by Jason Brant
"You promised you would explain what was going on when he woke up, so let's hear it," Sammy said as she sat beside me on the bed. Her frazzled hair and dark eyes made her look strung out and exhausted.
Chuck sat like a statue, watching us.
"What I'm about to tell you is highly classified. Utter a word of this and you'll be tried for treason. Nothing leaves this room." Smith glared at us, letting his words sink in. "Have you heard about the murder of Senator McArthur?"
"Murder? I thought he killed himself at a press conference? And of course we've heard of it; CNN has been covering it nonstop for two days," I said.
"What hasn't been reported yet is that prior to Senator McArthur's suicide, he killed his wife and two children at their home in Silver Spring, MD."
"Whoa."
"The press is being told they are grieving in seclusion."
"Why cover that up? Someone will find out eventually."
"These murders are a matter of national security. Until this issue is resolved, their deaths will not be made public. McArthur was a member of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. He was the only politician, outside of President Thomas, who knew about the creation and operation of my anti-terrorism organization. His death was not a suicide."
This was heading in a direction I didn't like. Anytime anti-terrorism is involved, our elected officials like to write blank checks that often come back and bite us in the ass.
Sammy looked perplexed. "But he shot himself in the video that's been all over the internet."
Smith glanced over at Nami. "Queue up the DC3 footage, Ms. Williams." Focusing on us he said, "Are you aware of the eight federal employees who jumped from the top of the DoD Cyber Crimes Center?" We both shook our heads. "Yesterday afternoon eight people leaped to their deaths from the roof of the DC3 building. News stations are speculating that it was some kind of death pact. All eight of those people worked exclusively on digital forensics investigations and discovery with my organization."
Sammy sucked in a breath and held it, her hand covering her mouth.
That many people committing suicide in such dramatic fashion, all from the same organization, can't be a coincidence. How do you get someone to not only kill themselves but murder their loved ones?
I waited.
"Two days ago there were thirty people under my command. Now there are two. Three if you count Ms. Williams. The rest have disappeared or been murdered. The press have not picked up the story yet. They are too busy focusing on Senator McArthur and what they're calling the 'DC8.'"
Nami's head snapped away from her computer and looked at Smith. "Wait a second, no one told me this! Everyone who works for you gets killed? They said this was a routine operation and that you needed some tech assistance, not that I was going to be forced to hang myself in the shitter tomorrow!"
Smith barely acknowledged her. "In your line of work you don't get to pick your assignments, Ms. Williams. You do as you’re ordered."
Nami didn't like that answer, and seemed to be contemplating pushing the issue more, but decided to glower at her laptop screen instead.
Thirty people murdered in two days. How could that even happen?
"Who's hitting you? Terrorists? The Chinese?"
Sammy was getting anxious. "I don't understand what this has to do with us. Why did someone try to kill us with a bazooka?"
"The attempt was on Mr. Benson's life, not yours. You would have been collateral damage. Your involvement is coincidental."
For the first time in years I was actually talking to, let alone making progress with, a woman – when we were kidnapped and nearly killed. Now I was being told that she almost died because she was in the same room as me? Crap.
Smith shifted his gaze to me. "You were to be terminated because of an internal investigation my agency performed on you. Your name, address, and all other personal information had been collected and stored in our database. Those files were subsequently read and destroyed by our assailants. All other suspects we investigated have been murdered – you are the only remaining survivor."
Sammy gasped and reached for my hand. The warmth and tenderness of her touch comforted me, even in this insanity.
This made less sense by the second. When I joined the military after college, 9/11 had inspired me to help fight terrorists. Why would a covert anti-terrorism organization be investigating me? The only thing I’d worked on since being discharged was jaundice.
"Whoever you had doing your research must have been a typical overpaid government tool bag, because the only time I've ever even seen a terrorist was when I sighted them down my rifle. I have a purple heart for being wounded in Iraq! How could you suspect me of terrorism?" The accusations infuriated me.
"You misunderstand, Mr. Benson. You weren't suspected of being a terrorist. In fact, we are well beyond suspicion. We know, without question, that you are a telepath."
Chapter 7
Smith's eyes were locked on mine.
Somehow he knew the one thing I had never told anyone. That wasn't a piece of information you can just guess either. The drug they dosed me with still hadn't worn off enough for me to try and dig through his thoughts.
Sammy looked back and forth from Smith to me.
"Can you say that again? It sound liked you said 'telepath'," Sammy said.
The silence in the room was deafening.
“Telepath, as in mind reader? That's impossible.”
More silence.
Smith and I continued to stare at each other like dogs struggling for dominance.
“Am I being Punk'd?” Sammy asked as she looked around the room theatrically.
"Why would you think I'm a psychic? I've been locked away in my crappy apartment for years. Until this morning I'm pretty sure everyone in the building thought I was some kind of drug addict, blogger, or World of Warcraft player."
“We have software that scours the internet for keywords involving certain phenomena. Your former fiancée sent several electronic messages to her friends discussing your mental issues. She complained of you knowing certain secrets, and of your lacking emotions,” Smith said. "Her descriptions of you were picked up by our filters, which prompted a closer look by our agents."
It had been years since I’d seen her and she was still finding ways to screw up my life. One evening while I was laid up in Walter Reed, my fiancée, Elizabeth, had come to visit me. It was the first time I'd seen her since I'd been transferred back to the States. Still suffering from post-concussion syndrome, my cognitive abilities hadn't recovered yet. Though the echoes weren't debilitating yet, emotions from those around me were often overwhelming.
The moment she walked in I could feel her guilt washing over me. I tried to ignore it and just enjoy seeing her for the first time in more than six months. Her anxiety only worsened when she realized the extent of my injury. The visit became far too tense and uncomfortable so she didn't stay long. As she prepared to leave a thought bounced around inside my head. I knew that her remorse wasn't due to my trauma, but her adultery. I even knew his name and when their tryst had occurred, though I couldn't adequately explain to her how.
Eventually her denials turned to accusations. She attempted to place the blame for her infidelity on me – typical behavior from a person caught cheating. Fatigue settled in rapidly, as it often did during those first few months, so my memory of her leaving is hazy. What I do remember is that she left angry and ashamed. I haven't heard from her since. Anyone who could abandon someone in my condition didn't deserve my attention, so I never tried to contact her again.
"The subsequent investigation revealed your traumatic brain injury, PTSD, the voices, and your reclusiveness. We know everything you've done for the past five years. By looking at your credit card statements and internet history... "
"That's not even legal!" I don’t know why I bothered saying that. The Patriot Act let the government bend you over anytime they felt the desire.
"...we learned that you spent mor
e than three years intoxicated. A crude but effective tool for dampening your abilities. Shortly after Ms. Moore moved in you started researching meditation, exercise, and dietary measures to increase concentration. We know everything about you.”
He was right. After my encounter with Sammy in the hallway, I decided to change my life around. Fortunately, I didn't have as much trouble quitting the booze as I expected. Good genes I guess. The hard part started when I wasn't drunk anymore. My mind felt like a cave with a party in it, voices constantly bouncing around. For weeks they overpowered me.
During the day, when most of my neighbors were at work, I started focusing on one thought stream at a time. Eventually I could concentrate on that lone voice, controlling the flow of the others. I learned to view my mind as a muscle. By exercising it constantly, it grew more flexible and powerful.
I also found that physical conditioning helped me to control myself. That was when I started taking boxing lessons. The timing and rhythm of the sweet science integrated perfectly with the way I trained myself mentally. I took jiu-jitsu because it was the most exhausting thing I'd ever done, way beyond anything I did in the military. My body and mind felt stronger and more stable after every workout.
Less than two years later I'd gained back most of the weight I lost. While the voices were still there, they sounded like soft mumbles, as if the volume on a television had been turned way down. The background noise remained a constant frustration, but was now manageable.
Smith, somehow, knew all of this. There didn't seem to be much point in denying any of it.
"Do you know my shoe size too? So that's why you drugged me; you don't want me inside your head.”
“Correct. Opiates prohibit thought-transference.”
Sammy stared at me. “You can't expect me to believe this. Whatever they gave you is making you go along with this.” She looked at Nami. “You aren't buying this, are you?”
“Feels like we're on the Hogwarts Express, doesn't it? But apparently it's true,” Nami said. She gave Smith a dirty look. “What I didn't know was what happened to my predecessors.”
“Every one of you is nuts,” Sammy said as she walked over and sat down on the other bed. “I can't listen to anymore of this.”
She showed me a moment of compassion, and I turned my life around. I helped her out of a jam, and turned her world upside down. Irony sucks.
"I still don't understand why all the people in your files have been killed, why you were watching me, or why I'm even here."
"My agency used telepaths for covert intelligence purposes."
I couldn't help but notice his use of past tense.
“Telepaths as in plural? I had no idea there were others—”
“There were seven others, prior to the events of the past two days."
I thought I was the only one since the first echo pinged around in my mind. Hearing there were more was somehow comforting and disconcerting at the same time. Talking to one of them a few years ago would have been an enormous benefit, but knowing that this ability was being exploited by the government was a big concern.
“We investigated and tracked all potential instances of this phenomenon. That's why we had an extensive file on you.”
"If you knew what I could do, why not try and recruit me?"
"We have no use for an alcoholic."
Ouch.
“Well, apparently you've found a use for me now or I wouldn't be here. What were you doing with these people?”
“Our primary mission was anti-terrorism. Telepaths were used to locate, influence, and terminate key personnel. They were trained for clandestine actions. Since the inception of our operation, actionable field intelligence has skyrocketed. We are the reason the United States has made significant progress in the Middle East recently.”
The practical uses seemed limitless. How many plans could be thwarted if we knew when and where the enemy would attack? How many soldiers’ lives could be saved if we knew where I.E.D.s were planted? We could find supply lines, weapons caches, bank accounts. Entire terrorist cells could be eliminated. This was a game changer.
“If you had seven badass super soldiers at your disposal, how were you wiped out so quickly?” Nami asked.
Smith seemed annoyed at the question. “Six months ago we received intelligence that Iran had been operating a similar program. We've been trying to gather information, but anyone with knowledge of the program has been kept out of our reach."
"Damn."
"Three days ago we learned that one of their spies may have landed on U.S. soil. Within twenty-four hours all of our agents were dead. Inside of forty-eight hours everyone else involved in my operation joined them."
"How could that happen? You think one man killed everyone?" I asked.
"Before her death, one of our agents managed to send us a piece of correspondence. It identified one man, codenamed 'Murdock'.”
Of course, the guy trying to kill me had to have a scary name.
"If this Murdock guy took out your entire team, what the hell do you think I can do?"
He didn't bother answering. "Murdock allowed himself to be recorded at McArthur's press conference and at the Cyber Crimes Center. He's sending a message. Play the DC3 footage, Ms. Williams.”
Nami turned her laptop around so that it faced me.
The video showed what appeared to be a hippie babbling a nursery rhyme. Then the bodies began to fall. He seemed to revel in the carnage around him.
“That is disgusting!” Sammy said. She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Leave me alone!”
“Now show Mr. Benson the McArthur video,” Smith said.
It started playing just before the senator shot himself. McArthur sang a disturbing variation of Humpty Dumpty. Pandemonium broke out amongst the press after his suicide – the camera man tried to hold his shot steady, but the stampeding reporters knocked him sideways. Nami paused the video in the middle of the unintentional pan. She zoomed in on a man standing motionless in the middle of the carnage, a broad smile on his face. He looked nothing like the hippie in the previous video.
“I don’t understand the two different psychos at two bizarre public suicides though. You think that's the same guy?”
“Those men are the same person – Murdock. He appears to be an expert at disguise." “I’m so glad I was brought into this,” Nami said.
“I still don't get it. What is he doing to get them to kill themselves? How could he convince Senator McArthur to kill his family?”
"We've analyzed footage from all of the media, security, and red light cameras in the area. Murdock never strayed more than three hundred yards from any of his victims. Even those who jumped from the building were within that range."
"So?" I asked.
“Murdock appears to be the most powerful telepath we’ve ever encountered. He not only has the ability to read minds, he can also manipulate and control them.”
Chapter 8
“Holy shit balls,” Nami said.
“He’s the only man we have ever seen with this capability. Our telepaths could read thoughts at a limited range of around one hundred feet. It seems Murdock can direct someone’s actions at over three hundred,” Smith said. “The threat he poses to our national security can’t be overstated. If so inclined, he could potentially collapse our entire system.”
A psychopath with the ability to control the minds of our nation’s most powerful people was beyond frightening. He could start wars and launch nukes. Killing a senator hadn't even been a challenge.
“Again, what the hell do you expect me to do? You said it yourself; I've been a waste of space for years. Why is he even trying to kill me? I'm no threat to him."
“Whenever two individuals with extra sensory perception are in the same vicinity they can discern each other’s presence. Their minds form an involuntary bond that we still don't fully understand. After killing Senator McArthur, Murdock elim
inated all of the other telepaths in the program. His talent for disguise, combined with no other living clairvoyants to help identify him, would make him impossible to locate. He sent those men to kill you as a means of invalidating any other resources at our disposal.”
And now I was a resource being fought over by a secretive government program and a murderous, rhyme spewing maniac. Fantastic. I felt like an insect under a magnifying glass on a sunny day.
“Let me guess, you want my help finding this Murdock guy?”
“Correct. To our knowledge, you are the last living telepath, outside of Murdock himself. This makes your assistance invaluable to us. If we can get you close enough to him, your mind will react to his presence and we can end this.”
“If he wants to kill me, why would I agree to go after him when I should haul ass in the other direction?”
“Murdock will not stop until you are dead.”
"Maybe I'll run really, really far then."
Smith considered me for several moments.
"You joined the armed forces after 9/11 because you wanted to make a difference. This is your chance. You're in a position to provide a unique service to your country."
My disdain for the way the wars were handled had started almost as soon as I arrived in Iraq. I signed up to fight terrorism and free the Iraqi people. Instead, I was ordered to kick in people's doors and search their homes at gunpoint. Why? Because their neighbors turned them in for reward money offered to informants, regardless of the accuracy of their information. The last thing I did over there was free people.
By the time they shipped me out of there on a gurney, I hated everything they had me doing. The soldiers didn't run the war; the bureaucrats and the military-industrial complex called the shots. Every decision being made seemed more illogical than the last.
Despite everything, though, I always regretted not being able to make our country safer. Not being able to make a difference. The guilt over my survival and the deaths of two of my soldiers would haunt me forever. And Smith knew it.