accident.
They reached the room, no policeman in sight. Lloyd gazed through the glass pane and saw a figure that was unrecognizable. His entire head and face covered in bandages, with some kind of a halo or retainer around his head. The bandages had slits for his eyes, nose, and ears, and Lloyd could tell that the man’s eyes were open. His eyeballs were flitting back and forth, following the activity of the two nurses.
“Stay here, Cassidy. I want to say a few words to James alone. Hope you don’t mind.”
She crossed her arms and examined him up and down. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He gave her the thumbs up sign. “I feel great. Nothing to worry about.”
“Alright, then. I’ll go down to the cafeteria and get us a couple of coffees. Back in a sec.”
“Make mine double-double. I need the energy.”
“Enjoy the time with your friend. He’ll be glad to see you.”
Lloyd grimaced as he watched her head off down the corridor, then opened the glass door and entered the private room.
One of the nurses came over to him right away. “I’m sorry, sir, you can’t come in here.”
He put on his most charming smile. “It’s okay, dear. I’m the friend that was in the car accident with him. I just want a few minutes. Just to give him a smile and a few encouraging words. I promise I won’t touch anything.”
The nurse hesitated, then looked over at her partner. She nodded.
The young attendant lifted her clipboard and took a pen out of her jacket pocket. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Lloyd Franken.”
“Thanks. Could we have some privacy for a few minutes?”
The nurse motioned to her friend. “Okay, we’ll be right outside the door if you need us.”
As they moved towards the door, the figure on the bed suddenly started making noises. Not words, just sounds. Utterings. Almost animalistic.
The man’s pupils were like the balls in a pinball machine, bouncing around, trying desperately to convey something to the nurses. The noises coming from his mouth were supposed to be words, but fell far short. He couldn’t move his body, because he was strapped to the bed. Couldn’t move his head because of the halo contraption. A tube was attached to his arm, and there were electrodes and wires connecting his bandaged head, fingers and chest areas to a machine beside the bed.
All he could move were his eyeballs and his dysfunctional mouth and tongue.
In response to the guttural sounds, the nurses hesitated at the door.
Lloyd waved them on with his hand. “He’s just excited to see me. It’s okay. He’ll calm down.”
They didn’t seem too convinced, but, reluctantly left the room anyway, leaving Lloyd alone with the man who had attempted to kill him.
The noises became more frantic the closer Lloyd got to the bed. He leaned his head down and glared into the man’s frightened eyes.
“Shut your fucking mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”
Suddenly there was silence, and Lloyd thought he could see some rationality in the man’s eyes. Some kind of reckoning with the reality he was facing.
“Okay, here’s how things are going to go. I won’t kill you if I get some answers. You obviously can’t talk, so I want you to blink your answers. Your answers will remain with me—I won’t tell the authorities. One blink for “no” and two blinks for “yes.” Do you understand me? Blink twice if you do.”