Body by Blood

by Patrick Johnston

  41

  IN TWENTY MINUTES, I AM enclosed in the trunk of a brand new luxury hover-sedan, chained onto the upper deck of a semi carrying a dozen of them, and told not to worry. I am assured that a dozen Alabama intel agents will be monitoring me constantly. They give me a small portable temperature regulator to keep the air in the trunk tolerably cool, and a handheld computer with some articles and videos on its desktop which I am told to watch to pass the time.

  They give me several bottles of water, anti-motion sickness medicine, and instructions on some exercises to keep me from getting stiff. Before they lock the trunk, I ask, “Can’t they see me through satellite?”

  “No.” One of them pats the trunk. “Lead paint. And on this sunny day, the surface will be too hot to allow them to evaluate any heat signature inside.”

  When they shut me in, I tap on a video entitled, Watch first. It is a video of Savannah, telling me about their rescue and safety in a location she assures me is secure. It brings me so much comfort to see her smiling face. I see the girls behind her sitting on the ground against a couch. Nellie is reading Mary Nell a children’s storybook.

  “Mom wouldn’t stay. Neither would Argentino. They were encouraged by those who rescued us to write down their story about everything and send it to the media as soon as possible through electronic and snail mail, and then approach the government and tell their side of the story as soon as possible. So that way they wouldn’t be suspects, and having told the media, they were less likely to be mistreated.”

  There’s also a video of an Alabama executive cabinet meeting. Maurice Whetley, the Alabama Governor, sits at the head of the table. I think this is the first time I have ever laid eyes on him, and I’m taken aback that he’s African-American. By his immense size, I suspect he is a retired professional athlete. He would have the handsome face of a Hollywood actor if it were not for the three-inch horizontal scar above his left eye. Why hasn’t a plastic surgeon repaired that?

  Whetley begins with a prayer, which is unusual for a political meeting. He then tells the staff that the meeting will be recorded “for the sake of Dr. Raymond Verity, whom we suspect will be rescued soon and will take us up on our offer to help him stop the killing.”

  The camera pans out as he introduces those on his trusted council, including his Attorney General Shane Mease, a red-haired, weirdly-shaped youngster who looks like he’d have the physique of a long-distance runner if it weren’t for the twenty pounds of flab that conceals his belt buckle.

  Whetley introduces Phil Stephens, the face of Personhood Now in Alabama. Like his small voice, his head and chest appear too small for his tall body and long limbs. He appears to be all joints and sinews. I immediately suspect a severe case of Marfans Syndrome, a connective tissue disease causing long limbs and flexible joints.

  Then, to my surprise, Whetley introduces my sister, Tamara.

  My sister! Sitting with the Alabama Governor’s council? How did that happen? I can see only the back of her head. She is looking down at something. Knowing her, she’s probably searching her Bible for a verse with which to rebuke me.

  “Doubtless, all you’ve heard about Alabama leadership is what the media has reported.” Governor Whetley speaks into the camera on the far side of his long, oblong table. “As you have learned by now, Dr. Verity, the media is practically an arm of the federal government, and is proof of the old adage that the power to license is the power to control and censor.” His voice has a rich, raspy quality to it, like a coach who has screamed himself hoarse on the sidelines for twenty years. “Nevertheless, there are some things you must know about those who have surrounded and empowered you since you were brought out of cryo-preservation. Vlad Riddell, your attorney, has been recruited by President Sayder. She coopted him when you were in suspended animation, persuading him to include clauses in that big stack of papers you signed your first day in the office giving her full uncontestable rights to the dupes she persuaded Redd Cranton to design for her personal use . . . ”

  That must be how she obtained Guave Sealdor, her savant attorney. I wonder what other super-soldiers she has under her control.

  “For a decade, as a Washington insider and then V.P., Veronica Sayder had direct licensing access to the New Body Research Center, requiring special treatment off the record to gain approval for federal funding and licensure. Given that not all of his victims are clones, Cranton would have been convicted of child sex charges and child prostitution years ago if he hadn’t been guaranteed immunity by President Sayder, and President Wimble before her. We have on tape President Wimble’s wife admitting that immunity for Cranton was the price for her husband to be moved to the front of the line for a new body . . . ”

  Unbelievable!

  “Thus, President Sayder is presently aiding and abetting a child sex ring that runs from New York City to Richmond and all the way to Charlotte. We would never have learned this if it were not for an FBI insider who prosecutes child sex crimes objecting to the backroom immunity deal for Cranton by, in essence, defecting to Alabama.

  “Even Quaid Sandman was in on the conspiracy. For several years, he received insider information from someone in the Securities and Exchange Commission—likely a presidential appointee—allowing him to increase the value of all of his investors’ portfolios far beyond his peers. Either to ensure his complicity with the government offering licenses and taxpayer-funding in exchange for dupe-slaves for government leaders, or they suspected that the wealthier you and your wife were, the more likely you were to play nice within the corrupt system. Few are willing to break the shackles that enrich them.”

  I shake my head. This is all too surreal to fully embrace. My sister’s words from three decades ago flood back to my mind, a memory as fresh as if it happened yesterday: Hardly will a rich man enter the kingdom of God.

  “Your brother offered his services to you to help you craft your company’s ethics policies as a direct result of President Sayder’s prodding for him to do so,” the Alabama governor continues. “His devotion to you was purchased with hundreds of thousands of taxpayer ameros. I have bank records of the transfers, and proof of ownership of the otherwise anonymous accounts.” He clasps his hands tightly together and takes a deep breath. “We confronted your brother and he confessed that President Sayder, knowing that you had some strong objections to the exploitation of your clones, persuaded him to be Karl Marx’s opium to you, if you will. She was hoping some good deeds would appease your guilty conscience, help you be at peace with your impenitence. Doubtless, you will learn what I have learned the hard way: there is no appeasing a guilty conscience without repentance, nor without the cross.”

  He turns to look at the far end of the table, and nods at someone. Phil Stephens stands. His thin face is drawn and sad, as if he is not accustomed to smiling. “Dr. Verity, we wanted to bring you here to help. Very soon, there will be a gathering of governors and their executive cabinets. Seven states altogether, two of whom are already committed to resisting federal tyranny in defense of the innocent. The other five are undecided, but troubled sufficiently by the federal usurpations that they have agreed to come to the table to discuss our strategy. We are convinced that your presence and your testimony would turn the tide and at least double the number of states committed to prosecuting the killers and exploiters of human clones. We pray that you will help us.”

  Phil Stephens sits back down and nudges my sister beside him. “Tamara, didn’t you want to say something?”

  She rises and turns to look at the camera. Sure enough, there is a worn out Bible in her hands. “Hello Ray, I pray you are well. It says in Hebrews, chapter 12 to be exact, that Jesus’ blood speaks better things than that of Abel . . . ”

  Finally, she’s going to tell me what that means.

  “Cain and Abel were two sons of the first couple, Adam and Eve. When Cain killed Abel, God told Cain that the blood of his brother cried up out of the ground, crying out for justice. God then judged Cain, putting a m
ark upon him. Numbers 35 and Deuteronomy 21 confirm that innocent blood shed in the land brings God’s curse upon the people, a horrible doom, a curse that only justice can can abate . . . ”

  The politicians around her shift uneasily. From their strained countenances, I suspect they are wishing she would be more winsome in her remarks. No doubt, her sword has dripped with their blood.

  “In the book of Revelation, the souls of those slain unjustly cry out, ‘How long, Oh Lord!’” She thrusts both hands heavenward, one holding her Bible and one clenched into a tight fist. “How long until you avenge our blood!” She lowers her hands and lets her arms dangle by her sides. “Imagine for a moment, brother, the chorus of the slain that are crying out against you.”

  Her words impale me, exposing the guilt I have vainly tried to suppress for so many years through constant pleasure-seeking, wealth and fame, and recently, through good works and the deceptive comfort of my brother’s assurances. However, I hear in my mind and in my heart the cry of a thousand aborted children, euthanized elderly and handicapped patients, and brain-evacuated clones like Savannah’s liquidated clone, like the beautiful girl Forty, and little Nellie, all crying out for justice. Crying out to God with my name on their lips, crying out for vindication. It is a formidable shriek that drives fear into my heart and breaks me out in a sweat. I turn down the gauge on the portable temperature regulator.

  “The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. You may despise the guilt and conviction that deprives sin of its luster, but your guilt is God’s mercy to you, showing you your need for a Savior. God’s commandments are aimed at you like ten massive cannons. You have violated the sixth, ’Do not murder,’ innumerable times. You violated ‘Thou shalt not steal’ by stealing another’s body, and ‘Thou shalt not covet another’s wife’, through enjoying women to whom you aren’t married. Your meager attempts to collapse your company and save your granddaughter are like trying to block that cannon with a pillow. No good works can ever wash away the guilt of a murderer in the court of man, neither in the court of heaven. Only at the end of a noose would your conscience be at peace, brother, if it were not for the blood of Jesus shed for you.

  “Jesus became a curse for you, Ray, suffering the penalty for your sin. You cannot earn His grace. Put your trust in God, not in yourself. Call upon Jesus’ name, and you will be saved. Abel’s blood cries out for justice, but the blood of Jesus speaks better things. It speaks of your redemption.”

  She’s done. She turns and sits down. My hair stands on end. The screen blackens.

  My redemption?

  I do not quickly reject her counsel as I have always done. It is not so much a bitter pill to swallow as it is an attempt to take my bitter pills away. My misery is undeniable. My fear of death is inescapable, all of my attempts to reform myself notwithstanding.

  I meditate on her words and, before long, I am weeping tears of repentance heavenward, calling on Jesus to save me.

  God’s love has always been a distant island in my mind, admirable, but unapproachable. Not an island like my Caribbean get-away, my little paradise on earth, where my every whim and need is met yet peace remains elusive. But paradise on the inside, an island of inward ecstasy that I, one of the richest men in the world, would give everything I have to inhabit, yet it has always been so far out of my reach. But here in the trunk of this hover-sedan on the back of a semi headed south, a fugitive and an outcast, I feel like the ocean has overflowed the island. Like the waves breaking forth repeatedly upon the shore, billows of refreshment seem to flow back and forth across my mind and body, breaking up my hard callouses, sweeping away my filth, restoring my tenderness and innocence.

  I don’t ever remember enjoying crying so much. I could just stay here forever.

  Before long, there’s a beep on my communication device that connects to the semi’s driver, “We have a checkpoint ahead.”

  The semi slows to a crawl, and jumps a couple of speed bumps—an uncomfortable lurch toward the roof of the trunk, to say the least.

  I grunt with disgust. “Rubber tires.”

  When it finally slows to a stop, the soft beep precedes the message, “The feds are here.”

  I tap the receiver to speak. “What, what does that mean?”

  “Just stay calm.”

  Momentarily, the driver warns me, “They’re going to search the lead-paint coated vehicle.”

  “But I’m in here!”

  “I know. Don’t worry. We have a plan for this.”

  “What plan?”

  “Listen, doc, you’re going to have to stay calm. You’re going to have company in about a minute.”

  “Company?”

  “Radio silence.”

  The suspense of the next five minutes tempts me with doubt and fear, but I can’t seem to wipe the giddy smile off my face. I am too captivated with a mysterious joy, knowing that God no longer holds my past against me. I commit my future, and the well-being of my family, including Mary Nell and Nellie, to Him, and experience a peace that surpasses all understanding.

  Finally, I hear at least two voices outside the trunk. The trunk cracks open, and I see the torsos of two men.

  “What’s that?” One of the inspectors, dressed in black, looks over his shoulder at some commotion toward the left.

  The other man, who looks familiar, raises the trunk’s lid, extends a handheld stun gun toward the neck of the inspector, shocks him for several seconds, and then pushes him toward me. The stranger plops in beside me, and the other man, whom I presume is the Alabama agent driving this semi, picks up and tosses his legs over beside me. “Hurry! Take off his shirt!”

  “What? Why?”

  Gunshots ring outside the trunk as I unbutton the unconscious man’s shirt. The crack in the hood of the sedan shows me we are parked at what looks like a semi-truck weigh station beside the busy interstate. “Who’s shooting who?”

  “It’s a diversion, a staged robbery with blanks. Take off his shirt! Faster!” The semi driver puts on the man’s black cap and, when I hand him the shirt, he puts it on with his back toward the station, buttoning it up.

  I hear a buzz from the earpiece of the man lying beside me.

  “Hand the earpiece to me.” The agent stretches his hand to me, and I give him the unfortunate fellow’s communication device.

  He puts the earpiece over his ear and, while rubbing it with his index finger, speaks in a gruff voice. “I can barely make you out. What’s that shootin’?”

  “Hendrix was robbed at gunpoint while eating lunch out back.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. We’re in pursuit.”

  “Trunk’s empty.”

  “Well, get back here and get some new batteries in that earpiece. Say, where’d the driver go?”

  The semi driver turns and gives a thumbs-up toward the weigh station with one hand, and tosses the stun gun in the trunk with the other. “He climbed down when he heard the gunshots.”

  He slams the trunk on us and begins to climb down.

  Now what am I supposed to do?

  I stretch the self-defense stun gun toward the stranger. By the light of the handheld computer, he appears to be coming out of unconsciousness. “Don’t move, or I’ll zap you again!”

  The man just moans, holding his neck in pain.

  Finally, the semi-truck begins to move forward. My communication device beeps and relays the driver’s voice. “We have a contingency plan for this, so keep calm.”

  “He’s waking up!”

  “Well zap him then.”

  “I’m not going to zap him if I don’t have to!”

  “If he wrestles that device out of your hands and zaps you . . . ”

  “That won’t happen. I’ll watch him.”

  I search for the button of the stun gun. I give it a push just to test it, and I end up zapping myself. “Ahh!” My wrist and numb fingers throb with electrical pain!

  The device falls and I fumble for it with the hand t
hat still has feeling. I stretch it toward the stranger. He turns toward me, his eyes widening.

  “What happened?” He stares at the darkened ceiling for a moment, his full consciousness returning. “Where am I?”

  I push the button, unleashing a small voltage between the metal bars at the end of the device. His head jerks toward me. “Ah!”

  I stop.

  He gasps in pain. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Raymond Verity. Who are you?”

  He studies me in the dim light for a moment.

  “Why are the feds looking for me?”

  “You kidnapped a dupe.”

  The beep informs me that a message is coming through from my driver. “Alright, Raymond. You’re going to pull the emergency release handle to pop the hood, and you’re going to jump into the bed of a large pick-up coming up beside us.”

  “What?”

  “And do it quickly!”

  The stranger besides me inquires, “Who’s that?”

  “The driver.” I still hold the stun gun with both hands, keeping it between me and the stranger.

  The driver similarly asks, “Who’s that? The inspector?”

  Before I can answer, the inspector lunges for my arms and grabs my wrists. I push the Taser’s button and zap the ceiling of the trunk. We wrestle while the driver urges me, “Oh no. We’ve got to get you off this semi and onto this other vehicle ASAP. The feds are in pursuit . . . ”

  “I can’t!” I grit my teeth, alternatively pushing and pulling the handle of the stun gun to try to loosen it from the inspector’s grasp. “Let go!”

  “You let go! You’re breaking the law!” He knees me under our twisted arms, knocking the breath out of me. I push the device downward to try to zap his leg, and deliver a voltage.

  “Ow!”

  Then I head-butt him, busting his nose and loosening his grip. I give him another zap for good measure.

  “Dr. Verity!”

  “I’m getting out now.” I reach over the unconscious inspector and pull the emergency release handle to open the trunk. We are racing along the highway, and the wind is blowing furiously.