Jonathan straddled the bench; Jack straddled the motorcycle. Both listened intently. If Hayden had been paying better attention, he would have laughed at how they both seemed to look identical, hanging on his words, Jack because anything to do with Superman and Batman was of supreme importance, and Jonathan because Hayden might be making a point that could help him survive.
“Of course, you have to remember Bruce Wayne is a billionaire, so anything he needs to make a plan work, he can essentially go out and buy,” Hayden said, then added, “Plus it’s a comic book, so if you need a battle suit equipped with kryptonite missiles in a week an engineer can cook that right up for you, no questions asked.”
“I still think Superman would win,” Jack said.
Jonathan nodded and smiled at Jack. He agreed, of course. It seemed Batman was at an incredible disadvantage even if he could stage the fight. Still, it was worth considering. He wished that these Ferox had some kind of kryptonite. He had no way of knowing if they had any weaknesses, unless Heyer was going to tell him about them, and he hadn’t seen Heyer since his disappearing act in the park.
The truth was he knew almost nothing, and most of what he knew wasn’t very helpful. Their ears were soft spots, but then again so were his. If he lost an ear, he wasn’t going to be doing much more fighting, whereas it had only slowed the Ferox down. He knew they could be drowned, but he didn’t know where the thing was going to show up, he couldn’t depend on it being close to water.
Even if he was lucky again, Heyer had indicated that they might not all be so easily tricked, the one he fought was injured and overconfident, not a situation Jonathan could easily recreate. He knew that a very strong individual could crack through their skin with a wedge and a sledge hammer, but there was still the matter of getting the beast incapacitated long enough to pound through its skin.
Even if he was a billionaire he wasn’t sure what he could buy in the real world that would improve the situation; not to say money couldn’t help. Paying for things like training and supplements, food, and even secondhand gym equipment was causing Jonathan to spend more time at Mr. Fletcher’s hardware store than he thought wise. It was time he could have used preparing. It was another problem for which he still needed a better solution. He tried to push it from his mind for a time, as he didn’t want to appear troubled in front of everyone.
He looked over at Jack. The kid was just sitting there on the motorcycle, happy to be listening to these “men” talking about man stuff. Jonathan wondered about his childhood. Had he also mistaken some twenty-year-olds as “men” when he was young? What did that word even mean? Would he have looked at a guy like himself and thought “that man” is talking about Batman fighting Superman? It wasn’t what he would’ve imagined men doing.
He hardly thought of himself or his friends as anything but well-adjusted teenagers who could legally buy booze. His father had been a man; his father’s friends, those guys were men. As he tried to remember why, he couldn’t say what the exact difference was; some sense of agency, a better self-esteem. His father just hadn’t ever seemed to waiver. Had it been his dad in this situation, he would know exactly what to do. He wouldn’t be crying out at night with nightmares, then again, he’d died before Jonathan was even thirteen.
He turned back to look at Jack just then. The kid was trying to carefully get down from the motorcycle, scared that he might tip it over and lose the privilege of sitting on it. His legs weren’t long enough to reach the ground and he was struggling, but he was getting there.
Sometimes you’re just too damn short, Jonathan thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THURSDAY | JULY 21, 2005 | 9:00 AM
JONATHAN pressed the end call button. He set the phone down on his desk harder than he’d meant to. Then he stared at the floor.
More and more, he was making choices he would never have had to a month earlier. It didn’t feel that way, though. It felt like they were being made for him. They all brought a sense of foreboding. The gut instinct that every decision forced on him was a bad one. Being bad, of course, didn’t stop it from being the only thing he could think to do.
It was funny how sickeningly easy it had been. He hadn’t even had to ask the bank’s representative. Once they had his account pulled up, they had led with informing him that he was eligible for a larger line of credit.
“We’d love for you to be hopelessly in debt to our bank,” Jonathan said mockingly.
He reminded himself that the logic hadn’t changed. There were things he needed, and he might as well pull out all the stops, because if he didn’t live, it wasn’t going to matter.
At least if I die, the joke is on them, he thought.
He didn’t have a realistic means to get any more money quickly. If he had a car, he would have sold the thing, but all he had that would have been worth anything to anyone was the laptop he’d gotten when he graduated from high school. He couldn’t imagine parting with that as it was his only means of research at home. If things got rough, he could pawn the gold pocket watch his father had left to him. The family heirloom sat in the old cigar box on top of Jonathan’s desk.
He took out the watch and flipped it open.
He had the inscription memorized. Still, he liked looking at it, running his thumb over the words. His grandfather had had the inscription put in from the same Rudyard Kipling poem that he’d read to Douglas, the same poem Douglas had read to him.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the will which says to them: “Hold On!”
The inscription hadn’t resonated till now. After having drowned the Ferox it brought a different shape to the words in his head. He felt guilty then, that the thought had even occurred to him to pawn the watch. He wouldn’t even imagine such an action again, not until he’d really exhausted all other avenues. He drew a line in his mind, one that he wouldn’t cross. If he had to, he’d flush his credit score down the toilet before he’d part with it.
Something needs to be sacred, he thought.
The problem was time and job skills. He couldn’t spend any more time at the hardware shop, because he needed to be spending every second he could getting himself ready. Unfortunately, he didn’t possess any particular skills that he could use to get a higher paying job. It was hard enough to find a part-time job, and without a skill to leverage, finding one that would work around his schedule and pay well enough was damn near impossible.
Before Jonathan had decided to call the bank, he’d even considered stealing, but that wasn’t in his skill set either. He would more likely have ended up in jail. He couldn’t risk a serious time killer, preparation wise, like incarceration.
He looked up to the mirror on the back of his door now, staring into himself.
Is this really what it’s coming to?
He couldn’t believe he was weighing the pros and cons of theft to fund his survival, that anyone could come to such a place in little over a month.
It wasn’t just his increasing debt that had money weighing heavily on Jonathan’s mind. The university had called, wanting to confirm that he would be returning to school next quarter. The call was a warning about the drawbacks regarding his student loans should he not complete his education.
He didn’t know what to tell the adviser. Was he ever returning to school? Was that a lost dream now? His life could end in a little over two months, and even if he lived through that, there was nothing saying he would make it much longer. The student adviser had been briefed on the incident that had led to Jonathan’s initial absence, but when did the grace period end? How long could he cling to any hope that he would ever get to finish what he’d poured the last three years of his life into?
He’d told the adviser he needed more time to do some thinking and would call back next week. Jonathan doubted he would actually be making that call. Idly, he wondered if
they would call his mother about it. He didn’t think they could. He was an adult, after all. It was infuriating that he faced death and still worried that she would discover his dropping out, that she would be disappointed in him. What was worse was he really did care, it got under his skin. The look she would give him, the tone her voice would take, the never ending interrogation for which he could give her no satisfying answers.
The Jonathan in the mirror still stared back at him.
“I’ll hold on to you as long as I can,” he and his reflection said in unison, “but reality is getting too small for both of us.”
“Still not breaking on this then, Tibbs?” Lincoln said.
He wasn’t referring to the fact that another week had gone by and Jonathan was still at the gym. He was past any suspicions that his client would get lazy on him. It was that they’d spent over twenty hours together getting Jonathan in shape, and he still had not said why. Jonathan didn’t mind that the man asked. He seemed to genuinely want to know for professional reasons, to improve on the training plan.
From time to time, Jonathan dropped clues out of necessity. Like that he was looking to improve his balance or his punching strength. It was safe to assume that Lincoln would come to the conclusion that Jonathan was bat shit crazy well before he would believe that he was training for an inter-dimensional show down with a super-powered monster. Suffice to say, even though Lincoln had begun to assume he was using the training for something connected to martial arts or fighting, it didn’t explain the secretive nature of it.
Today Jonathan decided to reverse the third degree.
“How about you?” Jonathan asked. “What makes you need to be in such good shape all the time? I mean, I’m assuming that the working out led to becoming a trainer and not the other way around.”
“It’s a little embarrassing,” Lincoln responded.
“Yeah? Well now I’m all ears,” Jonathan said.
Lincoln seemed caught off guard as Jonathan seldom lost focus during their training sessions. He usually was as serious as a machine, squeezing every dollar he’d paid out of the session. The trainer had actually found that part of their relationship relieving as he wasn’t forced to promote himself along with the training. Jonathan wasn’t paying for a coach or a buddy to keep him motivated; he was paying for experience.
“Well, believe it or not, I actually have a degree in theater,” Lincoln replied cautiously. “Originally, I wanted to be on the WWE.”
Jonathan set down the kettle bell he’d been hefting. It was like getting the last piece of a puzzle he hadn’t realized he’d been putting together. Lincoln suddenly made sense to him.
“I could see you doing that,” Jonathan said.
He was partly being polite. He knew little about wrestling other than the few glimpses he’d caught accidentally over the years. Mostly he’d just seen giant men taunting each other with a microphone. He could see Lincoln pulling that off, especially after seeing how comfortable he’d been messing with the two teenage twerps the day he had first come to the gym.
“Originally the plan was to graduate with a theater degree, bulk up, and become a pro wrestler. Along the way I picked up so much about body building that I fell into personal training,” Lincoln explained.
“I can only imagine how difficult it would be to break into the WWE, probably as hard as getting any acting gig?” Jonathan said.
“It’s like any idea you have when you’re young. You go get a degree, you get the look, and you expect that someone will just show up on your doorstep and discover you. Of course, it doesn’t work that way. There are auditions and a thousand other guys with the same dream,” Lincoln said, “It’s okay, though. It helped me develop the skills that pay the bills. I still audition sometimes.”
“Speaking of bills,” Jonathan said, “I think I am out of training hours.”
“Repeat customer, good man! I’ll cut you a deal this time around, pretty clear this isn’t a one week foray into the gym world for you.”
“That would be great man,” Jonathan said. “I need to save every dime I can.”
“Do me a favor though?” Lincoln asked
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Use the money to buy some decent gym clothes,” Lincoln said.
Jonathan smiled.
“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask, do you know anyone, in your circles, that does instruction on self-defense? Preferably one-on-one instruction.”
Lincoln raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I have a few contacts in that world.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FRIDAY | JULY 22, 2005 | 9:00 PM
“I am confident that events can be controlled to our benefit,” said Olivia, “but the situation is similar to previous cases.”
“Explain,” said the man on the other end of the line.
Olivia was wearing the same style of clothing as when she had interviewed Grant, thick rimmed glasses, fitted suit. She seldom wore anything else to work. It was well after hours and she had stayed in the temporary office provided to her on the military base specifically to give this report. She had let her hair down to relieve the headache she was feeling from the long day. Soon she’d be heading home, or at least to the transitory place where her suitcase was living.
“The phone tap is effective. All communications are being monitored, as well as the house’s Internet feed. However, as with all previous attempts, bugging the house itself is useless. Audio surveillance equipment used to observe the subject is meeting the same interference as has been the case previously. All reports are coming from the eyes and ears of our agents tailing the subject and staking out the domicile. Still, they can only report what they see and hear.”
The most frustrating challenge of this investigation, since Olivia had been brought on board, was being technologically outclassed. It meant problems to surmount that she and her team had previously taken for granted. As with previous cases involving the blond man, something about the domicile was immune to their equipment. Microphones and bugs were ineffective. Camera and video functioned, but the sound on the video recordings was always distorted past recognition. Cellular and Internet monitoring only worked because the surveillance could take place at a location away from the domicile itself.
“Has the phone tap revealed anything of interest?” asked the voice.
“The subject has requested an increase to his line of credit.” She paused, then added, “He also appears to be withdrawing from his educational career.”
There was a pause on the line. She waited patiently.
“Do you have any theories as to his motives?”
“Nothing concrete, as you know. This, Jonathan, is unlike most of our previous investigations. He doesn’t fit the standard pattern. He may very well have no idea what he’s a part of and is simply reacting in a manner within the normal expected range of human behavior given the trauma he experienced. On the other hand, he may be reacting to variables outside our visibility.”
“Off the record then, what is your opinion?” the voice asked.
To this Olivia paused.
This was yet another instance where the difference between Jonathan and previous investigations concerning the blond man had somehow seemed noteworthy. It was not only a change in the blond man’s patterns but in her superiors handling of the investigation. The man never asked for her ‘opinion.’ Usually he only asked for conjecture that could be supported by evidence in the reports. She couldn’t put her finger on what was causing this subtle change in process.
“In my opinion, his actions are not what they seem,” Olivia said. “Though we couldn’t get close enough to listen in, we know that Jonathan has met with the blond man. This took place approximately two weeks after the initial incident. They had a long conversation before the man disappeared. How the meeting was arranged without our detection remains unknown, as per usual.”
“Thank you for your analysis. One last thing,” the voice said, “this Private G
rant, you believe he will be able and adequate.”
She’d been prepared for this question. She’d formulated a scripted answer to put her personal observations regarding Private Grant aside. Her impression of the man had been bleak from the start. Despite that she’d asked him to be candid about his personal relationship with the female of the house, she’d found his over-eagerness to share details about the relationship disturbing.
He reveled in having an invitation to explain his sexual exploits to her during his reports. She had felt his eyes on her during their initial meeting to a degree that would raise the hackles of most women. The man’s behavior as reported to her from the agents assigned to observe him gave her further hesitance. If she had to put it to words, she would say he appeared to be ‘getting off’ on the assignment. She pitied the girl. Given the background she had on Grant, she pitied him even more. However, her pity wasn’t going into her reports.
“Private Grant is an ideal soldier. We have led him to assume that we’re operating under the Office of Homeland Security. Once he believed that this was a matter of national security, insinuating a potential terrorist threat, he was eager to be involved. He asked no questions.”
“I read in your initial report that he is romantically involved with one of the occupants. As he is not officially part of the team, nor trained for this type of operation, do you have complete confidence that he can adequately serve his purpose?” the voice asked.
“The intelligence we’ve gained from him thus far has been fruitful. His relationship with the girl provided us with eyes and ears inside the house that we would have been hard pressed to arrange without raising suspicions. If it was not for this intel, we wouldn’t have had visibility into Jonathan’s decline in mental state. Private Grant has been present in the house during more than one of the subject’s night terror episodes. This does support the evaluation that, despite Mr. Tibbs’ apparent cooperation with the blond man, he was in fact traumatized by whatever events led to their relationship.”
Chronicles of Jonathan Tibbs 1: The Never Hero Page 20