In the Still of the Night--The Supernaturals II

by David L. Golemon

  “Agent Weatherby, you may start the in-flight entertainment.”

  As the confused eight members of the Supernaturals watched, a large television monitor lowered from the aisle’s ceiling right in front of the cockpit. Gabriel turned to see Director Hartnett hold his empty glass out for Agent Weatherby to take.

  For the next hour, the group watched silently as a grainy, FBI laboratory–enhanced video of the happenings they had been called in to comment on played, while the soft hum of the plane’s twin engines became background noise. They watched the low-light photography of night vision in most cases. They saw the assaults as they took place. To the group, none of the surroundings looked familiar, but they knew they couldn’t tell because of the low-light conditions.

  The video finally came to an end, and Hartnett stood. He paced to the back and then returned with a fresh bottle of bourbon and glasses that he held between his chest and arm. He placed them on the small table.

  “We don’t know how the cameras still operated while the power to the rooms went out. Another unsolved mystery.”

  “Just who was being assaulted?” Julie asked as she accepted a glass from Gabriel. He also took one as did the others after viewing what had taken place. The video was so bad that faces remained unseen.

  “The men and women being tossed about like they were toys were highly trained agents of the Treasury Department.” Hartnett grew silent as he stared at the blank television screen. Agent Weatherby saw this and continued for him as he poured another drink for himself, refusing to say anything about who they were watching.

  “The men in the video were a protection detail from Treasury. Secret Service. The man they were unsuccessfully protecting was the president of the United States.”

  It was Julie Reilly who stood and squeezed past Gabriel and retrieved the bottle of bourbon, but Damian got to it first. He caught himself and nodded as he refilled Julie’s glass and then his own.

  “Where is the president now?” Gabriel asked, placing a hand over his empty glass as Damian started to pour.

  Jackson nodded as he recognized the way in which Gabriel asked the question—he was going into his parapsychology role. He saw a light in Kennedy’s eyes he hadn’t seen since Summer Place. Damian smiled and then went back to his seat, where Leonard and George struggled for the bottle of alcohol.

  “Since his official resignation, he has been moved to a safe house in Virginia, deep in the countryside,” Weatherby answered and then sat next to the director.

  “Is this the reason behind his sudden departure from government service?” John asked.

  “No, there had been other issues, but I think this one would suffice. The world thinks it was for health reasons or maybe his relationship with the First Lady. Who cares?” Hartnett said as he came out of his deep thoughts. He needed another drink but decided he had to give these—in his opinion, anyway—nutcases the best answers that he could.

  “I assume you have investigated outside sources, maybe a foreign power?”

  Director Hartnett looked over at Gabriel with what looked like renewed respect. “Thoroughly, Professor. The CIA and the bureau have concluded that technology of this nature just isn’t the answer.”

  “As the historical record will substantiate through the CIA’s own experimentation with extrasensory perception conducted throughout the fifties and sixties,” Gabriel commented.

  “Even those old files were investigated, much to the CIA’s consternation,” Weatherby said. “Even though that particular agency had some success in those early experiments, nothing, and I mean nothing, ever came this close to being a reality. No, we have ruled out foreign influence.”

  “What is the president’s condition now?” Jennifer asked.

  They could see by the look on her face and the way that she voiced the question that she felt just as the others about their former president—they despised the man as much as the rest of the country and world had.

  “Comatose for the most part with moments of clarity that frankly scare the hell out of anyone who hears his words. He wakes up screaming. Something is eating away at him, and all the world’s most accomplished doctors, neurosurgeons, brain specialists, and even psychoanalysts all agree it’s memory based, whatever it is. It seems to manifest itself during REM sleep.”

  Kennedy’s group became silent as they thought this over.

  “If these descriptions of the event and the video evidence are to be believed, this is power even beyond what we faced at Summer Place,” George said, quickly swallowing his fourth drink.

  “So much so I think you’re mistaken as to the perpetrators of this event.” Kennedy stood and went toward the front of the aircraft. He started to pace and calculate, as was his habit when thinking. “This has to be an outside, human-inspired assault.”

  Hartnett didn’t comment on Gabriel’s protestations about their conclusions. He lowered his head in thought.

  “The CIA and the NSA have their opinions, and they side with you. They think that an outside entity is behind this—either the Russians or the Chinese. Professor, we have exhausted all our resources. You’re it,” Weatherby said as she snapped the remote control and the television again came to life. “This was the last message received, two days ago, and it was decided to call in your group.”

  On the screen, they all watched as a shaky, handheld camera zoomed in on a damaged wall. The lens captured the words there, and they all froze.

  Betrayal is the dark side of love. Come home, teen angel, we’re going to rock around the clock.

  The aircraft was silent as the television went dark once more. Everyone had sat when they had read the words. Gabriel finally took the drink that Julie offered and drank deeply. Then he placed the glass down and stood and faced Hartnett and Weatherby.

  “We’ll need one hell of a lot of equipment.”

  “Whatever you need will be provided,” answered Weatherby. “Not that it will make a difference,” he mumbled.

  Outside the aircraft, the night just became a little bit darker for the Supernaturals.

  VIRGINIA COUNTRYSIDE

  The safe house was more of a mansion than just an ordinary farmhouse in the Virginia countryside. Since moving President Hadley from Washington, there had only been one brief instance of the strange occurrence that was currently plaguing the former commander in chief.

  After three different checkpoints manned by menacing-looking military units, Avery finally parked his car and was approached by a plainclothes Secret Service agent. The agent took Avery’s ID.

  “The First Lady is expecting you, Mr. Avery. She is in the downstairs office with her secretary. Please, sir, remain on the first floor and attempt no movement upstairs.”

  He took his briefcase and made his way to the thick oaken doors of the house. It was opened just as he raised his hand to knock. A butler, which Avery knew not to be his real profession, allowed him in.

  As Avery took off his overcoat, the First Lady gestured for the him to enter her office. Two agents dressed in black Nomex watched from the study directly across the way. As Avery nodded a greeting, the secretary stepped out.

  “Thank you, Nancy. After I meet with Mr. Avery, we may have more for you to do. And thank you for staying up all hours to assist.”

  The secretary smiled and nodded, and as she stepped past Avery, she made a show of not greeting him.

  “Either the help has picked up on the vibe that you and I are on the outs or they sense the smell of death about me. Which is it?” he asked as he stepped past Catherine and into the office.

  She silently followed, closing the door behind her after a momentary look up the staircase and the bedrooms beyond.

  The former First Lady was wearing a simple skirt of white and a black blouse that exposed more of her body than in the previous six years as First Lady. She crossed her legs one over the other and then raised the left brow in her “I’m waiting for good news” pose.

  “The competency ruling came down this aft
ernoon.” Avery reached for his case and then opened it. He teasingly held out the file and then lowered it to his lap.

  “Well, what did that blathering judge have to say?” she asked, noticing that Avery intentionally held back from giving her the report.

  “Twenty-five percent.”

  Again, the raised eyebrow. She remained silent as she took in the small, arrogant man. Instead of giving her the file, he produced another flimsy piece of paper and instead slid that across the desk. She still didn’t move.

  “My official release from government service.”

  “Congratulations; you’re a private citizen again.”

  Avery smirked at the First Lady. “That’s my point of the twenty-five percent, Catherine. I am now an out-of-work, disgraced politician.”

  “And for that, you want twenty-five percent?”

  Finally, Avery slid the file over. “All you have to do is sign where I have indicated, and then you will be solely responsible for a stock portfolio and corporate holdings statement that is currently in trust, worth more than fifty-six billion dollars … and change.”

  “Your valuable help in this matter is basically a finder’s fee, Herbert. Ten percent.”

  “That was the going rate when other benefits used to be applicable,” he said as he looked at her chest. She saw this but made no movement to button her blouse properly. “There were times when I truly believed you were interested. I thought we had a clear and precise understanding of one another.”

  “Oh, I understood you from the beginning, Herbert. And frankly our times together weren’t worth twenty-five percent of fifty-six billion dollars.”

  “Once I leave here, I will be starting a new book. I have an advance offer from New York. Should I go into detail about what that book will cover during my White House years?”

  “And you discussed those particulars with a publisher?”

  “I didn’t go into detail, but assured her that there would be plenty of dirt, sex, and intrigue to cover the gambit of information.”

  Catherine turned in her chair. “I see. Well, you have produced a better brief than you gave my husband over the years. Very convincing.” She turned back to face the man who was now in the process of blackmailing her. “Deal, but only twenty percent, paid out yearly, not in advance.”

  “Acceptable. Just sign.”

  “And this book talk?” she asked.

  “Why write a book for mere money when I will have enough to buy a publishing house of my own? No, your avaricious activities and sexual affairs will remain locked away.”

  “As I said, deal.” She hurriedly signed the papers where he had indicated. Then Avery handed her the last—their private agreement of 20 percent. She looked it over and started to sign but stopped. The noise from outside of the office brought her to her feet. She went to the door and opened it and saw the hostage rescue team moving up the stairs.

  “What is it?” she asked one of the running men with mock concern. She knew she didn’t need the president alive any longer to get the trust that was started by the bastard’s father in the late sixties. She now wanted the man to die and die quickly. So, with her heart racing, not for fear but for good tidings, she went up the stairs in a gait that said she still cared for Hadley. Avery, without comment, followed.

  When Catherine gained the upstairs, she saw several of the hostage rescue team standing just outside of her husband’s door. The lights in the long hallway dimmed and then brightened repeatedly.

  “What’s happening?” she asked as the agent in charge of the rescue unit stood and faced her.

  “Nothing, ma’am. Just the electrical system acting up. He’s safe for right now; we have three men inside with the duty doctor and the nurse.”

  Catherine showed relief and then, in an acting sequence that would have been guaranteed to win an Oscar, she started to faint. Avery shook his head.

  Then the lights went out.

  “Unit three, why isn’t the emergency generator starting up?” the team leader asked into his radio as he went to the door with the suddenly unflustered First Lady.

  “The generator is working; we just—” The radio also went silent.

  The team leader hit the radio once, twice, and then a third time. Before he could curse about the instrument, two men in black Nomex clothing were thrown from the room to smash into the agent in charge, and then one rolled down the stairs and the other smashed into the wall. The wide-eyed team leader attempted to get into the room, but the door slammed closed hard enough to separate the man’s gloved hand from his wrist. He screamed out in shock and pain as the door splintered at the frame from the force of the closing. They could hear screaming inside.

  The former First Lady retreated to the far wall inside the hallway, and Avery joined her. They had both witnessed the attacks firsthand and were not thrilled about watching another. In the darkness, they could see the door open with a very dim view through the blackness, and then one of the hostage rescue team simply walked out of the bedroom. The dark form was featureless in the absence of light, but in the dim illumination filtering in from the security lighting outside, it was clear the man had no head. The legs buckled, and then an empty hand reached out, grabbing the stair railing but missing. The body fell over the landing to the floor far beneath as the screaming inside the bedroom continued.

  As more of the hostage rescue team scrambled up the stairs in the dark, three gunshots sounded, and Catherine felt Avery’s body next to her. The door to the bedroom was still open. She started forward just as the rescue team made it to the second-floor landing. She stumbled and Avery tried to stop her from approaching the blackness beyond the doorway.

  “What are you doing?” Avery screamed.

  “I want to see,” she said as Avery pulled her arm.

  “Don’t be—”

  Herbert Avery felt the resistance by the First Lady cease, and he felt her hands on his side and shoulder as she pushed him into the room just as two members of the hostage rescue team ran in. Catherine quickly reached out and pulled the door closed just as four more rescue team members burst from the stairs. Three more bounded up, with their own flashlights dying before they could see the satisfied smirk on the First Lady’s face. The sounds coming from the bedroom were scaring the hell out of the men who battered the thick door to gain entrance. Catherine eased back to the far wall in total darkness as she realized that whatever was in there was not going to give an inch.

  * * *

  Herbert Avery couldn’t see anything, but he heard plenty as men were torn to pieces. He flew to the carpeted floor and crawled away from the center of the room where he had been pushed, first by Catherine’s shove and then by the two hostage rescue team members when they also became trapped. More gunfire. Avery felt the bullets fly by, and he could smell gunpowder as the bedroom illuminated with flame and light. His hands came in contact with hair, and in the next flash of gunfire, he saw the duty nurse’s head on the rug in a large pool of blood. Then he saw that her body was in another part of the darkened bedroom. That was the push Avery needed as he gained his feet and ran headlong into a wall where he thought the door was. He bounced and then reached out in the dark as the gunfire ceased. He screamed as his hand encountered the metal doorknob. He turned it and felt the other agents on the opposite side of the door trying to break it in. He pulled, and the door surprisingly opened about a foot, and Avery and the agents tried in vain to get by—Avery out and the agents in.

  Catherine couldn’t see what was happening only feet in front of her. The lights from the outside caught brief glimpses in slow-motion–like reality as the door came partially open. Then she saw the backs of the hostage rescue team as they tried in vain to get past an obstacle.

  “Get back!” one of the men yelled loudly, and Catherine heard a man on the other side pleading to be let out. Then in a brief flash of light from a flashlight that momentarily fought to come alive, she saw Herb Avery’s head appear between the door and its frame. He was tryin
g his best to get through the door that was being pushed in by the FBI agents. Avery’s eyes were pleading as he struggled. Then it happened. The door closed with a force that none of them could have ever imagined. Avery’s head was caught between it and the jamb, and then like an overripe grape, it came free of the body. The door completely closed, tossing the hostage rescue team members away like leaves on a fresh wind. The sounds from inside the bedroom suddenly ceased. The lights in the hallway flickered back to life along with the many discarded and useless flashlights. Catherine heard the many feet pounding up the stairs. Shouts and curses battered the upstairs as the door easily opened by its own volition. Slowly, easily, and even the small creaking was loud enough for all to hear.

  Avery’s headless body slid from the interior and then hit the carpeted floor runner like deadweight. Agents had to step over it. They ran into the room and saw what this new attack had wrought. Eight men and one woman were scattered throughout the large room. Medical monitoring equipment was overturned, and several were sparking on the carpet. Bullet holes were punched into the walls, and as the agents adjusted their eyesight to the brightness of the bedroom, they saw the president lying peacefully in his bed. One of the Nomex-clad agents reached out and pulled the naval doctor from the president’s blanket-covered legs. The body hit the floor, and Catherine stepped to the doorway and then immediately turned and fled down the stairs. Her last vision as she looked back was that of the prone and very much dead Herbert Avery.

  Two of the doctors that had been separated from their colleagues finally had their paralysis break, and they ran for the now-open door that was cracked straight down its middle. The room was brightly lit with most of the lamps on the floor and the emergency Klieg lighting smashed into the white-painted drywall of the room. Blood and bodies were everywhere. They jumped over the remains of Herb Avery and came to a stop. President Hadley had moved from his blood-soaked bed and was standing at the dressing table in front of a full-length mirror, and he was slipping on a white shirt over the blood-soaked pajama top. His pajama bottoms were at his ankles. He was slowly buttoning his shirt, and amid the blood and carnage around him, he was singing a soft tune that was barely audible.