This
story takes place approximately a year after the War of Nerves started, shortly
before Captain Scarlet and Rhapsody Angel became a couple.
CHAPTER 4
A “Captain Scarlet & the Mysterons” story
By Chris Bishop
“That’s
the spot where he landed.”
Sergeant
Palmer stood from his crouched position on the ground in front of a big tree,
which he had been perusing with attention for the last few minutes. He looked up at the sky; the branches above
his head were either broken or stripped of their foliage. He reached for one of the damaged twigs,
pulled a piece of torn dark cloth from it and examined it. It was covered with blood. He grunted.
“The
branches must have broken his fall considerably,” he said to his companions who
were standing a short distance behind him.
“It wasn’t a soft landing, that’s for sure, but it wasn’t as hard as it
should have been, considering the height he fell from.” He threw the piece of
cloth to the ground. “He might have survived the fall,” he added coolly.
“Why
am I not surprised?” Major Montgomery didn’t sound or look very happy. Ever since
they had discovered, a few minutes ago, that Scarlet was not where he was
supposed to be, he had been wearing a perpetual frown of frustration and barely
contained anger upon his face.
Palmer
simply nodded, thoughtfully stroking his chin. He was the most experienced
tracker amongst the group, and was patiently examining the surrounding ground
with his expert eye, trying to get a clear picture of what had actually
happened. “If the fall didn’t kill
him,” he said, “he was probably seriously wounded.”
“I’ll
say,” Williams groused darkly. “The
major put a bullet in his skull.”
“Maybe
he was just grazed,” Baxter suggested.
Palmer
crouched again, to further examine the spot where Scarlet’s body had so roughly
landed. “The ground is soaked with blood,” he said. “He was bleeding heavily.”
“But
if he had been dead, or seriously wounded, he would probably still be here,”
Montgomery said sharply. “His recuperative time depends largely on the
seriousness of his injuries. He fell
from the chopper about three hours ago.
If he wasn’t as seriously wounded as you suggested, could it be possible
for him to have already healed – and then simply left?”
“No,
sir,” Palmer replied, turning to look at his commander. “I don’t know if he was
dead or not, but he certainly didn’t walk from this spot by himself. That much
I’m sure of.”
“And
how can you be so sure?” The frown on Montgomery’s face deepened.
Palmer
pointed to the ground and slowly followed a trail with his finger. “See these tracks,” he explained. “Scarlet was wearing combat boots. Those weren’t left by combat boots.”
“So
someone else came,” Williams realised.
Palmer
nodded again. “Whether Scarlet was alive or dead, that person dragged him away
in that direction.” He pointed to the ground, in an easterly
direction. “See these marks? They were left by his feet dragging on the
ground.” He stood up, and started to
follow the trail he had found, his companions walking closely behind. They
could see, like him, the traces in question, mixed with deep footprints – the
same kind of footprints he had found which were not made by combat boots –
imprinted in the muddy ground.
Obviously, whoever it was who had taken Scarlet, that person had
tremendous difficulty carrying the body with him – the weight was probably
hindering his progress. There were traces of blood all the way, smeared on the
ground and surrounding foliage.
The
men walked in silence, guns at the ready, and looking all around, almost
expecting to see someone appear from behind the trees. They soon arrived at a
river of dark and gloomy water and they stopped.
Imprinted
in the thick mud of the bank, they could see the deep marks of a small boat
that had obviously been launched from there very recently.
The
trail they had followed ended there.
Montgomery
did nothing to hide his irritation, as he looked up and down the stream, hoping
to see something that kept evading him; the surface of the water was empty of
any boat, as far as the eye could see. There was only current, which churned up
a sickening yellow froth on the surface of the muddy water, and a few dead
trees floating down the stream.
He
cursed. “Damn it all. That’s all we needed. Where could they have gone to now?”
“Downriver,”
Petroski suggested. “By the looks of it, they left very recently from this
spot. We didn’t hear an engine, so
they’re probably using a rowboat? And since they’re already out of view, I’d
say they went with the current. Not
against it.”
“They’re on a
small craft,” Baxter concurred, examining the marks on the bank. “Rather
light. Yes, I would also say they’ve
gone downriver.”
“There’s
a small town downstream,” Montgomery concurred with a thoughtful nod. “Les
Arbrisseaux. Whoever found Scarlet might be taking him there for
treatment – since our man is wounded.”
His brow furrowed anew. “So
we’ll follow the river then. And we
will look for any trace of this damned boat. Maybe it has gone to Les Arbrisseaux, but it could
stop anywhere between here and there.
Whatever, I want it to be found.”
“It
could have gone across to the other side,” Williams remarked.
“Thank you for
volunteering, Williams. You and Baxter will cross the river and follow it down
from the other bank.”
Baxter
seemed bewildered by the order. He looked towards the river, with
hesitation. “But... how are we going to
get across?”
“I
don’t care!” Montgomery snapped, turning to his men. “Find a way, that’s
all. We have a mission to perform, and
I won’t let anything or anyone stand in our way.” He glared at his men. “I
want that microchip Scarlet is carrying,” he said between his teeth. “And I want Scarlet dead. And I mean permanently.” He spun on his heel, turning his back on the
others. “Now get a move on. We have work to do!”
He
started walking, and Petroski and Palmer followed, in silence. Left behind,
Baxter and Williams watched them go morosely, before Williams finally turned to
his grim-looking companion.
“You’re
not afraid of crossing that river, are you?”
he asked with curiosity.
“Of
course not,” Baxter replied, scoffing and shaking his head. “I have no concern about that. The Mysterons’ orders will be carried out.”
“But
there’s still something bothering you.”
Baxter
scowled. Being a now Mysteronised agent
meant that he possessed all of his human counterpart’s expertise – but also,
some of his natural concerns and uncertainties. “I still hate alligators,” he
muttered under his breath. He then
turned cold eyes towards the river.
“Come on. Let’s find a way to
cross safely.”
The
two men started walking up the river, in the opposite direction from their
companions.
* * *
Not
that far from there, crouched behind thick bushes which concealed her perfectly
from her enemies, Rhapsody Angel watched attentively as the WAAF commandos
separated into two groups to follow the river. Delayed in her trek by a terrain
that presented many more obstacles than she had counted on – she nearly fell
into quicksand and had to make a detour to find a passage across a narrow, but
extremely turbulent stream – she had arrived barely minutes after the soldiers
had discovered the spot where Captain Scarlet had landed. She had stayed
hidden, and spied on them as they made their discoveries and followed the trail
of the vanished Spectrum officer, hearing and witnessing everything.
Now
that they were gone, she rose from her hiding place and retraced her steps to
the spot where Scarlet’s body had hit the ground. She didn’t expect to find
anything more than what the soldiers had already found; in any case, their
footprints were now all over the place and if there was any other clue left to
find, that was enough to erase it.
She
stood over the disturbed ground where she could still see the body’s imprint on
the crushed twigs and flattened grass; there were traces of blood all around.
Her eyes scanned the ground for a moment longer, before raising to the sky
above; she could also see the many branches and twigs through which Scarlet had
fallen some hours before. Such a
long fall, she told herself, trying hard not to shiver at the thought of
it. And it looks like it was a rough
one…
Her
eyes narrowed and she saw something caught on a branch, which was flapping in
the wind. At first, she thought it was
a leaf, but then, she noticed it was dark, and had a rather odd, square shape;
something colourful was printed on it.
She
frowned, and stood on tiptoe; it was just within reach and she snatched it from
where it was dangling. It was hard and
had a leathery feel to the touch; she almost lost it as her fingers closed
around it.
It
was only when she brought it back to eye level that she realised that it was
the remains of a badly damaged cardholder.
The half-torn cover was printed with what was left of a Spectrum emblem.
Although
she already knew which one it was, Rhapsody’s heart missed a beat when she
opened the cardholder to find the dirty and blood-smeared I.D. card of Captain
Scarlet still inside it.
Probably,
Rhapsody realised, it was torn from his uniform pocket in his fall.
She
crouched down and sighed heavily as she examined the ground again.
Unfortunately, she had to grimly concur with Palmer’s deduction that Scarlet
had been seriously wounded. And she
also had to agree with the fact that he hadn’t left by himself and that someone
else found him – and took him. She had
followed the same trail the commandos did – so her conclusion was not in any
way different.
But who found you, Paul? she asked herself with concern. And where did that person take you?
Friend
or foe, it didn’t make any difference.
If Scarlet was wounded – and he was – he would heal eventually, and that
meant someone would witness his incredibly fast recuperative powers. What would be that person’s reaction to this
miraculous feat was anyone’s guess, but Rhapsody was apprehensive that this
reaction could mean some kind of trouble for her colleague. At the very least,
it would arouse questions, to which he would not be able to provide any
answer. Not without imperilling
Spectrum’s security, anyway – and perhaps even shedding some light on the real
nature of the organisation’s fight against the Mysterons.
Right. You’re getting much too far ahead of
yourself, Dianne. No sense in worrying
about such abstract notions for now.
The important thing is to find Paul – quickly. And before those murderous bastards do.
But
where to look now was another question.
She rubbed her chin thoughtfully as she rose to her feet. Should she
follow the same trail as the commandos?
It seemed to her that, that way, she would always be a step behind them,
and that they would certainly find Scarlet before her. And certainly, she couldn’t fight them all –
she was all alone and completely unarmed.
Okay – time for a change of strategy then.
Until
a few minutes ago, Rhapsody’s priority was to beat the WAAF commandos to
finding Scarlet. That was still the
case, but as her opponents had a good head start on her, she had to do this a
different way. She needed help. If
someone had found Scarlet after his fall and took him away, that meant that
there were people living around there somewhere; and some of these people, she
reckoned, would probably have a means of communication – at the very least,
they would have a phone. Her new option
would then be to try to warn Spectrum – or contact the proper authority, if
there was any nearby – and ask for the proper help to locate her missing
colleague before the Mysteronised commandos.
At
the moment, it seemed to be her best alternative.
She
looked around, getting her bearings and deciding which direction to take; from
what she recalled of the area’s map, the nearest settlement of any importance
was downriver, on the western shore, towards the south. Les Arbrisseaux, she had heard
Montgomery say. She remembered the
name. The commandos were heading in
that direction, but as the river followed a serpentine course, probably filled
with obstacles along the way, they would take a very long time before reaching
it. She, on the other hand, would be
there much faster if she were to cut through the woods and head directly
towards the town.
Still,
she realised, it would be hours of walking…
But do I have any choice? she asked herself and she wiped her sweat-drenched
brow with her forearm. She felt hot,
and she wondered if it was because of the warmth and dampness surrounding her,
or if it wasn’t some fever due to the not-so-well-tended injury to her
arm. She shrugged, trying to dismiss
it. She still had things to do, and she
couldn’t let this get in the way of her work.
She
didn’t hesitate much longer in taking her decision, and started to jog… hoping
that this time, the terrain would be more favourable that it had been up until
now, and that she would eventually find someone along the way, who would be
willing to help her.
The
race against time had started again.
* * *
There wasn’t any real
hospital as such in Les Arbrisseaux.
The town was just too small, too remote from civilisation, to afford
itself the luxury of having a hospital as big as in New Orleans – or even
something remotely similar to the closest neighbouring city. There was only a small but very effective
clinic, with only three doctors, about the double that number of nurses, all of
them under Doctor William Evers’ authority.
Evers himself was at the same time general physician, paediatrician,
dentist and surgeon, and was in charge of the local morgue. It was to him that Sheriff Masters took the
bodies of Old Joe Benson and the stranger who had apparently killed him, after
he had called for his deputy, Alan MacGibbons, to come with a police vessel to
Benson’s cabin in the middle of the bayou to pick them up.
It was barely two hours since the two bodies had been
handed to Evers, who had received from the sheriff very specific instructions
regarding the stranger. Masters wanted to know exactly what it was that killed
him – he didn’t ask for the same regarding Joe, as it was pretty obvious that
the gunshot to the guts had been more than sufficient to put an end to his
life. But regarding the stranger,
Masters seemed to have some doubt; it looked like the violent blow he had
suffered to the head had been responsible for his death, and the sheriff just
wanted to make sure of that. To that effect, Evers thought that a simple X-ray
examination of the head should clearly indicate if it was the case; afterwards,
when they had received the results, they would go ahead with a proper autopsy
of the body.
It should have been an easy and clean affair, all things
considered, but strangely enough, that would not be the case. Something very
strange happened, and so Evers called for Sheriff Masters to come straight away
to the clinic, the minute he received the latest results.
Masters found the doctor in his office, seated on the edge
of his table, looking down at some negatives from a large folder; upon the
sheriff’s arrival, Evers raised his eyes to him and gestured to him to close
the door.
“Sure glad you could come so quickly, Leonard,” Evers said
by way of welcome. The doctor had learned a long time ago that his friend
simply hated to have his name shortened in any way.
“Well, I did ask you to call me as soon as possible,”
Masters said, closing the door. “I’m
still filling in the report on this sordid affair… So maybe you will be able to tell me if that blow to the head
killed that guy or not, so I can wrap this up…
and maybe arrest Jasper Holland and his gang.”
“The way I understood it, the kids were just defending
themselves against this stranger… Wasn’t that so?” Evers asked with a raised
brow.
“Who told you that?” Masters asked with a frown.
“Johnny Monroe is in the waiting room,” Evers explained.
“Yes, I saw him earlier when I came. What’s he doing here?”
“Apparently, Johnny hurt his wrist in what happened in the
Bayou, and he’s waiting to be seen. Jamie Lewis came with him, but didn’t stay long… Well, just long enough to join Johnny in
telling their story to anyone wanting to hear about it. I heard them saying it
to one of the nurses. They were
bragging about how they helped in arresting this guy.”
“Stupid kids. I’m
willing to bet Jasper and the rest of the gang is doing the same in town,”
Masters mumbled. “I’m sure that the
news that Old Joe has been killed is all over town already. They would make sure everybody knows a
stranger killed him. That will certainly not help in the investigation. I still have to determine exactly how
everything happened.” He shook his
head. “I’ll deal with them later. So you’ve got news for me? That blow killed the guy?”
“Quite frankly, I’m not sure… There’s something bizarre going on.”
A puzzled Masters frowned, as Evers motioned for him to
approach; he handed him the folder he was holding, before rounding his desk to
sit down. Masters started looking at
the pictures; his frown deepened. “Not very clear, are they? These aren’t X-rays, Doc…”
“No, they’re not,” Evers answered, rubbing his chin
pensively. “Those… ah… those are scans from that new machine we received a
month or so ago. That new technology that replaced scans by X-ray a few years
ago? I’m afraid I don’t have the hang
of it – it’s the first time I ever used it.
So the pictures came out a bit… fuzzy, to say the least. It might need
some adjustments.”
“So you finally got around to using that machine,” Masters
said, with a thoughtful nod. “You’ve
always been resistant to this new technology, and kept using that old X-ray
machine of yours…”
“Well, it would appear my… ‘resistance’ wasn’t for nothing,
if that’s the best this machine can come up with,” Evers replied, harshly
enough. “Anyway, there was a reason why I finally used it…”
“What’s that thing I see there?” Masters said,
without really listening to the physician, as he raised the film in front of
the light, and narrowed his eyes to get a better view.
“The pale grey mass? Looks like a hematoma, probably caused
by a violent trauma,” Evers answered.
“So the blow might have killed him?” Masters asked,
still looking at the picture. “No,
wait… there’s something else…” He held
the film closer to the light. “Right in
the middle there – that smaller, white spot…
Can’t see very well…”
“Indeed, you can’t…” Evers commented. “I saw that thing
too, but I’m unable to see clearly what it is either. Looks like some kind of foreign body, as far as I can tell. The autopsy will tell us exactly what it is,
I believe. I’m having the body prepared right now, so I’ll have the answer
shortly.”
Masters put the picture down. “If it’s the best you can do with this machine, why don’t you use
the X-rays then, Doc?” he wondered.
“I did,” Evers answered with a frown. “The first time around, actually. And it’s because
of the results of the X-rays that I used the new machine.” He opened the top
drawer of his desk and took a new folder from it. “I told you: something
bizarre happened, but I wanted to know what results the new machine would give
me before I called you.”
“Now you’re intriguing me,” Masters said, closing the
folder and putting it down as Evers was handing him the other one.
“Wait,” Evers sighed.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Puzzled, Masters opened the new folder and took out the
first film, to look at it against the light.
He frowned deeply, before staring at Evers.
“Okay now, what’s the joke?” he asked. “These are
obviously regular mug shots of the guy who killed Joe.”
“I have a full set,” Evers deadpanned, pointing to the
folder the sheriff was now holding.
“Front, right and left… and I even have a back picture to go with it.”
“Where are the X-ray pics, Doc?”
“These are the X-ray pictures, Leonard.”
Masters glared at him incredulously. “You’re kidding me!”
“No.” Evers shook
his head. “This is what came out of the
X-ray scan, I swear.”
“That’s impossible,” Masters muttered, looking at the
pictures again.
“I know, I could scarcely believe it myself,” Evers
commented. “I can’t figure out how an
X-ray scan would give that sort of results – it’s like the rays were unable to
get through the guy’s skin.”
“So you don’t have an explanation as to how this could have
happ….”
Masters’ question was left hanging in midair as suddenly, a
scream was heard through the door that made both men jump to their feet; it barely took them a second to come out of
their surprise, and Masters was the first to get to the door, and open it, at
the same time instinctively reaching for his gun. Evers was right behind him when they stepped out of the office
and the scream was heard again, this time much more clearer; they turned to
face the corridor, and saw one of the clinic’s nurses running up to them at
full speed. She literally collided with
Masters who took hold of her shoulders;
her face was drained of all colour and she was shaking like a leaf, and
it was a wonder that she could stay on her feet.
She pointed a trembling finger down the corridor, towards a
door that was left open.
“He… he’s alive…” she stuttered. “He’s in there… Oh God, it can’t be… I was getting him ready and…
He was dead and now… he’s alive… alive… alive…”
Masters couldn’t make any sense of what she meant. He could see there were people around
watching with curiosity, wondering what could be happening – another nurse, and
the lady tending the desk at the entrance of the waiting room, and whatever
patients were there waiting to see a doctor. He left the nurse where she stood
and ran down the corridor, Evers following him, and went straight to the door
she had pointed to; it was marked ‘Mortuary’.
He pushed it fully open.
There were only two bodies, lying on two tables, side by
side, in the very cold room; one of them was the body of Old Joe Benson,
covered from head to toes with a shroud, waiting for autopsy.
On the other slab, there was the body of the stranger, only
half covered, instruments laid on a small table right next to him, ready to be
worked on.
And as Masters laid eyes on him, he heard the man groan
loudly. The sheriff opened wide,
unbelieving eyes.
“It can’t be!” he murmured.
He stood there, rooted in place, and Evers pushed him aside
to get through the door; he went straight to the stranger, whose chest was
rising and falling - he was obviously breathing. Masters took a few steps into the room, almost mechanically,
watching the impossible motion, as Evers made a quick assessment of his
‘patient’, whose eyes were still closed.
He looked up at the sheriff. “He is alive, Leonard.
But that’s… impossible! He was
dead when your deputy brought him in!”
“And he was dead in the bayou,” Masters answered, unable to
detach his eyes from the stranger’s body. He noticed the man’s shoulder, which
seemed to have been cleaned recently.
There was a small scar on it, very small… nothing like the kind of scar that would have been left by a
bullet wound, inflicted only a couple of hours ago.
I shot this man, he told himself. It’s
impossible. He could not have healed
that quickly!
Somehow, this reminded him of something, and he found
himself searching his mind for what it could be, as Evers was busying himself
with checking the body of the man.
“This can’t be,” the doctor was repeating. “Not only he is alive… but he is getting
better…” He looked up at the sheriff
once more; there was something like fear in his eyes. “This is nothing short of a miracle, Leonard!”
“A miracle, eh?” Masters repeated, chewing on his lower lip. “I suppose you don’t have a better
explanation than that, do you, Doc?”
“No – it’s scaring the daylights out of me.” Evers took a
few steps from the stranger and came to stand next to the sheriff. Quickly, he
shut the door leading into the corridor. “He’s still unconscious… but I don’t know for how long. It looks like
he could wake up any time now. Leonard,
what’s going on?”
“I don’t know, Doc,”
Masters answered. The memory he
was looking for had returned to him, and with it a whole new set of worries he
never thought he would ever have to face. He turned to Evers. “Bill… remember
that… communiqué you and I received from Spectrum, a few months ago?” Evers’
brow furrowed as he tried to recall, still staring at his strange patient. “It listed the same phenomena that we are
witnessing today,” the sheriff reminded him.
“And it said that if we should ever encounter anyone displaying
one of those…”
“…To contact Spectrum without any delay,” Evers suddenly
remembered. He turned to Masters. “And to consider the said person hostile.”
The sheriff grunted.
“Right,” he said, looking at the still unconscious stranger. “I’ll call Mac at the station and we’ll get
this man out of here and into a jail cell.
Quietly.”
“Leonard, I must protest…
Not a few minutes ago, this man was – apparently – dead…”
“But you just said that he was getting better,” Masters
interrupted suddenly. “And quite
frankly, Bill… after the way he seemed to have… ‘revived’ in front of your
nurse, do you really think that he needs to stay in this hospital?” Evers hesitated at the question, and sighed
heavily, as he finally shook his head.
Masters put his hat on. “Keep this quiet,” he said to the doctor. “Remember that the Spectrum communiqué asked
for the utmost discretion if these situations should occur. You think you can have your nurse keep quiet
as well?”
“I’ll try,” Evers groused.
“How about Jasper and his gang? And I’ll remind you that Johnny is in
this clinic as well… I don’t think they
will keep their mouths shut.”
“I know.” Masters sighed. “I should have kept the whole lot
of them in prison until the end of the investigation. There isn’t much I can do about that right now, I’m afraid… Mac and I will transfer this guy into a cell
discreetly. We’ll use your back door.”
“Doesn’t Mac have to go to Baton Rouge today?” Evers asked
his friend.
“Yeah, for a few days. His uncle died recently. He has to go and help his aunt with the whole
funeral business.” Masters frowned
deeply. “Which means I’ll be left alone
to deal with this whole crazy affair. I
really need the help, but I can’t very well ask Mac not to go. His aunt’s his only relative, now, and she
will need him.”
“If you need any help, Leonard…”
“Thanks, Bill, but this is my business. Anyway, I should be able to cope, once this
guy’s in a cell.” Masters shook his
head. “Before he leaves, I’ll have Mac
call Jasper to come see me, and tell him to keep quiet or I’ll have him behind
bars for interfering with the investigation.”
“Hope that’ll be sufficient for him to shut his mouth,”
Evers muttered. “I’m sure there’s a
logical explanation for all this, Leonard. I don’t know what the hell it could
be… and I sure don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it either, Bill,” the sheriff answered
sombrely. “I don’t like any of
this… and like you, it’s scaring the hell out of me.”
* * *
Johnny Munroe had gone to the clinic straight after his return
to Les Arbrisseaux, accompanied by his friend Jamie Lewis. When the tall
stranger had fought back, there at Old Joe’s cabin, Johnny had been thrown to
the ground and had hurt his left wrist in his fall. His wrist was now a
disturbingly bluish colour, and fearing that he might have broken something he
wanted to see a doctor as soon as possible.
Unfortunately for him, as he was briefly checked over upon his arrival,
his condition was not deemed that pressing, and he was made to wait, until such
moment as someone would have time to see him.
Grumbling and showing plainly that he wasn’t very happy
about the situation, Johnny sat down in the waiting room, his hand simply
wrapped in an icepack, Jamie sitting by his side. The latter had very little to
do, and so, even though no-one asked, he was only to happy to explain how this
injury to Johnny’s hand had happened, and he told his own version of the story
– how they heroically helped Sheriff Masters get his hands on a stranger who
had killed that crazy Old Joe Benson, who lived in Devil’s Bayou.
The boys were still in the waiting room when they saw the
sheriff and his deputy arrive with the bodies of both Old Joe and the stranger,
and they watched with interest as the two lawmen entered by a back door and were
taken to a room at the end of the only corridor they could see from where they
were sitting. The sheriff gave the boys
a hard look that sent a shiver down Johnny’s spine.
He wondered if Masters didn’t suspect the truth regarding
Joe’s death. It didn’t seem possible, however: the stranger made a perfect –
and unexpectedly welcome – patsy. Of course, Jasper and Scarecrow trying to
kill him with the sheriff there, watching, might not have been the best of
things to do – but quite frankly, what else could they do exactly? The stranger
knew too much and could have denounced them all. Cautiously enough, Johnny
didn’t share his worries with Jamie, in fear that someone would hear them. In
any case, that poor, stupid, devil-may-care Jamie would have dismissed his
fears with a wave of the hand: Jamie’s only thoughts were to have fun and
please himself, never thinking about the consequences. In that respect, he was very much like
Jasper.
It was with some nervousness that Johnny kept waiting for a
treatment that failed to come as soon as he would have hoped. At this point,
Jamie, bored out of his wits, had left him, to go join the others at Sam’s
Diner, and tell them about the arrival of the two bodies at the clinic. The
pain in Johnny’s wrist started to subside, and he started to doze, almost
despite himself; it had been a long, and tiring day.
It had already been nearly two hours, and Johnny was now
deciding if he should ask again to see the doctor, or if he should simply
leave, considering his wrist wasn’t hurting him that much anymore, when he
suddenly heard a commotion down the corridor.
He shot to his feet, and went to the waiting room door to
see; a nurse was running from the door behind which he had seen the two bodies
disappear earlier, and she collided with Sheriff Masters and Doctor Evers, who
just had left the latter’s office. She
was repeating the same words, again and again, stammering as she spoke:
“He’s alive… He’s in there… Oh God, it can’t be…”
Johnny frowned in perplexity, wondering exactly what could
be happening; he watched as Masters and Evers left the nurse where they had met
her, to run down the corridor to the door, that they pushed open to enter.
The nurse was near to tears and the woman keeping the
reception desk came to her and took her into an empty room, trying to comfort
her at the same time. Johnny bit his lower lip, watching the door which closed
on both Evers and Masters. Only at that moment did he see the word ‘Mortuary’
written on the door.
The young man took a look around; the two women had
disappeared from view and he could only hear nervous sobs coming from the
nearby room. His curiosity got the better of him; quickly, but quietly, he
approached the Mortuary door.
He felt for sure that Jasper would want to know what was
happening…
* * *
Scarlet woke up with a start and sat up abruptly, breathing
rapidly. He felt like he had awakened from a very bad dream that he couldn’t
remember, his heart beating fast, his brain pounding against his skull. He felt hot all over, and was famished and
thirsty, his tongue thick inside his mouth.
He looked around with haggard eyes, dazed and disoriented,
trying to clear his mind and concentrate on where he could be. He was lying on a bunk, made of a thin
mattress, in a dark, very small room, barely lit by a dim fluorescent light
recessed into a grey concrete ceiling, its plastic cover filthy with dirt and
dead bugs. The floor and three of the walls surrounding him were made of the
same, obviously solid concrete.
The remaining wall, that he was facing, was made out of
sturdy steel bars.
I’m in a cell, he realised, still somewhat confused. A prison cell… How…?
Suddenly, the memory of what had happened in the bayou,
outside of Joe’s cabin, came back to him. He closed his eyes in sadness at the
thought of the old man’s death, and felt a wave of anger for those who had
killed him – and also tried to kill the only witness of that heinous crime.
Instinctively, he reached for his shoulder, remembering the
bullet that had hit him. It was healed, under the new grey shirt he was now
wearing; there wasn’t even a single scar apparent. He looked down at himself;
the shirt replaced the one that had been covered with his own blood, when he
had been shot, and he was wearing it over a grey tee-shirt. He was still wearing the trousers that Joe
had given him, but he had no boots on; obviously someone had removed them
before putting him in this cell.
He heard the sound of a lock being turned and raised his
head to look beyond the iron bars,
where a door was open and a tall, black man, wearing a uniform, was
approaching. Scarlet didn’t move as the
man came up to the bars of his cell, stopped and simply looked at him.
Scarlet recognised the man as the one who had shot him in
the bayou.
The sheriff…
Masters, Joe had called him.
For a few seconds, the man stood, immobile and silent, as
he stared at Scarlet with something that looked like curiosity; it was becoming
uncomfortable, and Scarlet, almost despite himself, found that he couldn’t stay
still, and wiped his sweat-covered forehead in a nervous gesture. The sheriff tilted his head to one side.
“You’re awake already,” he said matter-of-factly. “Seems
like we moved you to this cell not a moment too soon, then.”
Scarlet swallowed hard and slowly got to his feet. “Sheriff Masters?” he asked, his voice
sounding hoarse. He cleared his
throat, and noticed the frown on the black man’s brow.
“How the hell do you know my name?”
Scarlet felt rather ill-at-ease under the sheriff’s very
intense stare. “Joe… told me,” he answered. “He told me he had called you, after he
found me.”
“So you had time to talk to him before you killed him?”
Scarlet frowned at the accusation. “I didn’t kill him…”
Masters scoffed.
“Right. You would say that. I found you with the murder weapon in your
hands. Your fingerprints are all over
it.”
Scarlet took a step forward. Masters raised a warning hand.
“Stay where you are, mister.”
The Englishman stopped instantly, and the sheriff sighed. “You have the right to remain silent…” he
started, and Scarlet nearly rolled his eyes upon hearing him. It sounded way too much like a badly written
line from a cop and gangster movie. He wondered how he could even remember
that; he didn’t even remember any such movie that clearly.
“Look, I know all the evidence is against me,” he said,
interrupting Masters in the middle of his homily. “But I can assure you – I didn’t kill Joe… Why would I have killed him?”
Masters shrugged.
“I don’t know – maybe because you didn’t want to go to prison for
poaching and he was stopping you from escaping before I arrived?”
“I am not a poacher,” Scarlet shot back.
“Who and what are you, then?”
“I…” Scarlet
stopped himself, realising that even at this moment, he wasn’t even close to
knowing who he was and what exactly he was doing in that bayou, where
Joe had found him. He searched his
mind, frowning as he did so, trying desperately to recall. A twinge of pain hit
him and he grunted, stopping instantly, as he knew far too well that further
effort would bring further pain.
As he returned his
attention to the sheriff, he noted that the latter’s eyes were still riveted on
him.
“I’m waiting, Mister.” Apparently, Masters didn’t seem to
have noticed his momentary malaise.
“I… don’t know,” Scarlet finally admitted. “I… don’t remember.”
Masters raised a brow.
“You don’t remember,” he repeated doubtfully. “How convenient.”
“I know it sounds ridiculous but…”
“Sounds ridiculous, all right…” Masters half-turned to take a step in the direction of the door,
plainly showing this way that he was about to leave. Scarlet shot to the bars, grabbing them, and called him back.
“Wait! You have to
hear me out!”
Masters returned his attention to him, his eyes
glaring. “I won’t listen to you until
you tell me who you are.”
“I… I can’t tell you that.
I can’t…” Scarlet felt
desperately frustrated. If there was a
moment when he would need to remember something as simple as his name, it was
surely now, but it kept eluding him, as hard as he tried. His head started
pounding anew.
Again, Masters seemed ready to leave, and suddenly, Scarlet
shouted after him: “O’Hara!”
That stopped the sheriff right in his tracks and he turned
back. “O’Hara?” he repeated. “That’s
your name?”
Scarlet nodded, a little hesitantly. Where the hell did
that name come from? he wondered.
He had no idea. His left hand
reached imperceptibly for the dog tags which he knew should be hanging from his
neck, where he had seen the name ‘Scarlet’ earlier.
He couldn’t find them.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
Scarlet watched as Masters reached for his shirt pocket,
and extracted something from it; he saw the man’s fingers holding the thin
chain, with the dog tags dangling from it. The sheriff raised the dog tags and
narrowed his eyes at them. “There’s
something like a serial number on them,” he said. “And a word… A name perhaps?
Scarlet?” Something like a sardonic
smirk appeared on his lips. “Scarlet
O’Hara? Are you saying that’s your
name, Mister?”
Scarlet hesitated. He felt, somehow, that it wouldn’t be
safe to answer, and so he kept silent, and wondered why Masters seemed to find
this name so unlikely. He watched as the sheriff approached to stand in front
of the bars, but still keeping at a safe distance from him.
“Mister O’Hara,” Masters continued, scoffing, and putting
the dog tags back into his pocket, “if that is your name – if you are not a
poacher, like Joe thought you were – what was your business in Devil’s Bayou?”
Scarlet opened his mouth to answer that he didn’t know, but
he stopped himself right away; he hesitated, not knowing how to respond to that
question, realising that he had to find a credible answer to give.
Masters grunted with impatience. “If you didn’t kill Old Joe Benson – who did, then?” he snapped.
“The boys who came to see him,” Scarlet answered
quickly. “One of them… Tall, blond… he
used Joe’s gun against him.”
“Jasper Holland?” the sheriff suggested. “Why would he have killed him?”
Scarlet shook his head.
“I don’t know… Joe said they wanted something from him… I don’t know what…”
“So Joe had time to confide in you? A stranger whom nobody knows and who he
found poaching in the bayou? That makes
perfect sense…”
“You don’t believe me…” Scarlet realised, noting the sarcasm
in the sheriff’s voice.
“I’ve got plenty of reasons not to believe you,” Masters
replied harshly enough. “Mainly – I
don’t see why I would take the word of a stranger who refuses to tell me what
his business in this area is over that of a local resident… whose father is a
very influential businessman, I might add.”
“I wish I could tell you, Sheriff…” Scarlet murmured.
“You said you can’t.
Why is that?”
“I… I don’t remember…”
“You said that already.
You know how preposterous that sounds?”
Scarlet swallowed hard.
He was very aware that it all seemed absurd. Or at the very least, not very credible. His shoulders sagged. “Nevertheless, it’s the truth. I don’t remember a thing. Not a single thing. Why I was in this area, who I am…”
Masters raised a sceptical brow. “You don’t remember who
you are? And that name you just gave
me? That… ridiculous name?”
Scarlet shrugged.
“It just popped into my mind. I
thought it might be my name?” He frowned. “Why is it so ridiculous to you?”
“You’re pretending not to know… Yeah, right,” the sheriff
muttered. “And you don’t remember
because… you suffered a shock or something?”
“I hurt my head…”
“You mean, when Jasper clubbed you with that gun? That’s what caused you to forget?” The
sheriff still sounded doubtful.
“No, no,” Scarlet protested desperately. “Joe said I fell
from a helicopter... I can barely remember even that. I know it must be true, but…”
Masters nodded. “He
told me the same when he called me about you.”
“So you see I’m telling the truth! The little I know is that I was lying in the
woods, in pain – and Joe found me. After that, I must have lost consciousness,
because then I woke up in his cabin; I had been hurt, and he looked after me.
My leg –” Scarlet stopped in the middle
of his sentence. How could he tell
Masters that he had broken his leg, when obviously there wasn’t anything wrong
with it now? Already, the
sheriff didn’t believe most of what he was telling him.
Seeing that his prisoner now seemed reluctant to continue,
Masters sighed deeply, with impatience. “So you hurt your head and you forgot
everything about yourself,” he said. “And you expect me to believe that.”
“I swear that’s the truth,” Scarlet answered bleakly. “I
know I don’t have any apparent injury…”
“That’s another thing, Mister O’Hara,” Masters swiftly
interrupted him. “You don’t have any apparent injury. But then, you just told me you fell from a helicopter – a fact
that was confirmed by Joe Benson himself. And also...” He took a step forward,
narrowing his eyes at his prisoner. “I shot you earlier. Put a bullet in your
shoulder. Here.” The sheriff
passed his left hand between the bars and poked at Scarlet’s shoulder at
approximately the place where he knew the man had been injured. Scarlet didn’t
move; the sheriff had his right hand resting on the butt of his gun, as an
obvious warning for him to stay still.
“Now explain to me,” the black man continued in a low
voice, “how is it that you don’t seem to have any injury from that now?”
“I…” Scarlet shook
his head, unable to answer.
“You don’t have a mark on your face from Jasper’s clubbing
either,” Masters pursued. “And I know
both of these injuries existed. I saw
them. But now they’re gone. How come?”
“Sheriff, I…”
“Can you explain to me what’s the deal with the X-ray pictures?”
“What X-ray pictures?” Scarlet asked with a frown,
genuinely confused by this new question.
“I don’t understand…”
“You wouldn’t now, would you? Well, I have yet another
strange question for you, then: how did you manage to appear dead and then seemingly
come back to life soon after?”
Now Scarlet’s brows rose skywards in obvious surprise.
“What!?” he exclaimed, almost scoffing at the apparent accusation. “I don’t understand what you…” He stopped and looked awkwardly at the
sheriff. “That’s impossible,” he said,
swallowing hard.
“That would seem to be obvious, wouldn’t it?” Masters’ cold remark sent a shiver down
Scarlet’s spine, and yet again, he found himself unable to reply. The sheriff
took a step back. “Well, Mister O’Hara,
it would seem you can’t give me any answers to my questions. It’s quite a shame, I must admit. I was rather curious to learn a little more
about all these strange… phenomena.”
“Sheriff, I don’t understand… Will you explain to me… What
about those X-ray pictures? Did you
find something wrong with me?” Scarlet was concerned now. He dejectedly shook
his head. “Maybe that might explain… why I can’t remember anything? Please, tell me –”
“I’m sorry, mister.
But I guess I already said more than I should have. I guess now that I’d better follow the
directives I received regarding a case such as yours.”
Masters turned on his heel and started walking towards the
door; it was obvious he intended to leave, but Scarlet found his last words far
too ominous for his taste and he couldn’t help but call for the sheriff’s
attention again: “What do you mean by
‘a case such as mine’? What directives
are you talking about?”
Masters had opened the door; he stopped in his tracks, at
the sound of his prisoner’s call, and
turned one last time to face him. “Why, I’ll be calling Spectrum, of
course,” he answered quietly enough.
Scarlet could see by his intense stare that he was hoping to see a reaction from him; he was sadly
disappointed. The prisoner could only stare back at him with a clueless
expression. The sheriff shook his head.
“You know what Spectrum is, do you?”
Scarlet frowned, trying to remember; his headache
increased, and he shook his head. “No…
I can’t say I do…”
“Well, if you don’t, maybe you’re on the level and you
don’t know what it’s all about, then.
But quite frankly, when it comes to your case in particular, it would
appear it’s out of my jurisdiction – even considering you might have killed Old
Joe. Which would be under my jurisdiction.”
“I did not kill him,” Scarlet insisted.
“Whatever. Considering the circumstances, however, it’s all
out of my hands now. We’ll see what Spectrum thinks of all this. And maybe,
they will be able to help you remember… assuming this amnesia of yours isn’t
some kind of trick.” The sheriff
stepped outside. “Don’t get too
comfortable. You won’t be staying here
very long.” And with that he closed the
door behind him and locked it, leaving his prisoner to ponder his situation.
Scarlet made another attempt to call him. “Sheriff!
Wait, you have to tell me… I
want to know… What does it all
mean? What the devil is this
Spectrum you’re talking about?”
If the sheriff did hear him, he didn’t return, and Scarlet
suddenly felt his mounting headache seemingly explode inside of his head, sending
a wave of pain that made his knees buckle underneath him. He moaned in pain, reaching for his head,
and went down into a crouching position, barely able to stand on his feet. He clasped his hands to his head, and that’s
when he felt something wet dripping from his nose, and running into his mouth
with a salty taste. He wiped it with
his hand and looked at his fingers.
They were covered with blood. His own blood.
“Good Lord,” he muttered under his breath, opening eyes
wide with perplexity and fear. “What
the hell is happening to me?”
It was with great difficulty that he stumbled, almost
crawled, to his bunk, the pain in his head almost impossible to fight, and his
body shaking, barely responding to him.
He fell onto the mattress, and felt darkness, mercifully,
engulf his burning mind and body.
* * *
When Leonard Masters turned around after locking the door,
he found himself facing young Jasper Holland, who seemed to have appeared
behind him out of nowhere; not expecting to see anyone there, the sheriff
nearly jumped in surprise, and just managed to stop himself from reacting too
violently.
“How come he’s alive?” the youth asked, his face a mask of
coldness.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Masters snapped
back, frowning.
“You asked for me,” Jasper answered.
That was true, Masters reflected. He had asked his deputy Mac to get the
youngster, before he left for Baton Rouge.
The sheriff however didn’t comment and passed the young man, grabbing
his arm and taking him along with him. “I mean, you shouldn’t be here, next
to the cells,” he said, grumbling. “You are not allowed to come near the
prisoners.”
“What ‘prisoners’?
You only have one!”
“Don’t play smart with me, boy. You know what I mean!”
“You said he was dead,” Jasper remarked.
They had reached Masters’ office, and the latter threw his
key onto his desk, before taking his seat, in front of a cup of coffee that he
had poured himself earlier. He looked up at the young man who was glaring at
him, and shrugged. “Obviously, I made a mistake.”
“Bullshit,” Jasper spat.
“Be polite with me, boy,” Masters quickly warned before
Jasper could say another word. “I’m
this close to throwing you in there too, you hear? You are fortunate that this guy isn’t dead. Or I would have arrested you for murder.”
“I was only defending myself,” Jasper protested. “We told you already… and you saw it too! That guy is dangerous! He killed Old Joe.”
“So you keep telling me,” Masters said, leaning back on his
seat and putting his feet up onto the corner of his desk. He nodded towards the open door, in the
general direction of the cells. “He said
you’re the one who killed Joe.”
Jasper scoffed derisively.
“Don’t tell me you believe him!”
“Should I believe him?”
Masters asked with a raised brow.
“Look, Sheriff, I don’t like that kind of accusation! And I
don’t have to accept it! I’m no killer,
not like that stinking poacher!”
Masters examined the young man closely; there was no
indication in his general disposition that would tell him that he could be guilty
of any crime. But then, the sheriff
didn’t count on him being easy to find out if by any chance he was
guilty.
“He says he ain’t a
poacher,” Masters pursued evenly. He picked up his cup of coffee, and grimaced
as he tasted it; the beverage had grown cold, some time ago.
“Well, obviously he’s lying,” Jasper noted. “What else
could he have been doing in the bayou?
Joe said he was a poacher, didn’t he?
So maybe Joe saw it all… and that would be the reason why that guy
killed him. That makes sense! And… didn’t that guy say he didn’t remember a
thing? So how could he remember he ain’t a poacher?”
“That’s assuming he’s telling the truth about his amnesia,”
Masters replied. He put his feet down
and straightened up in his seat, glaring up at the young man facing him. “Say, how
long were you standing in front of that door?” he asked suspiciously. “What
else did you hear?”
“More than enough to know this guy ain’t clean,
Sheriff. That whole business about him…
It smells rotten. Really rotten.”
Jasper narrowed his eyes at the sheriff.
“What does Spectrum have to do with him, anyway?”
“That’s not for you to know,” Masters replied harshly, as
much as for the youth’s benefit as to hide the fact that he himself had not a
clue about that specific question.
“Oh, then, maybe I’ll be able to help you out here,
Sheriff…” Jasper said with a faint smile.
“You, helping me out?”
“Of course. Y’see, I know a thing or two about Spectrum…”
Masters rolled his eyes.
“I wonder what you could possibly know, boy…”
“Well, for starters, I know this: Spectrum fights terrorists, right?”
“It’s part of their jurisdiction,” Masters said, and then
cursed himself, as he realised he should probably not even have commented on
that subject… and shouldn’t even listen
to whatever the boy might have to say.
“You know these new guys they’ve been fighting… with that
weird name… the Mysterons – you heard of ‘em, right?”
“Yeah… I heard the name…”
“You know, there’s crazy rumours about them… It’s all over Worldnet, I read about it… The
World Government, they’re trying to hide the whole thing, but when you know
where to look, you can learn the truth.
These Mysterons, y’see, they’re not even from this Earth. They would be from Mars, and… you know, it’s
said they’re able to wake up the dead…”
At the first mention of ‘Mars’, Masters, who was about to
take another gulp of his coffee, nearly choked himself with it and put his cup
down onto his desk, rather roughly. “Now, stop talking nonsense!” he snapped angrily, looking up at Jasper
again. “What are you driving at,
exactly? That guy in there would be a zombie, or an alien from another
planet? He ain’t got antennas or green
skin, you know!”
“But he was dead and he came back… Johnny saw it all at the clinic...”
Masters jumped to his feet. “Now I should be worried!
Johnny ain’t nothing but a tattletale liar! He doesn’t know what he saw, he wasn’t there!”
“Yes, he was,” Jasper shot back. “He was in the waiting room for his arm, and he saw you running
to the mortuary when…”
“So that makes him a first line witness, then?” Masters
pointed a warning finger at Jasper. “Now you hear me, Jasper Holland:
you will stop this crazy talking about Mysterons and aliens, and keep quiet
about all this, and this stranger in my cell coming back from the dead. If I hear that you, or any of your
stupid friends say anything about this to anyone in this town, I’ll have
you all arrested for disturbing the peace!”
“You ain’t gonna hide the truth forever, Sheriff,” Jasper
remarked. “If any of this was as crazy as you say, why would Spectrum come for
him? You see it all makes sense.”
“Whatever business Spectrum might have with this guy
concerns only Spectrum,” the sheriff replied harshly.
“Will they take that freak away from here?”
“He’s not a freak,” Masters warned. “And how the hell should I know that? If
they do, I will have nothing to say, even if this man is suspected of murdering
Joe Benson. Spectrum business takes all precedence over any police business.
Even, and especially, a murder in a small locality like ours. I might not like
it, but I have no choice but to accept that fact – and co-operate.”
“Yeah, Spectrum deals with worldwide security,” Jasper
reasoned. “They would have the power to do whatever they want, without anyone
asking questions. So you see the alien
theory ain’t that crazy… The Government
wouldn’t want us to know. Spectrum would make sure of that.”
“Of course…”
Masters said, rolling his eyes anew. “That old conspiracy theory
again… I’m warning you for the last
time, Jasper: you keep quiet about all
this, and you don’t go spreading crazy rumours around… Or else!” His eyes flashed. “I’m serious, you’re this close to getting yourself
arrested. I don’t care who your old man is, you’d better keep your nose clean.
I’m keeping my eyes on you, kid… and on your little gang of punks.”
“All right, Sheriff.
We’ll keep quiet… Don’t want no
trouble with the law.”
Masters scoffed, as he reached for his phone. “Well, that
would be a first… Now get the hell out
of here, right away. I’ve got an
important phone call to make.”
“Sure, Sheriff, whatever you say.” Jasper sighed as he moved towards the exit.
“And I don’t want to see your face around here, if I don’t
call for you!” Masters called after him.
He watched the young man shrug his shoulders as he
disappeared from his view, and heard his footsteps decreasing in the
distance. A few seconds later, he heard
the main door being open and closed.
Masters grunted with irritation, and pensively put the phone down; he was wondering, very seriously, if the
stranger in the cell had not told him the truth about what had happened in the
bayou. Thinking about it, it was quite probable that Jasper had killed Old Joe.
Masters knew there had been some trouble between the two of them, but he couldn’t
really figure out exactly what it could be, and had no idea if it would have
been sufficient to lead to murder.
The stranger was still the most likely suspect. For
starters, he seemed to have a motive, unlike Jasper; and all the evidence
pointed to him as Joe’s murderer. Moreover, the murder weapon was in his hands
when he was found, and he was threatening Jasper and his gang – who had gladly
testified against him. Of course, if Jasper was the real killer, and if his
buddies were witnesses, or even accomplices, of that act, it was quite possible
that they would do their very best to exonerate their friend – even ganging up
on an innocent man.
But exactly how innocent is that stranger? Masters wondered. Joe said he was a poacher, but he could have been wrong.
Obviously there was more to this man than met the eye. The way he had seemingly
come back from the dead was staggering; of course, the sheriff had heard of
so-called ‘Yoga masters’, or other such meditation practices, who had so much
control over their own body that they were able to slow down their metabolism
to a point where they would seemingly stop breathing and that their
heart would appear to have stopped beating. Masters would have readily accepted
that the stranger could have been an adept of this strange technique – if he
had not been witness of those other strange happenings: the surprisingly rapid
way he had healed from his wounds and the X-ray phenomenon.
No, there was obviously something else; something that made
this man O’Hara – if it was his name, and Masters doubted that very much! –
someone of interest to Spectrum.
Someone who was to be considered so dangerous that he was not to be
approached, and Spectrum had to be contacted right away, for them to deal with
him personally. But there it was: the
man was in Masters’ cell, and didn’t seem at all that dangerous. If anything,
he looked quite confused by his situation; which made the sheriff even more
uncomfortable. He didn’t want to believe Jasper’s ‘speculations’ – it all
sounded way too absurd to consider. But even without taking this into account,
Masters had to admit that this was all very unusual; and he didn’t like it.
I’ll be losing a murder suspect, he thought grimly. Or, at the very least, a witness to a murder. He didn’t expect Spectrum to leave the
man to him until the investigation of Joe’s death was through. Unfortunately, like he had said to Jasper, Spectrum’s business took utmost
priority, and a little business like a simple murder in a small town wouldn’t
convince them to let the local Law follow its own course.
Oh well… Maybe
they’ll be helpful in discovering what happened, then, Masters reflected, as he picked up the phone
once again. I can always ask them if
they need what little expertise I could offer them.
Yeah… I wish!
* * *
“So, Jasper, what’s the news?”
Jasper Holland found his friends – all those who had been
with him when he had visited and killed Joe Benson – waiting for him at Sam’s Diner, where they had agreed to meet
after Johnny came back from the clinic with his stunning news. As Jasper had been asked by the deputy
sheriff to come see Sheriff Masters, they all were a little nervous to learn
what it was all about.
The diner was almost empty, except for Sam himself at the
counter and a lone couple near the door. The gang was reunited at the far end
of the diner, and they were watching Jasper approach, expectantly. Curiously,
their leader didn’t look that worried when he joined them at their table; he
took the Coke bottle resting in Scarecrow’s hand and before the latter could even protest, took a swig from it before
addressing a nod to Johnny. “You were right – the guy’s alive.”
Scarecrow gasped. “How could that be? He was dead when the
sheriff took him! We all saw it!”
“I know,” Jasper grumbled.
“I don’t know how he did it… Guy
must be a freak…”
“Sure must be!” Jamie concurred. “Nobody can come back from
the dead like that!”
“You should have been there at the clinic…” Johnny added.
“Everybody was freaking out! I nearly did myself… I had to come and tell you all…”
“Keep it down,” Jasper hissed between his teeth. “The
sheriff just told me not to talk about any of this and not to spread any kind
of crazy rumours around… Or we’ll all
be thrown in the jail.”
“Is that why the sheriff asked for you?” Dallas Fenmore,
the last member of the gang, asked.
Jasper nodded again, grimly. “Yeah. He wanted to warn me.
Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not that eager to go to jail. Even for one night. So we have to keep it
quiet.” He looked around, making sure no-one was paying any attention to
them. Fortunately for them, it wasn’t
the case.
“Do you think Masters suspects… something?” Johnny asked
him. That was the question that was in all their minds and was making them so
very nervous. Jasper shook his head.
“He might suspect things are not as clear as we told him,”
he said. “The guy’s been telling him
that he didn’t kill Joe and that it was
me who did it.”
“Oh no…”
“Calm down, Jamie – obviously, Masters didn’t believe
him: he hasn’t arrested me so far, as
you can see. He must still think the stranger is the killer – or the most
likely candidate for that role, anyway.”
He chuckled. “Maybe he’s afraid
of what my dad would do, if ever he was
wrong about his suspicions too…
Elections are near, and he wouldn’t want to lose ‘em…”
“How long before he changes his mind?” Johnny asked in grim
concern. “Ya know, if the stranger starts to get convincing…”
“I don’t know about that,” Jasper said. “And I ain’t sure
if I want to take that chance. We have
to do something.”
“What can we do?”
“I don’t know yet, Dallas…
But this I know: if we do something, we have to do it fast. Y’see,
Spectrum is coming over to see that guy.”
Jamie, who was drinking from his bottle of Coke, nearly
choked on hearing this, and put his bottle down noisily. “Spectrum?!” he gasped in complete surprise. “What did they have to do with anything?!”
“Like I said earlier,” Jasper grumbled, “the guy’s a
freak. Nobody could revive the way he
did… Y’see, I’m thinking about that stuff I read on Worldnet… about these Mysteron aliens…”
“You’re serious?” Scarecrow said with a doubting frown.
“You believe all that stuff they say? There ain’t no proof, you know…”
“I’m liable to believe it, when I think ‘bout what Johnny
witnessed,” Jasper replied, scowling. “And what about what we all saw.
There can’t be no other explanation. This guy was dead, pure and simple. No way a normal human being can return from
death, you know that as well as I do. And now Spectrum is coming… He’s gotta be an alien terrorist.”
“I’ll buy that,” Johnny said with an approving nod. The
others kept themselves from rolling their eyes. Johnny would approve of anything Jasper would say, just to stay
in his good graces. “I always thought
the Government was hiding the truth from us about those Mysteron guys. Guess that’s right, then…”
“Yeah, okay,” Scarecrow sighed. “So let’s say you’re right.
Freak or not, what will we do if someone starts believing what this guy
says? We’ll be in trouble, big time.”
“Maybe Spectrum will take this freak away?” Johnny
suggested. “Then all our problems will
be over.”
“You wanna take that chance?” Jasper grumbled. “I would
prefer not to, y’know. They take that freak away, they interrogate him… and
they might learn the truth about what happened. They believe him, and then they
make a call to Masters… and then we are all in deep trouble, and it’ll be too
late to do anything about it.”
“Then what can we do now?” Dallas asked in turn.
Jasper shrugged.
“We’ll think of something,” he said.
“In the meantime, let’s keep an eye on the sheriff’s office. If an opportunity presents itself, we gotta
grab it. And not hesitate to do
whatever’s necessary to keep this guy from babbling too much.” He took another gulp from his bottle, and
then his eyes became very cold. “And if
anyone gets in the way, whoever he might be,
even the sheriff or those Spectrum guys, they gotta get the same. There ain’t nobody gonna get in our way now…
You have my word on that, boys…”
* * *
Ever so slowly, Max Laborteaux put the call he had just
received on hold, a thoughtful expression on his face.
The phone call was from a little town called Les
Arbrisseaux, set inside the limits of Devil’s Bayou. The sheriff of the
place, Leonard Masters, the only authority
in the area, had contacted him to inform him that a man found in the swamp,
possibly a poacher, and the prime
suspect in a murder case, had apparently revived from death in the local clinic
– and that X-ray scans of his body had shown a positive image. In which
case the sheriff had followed standard procedures when faced with these strange
occurrences and had reported them to the nearest Spectrum office.
In this case, the New Orleans office.
A faint smile spread on Laborteaux’s thin lips, as he recalled
the sheriff’s report: the man seemed to
suffer from amnesia, not even recalling his own name, and had only given the
name O’Hara when he had been arrested.
However, he was wearing dog tags with a serial number and a different
name engraved on them.
Scarlet.
And, to boot, an amnesiac Scarlet.
“O’Hara indeed,” Laborteaux muttered, chuckling.
There was some humour in this situation, he reflected;
their quarry was in a prison cell, in Les Arbrisseaux, and only he, an
agent of the Mysterons working inside a Spectrum office, knew about
this.
Sheriff Masters had assured him of his full co-operation,
and that he would keep the prisoner in custody, until Spectrum came for him.
This is far too easy…
But an opportunity like this will not repeat itself.
Laborteaux chuckled anew, just before he took the call
back, and regained his serious demeanour. “Sheriff Masters,” he said to his
caller, in a very official voice, “I just informed base, and received their
instructions. Yes, do keep hold of your Mister O’Hara for us.” His smile widened into an evil, satisfied
grin. “I’ll be contacting a Spectrum
unit presently in your area right away. You will hand your prisoner over to
them.” He nodded slowly, and his
thoughts flew to the Mysteronised WAAF soldiers, under the command of Major
Montgomery. “I’ll be contacting you in
a short while with further instructions of how they will take delivery of
him. Please, be careful… This man is to be considered very
dangerous. And again, Sheriff… Thank you so much for your help. It is much appreciated.”
He hung up the
phone, very slowly, his smile broadening even more as he sat back onto
his chair.
“The Mysterons certainly appreciate it,” he added to
himself with dry humour.
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