Chapter 7
Jackson, the guard assigned to watch Johnny, sat a couple of yards away from the cot to listen to anything he said in his fever-induced delirium. So far all Jackson could make out where bits of conversations bordering between flirting and jokes with various women, Sarah, Rebecca, Anna, and an Alex, who despite the name must also be a woman, Jackson was convinced. The boss didn't want Johnny to be left alone in the room in case he decided to attempt suicide.
The guard was highly skeptical that Smith was in any kind of position to off himself. Jackson hadn't seen what happened in the interrogation room, but he had been called in to help move Johnny back to this room. The man was half conscious while they half carried him and half dragged him. Fresh blood had soaked the bandages wrapped around his arm and his face sported a bloody lip and a dark bruise on the left cheek. Jackson had replaced some of the bandages, but he had not completely unwrapped the wound for fear that it might bleed more profusely. He had helped Smith take a few sips of water before the sweat soaked, shivering man fell into a fretting sleep.
Jackson had seen his share of wounded people before his discharge from the army and had pointed out to the arguing heads of the band, that the prisoner would die if he didn't get any medical attention soon. That would not put them in good standing with the people in Chicago. He had almost dozed off, head pillowed by his arms on the table, when he heard the door being unlocked. He snapped to alertness, as the boss and his second in command strode in.
"They are late with that doctor." The boss said to him. "I don't like it. Something might have happened. Wake Smith up. I need to talk to him."
"I'll try," said Jackson. "He seems pretty out of it."
He walked over to the cot where Johnny lay facing the wall and shook his unharmed shoulder. The prisoner's only response was to inch away from the touch. Jackson could feel the heat emanating from his shivering body. With firm pressure on the shoulders, he rolled Johnny onto his back. He then emphasized his call to wake up with a couple of slaps on the face. Johnny opened his eyes briefly and then closed them.
Impatiently, the boss stepped next to Jackson and poured an open bottle of water over Johnny's head. With a gasp of surprise, Johnny woke up, blinking several times to try to focus his blurry vision and get rid of shimmering bright lights that seemed to be floating in the air. Johnny could make out the dark-clothed shapes of the three men hovering over him, but he couldn't see their facial features since they were, as usual, covered by ski masks.
"Smith, we need to have a little chat," said the boss. "Let's sit at the table, like civilized people."
Jackson helped Johnny stand up and take the few steps to the closest chair. At the physical contact, Johnny flashed into the briefest of visions.
He sees three bloodied bodies sprawled on a gravel driveway. He recognizes them even before he kneels next to the closest one. The corpse lies on his back, eyes staring unfocused to the sky, congealed blood and grey matter leaking from behind his head.
Johnny shook off Jackson's hold and plopped down on the chair. While with one hand holding to Johnny's shoulder so he wouldn't slip off the chair, Jackson took out a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and showed them to the boss.
"No need for those right now," the boss said pulling chair next to Johnny's and sitting astride it. He grasped both of Johnny's hands and held them on top of the table with a firm grip. "Just tell me what you see Smith."
Johnny gasped at the touch that felt like fire tearing through tender, swollen flesh of his left arm. The pain become more remote as he got immersed in a vision.
He is standing on the U-shaped gravel driveway of the same large, two story log cabin surrounded on three sides by evergreen woods and on the other side by a wide lawn which slopes down to a pond. It looks like a secluded New England vacation spot for a wealthy family. Johnny doesn't recognize the area, but knows it could be anywhere in Maine or its neighboring states.
A few inches of snow cover the grassy area surrounding the cabin. Light flurries are covering the numerous vehicles parked around the house. Johnny walks around the vehicles and sees the New Hampshire license plates and insignia. The house is surrounded by police officers and other law enforcement types. Johnny is distracted from exploring the vision by the pain in his arm, which is becoming more intense.
"Don't…Don't press so hard or I'll lose the vision." Johnny said through clenched teeth, startling the men who had been staring at his far-away look. The boss released his left arm while keeping a tight hold on his right arm.
Johnny decided that there was no point in lying about what he saw in his vision. "I see a big log cabin in the woods with a wrap-around porch and a pond nearby. There are several SUVs and a police cars parked around the house. There is an ambulance too and some sort of van. A gurney with a zipped-up black body bag is being carried out of the front door."
Johnny stares at the body bag; a feeling of dread clutches his stomach. He is glad that he can't see who is in the bag because of nagging possibility that he would be staring at his own lifeless face. He has seen his own death in visions before and it has not become any easier. At least so far he has always managed to avert it. But now he is less sure than ever on how to go about saving his own neck. Johnny doesn't really feel panicked about it, just a sense of bone-deep weariness.
"Uniformed cops are escorting out of the house two handcuffed men dressed like you. Since I have never seen your lovely faces I don't know if it's you. The taller guy has a shaved head and a thin brown mustache. The other one has short-cropped dirty blonde hair."
With a worried expression, Jackson looked at their boss who signaled him not to speak.
"Is this going to happen soon?" The boss said. "Smith, you better not be lying."
"I don't know when it's going to happen. I can't see the sun, the sky is grey and it's snowing. It could be morning or afternoon. You figure it out." Johnny continued. "There is a helicopter coming down. It's so loud, I can't hear what anybody is saying." Johnny stopped his description, his attention totally focused on the vision.
He searches the sky looking for the helicopter that is making the deafening sound. It's a blue and red MEDEVAC landing on the grass by the lake. With the corner of his eye, he notices that a couple of people are approaching the front porch. He recognizes both women, one is sheriff Turner and the other is Harriet Stone a special agent he had met during his very brief stint working for a government intelligence unit.
"What else is going? What are you hiding?" said the boss. He hauled Johnny to his feet. "We don't have time for this."
"Now I see nothing, but I think that the police will be here soon," Johnny said in a calm voice that didn't seem to belong to his trembling body. "I hope you are not going to do anything that is going to get a lot of us killed."
"What's he talking about? How could the police find us here?" said one of the men.
"I don't know if he telling the truth or lying, but it's taking those two too long to come back with the doctor. We need to get out of here. Bind him and make sure he can't see anything. I am sick of these hot ski masks," said the boss on his way out of the room. "Let's grab the gear and go to the next safe house. The others can catch up if they are able."
When they were alone in the room, Jackson approached Johnny with the handcuffs.
"Wait, before you truss me up, can I put on that sweatshirt? It's freezing in here," said Johnny pointing to the lump of clothing on the floor next to the cot. The fever had taken another spike and his shoulder and back muscles were tightening from uncontrollable shivers. Since the last couple of visions, the throbbing at his temples had gotten worse.
Jackson handed him the sweatshirt. Johnny had to grit his teeth as he removed the sling and slowly maneuvered the stiff, swollen limb into the sleeve. Without waiting to be asked, Jackson helped him with the other sleeve, pulled up the zipper and placed the sling over his head.
"Thanks," said Johnny maneuvering the arm back in the sling. "Listen, Jackson I know that you don't want my advice. But if your boss makes any harsh decisions about my life when the cops get here, you could all get killed or face the death penalty later on. You might want to think about whether your kids back in Maine deserve to face that just for the sake of doing a job for a group of blood-thirsty whackos in Chicago. I bet you would have no part in it if you knew what they wanted to do. Aren't you wondering why it's all a big secret?"
Jackson looked at Johnny as if he was going to reply to the question, but then he heard the boss outside yelling for everybody to hurry up and he stayed silent.
The last kindness Johnny received were three extra-strength ibuprofen tablets and a glass of tap water. Without a thought about what they would do to his long empty stomach or his bleeding wounds, he chugged everything down gratefully. Then, Jackson handcuffed Johnny's wrist together in front of him. After blindfolding him with a torn black shirt, Jackson guided Johnny up the stairs and led him to stand by a wall. Johnny's fingers were sticky with blood that had already seeped through the bandages and sweatshirt as he held the wounded arm against his stomach trying to find the least painful position for it.
Johnny couldn't see what was happening, but he could hear the sounds of heavy footsteps moving quickly on the wood floors of the house, intermingled with the clatter of dropped objects and slammed doors. He leaned against the wall, fighting the desire to submit to exhaustion and slide down to sit on the floor. No matter how tempting that sounded, he knew that it would hurt more to stand up afterwards. Judging from the pain in his arm and head, the slow but continuous blood loss, and the fever that seemed to have hit a new surge, he knew that he was on the verge of passing out. But he desperately wanted to hold on to consciousness to face what was to come when the police arrived.
Despite his attempts to stay alert and try to figure out what was going on by intently listening to every sound, Johnny had started to drift off in a half daze. He caught himself from slipping down against the wall when he heard the crunching sound of multiple vehicles riding on gravel.
"This is the FBI and the sheriff's department. You are surrounded. Release Johnny Smith and come out with your hands up," said a voice from a loudspeaker.
"Holy shit, they are here," someone hissed nearby. "Smith's vision is coming true."
A heavy hand firmly gripped Johnny's injured shoulder and slammed him backwards pinning him against the wall while a metal nozzle jabbed him in the neck. Eyes tearing up in pain, Johnny recognized the boss's voice.
"Smith, if you want to live past the next few minutes, don't say a word or do anything stupid. You are now going to come with me, while we go greet our visitors. The rest of you back me up."
He pushed Johnny forward and moved what was obviously the muzzle of a gun to the side of his head. Someone must have opened the front door, because Johnny felt a frigid breeze that brought in some clear air. For the briefest of moments it washed away the pungent staleness of fermented locker room-grade sweat and metallic dried up blood emanating from his own unwashed body.
They took a couple of steps forward and stopped. Everything seemed strangely quiet and Johnny realized that it was snowing when light taps touched his bare hands and dissolved in wetness. He heard several metallic clicks and sensed many pairs of eyes watching them. The boss' heavy breathing wafting above his shoulder brought the overpowering foul smell of some onion-rich food that made Johnny even more nauseous than he already was. As the boss dug his fingers more firmly into his shoulder to pull him closer as a human body shield, Johnny stopped in mid cringe as he got thrown into a vision.
He sees himself being held at gunpoint in the doorway of the cabin. The place is surrounded by various law enforcement types, frozen in position as they aim their weapons in the direction of the cabin. Johnny recognizes the mix of local police and FBI agents that he has seen in his previous visions. He sees Turner standing near her local counterpart behind the open doors of one of the closest cars. It's snowing but visibility is still pretty good.
"I don't have a clear visual," says the sharpshooter positioned next to her. "He's holding the hostage too close."
"Are we positive that's Smith? The clothes don't match the description and his face is covered by the blindfold."
"That's Johnny, I am sure," says Anna. "Tell your people to be ready to back him up. I know that he doesn't look like he is in a position to do anything, but I am sure he will if sees the opportunity."
"He can't see anything," one of the plain clothes men next to her says.
"I think that the way things have progressed so far in this investigation should have convinced you that there might be more than one way of seeing things, especially when Smith is involved." Anna looks around her glance stopping in Johnny's direction, almost as if she could see him. "Just be ready for anything."
While the boss threatens to shot his other arm and then kill him if his demand are not met, Johnny tries to memorize the position of the cabin and the surrounding people and vehicles.
As they start to step backwards into the cabin, hostage Johnny suddenly twists his body releasing the boss's hold on his shoulder and lunges forward. The gun falls to the floor, but the boss recovers too quickly and tackles Johnny to the ground before he makes it out of the porch. Gun fire from the cabin provides a cover for the boss to drag him back inside. Snow begins to fall more heavily.
Johnny snapped out of the vision while the boss started yelling his demands. His thunderous voice pounded Johnny's ear drums.
"Unless you want me to shoot Smith right in front of you, you are going to do what I say. First, I want all these cars moved back at least 100 yards away from the cabin and the road. Go in the woods or jump in the lake for all I care. If that's not done within the next ten minutes I am going to shoot Smith in the right shoulder. Next you are all not going to move a muscle while we walk out of the cabin, get into our cars and leave. The first sign of a car or helicopter following us is going to cost Smith a bullet in the right arm. The third strike and you are going to find his dead body along the road. None of these demands are negotiable."
The boss pulled Johnny to make him back-up in the cabin. While starting to retreat, Johnny leaned forward, as if trying to regain his balance, before violently slamming his head backwards into the boss's face. The sound of shattering cartilage and bone was unmistakable as the man cried in anguish and dropped his gun. Ignoring the jarring pain to the back of his skull, Johnny ducked down and lunged his body toward were he guessed the porch steps where.
Fresh waves of pain shot up his arm and ribs as he hit each stone step. His rolling fall down the steps stopped when his back smashed against what felt like a large irregular rock. Almost out of breath from the hard smack in the ribs in the same spots where he had been pummeled a few hours earlier. He controlled his breathing so that it wouldn't hurt so much. Trying to remember what he had seen in his vision, he crawled parallel to the steps to hide behind the porch's stone retaining wall, hoping that it would keep him out of sight of the cabin windows. Gunfire ricochet nearby.
"Stay down Smith," someone shouted above the gunfire. "Our guys have almost reached you."
Frustrated by his inability to see what is going on, Johnny tried to pull down the blindfold with his hands. The slight motion flared up an agonizing pain. While he crouched low with his back against the wall, he felt a warm dampness spreading on his stomach underneath his handcuffed hands. He guessed that the arm wound, which was now throbbing fiercely was bleeding more profusely. The warmth of the blood strangely contrasted the cold wetness of the falling snow and slushy ground which seeped into his thin clothes.
After minutes trying to sort through the sounds of guns shots, yelled commands, and assorted responses, Johnny tensed when he heard someone approach.