"Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?"
Look Homeward, Angel
x x x
"Uh-hello," Jack said groggily. He craned his neck to see the clock. It was one in the morning. He sat up in bed, and yawned. The operator replied, asking if he would accept a collect call from John. He told her yes, of course.
"Jack?" Jack wondered why it was that he could recognize John Doe's voice when he called on the phone, but when he was riding with the man Jack had missed the boat. John had chattered like a god-damned monkey about his non-existent wife, practically begging Jack to do a story on his career as a taxi driver.
"John. Good one you pulled on me in the taxi. It's late and I haven't heard from you since we discussed Thomas Wolfe. Are you in trouble?"
"Yes. No. I'm not hurt, but just... can we talk? Just talk. It's not been a good day and I keep thinking... I need a distraction, all right? You said... call. No. No, this was a mistake. I shouldn't have disturbed you, I'm sorry. Sorry, Jack. I'm going to ha-"
Jack interrupted. "Don't hang up. John, don't you dare hang up. You're rattled. Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"
"I should hang up." John sounded bleak. Jack scrambled to offer him something, anything to keep him on the line.
"Or do you just want to talk about something safe. Ah, favorite movies, music? Whatever you need."
"Okay."
John had picked movies, favorite movies when they were kids, and had talked about a western, Bad Day at Black Rock that he'd been allowed to see at a theater for his twelfth birthday. Jack would have to double check about the movie release date, but he thought that made John Doe about thirty-seven years old. Jack was older by a number of years, in his mid-forties. He'd served in Korea, in the Air Force. John, he might have been in Vietnam. Maybe that was where he'd learned to be a medic.
Jack talked about watching It's a Wonderful Life as one of his Christmas presents when it came out in 1946. He admitted that he still watched it every year, feeling a little embarrassed that John might find that corny, since it didn't exactly fit his hard-boiled reporter image. John, though, said it was one of his favorite movies, too, and they discussed the characters. John's voice had regained his usual calmness when the conversation had run down.
John fell silent, and Jack waited. One thing he'd learned from interviewing people was the power of a quiet interval. Most people found it uncomfortable to let the silence continue for too long, and sometimes spilled their secrets because of it.
John sighed finally. "I feel stupid. I made an error in judgment and it almost got me killed. And do you know why?"
"I'm listening."
"Because I found a man attractive and accepted his offer to fly me in his plane to his personal island for the night. We met while I was waiting for my flight, which ended up canceled, and his plane was having some work done on the engine. We played chess for hours, and, oh, I don't know, Jack. I, uh, I've decided that if I'm attracted to a man and he makes a pass, well, why not?"
"So you just wanted to have some fun with this guy?" Jack asked.
"Let's call it what I thought it was. A one night stand."
"How about we call it taking some comfort when you can. John, I'm not going to judge you. I hope you know that."
"Um, thanks. It's not what I want, but nothing lasts for me anyway, not being with a woman, and I can't see it being any different with a man." John sounded so dispirited. Tired.
"So you flew out to an island. Were you alone with him?"
"Yes. He said he had a couple who came out once a week to clean, but it was just the two of us. He fixed a wonderful meal, we drank wine. He told stories about being a hunter. I was a little taken aback by all the animal heads he had mounted, but I still found him attractive. He said he'd turned the island into a game preserve for hunting. We started to play more chess, and I got dizzy and passed out. I woke up in the morning, in the bottom of a hole."
"You what? Jesus." Jack felt nauseous.
"That hole was going to be my grave. He even had a sign for it, with my name on it He'd drugged the wine, put me there, and left a tape recorded message that he was going to hunt me down and kill me."
"Obviously, he didn't. You got away? Called the police?"
"He's dead, Jack. I buried him there, but the couple that caretake the place will find his grave. I left a note in the house explaining that he was a serial killer, and where the graves of his other victims could be found."
"It was self-defense, John. The police won't charge you."
"I didn't kill him. From examining him he'd accidentally scratched himself with his hunting bow, and the tips of the arrows were poisoned. He fell from a cliff into the water. He'd cornered me on that cliff and the way forward was impassable. It was too steep to climb down."
"God, John."
"He started whipping me with this bullwhip he carried with him and I... changed. He had wanted me to do it so he could kill the creature and I wouldn't. Couldn't. It's not something I can do on command. He'd figured out that pain can trigger the metamorphosis. My clothes were wet, too, when I came back to myself, so I think the creature jumped into the water and carried him out."
"The bastard whipped you? Jesus, are you okay now?" Jack was picturing David's back bloody with whip marks.
"Changing took care of my injuries. I was fine. I got out of there, rowed a boat for hours and hours until a motor boat towed me to the mainland. I hitchhiked, got a couple of hundred miles away, sprung for a motel room – I'd cashed in my plane ticket before I left with him. And then a little while ago, I just... started getting shaky. I kept thinking about how I'd had to run and run and run and try to outwit him and I don't even know why I called you because really, you want the same thing. You want to capture me, and you say that you won't kill me, but if I'm turned over to the government, they're not going to see me as being human, they'll probably think the way this hunter did, that I'm some kind of animal, they'll experiment on me and being treated that way, that would be worse than death for me." John was talking too fast; he'd lost the calmness that he'd regained.
"John, stop talking. Take some deep breaths. You're in some kind of shock. I've seen it before when I've interviewed people who had something really bad happen to them. Lie down on your bed, put your feet up, cover up with blankets and stay warm." He heard John take a deep breath and then let it slowly out. A little time passed and he heard John moving on the bed.
Finally, John said, "Jack?"
"Are you better now?"
"Yes. It's funny. I've seen the effects of trauma before, both immediate and delayed reactions, but I didn't recognize it in myself. This isn't like me; I can't tell you how, because I'll give too much away, but I've seen people dying, hurt, in the middle of hell, and I usually don't-"
"Flip out? But this time you weren't being a medic, were you?"
"I never said I was a medic."
"John, after the way you treated my leg injury, I know you were either a medic or a doctor."
John was silent, so Jack figured he was right. But now wasn't the time to question John about his background.
Jack said, "This time you were the one who was being hurt. John, you were drugged, and drugged for a lot of hours, right?"
"Yes, through the evening and all through the night and part of the morning."
"Did you notice anything not right when you woke up?"
"Besides being in my intended grave?"
"I mean, your body. Did you hurt anywhere, have any marks, bruises, bites, have a sore throat? Anything at all?"
John's voice became quieter. "I don't think he penetrated me. But he came on my belly. He undid my shirt, had his fun, and buttoned me back up. I could tell when I woke up."
"Ah, John, I'm sorry. Look, give me your number and I'll call you back. We can talk till you think you can go to sleep, okay?"
"Okay." John gave him the number and Jack dialed it.
"Hello?" John sounded tentative, lost, and Jack wished he was there to hug him.
"It's Jack. You want to talk about what happened?"
"No. Not really. I just keep thinking that I should have had more sense than to go with a stranger to an isolated place."
"Why did you go?"
"I thought he wanted to go to bed with me, remember?"
"Makes sense. A lot more than what he really wanted with you."
"It never crossed my mind that he wanted to hunt me. But I don't want to think about it anymore. Tell me about Jack McGee, about how you grew up, your first kiss, things like that."
"First kiss with a girl or first kiss with a boy?"
"Both, I guess."
"Well, first kiss with a girl, Mary Jane Spritzer, was when I was eleven. First kiss with a boy, Douglas Smith, we were both twelve. I figured out when I was a teenager that I liked boys a little more than I liked girls, but I liked girls well enough. It was certainly easier to stick with girls. They don't want to stick with me, though. Men, that's done quietly. Very quietly. I'm not out of the closet."
He talked about his relationships, growing up, going to college after he'd done his two year hitch in the Air Force, but he avoided talking about how he'd ended up at the National Register, stuck with a tabloid. That would be story for a different day. John listened, asked an occasional question. When Jack had talked for an hour, John thanked him and said he thought he could sleep now.
"Jack, I never answered your question."
"What question was that?" He couldn't think of what John meant.
"You were my first, Jack. I've thought about it since I was a boy, but you were the first man I touched, or let touch me."
"Well, I hope someday we can do it again. I like you very much, John Doe. Now this other guy, I haven't really been introduced to him yet."
John said softly, "I know. I wish... well, I wish a lot of things. Good night, Jack."
"Be careful, John."
John disconnected and Jack hung up the phone. He got up, went to the bathroom, drank a glass of water.
Tomorrow, he'd start trying to find where that island was located. John had said that it was a game preserve, and it was serviced by a plane. He was a reporter and this was a story that would sell papers. He wouldn't mention John, though. Nobody had seen John transform into the Hulk, so there were no witnesses. Well, not any that were still alive. Bastard got what was coming to him. The police would want to find John, of course, but it sounded like there was plenty of evidence in the house and in that graveyard to convince the cops that it was a serial killer who'd died from a hunting accident, and not a harmless eccentric.
x x x
"Jack, you ass! Jack shrugged his shoulders and attempted to walk past Mark, but his editor wasn't going to let him off the hook so easily. He grabbed him by the shoulders and walked him into his office, made him sit down in a chair in front of his desk.
"What are you even doing here? It was bad enough when you left against medical advice from the hospital to fly home from San Francisco, but you could at least take a few more days at your apartment. You were shot, for crying out loud." Mark huffed out an annoyed breath, and Jack just shrugged his shoulders again.
"I stayed at the County for two days, Mark. Sure, it hurt like hell when that kid shot me, but he didn't hit anything important, like my spleen or liver. And I spent two more days being bored staying in bed at home. I'm not saying I'm ready to, oh, wrestle the Hulk or anything, but I can at least work on a few leads."
"Didn't hit anything important.' he says. Jack..." Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. "Did you run my story on the boy who was killed accidentally by his friend? The one who everybody thought had been killed by the Hulk?"
"Yes, yes, it ran days ago. Got a pretty good response, too. Tragic, really. You sure can make 'em reach for the hankies when you want to, Jack."
"Thank you."
"Now get out of my office, and for God's sake at least stay off your feet, and go home at a decent hour, understand?"
"Sure, Mark. You know me, I'll be fine."
"I do know you, and your definition of fine isn't in Websters. Go on, and try not to bleed on the carpet."
Jack lifted himself up from the chair carefully and gave a lopsided smile to his friend, who had fond exasperation written all over his face.
Jack walked slowly to his office and settled into his chair gingerly. He had some new notes to make. John had called him while Jack was still at San Francisco General, concerned about Jack's injury. He said he was okay, but Jack knew he'd been shot by that kid, too, when he'd distracted the punk from shooting Jack again.
Jack had checked to see if a white man between the ages of thirty-five to thirty-eight, slender, a little below average height with dark brown wavy hair had been brought in with a gunshot wound. He hadn't. Jack didn't know if John was hiding somewhere, nursing his wounds or if somehow the Hulk had healed him. The Hulk hadn't been slowed down by John's gunshot wound, that was for sure.
He went through his messages and spent the next several hours on the phone and digging through his files. Mark wouldn't give him a new assignment yet, so he might as well spend the time going back over his Hulk files again, gleaning any new insights from the copious material.
x x x
Deciding that maybe it hadn't been the smartest move on his part to come into the office, Jack dry swallowed a couple of aspirin, before reaching for another page of notes. A half hour later, alerted by the sound of someone softly knocking on his open door, Jack looked up from the file he'd been scanning.
Annie, the woman from San Francisco who had promised to turn John's whereabouts over to him was standing there. She'd reneged on the deal, refused to tell him where John could be found. She was beautiful, auburn hair, big brown eyes. She could have posed in a medieval painting as the Madonna, with her clear skin and oval face.
"Well, hello."
"Hello, Mr. McGee."
"Change your mind about John Doe? That ten thousand dollars can still be yours, if your information leads us to him and he's turned over to the authorities."
"No, Mr. McGee. I'm not here to ask for thirty pieces of silver again. But I wanted to talk to you."
"You came all the way from San Francisco just to have a chat with me? I'm flattered, Ms. Caplan. Have a seat."
She complied, her brown eyes solemn. John knew she was worried. Besides being able to tell when people were hiding the truth from him, he was pretty good at reading expressions.
"I'm making a detour, but I wanted to speak to you before getting back on a bus to New York."
"And not on the phone? Well, what can I do for you?"
"I don't think we should talk in your office. What I have to discuss is very... private."
"You're not going to drag me out on another wild goose chase, are you? Really, what could you possibly want to tell me that can't be said here?"
She glanced at the open door and then picked up a picture of the Hulk that Jack had leaned against his coffee cup. It had been taken by some amateur. Jack had paid fifty bucks for it, because the guy had caught the Hulk looking puzzled, straight at the camera. John had probably been trying to figure out what it was. When John turned into the Hulk, he wasn't exactly stupid, but his brain didn't seem to work the same as a regular person. Jack had never heard him speak a word, just make roars and sounds.
Jack had wanted that photo because it was one of the few in which John wasn't looking ferocious and angry when he was the creature.
"He really is your John Doe when he's like this. I touched him and I could sense Da- John there, unable to break free, but there. Protected. The Hulk protects John."
"I know."
"Mr. McGee, I learn things about people when I touch them. It's a gift, although at times it's felt much more like a curse. Do you really want me to talk about what happened on that mountain between you and John here, where anybody could overhear us?"
Jack wasn't necessarily buying that she was a psychic, but if John had told her about them, it didn't matter. She was right; this wasn't something he wanted to discuss at the Register.
"I know a restaurant that has some very private booths, Ms. Caplan. How about some lunch?"
He was a sucker for anything that involved John and the Hulk, even if it meant talking to a looney that thought she was psychic. And he'd better get her out of here before she said something about her mysterious powers in front of the other staff and he was forced to write a story on her supposed talents.
She was traveling on a bus. Nobody did that unless their funds were low. He'd pay for her meal, hear what she had to say, and send her on her way.
x x x
"So what did John tell you about our wilderness vacation?" Jack buttered a roll and Ms. Caplan laid her fork down on her plate. They now had this section of the restaurant to themselves, as the table of people next to them had just left.
"He didn't tell me anything. I was hugging him goodbye and the images came, of you, and him."
"Images?"
"I won't get specific, but you were lovers. John was cold and hungry, desperate and scared, but he really liked you and being close like that helped."
"John wasn't scared."
"He was, Mr. McGee. He was scared for you; he was terrified that he'd never regain his memories. He just didn't let you see."
"Okay. I can believe that."
"I don't want you to think that I disapprove of you and him being lovers, because I don't, Mr. McGee." She sipped at her iced tea, watching him closely.
"I'm relieved to know that." He really should tone down the sarcasm, Jack thought.
"That's not why I came here. It's what I saw in the future that concerns me."
Jack eyed her. She hadn't said anything so far that John couldn't have told her.
"You're skeptical. I understand, but Mr. McGee, didn't you wonder why John and I came to that fighting ring just in time to call the cops and stop that boy from finishing killing you?"
"It's crossed my mind." Jack pushed his plate to the side.
"I saw what would happen when we touched hands at the church door, after that other boy's funeral. I tried to warn you, but I knew you wouldn't listen."
She leaned closer to him, her pretty face intent. "And I had a vision of John, too, when he left the church after you came in the door. We touched and I saw that he was preparing to kill himself, Mr. McGee. He was writing a goodbye note to me, and he was going to throw himself off my balcony. I ran home terrified that I would be too late. I almost was. "
"Why would he do that?" Jack felt his heart start to pound.
"John thought he had killed that boy and the guilt was overwhelming. Do you know what got him to climb down from that railing? You did. He didn't want you to die."
Jack felt pinned by her gaze, thoughts of John - ethical, sensitive John - jumping off a building tormenting him. He didn't want John to die. And apparently, because this made the third time John had saved his life, John didn't want to see him dead, either.
"Mr. McGee, what I see of the past, the future, is just glimpses, easily misunderstood. But I am sure that your path and John's will cross again soon; you'll trap him and he'll beg you to let him go."
"I will?" he said, still fighting to keep the skepticism out of his voice. She was a kook, but, well. What if she was legit?
"Yes. I didn't tell him about what I saw because after that I saw multiple futures for John. I don't believe that his actions can change his future. But in every path he chooses, you are there, Mr. McGee, sometimes as his foe, sometimes as his friend. Except for one, and in that one John dies an early death, the Hulk destroyed by a fall from an airplane."
"O-kay."
She looked at him earnestly. "In some futures, you are responsible for his capture and imprisonment by the government. In others you let him go and you never meet again. And in a few, you make a decision to save him and you become lovers again."
"Oh, now, all right, let me get this straight. My actions send John into different futures, depending on what I do. Sure."
"I don't expect you to believe me today. I hope that you'll remember this conversation in the future, though, when you have to make a decision about John."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to ask to read my future, look at my lifelines, peer into my eyes, that sort of thing?"
"I'm not sure I want to, knowing what I saw about John." She gazed at him solemnly. If she was faking this, then she was really good at looking like she believed her own schtick.
"Just as well. I may write for a rag that lives to exploit people about all this hoo-doo stuff, but that doesn't mean I believe in it."
They finished their meal quickly and Jack tucked a couple of dollar bills under his plate. They stopped outside the restaurant, and she said, "You don't know McGee... that's what John said about you. The rest of the sentence was left unsaid, but I understood it anyway. 'You don't know McGee like I do. There was a fond note in his voice when John said that. Please, Mr. McGee, make the right choice for John."
"You know, I still don't understand why you came here in person. You could have told me all of this over the phone."
"That's true. But I couldn't do this over the phone." She reached out and clasped his bare hand. He didn't try to free himself. Let her do her hocus-pocus act. He wasn't buying any of it.
Her eyes grew wide during the long moment she was touching him, and then she let him go.
"Finished?" he asked sarcastically. She stepped closer to him and rose up and kissed him on the cheek.
"Yes. Thank you." She smiled at him, and he raised his eyebrows.
"Thank you? For what?"
"Don't forget to pack your swim trunks. Goodbye, Mr. McGee." She turned and started walking quickly down the street.
He yelled after her, "Thank you for what?"
She didn't stop. He debated chasing her down, and then thought twice about that. His aching side wasn't up to a new wild goose chase, and he didn't believe in psychic abilities anyway. She had just acted that way to leave him guessing.
He turned and walked slowly back to the office, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He thought, if he had enough time, he could put together the clues about John's identity together and come up with a name. Once Mark started dumping stories on his desk, though, he'd be hard pressed to find the time. So he would work wisely till then. One thing he'd gotten out of this little encounter with John's fortuneteller friend, she'd started to say his name and it sounded like it might have been David.
x x x
"Aye, yes." The skipper of the boat that had taken John out to the private estate on one of the nearby islands scratched his head and then replaced his dirty cap before waving Jack on board. "Told you yesterday that David Beldon works for Ms. Powell, and the only way a fella like you would be allowed to step foot on that island was if you had a party invitation."
Jack just waved his wallet at the old codger.
The old gent smirked at Jack. "Good thing you were able to get one. Now, have you got what you need, Mr. McGee? Water's cold this time of year."
"Yes, I've got a wet suit, my costume, and... other supplies. Here's your money for running me out there." He handed a hundred dollars to the man, who counted each twenty slowly before shoving it in a pocket.
"Just remember our deal. You don't mention me." The skipper waved towards a seat in the middle of the boat, and Jack dropped his duffel bag next to it.
The skipper looked slyly at him. "I've thought a little more on your man, since we talked yesterday. Asked around a bit. Could be that I'm getting thirsty again."
Jack sighed and hoped his expense account wouldn't be questioned. Lord, the bribes he'd had to pay to this shark. The old geezer could smell blood in the water as well as any great white. He knew he could squeeze a little more cash out of Jack.
x x x
The lanky skipper began flipping switches on his motor boat, and the engine started idling. Jack watched him pat the pocket where Jack's fifty dollars had ended up, another bribe for more information on John Doe. Jack had almost caught John yesterday, spotting him when Jack had stopped to have lunch at a picturesque village on his way to the airport from doing a feature on a serial killer several towns down the coast.
He'd been thinking about John, about John's own close call with a deranged killer. The police were still investigating the death of the island owner, and the graves they'd found there. John was wanted for questioning, but the autopsy had shown that the man had died from the same poison that had been found on his arrows. John wasn't a suspect; the police accepted that he'd been another victim. A very lucky one, to have gotten away.
Jack found that he was constantly scanning crowds wherever he was, searching for a dark-haired slim man, listening for that pleasant voice.
This time it had paid off. Jack had recognized John walking through the shop laden streets, and he had chased after him. He still hadn't seen John's face. He'd blown it, had yelled at John to stop, to talk to him, and John had hared off like he was running a race. John had tripped and fallen, Jack close enough to him to hear his cry of pain.
He'd gotten back up, but Jack could see that he'd lost himself again. He'd transformed as he was running away, losing his cowboy boots and shredding his shirt. He'd turned after he'd totally transformed and roared at Jack, but hadn't attacked him. He just went back to running.
Jack hadn't had his tranquilizer gun with him then, but he'd brought it this time. If only he'd had it yesterday with him, he would have shot John and confronted him when he woke up. He had a hunch that John would give up then, would talk to him since his secret would be exposed. He'd get John to agree to turn himself in, and they'd return to California together. He'd keep his word, too. He'd get John a good lawyer. Under the circumstances, he thought John would get probation and be ordered to have treatment. Chicago had some fine hospitals and researchers. John could stay with him if he couldn't afford his own place.
The boatman cast off the ropes from the pier, and took the wheel, standing next to Jack. He took the boat out of the harbor slowly, and glanced down at Jack.
He cleared his throat. "About your man. I hear he's doing work in Ms. Powell's father's library. He was a smart one, that father of hers. Knew Ms. Powell didn't care much about his science work. My second cousin told me – she works in a lawyer's office – that her father tied up her inheritance with taking care of his books and papers. That's why she hired your Mr. Beldon."
He spun the wheel to the left, and the boat responded. He cleared his throat again, caught Jack's eyes. "Something odd about that man. Told you he came running down the dock like the hounds of hell were after him yesterday, and him only half-dressed. Said that he'd been mugged, and that was why his shirt was torn, but he'd lost his shoes, too. What would a mugger want with his shoes? And in broad daylight, too. This is a decent town, Mr. McGee, not like that place you said you come from. Chicago, was it?"
"Yeah. Chicago."
"I could believe your man being mugged up North like that, but not here."
He coughed, and Jack was starting to wonder if the guy had something contagious. The skipper said, "I've had a word with a friend out on that island, too. Mr. Beldon is still there, although he wanted to leave last night. Fair bit of dramatics over it, I was told. Ms. Powell, she gets her own way. Takes after her mother, and she wants your Mr. Beldon to stay for her party. Refused to let him use a boat. He tried to sneak out anyway, but Pierce, Ms. Powell's houseman, he put an end to that notion."
He waited until he was clear of the harbor, and then kicked the engine up a couple of notches. "Mr. Beldon, he's liked well enough by the staff. Quiet, my friend says. Keeps to himself, but friendly. He's given a hand to help out when it wasn't his own work. Not afraid to get his hands dirty, but my friend said you could tell he was too smart to do that sort of job all the time. Knows one end of a shovel from the other, though."
Jack nodded at him, and apparently that was the end of the information he'd bought. He watched the swells and swayed in his seat with the rhythm of the ocean, the wind strong against his face.
John was using another alias with the name David. That made quite a few times now that he'd picked David and used last names that began with B. Maybe D. B. were his initials. Surely he wouldn't use his real first name, though. Maybe it was his middle name, or the name of his father or brother. Something that was helping him hold onto his real identity. Something that helped him cope with the lonely nights and hard times.
John was there, at the island that was becoming larger on the horizon. Hopefully, John's running days would soon be over. He'd write John's story sympathetically, but fairly. It was easy to push the knowledge to the back of his mind, but John had killed. Justice needed to be served. John had to atone for that, bring closure to their families. Stand up in court and say his regrets.
He knew John well enough to know that he did very much regret the utter destruction of people's homes and businesses, the fear he'd seen on people's faces.
He'd met Doctor Banner's family. Good people, the father and sister. They'd known Elaina Marks, too. Elaina, David, and Helen, they'd grown up together. It was Elaina who talked Doctor Banner into working at the Culver Institute. No wonder Doctor Banner had run back into the burning building to try to save her.
Soon, he'd change into the wet suit and swim to shore, change into his costume and walk into Ms. Powell's fancy party and find John. And if John wouldn't cooperate, well, he'd brought the tranquilizer gun to convince him.
x x x
He checked out the other partygoers as unobtrusively as possible, searching for John. He'd taken the mask off one silent costumed figure, but he'd gotten away from the flirty blond girl as smoothly as he could.
The house was huge, the furnishings expensive. Ms. Powell came from old money and wasn't shy about throwing her weight around, according to the gossipers. Jack thought the theme of celebrating the vernal equinox kind of pretentious, but then he wasn't exactly in high society and he'd never been one for parties. Still, there was an air of desperation about some of the people who'd come tonight. This wasn't entertainment for them, they'd come because being in Diane Powell's good graces could make or break them in their aspirations.
He left the rooms that had been decorated for the party, and started quietly searching for John. He ducked around a corner when he saw Diane Powell leave one room, a frustrated, infuriated look on her pretty, elfin face. After she'd pranced angrily away, he walked to the door and waited outside it for a moment, checking his pocket for his tranquilizer gun. After he'd managed to shoot himself in the foot with the tranquilizer rifle, he'd traded it in for this model. Smaller, easier to handle. Less noticeable. He took a deep breath and quietly turned the door handle.
There was a man in the corner of the room, directly across from the door, but his face was in shadows, cast by the small light on the desk.
The man stiffened when Jack asked him why he wasn't at the party.
He knew it was John as soon as the man spoke, his voice fraught with tension. Then John had turned off the lamp and bolted, dashing into the shelves of books. Jack had trapped him, standing his ground by the door and arguing for John to give up.
John had rushed him, though, rammed a small, wheeled ladder at him, knocking him off balance. John made it out the door, but Jack heard his cry of pain while Jack was regaining his footing.
As he stalked after John, he was struck by how John could have attacked him when he'd lost his footing, pounded him into pulp, but instead he'd run for it. The Hulk used his size and strength to stop people from hurting John, or others, intimidated the hell out of everybody, and then ran away, too. Just how much of John remained when he turned into the Hulk? The Hulk didn't talk, but Jack thought he did understand something of what people were saying to him.
Jack was too far away to see John's face, but close enough to see John stumble and fall down the stairs. Jack heard John's pained cry. By the time he'd gotten to the steps himself, John had transformed, his plain button down shirt fallen to rags, the remnants of his cowboy boots scattered at his feet.
This was it, this was his chance. He cursed silently as he fumbled with the tranquilizer gun, but John, huge and menacing, showed that he had some intelligence behind those green eyes of his.
He blocked Jack's first shot with a grandfather clock as a shield, and then even as the Hulk he showed John's inherent nature. He threw the grandfather clock, but not at Jack. He threw it to the side instead, where it crashed harmlessly.
Then the Hulk pulled on the stairway carpet. Jack lost his balance; he fired, but his shot went wide. He fell down on his back in a graceless heap. When he was able to regain his footing the Hulk had dashed towards the crowded room of noisy dancing people. Jack pushed through the swaying hordes of mostly inebriated costumed men and women, extricating himself from the desperate clutching hands of the blonde, overly-friendly girl who had flirted with him earlier. She made him lose precious seconds and he ran towards where he'd glimpsed the creature exiting the spacious ballroom.
He was so close to ending the mystery, he knew it in his bones. He'd trapped John on this island. He would really do it this time, use the dart and render the man he'd chased for years unconscious if John wouldn't cooperate. He wanted to look him in the eyes, take in the features that had eluded him for so long. People trusted John, trusted him beyond good sense and practicality. They let him into their homes, gave him work without checking his references, trusted him with their families. Jack needed to see for himself why John had that effect on so many of the people who had crossed paths with him.
His search ended in a large closet type of room, where there were racks of costumes and footwear.
John was crouched down, hiding at the end of a rack of clothes, but he slowly stood up when Jack pointed the tranq gun at him. He was in some sort of romantic looking costume, wearing a big fancy blue-gray shirt with laces and flowing sleeves. He looked like a pirate hero or maybe some sort of highwayman. He wore a partial mask, and Jack felt cheated that he couldn't see his features.
"Three years," Jack said.
Three long, long years chasing what at times seemed to be a will-of-the-wisp, ridiculed by his colleagues and the public for his steadfast belief in the Hulk. It would all be over soon. He would see John unmasked, make him tell him his true name, and get the interview of the century. Then he'd help him, just as he'd promised when John had called to ask for his assistance or to accept his comfort.
"Don't move. It's over, John. Take off the mask." John looked smaller than he remembered; tense, brittle, his eyes pleading with Jack to let him go.
Jack hardened his heart. He thrust away the memories of the late night conversations they'd had on the phone. John would thank him for doing this some day. This pointless running and wandering around the country was never going to get John the help he so desperately needed. He wouldn't let John persuade him to let him go. If he turned into the creature again, Jack would use the gun in his hand.
"Mr. McGee, mine is not a happy life. All I want to do is to get rid of the creature. Why won't you leave me alone?"
John's quiet attempt to reason with him did nothing to hide the vulnerability and sadness that his body language and the tone of his wobbly voice was projecting so strongly.
This was the same man who had defended Jack against wolves with nothing more than lighted branches in his hand. His John Doe was brave, he knew that, so seeing him so scared of Jack finding out who he really was made Jack's gut clench. In reaction to that, he became more angry. John was making him into the bad guy here, and he wasn't. He wasn't the villain in their little drama.
Jack held the gun, slightly cocked upwards, as John tried to dissuade him from using it. Once again, John denied that the creature had killed Doctor Banner and Elaina Marks.
John was deluding himself, but he understood why. It wouldn't be easy for him, a gentle, kind soul, to accept that he'd killed those two people.
He told John, "You'll have every chance to prove that in a court of law." He'd find John a good lawyer. They'd plea bargain the charges down, and John would be sentenced to mandatory treatment and probation.
John started inching towards the corner. He begged Jack not to shoot him.
John said, "Curare is a deadly poison. If you've got enough there to subdue the creature, you might kill me."
Jack flashed on John splinting his leg, and later convincing Jack that gangrene hadn't yet set in. Even though John hadn't remembered his past life it was obvious that he knew medicine.
Maybe he shouldn't use the dart on John, but damn it, John had to cooperate with him. He stalked closer to John, rattling the racks of clothes to unnerve this man. His one time friend. John had saved his life, but he couldn't let that stop him. By unmasking John, Jack would be returning the favor. John probably wouldn't feel that way until after he was cured, though.
John was so used to running by now that he wasn't capable of making the right decisions. He was too paranoid to understand the best choice – to give himself up.
The creature had to be stopped from hurting any more people. Maybe the Hulk hadn't realized how to be careful with human beings yet when Elaina Marks and David Banner had died. Since then, Jack had seen the Hulk be careful. He'd obviously learned to be more gentle, but that didn't mean he wouldn't kill again. No, the Hulk had to be stopped. Jack felt like a predator closing in on his prey. He could hear John's quick panicky breaths as Jack got closer and closer to him.
"Take off the mask," Jack ordered, his voice loud and harsh to his own ears. "Take it off!"
"Mr. McGee, you're risking bringing out the creature in me. Now please, please, stay back," John continued to plead, his voice soft, submissive.
The psychic girl who'd come to Chicago to see him, her voice rang in his memory. "Your path and John's will cross again soon; you'll trap him and he'll beg you to let him go." It only served to make him angrier. He kept closing in closer and closer to John, ignoring John's fear-tinged words that Jack might trigger the metamorphosis.
He cornered him against the wall, only one rack of clothing separating them. He could reach out and touch John; he could see the terror in John's gray eyes. Jack shoved the rack of costumes against John, heard John's fearful panting.
Jack felt like a bully as he shouted, "The mask!"
And still John wouldn't take it off, the small bit of molded dark fabric covering his cheeks, hiding the last of John's face from him.
Jack reached over the rail of the clothes rack and snatched the mask off John's face, but he couldn't see John's features because John had ducked his head. John shoved hard at the clothes rack, bowling Jack over in a disastrous tangle of costumes.
John ran to the door and was out in the hall before Jack could even get back to his feet. Cursing himself for being so soft-hearted and not shooting John when he had the chance, Jack got to his feet. There was no way he would have missed, with John only a foot away from him.
When he tried to open the door, he discovered that John had locked it.
By the time he'd gotten himself out of the room, Diane Powell had been shoved off a high balcony. All the guests were talking about her rescue, as he questioned people about seeing John, describing the costume John had worn.
And then he'd been found out as a party crasher. He was told to get on the first boat leaving the island. Well, it wasn't the worse way he'd ever been tossed out of an investigation. He hoped that he could still spot John before the police arrived to take the man who'd tried to kill Diane Powell into custody.
x x x
Long after the party was over, he finally talked to Diane Powell. She was subdued, but somehow more honest after probably having the scare of her life. She knew that Jack had tried to stop her boyfriend from killing her and John. She owed him and he made sure to mention it. Jack was sure that John had left the island by then, anyway. Diane had suspected John of being her attempted killer. Diane and her servant had locked John in the closet to await the police. He had gotten out when Diane pushed the key under the door to him when she was being strangled by her lover. She might be a snob, and highhanded, but the girl could think straight under pressure.
John had stopped her boyfriend from strangling her, and the boyfriend's rage had turned on John. John really wasn't a fighter, and the boyfriend was trying to choke the life out of him when Jack and Pierce, her servant, had run into the bedroom, alerted by the sounds of fists hitting flesh.
Jack had stopped the crazed man from strangling John, but John's head was out of sight in the closet and once again, he couldn't see his features. He'd had to fight for his own life at that point, but later he guessed that pain had triggered John to change to the Hulk.
The Hulk had saved Jack's life once again, and hurled the boyfriend onto the bed. Jack had swallowed hard when the Hulk had looked menacingly at him and stalked towards him.
The Hulk had never hurt Jack before, but just minutes ago Jack had trapped and intimidated John and the guy could very well be holding a grudge about that.
Jack backed away and tried to pick up the tranquilizer gun from where it had been flung during the struggle with the boyfriend, but the Hulk got it first and with one hand crumbled it. He glared at Jack, rumbling his disapproval, but he'd turned his attention back to the boyfriend, and collapsed the bed onto him, burying him in fabric and wood.
He'd shoved Pierce away from the girl and picked her up and carried her off. She'd be safe, Jack thought. The Hulk wasn't angry with her, and he remembered how the Hulk had picked him up the same way and carried him to safety.
Diane wouldn't admit to knowing anything about the man she knew as David Beldon, except that he'd saved her life before she passed out. Jack suspected that she'd helped John to escape, but he knew a lost cause when he saw it. He turned instead to looking through the papers John had been working on in the library. They were notes on genetic research. John had come here then to read through Diane's father's papers and books, searching for any data that would cure him. More proof that John had to be a scientist, a doctor, someone in those fields.
He left the island feeling unsettled, and with a heavy feeling in his gut. He was doing the right thing, he knew he was, so why did the memory of John's terrified face feel like betrayal.