Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection

by Gordon Kessler

  “Code three, Chief. Please respond immediately.”

  He glanced at me with one of those sideways smirks that told me Barney Fife could as easily handle the call.

  “Gotta go, Robert,” he said, rolled his eyes and shifted the plug of tobacco to his other cheek. “Big meeting at the donut shop. Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

  He turned away, preparing to leave, but I stopped him. “Chief, there is one thing you can do.”

  He turned back, concern on his face. “Sure, what’s that?”

  I don’t know why I asked, but I did, “Can I trust you, Chief?”

  He smiled back at me. “Sure,” he said smiling, his hands open, “I’m wearing blue.”

  Blue. After my earlier internal dialogue with Harvey, the idea of him speaking this fact and associating it with trust briefly shocked me. But I forged ahead, somewhat unsure of how to voice an additional concern. “Could you check in on Michelle every once in a while today?”

  He frowned at me questioningly.

  I tried to explain. “It’s just that . . . well, with the power outage, and . . .” I didn’t want to mention the note and have him thinking I was going crazy, too. “I don’t know. Something feels different today. Something . . . I can’t describe it — something feels wrong.”

  It surprised me when he narrowed his eyes and nodded as if he understood. “Sure, Robert. Don’t you worry.” He glanced around us as if ensuring that no one else was within earshot, then he lowered his voice nearly to a whisper. “No matter what happens today, I want you to remember that I’m on your side.”

  I nodded even though what he was saying wasn’t soaking in, and the chief pulled away.

  As I walked on, I considered the chief’s words, but couldn’t make sense of it — “No matter what happens today, I want you to remember that I’m on your side” — what did that mean? Surely he was referring to Will’s prognosis.

  For now, I was preoccupied by the sting. It burned. I gently touched it, and it was moist. The tiny puncture wound was about dead center on the bump.

  I hadn’t had a chance to miss Harvey.

  Don’t sweat the small stuff, Superman.

  I remembered Doc Xiang saying that if the lump was aggravated, it could cause “serious complications,” and I wondered what kind of “serious complications” could be caused by messing with a little bump. Brain damage?

  You’re a real optimist, huh, Superman?

  Grudgingly, I knew Harvey was right. I was being ridiculous and optimism was very important today.

  I shook my head and continued my walk. I didn’t care to have an imaginary cheerleader, and I didn’t want to admit I was starting to get used to his presence inside my skull. I pictured the white rabbit with his switch off and battery compartment empty as I’d left him after his last appearance. In my mind I stapled his lips shut.

  When I got to the store, I’d put a Band-Aid on my wound. This afternoon, when we went to see Doc Xiang, I’d ask him to look at the sting. He’d probably give me some salve to put on it. No big deal.

  Down a side street, I noticed one of those boom trucks the utility companies use. A worker in dark-blue coveralls manned the cherry-picker bucket, busily installing a new lamp in one of the streetlights. Power surge, I remembered. As Chief Dailey had said, the entire neighborhood had been affected.

  Otherwise, the morning’s activities were ordinary. Already older folks were in their yards, doing the usual fall chores. It was as if I were strolling through a Norman Rockwell print — white picket fences surrounding nicely trimmed fescue lawns, saltbox houses with white lap siding and shutters every color of the rainbow. I smiled at the scenery’s quaintness.

  Gold Rush was an interesting place. Typical small town, and yet not. It sat at the base of the south slope of Rainy Mountain. Its heyday population of thirty-five thousand dwindled to nearly a ghost town after the mines played out back in the thirties. Mount Rainy Biotronics moved in over twenty years ago bringing back jobs and prosperity.

  Since then, Gold Rush had grown into a We Are the World sort of town of five thousand with a blend of diverse races and cultures, an attribute of a worldwide research corporation. Nearly half of the population, maybe more, was Oriental folks, many the descendants of railroad laborers from back in the mid-eighteen hundreds. The big railroads hired thousands of Chinese back then to help lay rail through the Rockies and on west to California. They called them the coolies, a hardworking people who would labor long hours and for little pay, almost like slaves. Their descendants were good folks, and I was proud to claim many of them as friends. And I was certainly proud of Michelle, the lovely mother of my handsome young son.

  Gold Rush was isolated. The only manmade construction between town and Mount Rainy Biotronics’ five-story facility, tucked into the south face of the mountain, was a winding, four-mile stretch of asphalt. In the other direction, the same blacktop slowly meandered down seventy-five miles to the nearest town of Summitview. It was only twenty-five miles if you were an eagle; however, over two hours away by car. Besides the two years away at Summit County Community College, this little town was the only bit of the world I’d really experienced or even wanted to. After all, I’d built up a respectable hardware business, and I was enjoying this nice little nugget of prosperity, also.

  Thinking of my business, my wife, and my son brought back my optimism.

  And just before two smiling body-builder types stepped in front of me from out of nowhere, I had assured myself that the rest of my day would go my way.

  Where are these people coming from?

  * * *

  Dr. Xiang sat behind the control console in the restricted area at Mount Rainy Biotronics. He glared at the Subject #374 Signal gauge. The needle pointed to the left side, in the red. The technician stood behind him, near the wall.

  The service team had left several minutes earlier, finding nothing wrong with any of the computer monitoring equipment in the control room. They suspected the trouble with the surveillance equipment was in either the communication lines or the individual cameras and microphones. They speculated that the subject might somehow be responsible for not only that, but also, for the loss of signal to the implanted enhancement device. But Xiang didn’t go along with them. The receiving switch on the back of the subject’s neck was electromagnetically protected, encased in a thin copper shell.

  Xiang tapped the signal gauge — the needle stayed in the red. “Dailey, you are sure you saw no one else with or near him?” Xiang asked into the mike. “A camera technician reported he saw a strange woman in green while he was repairing the camera on the light pole at position seven. That same technician said he thought he saw movement toward the tree line after you arrived — ‘an odd sort of blur’ he said.”

  The chief’s voice came back over the speaker, “Just Banks, Doctor.”

  Xiang was skeptical. He had known Dailey nearly thirty years, had been inside his head, through every synapse and brain cell of his mind in one way or another, and he noted a slight hesitation, a sort of hitch, in his voice. For the time being, he had no reason not to believe him, however.

  Sometimes a little pressure helped bring out the truth. Xiang said, “After you radioed, I called Banks’ daughter and told her their neighbors had been complaining about her father’s irrational talk again.” Xiang drummed his long fingers and focused on the mike in front of him, pausing only long enough to give Dailey a chance to realize to what he was leading up. “That old man has long outlived his usefulness. From the beginning, he was the most difficult to influence. Has always been troublesome, prideful.” He paused again as if to consider a solution. “He’s become a liability.”

  “Come on, Doctor Xiang,” Dailey said. “He’s harmless.”

  Xiang smiled. The mediocre minds of his subjects made them like puppets. It was hardly a challenge to direct them where he wished. “The older Banks gets, the looser his tongue becomes. He has forgotten our agreement, and his family may get
suspicious from his senile talk.” Dr. Xiang sighed heavily, theatrically. “He will have a heart attack tonight and die in his sleep.”

  “But Doctor Xiang, be reasonable. He didn’t — ”

  “Would you rather his entire family have a very unfortunate auto accident — perhaps a house fire?”

  Chief Dailey sounded frustrated and pleading. “I don’t think that will be necessary — ”

  “Enough, Chief Dailey. Banks no longer concerns you. Now, I want you to stay clear of our subject for a while. I fear his device is still on, and we have lost the control signal to turn it off. You have yet to outlive your usefulness, and you should be glad of that. In the meantime, go to the hardware store and meet a runner there. He will give you new eyeglasses with an implanted transponder chip for the subject, and you are to place them in the desk drawer. Use the back door so you will not be seen.”

  Xiang released the Radio Speak button and punched a key on a small keypad labeled Intercom. He selected a three-digit number and pressed Intercom Speak.

  “Vanzandtz,” came a quick reply.

  “Captain Vanzandtz, you must replace the stemoceiver implant’s antenna microchip on Subject 374.”

  “I’ll have an operating room prepared and assign a surgeon, Doctor. When should we expect him?”

  “No, Captain. You don’t understand. It has stopped working.” Again, he looked at the meter on the console labeled Subject #374 Signal. He tapped it once more. Still, it didn’t move from the left side of the gauge, pointing in the red to zero. “We have lost control. He is in town, on foot, and I believe his device is still armed.” He looked at the tracking screen. Still there was no arrow indicating the subject’s location. Xiang hoped the new eyeglasses would remedy that. “Several of the surveillance cameras are down and we’ve lost tracking. However, we believe he is on his way to the hardware store.”

  “We have no control? And you want me to replace the receiver antenna, Doctor Xiang?”

  “You heard me correctly. The antenna microchip must be placed within three inches of the device for it to be effective. That means you will have to stick it on the middle of the back of his collar so he will not notice it. It will require approximately ten seconds to connect with the device and work. Once it links, we can shut the enhancement device down. We do not need to test his abilities any further. I am satisfied. With the device disabled, he will be able to continue his practical memory phase. This way we do not risk the schedule, harm to Subject 374 or the loss of any of our personnel. We will operate on the plane tomorrow and make the necessary adjustments.”

  “Can’t we isolate him, doctor? Put him down and bring him in to do it right?”

  Xiang’s jaw tightened involuntarily, but he did not raise his voice. “Do not question me, Captain. We do not have the luxury of time. We are keeping a schedule here. He must be through his practical phase, ready and on his way to placement by early morning tomorrow.”

  “But Doctor, can’t we send someone better suited — ”

  “No. You have the greatest knowledge of the subject and the situation.”

  “And that’s why — ”

  Xiang finally raised his voice sharply. “No, Captain Vanzandtz, you are not indispensable! No one is. Do not forget that!” He disliked losing even the smallest strand of the controlling cable he held over the project and its people.

  He looked at the digital clock on the console and shook his head. The time was seven forty-five. After a deep breath, he regained his grip with what he felt was a reasonable consolation. “You may take your pistol armed only with sedative darts. But use it solely for emergency. Now, enough delay. You must go now. A van is on its way to pick you up. The driver has the stemoceiver antenna. Good luck, Captain.”

  As Xiang quickly released the Intercom Speak button, Yumi’s voice came over the speaker. “Forgive me, Dr. Xiang, but Consul General Meng grows impatient.”

  Xiang’s lip curled. He wondered what his superiors would do if he were to murder a diplomat.

  Chapter 9

  “Mr. Weller?” the first smiling man asked as we met on the sidewalk. He was the taller of the two men stepping toward me, blocking my path.

  They were both younger guys — probably early twenties — well-built and with thick necks. Both had short, military-style haircuts. They wore Polo shirts, the taller one light green and the other a medium grey. Their tan slacks were nicely pleated and they had on black athletic shoes. I had no reason to fear them, still I was very apprehensive — they wore no blue.

  “Yes,” I answered, not returning their smiles.

  “Could we speak with you for a moment, sir?” the other man said, politely. He was stockier than the taller guy, his arms like thick tree limbs.

  “What? What’s this about?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Weller,” the taller man said. “Please don’t be alarmed.” He glanced around us. Seeming satisfied no one was within a hundred yards, he produced a five by seven photo from his back pocket. “Do you recognize this man?”

  They both kept their smiles, but behind their pleasant faces I recognized a seriousness that was a bit frightening. I wondered if they were detectives, FBI or possibly with the IRS. But, if they were, they should have identified themselves. It made me leery. Then I noticed a smudge of dark green on the tall guy’s ear — it reminded me of camo paint, the kind you see soldiers wearing in the movies to camouflage their faces in order to blend in with the vegetation of their surroundings. Evidently GI Joe missed a spot before getting dressed up in his civilian attire. Focusing on that ear, I saw something else odd — some kind of tiny earpiece or hearing aid.

  The guy must have noticed, because he angled his head so I couldn’t see. I shot a glance at the other one’s ears and saw that he had one, too.

  Hesitantly, I averted my gaze away from them and frowned at the picture proffered in front of me. I took it and studied it briefly. “What’s his name?” I asked finding the face vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

  “Daniel McMaster,” the tall guy said.

  At first, the name didn’t register. Then Harvey came back — with his more excited but cordial voice this time. Geez, Superman! That’s the guy’s name from your dream.

  I quickly realized he was correct. I flashed back to this morning’s dream. That was the name on the tab of the file that laid open on the Air Force Lieutenant’s desk. I wasn’t about to tell these two that the only time I’d ever heard the name was in a dream. But how was I going to explain the surprised look I was giving them, now?

  “Uh,” I said dumbly, trying to buy some time for thought. What was this all about? I’d heard of déjà vu, but this was ridiculous. How could I have dreamed up a name while sleeping that two men would ask me about a couple of hours later? “What was the name again?”

  My two interrogators glanced at each other as if to say, Uh-huh, we got a winner!

  The stocky man repeated, “Daniel McMaster.”

  “What’s this about?” I asked. “Has he done something?”

  “No, Mr. Weller, nothing like that. We think he might be in some kind of trouble and need our help.”

  “Why are you asking me? Who told you that I might know him?”

  Now the looks on their faces were more like we’re losing him when they glanced at each other.

  “Please, Mr. Weller. Daniel McMaster needs our help. Could you just tell us where he is?”

  I looked at them skeptically, growing tired of their evasive friendliness. “The name is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve heard it. And I don’t have a clue as to where he is. Why don’t you ask Tom Dailey,” I said, shoving the photo back to the shorter man.

  “Tom Dailey?” he asked.

  “The chief of police,” I said. “He should be driving by again any minute.”

  I began walking around the two men who were still blocking my way. But the short stocky one grabbed for my arm, and I didn’t like it. I felt heat, an ache building in my temples an
d the tingling at the base of my head again, like before the television blew up.

  My reaction was quicker and more offensive than even I expected. I blocked his right hand with my own left, brought my arm over his and locked his forearm behind my back. With pressure on his elbow, I bent it in a direction it wasn’t intended to bend. With a quick jerk, I could have easily broken his arm.

  My right arm cocked, the V of my hand was aimed at his throat. I didn’t know where I’d come up with such a move — TV, movies, a demonstration I’d once seen — but I did know that in less than a second, I could crush the man’s trachea, quickly causing him to either suffocate or drown in his own blood. By the surprised looks on both men’s faces, they knew it, also.

  The ache intensified in my temples and the men’s faces contorted. The tall man stumbled back behind the guy I had a hold of, holding the sides of his head. I saw the look of incredible pain on the shorter man’s face and it shocked me. I didn’t wish to hurt anyone. I released him.

  Immediately, the ache subsided and both guys tried to shake it off, their eyes wide.

  “Go away,” I said. “Go away and leave me alone.”

  They did as I had ordered, turning quickly and then sprinting between the two houses we had been standing in front of. I watched them disappear. But they didn’t disappear into the distance or run behind a house. They seemed to reach for something next to one of the homes, and then they . . . just simply vanished — leaving my sight in a blur, blending in with scenery. Did they just evaporate? It made me wonder if I had hallucinated the entire thing or at least their departure. It could only have something to do with my concussion, I was sure.

  Getting over my astonishment, I became angry, but not at the disappearing men — more so at myself. Had I overreacted? Had they really planned to attack me? I could have seriously hurt — even killed — one of them. And what was happening inside my head, physically — the intense pain and pressure that built so suddenly.

  I hurried on, mulling over all this, and decided that the first thing I should do when I got to my store was to call Mish — hoping the phones were working by then — and tell her to be watchful for the two men, should they come by the house. They knew my name, so they were sure to know where I lived — and where I worked if they wanted to pursue this matter further. I’d also call Tom Dailey and report the incident to him — make sure he kept an eye on the house, too.