Society Rules (16 page)

But the car slowed unconsciously as a strange sensation crept through Jackson’s brain, his vision clouding momentarily. At once, he began to experience a slow but certain downward shift in his elation at what his internal instincts were suddenly forcing through his head.

He felt an animalistic protective mode rising to engulf him, threatening to erase the civilized, rational being that he had believed he was.

His own gifts and abilities were trying to manifest, surging after the contact was made with his
Equal
and, although still weak, an undeniable premonition had driven itself prominently to the front of his brain.

Indie was the one about to be hurt.

Emotionally, and gut wrenchingly so, at the hands of her husband. Jackson was astonished at the fearsome reaction this knowledge generated within him. His inner warrior could not allow such a thing to happen.

Unfortunately, his vision also told him that for reasons yet unknown to him, he would have no choice but to allow it to play out. This filled him with a restless rage that shook him to the core. Society Members were not violent toward the Human Population.

They were guardians.

He was above such beastly tendencies, was he not?

Jackson had perfected the outward projection of calm collectedness to a fine science, but inwardly, he struggled. Wasn’t it great that he had just shown Indie how to relax and move away from the barrier in her mind, and in the process, allowing her unlimited access into his own thoughts?

Nowhere to hide now.

He did not want her to know his carefully repressed dangerous side. Jackson thought it would horrify her if she knew he had such thoughts . . . such capabilities.

He had been taught well.

And trained to contain negative emotions, even though his body had been sent for tactical training. In fact, the contradiction had confused him at the time, but he had found he was a natural in combat operations, and most incredibly gifted in physical altercation.

He had totally enjoyed it, and it allowed him to burn off some of the unrelenting energy that kept him unsettled as a young man, before he had gained the upper hand on self-control. It had worked out very well for him.

Until now.

The idea of anyone or anything harming Indie in any fashion made him see various shades of crimson, and he felt a nauseating desire to kill and eat anything that dared to do so.

Jackson swallowed down the upsurge of his stomach contents that tried to come out and say hello at that happy thought. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure that he could trust himself to do the right thing here, and knew that he needed guidance.

Making a quick decision, he turned his car southbound on I-89. His exit appeared before him, and Jackson burned a path toward Woodstock.

To one of the sacred places. He needed to ask, no,
beg
, for help from his Elders.

As he found the wooded area, semi-hidden in the brush, he parked his car and sprinted toward the cool darkness of Calendar II.

He took a position dead center of the small double-square space, facing outward and aligning his body toward the sun, and closed his eyes.

Contact was made nearly instantaneously, and Jackson began to plead for the strength that they would both need in order to survive the ordeal looming before them. The ordeal that he knew would begin tomorrow, in the very early hours of morning.

Taking deep steady breaths to calm himself, he allowed the resonation to take away his conscious mind, communing with the ones who gave him his comfort and his strength.

The rage died away, leaving only peace and the knowledge of what had to be done. Jackson knew that he would still have to battle with his instincts, but now he felt the reassurance he was seeking, that made him feel that maybe, just maybe, he was man enough to hold himself above the fray, and to allow fate to unfold.

God, he hoped so.

Chapter 11

Will down-shifted his trusty Ford Ranger, and slowed to a stop. The traffic light here was new, having cropped up just yesterday.

Another reminder of the slowly increasing population of what was once a very sparsely-peopled state.

The drive home was just over forty-five minutes, and as long as it wasn’t during a winter storm, he was grateful for the distance, and the decompressing time it gave him.

Time to pull himself together and become just “Will” again.

Will, and Daddy.

And time to mentally assassinate the character of Special Agent William Taylor.

He never actually made it back down to the person he was when he woke up in the morning . . . always falling just shy of his goal. Like a computer trying desperately to back up its files and recover function after battling a virus.

Running better, but still not really okay.

The confrontation with the civilian today had been the usual. Fantastically successful.

And totally horrible.

The blast from the horn surprised him. The light was green. Grimacing into the rearview mirror, Will moved forward and turned onto the ramp to merge with the minimal I-89 traffic.

The monotonous strip of grey pavement ahead allowed his mind to wander back to the visit with one Mr. Richard McKinney.

Baker
had
been
listening
to
his
IPod
and
fidgeting
restlessly
on
the
quick
chopper
trip
to
the
small
New
Hampshire
town
where
the
subject
lived.

He
lived
for
this
stuff,
and
the
part
he
played
didn’t
require
too
much
prep
work,
unlike
Will’s.

The
data
that
he
was
able
to
gather
in
the
twenty-minute
ride
to
the
heliport,
then
the
next
twenty-minutes
in
the
air,
was
quite
impressive.
More
than
he’d
expected.

Aside
from
the
man’s
entire
family
tree,
he’d
found
the
jackpot
of
a
recent
transaction
at
a
shoe
store
the
night
before.
Will
loved
finding
treats
like
that,
because
it
gave
them
the
opportunity
to
create
the
idea
in
the
subject’s
head
that
he’d
already
been
under
surveillance;
even
before
his
face
to
face
with
a
non-human
life
form.

What
a
lovely
stroke
of
luck.

So
Mr.
McKinney
had
bought
some
cheap
fourteen
dollar
shoes
at
Payless,
and then
swung
by
McDonalds
for
a
number
one
combo
meal,
with
coffee
rather
than
soda.

And
a
happy
meal.

Bingo.

The
computerized
ordering
systems
made
his
job
so
easy
sometimes.
Nothing
more
than
a
lazy
game
of
“follow
the
debit
card
trail”.

The
limo
was
waiting
at
their
destination,
and
the
drive
to
the
subject’s
home
was
brief.
The
guy
lived
in
a
small
unobtrusive
house
in
a
neighborhood
of
mixed
quality. Will
already
had
ascertained
that
the
guy
was
home,
and
on
his
computer,
having
hacked
his
way
in
through
the
firewall
easily
enough.

The
subject
was
looking
up
different
media
contacts
as
they
arrived
 . . .
probably
shopping
for
the
outlet
most
willing
to
pay
for
his
story.

And
his
video
footage.

He’d
called
the
radio
show,
Project
Earth
in
the
early
morning
hours.
The
show
dealt
with
the
supernatural,
UFO’s
and
conspiracy
theories,
ninety
percent
of
which
was
crap,
the
callers
nothing
more
than
crackpots
and
whackos.

But
then,
there
was
always
the
rare
exception,
and
so
this
was
one
of
the
million
or
so
outlets
monitored
at
all
times.
And
they’d
bagged
a
little
fish
in
the
big
pond.

As
the
long
black
car
slid
to
a
smooth
stop
in
front
of
the
subject’s
home,
Baker
was
out
the
door
before
it
had
altogether
stopped
moving.
Will
followed
a
few
paces
back,
in
possession
of
a
briefcase
that
was
well-stocked
with
paperwork
and
photos
pertaining
to
the
man
in
question.