by Steve Richer
He got up and tiptoed through the dark house, trying to identify the noise. His first instinct was to get a weapon but the closest one was in the drawer in his study. He went downstairs and as he passed by the foyer he saw a shadow through the frosted glass of the front door.
He froze.
Had he been younger, he would have gotten into a fighting stance. He could have dived for a makeshift weapon – a coat hanger from the closet would have worked. But he was too old for this.
He was still considering what to do when the doorbell rang.
Maybe he had overreacted? Perhaps the noise had been someone’s car breaking down in front of his home and now they were looking for help. With a sigh of relief, he went to answer the door.
He found a young man on the porch. He looked tired and even high on weed.
“Mr. Kilmer?”
That’s when the old man realized the kid was holding a pizza box. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped.
“God, no…”
He slammed the door and hurried back toward the stairs. “Martha, call the police!”
Only he didn’t have time to say the entire sentence before realizing an intruder was already inside the house. Before the bullets entered his brain.
Chapter 22
The night was short and Spicer was just as tired when he woke up at sunrise. Conversely, adrenaline rushed through his veins because he knew the end was in sight. Even though he had an 12-hour drive ahead of him, he was about to get some answers and that alone gave him energy.
He took a quick shower, started getting dressed, and used his burner phone to make a call. He paced through Esther’s living room while he waited for an answer.
“Hello?”
“Martha, how’s is going? Is Doug still there? I need to talk to him.”
The woman’s voice broke. “Oh Gene. It’s terrible.”
Spicer stopped moving. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s terrible, Gene,” she repeated, choking up.
“What’s going on, Martha? Talk to me.”
“He’s dead. He’s gone, Gene.”
Although he was shocked by the news and wasn’t sure he could even understand what she was saying, Spicer forced himself to calm down. He knew from experience that when someone was about to be hysterical, the other person had to be stoic.
“What happened?” he asked calmly.
“I don’t know, there was a burglar, and then there was something about a wrong pizza delivery. I miss him so much.”
The pizza delivery diversion tactic. That told him everything he needed to know about who had killed his friend.
“Hang in there, Martha. I’ll see you in a few days.”
That was nothing else he could tell her. His muscles tensing up, his face morphed into anger and sadness at the same time. He could have thrown the phone against the wall but that wasn’t his style. No, he had to keep his rage bottled up, he had to focus it toward the correct people.
“Fucking bastards,” he mumbled as he coarsely wiped his eyes.
He hadn’t cried in over 20 years and he wasn’t about to start now. He had to finish this. One way or another people were going to die.
He finished getting dressed, wrath giving him determination, and he left the apartment. He headed to his place to pack up a few things but then as he reached the front door something occurred to him.
Sigma Division was cleaning house.
First, the professor, then Kilmer. Who else was causing trouble that they would want to get rid of? The answer was crystal clear as he put his hand on the doorknob. He glanced around but the hallway was empty. Still, something wasn’t right.
He was aware that he looked stupid standing in front of his door holding his keys and yet remaining immobile. His instincts told him he had to be on his guard and double-check everything.
He pocketed his keys and kneeled down to look under the door. Unfortunately, the weather stripping kept him from seeing inside the apartment. Nevertheless, he detected something out of the ordinary. It was a smell, something that just didn’t fit.
He got back up and rushed to Esther’s apartment. He returned inside and this time she was up and about, bringing her coffee to the kitchen table.
“Hey, what’s going on? I thought you’d be gone by now.”
He paid her no attention and went to the balcony. He unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped outside. He didn’t even bother closing the door again.
The air was freezing and he barely felt it. He stared at his own balcony which was hanging next door after a four-foot gap. Without hesitation, he climbed on top of the brick railing and leaped to the other balcony.
“Oh Jesus,” Esther yelped as she witnessed the stunt.
When he was in his own backyard, he pressed his face against the glass door, using his hands to shield his eyes from the light. He scanned the interior of his apartment, which wasn’t particularly easy because of the vertical blinds. They weren’t closed but they hindered his view all the same.
At first sight, nothing seemed out of place. His stuff was just as he’d left it in the living room. The TV was off, so was the lamp. There was a sweater on the floor next to his recliner, that was normal.
Then he saw it.
In the kitchen, the range had been dragged forward about a foot and a half.
“Christ…”
Gripped by fury, he jumped back to the other balcony, the 60-foot potential drop barely registering. He went back into Esther’s apartment and she was sporting a bewildered look.
“What’s going on, Gene?”
He grabbed his jacket which he’d left behind and put it on.
“I’m leaving right now and you’re coming with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not safe here,” he barked. “My apartment’s about to blow up. And I need you to drive me.”
Explosion-by-natural-gas was always a nifty assassination method. It was messy, did a great deal of collateral damage, but it was effective. He figured the door had been rigged with an ignition mechanism and the second he would have entered his apartment the whole floor would have blown up. He gathered all his notes and evidence and stuffed everything into his red gym bag.
Esther was shaking her head. “I can’t leave, the election is tomorrow. I’ve got too much work to do.”
Spicer stopped and faced her.
“Look, my best friend just got killed because of what I involved him in. How long until they do the same to you? You stay with me, you improve your odds.”
“By how much?”
“Ten to one. Bring an overnight bag. We’ll buy whatever else we need.”
He went back to his bag to finish packing up.
* * *
Esther was at the wheel of her Audi and she left the parking garage like a racecar driver, clearing the bump and merging into traffic in one fell swoop. Spicer waited two blocks before raising himself from his concealed position down on the floorboards. He’d figured it someone was watching the building he was clear by now.
He allowed himself to breathe easier when they got onto the southbound 395 which was thankfully pretty much against traffic. He wasn’t exactly relaxed but he figured he had 10 hours before anyone tried to kill him again.
“That’s a nice car,” he said. “It’ll come in handy if we need to sell it.”
That concerned her. “We’re not gonna be using my credit cards, are we?”
“You wouldn’t want to get me assassinated, would you?” He chuckled at her sudden fright. “We’ll try to get by with cash only, as much as we can anyway. It won’t be long before they realize you’re with me and they’ll use the credit cards to track us. We’ll try to avoid that.”
She nodded with rule. Meanwhile, he lowered his seat and reclined into it.
“When we hit I-95, call the building super and tell him to turn off the gas ‘cause there’s a leak in 708. Wake me up in three hours and I’ll drive.”
She agreed to do it and cranke
d up the speed to 75.
Chapter 23
The sun was starting to go down and Spicer was driving. The long ride and the lack of sleep should have made him drowsy but the South Florida surroundings gave him his second wind. He’d lived here for over a decade when he wasn’t on missions and he found that he missed it dearly.
Esther was sipping a giant soda and the car was littered with empty burger wrappers. Humming softly to the music coming from the satellite radio, she cleaned up, wadding the trash in a brown McDonald’s bag.
She glanced at him sideways before turning back to staring at the road. She hesitated and looked at him again, this time longer. It wasn’t lost on Spicer.
“What is it?”
“You scared me last night,” she said.
“I know.”
“I… I’ve never met anybody who’s killed before.”
“Trust me, it’s not on my resume.”
“Are you really done with it?”
Spicer didn’t dither. “I will never ever kill again, Esther. That’s why I’m doing this. Nobody should ever have to do this. I promise you.”
She extended her hand over to him across the seat and he took hold of it. They smiled to each other and he hoped it wouldn’t be the last time.
With what was lying ahead, there was no guarantee.
* * *
The Salvador Sea Hotel was busy. It wasn’t the trendiest spot on South Beach – its heyday was behind it, way behind – but it boasted a lush poolside area and live music every night. This, combined with the inescapable Art Deco influence, made tourists flock from nearby hotels.
The band was on a cramped stage on the far side of the pool and they played bad reggae music. Even Spicer knew it was bad and he knew nothing about music. Still, steel drums and a mellow vibe were enough for the crowd in attendance. With warm humid air and exotic cocktails, everyone was dancing.
Esther and Spicer were at the bar, sitting sideways so they could keep an eye on everybody else. She was nursing a terrible soda fountain Coke which tasted like bleach while for his part he was holding a Blue Hawaii, complete with tiny umbrella. She glanced at her watch: it was 9:21pm.
“Do you think he changed his mind?” Esther asked.
“Parking is hell in South Beach at this hour.”
He was trying to inject hope in his voice though he wasn’t sure he was successful. Almost simultaneously, a Blue Margarita appeared next to Spicer’s drink.
“I wouldn’t know, I took a cab.”
Spicer jerked his head at the Southern voice. The man standing behind him was David Weller, the assistant research director of the Texas Tech project. He knew that guy had been shifty the moment he’d laid eyes on him.
“Still wanna know about Anchises?” he continued.
“More than ever.”
“It’s all about mind control.”
“Come again?”
“Let’s get up to my room so we can talk.”
“I know a safer place.”
Weller shook his head. “It’s my room or nothin’ at all.”
“I’m as scared of this being a setup as you are. My place’s safer.”
He kicked his red gym bag over so that it touched the young man’s foot.
“You can carry my bag if you want. There’s a gun inside, it’s loaded. You feel like I’m fucking with you, you blow my brains all the way to Cuba.”
He stood and so did Esther.
“Who’s she?” Weller asked, pointing at Esther with his chin.
“Kisses and sunshine. Let’s go.”
He started walking away and the other two followed.
* * *
Spicer owned a building in Little Havana and he’d had the foresight of buying it through an offshore corporation which was registered to a fake identity. It wasn’t where he lived – his official Florida address had been up in Aventura. There were six units which were rented out except for one which he’d always kept for himself in case of an emergency, something he saw as likely working in the intelligence business.
And tonight qualified as an emergency.
He led Esther and his new best friend through the door and turned on the light. The place was thoroughly unimpressive, dusty and sparsely furnished. Weller carried the gym bag as well as his suitcase while Esther brought in a grocery bag. At least the place was cool, the air-conditioning running constantly to avoid the humidity to set in. Spicer knew a guy who had traveled one summer and had forgotten to turn on the AC. Two months later, tiles were falling off because of the humidity.
“We should be all right here. Nobody knows we’re here.”
He quickly explained how he owned the building covertly and proceeded to remove bed sheets from the furniture. The scientist came to help him. At the same time, Esther put the grocery away. The brief moment of normalcy helped to make everyone at ease.
Once the small living room was habitable, they settled in on the couches with beer, chips, and notepads.
“How do you know this is about mind control?” Spicer asked.
Weller shrugged. “Most plausible explanation.
That made Esther roll her eyes. “Of course.”
Shaking her head, she gulped down some beer. Spicer ignored her cynicism even though he shared it.
“Let me simplify my question, how come your e-mail address was in Harland Fry’s notes?”
“When I started suspecting somethin’ was wrong–”
“And how did that happen?”
“How did it happen for you? Can I go on with my story now?”
Spicer put up his hand, allowing him to continue. He ate some chips.
“When I started suspecting somethin’ was wrong, I posted some anonymous messages on some forums. Harland posted back. We talked about comin’ out with our story for a while but he kept sayin’ he wasn’t ready. But I knew we had to do it while we were still ahead. So I wrote the article.”
“You’re Stellar Oceans Corporation?”
“You got that far, uh?” Weller said, impressed. “Yeah, that’s the name of my yacht, it’s docked in the Bahamas.”
He reached for his wallet and produced a photograph of a sleek white 70-foot yacht. In fancy blue script, the name of the boat was visible on the stern: Stellar Oceans. He passed the picture around proudly like a mother would with pictures of her kids.
“Anyway, I had the New York Express-Ledger run the article although Harland begged me not to. He flipped out, I’m sure you know the rest.”
Spicer nodded and the man spent a minute explaining where his money came from. His grandfather had made his money in oil futures in the 70s, he’d cut out his bickering kids from his will, and a few years back Weller had gotten a sizable trust fund – and later, inheritance.
He continued. “Anyway, we had exchanged enough information that I became sure of what Anchises was about. Mind control.”
Spicer waved that explanation away. “CIA’s been involved with that in the 60s and 70s, that’s no secret.”
“Yes, Project MKUltra. That was destined to find new ways of conductin’ interrogation and surveillance. That was small potatoes, hypnosis, LSD, things like that.”
“Your article was about thought-reading.”
Esther was skeptical again. “That’s impossible.”
“That’s very possible. The government has been part of that since the late 60s. Hell, in 1974, a professor from Stanford University patented the damn thing! I got the patent number here somewhere…”
He started going through his notebooks, and then his briefcase. Spicer still couldn’t believe it.
“That’s… that’s just unbelievable.”
David gave up searching and looked at the former hitman. “Is it? First, they censored movies, then TV, the internet and their precious SOPA campaign. New gun control laws, paranoid customs regulations. The goddamn Patriot Act. And that’s just the stuff that makes logical sense. That’s the stuff the people runnin’ the show were able to make the politicians s
wallow.”
Esther slammed her can of beer on the table. “You think the government wants to install a totalitarian dictatorship? That would never work!”
“Look at it this way. There’s not an inch of US land that isn’t covered by one camera or another these days. There are spy satellites lookin’ down on us as we speak. There are remote controlled drones flying above us. The government can find out what any of us are doing at any given time. They know everything. What’s the next logical step?”
“Control,” Spicer said evenly. “Mind control.”
“Bingo.”
Chapter 24
This was completely surreal. Mind control?
“Thirty years ago they could read what you were thinking by pickin’ up the electromagnetic brain waves, similar to a polygraph. Imagine what they can do now. All they’d have to do is intercept brain waves and replace them with others.”
“I’m sure this research has been abandoned some time ago. We would’ve heard about that. I would’ve heard about that.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Weller conceded. “But it doesn’t mean it hasn’t taken on a new life.”
“Black project?”
“What do you know about your boss? That’s the real question.”
Esther sat on the edge of the couch. “So, let me see if I get this straight, some people want to turn this country upside down but they know they’d have a hell of a time getting away with it. So they’ll brainwash three hundred million people?”
“It ain’t as stupid as it sounds, ma’am. I think that the high frequency emission system that I been workin’ on, it could be used for that. They could hook it up to planes. In five or six years, I’m sure we’ll be able to incorporate it to a TV feed, cellular network, choose your delivery method. This thing could go down fast.”
“So that’s what you’re betting on,” Spicer said. “That’s what you’re risking your life for?”
“Yeah, but I got nothin’ solid. It’s all scraps of facts with some hypothesis. I go to the press with that and I’m just another looney out of his bin. I’ll never find work again, that’s for damn sure.”