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

. P A R T . E I G H T .

Tell us what you know about Benedict's intentions!

He let out a deep, shuddering gasp of pain and ducked out the open door, dropping the metallic tool he had silently removed from a zippered pouch. Chunks of potato, celery, and onion were strewn about the small utility room. Steam rose from the puddle of liquid on the linoleum floor. Even as the teenager "read" the sonar impressions of the bulky figure stumbling away from the house in the darkness, Gwen Amberly could still see the startled expression on the chiseled features when she had shoved open the sliding panel and tossed the boiling soup stock into his face.
. . . . . The scene had played itself out with an electric intensity, and now she was standing there, clutching her mother's cooking pot, breathing heavily, with the adrenaline coursing through her body. After she "watched" the intruder half-climb, half-sprawl over the backyard fence, she felt composed enough to turn around into the kitchen and face her parents. Dad was already on the phone, rambling to a 911 operator, and Mom had both hands over her mouth, eyes wide, with that look she'd get when she was at a total loss.
. . . . . Gwen approached her mother carefully, grasped her shoulders, and spoke with as much conviction as she could muster, even though she felt her legs wavering a little now.
. . . . . "Mom, I don't know what that was all about, but I could tell he was sneaking into the house. You know, the echo-picture I've been telling you about."
. . . . . "Oh, Gwen what's happening to you... to us?"
. . . . . "I've got to contact Dr. Benedict. He can help us. We're not safe here."
. . . . . Her father was off the telephone. "Young lady, that was a very dangerous thing you just did, but the police are on the way. We'll let them handle it."
. . . . . "He's right. That man Benedict has caused just about enough disruption in your life. And now you're behaving irrationally. There's a sensible explanation for this."
. . . . . "You two! Listen to me. Something totally weird is going on and its got something to do with me and the others. We've got to get out of here."
. . . . . "Honestly, dear, we've tried to see things your way, and we turned down the settlement because you felt so strongly about it, but—for heaven's sake—you've got to be reasonable..."
. . . . . "You're wrong, Mom. I'm in danger here!"
. . . . . "I'll have no more of this nonsense, Gwen. We just got home. Wait in your room until the officer gets here and then, together, we'll explain what happened."
. . . . . "Oh, please, Dad! You're really gonna tell the police that a strange guy tried to harm us because I was bitten by a rat when I was a baby and now I can see through walls and—"
. . . . . "Of course not," her mother interrupted nervously. "It was just a random prowler of some sort. There's a sensible explanation. "
. . . . . "I don't believe this! Just a random, middle-aged prowler with a gray beard, dressed in black... carrying that!" She strode over to the sliding door and stabbed a delicate finger at the wicked-looking device on the floor in front of the washing machine. It resembled something she'd seen in a photo... a line of crying children being inoculated for polio.
. . . . . "Upstairs!"
. . . . . There was a vicious knot in Gwen's stomach and she knew what she had to do...

* * * * * * * * *

The man was wiping his hands with a pale-orange mechanic's rag. He looked the boat up and down for a few moments before locking on to the man at the helm. "This is a private dock. Is there some kind of emergency?"
. . . . . Henri Lafayette knew his fuel was low. Without breaking eye contact, he decided to bet it all on one hand.
. . . . . "Tell Mr. Malcolm the boat he wants to inspect is here."
. . . . . "Hold on. There's nothing on the docket like this, and I'd know. Mr. Malcolm is having breakfast and can't be disturbed."
. . . . . Jackpot!
. . . . . You'd better tell your boss the '32 Runabout is down here, if you want to keep your job. And, for your information, we're right on schedule."
. . . . . The man glanced at his watch and his composure cracked... ever so slightly.
. . . . . Stromberg instantly played his own card.
. . . . . "I wouldn't dawdle, pal. We're outa here in five minutes."
. . . . . The employee swore and turned slowly on his toe, looked back once over his shoulder and then jogged down the wooden pier.
. . . . . Henri saw the look on Stromberg's face. He was actually grinning.
. . . . . "Uh... you didn't have to trump my ace, dude."
. . . . . The expression evaporated.
. . . . . "Hey, do you have any idea just how tough this goat is?" he challenged in return.
. . . . . "Tough enough, my man— but just as greedy.

* * * * * * * * *

"Hear me out first. I'm certain you'll have questions, but believe me when I tell you that I don't know as much as you think I do about this madness."
. . . . . "Fair enough, Mr. Yates," Freeman Benedict replied, motioning to the third man to stay silent. The industrialist didn't like the look on Mo's face, but felt confident that the professor accepted his assurances. He was relieved Robin wasn't in the small room— undoubtedly a gesture of good faith on someone's part. He hated deceit, but, although it was essential to fill them in on their intense escape and reunion, he simply was not yet prepared to divulge any details of the conversation with his security chief.
. . . . . Yates did his best to describe the horror of the events as they had unfolded. The ruthless entry. The lifesaving intercession of his man in hiding. The limited options. The narrow, miraculous escape. He felt the cramped interior of the cabin closing in on him and went to get a glass of water at the little sink in the alcove that served as a kitchen. Freeman Benedict nearly broke down when the full impact of Dr. Milton's murder descended upon him, but bravely held his composure. Yates recounted his own terrifying realization that he had left the others in order to get the craft in the air, only to face his own overdue PDS without the presence of a copilot. Thankfully, he had found a secluded channel to set down before sunset and "conked" without further incident. When he came to, Devon Wise was down, but he quickly learned that Maria Capriconti, despite a minor shrapnel wound, had picked up faint emotional readings from Benedict's group. She felt certain they were back in the region, and hoped that she might be able to track them from the air.
. . . . . "This is too wild," Mo mumbled, but Yates detected a sympathetic quality in his rival's remark and ignored the interruption, continuing his account. He explained that they had waited until daybreak, and then, after takeoff, Maria felt a burst of worry from Benedict and decided to project a corresponding forcefield, for fear of losing contact.
. . . . . "Are you saying that she was able to transmit emotional energy at that altitude and distance? To me?" The scientist leaned closer.
. . . . . "As far I can tell, that's correct. With all due respect, sir, she was able to connect with your fretful state and amplify the... uh— your aura —to preserve contact. That's how we found you. Maria has been taking a very analytical approach to her capability, but it's really no more complex than that."
. . . . . "Well, I'll be damned... the breakfast lecture," Mosby muttered.
. . . . . "I beg your pardon?"
. . . . . "Never mind, Tex. It's just between me and the Doc."
. . . . . "And perhaps the professor and I should have some secrets of our own as well."
. . . . . "Now, now," Benedict cut in. "I need for you two to make amends. We have to find Mr. Lafayette and the others. Mo is referring to a little disagreement we had early this morning— compliments of our dear Dr. Capriconti, it appears."
. . . . . "Oh, I see," Yates frowned.
. . . . . "Satisfied?" Mo added, smugly. "Now I want to hear more about how your employee found that island. After you arrived here, Mr. Wise and I had an interesting conversation about the mysterious appearance."
. . . . . "And I told you how he saved our lives."
. . . . . "You said Henshaw helped to hold them off, too."
. . . . . "That's right. After a swift kick in the pants."
. . . . . "But somehow those men— posing as welders —discovered you while I was gone with the Doc."
. . . . . "I don't like your implication, Mosby."
. . . . . Benedict turned his eyes to Yates, with unusual intensity, and the engineer knew he was on the spot.
. . . . . "Well, you have to understand that... from Captain O'Cull's standpoint, I just couldn't be allowed to disappear like that."
. . . . . "Yes..." Benedict said softly with anticipation.
. . . . . Mo's gaze was like the double laser in his private lab at Westock.
. . . . . One fragment of disinformation, and then, if they buy it, I'll have some more time to think about what Raker told me. And hope to heaven he managed to get off that island.
. . . . . "You won't want to hear this, Howard, but it was Joe Henshaw."
. . . . . "What do you mean by that?"
. . . . . Yates pressed forward with his gambit. "I don't know exactly, but he was the leak."
. . . . . "Impossible. He didn't know the destination until we were in the air. Wilkins and I signaled to your ship after we left the Sault. In Morse code. With a Mag-lite, for God's sake!"
. . . . . "Exactly. And since you were in the other seaplane, you weren't in that cabin with Henshaw before touchdown. My man didn't have us in sight, but his scanner picked up the frequency. Your man broke radio silence. Had to brag to a buddy... or worse, I suppose."
. . . . . Howard Mosby turned beet red and then abruptly stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door.
. . . . . "Mr. Yates, I trust you would not take undue advantage... to undermine my confidence in him." Benedict drained the last swallow of cold tea from his cup and there was a long, uncomfortable pause."
. . . . . "Precisely, Doctor. I would simply lie to your face over a girl like a pathetic adolescent."
. . . . . Yates was stunned at the utterance and prayed silently that there had been sufficient sarcasm in his voice, while desperately fighting to keep his poker face. He couldn't read Benedict's blank look in response.
. . . . . "If you'll excuse me, sir, the dormant state is at hand."
. . . . . "Me, too... y'all can race me to the black hole."
. . . . . The professor leaned back in his chair and slowly closed his eyes. Yates was painfully aware that his clumsy, drawling wisecrack had produced no sign of amusement on the other's countenance. He went to the couch and reclined, but found no comfort. His last thought before PDS nearly crushed him.
. . . . . Now you've done it— you're a liar, and Robin will know it... as surely as she'll know just how little you understand about loving a woman...

* * * * * * * * *

No sooner had Dillon ground the butt into the rough concrete surface with the tip of his shoe, he immediately fished for another cigarette from under his coat. As he lit one of the filterless Algerians he preferred these days, the characteristic scent of fuel from his Zippo mixed oddly with the smell of wet cardboard boxes and various odors given off by the human body. The gaunt man in front of him bent to his work, carefully taping the eyelids to the forehead with thin strips of duct tape, double-checking the leather belts, and preparing the tiny syringe. Dillon drew the smoke deeply into his lungs with pleasure and studied a large mole on the side of the professional's neck, momentarily wondering how he managed to shave around it. When the subject was conscious again, the woman leaned forward on her stool and dispensed a drop of liquid into each of the eyes. She readjusted the hot lamp, briefly looking over her shoulder at Dillon, knowing that he would correct her if she disturbed his line of sight. At the first indication of meaningful awareness, Dillon reached out to the tape recorder and pressed the record button.
. . . . . "The time has come... to tell us everything you know. We hope to spare you further distress."
. . . . . A sudden animal wildness was upon the man restrained before them. Jerking spastically under the straps, he clenched his teeth and uttered a deep growling sound which seemed to alternate between an energetic aggressiveness and a forlorn inwardness. The woman handed Dillon an object—the kind of hearing protection common to a firearms range. She and her supervisor were already wearing bright yellow ear plugs. The subject was able to muffle his own screams for the first thirty seconds or so—a shorter time as compared to the previous session. Perhaps it was because he had known what to expect from the steady hand holding the tool, or perhaps it was because that hand was now moving with more deliberation.
. . . . . "There, now. That should suffice... if you are prepared to tell us all about it." Dillon stated in the same reassuring, resonant voice after the cries had subsided to intermittent moans.
. . . . . " B - a - s - t - a - r - d - s . . . " came the hoarse intonation.
. . . . . "Very well, then... Unfortunately, you give us no choice but to persuade you."
. . . . . The procedure continued. Dillon watched the tape reels and their slow, counterclockwise rotation, listening for an expression that would suggest the kind of progress he was counting on... the kind of progress that was long overdue. His keen eye caught a subtle change in demeanor when the female assistant glanced twice at the door. Zagecki must be looking through the small glass window. When it came to these matters, Zagecki could lose his patience, even under the best of circumstances. Dillon contemplated the wisdom of going out to confront him. He didn't like to be monitored.
. . . . . "Tell us what you know about Benedict's intentions!" This time he had shouted.
. . . . . The eyes stared blankly into the lamp and Dillon knew the man had lost consciousness again. He punched the stop button, took off the protectors, and swung his weight toward the portal.
. . . . . "Revive him. At once," he ordered, opening the steel door. Zagecki didn't step back.
. . . . . "Dillon, we..."
. . . . . "Sir, why are you down here?"
. . . . . "Can we talk about this?"
. . . . . "Not now." There must have been something in Lloyd Dillon's penetrating gaze that caused the other man to turn toward the staircase, since the voice was calm, melodious. Zagecki put his hands on his hips and shook his head slowly in resignation. He was not a handsome man, and yet, since he was tall, he might be called good looking by the average observer. He sighed, rotated, and attempted to look at Dillon again, face to face.
. . . . . "As I explained earlier, this will take us more time than you originally anticipated," Dillon added.
. . . . . Anton Zagecki had never seen a more nondescript person. The man before him was well under six feet. A bit overweight, but far from obese. There was nothing about his features that could be characterized as distinctive or memorable. His hair was thinning and a little gray was beginning to show at the temples. The cut was typical, unimaginative. Nevertheless, those dark eyes had a certain fire behind them, but only when Dillon chose to reveal it. Zagecki knew he was good at what he was doing. As a matter of fact, Dillon was considered good at everything he did. That's why he'd been brought in.
. . . . . "Sternheimer has informed me that there must be no more failures nor delays." Zagecki stated curtly, satisfied with the tone of authority in his voice.
. . . . . "I know full well that you are in charge of this operation, but you've seen his dossier. Permit us the time we require and there will be no failure. Sternheimer is aware of my credentials."
. . . . . "Yes, but you're not the only name he suggested."
. . . . . Dillon was silent. Except for those bloody eyes.
. . . . . "Just get it done, Dillon."
. . . . . "I understand, sir."
. . . . . "Break him. And then kill him."
. . . . . As Zagecki disappeared, tromping heavily up the filthy steps, Dillon took another deep drag on the Algerian and blew out the smoke with a slight curl to his lips. The recognition was as close to amusement as the veteran agent would allow himself tonight. He had some serious work to do, but he couldn't hold back the smile when he realized it had been a small victory of sorts for the young operative—just to have uttered the cold words.
. . . . . When Dillon closed the door behind him and studied the scene under the harsh light he paused and then swore under his breath. As soon as he saw the woman lift the head of the stethoscope he knew it, and threw the cigarette to the floor violently, cursing again, loudly this time, in a fluent language neither of the others could understand.
. . . . . Another victory had been achieved. An unexpected victory for mercy... and Benedict's cause.
. . . . . Raker O'Cull had died.

Part Nine

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