CHAPTER 29
Mel decided it was best to put a reasonable distance between himself and John in order to protect John from further suspicion that might be aroused by certain activities. As it turned out, John's house had been bugged. The good news was that the technology was much more limited than an Internet bug, and John had thought clearly enough to keep the transmitter in the closet. After staging a little chat in the living room on customizing music programs that could further John's career (which included the mention of going to Phoenix to a specialized electronics store), the pocket sized transmitter Brewster had left behind was returned to the linen closet between a few blankets.
While John stood at the kitchen stove making oatmeal, Mel took several snapshots of Jillian and Valerie with his cell phone. After breakfast, Mel took the Land Rover and made the four-hour trip to Phoenix, where he rented a box at a mail station, did a little shopping, and then finally rented a motel room on Van Buren. He'd had one run‑in with two of Brewster's men – actually, one was a woman – stationed at the turnoff to the main highway leading to Sandstone. Thanks in part to the earlier staged conversation between himself and John, Brewster's men had let him pass without much ado.
According to the information Jillian had given him, she was twenty‑nine years old. He needed to obtain a birth certificate for the woman and one for the child. They would also require passports. Visas were not necessary to enter the U.K. Without a visa, they could remain in England for up to six months. And sometime before the six months ended, Mel would see to it that the woman and child got new identification, which would make them ‘citizens,’ and nullify the need for visas. The process was simple, and one that a dear old friend, Arthur Billings, could handle quickly. With a birth certificate, he could get a Social Security Number. With a Social Security Number he could get a driver's license. And with a driver's license, he could get a passport. All of which could be sent to Mel's mailbox within a week. The documents would look and feel like the real thing. The best part about it: they'd all check out, as well. If all went well, as soon as his business with the FBI was complete, Jillian and Valerie would have everything needed to leave the country.
One of the many problems he could foresee was getting Jillian and the child out of John's house. He'd met Valerie this morning. She was a small tyke, small enough to squeeze into one of the crates he'd brought and definitely light enough to carry. But Jillian...
Jillian could not be smuggled out in a crate. Getting her out of that house would be next to impossible. That, however, would be John's concern.
Now that he had partially absorbed the biggest shock of his life – Jillian's uncanny ability to heal herself – Mel was able to sit back and dissect her story piece by piece. He had a few more questions that needed to be asked. Of the many things that puzzled him about her situation, two concerned him the most. First: How did she know that her brother had committed suicide? She evidently wasn't there to see it happen. And if there had been a write‑up about it in the paper, how could she be so certain that the FBI didn’t fabricate the story. So, was it possible that her brother was still alive?
Which led to the second part: It was important to know how the FBI had repeatedly tracked her down. According to her story, she'd been all over the country, never staying in a single town for more than a couple of months at a time before they'd get wind of her.
If she’d been doing something foolish, such as letting her mouth run to one of her temporary neighbors; allowing herself to be seen in too many public places; performing one of her 'mighty miracles' where someone might see; or more likely: contacting old friends and relatives whose phones might be tapped, Mel had to put a stop to it now. Otherwise, getting her off the continent wouldn't be enough. Because, if the habit continued, making it possible for them to trace her to the U.K., then it was just as feasible that he might be implicated in her flee from the country. In other words: He'd have the fucking CIA breathing down his back. Jillian struck him as a rational woman, and yet, she had to be doing something wrong, something to keep drawing attention to herself.
Something...
<<>>
The last nine miles of road leading Mel back to John’s desert dwelling was a mixture of slush and mud, which would explain the filthy condition of the Land Rover. Climbing the hills required nerves of steel. And one hill in particular that half-looped up and around a mesa in a way that had his heart stuck in his throat even after that hill stood a quarter mile or so behind. The nine miles of roads between the main highway and John’s house weren’t really roads at all, just a seemingly endless series of bumps and ruts, making it impossible to drive faster than twenty miles per hour without having his teeth rattle. What he found most interesting were the trees. Pinyon pine, scrub pine, juniper. They looked lifeless and stale, reminiscent of something you might find in the yard of a haunted mansion. He supposed, in its own bland way, the desert country possessed a certain beauty. It offered quiet, solitude, which was a plus if you were into that sort of thing.
But Mel, although he valued his time alone more than he valued the company of a willing woman, preferred the city. He felt a certain kind of security in knowing he could throw open any window of his house and scream for help, even though chances were no one would answer the call. Although his answering machine picked up every voice call placed to his residence, it was nice to know he had a phone there if it were needed. If ever forced to live in a nothing wasteland like this, he would survive, but that would be the extent of it.
It made him wonder about John, worry about John. The man had shut out the world shortly after he’d lost his family. It wasn’t healthy. Neither did it seem fair. It was, nonetheless, John’s way. So Mel had refrained from interfering, hoping the guy would come around. Now, because of what seemed to be the worst crises to hit the planet since organized religion, John was more alive than he’d been during the past five years. Was it blessing or curse, Mel wondered.
The only way to decide that was to play it out to the end. Mel’s determination held firm. Not just for the sake of friendship (although that was a great part of it), not because he felt obligated to Jillian (although she was quite a beautiful woman), but because his curiosity rose to all time high. The thought of never dying. The concept of infinity and what it may bring. To be living through one era after another and seeing all there is to see…and more. No, immortality should not be sold to the highest bidder. And yet, it could have its place in society.
Had Shakespeare been allowed to live for all eternity, if men like Galileo and Isaac Newton possessed immortality, the world would be a better planet. Now, it was possible. Those who would dedicate their lives to The Sciences and The Arts could receive the ultimate reward. Instead of striving for the Nobel Prize, those deserving few could opt for eternity without death.
“The cleverest minds,” he stated. “The gifted men of vision. The elite. The peacemakers.” He grinned at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Me.”
<<>>
Two days after Barnes’ reassignment, Laurel decided she didn't care for Andrews very much. She went from working an eight-hour day, to working a sixteen-hour day. Someone had to maintain a post at the cutoff to San Pablo Road to check the desert dwellers who wanted to drive into town. Being stuck with the same person sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, was like having a bad rash. She couldn't really complain about Andrews' behavior towards her, unless lack of interest could be categorized as a crime. He behaved as a gentleman. He didn't tell uncomely jokes or sit in a corner mumbling to himself.
She had, however, misinterpreted the storm she'd noticed behind his dark eyes. Yes, a storm brewed there, one that made her perfectly uncomfortable. He knew things the rest of them didn't know. And Andrews didn’t seem inclined to share his insight with anyone. He'd let that English guy, Talbot, through the roadblock without even bothering to check the back end of the vehicle. Had he been so easy on everyone else he'd encountered, she might have viewed him as a pushover. But w
hen the Kearneys stopped for the inspection, Andrews had gone through their van, opening up Mrs. Kearney's suitcases (it seemed as if the Kearneys were through talking about divorce and had decided to do something about it), checking the compartment for the spare tire, looking under the hood for the smallest piece of incriminating evidence, while the two detainees stood idly by on the side of the road.
The same went for the Detmers. And Mr. Bain. And the Foremans. Now that they were stuck in that damn shack with the dirt floor again, Laurel decided to press her luck and ask a few questions. No, Andrews wasn't the type to get violent if someone tried to invade his thoughts. He was, however, quite capable of giving her a cold and determined stare that she'd just as soon never see again.
Laurel got up from the chair and poured herself a cup of coffee from the thermos. Casually, she strolled over to the plastic that posed as a window to where Andrews stood with his hands stuffed deeply into his pants pockets.
"Do you really think she's still alive?"
Andrews didn't have to ask whom Laurel referred to. The woman had a one-track mind – obsessed, way beyond the call of duty, with Jillian Braedon. He shook his head, not bothering to turn around. "Could be."
"Brewster still thinks something's going on at the Mills' residence."
"Yeah?" he said, glancing at Laurel over his shoulder. "Then why hasn't he done something about it?"
"I guess he's waiting Mills out. The guy has celebrity status. That puts a lot of pressure on Brewster."
"Pressure?" he said, turning around. He shook his downcast head, lips held firmly together. "The only pressure he's under is staying alive. And he's going about it the wrong way."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You just don't get it. Nobody does. No one knows the real reason we're here."
Laurel took a smooth sip from the Styrofoam cup, and then said, "I suppose you do?"
He turned back towards the window, standing in silence. He had no doubts: The Braedon woman was very much alive. Since the night of the storm, she’d stayed with John Mills. As for Talbot, he’d flown in not to instruct Mills on computer software, but to help the woman escape the FBI. No. Correction: Talbot wasn't helping her to escape the FBI, for that particular agency couldn't care one way or another if the woman lived or died or took a cruise to Hawaii. Undoubtedly, if they had knowledge of the special talent the woman possessed, they'd come after her.
But the way Andrews had it figured, the only people who knew about the Braedon woman, were the five people he worked with, and two others: John Mills and Melvin Talbot. The facts spoke for themselves.
The FBI doesn't resort to stealing in order to fund a project. That, however, was how this particular project had subsisted. They had no contacts. No one to whom to report, save Brewster. The order to terminate the woman gave another reason for doubting. And it wasn't just the woman they wanted destroyed, but the child, as well – and anyone else who happened upon the secret. Does a Federal agency conduct business that way? Killing innocent American children? Andrews didn't think so. Not deliberately, anyway.
The part that concerned him most, however, remained much more personal than that. The problem with his memory. Facts, he could remember, but the way in which he came by much of his factual knowledge eluded him. He couldn't remember ever going to school. He couldn't recollect the faces of his own parents. He had a driver's license, but couldn't recall taking the test.
Neither could he remember ever making a decision to join the FBI.
He couldn't remember having friends, except the five people with whom he worked, and that didn't count, because he didn't consider them friends, just coworkers. It seemed as if everything he knew had been programmed into his brain. The only difference he could find between his mind and a computer was that he often asked the question: What am I?
The most frightening part: he knew the answer to that question.
And, although Brewster did his best to pretend otherwise, Brewster knew, too...or at least suspected the truth. It was the only explanation as to why the man wouldn't make a move on Jillian Braedon.
Fact: two of his associates had been killed.
Fact: the creature that killed them was brought into this world through the imagination of a woman.
It scared Andrews. The implications of what he might soon have to face...if he followed orders. The handful of people he might soon have to kill...if he wanted to have any chance of survival.
CHAPTER 30
Because he thoroughly enjoyed every opportunity to brag, Mel didn't waste a moment telling Jillian that her new ID could be picked up within a week. He explained how he'd E-mailed the pictures he'd taken that morning to his friend Arthur Billings, for the driver's license (American, for the state of Arizona) and passports. He explained how Arthur would go about the task of setting her up with a 'borrowed' birth certificate. He rambled on about the beautiful countryside between Heber and Payson, which was mostly mountains and tall pines. Then went on to say how it paled beside the beauty of England. And when he finished, he flashed a smile and said: "Any questions?"
She had at least a dozen, and didn't know where to begin. The least of which was: Where do you get all your spunk and energy?
Mel, taking her silence as a 'no,' then said, "Good. I do, however, have a few questions for you." He smiled at Valerie, who'd just walked into the living room, then said, "Don't you have a few dolls to play with in the other room?" And as soon as Valerie left with a sulky scowl on her face, he returned his attention to the woman.
<<>>
It turned out that Mel had been right. Jillian was smart enough to have realized the phones of friends and family could have been tapped. And he was right again; she’d been desperate enough to try it anyway. According to Jill, about a year and a half ago, she’d called her distant aunt, Betty, who in turn gave her a message she’d received six months back via the U.S. Postal system. The message read that her brother, Richard, had killed himself, and that Dr. Neas had been with Richard when it happened. Neas, in turn, used that opportunity to escape Brewster’s men, and could be found the first Friday of every month, twelve o’clock noon, at the snake exhibit at the San Diego Zoo.
Jillian, who lived in Florida at the time, made the trip to California, eager for more information. She’d found Neas just where he’d said he would be, and she’d found much more: Six of Brewster’s men, including Brewster himself, waiting for them. Neas, Jillian and Valerie were then taken into custody. During which, Neas had been shot in the arm.
“I had one of my nightmares, that night. Two of the men who guarded me were left dead. When that happened, I took their guns, ran from the room where they were keeping me, found Valerie, and forced them to let us go. I don’t know what happened to Neas. They said he was gone. Maybe they were lying...I really don’t know. If not for Valerie, I’d have forced the issue. But I couldn’t stick around placing my daughter’s life in more jeopardy. If he’s dead, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let Betty give me that message over the phone.”
“What about all the other times they found you, Jillian?” Mel asked. “What were the circumstances, then? Did you call your aunt again?”
John came into the living room and announced that dinner was served. Instead of turning around and going into the dining room, he stood there a few moments, bothered by what he saw. Mel and Jillian sat together on the couch, closely together. He was struck with, not quite jealousy, rather the need to protect her. The way Jillian fidgeted with her fingers concerned him. She bit down on her bottom lip, eyes seemingly focused on nothing. She was tense, uncomfortable. And Mel was either oblivious to her turmoil, or simply didn’t give a damn.
With Mel capable of causing such a reaction here, John could only imagine the position Jillian would be in once she got to London, and had to rely solely upon Mel to lead her through until she could make it on her own.
“Is everything all right?” John asked.
“Fine,” Mel replied.
&nbs
p; “Jillian?” John said, raising a brow.
“We’ll be there in just a minute, John,” she said, and smiled. “Mel and I were just going over some of the details.”
When John left the room, she turned to Mel and said, “If I can put an end to what causes the nightmares, Brewster won’t be able to find me again...I hope.”
<<>>
The chess match between John and Mel started shortly after Jillian and Valerie went to bed. The marble board rested on the kitchen table. Mel, who had the side of red, made the first move, putting his king's knight into play.
"If things don't go according to plan, John, are you prepared to spend the rest of your life in an American prison?"
John cleared the way for his queen's bishop, and then folded his arms on the table, staring soberly at the board. "They won't put me in prison, Mel. I know too much."
"Scares the shit out of me," Mel said, pondering over his next move. "We're making history, here. History that won't go down in any books...if we're successful. When this is all over, I hope you won't mind too much if I knock the hell out of you for getting me involved."
"Not at all," John replied without batting an eye.
"Not that you had any choice," Mel said, putting his queen's bishop pawn into play. "I'd probably want to knock the hell out of you if you hadn't involved me in this mess. I mean, how many people can honestly say they are responsible for saving the world?”
"There may come a time in the very near future when you'll eat those words, Mel. Risking your life for your ideals and actually dying for them are two different things. You have a lot more at stake than I. I've already lived my life. But you...you have your whole life ahead of you. So if you want out, I'll understand."
"I'm in," Mel replied. "You know me. No one talks me into anything I don't want to do. And I want this. I want it badly."
HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS Page 18