B E N E D I C T ' S 9
a creative
collaboration

. P A R T . T H R E E .

I think I'm going to—conk out!

Okay, then you sell the miserable pieces of junk.
. . . . . Amusement flickered within the mind of Henri Lafayette as he remembered the final words he'd spoken as he'd walked off the lot of Desert Donny's Used Car City. He looked absently out the window of the small jet, down at the texture of the water. The parched Western landscape was a world away, but he could still taste dirt in the back of his throat.
. . . . . Well, to be completely honest, there wasn't much humor in quitting the only job in four years that he'd held for more than six months. All because Donny wouldn't give him time off to come to Chicago. And he'd always liked the little scum bag...
. . . . . All right, all right, he thought... he hadn't used the word "junk."
. . . . . Now Henri was in a major funk and he'd been trying to cheer himself up. Everybody else was eating a box lunch, but he had no appetite. His last couple of meals had tasted like old cardboard. That alone was enough to get him miffed. Benedict had been throwing gourmet food around for three days, and all he could taste was Nevada dust. Plus this whole ordeal with Mr. Big Mystery was getting on almost everyone's nerves at this point. Devon Wise, the shortish Asian-looking guy sitting next to him, had lost his temper again yesterday. Thought for a second he was going to do some Bruce Lee number on Benedict, but the Main Man calmed Wise down, just like he always did when somebody snapped.
. . . . . Day Two had been a drag, to say the least. Henri hadn't learned much more than he had the day before. Seemed like it was mostly an effort by Benedict to weed out the people who wanted a payoff of some kind. That detective cat disappeared late in the day, just before the group split in two. Come to think of it, he was contemplating the quick cash for an hour or so, but heck... The Mystery Dude had a barbed hook in him and he had to know the truth. Yeah, he could see it in the others' eyes, too.
. . . . . Then he had to go and pull that phony-departure-to-Detroit bit this morning after making everybody nervous with that little speech about things getting too "tenuous" in Chicago. Henri was already in a sour mood. The Cajun Eggs had looked "gar-ron-teed to pleez," but... Well, he wouldn't go into that again. Even the silent Texan, apparently a pilot, took his turn at getting angry, though it was slow in coming. Henri had hopped to the Motor City out of O'Hare often enough in the good ol' party days to know it was a scam right after takeoff, but Yates couldn't decide if he wanted to focus on the Babe Department or pick a fight with Benedict. Hah!
. . . . . And did you ever hear such a polite way of calling a man out...
. . . . . "Skirting the law as a graduate student is one thing, but filing a false flight plan with a charter full of people is another thing entirely, sir. I will tolerate these cloak and dagger antics no longer!"
. . . . . "My good Mr. Yates," Benedict had responded with his two-fingers-on-the-forearm thing. "Your conclusion is erroneous. The flight plan is legitimate, I assure you, but we found it necessary to temporarily conceal our actual destination from this group until airborne. Please trust me."
. . . . . "He's not lying, Yates," that cute Gallagher chick intervened.
. . . . . "Yeah, the Motown gig is a ruse, man. Don't count on him tellin' us why..." Henri chuckled. And that was it. No fisticuffs. But Benedict had to admit what Henri had surmised... And that Yates was able to tune into, or something or other, and that Robin was able to confirm somehow... Very strange. Devon Wise turned and gave him an odd look. Henri was still smiling. Well, on the outside, anyway.
. . . . . Lunch was over and Dr. B broke out the booze. Henri swigged one of those little airline bottles of tequila and didn't feel a thing. He waited... nothing. Devon gave him another look when Henri tossed down another one. He waited again... No buzz. Now this was enough to set a man on edge, but he just laughed quietly as he finished a third bottle.
. . . . . "Pass the salt, brother," he muttered.
. . . . . Devon uttered his first words since boarding. "You okay, man?"
. . . . . "Hey, why not? Some rich guy tells us we're all turning into freaks and then talks us into getting on a plane bound for the Twilight Zone. I don't think I've had a real night's sleep in weeks. Can't eat a bite of food without wanting to spit it back out, and now I find out I can't even get drunk. Quit a decent job to take this magic carpet ride, and you want to know the weirdest thing about it? I'm straight as an arrow and I don't even mind. We're talkin' Mama-in-the-choir sober, man. So, how's your life?"
. . . . . "That does it," Devon said, preparing to stand up. "This is absurd. I've had all I can take!"
. . . . . "Wait a second, friend. You gotta stay solid here."
. . . . . "No! This guy's a maniac and if he doesn't turn this plane around, I'm going to..."
. . . . . "Look, you've been on a few wild gigs before, I'm willing to bet. You're a photographer, right?"
. . . . . "Yeah... I know... But listen, I've had it."
. . . . . "But you're a pro, right? You know how to be cool. You asked me if I was okay. Now I'm askin' you... Hey, it's just another assignment, man. Get your camera out and shoot this... Really."
. . . . . Devon looked at his camera bag; Henri saw him relax dramatically. There was a long pause.. "Okay, I'll buy that... I guess you're right. I've been on maximum stress since I left home. It's like I've got all this tension building up inside and I'm supposed to do something with it, but..."
. . . . . "I hear ya..."
. . . . . "No, this is different—different than anything I've felt before. It's like if I don't defuse myself of channel this energy somehow I'm going to implode or short circuit or—"
. . . . . "Hmmm."
. . . . . "Thanks, Henri. You some kind of counselor?"
. . . . . "Who, me?" The black man sniffed and shook his head slowly. "Nah... Just a survivor."
. . . . . Not a bad prerequisite for this nightmare.
. . . . . The thought flashed through Devon's mind as he reached into his bag for one of the Nikons. The rhythmic charge around his right hand didn't feel as frightening now; it felt more familiar. He caught a glimpse of the Glock semi-automatic inside.
. . . . . And I think this guy just prevented a skyjacking...

* * * * * * * * *

Freeman Benedict was in seclusion. His confrontation with the industrialist on the jet commute to Sault Ste-Marie had shaken him, although he had managed to disguise his apprehension successfully enough. He'd been counting on Yates to provide a standard of poise as he moved the group to the secret location on an island in Lake Superior. Perhaps he had been overconfident in his orchestrations. He wished people responded more predictably, like the instruments in his lab, but that was a foolish, naive desire.
. . . . . Well, he did seem to be able to count on Mosby, anyway. The detective had taken all the precautions outlined in his instructions. The last leg of the journey in the pair of 8-seat pontoon-planes went smoothly. He was relieved to see the face of his old colleague Vaughn Milton at the door of the fishing hideaway they shared. The Canadian physicist was in failing health, but he still had that intensity in his eyes that inspired optimism. And yet it seemed as if the entire enterprise was on the brink of total collapse. The scientist fumbled around with the antique lighter on Dr. Milton's desk and resisted the urge to have a smoke.
. . . . . Good Lord, is the whole thing falling apart on me?
. . . . . There was a gentle knock on the door of the study.
. . . . . "Are you feeling better, Freeman?"
. . . . . "Yes, yes, Dr. Milton. I'll be fine. I just need a few moments to think."
. . . . . "Everything's under control out here, sir. We're waiting for you."
. . . . . It was Mo's voice, but the tone was restive. The assurance sounded forced.
. . . . . "Uh... Thank you. How's the hand?"
. . . . . "No problem at all."
. . . . . He was fibbing. It was a nasty burn...
. . . . . "And Mr. Wise is..." He could feel Mo's uneasiness through the hemlock door.
. . . . . "He's... uh... detained, sir."
. . . . . "And the gun. Was it loaded, Mo?"
. . . . . "Yes, I'm afraid it was..."
. . . . . My God, the fracas!
. . . . . Just as he had gathered them all to divulge his agenda, everything had come apart at the seams. Stromberg had demanded answers to one question after another, and then he felt it. The damn PDS was on top of him again out of nowhere, with the same sense of paranoia. He'd been able to deal with it before, like the time he made it into the hotel closet before the blackness closed in, but this time the panic was so severe, like tentacles reaching up into his spine... into his cranium.
. . . . . He put down the lighter and reached for the unfinished glass of brandy next to it. He took a sip, then another. The memory was back now, with the full impact of his mutation. He tried to control the flashback—he had to mitigate the emotions that came with it... the alarm, the helplessness...
. . . . . "He's fainting!" Creighton Mann had exclaimed.
. . . . . "No, please," he remembered responding anxiously. "I can explain..."
. . . . . Benedict's arm was grabbed by Danton Stromberg, who was shoved aside by Devon Wise. "No more explanations!" he was screaming. Stromberg had sprawled to the floor, but was instantaneously back on his feet, like some sort of world-class gymnast. That was when the photographer had tried to smash his camera into the man's head. And then, incredibly, Stromberg had leaped straight up, right onto the big wagon-wheel chandelier, clutching it like some sort of human lizard! Women were crying out and men were shouting, "Get it! Grab it!" and then he had seen it—the handgun.
. . . . . A moist chill gripped him as the flashback took its course.
. . . . . It must remain under my control.
. . . . . Wise had a black pistol out and Benedict was beginning to lose consciousness. Then he saw Howard Mosby moving swiftly in his peripheral vision, one hand shoving the weapon upward, his own snubnose drawn now. And then, as the bizarre dream-like recollection came to a close, Devon Wise took a step back, dropped his gun and thrust out a bare hand. Mosby fell back in a shower of brilliant sparks. As Wise passed out and slumped into the grasp of Henri Lafayette, Mo shifted his revolver to the other hand and looked down at an ugly wound. Benedict could detect the odor of burned flesh as the PDS ensued, plunging him into an inkwell as devoid of sensory input as his extraordinary recall had been brimming with it.

* * * * * * * * *

All eyes were on the study door as it swung open silently and Benedict entered the main room. He went over and sat on the large stone hearth, never taking his own eyes off the floor. The space was quiet for some time. He could sense a new level of patience. Perhaps they understood now that he didn't have all the answers; it had been a grave mistake to try to convince them otherwise.
. . . . . "Why did you conceal the true nature of the PDS?" Yates queried abruptly.
. . . . . Benedict cleared his throat. "I apologize for that..."
. . . . . "I didn't even know I was going to ask you that, sir," Yates added.
. . . . . The scientist looked up and met his gaze.
. . . . . "The final stage of the PDS is a short, intense blackout characterized by a complete suspension of normal brain activity and sensation."
. . . . . Everyone was shocked when they realized the statement had been uttered by Robin Gallagher.
. . . . . "Benedict, I think I just read your thoughts," she added, resting her hand on his forearm.
. . . . . A bedroom door opened and Devon Wise stepped forward, followed by Henri Lafayette.
. . . . . "And you haven't leveled with us about these mutations. If you don't tell me what's going on, somebody is going to get hurt."
. . . . . "Mr. Wise, I don't know what to say."
. . . . . "That's a refreshing bit of honesty," said Stromberg, smiling ever so slightly.
. . . . . "I've gotta call my parents, urged 17-year old Guenivere Amberly. "They think I'm in Detroit!"
. . . . . "Look at these people, Freeman," Dr. Milton spoke, gesturing around the room. "Tell them what you've told me. There is no other way."
. . . . . "I've got some kind of emotional dynamo evolving inside and I can't seem to control it!"
. . . . . "Mr. Wise, you must believe me when I tell you that I'm in the dark. I thought I was a few steps ahead of you on the same path, but I was wrong. Such a silly, unforgivable assumption... You all seem to be on paths of your own. Unique, individual mutations... And what of the others?"
. . . . . "Yes, the ones still in Chicago," Mo pointed out. "I'd better get back and check on them."
. . . . . Benedict's eyes flashed, and he reached out, gripping Mo's sports coat.
. . . . . "He needs you here, Howie," said Robin.
. . . . . The scientist leaned forward and began to weep quietly. Dr. Milton put his hands on his shoulders and looked up at Mo. "You and I are the only ones not undergoing the mutation, and frankly, I'm an ailing old man. Please don't depart from us now. Your presence could prove invaluable."
. . . . . "Okay, sure thing... He's my best client, anyway."
. . . . . Mo gave a robust, awkward laugh. Nobody joined in. Robin shot him a dirty look.
. . . . . "Oh my God!" cried the teenager. "I think I'm going to—conk out!"
. . . . . As soon as she'd said it, Gwen's knees buckled. Mann scooped her up into his arms.
. . . . . "I guess we're all in for a helluva ride here, folks," he said. The girl was a rag doll within seconds.
. . . . . Now Henri was laughing. "Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines!"

Part Four

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