by Greg Cox
Leaning forward, Garrity stumbled over a corroded metal pipe, which clattered loudly in the darkness. “What’s that?” DeMeers exclaimed, cutting off his confession. “Who’s there?”
Damn, Diana thought. Talk about lousy timing! Garrity shot her a sheepish look. She shrugged and drew her own gun. Their cover blown, she charged around the corner, holding the semiautomatic pistol in front of her. “NTAC! Nobody move!”
A single naked lightbulb, hanging from the ceiling rafters, exposed a ruined chamber that looked as if it might have once been used as an underground speakeasy during Prohibition. The rickety remains of a bar counter were propped up against the opposite wall, beneath a large cracked mirror in a filigreed frame. A shattered crystal chandelier and several empty wooden kegs had been shoved carelessly into a corner. Fresh groceries were spread out atop a moldering billiards table. Diana spotted a carton of Raleigh filter tips among the supplies. The torn green felt reeked of mildew and mouse droppings. A rumpled sleeping bag stretched atop an inflatable mattress, beside a small stack of newspapers and magazines. An elevated toilet seat, some three feet above the floor, hinted at the plumbing challenges that had led to the Underground’s creation in the first place. Looks like DeMeers has made himself at home, Diana noted, no doubt with Sondra’s able assistance.
The startled couple were backed up against the bar, their hands held over their heads. Diana was relieved not to see any weapons in their hands; the only thing DeMeers was holding was a lighted cigarette. The smoke tickled her nose.
“Don’t shoot!” Sondra cried out frantically. “We surrender!”
DeMeers glared at her. He had traded his orange rubber overalls for a sweater and jeans. His bushy whiskers needed a shave. Two days’ worth of stubble dotted his shaved scalp. The gold tooth gave him a vaguely piratical appearance. “I thought you said nobody followed you!”
“I didn’t see them, I swear!” Tears streamed down her face. She gnashed her teeth.
“Quiet, both of you!” Diana barked. She heard Garrity bringing up the rear. Despite his mishap, it seemed that they had the situation under control. Neither DeMeers nor his girlfriend looked like they were planning to put up a fight. She kept them fixed in her gun sights nonetheless. “We’ve got him, Tom,” she informed her partner via cell phone. “We’re bringing them in now. Why don’t you meet us back at HQ?”
Garrity stepped forward with two pairs of handcuffs. “Cooper DeMeers, Sondra Jonnson. You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice.” It was still a bit early to charge DeMeers with hijacking or premeditated earthquake-generating; all they really had on him right now was his failure to cooperate with their investigation. “You’re both coming with us.”
The suspects’ eyes widened in shock. Their jaws dropped. Diana wasn’t quite sure why they were so stunned by this turn of events; they already knew NTAC was after DeMeers. Then Diana realized that the two returnees weren’t staring at her or Garrity. They were looking beyond them at something—or someone—else.
“You!” DeMeers gasped. “From the Market!”
“Watch out!” Sondra shouted.
Praying that she wasn’t falling for the oldest trick in the book, Diana glanced back over her shoulder—to see Bill Gorinsky standing in the entrance to the old speakeasy. The beefy veteran filled up the doorway, his fists clenched at his sides. He was dressed just as he had been at the Market two days ago. Semper Fi was emblazoned on his tight green T-shirt. The camouflage trousers were army surplus. Psychic projection or not, he certainly looked solid enough. A trace of ozone tickled her nostrils. She wondered again if the double was electromagnetic in nature.
Garrity spun around in surprise. The handcuffs jangled in his grip. “Holy crap!” he blurted. “Is that the mental hospital guy?”
“Tom!” Diana said urgently into the phone. “Gorinsky, he’s here!”
“What? Are you sure?” She heard him jump to his feet. “I’m staring right at him!”
“So am I.” Looking more closely, she saw that the figure in the doorway was definitely the same man they had encountered at Abendson, albeit with a few subtle differences. He was in better condition than the flabby, out-of-shape mental patient, nor did she see any of the wartime scarring the real Gorinsky was afflicted with. His youthful face was fresh and clean-shaven. Perhaps the man’s astral double represented some sort of idealized version of himself? She’d have to run that hypothesis by Marco if and when she ever got out of here. “I guess bilocation isn’t just a theory anymore.”
She hesitated, unsure where she should be pointing her gun. “William Gorinsky,” she addressed the newcomer, “you’re intruding upon a federal investigation. Step away from the door and surrender to our custody.” She still didn’t understand Gorinsky’s role in this affair, but she was prepared to drag his ectoplasmic butt all the way back to NTAC if that’s what it took to get some answers. “Don’t give us any trouble.”
He pointed at DeMeers. “I just want him. The rest of you should stay out of my way.”
Was it just her imagination or was there an odd, tinny quality to Gorinsky’s voice, like an old jukebox recording? “Sorry,” she told him. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Your choice,” he said ominously. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I don’t understand!” DeMeers protested. “What’s happening? Who is this guy?”
He sounded genuinely confused. Join the club, Diana thought. His puzzled outbursts threatened to distract her from Gorinsky. There were suddenly too many variables to keep track of. We’re outnumbered here.
Garrity came to her rescue. “You keep an eye on these two,” he suggested, indicating DeMeers and Sondra. “I’ll deal with Gorinsky.”
With his gun in one hand and the cuffs in the other, he approached Gorinsky. “All right, put your hands out,” he instructed the unarmed intruder. If he was apprehensive about confronting some sort of freakish apparition, he didn’t show it. “Let’s take this nice and easy . . .”
Gorinsky abruptly grabbed Garrity’s arm. Electricity crackled and Garrity stiffened as though jolted by a powerful shock. The ozone smell got stronger. The stocky ex-Marine delivered a savage karate chop to Garrity’s neck, dropping the stunned agent to the floor. Garrity’s gun slipped from his fingers. Gorinsky kicked the weapon into a corner, away from Diana and the others. He stepped over Garrity’s twitching body.
“Garrity!” Diana cried out in alarm.
Gorinsky advanced toward DeMeers. “You’re coming with me,” he repeated.
“Not so fast!” Diana stepped between Gorinsky and his target. Turning her back on DeMeers and Sondra, she aimed her automatic at Gorinsky’s broad chest. “Don’t make me shoot!”
Gorinsky sneered. “Take your best shot.”
He came at her and Diana discharged her weapon. The gunshot echoed deafeningly inside the claustrophobic confines of the underground chamber. The acrid smell of cordite added to the pungent atmosphere. Sondra shrieked in panic.
Bits of brick and plaster went flying as the bullet passed through Gorinsky and slammed into the wall behind him. He hesitated, glancing down at his chest, then grinned at the conspicuous absence of any visible wound. “How about that?” he chuckled.
Diana couldn’t believe her eyes. Gorinsky’s T-shirt wasn’t even singed. I know I hit him. There’s no way I missed at this range. More evidence for the astral double theory: despite appearances, the figure before her was not composed of flesh and blood. So how am I supposed to stop him?
“Diana!” Tom shouted into her ear. In the tumult, she had almost forgotten that she still had him on the line. “What’s going on there?”
“It’s Gorinsky. He took out Garrity.” She emptied her clip into Gorinsky, yelling over the blare of gunfire. The muzzle flashed repeatedly in the murk. “The bullets aren’t stopping him!”
Gorinsky lunged at her, knocking the gun from her hand with a swipe of his arm. It clattered to the floor several feet away. She gasped an
d stepped backward, but his big hands closed about her throat. An electric tingle spread from her neck to her toes. Ozone filled her lungs. Her cell phone sparked and slipped from her fingers as she struggled to defend herself. Numb fingers lacked the strength to tear Gorinsky’s hands away from her neck. “Tom!” she croaked hoarsely. “Help . . . !”
* * *
Tom suddenly wished he could be at two places at once.
Stuck in Gorinsky’s hospital room, miles away from the action, he could only listen helplessly as his fellow agents came under attack . . . from the very same individual lying in front of him.
William Gorinsky lay flat on his back beneath the covers, barely moving. The overhead lights were dimmed, with only a solitary lamp on an end table giving Tom enough light to read by during his nocturnal vigil. An open magazine lay forgotten upon a chair as he paced anxiously around the room, his cell phone glued to his ear. He heard Diana’s own phone crash onto the floor. Her anguished voice could barely be heard. “Tom . . . help!”
“Diana!” he shouted into the phone. “Garrity!”
No one answered.
His fists clenched in frustration. He had to do something, but what? Tom peered intently at Gorinsky’s face. The patient’s eyes flickered as though dreaming. A slight sneer curled his lips. The man’s body was here, but his spirit was somewhere else. In the Underground City, it seemed, threatening Diana.
His mind racing, Tom remembered how Gorinsky’s double had vanished into thin air at the Market. Maybe if he roused Gorinsky here, the double would disappear again? It was worth a shot; anything was better than doing nothing while his partner was in danger. He thrust his phone into his pocket.
“Gorinsky!” He grabbed the sleeping man by the shoulders and shook him roughly. Gorinsky’s body flopped limply in his grasp, like an empty shell. His pajama top slipped, exposing more of the ugly burns on his left shoulder. “Wake up!” Gorinsky’s eyelids fluttered, but refused to open. “Wake up, damnit!”
Desperate, Tom kicked over a bedside table. A vase of flowers and a cheap clock-radio crashed to the floor, but the clamor failed to wake Gorinsky from his trance. Clutching the patient’s collar, Tom slapped him hard across the face. The blow knocked Gorinsky’s head to one side, but had little effect. Gorinsky’s eyes opened, but the lifeless green orbs stared blankly into space. There was still nobody at home. Tom shouted into the man’s face. “Gorinsky! Get back here, you sleepwalking son of a bitch!”
The commotion attracted the hospital’s night staff. “Hey, what’s going on?” an orderly exclaimed indignantly as he charged into the room. A horrified-looking nurse was right behind him. “Leave that patient alone!”
Tom realized just how bad this looked, but there was no time to explain, even if he could. Instead he yanked his sidearm from its holster and waved it in the orderly’s face. “Back off!” he ordered. “Don’t get any closer!”
The orderly threw up his hands and backed away. The nurse turned and ran for help. Tom heard her shouting in the corridor outside. He guessed she’d be calling in the hospital’s security guards any minute now, not to mention the Seattle Police Department. One way or another, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do. This wasn’t exactly by the book.
But that didn’t matter now. All he cared about was stopping Gorinsky’s rampaging doppelganger. Keeping one eye on the door, he glanced around the room. His frantic gaze fell onto the fallen clock-radio. Lying amid the broken shards of the vase, the radio was still plugged into a wall socket. A desperate idea occurred to him.
Electroshock, eh? Diana says nobody really knows how it works . . .
Releasing his hold on Gorinsky’s collar, he let the man’s sagging head and shoulders drop back onto the bed. Tom snatched a pitcher of water off the top of the dresser and splashed the contents in Gorinsky’s face. The cold spray did not revive the patient, but Tom hadn’t really expected it to. He had another option in mind. Taking hold of the radio and its cord, he yanked the cord from the back of the appliance, exposing torn copper wires. Tom smiled grimly. His fingers wrapped around the severed cord’s rubber insulation. He stuck a rolled-up magazine between the patient’s jaws.
Time for your shock treatment, Mister Gorinsky . . .
Before anyone could arrive to stop him, he applied the naked wires to Gorinsky’s damp forehead. Electricity sparked and the patient’s entire body spasmed. Gaping eyes bulged from their sockets. His teeth bit down hard on the latest issue of National Geographic. An inarticulate moan escaped his clenched jaws. Tom jerked the cord back, breaking the connection, but Gorinsky kept on convulsing. For an instant, Tom thought he saw the shimmering blue outline of another Gorinsky superimposed on top of the writhing body in the bed, then the glowing aura faded, leaving actinic violet spots in Tom’s vision. Gorinsky’s blood-streaked eyes, alive and aware, met his for just a second. “No . . .” the patient murmured, spitting out the magazine. His lips were cracked and bleeding. A tear leaked down his cheek. “Not fair . . .”
He collapsed lifelessly into the bed. His chest stopped heaving. Glassy eyes stared into oblivion.
Jesus Christ, Tom thought. He yanked the plug from the wall socket. I didn’t mean to kill him! He placed his fingers against Gorinsky’s throat, searching in vain for a pulse. The smell of burnt hair rose from the corpse’s scalp. He heard heavy footsteps running toward the room. I just wanted to save . . .
“Diana!”
He reached for his phone . . .
The older he got, the harder Phil Gorinsky found it to fall asleep at night. That hardly seemed fair, but what could you do? It was just something that came with old age, along with aching joints and regrets. Some nights, like tonight, he just sat up reading until he finally drifted off to sleep in his rocking chair. A wool comforter protected his legs from the late-night chill. A hardcover library book was propped up on his lap. The oversized print accommodated his failing vision.
He tried to concentrate on the plot, something about a terrorist plot to blow up the Statue of Liberty, but his thoughts kept wandering off. That visit from those two NTAC agents had troubled him more than he liked to admit. Why was the government looking into Bill’s case after all this time? Although polite, the agents had been deliberately vague about the nature of their investigation. Why did they ask me about whether Bill had acquired some sort of supernatural ability? Bill’s doctors had never mentioned anything of the sort. As if my poor brother doesn’t already have enough problems . . . !
He looked up at the photo on the mantel, the same one those agents had seemed so interested in. Eleanor had taken that photo, right before Uncle Sam shipped them both overseas. That seemed like a lifetime ago, which he guessed it had been. Except for Bill, that is; it had only been a few years for him. Small wonder he’s so messed up in the head. Phil gazed at the old snapshot with melancholy nostalgia. They’d both looked so young and hopeful back then. Bill was still young, of course, but was there any hope left for him? A twinge of guilt reminded Phil that he hadn’t visited his brother for a couple of days now. I’ll have to catch a ride to the hospital tomorrow.
Giving up on his novel, he laid the book facedown on his lap. He leaned back in the rocking chair, resting his head against a cushion. Closing his eyes, he started to doze off . . . until a sudden start jolted him awake.
Bill!
His eyes snapped open and his worn-out heart was pounding like a jackhammer. He lurched unsteadily to his feet. The comforter and library book tumbled to the floor. A dizzy spell came over him, and he reached out for the mantel, accidentally knocking over the framed photo, which crashed onto the hearth. Phil knew at once that something terrible had happened to his brother; this was just like that time in ’45, only worse somehow.
Bill was dead . . . or was he?
A tingling sensation rushed over his skin. Every hair on his body stood on end. He shut his eyes, only to see brilliant sparks flashing against the inside of his eyelids. His fingers and toes went numb. Lightning cra
ckled in his ears. He tasted blood in his mouth and realized that he had bitten his own tongue. His heart thundered in his chest.
What’s wrong with me? Am I having a stroke? Letting go of the mantel, he groped for the medicalert bracelet on his wrist. His trembling fingers pressed the emergency button, just as another wave of dizziness washed over him. A storm raged inside his skull. All at once, he could barely remember his own name. Phil? Bill . . .?
The old man collapsed onto the carpet, only a few feet away from the splintered glass frame of the photo. His frail body convulsed upon the floor.
Choking hands cut off Diana’s breath. Gorinsky’s determined face was only inches away from her own. She couldn’t feel his breath, but the ozone smell was overpowering. Her aching lungs screamed for oxygen. Static crackled in her ears. The room began to spin as she felt herself blacking out. Darkness encroached on her vision.
I’m sorry, Maia. I didn’t want to leave you an orphan again . . .
A blinding electrical flash dispelled the darkness. Gorinsky’s hands stopped squeezing her throat. Gasping for breath, Diana staggered backward. As her vision cleared, she realized that the murderous apparition was nowhere to be seen. Gorinsky had vanished into the ether, just as he had before.
But why? She checked hurriedly to make sure DeMeers was still present. To her relief, the suspected hijacker and his girlfriend were still backed up against the wall. Their flabbergasted faces held bewildered expressions. “What happened?” Sondra asked, gone white as a ghost. “Where’d he go?”
I wish I knew, Diana thought. The unstoppable 4400 had left without his prize. “Stay right where you are!” she ordered the couple while she retrieved her gun from the floor. The last thing she needed right now was for DeMeers or Sondra to give her any trouble. “You’re still under arrest.”
A groan came from Garrity’s prone form. He stirred upon the floor. Wincing, he hauled himself up into a sitting position. “What happened?” he asked, sounding dazed and disoriented. “Where am I?” Diana guessed that Gorinsky’s electroconvulsive zap had scrambled Garrity’s short-term memory. “Skouris?”