Living Proof

by Peter J Thompson

  But he couldn’t just walk in to the nearest police station and turn himself in. Who would believe him? “Excuse me, sir, my name is Ramon Willis and I was executed recently, but they brought me back to life so they could run fiendish experiments on me.” The men in the white coats would take him away, and the army men would be following right behind. Then again, it didn’t matter what he did, they would be alerted and move in for the kill. Still, he had to do something.

  Whichever way he played it, it all came out the same way. His only real chance would be through his old attorney Barry Resnick. Barry would believe the story—he had to, he’d seen Ramon die. Barry would know what to do and who to contact. Ramon smiled. It would be a shock. He hoped Barry didn’t have a heart attack when he saw him. The call to his office earlier should help. At least he was warned.

  Suddenly, Ramon felt a tension in his gut and sensed something was wrong. Was it a sound or just a feeling? He nervously looked behind him, but everything was as it was before, people eating and joking around. No one noticed Ramon. It was paranoia, pure and simple.

  Ramon glanced back up at the TV. The game show was over and the local news logo filled the screen. The news anchor was talking, but with all the noise in the room, Ramon couldn’t make out the words he was saying. Behind the anchorman’s left shoulder, a graphic held the words “Home invasion and murder.”

  Ramon had finished his dinner and was ready to go. He scanned the room looking for his waitress. He tried to signal her for the check, but she was occupied with some new customers. He could wait. Ramon took another sip of his coffee and glanced back at the TV.

  The image on the screen was such a shock that he nearly fell off his stool. It felt like a shot of adrenaline was injected straight into his spine. Barry Resnick’s face was full screen on the TV. Ramon’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He stood up and quickly moved closer to the TV, trying to hear the sound.

  He moved in as close as he could. A man sat at the counter directly below the TV. Ramon crowded in behind him. The man turned back and shot a glance at Ramon, but Ramon didn’t notice.

  The image on the screen now showed a video clip of a large suburban home with yellow police tape cordoning off the perimeter. Straining, Ramon could just make out what they were saying:

  “Mr. Resnick was respected in the community for his work on behalf of local charities. The prominent attorney was killed in his home this afternoon in a home invasion that appears to be a botched robbery attempt. He is survived by his wife and two daughters, all of whom were away from the house at the time of the crime…”

  Ramon’s knees went weak. The blood rushed to his head, blood pounded in his head and a tear came to his eye. Barry was dead. It was such a shock to hear he was gone. Another day and they would have made contact.

  The image on the TV changed again and Ramon’s shock changed to near panic. The new picture on the screen was a police drawing of a Hispanic man—but this picture looked amazingly like himself. He focused in on the announcer’s voice:

  “Police are searching for a possible suspect who was seen near the scene of the crime. He is described as a Hispanic male, thirty to thirty-five years of age, approximately six feet tall and very muscular. The suspect is very recognizable by his eyes, blue eyes that are inconsistent with his ethnic background. He is thought to be armed and is considered extremely dangerous.”

  Ramon stood frozen. They were saying that he killed Barry? Or was it just a strange coincidence that the killer looked so much like him? No, that was too much to believe. It was a setup. It was connected to the Installation in some way. It had to be.

  The man that he was standing behind turned full around to face Ramon. The man looked straight into his eyes—his blue eyes.

  “Say, Pal, can you move back? I’m tryin’ to eat and you’re crowdin’ me.”

  Ramon backed away like a scared rabbit. He took a quick glance around the room. Everything seemed the same. No one was staring at him or paying him any attention. Still, there was a buzzing in his ears and the walls seemed to be closing in. He wanted to scream and run out of the room—either that or hit somebody.

  Instead, he moved as casually as he could back to his seat. He pulled out some money, laid it down to pay the bill, then headed out the door. He kept his eyes on the floor the whole way.

  13

  Lena hadn’t planned on working so late. It was her last night in town and she planned to go out with some friends, have a quiet dinner, and then go home early. She wanted something low key and relaxing, but it didn’t work out that way. That afternoon, she’d packed up everything in her desk to be shipped to her new office in Washington. All the personal belongings from her apartment were already loaded on the truck. For the next few days, she’d be living out of a suitcase as she drove out to DC.

  Lena was set to walk out the door at five, when she got the call from her editor Jack Van Russell. He’d gotten a call from an old friend with a story about a married Congressman who was rumored to have been arrested for drunk driving in Tijuana while in the company of a transvestite prostitute. Lena jumped in to try and verify the story. She called sources and searched databases trying to find someone who could collaborate the rumor. The more she found out, the more she was convinced that the story was bogus. By the time she finished running the story down, it was after nine o’clock and the evening was shot.

  For the first time, Lena realized how quiet the office was. There were pockets of activity in the building at all times, day or night. But now her section was nearly deserted. Everyone was either home for the night, on assignment, or elsewhere in the building. There was usually a steady hum of activity, phones ringing, people talking, the electronic buzz of computers. Busy, comforting sounds. Tonight, it seemed unnaturally silent. Lena packed up her briefcase and was preparing to leave, when the telephone at her desk rang, breaking the stillness of the room.

  She picked it up on the second ring. “Hello, Lena Dryer.”

  There was no answer.

  “Hello… Hello?” Still no answer. She hung up the phone. Strange, probably just a wrong number. Still, it set her on edge. When her series on the death penalty first ran, Lena got some angry calls and letters from readers who didn't share her views. The calls died down after a couple of weeks. Maybe this was another indignant reader with a long memory. She took a last glance at her desk, then picked up her briefcase, hung her purse on her shoulder, and headed for the elevator.

  The elevator doors slid open; the car was empty. She entered and pushed the button for the lower level. Slowly, she descended through the building. She’d never noticed it before, but the dim fluorescent lighting cast sinister shadows across the inside of the car. On the third floor, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. No one was waiting and no one got on. As the doors closed and the car resumed moving, Lena realized her whole body was tense. She took a deep breath and willed herself to relax. This was so unlike her, seeing danger when nothing was there. She’d ridden the elevator hundreds of times before without giving it a second thought. Why was she so spooked now?

  It had to have something to do with her new job and the move to Washington. It was what she wanted, what she had been working so hard to achieve. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe this was her subconscious mind telling her she was making a mistake. Maybe the dread she felt was really fear of the unknown, fear of making the wrong decision. Her whole life was being turned upside down. She was up on a high wire and they’d taken away the net. It was normal to feel anxiety in a situation like that. Time would tell if she was making the right decision, and she was still young. There was plenty of time to change. Sometime in the future, she would slow down and get her life in balance. Sometime, but not yet.

  When the elevator door opened on the lower level of the building, she’d rationalized her fear but hadn’t conquered it. Lena walked out into a short foyer opening into the entrance to the parking garage. As she stepped into the garage, the door closed behind her with a th
ud. The echo of her footsteps resonated through the empty deck. A sour smell, like old urine mixed with dust hung in the dry air.

  Her car was parked on the first level at the end of the aisle. Most of the cars were gone by this time of night, but those that were still there threw out ominous shadows. Lena glanced behind her. Nothing was there. She picked up her pace and hurried faster toward her car.

  Reaching the car, she fumbled in her purse for the keys. Her hands were shaking. This is absurd. Like whistling past a graveyard as a schoolgirl, terrified of the dark. She set down her briefcase and rifled through her purse. Her hand grazed against a can of mace before gripping on to the keys. It’s all right, she thought. Just calm down. Then she heard the footsteps behind her.

  A surge of adrenaline rushed through her body. Keeping her hand inside her purse, she grasped for the can of mace as she spun around toward the source of the sound.

  “Don’t move,” she shouted. “I’ve got a gun!”

  A tall, muscular Hispanic man was standing about six feet in front of her. He calmly raised his hands to show he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” he spoke quietly. “Do you remember me?”

  Lena’s head felt cloudy. Spots danced before her eyes. Everything seemed so dreamlike and unreal. She stared at his eyes—his clear blue eyes. Her purse dropped out of her hands and landed on the hard cement floor.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes I do.”

  “How do I know you’re really him?”

  They were in Lena’s car now. It seemed wise to get away from the parking deck as quickly as they could. If someone were looking for them, they’d be sitting ducks out in the open. Lena drove through the outskirts of Austin heading north, no clear destination in mind. She constantly checked her rearview mirror for any signs they were being followed. Ramon had poured out the basics of the story as she drove. It was so bizarre and unbelievable—but how else could she explain his being there? Even as she asked the question, she knew it was really him. Still, Lena repeated her question. “I mean, how do I know you are who you say you are?”

  Ramon looked away from the window and into her eyes. When they first started out, he’d slumped down in the passenger seat, crunched below the window line, trying to appear invisible. Now he sat tall and straight in the seat. Something about his look caused her to flush. Lena turned back to the road.

  “You met me before,” he said. “Who else could I be?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re his twin or something. For all I know, this could be a scam of some kind. There must be some other explanation. I saw that man die.”

  “You saw what you saw. I know how weird this is. I’ve had a hard time believing it myself.” Ramon turned back to the window. He spoke so quietly that she had to strain to hear him.

  “I keep thinking the same thing, that this is some kind of dream. That I’m going to wake up and it’ll all be over,” he said. “But then I do wake up and it’s all the same. This ain’t no dream. This is real, and I’m real too.”

  They were both quiet for a time. Lena continued driving north, past the suburbs and into the thinly populated expanse of central Texas. Where would they go now? What could she do? One thing was for certain, Washington was out of the question. That would have to wait. If this really was Ramon Willis—and in her heart, she knew it was—then they were in deep trouble. If the story was true, he was being pursued by dangerous men who would use any means necessary to silence him. And now her too. But there was really no choice. He’d come to her for help. She had to help. And besides, if it was true, this was one hell of a story.

  Lena kept quiet for a minute before speaking again, “What was it like?”

  Ramon had been staring out the window, seemingly lost in thought. The question startled him. “What?”

  “What was it like? Dying, I mean.”

  Ramon thought for a moment before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t think I was ever really dead… it was a set-up. I just remember a dream about snow, and then I woke up. It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t going toward the light or anything. When I first woke up, I was sure I was in hell.”

  Lena kept her eyes on the road and listened.

  “It’s kind of funny,” Ramon continued. “I’ve spent a big part of my life in jail for something I didn’t do. Sitting in a cage waiting for them to kill me. Then this thing happens and I’m a prisoner again, but this time, they use me like some human lab rat. And I know that if I’d stayed in there, I’d be dead for real. Now I’m out, but I’m not free. They’re still trying to pull my strings. You know what I mean? I’m running and hiding and I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Lena nodded her head but didn’t respond. She checked the rearview mirror again. It was a long time before he spoke again.

  “Do you believe in fate?” Ramon asked.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Destino, fate. That you’re born the way you are. You can’t change who you are or what’s meant to be.”

  “No, I don’t accept that at all. If I thought that, life would be pointless.”

  Ramon considered the thought. “Maybe. Maybe not. You still have to play it out. I think I got out for a reason. Maybe this is my fate. Either way, I don’t want to keep running.”

  Lena nodded again. “If your story checks out, they’re the ones that will need to run.”

  Ramon stared out at the night. The headlights cut a small swath of light into the sea of darkness. “Maybe,” he said. “We’ll see.”

  Lena focused on the road. Did she know what she was getting into? If it was as Ramon had said it was, they were in way over her head. It was one thing to investigate corruption in local government. Even on a national level, Nixon didn’t kill the people on his enemies’ list. But this was different. The army, if that was who it was, would kill to protect their secrets. What kind of project was worth that kind of risk?

  They passed a sign announcing an exit for the towns of Cedar Park and Hutto. The first thing they needed to do was to find a place to hide. Somewhere she would have some time to sort things out, to find out what was real and what wasn’t. Until now, she’d been driving more or less by instinct. Lena knew she had to leave the city, but she didn’t have any idea of where to go. But she needed to go somewhere. Some months back, she had spent a weekend with friends up near Cedar Park. There was an old motel there, just off the main road but secluded. It would be a place to rest and plan their next move. Lena took the exit.

  The motel was a relic from the fifties, a group of small whitewashed bungalows set far off the main road. The neon sign in front was permanently affixed to Vacancy. They pulled in back of the building that served as the office. Ramon stayed in the car while Lena went to check them in. Except for the neon glow of the sign, the surroundings were black. All the other cabins were dark, either empty or their occupants in bed. The cars buzzed on the road, but none of the light filtered down. The darkness settled over him like a blanket.

  Was this a mistake? When he’d found out Barry was dead, he knew he needed to tell someone, but why her? He hardly knew her at all. Just general impressions from a short talk. And she was with the press, the media--her allegiance was to getting the story. Why would she care about him or his situation? Once the story broke, who could tell what would happen? He’d be at the center of a circus with a spotlight focused on him—a spotlight that would put him in the sights of both the legal authorities and the army men who were pursuing him. It was guaranteed to bring trouble. The options weren’t good: either they would kill him or the authorities would put him back in jail and reset the date of execution.

  Either way, he was a dead man.

  He’d done his part by contacting her and telling what had happened at the Installation. Now was the time to pass the torch. He’d told Lena what was going on. She and her newspaper could do the investigation and stand in the spotlight. Ramon would move off into the shadows and disappear.

  He was lost i
n thought when Lena returned. She gave him a strange look as she got in.

  “There was only one unit left. We got the last one.”

  She pulled the car along the side of their unit, out of view from the road. She unlocked the door to the room and they quickly went inside.

  It was a small room wallpapered in a dingy yellow floral pattern with a dirty rust-colored shag carpet, a relic from the seventies. The dim light from the overhead fixture cast long shadows on the far wall. There was a large water stain on the ceiling and a strong smell of mothballs. The only furniture was a small nightstand and one double bed.

  Ramon strode across the room. It was hardly bigger than his old jail cell. He opened the bathroom door and glanced inside. More water stains on the ceiling and a blotch of mildew on the shower curtain.

  What was he doing here?

  It felt so strange being alone with this woman. He hardly knew her, yet he felt a strange sense of security and closeness. He’d felt it the first time that they’d met. A chemistry maybe. In the car, so close he could smell her scent, he’d thought of how long it had been since he’d been with a woman. But she was so different from him and his background, so unattainable. Sitting so close to her, it felt like a fire burned in his chest. Sexual attraction, lust, whatever you want to call it, that was part of it—but not everything. It seemed like she understood him. Like she saw who he was without passing judgment.

  Ramon caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He was unshaven and dirty, wild-looking. She’d have to have been scared, but she’d still taken him in. That showed courage. And what would happen to her now? That spotlight shone two ways. By approaching her, he’d made sure that his pursuers—his enemies—would now turn their sights on her. It wouldn’t have mattered who he approached; the results would have been the same. But by contacting Lena, he’d made her a target.