“Hurry, untie me . . . ”
“You said something about a bomb?” The manager hurriedly bends down and tugs at my wrist ties.
“Not here, somewhere else. You’re safe. But here is the computer that detonates it.” I motion with my head to the laptop on the table. “Hurry!”
He cuts my ankle and wrist ties and I begin to bolt for the door. “Tell the police to evacuate the New Body Research Center immediately! Tell them everything I told you. I need to go!”
“Wait!”
I rush from the room without another word, but before I can push the button for the elevator, it opens and eight black-clothed, federal SWAT agents and two police officers begin to rush past me.
I turn from them to show them the sagging left side of my face, and point down the hall toward the room. “That way!”
They fly past me and I breathe a sigh of relief as I enter the elevator. I press the button to close it as several more police officers come rushing out of the stairwell down the hall. One of them has a glimpse of me through the closing elevator door and inserts his hand to re-open it.
“Raymond Verity?” He speaks the words in disbelief. I should’ve turned the weak side of my face toward the open elevator door. “You are Raymond Verity!” He unholsters his Taser and aims it at my torso.
“Please, don’t.” I raise my hands. “Man, those things hurt.”
The officer reaches in and hits the button on the elevator to stop the doors from closing. He presses the Taser against my back. “Get down on your knees and lock your fingers behind your head . . . ”
49
I AM WHISKED AWAY BEFORE I learn whether the FBI is able to deactivate the bomb, or that they’ve successfully evacuated the New Body Research Center. They blindfold me and push me out of the building and into a vehicle. After a ten minute ride, I am led into a building and down several halls.
My feet are bound to a cold metal chair in a chilly room, and my arms are strapped to a table in front of me. I am left blind-folded, ear-muffed, and left all alone as far as I know in what I presume is an interrogation room. Someone places something to my nose and I am forced to inhale this sweet scent for several seconds.
I can’t believe that Jeremy Porter gave up his computers and his software in order to test me. It doesn’t make sense. My mind buzzes with a thousand tragic scenarios. Certainly if the bomb detonated, and it was powerful enough to kill everyone in the building, I would have sensed the percussion. We didn’t drive that far away. Maybe it was a biological warfare agent or toxic gas bomb. Certainly, if it detonated, they intend to blame me for it. Maybe there is no bomb, and I gave myself up for nothing. Maybe none of it happened and all of it is some elaborate nightmare. Maybe I’m still in cryo, and all of this is in my head. Maybe I’m dead and suffering in some sort of purgatory for the evil deeds of my life.
The more my mind drifts from one crazy scenario to the next, the more I realize that either my stroke is progressing to affect my psychological state, or the sensory deprivation of this blindfold, these earmuffs, and these tight wristlocks and ankle-locks are pushing the limits of my sense of reality. Or they gave me a psychedelic medicine to break down my resistance.
After what seems like hours, my blindfold is snatched from my face. Before me stands a tall, thin man with a reddish complexion. He pushes a button on the table, and my wristlocks are loosened. I look around the room, trying to gain my bearings. I move my feet and discover I am no longer fastened to this chair. He looks strange, imbalanced, like his features are fluctuating right before my eyes. Everything looks sharpened, like the contrast is too high on the photo-doctor app. Something is definitely wrong with my sensory capabilities.
“Did, did they stop the bomb?”
He peels several sensors off my chest and arms. “Come with me.”
He pulls two wires from off my temples and then walks toward the open door.
Confused, I follow him. I’m a little uneasy on my feet for a second, and nausea swells up inside my stomach. Fortunately, it lasts only a second. “Did you evacuate the building?”
We exit into the hallway and quickly enter the next room. “If you want to be free, stay on my heels.”
He unholsters a weapon and approaches a side door.
Two agents appear to be unconscious on the floor in a room filled with computers and large panels of buttons and knobs and holograph screens. One large screen has my name at the top and several of my vitals, including pulse, respiratory rate, and blood pressure. They are all blank. The EKG line is flat. A security camera hangs from the corner of the room, but the wires leading to the back of it have been severed. I do not follow him across the room.
“Who are you?”
“Do you want to see your granddaughter again?”
“Yes. Is she— ”
“Then do not ask one more question until I give you permission. Do you understand? Not one word! Stay right on my heels.”
I come and stand behind him as he crouches next to the door, presumably to stay out of view of anyone who might pass by and see him through the small window in the door.
He glances at his watch and opens the door. “Stay close.”
He darts down the hall to the right and stops at a large glass door. Seeing someone inside, he ducks low and crawls past the door to avoid being seen. I imitate him, staying low to the ground. There seem to be security cameras at every corner we pass. How can they not see us? What in the world is going on? Is this the work of Farrell, or Porter, or have the remnants of FAM paid someone off to break me out so they can get their hands on me? If I follow this strange thin man, am I voluntarily walking headlong into a fate worse than what the feds have in mind?
I have no choice. The man is armed. I am compelled to follow. He leads me down a stairwell into a lower floor without windows. He stops and glances at his watch. I am tempted to ask a dozen questions that torment me, but I keep quiet. The man is obviously under tremendous stress—maybe even duress. I pray as I watch his lips count down from eleven to zero. He opens the door and I follow. With his weapon at the ready, he sprints toward an exit sign. He looks up at the security camera, waiting. The light on the panel beside the door turns from red to green, and the thin man nods. He opens the door and points out into what looks like an underground parking lot. “Turn right twice, and you’ll find a red hover sedan parallel-parked, idling, with the keys in it.”
“Wait, who are you?”
“No questions! No time.”
“No, you listen to me. I have no idea what you are doing, but I am not going one more step until you tell me—”
“I received a message!” His face breaks out in a fresh sweat. “Someone’s got evidence of something I’ve done. They promised to destroy the evidence if I will break you free.”
My gratitude for this man’s help in freeing me suddenly goes out the window, now that I’m aware he only did this because he was being blackmailed. “What did you do?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re free.”
“It does matter! You need to make it right, whatever you did wrong.”
“Leave or we both go to prison!”
“Prison is the least of your concerns. You’re going to give an account to God.”
“There’s no time!” He frantically tries to shut the door, but I insert my hand to keep it open.
“Well, make time! Your sin will never leave your shadow till you come to terms with your guilt and make it right.”
The man sighs heavily, glancing over his shoulder. “I can’t make this right.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You insult God to think you are beyond redemption. God’s grace is greater.”
The man gives me a half grin and wipes the sweat off his brow. “If God can redeem someone as depraved as you were, He can probably redeem the devil himself.”
I smile at the compliment—or was it an insult? At least something good came out of the pit of my depravity.
“Who was it that put you up t
o this?”
“I have no idea, but whoever it was handled security for us, so they are either high up in government or they are the government’s worst nightmare. Now, go!”
He shuts the door and I begin to trot along the parking lot. After the second right, the light of the setting sun glows through the exit ramp out of the basement. Two security guards are in a small room beside the exit that leads up to the street. It appears that they are sleeping. As I pass them, a faint white mist exits the A/C vent above them.
My quick pace turns to a run once I hit the sidewalk. Adrenaline has helped my bruised legs recover their strength. This new body is truly amazing. The idling car is right there, waiting for me. The windows are tinted, so I cannot see inside. I open the driver’s side door. There is a note on the seat with hurriedly printed words in all caps: “FOLLOW GPS IF YOU WANNA KEEP EM.” I wince. What does that mean? I duck in to take a look at the old GPS device on the dash.
“Gwanpaw!”
I look back. Mary Nell and Nellie are side-by-side, holding hands, buckled into twin child seats! I blink hard. My senses must be playing tricks on me. I can’t believe it! I squint my eyes hard, shake my head, and look again.
“Gwanpaw!” she repeats.
“Hello, Dr. Verity.”
“Ah, my girls! It’s so good to see you!” I come around to the side door but it is locked. I reach in to the driver’s side to unlock the door when suddenly, I hear an alarm so loud that it hurts my ears. It seems like the whole city block turns into one big siren. The celebration of our reunion is going to have to wait. I jump into the driver’s seat so fast that I bump my head on the top of the car. I buckle up and say, “Hold on, girls! Gwanpaw’s movin’ fast . . . ”
Mary Nell’s “Yee-haw!” brings a smile to my face. I can’t believe it! They’re here! Both of them.
The GPS points straight with an instruction to turn right 0.4 miles ahead. It looks like it has been modified. An old-fashioned beeper—the kind I wore in med school before smart phones really took off—has been affixed to the back of the device. A blinking cursor is at the bottom of the screen. As I’m looking at it, words appear. Slow down! 25 mph!
I glance down at the speedometer. I’m going 35. I am reluctant to slow. I will soon be pursued.
The next message on the GPS reads, You are not being pursued.
I look back briefly at the girls. “How did you get here?”
“They kicked everybody out of the building,” Nellie announces without emotion.
“You mean the New Body Research Center?”
She looks at me with an inquisitive grimace. She may not even know the name of the building in which she has been born and raised.
“When they evacuated us, a man named Thirty-One got me away, promising to take me to you.”
What a relief! It sounds like they evacuated everybody. “Never go with a stranger.”
“That’s what he said. But he was like me. Except a number for a name.”
Mary Nell’s happy, nasal voice adds, “We be together! Yay!” She raises three of her fingers on her left hand to Nellie, careful to hold the pinkie down with her other hand. “F-wee. No, four.” She extends the pinkie. “Four of us, together.”
“Mary Nell,” I glance at her in the rearview mirror, “where’s your mother?”
“Mommy meets us d’air.”
“Where?”
“D’air.” She points at the GPS.
I turn right as the GPS instructs. My next turn is in 0.3 miles. Jeremy must be watching me, because his message on the GPS reads, Slower. Your next right turn has no road sign, and comes quick.
“Mommy d’air, but not Gwammaw.”
What does she mean? As if reading my mind, Nellie interprets with her little adult-like voice. “Thirty-One said that if you follow the GPS, we’ll meet our mother, not Grandma. He took us both during the evacuation.” She glances at Mary Nell. “Give him the letter.”
“Oh!” Mary Nell reaches into her pants pocket and extends a letter toward me. “Can’t w-each . . . ”
“Who’s it from?” I ask.
Nellie answers. “From Grandma. She gave it to Mary Nell with instructions to give it to you if you ever take her away again.”
“Will you read it for me, Nellie?”
“Mary Nell says that she can only give it to you. She won’t let me read it.”
“For you, Gwanpaw!” Mary Nell reaches as far as she can forward to try to give me the letter.
I reach back for it and then see Nellie’s frightful grimace. “Turn right, Grandpa!” She points ahead. “Right!”
I brake hard, almost missing the turn.
“I’ll get it from you later, Mary Nell. Just put it away for now.”
The GPS is leading me down an ally, a back road between two buildings not one mile from the FBI office building. Why is he taking me here?
“Don’t deviate.”
“What? Why?” I find Nellie’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Thirty-One said not to deviate.”
The GPS reads that my destination is on this narrow one-lane road, 0.1 mile ahead. I pull around some trash and large potholes until something slaps the passenger side of the vehicle.
“Ah!” Mary Nell cries out.
“It’s okay,” Nellie reassures her.
I push the button to roll down the window. It’s the Georgia police officer who flew me to Baltimore. “Pete Kragg! What are you doing here?”
“Quick! No time!” He hops in and points at the GPS.
It reads, Pull to the right side of this ally under the awning! NOW!
I obey and pull into a two-car parking lot under an awning just as a fleet of helicopters speeds past us overhead.
“He told me to make sure you read and obey everything he writes on that contraption. Even if it doesn’t make sense.”
“Who?”
“Some really smart guy who wants to help you.”
“It’s Jeremy Porter.”
Pete blinks hard. “The one that escaped that maximum security federal prison?”
I nod.
“How can that be possible? I thought it was a government insider trying to help you. How can a civilian . . . ?”
“Jeremy Porter has mastered every branch of science and math possible. He’s got a photographic memory, speed-reads faster than you can dream, and can get by on an hour of sleep a night. He speaks and writes every language accessible online. He’s a digital Jedi.”
Pete looks over his shoulders to the two girls. They hold hands happily. Mary Nell waves, and Nellie follows suit. He waves back. “Your granddaughters?”
I turn to enjoy them for a moment. “That,” I say, my heart bursting for joy at the sight of them, “is perfection. Not this”—I pinch my forearm—“artificial vanity at another’s expense, but that.” I study them for a moment. Strength holding hands with weakness. Tears for pain, laughter for joy. Love. Perfection.”
I turn to him. “I’m glad you’re okay, Pete. When I saw you on the floor of that bathroom . . . ”
“No small talk.” He points at the GPS. “I need to take Nellie.”
“Take Nellie? Why?”
“Satellites can gather heat signatures inside of automobiles, I guess.” He points at the GPS. “Read.”
It reads, They are looking for one adult driver and two children, so Pete take Nellie.
“Do you really think you can trust this guy?” Pete asks the question I was at that moment asking myself. “What’s his agenda, Doc?”
“I don’t think we have the luxury of another choice.”
I turn back to Nellie. “You need to go with this man, Mr. Pete, for just a little while.”
She nods confidently. “I know. Thirty-One told me.”
She leans over and kisses Mary Nell on the cheek, and Mary Nell throws her arms around her neck.
“Wuv you.”
Nellie kisses her again and imitates her lisp, “I wuv you, too.”
She and Pete
Kragg exit the car.
“When will I see you again?” I ask him through the open window. “Where’s Tod Farrell?”
Pete points at the GPS. “Drive.”
I glance at it. Drive. As I’m watching it, the words change to Drive now.
The GPS flashes black, and then a new destination suddenly shows up on it. Twenty-one miles away.
“I know, he’s irritating. The hover-mobile this guy apparently is giving me to get out of here is on the next road over.” He turns to the open door of the dilapidated apartment building. “It’s a sweet speedster, he said. Paid for. Hope he lets me keep it.”
“Don’t covet what doesn’t belong to you. It’s poisonous candy.”
I glance at the GPS, and read it aloud. “Tell Pete to shut up and leave.”
Jeremy Porter must have a camera or a listening device inside the vehicle.
One last wave goodbye, and then I accelerate down the alley, following Porter’s instructions. It takes 45 minutes to drive the 21 miles. He has me stop every few miles in an underground parking lot or under an overhead bridge, probably hiding from the government’s ubiquitous eyes in the sky, or simply to confuse those chasing the sat images and documenting the trajectories of similarly colored sedans.
I pull into a parking lot just as the last of the sun’s rays are transforming the thin layer of clouds on the horizon into a diverse spectrum of colors I wish I had the time to enjoy. My apparent destination: a hover-train station in view of the Chesapeake Bay.
The GPS reads, Go inside, sit on right of waiting room, keep gaze rightward, away from security camera opposite corner. Take GPS with you.
What? That doesn’t make sense. I say out loud, “But they’ll see Mary Nell.”
Momentarily, the cursor goes blank and then reads, Put MN in blue duffel bag.
“Blue duffel bag? What?”
In trunk.
He can’t possibly want me to put Mary Nell in a duffel bag. I must have misunderstood him.
That was not a typo, he texts.
Before I even open the car door to fetch the duffel bag, my imagination is hard at work figuring out how I’m going to explain this to Mary Nell.
Jeremy texts again. Remember what you said about pride b4 a fall?
Body by Blood Page 34