Mark of the Beast

by Adolphus A. Anekwe

Driving on Highway 5, after grabbing a quick bite from the cafeteria, Dickerson thought about the entire proceeding. She had been to court before, usually as a defendant consultant in malpractice cases. The lawyers would always attempt to have her commit to the fact that another accused physician did not follow standard medical practice. She would always refuse to be pigeonholed into making such a pronouncement; instead, she would always only defend the medically recorded facts of the case. Here, she found herself defending the state of California.

  What a jump, from testifying about patients who thought that they had been wrongfully treated, to defending one of the most powerful states in the Union.

  The road was slippery wet. It had been raining all day. The rain was coming down heavily. Dickerson could barely see less than a mile in front of her. And they say it never rains in southern California. What a farce, she thought. Dickerson had the windshield wipers on full cycle.

  Even though she could hardly see more than half a mile in front of her, other cars were zooming by like she was crawling instead of driving. Looking in the rearview mirror, she noticed two strange lights behind her. These new cars with their strange headlights, she thought.

  “But why is this driver not moving over to the fast lanes?” she asked aloud.

  Dickerson decided that she was not going to drive any faster, not on this awful rainy night, on the account of some lunatic. Suddenly the car moved to the left middle lane.

  “Thank God,” muttered Dickerson.

  The car approached and was soon parallel with her Mercedes 320E. She looked to see who the heck the driver was. She could hardly discern a face in the rain, but it appeared the driver was trying to say something to her.

  Dickerson could not help but entertain some wild thoughts. Could this be abduction, sexual assault, carjacking, but most frightfully, homicide? She decided that at the next exit she would get off and head to a police station.

  All of a sudden, her driver’s-side window glass became the man’s face. A face in his late sixties, clean-shaven, handsome, but a face that somehow looked like a Persian cat. The face, however, was reassuring, as Dickerson was visibly shaking all over, sweating, her heart racing. She was frightened out of her mind.

  “No me preocupo. Me preocupo sobre lo que está detrás de usted.”

  Why is this distinguished, Anglo-Saxon, cat-like man speaking to me in fluent Spanish? Dickerson wondered.

  Dickerson’s Spanish wasn’t perfect, but she understood clearly that the face on the glass was not the problem, but the driver behind was either dangerous, a bad driver, or someone she needed to be wary about.

  She looked at the rearview mirror only to see two headlights that looked just like the ones of the car driven by the man with the face in the passenger-side window. The lights were far behind her. Turning to see or ask who the maniac was apparently speeding toward her, she realized that the face in the window and the car itself were no longer apparent. The car behind her was closing in quickly. She definitely did not seem to be making progress at all.

  Exit 243A, one mile ahead, the sign read.

  Thank God, Dickerson prayed.

  “Oh no,” Dickerson shouted, “this idiot is about to ram me off the road before I can reach the exit!”

  Looking to be sure there were no other cars around to avoid in case of an accident, she wondered why the guardrails on the opposite side of the road looked like picket fences. She decided to speed up a little.

  She decided to quickly take the approaching exit in order to get off the highway, which suddenly appeared almost deserted except for the maniac racing toward her. As she took a sharp turn toward the exit, she felt a loud thud that shook her whole being.

  Her car immediately spun out of control, hit the guardrail, sailed over the ramp, and was slowly descending head-on onto the road about twenty feet below the expressway. For an instant, her whole life flashed in front of her. Next thing she knew, the car somehow landed on the water in the Bay some distance from Enchanted Island.

  How did the water … I thought … the road…? Dickerson’s mind was racing. But with no apparent injuries, Dickerson somehow was still driving the car at normal speed, but on the water. The Spanish-speaking, cat-faced man was sitting on the trunk of the car, paddling.

  Just then the phone rang.

  Dickerson woke up from a vivid nightmare, shaking. She removed the comforter and discovered that she was soaked in sweat.

  Her breathing, still rapid, began to slow down some. She checked her pulse, and discovered that her heart was still racing.

  The phone rang again for the fourth time. She finally picked it up.

  “Hello?” Dickerson answered with an absent-minded voice.

  “Hello, Doc.” It was Pinkett. “Sorry to wake you up so early. I was unable to sleep, thinking about what I said to you, to be careful.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Three thirty-three a.m. Sorry, again, to wake you up.”

  “Why are you calling this early? Is everything okay?” asked the worried doctor.

  “You sound like you just ran a marathon,” Pinkett said.

  “I just woke up from a nightmare,” Dickerson replied.

  “Well, I’m glad I called, then. Tell me about it.”

  When…? Right now? Dickerson wondered.

  After settling down a little, she said, “I was about to die or drown in my car. I was in an accident.… I was rammed off the road, and I crashed. But I didn’t crash. I landed on the water … that was so weird, oh, that was so frightful.”

  “Where did this happen?” Pinkett asked.

  “It was one of those dreams that appear so real, I’m still shaking.”

  “Calm down and tell me exactly what happened.”

  “I was driving home on Interstate 5 north of the airport when this car drove close to me and this handsome man—”

  “You and handsome men,” interrupted Pinkett.

  “Do you mind?” Dickerson asked.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “This handsome man’s face appeared on my passenger-side window, or the glass turned into his face, I don’t know which. In any case, he spoke in Spanish and warned me to be careful of the car behind me.” Dickerson paused to catch her breath.

  “As I turned to look at the car in the rearview mirror, the handsome man’s face and his car were gone, and this fool behind me ran me off the road. As I was just about to crash head-on, the road below turned into water, and Mr. Handsome was sitting on the hood paddling the car. Then the phone rang. For some reason, it appeared that the crash was taking forever to happen.”

  “That was really strange.”

  “You aren’t kidding,” Dickerson said.

  “I usually have dreams, weird, yes, but not as clear or as nearly fatalistic as this one,” comforted Pinkett. “But listen, I think I need to tell you something.”

  “Tell me what?” Dickerson appeared fully awake.

  “I think that there are evil people out there, and some of them may be out to do you harm.”

  “Do me harm, why? I haven’t offended anybody.”

  “Oh, yes, you have.”

  “How…? What did I do?”

  “You developed the mechanism to expose them.” Detective Pinkett explained. “They don’t like it, and they may go to extremes to stop you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Get some sleep. Let me call you in about four hours,” Pinkett suggested.

  “I’m awake now, we might as well…,” Dickerson wanted to continue.

  “No, I insist. Please get some sleep,” Pinkett said.

  * * *

  At exactly seven fifty-five a.m., the phone rang. It was Pinkett.

  “As I was trying to explain to you earlier, we have been watching some suspects closely, and some we have bugged. As a matter of fact, we have the GEE System focused on one…”

  “I told you earlier to continue. I haven’t slept a wink since your first call, but wait a minute,
what’s this GEE System?”

  “That’s G-double-E.”

  “I figured that one out already.”

  “It stands for global eye and ear system. It’s a device that we can attach to anything or anybody—for instance, your body—then through satellite navigation we can virtually see and hear you twenty-four seven.”

  “Like the G.P.S. system in my car.”

  “Just like that, but more advanced. Actually, we can see you in full detail, even down to the baguette design of the ring on your finger, in Technicolor, no less. Added to that, we can hear, very clearly, everything you say. Sometimes we can hear what you whisper to yourself.”

  “Yeah, but you probably can only do all that if I am outside, right?” the scientist asked.

  “Wrong—so long as the device is attached to you, we can pick up everything, even if you are in one of the tunnels in London.”

  “Wow!” gasped Dickerson. “How does it work?”

  “The way they explained it to me is that the device creates an invisible cloud or shield around you all the time. It then bounces off millions of tiny microscopic radon on the cloud. The radons are then reflected back to the device. The device then acts like a radio micrometer and transmits back all the information to the satellite brain, which then interprets it as pictures and sounds.

  “This device is so good that if, for example, somebody is close to you and the two of you are having a conversation, we can easily see the other individual and also hear what he or she is saying to you. Neat, isn’t it?”

  “I think you like all that technical stuff, don’t you?” Dickerson said.

  “I’m having a great time here. This technical stuff, as you call it, turns me on.”

  “At least something turns you on,” Dickerson said in jest, trying to get back at her. “But seriously, where is all this information leading, because you keep referring to you—you, meaning me.”

  “You are one of the smartest people I have ever met.”

  “Well, thank you,” Dickerson said.

  “This is what we know so far,” Detective Pinkett explained. “There is this notorious, well-organized, well-financed gang leader, who has eluded capture for years. He is believed to be in San Diego, even as we speak. I don’t know what the implications might be, but to be on the safe side, we would like to protect you by offering you this GEES device. What do you think?”

  “You seriously believe that I’m a target, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think you are the actual target, but I do believe, and Pellagrini agrees with me, that if they silence you they can retard the HLA B66 movement, especially when it comes to the triple six.”

  “You think they’re out to kill me?” a frightened Dickerson asked again.

  “Probably not,” reassured Pinkett, “but whatever it is they’re planning, we ought to be ready for them.”

  “So, you’re using me as bait.”

  “No, I just want to protect you.”

  After a pause, when nothing else was said, Dickerson finally broke the silence.

  “Okay, bring it on. I’ll wear it.”

  “I’ll be in San Diego in two days to talk to the San Diego Police Department.” Pinkett reverted into a tactical mode. “We will install a monitor in their main station, and I’ll supervise the attachment of the device.”

  * * *

  Two days later, at 10:10 A.M., Judge Finney rendered an opinion and ruled in favor of the state of California.

  PART

  XII

  1

  DR. ABRAMHOFF WALKED INTO THE office. Sabrina could always tell when Abramhoff was upset or mad because his facial expression and demeanor would drastically change. He would stride, almost like a galloping horse, and Sabrina could practically hear him breathing.

  Today he was mad.

  Next, he might look for a poor victim to vent his anger on. Sabrina, during her first two years working for Abramhoff, had been that poor victim, but with Abramhoff’s newfound respect for Sabrina, the next logical victims were the residents.

  Ever since the BASICS project had started, tension and aggravation had multiplied. Sabrina, not one to complain, worked harder on this project than anything else previously.

  The constant phone calls from London, Singapore, and Montreal are enough to warrant a second assistant in this office, she thought.

  As if the meetings in New York two weeks ago were not nerve-racking enough, Abramhoff had had to deal with physicians and researchers he had never met. Individuals whose philosophical approaches are totally different from his, she mused.

  Even with all that, the BASICS project had started on time and data was arriving to Chicago from many different countries. Sabrina had a method that often worked to help Abramhoff let off some steam. She quickly fetched a cup of hot Ovaltine chocolate and added one teaspoon of French vanilla cream.

  Taking a sip of the hot chocolate, Abramhoff calmed down, then said, “Thank you, Sabrina. Please get me Dr. Achampi.”

  “Right away, sir,” she responded.

  * * *

  When Dr. Achampi arrived, Abramhoff got straight to the point.

  “What is wrong with Dr. Richard Kirkland?” he asked.

  “Dr. Kirkland, the British team leader for the HLA B66 project?” Achampi wanted to be sure.

  “Yes,” Abramhoff almost shouted. “He has his differences with both the Italian and the Brazilian doctors. He accused them of sending incorrectly labeled specimens to London for initial analysis prior to transportation to the United States, and also accused them of not following protocol. They, in turn, have called me to complain about him and his militaristic tactics.”

  “What?” Achampi said, still standing.

  “I just received a call from Dr. Chuang.”

  “The Singapore guy, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Abramhoff said, raising his eyebrows. “He’s threatening to go at it alone if Dr. Kirkland and his staff do not stop hounding them about deadlines.”

  “You need to have a talk with Dr. Kirkland,” Achampi suggested.

  “I thought Chicago was the nerve center for this project, not London? All directives actually should come from Chicago,” Abramhoff said. “I was just wondering: is it just that this British doctor does not know when to stop?”

  “Should I get him on the line?” Achampi asked.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine twenty-three.”

  “It’s late in London.… It’s three twenty-three p.m. over there. I hope he’s still in the office. Sabrina,” Abramhoff called over the intercom, “can you get me Dr. Kirkland in London?”

  “Right away, sir,” Sabrina replied.

  Dr. Kirkland, a former military medical officer before joining the staff at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in London, made punctuality and on-time delivery the centerpiece of his project. He had little patience for not getting things done on time, a theme he initially reiterated to Abramhoff in New York City, and then repeated on several subsequent phone conversations.

  Abramhoff, for his part, being a more savvy politician and more diplomatic, preferred gentle persuasion, especially when it came to cultures that he was not very familiar with.

  “I understand what you are saying, Dr. Kirkland, but for the success of the project we must not antagonize our colleagues,” argued Abramhoff.

  “I have never been a politician in my life, and for the life of me, I cannot understand why chaps cannot deliver what they promised.”

  “That’s why the state of the world is what it is right now, but we have to work with it.”

  “That’s not my cup of tea.” Dr. Kirkland was emphatic.

  “That’s why I’m suggesting, from now on, you should let me handle these little annoyances. Any other problems you have over there, let me know and I will find ways to resolve them.”

  Hanging up the phone, Abramhoff winked an eye at Achampi, who had sat and listened to the entire conversation.

  “Tough individual,” Achampi said
.

  “He tries to be,” Abramhoff replied.

  “In any event, how is the data looking?”

  “So far so good,” Abramhoff said, breathing a sigh of relief. “The numbers coming in have less than five percent deviation from our statistical mean, and that, my friend, argues for a very high correlation.”

  “So, technically, this is a worldwide phenomenon, isn’t it?” Achampi’s surprise was clearly evident.

  “I didn’t doubt it for one bit,” Dr. Abramhoff said.

  2

  AFTER THE 10:00 A.M. lecture at the hospital residential lecture hall, Abramhoff returned to the office intending to call Singapore and Brazil. Just as he walked into the office, the phone rang.

  “Dr. Dickerson,” announced Sabrina.

  “I’ll take it,” Abramhoff said.

  “How are things in San Diego?” Abramhoff asked, happy that this was not an international call.

  “Right now things are a little rough.”

  “You are not the only one.”

  “What happened?”

  “No, you go first,” Abramhoff said.

  “Law enforcement here thinks that I might be in some sort of danger.”

  “What…? What happened?” Dr. Abramhoff gasped.

  “Well, they think that some criminal element or elements are out to stop me.”

  “What do they mean … out to stop you?”

  “That’s the problem,” Dickerson said. “They don’t know. Is my life in danger? They wouldn’t answer. So they’re going to hook me up with a GEES device to monitor my activities.”

  “What’s a GES device?”

  “No, G-double-E-S device,” Dickerson said. “I was corrected also. It’s a global satellite eye and ear device that will see me in Technicolor and hear me crystal clear, even if I’m hiding in a cave.”

  “That’s exactly what they need to place on all the HLA B66 positives, not you.”

  “That’s probably what it’s being developed for, but for me, for now, it’s supposed to be protective gear.”

  “Make sure they don’t mistake you for an HLA B66,” Abramhoff said.

  “Oh no,” laughed Dickerson, “I have my own private detective monitoring my every move.”