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

. P A R T . S E V E N .

...we'll just let the chips fall... on you!

"I guess I owe you one," Danton Stromberg said gruffly. Neither one of them had spoken for over an hour. "I don't know how you got me into this boat with that hole through your arm. I was conking big time."
. . . . . "Like I said, I'll live," Henri Lafayette replied, a trace of hoarseness in his voice. He winced as the other man removed the bloodstained handkerchief and tried to examine the injured tissue. "And, for the record, I had nothing to do with it. You might have been going down for the count, man, but you came over the side like some kind of freakin' sea otter!"
. . . . . "No kidding?" Stromberg frowned and dipped the cloth into the lake, rinsing it out as best he could before tying it back on his companion's upper left forearm. Fortunately it hadn't been a large caliber, he thought, and the round had passed through without striking bone.
. . . . . "You right handed?"
. . . . . "Uh-huh..."
. . . . . "Good. Must hurt like a sonuvabitch, though. I don't like the looks of it, from what I can see. Too bad our little nurse isn't here."
. . . . . "Yeah... Gonna be nasty if I don't get it taken care of."
. . . . . The two sat silently in the watercraft for many minutes, lost in their own musings again. The sky was now turning brighter by degrees. A fish broke the surface near some reeds, about a dozen yards away.
. . . . . The white man was thinking about the escape, and recalled his awful realization that a PDS was upon him as he attempted to reach the safety of the boat. A weak swimmer, he had always been scared of water. Despite his newfound abilities, he couldn't ward off the fear that gripped him whenever he couldn't touch the bottom.
. . . . . The black man was thinking about the fact that they were lost, perhaps still in severe danger of discovery by unknown enemies, and that his gunshot wound needed prompt medical attention.
. . . . . More time passed. Henri wondered when his own PDS would arrive, and then became more aware of the man seated next to him. He knew little, if anything, about the cranky businessman from Missouri.
. . . . . "Can I ask you something?"
. . . . . "Go ahead."
. . . . . "What do your friends call you?"
. . . . . "Huh?"
. . . . . "Do they call you Dan? Danny? Danno?"
. . . . . "What makes you think I have any friends?"
. . . . . "Let's say you did have a friend... Would it be okay if he called you Strom?"
. . . . . The corner of his mouth curled under the coarse mustache in what could best be described as a smirk. "Why not?" he answered, shrugging his shoulders.
. . . . . "Sensational. Well, we need a plan, Strom."
. . . . . "I guess so."
. . . . . "It won't be long before the sun's above the trees."
. . . . . "I'm open to suggestions."
. . . . . "Try this on for size— I've been trying to deduce our location since we first got to this neck of the woods. Tried to map it in my mind from the air. Dr. B never would give us anything to go on."
. . . . . "Secretive jackass—"
. . . . . "Yeah, I suppose, but now we know why he had his reasons. We passed some mighty fancy boathouses while you were zonked, before I ducked into this cove. This area is about as upscale as it gets."
. . . . . "So?"
. . . . . "I think I remember some guys talking about this stretch of lakefront. If my hunch is right, we might be only a few miles from the summer home of Horace Malcolm."
. . . . . The name struck Stromberg's memory like the crack of a whip.
. . . . . "The hotshot investor?"
. . . . . "That's exactly who I mean, brother."
. . . . . "He's a crooked bastard. Burned some of us in Kansas City a few years back."
. . . . . "Thought you might've heard of him."
. . . . . "What's going on in that twisted imagination of yours?"
. . . . . "Some friends of mine dealt with him a little, back in the old days. He just happens to be a real sucker for antique boats. Never cared too much about a clean title."
. . . . . "Hmm... Never knew that. Think he'd have an interest in this one? And, if so, how's that gonna help us?"
. . . . . Henri scratched at the whiskers on his chin.
. . . . . "I know Chris-Craft. This gem would turn the head of a prince. The good doctor lent us one of the rarest boats on the Great Lakes. Trust me. It'll get his attention."
. . . . . "And... so...?"
. . . . . "Strom, old buddy, we've got to shift gears. Bottom line? Somebody wants us dead. Open season on mutants. No telling how quick we might be tracked down, especially if we show our sweet mugs in public around here... I've got an idea or two."
. . . . . "I'll bet you do. You've done some pipelaying before, right?"
. . . . . "Been a while. I'm rusty."
. . . . . "Yeah... I know what you mean."
. . . . . "You, too?"
. . . . . "Let's put it this way—I've been taking my chances for over a year using my real name."
. . . . . "Interesting..."
. . . . . "SEC must have a nice file on me... probably this thick."
. . . . . "So... you ready for a new gig?"
. . . . . "I don't want to spend another night on a cold boat cushion, that's for damn sure!"
. . . . . "And don't forget that soggy underwear."
. . . . . "Start the boat, smart-aleck."
. . . . . Henri choked the motor and turned the key. The inboard rumbled magnificently to life.

* * * * * * * * *

Jacob Fossett Yates noticed her looking at him. Howard Mosby was watching both of them from the doorway of the cabin.
. . . . . Robin Gallagher moved closer to the broad-shouldered Texan. It was getting breezy, and she brushed the hair from her face, but still didn't say anything. He knew she was able to peer inside his thoughts and relished the intimacy, and only wished his mind was more organized, his contemplation more coherent. He studied her for a few moments as she tried to smooth a ragged tear in the sleeve of his western-cut sport coat.
. . . . . You're lovely...
. . . . . He tried to frame the thought as warmly as he could.
. . . . . She looked up. "A week ago, I'm sure you wouldn't have been caught dead in something so unkempt."
. . . . . "My dear, mere hours ago I came uncomfortably close to actually being caught dead in this very jacket."
. . . . . The smile tore at his heart, and then, when he detected the trace of fear and uncertainty behind her beauty, he wanted to take her tenderly into his arms and hold her.
. . . . . "Go right ahead, mister."
. . . . . Before he knew what had happened, he had done just that, and she responded with a kiss to the stubble of his suntanned cheek.
. . . . . "You know how I feel, Robin."
. . . . . "I know some of what you're thinking, but you'll need to tell me how you feel, Yates."
. . . . . "Surely you must know."
. . . . . "I won't intrude there. That's for you to keep... and share if you desire."
. . . . . "I'm wanting to share everything I have with you. I've never felt this way about anyone before... But, honestly, I've never paid much attention to my feelings. They've always been such a... a..."
. . . . . "Distraction?" she offered.
. . . . . "I guess so..." He bit his lip and nodded. "Although I've never cared to dwell on it."
. . . . . "I delight in how you dwell on things."
. . . . . "But isn't it true that you doubt the validity of my emotion?"
. . . . . "Oh heavens... that sounds so harsh. It's just that I... well, I..."
. . . . . Why won't you believe that I love you?
. . . . . He was ashamed of himself before he'd completed the thought, and then angry when he realized he had thrust it out impulsively. Her blue eyes told him he had caused pain. Before the tears could come, she pulled herself away. A man addressed him from behind.
. . . . . "I need to talk to you, Yates."
. . . . . "It will have to wait, Mosby." He wanted desperately to follow her down the path toward the water—into the grove of pines—to repair what he had just broken so carelessly.
. . . . . "It can't. I need to know some things—like how you found us."
. . . . . "You heard what I said."
. . . . . "Haven't you done enough to hurt her?" The detective dropped his respectful tone. "I need to be sure you haven't brought damage to us all.
. . . . . "How dare you?" Yates stripped his perception from the shoreline and turned to face Mosby, fists suddenly clenched.
. . . . . "Save it. I don't need you as an adversary. Are you part of this team or not?"
. . . . . "Benedict's, perhaps... not yours."
. . . . . "Perhaps... perhaps? Are you halfhearted or just plain dangerous?"
. . . . . "If you knew anything about me, sir, you would know that I've never been halfhearted about anything in my life! And you would know that the minimal patience I have with those of your ilk extends only so far!"
. . . . . "My ilk, eh? Well those of my ilk, as you put it, do their homework. I've read all those marvelous clippings the Doc gave me and sat through all those glowing interviews on tape. I'm afraid I know your type too well. So self-absorbed you can't see the obvious all around you. That's just fine when you're in that corporate enclave of yours, but not here. Not when it's my job to keep everyone safe. And that even includes you. So, spill it, Yates. Or you'll force me to get You-Know-Who involved."
. . . . . "Listen to me, Mister H. Mosby, P.I." The voice was almost a whisper, with a deliberate intensity. "I'll cooperate with you because you're part of this equation, and that means you're a necessary factor, if I'm ever to solve this mess. But don't you come on to me with this... with what you fancy to be an intimidating mode, because it won't work, understand? You can't bully me, and even if you pull out that gun of yours, you can't threaten me."
. . . . . "Just play ball! You already got one of your men in over his head, didn't you? Exactly what happened back there? Where are Lafayette, Stromberg, and Mann? And Benedict is frightened to death that old Milton got hurt."
. . . . . "My Lord, Mosby. Hurt? He's dead. Did you hear that? Dead! And so are Raker and the others, for all we know! And who's not leveling with whom? I've seen firsthand how accomplished you are at creating a secure venue. If anyone was out of their league it was that poor fool Henshaw. And what do you know about O'Cull?"
. . . . . Mo felt like he'd just lost his queen, and he ever was any good at chess. He knew Yates could probably checkmate him in the next couple moves if he kept up this nonsense. He had to change tactics. He couldn't squeeze this guy— he had to make Yates come to him.
. . . . . "Wouldn't you like to know... Look. This is the real deal, pal. Do I have to remind you that you were in charge when we left that island? You saw what can hit the fan if you and your rent-a-cops meddle in Benedict's master plan. Debrief or not. It's your call. And if the answer is not... we'll just let the chips fall... on you!"
. . . . . He spun on his heel and marched off, pretending to himself that he had saved face, pushing away the glaring fact that he didn't know a single thing more about the assault on the retreat, or how in hell Yates had found the rest of them hidden in a cluster of cheap fishing cabins on the shore of Lake Huron...

* * * * * * * * *

After everything that had happened to her since the encounter with Freeman Benedict and the others ("muties" as she had dubbed them in her journal), Guenivere Amberly had felt certain that things were going to calm down. Well... file that under "F" for "Fat Chance."
. . . . . Her "peeds" or what the Prof called periodic dormant states (what a dorky phrase) had begun to moderate, and she could "conk" in her own bedroom at least. They weren't even that scary any more. It was kind of cool to be wide awake all night after Mom and Dad crashed when they got home, but then the reporters starting calling, after that lady who'd done the WGN interview collapsed outside the TV station. Her parents had gotten all weird because they said the woman had actually died, and she'd been one of the group who'd met with Dr. Benedict, too, and that caused them to arrange that long, dreadful medical exam, and her friends weren't even allowed to come over right now, and this was worse than being grounded because she couldn't even answer the phone in peace, and—
. . . . . Gwen mentally caught her breath.
. . . . . I'm doing it again.
. . . . . I'm getting all hyper inside and feeling just awful. It usually happens right before the... the strange images... not really pictures, but I'd have to say I can "see" them... not really with my eyes, 'cause it doesn't matter if my eyes are open or not. I suppose I could call them "echoes," since I can read the whole thing after the "bounce," and... and...
. . . . . Now she was crying. She never cried. Not since she was little. Even after she broke up with Jason.
. . . . . She wanted to see Russell... or to just talk with him. Why did he have to ride his Harley all the way back to Florida? No way to reach him. He hadn't stopped on the road to check in or send an electronic message. Typical... Even Mom and Dad would probably do well to hear from him. She was reading the echoes without even thinking about it... Yeah, both of them were still talking... down in the kitchen. Basket cases... both of them.
. . . . . She heard herself sniff and laugh softly. It always helped a little to realize how perfectly "ultra-dweebish" they could be...
. . . . . The phone rang yet again, but she had a special sense about it this time and decided instantly to grab it.
. . . . . "Hello?"
. . . . . "Hey, Squid Ink! Glad it's you... What happened up there in Chicago?"
. . . . . The sound of his voice speaking the old nickname was an immediate comfort to her. She couldn't remember how it had originated, but where did anything originate, when it came to this unusual brother of hers?
. . . . . "Gwen?" her mother cut in. "Did you pick this up?"
. . . . . "Lighten up, Mom! It's just Russell." She heard the kitchen extension click off.
. . . . . "Yuck! Just me..." he said with mock disgust.
. . . . . "Oh, stop. I'm relieved, you nutcase. Oh, God... I don't know where to begin."
. . . . . "You're okay, aren't you?"
. . . . . "Uh... I guess so, but Mom and Dad are freaking out."
. . . . . He gave that familiar laugh of his. The one that had always been such a bright spot in her life."
. . . . . "Look, like I've told you before, M and D have been freaking out since the day I wanted to read Grampa's Marcus Aurelius instead of Dr. Suess, so don't let it cramp your style."
. . . . . "Oh, I see... But the last time you said it was Plato."
. . . . . There was a long pause. Now she started laughing, because she loved to tease him when he referred to those early years. They must have been wild, and, of course, they were now shrouded in family myth, which certainly didn't bother either one of them.
. . . . . The basics were indisputable— young Russell had demonstrated his particular genius for language and logic as a toddler and had been accelerated to middle school by the age of seven, when the family traveled to Dayton, Ohio so he could participate in the Youth Fair. She didn't remember anything about it, naturally, since she was barely two at the time, not even the uproar when a white rat was discovered sleeping next to her in the University-provided stroller. Instead, the dawn of her memory was filled with the astonishing anecdotes of her sibling prodigy. She'd been a rapt observer enthralled with the daily surprises and an ardent defender of his mischievous exploits, as soon as she was expressing her own mind. She could have resented his role as family focal point, but she didn't. Maybe it was because of the sincere fondness and attention he had always shown her, when she might have been peripheral to his intellectual development.
. . . . . But it had all come to a sudden transition when she was eight, the day he had left for MIT. His teachers believed he could have gone to college earlier. The parents always said they'd held him at home until he was thirteen. In contrast, Russell always said he'd hung out for a few years so he could watch over his little sis. In any case she found herself at home as an "only child," living with two people frazzled by years of managing the nonconformist antics of her extraordinary brother. She waited for the lively reports he would send home about what was going on at the Artificial Intelligence Lab. It's not like she hadn't tried to make life interesting on her own, sometimes with less than desirable results, but ordinary life was just a bit boring when it didn't involve Russell...
. . . . . And now all this mutation business! Richard and Christine Amberly were on the brink of panic.
. . . . . How in the name of heaven could they deal with another aberrant offspring?

Part Eight

T O P