by Peter Parkin
He thought about why she seemed familiar to him and he remembered Barb telling him that he might have seen her on TV from time to time. But he hadn't—catching political news wasn't something he was into, so tuning in to a Pentagon press conference wouldn't be his style. There had to be another reason she seemed familiar to him, and he knew he would puzzle over it for the next few days—or at least until he saw her again. Was it karma?
"Okay, Fiona. Here goes."
He spent the next hour discussing Lucy's career, the apparent suicide that brought her to the top job and then sudden retirement. He told her about the five million dollar severance payment. Then he detailed Lucy's sudden lucidity after the attempted purse theft and her panicked mention of a package that she wanted him to retrieve. Fiona frowned when he described the DOD staff searching Lucy's room at the nursing home. When he told her about Lucy's most recent lucid incident when she mentioned 'Apollo 19,' Fiona put her hands over her mouth and gasped.
Dennis could tell she was thinking hard. She didn't say a thing. She didn't have to—those amazing eyes said it all.
"Fiona, penny for your thoughts?"
She pulled her hands down from her mouth and allowed herself a thin smile.
"I don't know what to say. Adding it all up, beginning right back from the so-called severance payment—which seems to me like it was more of a payoff—something isn't right. I think we can go back a little before that severance payment too—the suicide of James Layton. There's a pattern there. Then nothing at all for more than three decades, and now Lucy's brain has come out of its slumber with little spurts of troubling comments. Something is awakening in her that her smothered brain is screaming to tell. And you're getting it—piece by piece."
Dennis poured more coffee into both of their cups from the large coffee pot the waiter had deposited on the table. "Do you think that she might be just speaking nonsense—the ramblings of a dementia patient?"
"I have no idea. But if I was a betting woman—and I'm not—I would bet that your mother was paid off for something, paid to go away and shut up. And now she's beginning to ramble. And the spooks were interested enough to toss her room.
"In her lucid moments, there was a package she was panicked over— remember, in that moment of lucidity she wasn't demented. Maybe a bit forgetful because she couldn't remember what the package was, but not demented. She knew you perfectly well—so you have to assume she was herself and of sound mind for those brief moments. And I shudder to say this—I feel goosebumps down my back right now—but you have to assume the same thing with the Apollo 19 comment. For some reason she thinks there was an Apollo 19—which would mean there was also an Apollo 18. Christ, I can't believe I'm having this discussion." Fiona shook her head. Her face looked troubled.
Dennis wrung his hands together. "What do you think, Fiona? Can you help? Will you help?"
She nodded slowly. "I like you, Dennis. And I love Barb. And your mother left a legacy of honesty behind her, which still permeates through the Pentagon even to this day despite all the dishonesty that exists there. I'll have to be very very careful though. But hell, yes, I'll help. This intrigues me—and kind of angers me, even though I haven't got a clue what it's all about."
Fiona smiled her most charming smile of the evening. "Dennis, I have no doubt that you can relate to my main reason for helping you, though. I'm still a journalist first and foremost, so I just love a mystery and adore a good story. Bring it on!"
*****
Brett Horton was at his desk, phone to his ear, pen in hand. "Okay, repeat that name again for me, will you?"
"Fiona Perry."
"And you're sure she works at the Pentagon?"
"That's what he said."
"Okay, I'll check it out. So, all that's come out of the old woman to this point is the mention of some package, and the Apollo 19 blabbering? Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Think hard—is there anything else at all that she said? Even something that might have seemed immaterial?"
"Well, she did imply that very few people knew about Apollo 19, and that she was one of them. That's pretty much it. She faded back out again so fast. Oh, and Dennis mentioned that Lucy received a huge severance payment when she retired. He didn't say how much, but I got the impression that it was much larger than a normal severance."
Brett scratched his head. "Interesting indeed. Felicity, keep up the good work and continue to report to me daily. And, just a reminder that you need to pick a safe day for me to get into that house. We'll need a few hours with the old lady, and I'll want you to be at your very best that day."
"I will be."
"I know you will. Your hypnotherapy talents are well respected within our tight little circle."
Brett hung up the phone and began doodling frantically on his pad of paper.
Then he let out a loud whistle and banged his fist on the desk. "Apollo 19! What the fuck have those assholes done?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Barb smiled in her sly, knowing little way. "So, how did it go?"
Dennis smiled right back. "Just fine—and please wipe that silly grin off your face."
They were sitting in the drawing room, each with a coffee in hand. Lucy seemed to be absorbed in thought; no rocking, just staring out the window. Dennis glanced over at her, then back at Barb. "Look at her. She seems pensive today—I'd love to know what she's thinking."
"Probably nothing at all, Denny. I hate to say that, but it's probably true. Here we are sitting in this room today keeping her company, yet she's oblivious."
"Something has to be going on in her head, Barb. Hard to believe even a demented brain isn't thinking about something. Hell, it still controls her movements: eating, drinking, when to go to the bathroom. She hasn't reached the point yet where she has to wear diapers, so she's definitely aware of her needs."
Barb slowly nodded. "Yes, that's true. But remember, after eighty-five years those things are pretty much automatic and hard-wired."
Dennis got up and walked over to his mom. He looked into her eyes—they seemed empty. Didn't look back. Looked right through him. He winced and walked back to his chair.
"Anyway, you deftly changed the subject, Denny. How'd you like Fiona?"
Dennis decided to play coy. "Very professional lady. And I think she's going to help me. She's fascinated by this Apollo 19 comment that mom made, and she seems convinced in her mind that mom's severance payment was a payoff of some sort to shut her up about something."
Barb took a slow sip of her coffee. "C'mon—give me some juice here! How did you like her, handsome? You know what I mean—did she get you excited?"
"Barb! I'm shocked! Such a serious subject and all you're interested in is whether or not I found her to be alluring? I'm ashamed of you."
She stood up and did a little mock dance, put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "I can tell—you liked her, didn't you? You little devil!"
"Okay, okay. Yes, I liked her. She's very attractive and actually strangely familiar to me. I can't place her, don't understand why she seems familiar. I was instantly comfortable."
"Well, I told you, remember? You've probably seen her on TV."
"No, no. That's not it. I've never seen her spots on TV. It's... something else."
Barb playfully fluffed Dennis' hair. "I know what it is, you big romantic teddy bear. It's 'love at first sight.' Happened to me once a long, long time ago. Never happened again."
Dennis smoothed out his hair and stood up. "What happened?" Barb's face showed a rare dark moment. "He died." She turned and walked down the hall toward the kitchen. "I'm getting some more coffee," she called back. "Do you want some?"
"Sure, just black this time. Bring me a fresh cup, will ya?"
He walked over to his mom again. She was still sitting, staring. At nothing in particular. He knelt down in front of her and studied her eyes. Knowing in his mind that the eyes were the gateway to the soul, he was hoping he might see some signs of awareness,
some feeling. Nothing. No one seemed to be home.
"Here's your..." Crash! Barb tripped on the area carpet and went down hard, both cups flying from her hands and smashing onto the hardwood floor. Lucy lurched in her rocking chair and yelled out something. Dennis ran over to Barb and helped her to her feet, then they both just stared at Lucy. Her arms were flailing and she was screaming one word, over and over.
It sounded like 'Skeleton.'
Dennis grabbed Barb's arm and led her out into the hallway. "The sound of you and the cups smashing to the floor has shocked her into some kind of rant. But it sounds like she's saying 'Skeleton.' Do you think she heard me saying that to you the other day, when I said she was just a skeleton of herself now?"
Barb whispered, "I don't know. I hope not. Would mean that her feelings might have been hurt, and she's expressing it now."
They both peeked their heads around the edge of the doorway and watched. And listened. Lucy was still screaming the word. They listened hard.
Dennis brought both hands up to his forehead and began massaging it with his fingers. "She's not saying 'Skeleton,' Barb. Listen carefully."
Lucy kept screaming.
Barb gasped. "She's saying...'Shackleton.'"
*****
A fat little man with pale pockmarked skin, made his way down H Street, apparently on a mission. He had his backpack slung over his shoulder, which contained his usual tools: candy, teddy bear, duct tape, camera phone, rope, ... and a hunting knife. At one time or another, and sometimes at the same time, all these tools came in handy. He never left home without them.
Home now was a halfway house, where he'd spent the last six months vegetating. Listening to all the other ex-cons talking about their pathetic lives, and how they were going to turn things around and go straight. Well, Melvin Steed knew where they'd be going straight to—straight to hell, that was where.
He chuckled as he walked. At least he knew where he was going. His roommates were just kidding themselves. There was no such thing as redemption, and as far as Melvin was concerned he didn't even want redemption. Because he didn't want to change.
Sure, he'd been a good boy at the penitentiary. Said all the right things, took the sexual predator mind-bender courses, and fooled the psychologists royally. They testified on his behalf at his parole hearing. He sat there and listened to the 'victim impact' statements from the pathetic relatives, tolerated their whining—and even faked a few tears. All for effect. And it worked.
Ten years he had spent in that hellhole of a prison—his asshole torn in twenty different directions by the black mamas who wanted a fat white man. He had tolerated that too. Didn't matter to him. He knew he'd be out long before those black murderers.
Melvin didn't consider himself a murderer—he was a 'life absorber.' He snuffed out tiny young lives whose energy and happiness were better off inside him. Their lives hadn't really mattered. He laughed to himself—if only the authorities knew that there had been more than one life absorbed by him. He was only convicted on that one murder—well of course, he had also been convicted of ten rapes but that was before he got smart and started absorbing their lives. They only found the one dead one—the others they'd never find. Too well hidden. If they had found the others, he knew he never would have qualified for early parole from his thirty- year sentence. The public outcry had been ferocious enough just for that one miserable life. Aside from his shrinks, no one wanted him on the street again.
He fingered his backpack. He felt secure having it with him. Of course, he would never be allowed to have these "tools' back at the halfway house. Every bag was examined; on the way in, and on the way out. He had been smart enough to hide the pack behind a dumpster a block away from the house. So, when he was granted his freedom for a few hours a day, he just picked it up and headed out.
He hadn't decided on a target yet. He was just on a scouting mission right now. But soon. Soon. He had a girl in mind. She was about eight years old, long black hair, lovely little figure. He could imagine what she would look like when she grew up, but that image didn't do much for him. He wanted her to stay eight.
The girl whose life he had gotten caught absorbing had been around eight as well—lovely little lady, screamed like a banshee, struggled like a tiger. But, talented as hell once he'd put the hunting knife to her throat.
Melvin felt a bulge in his pants as he re-lived the episode. He needed it again. Soon.
Okay, he could see a nice bench over near the teeter-totter. He waddled over and sat down. There she was, with her pathetic protective mother. Swinging on the swing, mom pushing ever so gently. Melvin admitted grudgingly that the mother was somewhat good looking too, but she did nothing for him. He wouldn't waste his time on her.
In his practiced subtle manner, he removed his camera phone from the backpack and snapped off a couple.
He made his decision. This was the one he wanted. Today, he would do his last reconnaissance. He would follow mom and daughter home and find out where they lived. He knew they walked here every day, so it wouldn't be too far. Then one night, he would wait until the little girl's bedtime and watch which window lit up. Then he would find a way—no, he would execute a way—to remove her from the house and absorb her. Bliss.
Suddenly Melvin had a feeling. A feeling he'd been tuned into his entire adult life. Someone was watching him. He whirled his head around quickly, glancing in all directions. Nothing. He got up and strained his neck to look down the street—on the alert for any parked cars. Seemed all clear.
Probably nothing—just paranoia. But Melvin knew that occasionally parole officers would follow their stooges when they were out for their few hours of freedom. Could be. He had to be careful. His parole conditions prohibited the things in his backpack, but most importantly they prohibited him from being within 500 yards of a child less than sixteen years of age. So, he knew he was a double-violator at this very moment. He didn't want to go back to prison. He couldn't absorb any more lives if that happened, and his ass still hurt like hell. He couldn't go through that again.
Suddenly feeling scared, Melvin decided to skip his reconnaissance today. He'd do it another day. On a bright sunny day when the birds were singing. And when he didn't have a sick feeling in his stomach.
He looked furtively to his left and right and decided in an instant to avoid the street. He began his cut through the park, which was pretty much deserted at this dinner hour. He could hide as he walked through here—lots of thick tree trunks and bushes. He could make his way back to the dumpster, drop off his backpack and check in at the halfway house just in time for dinner. Tonight was roast beef. Melvin loved red meat.
He was nearing the end of the park and so far the coast seemed clear. He began to relax and at the same time regretting that he didn't follow through with his complete plan for the evening. Oh well, there would be a lot more evenings and that little girl wouldn't be turning nine years of age until a few months went by. He had lots of time.
He felt like he was flying. His feet went out from underneath him at the same instant he felt the impact just below his throbbing ass. He landed in the grass about fifteen away from where he had been. Was he dreaming?
Strong hands lifted him up underneath his arms. For a brief instant Melvin got a look at his assailant. Tall, handsome, piercing angry eyes. He wanted to ask him why he was attacking him, but he never got the chance.
The impact to the sides of his head shut his mouth. Probably because his mouth was now a crushed version of what it was. Incapable of sound other than a gurgling noise that Melvin didn't recognize. His view of his assailant was brief—because his eyeballs were now pushed out of their sockets, hanging onto his cheeks. Before his senses were robbed, Melvin was aware of a blur of movement from each side of his head, as the attacker's forearms thrust inward. For a brief violent instant, Melvin's head was in a vice grip. A vice grip that had crushed his head, shrunk the diameter of his skull by at least three inches. A squeeze that forced snot and wax from his
nose and ears, blood from his mouth, and pulp from his eyes.
Melvin couldn't see a damn thing. And he couldn't think of anything other than a little dark-haired eight- year old girl. In his dying breath he was overwhelmed by the stark realization that he would not have the chance now to absorb her life.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
From what he could discover, Fiona Perry was a pistol. An up-and-comer who bucked the system time and time again. An enquiring mind. Brett Horton loved that in a woman. And someone who didn't just accept the status quo—that was refreshing indeed.
She was pretty too—very pretty. He had pulled up some old clips of her press conferences, and she certainly was a looker. But a classy looker, very professional, someone who looked good but didn't dress for flash. Didn't expose her charms, even though from what Brett could tell, she had many.
He would arrange to meet Fiona Perry very soon, but he would wait a bit to give her time to do some digging for Dennis Chambers. Might as well let her do her work, so she could share it with him too. She might need some convincing though.
Putting his Fiona Perry file aside for awhile, Brett pondered that mysterious date, September 30, 1977—the day that all six communication arrays on the moon were shut down at exactly the same time.
He didn't know why, but a little voice was telling him to pursue that strange event. Why did that happen? And the fact that James Layton, Chief Counsel for the DOD, purportedly committed suicide three months later, on December 30th, 1977, and Lucy Chambers mysteriously retired as his heir apparent on December 31st, 1978. From all accounts, with a very handsome payoff.
The wheels were turning in Brett's curious brain. There were just too many odd things crammed into that short span of time back then.
Not to mention the old lady blurting out something about a non-existent Apollo 19, and his latest report from Felicity telling him about Lucy blurting out something else too: the word 'Shackleton.' Just one more thing that was now added to his research list.