The Eye of Madness (32 page)

“Suck it up, be a man!” his father used to say to him.

This recollection washed over him in a sickening wave. He wasn't sure what made him feel worse, that he was projecting the attitude on Sally, or because his father said it. He bit his lip and pressed his mouth into a thin line.

“Get back there and check on Burt and Barbara,” he muttered, urging her towards the back seat.

Sally blinked as if she had been splashed with cold water. Cecil knew he had scared her, but if that was what it took to get Burt and Barbara the help they needed, then so be it. He was tired, he was worried about his wife and friend. He was also worried about what his father would do to them when they arrived at the base. Cecil was also in anguish about his two daughters, one alive and one not; yet both were in pain. Manners and politeness were not the slightest of his concerns.

“She's a bawler, isn't she?” Musial said as he gazed in the driver's side mirror to get the rest of the blood spots off with an old towel he found under the seat.

“Shut up,” Cecil muttered as he began to walk back towards the police car.

Musial let out a little hoot of a laugh, not taking his eyes off the mirror.

Cecil checked the interior of the police car and then wondered what to do. They couldn't just leave it here on the road. Whoever he was reporting to knew his exact location. He considered taking it with them, he could drive the SUV while Musial drove the police car. He gave it up when the stupidity of this occurred to him. If they could track the car then they could track them. They could have a dozen cops converge on them with an appetite for heavy women and a strong desire to feed the dark's hunger. No, they would have to ditch the car and the cop someplace dark and not accessible.

Cecil and Musial loaded the officer's body in the trunk of the police car. Musial drove the car down a narrow path between the trees, running over brambles and downed limbs as he drove. When he came to the area where the whispers of his brethren were the loudest, he parked it and hiked back.

Sally had calmed down and was leaning over the backseat talking to Burt. He seemed on the verge of losing consciousness at any second, so she did her best to keep him awake by engaging in conversation.

“Keep talking to him, Sally,” Cecil said as he shifted the SUV into gear and pulled back on the road. “We will be there soon, keep him talking.”

To call the noises coming out of his friend's mouth talking may have been a stretch. You could catch a word here and there, but most of it was a garbled mess. At least he was conscious. Cecil knew with a head injury of this magnitude, he could go under at any second and never regain consciousness.

A little over an hour later, they passed the sign announcing Quantico as the next exit. Cecil pulled over in the parking lot of a deserted Safeway to exchange positions with Musial. The plan was that Musial was Sam Andrews who was taken against his will. He managed to escape and rescue Burt and Sally who were also hostages. Barbara was forced into rebellion by her husband. The blame would fall on Cecil's shoulders … he hoped. There were still a lot of variables, a lot of things that could go wrong.

A few minutes later they rounded a corner and came upon a security checkpoint. It was the same one where Andrews and Burt helped him escape a little over a month ago. A block of ice slid into Cecil's stomach. What if the same guards were there from the night of his escape?

CHAPTER 34

THE PRODIGAL SON

“The pattern of the prodigal is: rebellion, ruin, repentance, reconciliation, restoration.”

~Edwin Louis Cole

Gestas followed Rebekah and Malakhi for the better part of the day. To the casual observer, there did not seem to be anything wrong. She behaved as a loving and doting mother. This dark soul was either very good at deception or really did relish the role of loving mother. Gestas didn't believe it was the latter. He saw the fury burning behind Rebekah's pretty green eyes. He knew this soul entertained no desire for redemption. It only sought escape from the darkness at any cost.

Gestas was in uncharted territory. He did not know if it was possible to get a dark soul out of someone without killing the body. If salvation was possible, he was pretty sure that cold-blooded murder was a deal breaker. The only thing he could do was watch and make sure no harm came to Malakhi.

The increased physical demands on the old woman's body were starting to take its toll. He believed he either strained or broke a rib when he saved Rebekah from their possessed tent mate. The legs of the old woman throbbed with protest. He found he must rest frequently. As a result, he lost them a couple of times. He managed to stay a safe distance behind until nightfall. Tonight, he was not sure the physical limitations of his elderly host would be enough.

Jack was awakened around mid-afternoon by the click and squeak of his cell door. A fat, older gentleman, wearing a brown smock, waddled into the room. Behind his multiple chins, bushy eyebrows and shocks of white hair above his ears, there was a kind and gentle countenance. He was a stark contrast with the two armed guards accompanying him. The man reminded Jack of Alfred Hitchcock or perhaps Winston Churchill.

Jack sat up on his bed and rubbed his eyes. He watched the man as he took a seat in a small metal chair a few feet away. Jack glanced from the man to the soldiers. The man adjusted his long smock and tried to balance his rather ample fanny on the narrow chair seat.

“Good afternoon, Jack. I am Dr. Turnberry,” he introduced himself with a polite nod. He didn't offer his hand.

Jack didn't say anything; he just glared at Turnberry. After several long moments of tense silence, Jack said. “Why are you holding me here?”

Dr. Turnberry straightened the wire-rimmed glasses on his button nose and then cleared his throat. “I thought it was obvious, Jack. You have an ability few people seem to possess,” he said, then narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “You also seem to have a propensity for violence which we were not aware of.”

Jack's heart rate accelerated. Had they discovered his secret? He knew what the reaction would be if he was found out. There would be no medals, no glorious media interviews, no parades, or parties. The only pedestal he would be on is a gallows. These imbeciles were too ignorant to understand the good he served.

Jack's pulse subsided as Dr. Turnberry said, “You were ready to kill that young woman. It wasn't just a momentary burst of anger, it was visceral rage I saw in you.”

Jack glanced around the room, wondering how this obese clown had watched him. He soon spotted a tiny camera mounted in a dark corner.

“Does it have sound?” Jack asked, pointing.

Turnberry shifted his weight nervously and said, “No, I'm afraid not. That's why we were wondering what the girl, Donna, said to you.”

Jack breathed a sigh of relief and experienced a flash of inspiration. They hadn't heard. There was no telling what she told them, but now this was Jack's opportunity to discredit
her
.

“You know who the crazy brat said she was? Queen Mary.”

Dr. Turnberry jumped with surprise. “Mary, Queen of Scots?” he asked.

“No, no … the other one … Bloody Mary.”

Turnberry raised an eyebrow and then folded his arms. “Why would she make such a claim?” he asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Jack said. “She's a nutter.”

Dr. Turnberry smiled a little.

“You know she can move about in the dark too, don't you?” Jack said.

Turnberry regarded him for several long moments before responding. “Yes, she was open about it. You weren't quite as forthcoming so we tested you.”

“You were in charge of that rubbish?” Jack said, remembering the relentless light blinking and music from his first night in the cell.

“Well, not hands on,” Turnberry said. “But I did authorize it.”

“Wanker,” Jack muttered.

Turnberry's mouth creased into a thin line. It seemed his sense of humor only stretched so far. “So what is your connection with Bloody Mary? Are you Henry VIII?”

Jack wanted to explode. He wanted to bash this arrogant jerk's skull in and then go do the same to Queen Mary. Nevertheless, he restrained himself.

“No, I'm just Private Jack Abernathy. What you see is what you get,” he said mustering as much humility as he could.

“You haven't seen my cage, have you?” he thought, but did not say.

“You never knew this Donna before?” Turnberry asked.

“No, as I have said before, she showed up at my door the night I was stuck at my house. That's the first time I saw her in my life.”

“But you weren't really stuck … were you Jack?” he asked with a straight face, yet accusation shone in his eyes.

“I didn't know it at the time,” Jack said.

“When did you know it?”

Jack studied him and then the guards as the stitches on the back of his head began to tingle. He reached his hand back and touched the bandage.

“Right after I woke up from this,” he said.

“Yes … yes, your injury,” Turnberry said like a professor contemplating a difficult concept. “Exactly how did it happen again?”

Before Jack could answer Turnberry scooted his chair closer and then pointed at Jack's head. “May I?” he said.

Jack turned his head and let Dr. Turnberry exam it. He did not remove the bandage or even touch it. Instead, he seemed more interested in the area of Jack's head where the injury occurred.

“Mmm … occipital lobe … vision … perhaps … yes,” Turnberry muttered. Jack was no doctor, but he understood him well enough to know the doctor thought he might have gotten some brain damage from the fall.

Maybe it affected his immunity from the dark. He avoided the dark until he was kicked by the old lady in the cage. He woke up in the dark, yet he never considered it unusual. He felt at home, at peace among the dark whispers. Perhaps he did suffer some brain damage since the most obvious solution eluded him. He and the dark are the same.

“So you think my injury caused this?” Jack asked as Dr. Turnberry scooted back and began to stroke his pudgy chin.

“At least a possibility,” he murmured, and then blinked. “Makes me wonder if your friend Donna suffered a similar blow to the head, making her immune.”

“And knocking the sense out of her to where she thinks she is Bloody Mary?” Jack asked.

“A possibility,” Turnberry agreed. “I will need to examine her further to make a determination.”

Jack laughed inside while suppressing a grin. This guy didn't know a bloody thing. He was interested in the medical aspect of Jack's ‘condition', nothing more.

“I knew I was careful,” he thought. “Even if they check the moors near my house, they can't prove I had a damn thing to do with any of them.”

Dr. Turnberry got up to leave after offering Jack dinner. He had not enjoyed a decent meal since they stopped at Martian Burgers a couple of days ago. Jack accepted and the doctor promised him a steak, baked potato, and a Coca Cola.

“I'll have someone bring it to you within the hour,” he said, motioning the guards to meet him at the door.

As Jack's stomach grumbled, he smiled and got up to shake Turnberry's hand. The doctor stepped behind one of the guards who delivered a forearm causing Jack to stumble backwards. He quickly recovered, ready to respond to another blow, yet none came. Dr. Turnberry peered at him from behind the two soldiers.

“I'll be back shortly with your meal, Jack. In the meantime, I would like an answer to a question when I return. I don't want an answer now because I want to give you time to think about it,” he said and then paused. “Always remember, honesty is the best policy.”

Jack felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; he didn't care for Turnberry's tone. “What question?” he asked.

Dr. Turnberry nervously removed his glasses. With growing angst, he slowly told Jack the question. “I would like to know what the cage was for.”

The same guards from the night of Cecil's escape were not at the checkpoint, but it didn't matter. They knew his name all too well. Major Cecil Garrison was public enemy number one. The soldiers responded with the same zeal as if Bonnie and Clyde had just waltzed into FBI headquarters. They dragged him from the SUV and threw him to the ground. This time, he managed to avoid another broken nose. However, he did have the wind knocked out of him.

Even though Musial tried to explain that he was Sam Andrews, the guards did not buy it. They hauled Cecil and Musial to the same jail where Cecil resided before. It could have been coincidence, fate, or just cruel irony; but they were thrown into his previous cell.

When he was here before, the Impals were still about, being fed into the Tesla Gate a short distance away. Now that the eye had arrived and the dark souls ruled the shadows, Cecil took note of how dim the jail was. There seemed to be a threshold of light the dark souls occupied. Fortunately, the shadows in the jail were not dark enough, but they were close. The whispers of the dark echoed all around them like a thousand mice scratching inside the walls.

Cecil sat down in the most well lit side of the cell while Musial sat on the bed, which was under a dark shadow. That seat would have been fatal to Cecil. Sally, Burt, and Barbara were taken elsewhere. Cecil was grateful that at least they were not here in this hellhole with him. He hoped Burt and Barbara received the help they needed.

“So what do we do now, major?” Musial asked.

“Wait,” Cecil said. “I'm sure they have gotten word to my father in Washington by now. He'll do one of three things. He'll have us executed, he'll have us rot in this cell, or he will come to see me so he can gloat before having us executed.”

Cecil had no idea his father was currently being treated in the same base infirmary with Burt and Barbara. When he learned of the presence of the traitors, not even God knew what the lunatic would do. President Garrison worked outside the prevue of God in his own private religious fairyland.