Meet your daughter in the driveway, take your gun with you. There’s a man in the car with her, and he is threatening Stacy.
She somehow knew the instruction came from almost behind her, a short distance away. A glance in the driver’s side rear-view mirror revealed the lighter splotch of a face peering through the tinted driver’s side window of the black sedan.
“Oh my God!”
“What?” Carl looked at her sharply, hearing the terror in her voice.
“There’s a man in the car behind us, and he just ordered my mother to meet us with her gun.” She quickly reached over to place her right hand on his cheek when he was about to look over his left shoulder. “Don’t look. He might figure out I know he’s there.”
“Uh…, how do you know that? I didn’t hear anyone say anything.”
“I just know.” She glanced towards the front door of the house. “Look, my Mom’s coming out. I know she has a gun with her, and she knows someone is with me. I don't know what to do. She thinks you’ll hurt me.”
“For crap sake Stacy, what are you talking about? Besides, it’s your Mom! She won’t hurt me. Why would she have a gun anyway? Your Dad would scare the bejabbers out of me, but not her.”
“I’m telling you the gun is for you. The man controlling her saw you with me. He might make her shoot you. What should I do? Oh God.”
Barb was walking along the curving walkway towards the two cars, a silvery object in her right hand, her arms swinging down at her side, an angry expression on her face.
Stacy’s mind was suddenly made up for her by a group message intended for her and Carl.
The two of you will get out of the Charger. Stacy, you must walk over to the black Cadillac behind you. The boy must wait for Mrs. Grayson. She has something to give him.
Carl immediately put his right hand on the door handle, and in a flash, Stacy knew what would happen if she let Carl and her mother follow the mental instructions. At least she knew what would happen to Carl.
“No, Carl!” She shouted. As her mother crossed in front of the minivan, her right hand was rising. Stacy thumbed the button on the side of the console-mounted shift lever and pulled it one notch back, into reverse. The doors auto-locked with a click. Ignoring her mother, Stacy focused on the dimly seen face behind the tinted window of the car across the street, as seen in her mirror. She slammed her foot down on the gas pedal, and the big engine of the Charger SE roared to life, torquing the rear wheels into a shrieking scream as the car surged in reverse, tires smoking.
As the car bounced hard over the swale at the end of the drive, Stacy turned the wheel a half turn to the left, swinging the front around to the right. The rear end followed the line she struggled to hold, as the back of the accelerating car fishtailed slightly. The rear right corner of the Charger and its spoiler smashed into the driver’s door of the Cadillac, shattering the window, and the buckling door slammed into the driver, who struck his head, knocking him over in the seat and showering him with broken glass.
Stacy hit the brake, put the car in drive and stomped the gas briefly, as she lowered her window and stopped at the end of the drive. She shouted at her mother, whose expression had changed from anger to one of confusion.
“Mom, throw the gun away, you're mind controlled.”
“What?” She looked at her hand, which held her small purse-sized .32 nickel plated semiautomatic.
“I think Stiles is here; he wanted you to shoot Carl. Throw away the gun and get in the car with us. Hurry.”
Hearing the man’s name shook her out of her confusion, and she saw motion through the broken window of the black Cadillac. Memory returned. “Get out of here. He wants to use us against your father.”
Instead of throwing the gun away, she quickly leveled it at the Cadillac in a two-handed stance Dan had taught her. She pulled the trigger repeatedly and started blazing away at the broken window, some slugs hitting the side of the badly buckled door.
She shouted to her daughter, “Get out of here! He’d make me kill Carl, and he’d kill you too. Go, damn it!” It was hard to make out all her words with the sounds of gunfire mixed with them. Then the gun suddenly went silent. She was empty.
“Come with us,” Stacy implored. “He can’t control me.”
Her mother started running down the drive towards the Charger. There was no movement seen inside the Cadillac, but it wasn’t worth the risk to see what damage she’d done. Even if unarmed he was more dangerous than a rattlesnake if he was alive. Unlike a rattlesnake he had a gun, and mental control.
Stop moving!
Barb halted in her tracks just as she reached the street.
Stacy screamed, “Mom, get in the car!”
Two shots rang out, and Barb’s head twitched to the left, as her knees suddenly buckled, and she collapsed in a heap and rolled limply onto her right side, making no move to catch herself.
Stacy screamed a heartrending denial of what her eyes told her was true, “Noooo.” The word trailed off, just as another shot rang out, passing through the Charger’s rear window, ripping through the headrest near motionless Carl’s left ear and striking the windshield.
Stacy let off the brake and shoved down on the gas again. “Get down Carl.” The car’s tires squalled and smoked, sending the car surging forward as two more shots sounded, and Stacy ducked low, peering over the dashboard ahead.
Stop the damned car!
Stacy knew the command was directed specifically at her, but never for an instant did it seem like that it was her thought, as Brogan had explained ordinary people experienced. It required only seconds, and she was nearly out of range when a final broadcast thought was transmitted.
Stop the girl. Pull on the steering wheel.
Carl, suddenly roused from the earlier group command to Stop moving, reached towards the steering wheel. Stacy, forewarned by sensing the command, slapped Carl’s face backhanded and pushed his arm down with her forearm. “Stop it, Carl. Don’t listen.”
He recoiled and grabbed his lip where her hand struck and seemed to lose the glazed expression he held when he’d quit moving earlier. “Did you just hit me?”
“Yes. You were being controlled.”
“What the crap do you mean? Where’s your Mom?”
Suddenly breaking into tears, and slowing the breakneck acceleration before reaching the turn at the end of the street, she sobbed, “My mother’s dead. That bastard shot her when she protected me.”
Carl looked back, noting the bullet hole in the rear window, the ripped place on his headrest, and then the hole at the top of the windshield. Looking back down the street, he saw a man standing over what looked like a pile of clothing in the street.
“I don't understand. What just happened?” He suddenly was thrown to his right as the car braked hard, making a tire-squealing left turn at the end of the block. He’d released his seat belt when they had pulled into the driveway. It seemed like a good idea to buckle up again, because Stacy pressed hard on the gas, increasing the distance between them and whatever had happened back there.
Stacy slowed to a less breakneck pace and dialed 911 to report her mothers shooting, and made certain the dispatcher knew she and her mother were LMPD family. Told them that Dan Grayson, a retired detective, was her father and that Sheldon Parker Stiles, a wanted man, had shot her mother in front of their house. She explained he’d also shot at her and her boyfriend, and they were fleeing for their lives in a car with bullet holes in the windows.
She arranged to meet police units at a public location, while other units went to her house. It seemed pointless to warn them that Stiles was a mind controller. That would mark her as a crank, and they would go there no matter what she said. She didn’t think Stiles would stick around anyway since his damaged car still looked drivable. She described the black Cadillac and its smashed driver’s door.
Before the police arrived in front of the nearby grocery store, which she had named as the rendezvous point, she called her Dad’s Iridium phone numb
er. He didn’t answer right away.
Stacy’s composure, cool while talking to the dispatcher, and then to the dispatcher’s supervisor, vanished in wracking sobs when her father finally answered. She couldn’t make herself understood and passed the phone to Carl, who was less than steady himself. He stumbled through what little he knew and what he’d heard Stacy say. When he said a man named Stiles had shot Mrs. Grayson, there was a groan, followed by a demand to speak to Stacy.
Her composure partly recovered, she struggled to tell her father what her mother had done to protect her and Carl, before being shot. She broke down again when she described how Stiles commanded her mother to stop moving, then heard two shots from Stiles. It took several tries before she could tell him how she saw her mother’s head jerk to the side before she dropped straight down, completely limp.
“He killed her Dad. He could have controlled her because her gun was empty. She was no longer a threat to him. He didn’t have to shoot her.”
Holding his emotions under control because his daughter needed that from him, he questioned her. “You said you called the dispatcher, are you in a safe place right now? Stiles can turn any officer against you. Stay alert if you sense another command. No matter what the officers say to you, run for it if you sense him again. He’ll have to be within a hundred feet. He might head for the sounds of sirens.”
“I didn’t think of that. I’ll stay alert and be ready. I shut off the car, but I’ll restart the engine. Part of your rear bumper is hanging down where I backed into his car, smashing the driver’s door to disrupt his control of Mom, but the bumper is clear of the tire.”
“You said your Mom’s gun was empty? How many shots did you hear from her?”
“I’d say a full load; I didn’t count.”
“She’s a decent shot. She may have hit the bastard, which would make him angry.” The implication was that perhaps Stiles shot her out of a sense of revenge.
“Dad, while we were talking I could hear two patrol cars approaching. They’re turning into the parking area, and just shut off their sirens. I need to wave them down and talk to them, OK?”
“OK. I’ll make calls at this end, and I’ll let the BII know where Stiles is now. I plan to call Captain Franklin, my former boss. I may get into some deep shit for what I’ll say to him, but I’ll fill him in on how dangerous Stiles is, and why. All the cops there were my brother officers, they deserve a warning. I’ll be flying back as soon as I can arrange a flight. I’m glad you’re OK. You and your mother faced the most dangerous killer in America, and you defended each other. She must have been so proud of you, and I’m proud of you both. I love you, and I’ll call you back shortly.”
****
Stiles was furious, frustrated, and bleeding heavily from a bullet in his left butt cheek, bleeding more lightly from a grazing wound along his left bicep, and from a small cut on his left forehead. That bitch nearly killed him after her f-ing daughter rammed his door, causing his head to smack against the door frame. That blow to the head had briefly knocked him senseless, and he lost control of the mother. Had he not been knocked over to the side, he’d have been killed or more seriously wounded by the barrage of bullets that came his way. The one that hit him in the ass must have punched through the bashed-in door since he was below the shattered window. The heavy bleeding probably was from the tearing caused by a deformed slug.
He had made the woman a stationary target with his mind, and then stupidly fired twice at her while she was helpless. He’d needed her under his control and wanted the daughter if he could get her out of the car. Like her father, she seemed to ignore his mental control. She listened to her mother’s warning and drove away, despite his effort to kill or wound her.
Now he had neither of them to use, and his banged-up stolen Caddy would be easily recognized. Not that he couldn’t handle the police, but a radio report of his location would tighten the noose. He couldn’t escape them forever if they learned to keep their distance. He scrambled painfully out of his passenger door and rushed over to the woman in the street, kicking away the gun she’d dropped. There was a small amount of blood pooling on the pavement below the right side of her head. The sound of the Charger’s tires making the turn at the end of the street drew his attention. He was in no shape to try to chase the kid. He considered his next move, which dictated that he obtain medical treatment.
He glanced at his car, then looked at the minivan in the driveway. He’d taken control of her when he arrived near noon and saw her placing items in her car in a hurry. He walked up to look now and found her key in the ignition. He had a less noticeable vehicle if he took the minivan. He looked back at her limp form, and another clever idea struck him. Sitting gingerly, placing no pressure on his left butt cheek, he backed the minivan down to the street and slid the side door open.
He heard a man's voice yell at him.
“I called the police, you prick. My wife and I saw it all.”
It was the old man next door, who had come out to check his mail that morning. Perfect. It meshed with his new plan, and he didn’t intend to make him forget anything. It wasn’t as if the BII wouldn’t figure out who was here today, and he wanted this witness to tell them something. Instead of forcing him to forget anything, he added to his memory.
You saw me help her up, and she got into the car.
He still might have the leverage needed to get information from Grayson. Perhaps get him to a place where he could have someone blow his brains out. That would be nice to see.
As he placed his suitcases in the back of the minivan, he knew he’d need a lot more money for this project. He wanted to learn how Grayson managed to take that device away from its original user. He started driving towards Jeffersonville, where he had a known stable of former Tools he could use, and he’d have one of them dispose of this car. He knew where he could live unobtrusively, and how he could obtain more cash from his mob connections. He also had a shyster doctor there that was in his debt, and who had worked for him for years.
At some point in the next few days, he’d contact Grayson to get information from him, offering his wife’s return for his assistance. Somehow that Immune had managed to get through the screen of thousands of completely selfless acting protectors the North Korean agent had used. And he didn’t do it by using the tanks and helicopters that South Korea sent to kill the agent. Grayson somehow outwitted that super Controller and Stiles wanted to know how.
Stiles intended to find a greedy and ambitious enough electronic engineer to build his stolen design for a more powerful mind control amplifier device. He wanted to be able to hold onto any area that he claimed against men like Grayson when they came to kill him or take his territory away from him. He was ambitious and wanted to be able to start with the control of an area the size of a major city, with a transmitter system mobile enough to move around with him easily. After that, he’d use the productivity of those people to help him expand his territory with additional transmitters, and quickly have a strong enough signal to cover an entire country. The copies of information and plans he’d acquired outside of Baltimore described the technique of detecting the frequencies of a compeller’s mind, and of amplifying the brain’s output.
He’d located and Controlled an assistant to a Professor Dothan, and had ordered him to make copies of their neuroscience research, and of what they learned about the captured device, and how it worked. He obtained that information without the original documentation disappearing, and he didn’t harm the man he used. Then he ordered him to forget what he’d done. Unless another compeller tried to break that conditioning, there would be no way of knowing anyone had stolen their research. Without some reason to examine the assistant’s mind, the man he’d used wouldn’t be suspected.
He had carefully selected this particular assistant after sampling what a half dozen people at the lab knew of various projects. He picked a man that had recently transferred from another DARPA project to work on the Mind Control Defense project.
In a bit of serendipity, Stiles had acquired a promising bit of hardware from that other project. The man, Sanjay Passang, had previously worked on a design for circuitry to allow a pilot to control their aircraft systems via mental commands. It had required the brain of the pilot to be mapped out first, but the system could reliably pick up cues from a known pattern of thoughts from a well-studied and mapped brain to perform specific tasks. Passang had access to several of the abandoned prototypes he’d help build, which were initially too bulky for use in the confines of a jet fighter’s cockpit, let alone inside a pilot’s flight helmet.
Stiles had no desire to be a pilot or to wear a damn clumsy helmet, but Passang was confident the system he’d designed could be modified to detect the stronger signals from a compeller’s rare brain organ within roughly fifty feet. Stiles had nearly double that range.
Passang delivered the components of one of the later and smaller prototypes to Stiles, and the man was certain they wouldn’t be needed or missed because improved miniaturized versions had already replaced the early designs. With hardware examples in his possession, and the data from the North Korean device, detailing which frequencies and modulation filters could be used to extract the essence of mind control thoughts, Stiles would seek someone with the technical capability to work on this project.
He’d pose as an entrepreneur and offer a handsome amount of money, a contract offering credit for the invention and the patent rights. Stiles would say he wanted to produce and market the equipment for medical use by the physically disabled and would share the profits. The supposed economic and humanitarian goal was to produce a compact medical system to aid paralyzed people, for use to mentally control machines and equipment, and communicating with other people. He’d implant the belief that it would be a huge financial success for them both.
Stiles had suckered thousands of people this way since he was a teen. It wasn’t hard when you got them to reveal what they wanted to achieve, and then he convinced them they were doing exactly that.
Controller: Controller Trilogy, Book 1 Page 29