by Ethan Cross
“This just keeps getting better and better. You’re taking my most dependable team member, and I’m ranking him above me on that, and you want to leave our rookie agent alone with my brother.”
The Director said, “First of all, I think your brother may be in love with Emily, in his own twisted way.”
“He killed her husband and destroyed her life.”
“Exactly. Combine that with her many psychology degrees, and it makes her the perfect candidate to keep Ackerman in line. Plus, we always have the implied threat of our failsafe option.”
“You just better hope that my brother doesn’t figure out the truth of what you implanted in his spine. What if I say no? To all of it. What if I say that I can’t knowingly carry out orders which I feel could put the lives of my team and myself in danger?”
“Could you give Marcus and me a moment, Val?”
Without a word of protest, Special Agent Valdas Derus dropped his napkin on the table and headed to the restroom.
“Listen up, kid,” the Director said. “I’ve put up with your bullshit this long because you’re very good at what you do, but I’m getting way too old and way too damn tired to coddle you anymore. You do as you’re told or you can go back to being the pariah you were when I found you, and the DOJ will hand your brother over to the CIA to do whatever they want with him. I had guessed that they wanted to put him to work for them, but maybe they really just want him so they can cut open his brain and find out what makes him tick, find out exactly why he’s the man with no fear. I suspect it would be pretty useful for them to be able to recreate such qualities in their own assets. So in response to your ‘what if’ question, you either follow orders or you’re out on the street and Ackerman goes back to being a science experiment.”
“Frank isn’t ready for this.”
“Your brother is the meanest, toughest son of a bitch I know. He can handle himself undercover.”
Marcus leaned across the table and looked deep into the old man’s eyes. “First of all, don’t ever talk about our mother like that. Next time, I’ll feel compelled to defend her honor. Second, for the record, this isn’t going to end well. You remember I said that. And third, to be clear, I’m not worried about Frank’s safety. I’m worried about everyone else.”
16
Dr. Derrick Gladstone didn’t believe in God—whether it be the Judeo-Christian God, Allah, or any of the minor deities imagined to rule over the forces of nature. He believed all religion to be superstition and nonsense. His religion was science, and looking at life from a purely scientific standpoint, he could find nothing to suggest he should deny himself any pleasure or follow any kind of moral code. After all, we are here, and then we are nothing—what more is there than to pursue one’s own goals and fantasies? If it benefited him to be kind, then he would do so. If murder or rape or robbery was for his own benefit or the benefit of science and his place in history, then he had no problem with those acts either.
He knew that people couldn’t simply run around lawless, killing and stealing from whomever they wished. But if you were smart enough not to get caught, then what reason was there not to commit the crime? The answer, Derrick supposed, was fear. The only reason not to act on your own self-interests was for fear of a deity, fear of consequences, or fear of your own ignorance. The first because you may face an inescapable punishment upon your death. The second because you could possibly face criminal repercussions for your actions. And the third because you fear that you are ignorant in your belief that the first two don’t exist and shouldn’t be feared at all.
What did he have to fear from an imaginary deity or from the law of the land when he was a golden god himself?
Derrick found it astonishing the things a man could accomplish when he abandoned the laws of gods and men and became his own master.
He dropped the patient’s file he had been reading atop his desk, rubbed his eyes, and stretched out his arms. A whole stack of neglected paperwork sat beside the discarded folder. With everything going on in his life right now, he found it impossible to concentrate on work. But the privilege of owning an extremely successful company allowed Derrick a lot of freedom with his time. Still, there were some tasks—and some special patients—which required his personal attention and couldn’t be entrusted to one of his many underlings.
Grabbing the push bar of his wheelchair, Derrick spun himself over to the side wall of his office where a small table of all glass held a crystal carafe in the shape of a skull. Fine cognac filled the skull. Four snifters and a few photographs of himself rested beside the liquor.
One picture showed him in a black wetsuit at a beach in Brazil holding his Mayhem Driver surfboard, which he had preferred because of it’s ability to navigate dead sections and link waves together. He missed his time in the ocean.
Thanks to good genes, a strict diet, and an intense dedication to his own fitness, Derrick had always possessed a body which rippled with muscle and held no excess fat. Even while bound to a wheelchair, he refused to allow his muscles to wither and had continued a rigorous workout regimen.
Derrick supposed he would have been the perfect mate. He provided everything any partner could have possibly wanted. If it hadn’t been for his injury …
His impressive physique coupled with a square jaw, perfectly symmetrical features, flawless bronze skin, perfectly coifed head of sandy blond hair, and pale-blue eyes had always made it exceedingly easy for Derrick to attract the opposite sex. But even before the accident, he had little use for the fairer sex, beyond their necessity in procreation. His last long-term relationship had been his high-school girlfriend, and even then he had only put up with her because she was the head cheerleader and the most popular girl in school, and her adoration and the envy of his classmates served to augment his stature as star football player, valedictorian, and all-around alpha male. It was a place of honor that he had achieved through meticulous planning and hard work. Still, beyond the social aspects and satisfying his active teenage libido, she soon became a liability rather than an asset. In college, he found there were more than enough females ready to satisfy his physical needs without the emotional investment required by a mate.
Derrick picked up another of the photographs. This one showed a younger version of himself on one knee in full football pads. The younger Gladstone leaned over on his helmet and showed that million-dollar smile. Memories of his time on the gridiron filled him with a strange warmth. In another life, he could have played in the NFL, possibly both sides of the ball, offensively as a running back and defensively as a linebacker.
They had called him Derrick “The Gladiator” Gladstone.
The phone on his desk chirped, and his secretary said, “Dr. Gladstone, I have your brother on line two.”
Derrick growled in disgust as he wheeled himself back to his desk. “Thank you, Susan, but I’m quite busy. Did he say why he’s calling?”
“Dennis said that he’s planning a visit and wanted to work out the details with you.”
Gritting his teeth, he tried to remain calm. He counted to five and took a few deep breaths. “Thank you, Susan, I’ll take the call.”
His fraternal twin brother had always been Derrick’s opposite. Dennis had struggled with grades and his weight and had shied away from sports and popularity. Where Derrick had fought with every fiber of his being to be extraordinary in every pursuit, his brother was more than satisfied with mediocrity.
“Hello, Dennis, to what to do I owe the pleasure of a call from my little brother?”
“You’re older than me by like ten minutes.”
“And I always will be.”
His brother laughed and said, “Same old Derrick. Listen, we’re going to be coming up to San Francisco next week and would love to spend some time with you and Mom.”
Dennis always was a momma’s boy. “Now’s a really bad time for that.”
“We both know you can make time whenever you want. That’s the perks of being a big-shot doctor
, and Mom isn’t getting any younger. In her condition, there’s no way she’d survive another stroke.”
“She’s fine. She’ll be alive and well for Thanksgiving and Christmas. You can see her then.”
“I’ve already made all the arrangements, and I’ve booked a hotel for Helen and me and the kids. The youngsters would love to spend a little time with their uncle. They adore you.”
Of course they do, Derrick thought. They probably wish I was their father instead of you.
“Yes, I love them too, but as I said, now’s not a good time. I have a lot going on with the business, and—”
“That’s fine. If we only get to see you in the evenings or for dinner, we’ll make do. But we’re still coming up to see Mom. And…I was thinking maybe she could come stay with us for a while.”
“That’s out of the question. She’s settled in here. Her doctors and caregivers are here.”
“Yeah, but Helen’s at home and could take care of her, and in your condition, we thought it might help to—”
“My condition?”
“You know what I mean. You’re a busy guy and—”
“I said no.”
Silence hung over the lines, and Derrick pictured his brother as a little boy bleeding from the nose and mouth. Derrick recalled himself pummeling Dennis’s face, driving his fist up and down as if it was powered by strong hydraulics. Their mother had stood over them, a glass of Everclear and apple juice sloshing in her glass as she forced them to fight for her own amusement. “Only the strong survive in this armpit of a world, boys. You have to fight for everything you have.”
Despite the fact that Derrick was always the victor in their mother’s encouraged brawls, it was always Dennis who would receive her attention afterward as she stroked his dark hair and called him her “poor baby.”
Over the phone line, Dennis finally said, “Well, we can discuss it more next week. Send Mom my love.”
Derrick hung up without a word of goodbye, his anger swelling at his brother’s insistence on a visit. This couldn’t have come at a worse time. His plans were almost ready. Soon, he would have the necessary funds to solidify his legacy, and before that could happen, many preparations needed to be made. He couldn’t accomplish anything with his sniveling little brother staring over his shoulder, still vying for the old witch’s affections.
Closing his eyes and picturing his fist slamming into his brother’s face, Derrick laughed and shook his head. He wouldn’t let his brother stand in his way.
One of Derrick’s many strengths was his ability to adapt and overcome any circumstance. After all, the ability to adapt to one’s environment was crucial to being selected by nature as the instrument of advancement for one’s species. And Derrick Gladstone intended to carve his name into the evolution of mankind.
17
Baxter Kincaid stepped from his front door onto Haight and Ashbury, the long stretch of concrete where Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin and other icons of the hippie movement had lived and spread their unique philosophy. Baxter didn’t consider himself to be a hippie and was a disciple of no man. Still, he respected the efforts of the hippie founding fathers and mothers. The messages of peace and love were ones that he strongly identified with, but he also realized that it was not Hendrix and Jerry Garcia who had originally spread such a message.
The sun shined brightly, and the weather was beautiful. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, having descended from an apartment where Hendrix himself had once resided, he spread his arms and thanked God for such a wonderful day.
Then he stuck a joint in his mouth and flipped open his Zippo lighter. The ace of spades adorned its face over an inscription declaring the greatest commandment: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, your mind, and all your strength, and love others as yourself.”
He inhaled deeply and took the sweet herb into his lungs. As he did so, he said a silent prayer, honoring the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Then Baxter headed down the street to Amoeba Music. He was in search of a Beck album on vinyl, but his ulterior motive was to spend a bit of time flirting with the goth chic whom he knew to be on duty that morning. Jenny Vasillo was the most attractive woman he had ever encountered. Perhaps not the most beautiful, but she possessed an inner strength which filled Baxter with a sense of excitement and warmth every time he entered her orbit.
As he walked, he stuck a small Bluetooth headset into his ear and brought up a recording app on his phone. His neighbor Kevin, a young techie whom Baxter suspected to be a paranoid schizophrenic, had convinced him to start a website and blog for his private investigation agency. Baxter had considered the idea a waste of time. If he needed clients, the universe would provide them; he was not concerned about searching them out. But Kevin had been adamant and promised to handle everything for free, and so Baxter had let the kid have his fun. A few times a week, he would record something and send it on to Kevin to correct and post on the website. The blog had actually earned a bit of a following, although Baxter wasn’t sure why. He mostly just rambled about whatever popped into his head at the time.
Starting the recording and thinking of a time in the not-so-distant past when people thought you were crazy when you walked down the street talking to yourself, he said in his slow, south Texas drawl, “Baxter’s Log, star date … whatever the hell date it is … There’s darkness in us all—I’ve seen that time and again—but I don’t believe in evil. Evil is an illusion. It doesn’t truly exist. That may seem like a strange thing to say, especially from someone like me who often pays the bills exploring the darker side of the human soul. You may ask: How can he say that evil doesn’t exist when we can see so much of it in the world? You don’t have to look very far or think very hard to conjure up some fine examples. I’ll give you an easy one. Adolf Hitler. The unspeakable acts of barbarism and cruelty committed by the leader of the Nazis and his regime are pretty universally considered evil. Pol Pot, Ted Bundy, Richard Nixon, the list goes on. So how can I possibly say that evil doesn’t exist?”
Baxter paused to fist bump one of his neighbors who owned a vintage clothing store.
He continued, “To answer that question—Is evil real or merely an illusion?—we must ask another. What is darkness? Can you touch darkness? Does it have shape and form and substance? No, darkness is merely the absence of light. So what is evil? Evil is merely the absence of good. And we as human beings cannot be one hundred percent good or one hundred percent evil. We all have the capacity for both. Most would agree that only a loving God or a hate-filled Satan would be able to achieve the pinnacle of that spectrum. I would argue, however, that even the Devil isn’t one hundred percent evil. After all, he started his career as an angel and was created by the same Universe that breathed life into every one of us. It’s just that old red is as far away from the ‘light’ as one can travel. I can almost guarantee you that Lucifer doesn’t see himself as the bad guy. I suspect he feels somehow justified in his torment of mankind and disobedience toward his creator. And the same can be said about our friend Adolph. He thought he was saving humanity from itself through racial and ethnic cleansing. Evil isn’t something we are; it’s something we do.”
He paused to consider that, taking a long drag from the joint. “So how do we determine whether our actions are good or evil? I think it’s simple. Do your deeds sow the seeds of love and peace or hatred and discord? Unlike evil, hatred is very real. It’s not merely the absence of love. Hatred is the conscious decision to choose destruction over creation, despair over repair, judgment and condemnation over joy and harmony. So remember, brothers and sisters out there on this digital web of interconnected thoughts and information, step into the light and let your love shine bright.”
He laughed as a car drove by right after he ended the recording blaring out a Beatles song, which proclaimed that love is all we need. It was as if the Universe was giving him a big thumbs up. He continued to chuckle as he puffed the last of his joint and stamped it out in a sma
ll, sand-filled ashtray and trashcan beside the entrance to Amoeba Music.
As he stepped into the store, security checked his fanny pack, which contained an eighth of herb and a small metal pipe. The security guard knew him and had no problem with the weed, for which Baxter possessed a medical card allowing him to legally consume marijuana—which wouldn’t matter in a few months when California officially legalized recreational use. The guard was merely verifying that he held no weapons, which was something Baxter rejected on principle, but he allowed the big man to follow his routine. The kid didn’t know that Baxter had once been a homicide detective and, after leaving the SFPD, had vowed to never pick up a gun again.
As he approached the counter, Jennifer Vasillo’s pale cheeks flushed with red. Her skin was the color of alabaster, and her hair was an artificial match for a raven’s feather. A round nose ring pierced her left nostril, and tattoos of unicorns and roses adorned her forearms.
Baxter tilted his trilby hat and said, “I bid good morning to you, fair Jennifer.” He gave her his best smile, showing off the dimples in his cheeks. Chicks always dug his dimples.
Jenny V rolled her eyes and said, “As always, Mr. Kincaid, you’re full of something that starts with an ‘S.’”
“When are you going to let me take you out on the town?”
“’Out on the town’? Seriously, who says that? How old are you? And I’ll think about allowing you to ‘date’ me when you get a real job.”
“That’s harsh. I do pretty well as a private investigator. And I’m captain of my own ship. Master of my own destiny.”
“I’m sure you’re great at being a ‘dick’ for sale. So great that Faraz, that greasy pimp, was in here looking for you this morning.”
“What did he want? And why did he come here?”
“Said he needed to hire you, and he didn’t have your number or address. I figured he would be your ideal client.”