I, Weapon

by Vaughn Heppner

  ***

  A blonde secretary in a short skirt ushered Parker into the office. There were old portraits on the walls. They showed Forty-Niner gold miners with wash pans, western attire and six shooters.

  William Frances, the sanatorium director, sat behind a large maplewood desk. He had a thick wave of dark hair and penetrating eyes behind rimless glasses. He had big hands, which he folded on the desk.

  William nodded to the secretary, who turned around, quietly shutting the door as she left.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” Parker said.

  “As a matter of fact, no,” William said.

  “Oh?”

  “You want to move Jocelyn. Am I right?”

  Parker raised her eyebrows in surprise.

  William Frances was smart, probably the smartest man she knew. He had taught her so many things. The director was a psychiatric genius. His guess just now was shrewd, but a little too good to believe.

  Parker pulled a small gun out of her purse. She had taught Bannon so many Supreme Court cases that she had learned a few of them herself. This one had stuck because she’d practiced on a pistol range ever since telling Bannon about the District of Columbia v. Heller decision in 2008. The Supreme Court held that the Second Amendment protected an individual’s right to possess a firearm for traditionally lawful purposes in federal enclaves. One of those lawful purposes was defending your home. It had been the first Supreme Court case to decide whether the Second Amendment protected an individual’s right to keep and bear arms.

  Their eyes locked. William must have seen the death in her eyes, as he paled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t leave a trail for my father to follow. You know about my stepsister and—”

  “Alpha-six-red-red-Cincinnati-Grover,” William said in a rush.

  Parker blinked rapidly. Wheels turned in her mind. She found it difficult to concentrate, and then it amazed her that she held a gun.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “Put the .22 on the table,” the man said.

  Reluctantly, Parker did just that, so the weapon clunked down.

  The unfamiliar man with wavy black hair reached across the desk, taking the gun, checking it and clicking on the safety. He stood and tucked the gun in his waistband.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Parker said. “Why are my thoughts so fuzzy?”

  He opened a drawer and took out a plastic bottle. “You need to take one of these,” he said.

  Parker shook her head.

  He smiled. It was so peaceful, so calming. “I’m your doctor. You came here a long time ago. Your father sent you.”

  “I did?” Parker asked.

  “Take a pill. Everything will become much clearer then.”

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “Your father just phoned me. This is at his request.”

  “Oh, Daddy called?”

  “That’s right.” The man pried off the lid and dumped a green pill into it. He handed the lid to her.

  Parker hesitated. Her thoughts were fuzzy and she felt strange. If Daddy had phoned—she picked up the pill, opened her mouth and popped the grainy green thing onto her tongue.

  The man had a cup of water. He handed it to her. She smiled, accepting the container. He was nice. She sipped, swallowing the green pill.

  -46-

  Max studied the tactical situation.

  The helipad was two football-field lengths away from the sanatorium. The three-story mansion looked like a French palace from the era of the Sun King, Louis XIV. Behind the house were tennis courts, an Olympic-size pool and the beginning of the flower fields. The front of the palatial estate had a large driveway, bushes, trees and spacious lawns. The driveway bled into the twisting road that snaked down the hill.

  Max took up position on a small water tower, on the platform that circled the storage tank. He set up a tripod mount and lay on his belly. With the scope, he judged distances, and he took three ranging shots, plugging a fern, a tree trunk and the base of a statue. The sound suppressor made sure no one heard anything too loud, although several crows and a noisy flock of yellow-beaked magpies took flight. After each shot, he adjusted his sights to match the impact of the bullet.

  The hill road curved past marble statues, none of them taller than a man, past ferns, bushes and trees. It was a scenic, shadowed drive, with plenty of places to hide. It would also make his position on the water tower difficult to spot right away.

  Max waited after setting up. He checked his watch every three or four minutes. After seven minutes, he climbed to his feet and walked on the steel grid. He was twenty-three feet above the ground and the water tower blocked his view of the mansion and helipad. It took fourteen steps to bring both into view.

  So far, he hadn’t seen Parker or this mysterious Jocelyn. Why did Parker care about the woman anyway?

  Then Max heard a motorcycle.

  It can’t be him. There’s just no way.

  A man appeared around a curve, roaring toward the hill. Since Max had been here, three cars had passed. None had moved with such determination. There was something about the rider, the way he sat, cocked his head, something. Max checked the motorcycle’s position and then stared through the scope.

  The squinting rider leaped into view as wind whipped past his short hair. It was Bannon.

  Butterflies swirled, but Max was used to the sensation. His fingers tightened around the rifle. When the rider turned onto the hill’s twisty road, Max ran his tongue across his upper teeth.

  Now we’re going to see.

  Max pressed the stock against his shoulder and he zeroed in on the rider. He studied the way the motorcycle blasted past trees, past ferns and statues. Bannon went in and out of shadows. Max opened his mouth as he moved the rifle, leading Bannon. The tense trigger finger pulled smoothly. Phut! The rifle-butt slammed against Max’s shoulder. He watched through the scope, not daring to move.

  The motorcycle went down. “Yeah,” Max whispered.

  ***

  One second Bannon roared up the sanatorium road. He flashed in and out of shadows, past trees, past statues, bushes and riotous-colored flowers. He judged the road, flexing his stomach muscles as the rear tire slid on a spot of gravel. He righted the vehicle and continued to travel much too fast, his reflexes superb and his timing impeccable. Every muscle and brain cell focused on the task.

  The next second a bullet burned across his right thigh, smashed against the engine block and blew the bike down.

  I don’t have time for this. Then Bannon was rolling, jointed flesh and bone bouncing and flipping over the road like a bowling ball. He let himself relax, even though his mind screamed to tighten every muscle and tendon. He rolled, flipped and crashed into a bush. It cushioned him and propelled him backward as the nearby earth sprayed upward like water from a dolphin’s blowhole.

  Someone’s shooting at me.

  Bannon ached as he looked up at a blurry tree. His head had struck the road several times. Luckily, because he’d held himself loosely enough, none of the strikes had been a direct slam but more like a stone skipping over water. His left arm felt as if someone had salted it with fire. Blood dripped down his badly scratched face. Fortunately, he still had his eyesight. His left foot throbbed. It had caught between the gear and brake pedals and had twisted as it wrenched out. There were abrasions on his hands, cuts on his arms and a laceration along his neck.

  He squinted at the bike, spotting the bullet damage. Someone had shot at him, but the person wasn’t shooting now.

  He scanned his position. There was an embankment above. The sniper must be upward on the hill. The shooter didn’t fire any probing shots, meaning the man was a pro. A professional waited for a real shot.

  Was this one of the snipers from last night? Yeah, probably.

  Bannon closed his eyes. Spots exploded on his retinas. He opened his eyes. After several seconds, Bannon took a deep breath, held it and slo
wly let it out. He did that several times, increasing the depth of his breathing. He suspected that he had little time left. Concentrating, summoning his final reserves, Bannon grunted and rolled onto his hands and knees. Dizziness made the world go fuzzy. He didn’t wait this time, but crawled and kept crawling. The pavement burned against his cut hands. Breathing made his ribs throb. It didn’t matter.

  Jocelyn, honey, I’m almost there.

  ***

  “Superman is down,” Max said with a laugh.

  He’d waited for Bannon to show himself. The assassin had done nothing after going down. It didn’t mean the man was dead, but it probably meant he was injured.

  Going in, killing him for sure—and pissing on his corpse—that would take some cautious work. A wounded assassin could still be a deadly one. Likely, with the spill he’d witnessed, Bannon was either dead or too seriously hurt to do much more than wait with a gun, hoping for one shot to kill his killer.

  Max grinned until he heard the helicopter, the engine revving and the blades beginning to rotate.

  Should he let Parker leave without him? No. He needed to be with her when she called the Controller. Max had killed or incapacitated Bannon. Now he needed to figure out Parker’s game.

  Max grabbed his rifle and hurried to the metal ladder. He shouldered the rifle, put on gloves and grabbed the outer edge of the ladder. He pressed his boots there too. He slid down to the ground twenty-three feet below and sprinted for the helicopter.

  Whoa, what in the hell was this?

  A large man with wavy black hair forced Parker toward the chopper. She wore cuffs behind her back and looked confused.

  With a burst of speed, Max covered ground faster than Parker and the man. The man watched him, but didn’t seem worried. There had to be a reason for that.

  “Okay,” Max said, leveling his rifle at the man. “You have some explaining to do.”

  “I’m William Frances, the director of this sanitarium.”

  “Who gives a—”

  “I work for the Controller,” William said.

  “Words,” Max said.

  William reached into his pocket.

  Max put his finger on the rifle trigger.

  “I’m taking out my cellphone,” William said. “I’m calling the Controller so you can talk to him.”

  “Are you okay?” Max asked Parker.

  She nodded meekly, which seemed all wrong.

  “Here,” William said, reaching out with the cellphone.

  “Put it on the ground and back away,” Max said.

  William obeyed.

  Warily, while keep an eye and his rifle on the director, Max crouched and picked up the cell. “This is Max.”

  “Do you recognize my voice?” Griffith asked.

  “Sure do, boss. What’s going on?”

  “You will listen to William’s instructions,” Griffith said.

  “He has your daughter’s hands cuffed behind her back,” Max said.

  “Yes. I instructed him to do so.”

  Max’s eyes narrowed. There was more going on here, much more. “I don’t get that, sir.”

  “You do get that I am in charge of ATS?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. But I need an explanation for this.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “If this is about Bannon,” Max said, “I ought to tell you that he followed us on a motorcycle. I shot him and he’s down.”

  “He’s dead?” Griffith asked.

  “Maybe,” Max said.

  “You didn’t see it?” Griffith asked sharply.

  “He was going fast when I shot him. He spilled and he wasn’t wearing a helmet. If he isn’t dead yet, he isn’t going anywhere.”

  There was another pause, longer this time. “Give the phone back to William,” Griffith said.

  “He wants to talk to you,” Max told the sanatorium director.

  “You can lower your gun, you know,” William said, as he approached warily.

  “Sure,” Max said, lowering the barrel toward the ground. He stepped up and gave the man the cell.

  “Yes?” William asked, with the phone to his ear. “Oh, I see.” He looked at Max while saying into the phone, “We’re on our way.” He then cut the connection and put the cell away.

  “Griffith doesn’t want to talk to me anymore?” Max asked.

  “Oh,” William said, “That’s right. Here, catch.” He tossed the cellphone to Max.

  Max caught it neatly, and he half turned away. He peered at the cellphone, using his thumb to go to contacts. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Director William Frances grab the gun in his waistband. Max had been expecting something like this. What was Griffith thinking telling an amateur to go up against the best?

  Max raised his rifle faster than William could draw. He shot the amateur three times. The first bullet entered the man’s stomach, the second his chest and the third blew out his face. The corpse toppled, hitting with a thud.

  Parker screamed, and she might have run away. Max moved fast, grabbing her arm and dragging her near the helicopter.

  “You got a problem with any of that?” Max shouted at the pilot.

  The pilot shook his head.

  “Quit crying,” Max told Parker. “We’re leaving.”

  “Why did you shoot him?” Parker asked.

  “Why did he handcuff you?” Max asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s Jocelyn?” Max asked.

  Parker stiffened as the color drained from her face.

  “We came here to get Jocelyn, Bannon’s wife,” Max said. “Instead, the dead prick over there handcuffed you. It seems like the Controller gave him the orders to do that. Why would your father give such orders?”

  “I don’t know,” Parker moaned. “My head…it hurts.”

  Max shoved Parker toward the chopper. It was time to leave. The Controller must have told the man to shoot him. Max was sure of that. Now he had to figure out what was going on.

  “Take her up!” he shouted at the pilot as they got in.

  Max shoved Parker into a seat. Then he plopped down himself, bent toward her and buckled the cuffed woman in.

  ***

  The suppressed shots electrified Bannon. He had worked his way up the hill, expecting slugs to come whizzing past his head, or worse, enter his body.

  His left foot ached and he moved slowly. Despite the pain, he broke into a staggering run. He trampled over tulips, reaching the lip of the hill in time to see the helicopter’s wheels lifting off the pad. It was the same aircraft from Great America or from the Institute.

  Parker must have Jocelyn.

  Bannon hesitated. His wife was alive, but she was leaving in the chopper. It was about sixty yards away. The machine’s front dipped down as it lifted.

  Time slowed for Bannon. If the helicopter got away, he would never see his wife again. Ever.

  He knew what he had to do. It was a risk, but here it was, the payoff for all his pain, for all his agonies.

  Bannon knelt, raised the gun and gripped it with two hands. He aimed deliberately and fired at the pilot.

  A hole appeared in the windshield. Immediately, the helicopter slewed. Bannon watched. The pilot toppled to the side and let go of the controls. The copter came down on its wheels, bounced, lifting into the air, and it came down again, hard with a screech of metal.

  -47-

  The first bounce pitched Parker against the restraints. The screech of metal and her forehead striking the seat in front of her brought a flood of similar memories to her numbed brain.

  It had been the most terrible moment of her life, the car accident on their trip to LA. The three of them had been laughing, having a wonderful time. Then a car going the other way had jumped the divider and careened head-on for them.

  Parker groaned. The code words Director Frances had spoken, the green pill he’d forced her to swallow and now this…mental barriers went down in her mind. Parker saw down a long corridor of years. She
saw back to the day, to the terrible accident.

  Yes, Bannon drove the car that day. He’d laughed, looking at her. He must have seen the horror stamped on her face. He’d turned and slammed on the brakes. It hadn’t helped, none of it.

  They hit the oncoming car head on. Metallic screeching had filled her universe and their car flipped. The world spun and then came pain, pain and crying.

  As she sat in the chopper, with her forehead throbbing, Parker thought back… She had—

  Her eyes widened in shock. She remembered looking over and seeing Bannon struggle. Blood had soaked his face. It had horrified her to see her husband—

  Bannon is my husband? But who am I? I’m…I’m…

  This didn’t make sense. She was Parker. Henry Griffith was her father. He had—

  “No,” she moaned. “No, no.” I’m Jocelyn!

  Tears filled her eyes, but not because of the pain in her head. No. It was because of the horrors that had been committed.

  The truth avalanched upon her in thunderous misery. All the things Henry Griffith, her stepfather, had done to her flashed into her memory. He had never been a good parent. He’d loved Parker, his real daughter, doting on her, and treating her—Jocelyn, his wife’s child—like trash.

  Parker had been a good sister. They had gotten along. There had never been a Grievance Journal. That had come from Griffith’s twisted mind. Yes, Jocelyn was beginning to see what had happened. Bannon hadn’t been the first mind subject. She was. Parker had been in the car with them. She’d been the only one not wearing a seatbelt.

  Parker’s death had overwhelmed Griffith. He’d become unhinged. He took her—Jocelyn—and using his new, twisted techniques, had turned her into Parker. Griffith grafted memories into her as he conceived his real daughter to be. Then he’d twisted her so she’d wanted revenge on Bannon, a sick irony. But it was Griffith who had wanted the revenge.

  “Oh my darling,” Jocelyn whispered, thinking about Bannon. “The things I’ve done to you…”

  She’d never realized what a perverted bastard her stepfather really was until this moment. She, as Parker, had memories of doing things to Jocelyn. Those memories were false.