by A. W. Mykel
“After Spartan finished his ‘special action’ and recovered the journal, he refused to obey his instructions concerning it.
“He had been told to turn it over intact and unopened. Instead, he began to translate it.
“His failure to turn it over as directed, and his attempts to read it and to utilize the information, made him a security risk.
“It’s obvious from his actions that he never intended to turn that journal over to the agency. That made him a traitor to his country, probably out for some personal gain. He may even have been a part of the movement it related to.
“It was my decision to send Fanning in to get the journal. The rest you know,” Honeycut said.
Justin sat thinking about what Honeycut had just told him. He had measured Honeycut’s reaction to the question carefully.
What reason could Spartan have possibly had for not turning that journal over? Justin wondered. Certainly, he knew it would cost him his life not to. There was no personal-gain motive, Justin knew that. And why would Spartan go to such trouble to save the journal, by putting it into the books in code for his brother to take? If he were part of the movement, he simply would have destroyed the journal.
No, Honeycut’s explanation didn’t wash. It needed more thought.
“I’m satisfied with that,” Justin lied. “When do I get my eye?” he asked.
Honeycut smiled, more out of relief than from happiness. “When do we get the twenty-fifth page and the journal?” Honeycut returned.
“I’ll have to work on locating the journal,” Justin said, “because I honestly don’t know where the transcribed copy is. Spartan’s brother has the whole thing in the books, though.”
“We’ll want both,” Honeycut said.
“I’ll turn over the twenty-fifth page and the letter, if he did mail one to me, as soon as you feel it’s safe to go after it. Only I can get it, so just telling you where it is won’t help,” Justin said, thinking about the other papers he had found.
He was buying time again. He knew that he wasn’t implanted anymore. If they let him go now, he’d be gone.
Honeycut was also thinking. If Justin were given the eye and hearing device before he went for the information, there would be no chance of him double-crossing them. He believed that Justin was sincere in his willingness to stay with the agency. But a little caution never hurt.
“Your eye can be ready in two or three weeks. It will take about a month of hard therapy to adjust to it,” Honeycut began. “I think we can spare the time. It will also give our infiltrator time to think that his cover is entirely safe.
“Shall I consider that we’ve struck a bargain?” he asked.
“Agreed,” Justin said without hesitation.
The two men shook hands.
It was a shaky alliance, at best.
“We’ve arranged for private quarters for you outside of the complex,” Honeycut said. “Staying here would seem too confining, I think.
“It’s a lovely little house, set well away from everything. You’ll like it, I’m sure.
“There’s one more little surprise I neglected to tell you about,” Honeycut said. “It’ll make your new quarters more than comfortable. It’ll also show you that everything I told you about our concern for your welfare is true.”
“And what is that?” Justin asked.
“I think I’ll let that be a surprise. A most pleasant one, I’m sure.” Honeycut laughed.
That afternoon Justin was taken by limousine to his new private quarters.
Honeycut had been right. It looked like a very charming place, indeed, as the car pulled up to it along the isolated road.
Justin got out of the car and limped up the walk, carrying his blue flight bag. He went to put the key in the lock, but the door was already open.
He turned the handle cautiously and pushed the door in. It swung open in a silent arc, revealing what he least expected to see in the entire world.
Barbara.
THIRTY-NINE
I fear that I shall not make another day. I have often thought of death, since I cheated him so long ago in Berlin. He has been most patient with me. But he will be put off no longer and I am too tired to care.
To the world I say, “Prepare, your long awaited justice is at hand—and it shall be extracted. The history of the world shall be rewritten and its future course decided. You have forgotten and have dwelt too long in undue victory and righteousness. All accounts shall be finally settled.”
Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil to the ghosts of a nation. The ghosts of a nation live!
Final entry from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
Seeing Barbara standing there struck Justin with a varied array of feelings, ranging from boundless joy to deep suspicion.
He didn’t know what to make of the things that Honeycut said anymore. Every time he grew suspicious and doubting, Honeycut did something to make him feel foolish that he could have ever disbelieved the man.
Barbara was in his arms now, too full of emotion for words. Her head was hard against his chest, her eyes tear-filled. He held her tightly saying nothing, fearing that it would all vanish if he did.
“Oh, Justin, they told me you were dead,” she cried, breaking into a rush of tearful sobs.
“Shhh, shhh…I’m here, Jugs. I’m here,” he said, tightening his embrace even more.
“Oh, hold me. Hold me. Don’t let me go,” she implored.
After many long moments, she leaned away slightly, looking up into his face. Her hands went up and gently cupped his cheeks, her eyes running with tears of happiness at having him back and tears of sadness for all that had happened to him.
“Every time you leave me…” Her voice trailed off.
“I’m all right,” he said softly, running a finger along her cheek to catch a tear.
“Never again, Justin. Don’t you ever leave me again,” she said, burying her head against his chest once more.
After more moments of soothing embrace, he felt her tension release against his touch. They walked slowly into the living room, Barbara holding on to him as if for dear life.
“I’ve been here for a week, waiting, getting everything ready,” she said, sniffling. “They told me what had happened to you, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was that you were alive.
“You can’t know what I felt when I was told you’d been killed. My life stopped,” she said, starting to cry again. “Absolutely stopped.”
“Shh, shhh, it’s all right,” he soothed.
After more long moments of silence, she began to gain control.
“Men from the State Department came,” she began. “They told me what had happened and began asking endless questions that I couldn’t answer. It was in the news the same evening. I couldn’t believe it, that you and Steve…”
They sat on the sofa, Barbara holding both of Justin’s hands in her lap.
“How’s my father?” he asked.
She looked at him, tears welling up in her eyes once more. “Taking it very badly,” she answered.
“And Michael?”
“I don’t think he fully understands yet. The day…oh, it seems so horrible to even think it, to relive the dying inside of me. The day of the funeral, at the cemetery, I stayed by your father’s side, to try to help him. He was filled with such grief. Michael seemed confused by what was happening, by his mother’s complete silence, by your father’s tears and mine.
“The…casket was never opened. Not seeing you, I don’t think he really knew. When the priest had finished and the people began to leave, he asked Susan when his daddy was coming home. She had been strong up to that point, then she just completely went to pieces. Michael cried because she cried, more frightened than understanding, I think.
“I stayed behind with your father. We couldn’t leave you there…alone. So alone,” she wept.
“I couldn’t get myself to leave. That small piece of ground held my whole being, my whole life. I wanted
to lay on the pile of earth to be close to you, to keep you warm, to tell you I’d be there.” She couldn’t go on.
Justin’s one eye was tear-filled over their grief. He soothed her until she could continue.
“Then, about three weeks ago, a man came. He told me that you weren’t really dead.
“I slapped him hard, and cursed him for being so cruel. But he went to the phone and dialed a number. Then he gave some kind of code number into the phone and handed it to me.
“That was when I spoke to you,” she said.
Justin was taken aback by that last one. He had never spoken to Barbara, but he knew immediately who had. SENTINEL.
He said nothing further about it.
“Does my father know?” he asked, getting away from the subject.
“No, the man said that only I would know for the next several months, until the rest of the investigations were cleared up.
“He told me that you were working for the government the whole time everyone thought you were with American Mutual. He said that you had killed Steve accidentally, while trying to save his life. He said that what had happened that day was vitally important to the national security of the country.
“Then the arrangements were made for me to be brought here to be with you. As far as anyone else is concerned, I went away to get over the whole thing. No one knows where I am,” she concluded.
“Who was this man?” Justin asked.
“His name was Frank Osborne,” she answered.
The name meant nothing to Justin.
“What did he look like?”
“Smaller than you, dark hair and eyes, roundish, young-looking face, very serious expression on it all the time,” she described.
Rainmaker, Justin thought.
“What else did he tell you?”
“That we’d be here together for several months, while you recuperated. Then we’d be able to be together anywhere we chose, anywhere in the world,” she said.
“With Justin Chaple remaining dead, no doubt,” he said.
“I don’t care if no one knows you’re alive, as long as I can be with you,” she said.
He took her in his arms and held her.
Something wasn’t right to Justin.
That night, feelings of being watched bothered him. It was exceedingly difficult for him to concentrate on making love to Barbara, knowing that the house was probably fitted with hidden visual surveillance, as well as the usual sound bugs.
He felt that he was sharing his experiences with many unseen eyes…and with SENTINEL.
But Barbara was very understanding, thinking that his difficulty arose from his condition. She used all of her skills to relax him, to bring him slowly into the proper frame of mind to enjoy the lovemaking. She was there now, she had said, to take care of him and to watch over him.
He succumbed to her tender skills.
The next few days were troublesome for Justin. His mind was racked with varying quarrels of conscience. He didn’t know whether to trust Honeycut or not, whether it was the right thing to turn over the information he had, or to wait until he could find the journal and then judge.
Elizabeth Ryerson’s unusual mood annoyed Justin, too. Every time his argument led to trusting Honeycut, he’d see her face, feel the tension in her. Something about it just missed.
Barbara stayed with Justin constantly, always touching him, holding a hand or an arm, stroking his hair or his cheek, as though she did not want to lose physical contact with him, for fear that he’d be lost to her again, forever this time.
On the third morning, Justin managed to get out of the house by himself, while Barbara slept late.
He walked across the big wooded backyard, breathing in the cold, crisp Colorado air. He was trying desperately to straighten the facts out in his mind and decide finally whether to trust Honeycut or not. Time was rapidly slipping away from him.
He walked, kicking the fresh fallen snow with his good left foot. The right one didn’t bother him as much as he let on, but he kept up the act. It might pay off later on.
Outside of the house, he felt free, less restricted and observed. He walked for almost an hour before finding the ground sensor at the rear corner of the yard, just hidden in the low bushes.
The rotating sensor shaft was still. He moved in an arc around it. The shaft turned with him as he moved. That meant that it was locked on to him.
They were, no doubt, spread out all over the property to keep his position well noted. It disturbed him that he was being so carefully watched.
And then it occurred to him why Barbara had been brought there. Honeycut knew that Justin would never try to skip out, leaving her behind. She was essentially being used as an anchor, to keep him put.
If he ran, he’d take her along, effectively slowing himself down, making it much easier to be found.
It was a smart move on Honeycut’s part, Justin thought. Without Barbara to drag with him, he could easily lose himself without the implant. And, if he left her behind, they’d use her to pressure him into coming back.
He walked back into the house. Barbara was just getting up.
“Hi,” she said, giving him a kiss. “I’m going out to the store in a few minutes for some groceries. Do you want me to bring you back anything special?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he answered.
He thought a moment, then changed his mind.
“On second thought, bring me back some paper,” he said.
“Paper? What kind?”
“Writing paper,” he clarified. “Lots of it.”
“What are you going to write? A book?” she joked.
“You always said that you wanted me to try writing, didn’t you? Well, I’ve got to start some time. And this is a great setting. Relaxing, good atmosphere. I think I’d like to give it a try,” he said.
She walked over to him and looked up into his face with a satisfied smile.
“Good, I’m glad. It’s about time you started finding a new way to make a living,” she said.
About two hours later, Barbara was off on her shopping trip. She took the silver-blue Corvette that was left with the house for her use.
Justin had used the time that she was gone to move a small desk and chair down to the basement. He had situated them right below a bright light.
“You’re learning fast,” she said when she returned. “All writers have their dreary little holes. This is as dingy as they come.
“You sure you don’t want to write upstairs where you’ll be more comfortable?” she asked, stroking his hair gently.
“No, I like it here fine. No distractions down here. Upstairs, I’d probably jump you every time you walked by. Besides, I don’t want you to see it right away, until I feel confident that it’s not too terrible,” he lied.
“But I can help you, give you some constructive criticism,” she protested mildly.
“You’ll see it—when I’m ready. Okay?”
“All right. Just don’t leave me upstairs alone for too long. I might get lonely and decide to go outside to make it with one of the guys out by the main road,” she joked.
Justin gave her a serious look.
“Hold it, kiddo. I was only kidding,” she said, seeing his sudden change of expression.
“There are men out by the main road? How many?” he asked with an urgent concern.
“Two,” she answered, puzzled.
“Was there a car there?”
“Yes. An Impala, I think,” she said.
Impala. They were agency men.
“Don’t worry,” she began, “they’ve been there ever since I got here. Mr. Osborne said that they were there to keep people out.”
Or in, Justin thought.
He smiled for Barbara’s benefit.
“Come on, let’s eat,” she said. “I bought some great cold cuts and salads. You can start right after lunch—and a roll in the hay.” She winked.
Later that evening, having taken only a short brea
k for dinner, Justin came upstairs. He locked the basement door and threw the old key into his pocket. Any key in the house would open that door. Tomorrow he’d have all the keys in his pocket.
“Do you know how long you’ve been downstairs?” Barbara asked with feigned annoyance.
“Too long?” Justin said weakly.
“You can’t write a book in one night,” she said. “It’s impossible to be effectively creative for long periods of time like that. I almost came down a couple of times, to see if you had another woman stashed away down there,” she kidded.
“You couldn’t have come down, the door was locked from the inside,” he said.
“I know, I tried it,” she said and smiled. “How do you feel after being a writer for one day?” she asked.
“Very inept,” he replied. “I must have used fifty pages to get to eight that I liked.”
“That’s the way writing is,” she commented from experience. “Don’t you think you had better make a story outline first, before starting the rough draft?” she asked. “It would help to have a plan.”
“I know exactly what I want to write,” he said. “The problem is finding the right words.”
“Tomorrow I’ll go out to get you some books that will help. Books on how to use adjectives, adverbs, spelling, and style. There are some good ones on how to write novels, plays, short stories, etcetera,” she said.
“What are you writing, by the way? A short story?”
A full report, he felt like saying. In that time spent downstairs, he had filled nearly sixty pages with facts relating what had taken place since the incident started in England at Spartan’s. There was no creativity involved, just remembering. And he didn’t care how well written it was, as long as he got it all down on paper.
“Yeah, a short story,” he said.
“What’s it about?” she asked.
“About a guy who murders this girl because she asks him too many questions,” he growled playfully. They hugged, then went off to bed.
Justin worked long and hard over the next four days to get the story completed.
Barbara’s annoyance at being left alone began to become real. Justin skillfully skirted away from her now-serious questions about the nature of the work that took so much of his time. But her mood subsided some when he announced that he was taking a few days off.