Chapter Eleven
Tragg pulled up moments later. His car's lights still flashing, he jumped out and rushed to the standoff on the sidewalk. "Jerry!" he called. "Jerry, don't do this!"
But Jerry seemed to be beyond hearing. He continued to stare at the other man, his former friend and current enemy, Michael Caldwell. Mike in turn stared back, the conflict and worry awash in his eyes.
Hamilton was over by the car, opening the driver's door to examine Captain McVey. "Tragg, you can't talk him out of whatever it is he's trying to do," he exclaimed. "Grab him, restrain him! That's the only thing that will work right now."
"No!" Tragg retorted, harshly. "He has to listen to reason!"
"He crashed his car into this one without any consideration for the occupants!" Hamilton shot back. "He could have killed this man!" As it was, McVey was alive, but Hamilton was not sure of much more than that. "And Captain Caldwell—or whoever he is—has already been trying to get through to him. Just like everyone at the cemetery he trashed! He isn't listening! If he's under some sort of control, he probably can't listen!"
Tragg was not listening either. He approached slowly, cautiously. "Jerry, please," he begged, the anguish of the past several weeks coming out in his voice. "You're not a murderer. For the love of Heaven, leave that man alone, no matter what he did to you in the past! It's not worth whatever you could do to him!"
Jerry spun at the last moment. His eyes still wild, he shoved the older man hard against the nearby telephone pole. The crowd gasped. Hamilton took a step forward, but Caldwell beat him to it. He seized Jerry from behind, pulling him back. Jerry yelled, fighting madly against him.
Hamilton glanced at McVey. He was stirring now, groaning under his breath. And the ambulance sirens in the distance signaled that help was on the way. It did not take much more of a mental debate for Hamilton to run around the car and over to Tragg, who was dazedly getting to his feet. Hamilton reached out, taking hold of Tragg's arm.
"I know why you're doing this," he said quietly. "But trying to stop Major Reynolds won't change the past, even if you manage to get him to listen. Tragg . . ." He looked sincerely into his friend's eyes. "I don't want to see you get hurt or worse over this."
"I'm an officer of the law," Tragg shot back, trying to pull away. "I have to stop Major Reynolds. It's my duty!"
"Yes, but that isn't why you're doing it," Hamilton said. "I'm worried about you! You're charging in without thinking it through! Don't you understand?"
Whether Tragg did or not, he had no chance to say. Jerry and Mike were engaged in an all-out war now, fighting, struggling, and pushing. When Mike took a swing at Jerry, Jerry retaliated with a vicious chop. When they grappled like out-of-control wrestlers, they seemed evenly matched despite Caldwell's broader build. At last Jerry, fueled by either his rage and confusion or whatever was possibly controlling him, shoved the other man into a plate-glass window. Caldwell fell through as it shattered, sending sharp particles in every direction.
Jerry stood over the scene, breathing heavily. "I killed him," he said. His eyes flickered with a crazed and unsettled spark. "I killed him!" He turned and fled between the buildings.
Tragg gave chase, firing his gun into the air. "Stop!" he yelled.
Hamilton, stunned and overwhelmed by all that was happening, approached the window. "Are you alright?" he asked Caldwell in concern. Caldwell was lying on the floor, surrounded by broken glass but very much alive.
He sat up, trying to shake the cobwebs from his mind. "Fine," he grunted. "You know, out of everything that's happened and that I thought would happen, I didn't think I'd end up seeing what it's like to be the one hunted instead of the one doing the hunting." He brushed the glass particles off his uniform. "What happened to Captain McVey? Is he . . ."
Hamilton glanced back. "He's going to be alright," he said, observing the paramedics as they examined and spoke with a now-conscious McVey.
"And Jerry?" Caldwell got up, letting the remaining glass pieces fall to the floor. He stepped over them and through the hole in the wall.
"Jerry . . ." Hamilton sighed. "I don't know. He went running down the alley screaming he'd killed you. Lieutenant Tragg went after him."
"If he was in his right mind he'd know he couldn't kill me just from this," Caldwell retorted.
Hamilton peered at him. "Are you sure he's under the influence of something this Dr. Portman invented?" he queried. "Maybe he's just lost his mind after everything she—and you—have put him through."
"Not Major Reynolds," Caldwell returned. "Not this fast. Anyway, it would be just like Portman to see what would happen if the shoe were on the other foot. Her drugs and chips magnify a person's worst feelings and twist them into behavior that would never happen if the person had control."
"You mean it takes away their inhibitors," Hamilton frowned.
"Exactly." Caldwell glanced at Captain McVey and back at Hamilton. "It isn't like being hypnotized. In this case you can be made to do things you wouldn't ordinarily do."
Hamilton crossed his arms. "Jerry didn't kill you," he pointed out. "If he meant to, he didn't try too hard. And you didn't kill him, either. Last night, I mean."
"I was going to," was the grim retort. "I picked up a rock in my blind rage and I was going to heave it right at his head. I would have, if he hadn't brought me back to my senses."
"Maybe," Hamilton said. "I guess I'm not much of a judge of that."
He looked up as a black convertible pulled over to the curb. Perry and Della got out, surveying the accident site in stunned shock and concern. "What happened?" Perry demanded.
Hamilton sighed. "Hello, Perry, Della. Major Reynolds rammed his car into Captain McVey's. He pushed Tragg, fought with this man, and took off down the street."
Della stared. "Is Captain McVey hurt bad?"
"No." McVey himself spoke as he came over to them. He had a bandage on his forehead but otherwise seemed fine. "I'm just lucky. So is Caldwell." He nodded to the other captain.
"And now Jerry is who knows where," Perry frowned.
"Perry, something is definitely wrong with him," Hamilton said. "Captain Caldwell thinks he's under Portman's control, as I suppose you already know. Tragg thinks it too. I don't know what to believe."
"I don't either," Perry admitted, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. "But it is hard to imagine Jerry losing such complete control over himself." He sighed, shaking his head. "He could be having a nervous breakdown, it's true. Yet considering that we're dealing with an apparent mad scientist who has been experimenting on manipulating people, it's also possible that Jerry is dealing with something just like Caldwell here has said."
"Perry, you only have his word and Elaine Darrow's when it comes to Portman trying to mind-control people," Hamilton said. "And you only have his about Elaine Darrow really being an experiment instead of an assistant. Frankly, I don't know who's telling the truth around here!"
"And there's no way you can know without finding Portman," Caldwell growled as he came over to them. "You're just going to have to pick someone to believe."
"Alright, Caldwell." It was McVey who had spoken. "You said you'd try to take us to the underground bunker. Right now we don't have anything to lose. Let's go."
"Wait," Perry said, holding up a hand. "Here comes Tragg."
And indeed Tragg was coming—alone, weary, and dejected. "I lost him," he grumbled in frustration. "He's gone who knows where now. I'll have to put out a bulletin."
"He might be going back to Portman," Caldwell said. "And she might take him back to the bunker after she has him again. And either way, Captain, you might find something there of interest."
"That's what I'm hoping for," McVey nodded.
Hamilton followed Tragg to the squad car. "Tragg, I'm sorry," he said. "I know you wanted to bring Major Reynolds back to earth yourself."
Tragg waved him off. "Oh, nevermind. You were probably right anyway. About why I was so desperate to make him listen, that is. But that doesn't mean that this wouldn't be aggravating in any case. I've always hated losing someone I was after. It might not have happened if he hadn't got such a good head-start." He opened the door and reached for the radio.
"Tragg, can't you see that you were in the exact same boat as Major Reynolds?" Hamilton exclaimed.
Tragg shot upright. "What kind of a gag question is that?" he demanded.
"It's not a gag," Hamilton retorted. "Tragg, I know why you've been avoiding me for the past month. Anyone could see it. But what I'm saying is that you have to stop beating yourself up over it! You've shown Major Reynolds a lot of compassion in his situation. Save a little of it for yourself. Your situation wasn't any different!"
Tragg glowered at him as he pressed the button on his radio. Maybe Hamilton was right; maybe he was wrong. Right now Tragg didn't have the time to think about it either way. The most important thing was finding Jerry—and stopping him before he did something he and everyone else would all regret.
"Hamilton."
Hamilton looked up with a start while Tragg spoke into the radio. To his surprise, Mignon had parked her car and was coming towards him. From her expression, she was clearly troubled.
"Hamilton, are you alright?"
He blinked. "Why, yes," he said. "I'm just fine. Mignon, what is it?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. I barely slept last night, I've been so worried."
"Well, I didn't know anything happened last night to make you so worried," Hamilton exclaimed. "Nothing happened to me."
"Except for your office being ransacked," Mignon pointed out. "But I'm sure that isn't what caused my dream."
Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Your . . . dream?"
"Yes." Mignon frowned. "It was so vague and unclear. But I woke up with the sense that I was somehow involved or even partly responsible for what was happening in it."
"That's a new one," Hamilton remarked. "And you think I was part of it? How could you tell, if it was so vague?"
A sigh. "I couldn't tell. And I'm not sure you were part of it, Hamilton. But I wondered." Mignon's gaze swept across the area, taking in the crash and the people. Her eyes flickered as she recognized the man who had been walking down her street the other night. "Is this . . ."
"Captain Caldwell, or so he says . . . sometimes," Hamilton dryly added.
Caldwell nodded to her. "Good morning, Ma'am."
"Good morning," Mignon returned with a quirked brow. "I'm guessing this is a long story, Hamilton? You didn't mention it when you dropped Howie off last night."
"Yes," Hamilton answered, the weariness evident in his voice. "It's a very long story." He glanced at Perry, who was calling Paul on the phone. "If you want to come along while we look for Major Reynolds, I'll tell you about it."
xxxx
Jerry staggered around a corner, gripping the bricks as his vision floated in and out of focus. He slumped harder against them, his heart pounding wildly in his ears.
"What's . . . what's happening to me?" he whispered to the unknown world around him. Was this how Mike had felt the first time he had gone under with Portman's control?
Was that what had happened? Everything was such a muddle that Jerry wasn't even sure what was real and what had only happened in his dreams. Being attacked late at night . . . the injection . . . fighting with Mike come morning. . . . It didn't feel real. It had to be a trick of his mind.
No . . . it wasn't. And why was he upset, anyway? Mike was not his friend. He knew that all too well. Mike himself had made it clear on many occasions that it was all over.
It was Mike, wasn't it? Not another figment of his imagination? The body in the coffin wasn't him. What other explanation was there?
Maybe it was all in his head. Was he even still in the Air Force? In society at all? What if he were really in a padded room somewhere and Portman was his doctor? And he had fabricated everything, including making Portman the villain of his little play?
No . . . now he was getting even more ridiculous. He knew it was real. His mind was just so muddied at the moment that nothing seemed right. Not even he felt real. Whatever she had given him, it had been a doozy.
His legs felt like Jell-O. Now they were wobbling under him. He sank to the ground, still holding on to that blasted wall.
"Mike?" he moaned aloud in his delirium. "Perry?"
Someone was there; he could hear footsteps rapidly approaching. And then there was a voice, a familiar voice somehow, but he could not place it. "Hey! We've been looking all over for you, friend." Arms reached for him, trying to support him and pull him to his feet. He slumped against the other person, unable to make himself move. Strange, particularly since he had been so active not that long ago.
At last he managed to think clearly enough to form another word. "Who . . . ?"
"Don't you recognize me?" the voice exclaimed. "It's Paul. Paul Drake!"
Oh. Of course it was. But Jerry could not gather his thoughts enough to acknowledge it. And suddenly he crashed back to the ground with a gasp. Somewhere behind him, it sounded like a loud thump and a groan.
"Mr. Drake?" he asked. "What's happening?" He tried to force his body to obey him and twist around, but it refused. All he could see from his position was a limp hand. Then, suddenly, something hard came down on his head and everything went black.
xxxx
The return to consciousness was slow. Paul hissed in pain; he was lying on a cold floor and his head was throbbing. With a shaking hand he reached up, touching the spot. It stung.
"Well, this is great, just great," he muttered weakly. "Jerry? Are you here?"
The moan that answered him was thready and agonized. In the dim light streaming into the room from the corridor beyond, Paul could just make out Jerry's form curled in a ball near the wall. That woke him up the rest of the way. Gasping in alarm, he struggled to get up and stumble over to the other man.
"Jerry!" he called, gripping the quaking shoulder. "Jerry, what is it? What's wrong?" Obviously it was more than what had happened to Paul. Jerry had been acting strange right before they had been attacked. From the looks of it he was still suffering from that malady, whatever it was.
"It's quite useless at the moment, Mr. Drake. Major Reynolds is unable to respond to you."
Paul looked up with a start. The voice was coming from the corridor. Through the small, barred window he could make out a shapely silhouette.
"Who are you?" he barked.
"You can't guess? Or deduce? And I was under the impression you were a good detective."
Paul's eyes narrowed. "You're Alice Portman, aren't you? I don't think I can even bring myself to call you 'Doctor.' You're nothing but a quack!"
"I should be offended, I suppose. But I've taken too many insults for years to be bothered by one now. Especially one coming from someone so unenlightened."
That got Paul to his feet. "You think what you've been doing to this guy is some big scientific feat!" he cried. Still a bit woozy from the blow to his head, he made his way to the window. "What did you do to him now?"
"I tried something different on him than I did Captain Caldwell," Portman answered. "I like to study a problem from all angles." He could not see her clearly, but it was easy enough to tell from her voice that she was examining the entire situation with an almost entirely computerized sense of mind. She cared nothing for humanity, other than how they served her purposes.
"Problem? You and that Caldwell have been driving poor Jerry out of his head!" Paul snapped. "Look, sister, if you think . . ."
"Captain Caldwell has been an unwilling participant this entire time," Portman interrupted. "It's fascinating, really. Despite his grudge against Major Reynolds that persisted for the last several years of his life, he had no desire to torture him as I wanted."
"Most people are decent," Paul spat. "So what are you saying? That he really is Caldwell?"
Portman adjusted her glasses. "That, Mr. Drake, is something else you should have deduced." She peered into the room. "Major Reynolds' body is reacting very poorly to the drug I introduced."
"Well, what'd you expect it to do? Jump for joy?" Paul was growing angrier every time she opened her scientifically-wired mouth.
"Actually, things are going according to plan," Portman informed him. "Very much so." Her eyes gleamed. "His fight with Captain Caldwell this morning was of particular interest. It's a shame you didn't see it, Mr. Drake. He became so unbalanced that, for a while, he believed he had managed to kill Caldwell simply by pushing him through a window at ground level. Or was it that his subconscious did not want to seriously harm Caldwell and that was his way of rebelling?" She stared into space. "There are so many possibilities."
"You're sick!" Paul looked back to Jerry. He had not moved beyond another shudder or two. "What happens to him now?"
"That should be of extreme interest to you, Mr. Drake," Portman said. "You see, I never wanted Major Reynolds to actually hurt or kill Captain Caldwell. The captain is not expendable. My colleague and I worked too hard on him to have him destroyed."
"You talk like he's some kind of machine or animal," Paul said in appalled horror.
"He is an experiment," Portman said. "But such an experiment! We have cheated death! Can't you see the far-reaching consequences of our achievement?"
"Somehow I don't think God will be too happy at you horning in on His business." Paul's voice dripped with repulsed sarcasm.
"God? Ha! You disappoint me, Mr. Drake. Surely you could come up with a better argument than that." Portman was becoming more animated the longer she talked.
"Okay, nevermind," Paul shot back. "I should've known that wouldn't faze you. I can come up with a lot of arguments, but I'm not interested in the debate. What did you mean about me having an extreme interest in what happens to Jerry now?"
"Very simply this," Portman said. "I said the captain is not expendable. But you, Mr. Drake, are very much so."
"So you're going to see if Jerry will get up and kill me," Paul said in disgust. "Lady, you've got problems. And right now Jerry's not in a state to even lift a finger!"
"Major Reynolds has no idea how to handle or deal with this drug," Portman said. "It's very much like Captain Caldwell was when he had to get used to the chip. But when he fully understands that to accept it means the pain and confusion will stop, he will accept it."
"I thought guys in the military were trained how to resist drugs," Paul snapped. "You might be in for a long wait."
"Oh, I would be disappointed if I wasn't," Portman said. "But don't forget, Mr. Drake—Major Reynolds is not only a military man. He's a human being. And humans have weaknesses." She sneered at him. "While we're waiting, I'm sure I can find something appropriate to do with you. Perhaps I'll try to break down your defenses concerning those friends of yours."
"And just what do you mean by that?"
Portman's answer was calculated and merciless. "That perhaps, when I'm done with you, you won't feel that you even have any friends."
