Mac pulled back the curtain and stared out at the blighted city that was on a mission to turn around its depressed economy. She supposed on a brighter day, under better circumstances, she might find some redeeming quality about the place. If nothing else, on a brighter day, under better circumstances, even the 24 hour around-the-clock entertainment options the Chamber of Commerce promoted might be appealing.
But right now, in the city of Leeds, nearly 200 miles north of London, she saw rundown buildings, dirty streets, dark alleys, and polluted canals. The view was as unwelcoming as any she could imagine -- and now she was being told somewhere out there in that bleakness was her husband.
As she scanned the horizon, she sucked the broken skin of her knuckles where her fist had finally connected with Harrison Spencer's eye. It was shortly thereafter his presence at the boarding house was explained.
When Webb had contacted him, Harrison Spencer could shed few details on the information the CIA was ultimately after. However, when asked if he knew anything about Harmon Rabb's disappearance, Spencer not only had an overwhelming desire to help but the means to do so as well. Consequently, it was he who had pointed Webb to the city of Leeds. Shortly thereafter, he made travel arrangements to get himself there as well.
"How do you know he's out there?" Mac asked weakly.
"How did you know where he was in the Atlantic?" Spencer answered by way of any explanation that made sense in the short time he feared was left.
Mac turned and stared at the man as he held the ice pack to his face. She fought down the fear. But she was finding it immensely more difficulty to fight down the resentment. How could this man have a link to Harm when her own connection was eluding her? Eluding her at a time when Harm needed her more than ever.
"You're sure he's in Leeds?" Webb asked.
"Yes, the visions are strong."
"Why Leeds?" Mac asked.
Spencer closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Neither actually did anything to facilitate the remote viewing process, but it gave the appearance he was doing something and eliminated the need to see the skepticism on Webb's face. "I don't know why Leeds. But I'm certain he's out there."
"How do you know?" Webb asked.
"When I came upon him at Stazow, something in his being there didn't sit right with me."
"You think!" Mac's voice dripped with sarcasm, but she held back the urge to throttle the man again.
"I can't go back and undo my actions. But I can make things right now. Anyway, before Cynthia found me with him, I implanted a mental marker of sorts in Captain Rabb. It was a matter of synchronizing my brain waves to the same frequency he was experiencing at the time. It was something I practiced with many of the sub--, er, men there. Once in sync, it was a tangible connection."
When Mac and Webb looked doubtful, he continued. "I have years of biofeedback experience. Though difficult, I can shift my mind from one state to another at will. When I found Captain Rabb, he was cycling very rapid Beta waves consistent with an excessive level of anxiety."
"It took me a while to work myself up to that same level. But once I did, I in essence buried a mental beacon in his neural network. Before I could do more, Cynthia arrived."
"Then why can't you pinpoint him now!" Mac demanded.
"It's so scrambled. His mind. Perhaps if we tried together we could break through."
Mac's eyes widened. "What!"
"Together. If we tried together, we might have better results."
----------------
Earlier
Ignored for hours in the dim, 40-watt lit interior, Harm continued shifting his eyes from one disturbing element to the next. Over and over, they made the macabre circuit. The wide-open eyes of Robert Kroger mocked him; the troublesome picture of Mac and Webb angered him; and his trousers and boxers pulled down around his knees alarmed him. For the thousandth time, he tried to break free from the ropes holding him hostage.
A high-pitched tone drew his attention away from the futile task and redirected it to the EEG machine, another grim ingredient of the cauldron of horrors that was his cell. The previously scrolling symbols had come to a standstill, the audible signal indicating the scanning of his brain was completed. The realization created serious apprehension. For the completion meant the foreboding, man-made presence had found a way into the 'Corridor' -- the passageway so important to the next phase of the woman's manipulative process.
He never felt so cold, so tired, so alone. No, that wasn't quite true. Certainly his time adrift in the Atlantic engendered such extremes. But this particular plight provoked something more, something he couldn't put his finger on. Something he couldn't remember. And not remembering was what this was all about.
Pondering the deep, dark secret he was no longer privy to, he nearly leapt out of his skin when the door creaked open.
Contrasting dramatically with his declining condition, in walked a recently-showered, fully-clothed, and refreshed Cynthia McPherson. Close behind was Gregor McPherson. The heretofore absent man fretfully rushed to his side, stepping over Robert Kroger's body as if he wasn't there.
Sporting a juicy wad of gum in his bulging cheek, the man leaned over Harm and carefully patted his tender ribs. "Someone hurt 52," Gregor frowned, the sweet, confectionary smell of bubblegum accompanying his concern.
Though the man's distress was sincere, it was also puzzling in that he found nothing odd about '52' being clearly held against his will, unnaturally exposed, or sporting wires for something far more sinister. But before the contradiction could be explored, it was suddenly overshadowed by a previously forgotten memory, a memory he was certain had been available to him in his dreams only to be gone upon awakening.
(forgotten memory) It was day one of his stint with PETS, a phantom group rumored to provide air support for snatches and re-insertions. Blaisdell hadn't admitted it, but Harm sensed his handler had been coerced into loaning him out to the tertiary entity. He understood the man's concern. PETS didn't fly the most palatable of missions. But Deputy Director Kershaw hadn't pulled any punches when he explained what flying for the Agency might mean. Never one to shirk responsibility, Harm squared his shoulders and faced head on whatever was thrown his way.
On the grand scale, today he lucked out. The aircraft was top shelf and the flight turned out to be a relative milk run. Nevertheless, it left a sour taste in his mouth. You just didn't drop storage containers from the sky into the Atlantic Ocean without a good reason. Apparently the contents were 'need to know', and someone back at Langley decided he didn't. Uneasy, he nevertheless dumped the cargo and returned to the small airfield at Staszow.
Expecting to refuel and receive his next PETS orders, he was directed to taxi the Gulfstream into Hangar 13 instead. Farthest from the terminal, the structure was abutted by steep, green hillsides to the left and weary, rundown administrative facilities on the right.
Disembarking, he found a mechanic waiting for him at the bottom of the jet's steps. "What's the problem?" Harm asked, his voice echoing in the nearly empty chamber.
"The boss called. He wants me to replace the aileron on the port side."
"That could take a while," Harm said.
"Need to be somewhere soon?" the heavily bearded, thickly bespectacled man asked.
"I don't have a clue," Harm answered.
"Well there's soup and sandwiches in the office. Help yourself. Just look out for Gregor."
"Gregor?"
The mechanic kicked over an open bag of 'kitty litter'. The clay granules, commonly used to clean up liquid spills, scattered across the spotless floor.
"McPherson!"
Hearing the pattering feet on rapid approach, Harm turned around and immediately spotted the bright pink bubble hiding the identity behind it. That was until an unexpected tear caused the bubble to burst, covering the blower's face with a sticky layer of gum.
Undeterred by the mishap, the man kept coming, barking his loud warning. "Make way! Gregor is coming through. Gregor is strong, cheap labor."
Harm stepped aside just in time, saving his shoes an unnecessary dusting from the four-foot wide, industrial mop being pushed on a mission.
The mechanic scowled. "McPherson, you're an idiot!"
"Uh oh." The mop fell to the floor as the bubble-clad man stopped short, his hands going to his ears in an attempt to stave off further verbal abuse.
"What are you doing! Clean up the mess you fool!"
When the quasi janitor started reaching for the mop, Harm beat him to it. Turning to the bullying mechanic, he thrust the wooden handle at him. "You made the mess. You clean it up." Not waiting for his reaction, Harm turned towards the office. Gregor followed close on his heels.
"Robert is not going to be happy with you."
"I'm not worried."
The man clapped his hands. "Don't worry, be happy!"
"Yeah, something like that," Harm laughed.
"Sissy is not going to be happy with Gregor," the man frowned, rubbing ineffectually at the gum plastering his face while Harm ladled himself a bowl of hot tomato soup.
"Try wiping your face with the gum that's left in your mouth. That sometimes helps."
Harm sipped the tasty soup while Gregor stood in front of a mirror, dabbing his face with the remainder of the fragrant wad. His face lit up with a happy grin when the last remnants of the burst bubble came off with ease. The clean up completed, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of small, waxy comic strips that came with each pad of gum. Smiling widely, he asked "Do you like Bazooka Joe too?"
Harm tried to answer but his mouth refused to work. Next his body began withering to the floor. His mind registered the paralysis spreading through his veins but could do nothing to stop the crippling affect it had on his limbs. The mechanic standing over him was the last thing he remembered seeing. "Take him to the hospital," the last thing he heard. (end forgotten memory)
"Who hurt 52!"
"Robert did," Cynthia answered.
Drawn back to the present by Gregor's loud concern, Harm looked down at Robert Kroger. He no longer wore his mechanic's disguise.
Meanwhile, Gregor snarled at the dead man then turned his attention back to Harm. Seeing the red cheeks and bloody nostril, the man dubiously eyed his sister.
"Sissy hurt 52 too. Sissy didn't use numby."
"He's no worse for wear."
"Sissy wrong. 52 needs cleaned. 52 needs nappie."
Harm's eyes widened as his new and diligent caregiver reached underneath the table and came up with a towel and adult-sized diaper.
"Don't worry about that now. Get me four buckets of ice water."
"Gregor help. Gregor is strong, cheap labor." With work to be done, the one-track man set the hygienic supplies aside and wasted no time leaving the room.
"Why did … you kill … Kroger?" Harm managed, choosing not to share his recently retrieved memory.
"He got me into this mess. Never listening when I told him there were too many. Never listening when I told him I needed more time."
"Too many what?"
"Subjects. But enough questions, I'm out of time. You have one last chance to tell me -- How do you remember?"
Harm stared at the once-again, seemingly sane woman, wondering if he heard right. "How? … Not 'what'?" he asked tentatively.
Fussing with her laptop, Cynthia looked up and scowled. "Yes, 'how' do you remember?"
Harm closed his eyes, realizing he hadn't heard her wrong. He almost blurted out 'Lady, you're crazy!', but thought better of it, even though she had gone off the deep end hours ago and was sinking fast.
"No answer? Fine, let's prepare you for return to your wife," she said, simultaneously recording and typing at a furious pace on her laptop.
Subject 52's Corridor was isolated 30 minutes ago. Memory editing sequence will begin once core temperature drops to 94. Meanwhile, car accident scenario is being modified to incorporate new elements.
"You won't get away with this!"
Controlled doses of lysergic acid diethylamide, phencyclidine, and a derivative of sodium amatol will be administered. Electromagnetic stimulation will be set at .0003 microvolts per millisecond to maintain Alpha waves at 8.3 Hz frequency. The algorithmic model forecasts reprogramming will be accomplished in 18 hours. Drug residue will still be in Subject 52's system when he is found down a secluded embankment. Its presence will add credence to Subject being under the influence while losing control of his SUV on his way home from an intimate weekend tryst with his mistress.
"What!"
"You have to pay," she answered simply, making quick work of spreading his toes and following through with the documented drugs.
Then Harm's stomach flip-flopped as the woman's sharp nails coerced his wedding band from his clenched fist. After stashing the ring deep in the pocket of his displaced pants, she bent her head towards his. With pragmatic efficiency, she left a trail of lipstick on his neck, culminating with a deliberate red imprint on his white shirt collar.
The stage set to her satisfaction, she smirked. "I think that will do quite nicely."
"I'll remember!"
"Like you remember everything from the last time? Oh dear, I'm quaking with concern."
Sobered by the truth of the statement, Harm searched desperately for any mental protection that might conquer the onslaught – an onslaught unlike any biological virus unleashed in his body. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he probably did the same thing once before and was only able to recall a couple meaningless pieces of the puzzle. Unwilling to give up, he whispered as much to the woman threatening his very essence as for himself and Mac – "I promise I'll remember everything."
Cynthia was about to mock the pitiful attempt when her brother returned.
"Sissy, Gregor brought the water."
"Fine, you know what to do. Put a nappie on him too."
"Where is Sissy going?"
In juvenile retribution for Subject 52's vocal audacity, she looked pointedly at said Subject and answered, "I need to check on Peter," then turned and left the room.
The first bucket of cold water revived the pain on his torso.
Harm gasped. "Gregor, who is … Peter?"
"Peter is Gregor's nephew. I watch over him for Sissy. He's sleeping."
The second bucket immediately followed, drenching his already damp clothes.
"Oh God … Gregor, help me … Undo the ropes."
"Sissy helps 52."
"No … listen to me. Sissy isn't helping me. Sissy is hurting 52."
"I help Sissy. Gregor is strong, cheap labor."
The third bucket of icy slurry had him trembling in the cold environs.
"Gregor, please … Sissy hurt me … Look at my face … Sissy hurt 52 … Untie the ropes."
The man paused momentarily, seemingly considering the simple logic before emptying the final bucket. Not knowing how to get through to the man and running out of time, Harm tried another approach. Groaning loudly as much from the discomfort as for effect, he said, "Gregor is hurting 52."
"No! Gregor not hurt 52. Gregor likes 52. 52 helped Gregor once."
Remembering the odd dream, Harm jumped on the opportunity. "Yes I did … now help me … Untie the ropes."
The man looked down sadly upon his charge while affixing the humiliating diaper. "Only two wires left on 52's head. Two wires means 52 goes away soon. Two wires means 52 no longer remembers Gregor."
"Not if you untie the ropes … 52 won't forget Gregor."
The man's eyes brightened as the warped reasoning began falling in place. "52 will remember Gregor?" he asked cautiously, touching one of the ropes securing Harm's right arm.
"Yes! … But you have to untie the ropes."
"52 helped Gregor once. Gregor will help 52 now."
"Gregor, stop!" Cynthia shouted, returning to the room just as the man's fingers started working the first knot.
"Gregor wants 52 to remember me!"
"I said stop!"
When he didn't, the blood from the exit wound, made by the bullet piercing his head, mixed with the blood already on Harm's chest and face.
"No!" Harm yelled, having no doubts about the simple man's death. Minutes later, even as the mind altering, hallucinatory drugs seeped through his veins, he continued the mantra. "I promise I'll remember."
But when the EEG's switch was flipped to 'transmit', even Harmon Rabb Junior was no match for the army of jackhammers that started breaking apart his mind. 'Under construction' took on a whole new meaning as the sledgehammers followed, trying to fit square pegs into round holes. His bowels emptied and he screamed.
---------------------
Not unlike she'd done with Chloe when concentrating on finding Harm in the vast Atlantic, Mac's fingers intertwined with Spencer's. For thirty minutes, they sat with their eyes closed, focusing their energy to cut through the turmoil and static. Committed to the attempt, neither had seen Clayton Webb slip silently from the room. But his return coincided with the first shared vision that rewarded their combined effort.
"Hooks … from a ceiling … a storage facility … maybe a walk-in cooler … to keep food cold … a local shop? … maybe … but where? …" They voiced the clues alternately.
"913 Nottingham Way," Webb answered, pulling out a local map. "Tierny's Meat Market. Or at least it was at one time."
His trance broken by the unexpected interruption, Spencer asked "How do you know?"
Webb shrugged. "I gave you the benefit of the doubt that you really did narrow the possibilities to Leeds. So I had intelligence analysts back at Langley look for any connections with McPherson."
Mac extricated her hands from Spencer's. "They found something?"
"She inherited a building from an uncle, a local butcher. It's been abandoned and boarded up for years," Webb answered, pinpointing the address on the map.
As they ran from the room, Spencer pumped his fist in satisfaction and with misplaced enthusiasm grinned. "A meat market. We were on the right track!"
-----------------
Cynthia McPherson was coming apart at the seams as she sawed through the last of the ropes with an old hacksaw found outside the room. It was quicker than untying the knots that had tightened as they air dried along with Subject 52's clothes.
With her Subject now free of his bonds, she took a deep drag on her cigarette, feeling euphoric one moment while despairing the next. Gathering her wits, she dealt with the smelly, soiled diaper next, tossing it in the corner. Grunting as she struggled to turn Subject 52's unconscious form on his side, she cleaned him, having no desire to be as conscientious as her brother. She was perspiring heavily by the time she pulled the pants back in place, cursing they had come down so much easier. After her time-consuming effort to return them above his hips, his belt was absentmindedly left undone.
Frantic minutes were spent trying to locate his wayward sock and shoe. If she had looked under her brother's stomach, she would have found them. Losing sight of the important detail, she let his foot go undressed, choosing instead to deal haphazardly with the buttons on his shirt. In the end, she was oblivious to her poor level of workmanship, skipping more than she buttoned.
Stepping back to survey her work, she stumbled over the two dead bodies -- her strong, cheap labor. And just like that, one oversight came crushing down around her. For her Doctorate in Behavioral Science, coupled with a lifetime of research, would be of no help carrying Subject 52's limp, 200 pound form up the stairs. Unable to do that herself, there could be no final staging in his SUV to support the replacement scenario.
As that reality sank in, she staggered desolately from the room. Turning off the light, she slammed the door shut behind her before securing the outside deadbolt. Plodding up the stairs and into the bedroom, the cigarette dangled from her quivering lips as tears streamed down her face. Standing over the bed, she fired the pistol.
---------------------
"Do we have a plan?" Spencer asked as they cautiously made their way down the dark alley.
The hairs on the back of Mac's neck bristled with her reply. "I smell smoke."
Webb pointed to the orange flames starting to light up the night sky. "Let's go!"
Any formal planning and regard for caution was thrown to the wind as they barreled to the back entrance of 913 Nottingham Way. With guns drawn, Webb kicked in the door. The new supply of fresh air fed the hot flames overtaking the first floor.
"Downstairs," Spencer directed, cautiously descending the dark steps, his personally planted beacon brightly burning due to the close proximity.
With the men covering both sides of the only doorframe in sight, Mac pulled back the deadbolt and went down on one knee as she pushed the door open. Her eyes now adjusted to the limited light, she was prepared to shoot anything standing between her and her husband. But in the darkened room she found nothing standing. Instead, the shadowy figures of two dead bodies littered the floor while her dazed husband tried to push himself up off the wooden table.
Rushing to his side, Mac offered a supportive hold. "Harm, you're going to be okay." She bit her lip when he pulled away, as if burned by her touch. Further assurances fell on deaf ears when his confused expression turned to outright fear upon seeing a resurrected Admiral Spencer.
To his rescuers, his shoeless foot and unkempt clothing were as disconcerting as his bloody face and battered chest. But they were no where near the magnitude of horror left by the remnants of wire protruding from his nose and cheeks, or the tremors wracking his body.
"Let's go! The fire is coming through the ceiling!" Webb shouted, still guarding the entrance while Spencer gathered the errant photos and drugs, stuffing them into the black satchel.
As part of the ceiling started raining sparks, they needed no more incentive. Grabbing the bag, Spencer pulled Harm into a fireman's carry. He then followed as Webb led the way back up the smoke-filled staircase. Mac was right on his heels. Reaching the relative fresh air of the vacant alley, Spencer eased his burden onto the ground and immediately used what light there was to attend to the remnants of the less-than-mainstream electrodes.
Harm groaned as the once-deceased man's hands converged onto his burning face. Through the discomfort, an aroma of chemical compounds ingrained in Spencer's fingers reached his nose. The calluses on those finger tips were indicative of recent years of manual lab work rather than theoretical research. His inability to explain the reference only added to his feeling of suffocation. He tried to pull away. Unsuccessful, his mind vacated the premises, making another trip down memory lane, or more accurately careened down a highway reminiscent of a demolition derby.
(dream) It was like waking to find yourself cast, without your permission, in a Star Trek scene. Only it wasn't Spock performing the mind meld. It was … Admiral Spencer!
The retired Admiral's ten fingers were none-too-gently probing every space on his head and face -- a task made much easier given the mass of wires he vaguely remembered tearing from his head.
As his former client continued his exploration, his own attempts to communicate were prevented by an all-encompassing inability to function beyond seeing or thinking. The shortcoming turned out to be a moot point when the odd examination was abruptly interrupted.
"Get out, Harrison! Get out now!" Cynthia demanded.
"My God. Is he who they've been looking for the past three days?" Spencer asked, withdrawing his hands.
"No. What they were looking for is beyond your comprehension. Now if you hope to ever continue your own research, you'll walk out of here and forget everything you saw!"
"But he's Commander Harmon Rabb of the U.S. Navy."
"Not anymore. You're living proof the Company is filled with misfits and unwanted transplants."
"But—"
"He's Subject 52 and I suggest you leave it at that!"
With a last glance at his former defense counsel, Harrison Spencer turned away only to pause as the strangled plea for help reached his ears. Hanging his head, he walked out the door, having never looked back. (end dream)
The pain and shouting dragged Harm's attention back to the present, the dream already forgotten.
"I'll bring the car around," Webb advised, taking off running.
"He needs an ambulance!" Mac yelled to his retreating form.
"… no hospitals …" Harm squirmed desperately, adding his weak two cents to the argument as smoke billowed from the open door.
"Harm, you need help."
He coughed hard. "… no hospitals!"
Finished with the de-wiring, Spencer nodded to the black satchel. "He's likely associating the equipment and drugs used on him with a hospital setting. Cynthia's process was —"
Spencer stopped short realizing the woman's whereabouts were still unconfirmed, yet her equipment and laptop remained in the basement bunker.
"What are you doing?" Mac yelled as he headed towards the burning building.
"Her research is still in there! She keeps the only copies. It'll take years to recompile if it's destroyed."
"You'll never make it back out!" Mac shouted as Spencer disappeared inside.
Her attention diverted, only her Marine-honed reflexes kept Harm from following the same path. "Harm, no!" Not waiting for an explanation, she grabbed his arm, spinning him around. When he made another effort for the door, she tackled him, knocking him onto his back.
"Let me go! He's in there!"
"It's his choice," Mac grunted as she held his determined body down, not understanding his desperate need to return to the inferno.
"NO!" he cried as the first floor could be heard collapsing into the basement.
Sensing the fight go out of him as quickly as it surfaced, Mac moved off his prone form and carefully lifted his head onto her lap. "Harm, it's Mac. Do you remember what happened?"
If her earlier touched had burned him, her question now engulfed him, obliterating all previous thoughts. He looked frantically down at his chest and came up with "… car accident …"
"Hang in there, Harm. We'll get you help."
His body unable to cope with the 72 hours of depraved captivity, he sagged defeated.
"… no hospitals …"
Mac gripped him tighter. "I'll call Lenny and Connie. No hospitals. I promise."
The squeal of tires against concrete announced Webb's return. A moment later he hopped out of the car and assisted getting Harm into the back seat. "Damn it, where's Spencer?"
Mac got in the rear seat as well, reestablishing her hold on Harm before answering. "He went back inside." They waited a hopeless ten more seconds; leaving the area as the first sounds of sirens could be heard.
------------
Buried under a blanket in the dark car, Harm slept fitfully during the 80 minute ride back to their flat in London. Though Mac didn't voice it, she was grateful for Clay's rapid transit, but fumed at his continued reticence in sharing specific details of the 'non-op'. En route she contacted Commander Leonard McCoy and his wife Constance, filling them in on what details she knew.
Feeling Harm trembling in her arms, she regretted her promise not to seek hospital care, but found some solace knowing the couple would be waiting at the Rabb flat by the time their patient arrived.
Old friends of Harm's from his Naval Academy days, they had reconnected in London. Both couples now socialized frequently, the three friends quickly making Mac feel equally welcome as they shared old memories and, more importantly, made new ones as a foursome.
Lenny McCoy served as Flight Surgeon at RAF Lakenheath. As such he had also seen Harm on a professional basis, conducting the physical needed for his limited flight hours, while other times keeping Harm mobile when his back acted up. Lenny's wife, Connie, much to Mac's sometime chagrin, was a psychologist -- a much respected and highly educated one at that. With a deep sense of foreboding, Mac feared Connie's widespread experiences in the field would be needed.
Sensing he was home, Harm stirred just in time to be able to get his unequally clad feet under him. Clay and Lenny each took one of his arms over their shoulders; the latter holding up Harm's trousers while Mac led them into the quiet flat. Busy turning on the lights, she missed the silent exchange between Lenny and his wife, both abhorring the condition of their good friend.
"… Mac? … What's happening? … Why was I in … that room? … Why Webb? … Mac? … Why Webb? …"
Unable to follow the disjointed questions, made more unintelligible by the raspy nature of his weak voice, Mac said instead. "You're home Harm. Help is here."
"Everyone out," Lenny quietly ordered as Harm curled into a fetal position on the bed.
"But—" Mac started to argue, trying to step around the doctor's protective form.
"I need some time alone with him. Connie, check out this satchel. Let me know what we're dealing with. Mac, get me some juice or water. Do you have any soup?"
Mac nodded, torn between leaving and pulling together the requested items.
"Please heat some up."
"I need to talk to him," Webb protested.
"Not until I say so," McCoy whispered with authority. "Now make yourself useful and bring me some towels, hot water and soap," he added, ushering everyone from the room.
