Part 13
Michael slunk lower in the passenger seat of Jim's Range Rover. They had been parked in the same position for almost five hours now, and that was on top of driving for nearly 12 today just to get here. They were in Henderson, Nevada, a God-forsaken place in every sense of the word. It was over 800 miles away from Roswell, relative safety, and Maria Deluca.
As always, he had woken up this morning already banned from the house she inhabited. He had strained to stay awake as long as possible while he was with her last night, but after the tortuous pleasure of her satiating the one final need he had been unable to fulfill in their time apart, he found that sleep was stronger even than his will and succumbed.
It was better that way, he had told himself this morning, lingering by her bedside as Amy hovered nervously outside the door and Jim waited for him in the car. By leaving during sleep, their last words had been 'I love you' not 'goodbye'; words he didn't think himself capable of uttering on this day. He remembered sitting by her bed that morning…
Closing his eyes, he imagined that he was back in the house with her, her eyes radiant, her cheeks flushed, her movements graceful; not the corpse-like figure reposed on the bed. Delicately, fearful of making a connection with her that he wouldn't have the strength to break, he leaned in to brush his lips against hers. They were soft, supple, moving just slightly at his insistence, giving the impression that she was responding in kind. Sadly, she wasn't, and he pulled away one last time to stare down at the golden haired beauty.
"I love you," he whispered. "And know that I will always find you." His voice broke as a ferocity of tears he had never dared shed in her presence sprung forth from his eyes. He lowered his head to her bed, her hand pressed tightly to his face as he mourned the love he had to cast aside again today just as he had done so many years ago. "Ria," he sobbed hungrily, his mouth gaping open as air refused to enter his lungs, turned away by the grief residing there.
Lost in his own land of despair, he barely recognized the fluttering against his cheek as the movement of her fingers. Jerking upright, he stared at the appendage clutched tightly within his grasp, watching for some sign that she had reached out across the crevasse separating them to say goodbye in her own way. Desperate for it to be real, longing for her to have returned to the safety of this world, his eyes flew to her face, seeking out the slightest sign that she was one with her body again.
What he saw halted all activity within him, his brain refusing to process the sight attacking his eyes as the faintest of smiles wavered across her lips, falling aside as quickly as it had come to be replaced once more with the painted mask of sleep, a vicious reminder that she had not returned, only tried.
"You're saying goodbye aren't you?" he mumbled incoherently, the fact that she had attempted at once comforting and devastating, a reminder both of her love for him and her dedication to see him to safety; powerful and crushing at the same time.
"Goodbye," he murmured, the tremble in his voice matched by the shaking in his hand as he grazed her cheek one last time and stood from his chair. He turned away from the bed and was halfway to the door before the impulse overpowered him and he lunged back towards her, falling to his knees to attack her lips once more with every ounce of passion stored within him. He would never be sure, the gesture too slight to take actual form, but he swore that she kissed him back, and no one would ever be able to tell him differently.
Letting his touch trail away from hers again, he eventually pulled himself away from her resting place, pausing to use his powers to remove the traces of tears from his cheeks. He was still the soldier and refused to show his weakness to his waiting examiners. He didn't need the tears to remind himself of her; he took with him the assurance that she was ready for him to go, okay on her own until he could return his other self to her waiting arms. Making that promise to her was what gave him the courage to set out on his journey, a positive outlook on the day ahead.
A loud snore from the driver's seat of the vehicle jolted him back to the present, his eyes blurring as he focused them sleepily on the shaded house across the street. 314 Riverdale Crescent, home to one Jasper Davies, torturer extraordinaire. Michael mused on his mood at the moment, perhaps positive hadn't been the correct term to describe his approach to this day at all—more like ornery as a porcupine fighting for a precarious position with his mate. Jim had used the information Maria had learned to research the employees of Sigmund Solutions yesterday. They were a national company consisting of an array of personnel from various areas of medicine. There were no offices to house the employees, rather they were contracted out on a case-by-case basis and worked from the location of their employer. The current placement records of their employees were all confidential but the personnel information was open to any prying eyes that were determined enough to find it. Deputy Hanson, again working under his old boss since the pressures of leading the Roswell police force had proved too much for him, had put his considerable IT skills to work and found that there were three Jasper's employed for the corporation—one in Alaska, a 55-year-old man that they ruled out immediately, one in New York, a dentist whose skills did not seem relevant, and one here in Nevada, a 35-year-old anesthesiologist that fit the bill exactly.
Jim had at first attempted sports conversation throughout the ride to Henderson and then finally, mercifully, relented to silence, letting the remainder of their trip pass quietly as the brooding alien stared out the window and wondered one last time what had ever possessed him to think that he could save the lives of six people. Him, the screw up of the bunch, the last one consulted whenever a decision had to be made, the one who had nothing to offer besides tension, turmoil, and turbulence.
He was going to save them all. Maybe now was a good time to start believing in that God.
He stared blankly out the window again, vowing to funnel his feelings of worthlessness into some form of power for this last battle before him. Jasper Davies had only to pull up in his driveway and he would know the fury of Michael Guerin, despite any orders from Jim to 'desist' until proper police procedure was followed. He didn't think there was any room for proper police procedure where Kivar or his minion was concerned.
He sighed loudly, holding his breath when the man beside him stirred in his seat. He wasn't ready for Jim to wake up yet, didn't want to encourage mindless conversation about who was going to win the Super Bowl next year, when he had no intention of being around long enough to find out. Surprisingly, that thought didn't sadden him, rather it filled him with a resolve that his other self, the one who had always liked hockey more anyway, would be around to see the next spray of sports championships. By his count, he had already missed the Detroit Red Wings rolling effortlessly over Carolina to take their first Stanley Cup of the new century, he didn't want to deny him next years showing as well.
The car coasting down the street would have gone unnoticed by the pensive alien if it wasn't after midnight already and dark enough in the quiet suburb to require headlights. Michael ducked as the rays of yellow piercing the darkness cut across the cab of their vehicle, bathing its occupants in light for the briefest of moments before the vehicle, a 1984 rust colored, from the rust coating he noted, Chevrolet Chevette, completed its turn into the driveway of number 314 and stopped.
Mr. Davies was home.
Michael tensed in his seat, fumbling for the binoculars resting across his lap before tuning them in on the shaded figure exiting the vehicle. It had seen better days, that much was obvious, and detailing in on the stark features of his suspect, Michael passed the same judgment over to him. The sole occupant had left the car and walked the short steps onto the darkened porch of the run-down bungalow. His presence was announced by the sensor-tripped light over the front door and as he turned back to take a long look into the street, the one awake passenger in the stakeout vehicle felt his lungs fill with ice in fear—it was the face of the man who had meticulously tortured him every day while he was imprisoned on this planet. To think that he would ever forget the face was foolish, but even so, seeing it up close and personal again now was almost too much for his wounded memory. The clear vision tumbled from his eyes as he let the binoculars fall to the floor of the truck, the sudden noise waking Jim from his noisy rest.
He shot up in his seat quickly, mumbling, "What? What is it? What's wrong?"
Through his pain-clouded gaze, Michael shook his head in amazement at the seasoned officer beside him. "Do this often, do you?" he teased sarcastically.
Jim focused in on the man in the other seat, his professional instincts taking just a few seconds to kick in as he noticed the now retrieved binoculars in Michael's hand and the look on his face as if he had just met evil head on.
"He's home?"
"Just a minute ago."
"Well let's go then," Sheriff Valenti said formally, unhitching his gun holster as he opened the door to the vehicle.
"Don't think you're gonna need that," Michael said gruffly, flexing his fingers as he rounded the vehicle to meet Jim in front.
"Now listen," the older man cautioned. "I don't want you losing control of the situation before we can get anything out of him. You best let me handle this until we see how dangerous he is."
"Oh he's dangerous, believe me."
"Still, you follow my lead, agreed?"
Michael nodded sourly, his dream of painting the walls of the tiny house with Jasper's blood fading as he listened to the reason in Jim's words. If he killed him too soon there would be no connection to the compound where the teens were being held. Like it or not, they needed the vile creep to gain entry to the makeshift prison and mount a rescue operation inside.
After they were safe, he'd kill him.
As they walked across the street, Michael tried not to remind himself that he would most likely never get a chance to kill Jasper Davies. The man had to get them inside and then be kept as long as possible as a hostage against the other workers. They would only no longer need him once the captive teens were freed, by then Michael would be no more—no opportunity available to kill him. In that case he'd have to figure out a way to maim him first, he thought grimly.
They reached the front door and Michael placed his hand firmly over the lock, closing his eyes briefly in concentration. Jim stopped him, reaching out to lay a hand on the other man's arm as he said, "We don't know what we're walking into here. Better to go in slowly."
"Better to have the element of surprise," Michael replied, the lock clicking beneath his hand as he teased Jim with his eyes, taunting the life-long officer into the raid he knew both of them wanted. "You ready to kick some scumbag a-ss or what?"
Without waiting for a response, he kicked the door open forcefully, charging inside with his hand raised before him, ready to strike. Jim stepped in beside him, somewhat more cautious as he raised his gun before him, sweeping it around the room before his eyes as he took in the scene before them.
Jasper Davies was not a man of courage, in fact the only reason he was able to carry out his prescribed job duties every day was due to the fact that his patient had never seen consciousness in their time together. When he heard his door crash open, he turned immediately from where he stood in his kitchen, the beer he had just selected from the fridge falling from his hand towards the floor in slow motion. The corner of the brown bottle struck the dirty linoleum floor, bouncing once as the thick glass absorbed the initial shock. The second hit was fatal, the bottle hitting first on its neck, cracking cleanly off where the skinny funnel met the larger repository for the liquid. The foamy liquid spilled onto the floor between his feet, the body of the bottle breaking amongst the fizzing evaporation of barley-laced bubbles, the scrubbing action of glass shards mixed with the scouring power of hops instantly cleansing the floor of a layer of dirt long overdue for removal. He stared open-mouthed at his intruders, unable to form so much as a moan from his quivering throat as the man he recognized as his patient from only a short hour ago charged towards him across the room.
Michael's hand connected with the throat of the squirming weasel, sending him crashing into the vibrating refrigerator behind him. The 1950s model, green General Electric appliance squealed as it tilted back on its shaky legs, the ancient system protesting to the force of the angriest alien ever to breathe air on this planet pushing Jasper's slight body against its door. The kicking legs of the helplessly pinned man didn't help matters and the sharp crack breaking the tension indicated that from now on Mr. Davies' beer bottles would be sliding towards the back of his cooling machine.
Jasper gasped for air as he fought to voice his confusion at the sight of the person holding him hostage. Jim signaled for Michael to relax his hold, smiling knowingly when the grip was released just slightly, the struggling man gulping great mouthfuls of air as the tips of his toes mercifully touched the floor again.
"You… you're… you're him?" he gasped, staring at Michael wide-eyed as the fear of what Kivar would do to him once he found out that his patient had escaped overtook that of being attacked in his own home.
"Not exactly, but yeah," Michael growled. "Feel like repenting?"
"Okay, okay," Jim interjected, satisfied that they had the right person at his obvious familiarity with Michael's presence. "Why don't we back things up a little here?"
"Unnecessary," snarled Michael, glaring at the man within his grip. "Jasper here's going to tell us everything we want to know and then bring us to his 'patient', isn't he?"
"Yes, uh… yes sir," the pathetic representation of the medical profession stammered.
Michael stepped back a little, his hand still pressed firmly against the man's chest as he signaled him to start talking. Before his eyes, he watched as Jasper's face began to contort, his lips unfurling to reveal yellowed teeth from obvious abuse of various nicotine products. His eyes squeezed shut before dropping open widely, his mouth following suit as great sobs poured forth from his depths and his eyes released a torrent of anguish across his face.
"Please… just please don't ki-kill me," he begged.
"Jesus," Michael mumbled, releasing his hold on the obviously broken man to step back completely. His eyes roamed over the crumbling body, taking in the pitiful form that was his captor as he noticed a fresh stain on his already filthy jeans originate from a certain tell-tale area. "Fvck," he cursed, turning away to stare at Jim for a second. "I was afraid of that?"
"Now, now," Jim said beneath his breath, his lips quivering as he struggled not to laugh outright at the puddle, literally, of a man before them. "Let's just see what he has to say, shall we?"
Though he nodded at Jasper to go ahead, it was the menacing gun still gripped firmly in the police officer's hand that spurned him into spilling his secrets. "I work… I work at the old mental hospital outside of town," he started. "That's where he keeps them… the patients and the… and the bodies…"