Chapter Two
Speaking Of Beautiful And Impossible Things
Two weeks later, Michael jogged determinedly around the extensive perimeter of the vast Knight Estate. He was wearing his favourite blue tracksuit and running shoes for comfort.
Wilton had sent a team to clear out Michael's rented apartment of his clothes and personal belongings. He hadn't bothered to ask his guest's permission, which annoyed Michael deeply when he found all his things had been delivered to his room. He was beginning to feel as if he'd never existed at all. But determination to prove that idea wrong drove him on.
With each passing day, his muscles became stronger, and he could run further without tiring. He had nothing else to occupy his mind and soul beyond getting back to full fitness as soon as possible. He pushed his limits anew every day and always returned to his room dead tired but satisfied with his progress. He slept, showered, ran and ate by strict rotation.
He was out of the house at dawn and didn't return until dusk. He rarely spoke to anyone, and apart from Wilton, no one bothered him much at all.
Devon Miles was certainly not one to seek out his company. Which was fine with Michael. He knew Wilton's second-in-command was still intent on removing Michael from the house as soon as he could. He didn't see any need for him to remain, living on the old man's largesse.
That was also fine by Michael. He would be leaving as soon as he'd regained his full fitness. Then he had a mission to complete.
The good Dr Wesley continued to follow his patient's progress with anxious eyes. More than once, the physician shook his head and repeated his wish that Michael not overdo things and attempt to overreach the limits of his endurance. These words of caution only stimulated Michael to go further and push harder.
"Have it your way." Wesley finally threw up his hands and surrendered to the inevitable. But he sought out his boss to give him a detailed report outlining all his concerns.
"You worry like an old mother hen with a single chick," Wilton summarily dismissed those concerns as he stood just outside the glass French doors of his office, looking down into the grounds. "Michael's fine. Leave him be. He knows himself and his limits."
Of course, he worried about the same thing. But he wasn't about to admit it. He had plans for the young man whose life he'd saved. He didn't have time now to weather any setbacks in Michael's steady progress to full recovery.
Dr Wesley shrugged. "Then don't blame me if that young man falls asleep behind the wheel of his car and wraps his pretty new face around a tree. He shouldn't be doing half of what he's doing now. I tried to speak to him about it again this morning but he ignored my concerns."
"You want to keep him strapped to a bed and still under your control," Wilton observed sourly. "That young man died once and I don't think he liked it."
He raised the binoculars hanging on a leather strap around his neck to watch Michael's progress along the driveway that snaked through the gardens. He silently marvelled at how far he had come in such a short time. "The only judge of his limitations is Michael himself. And he looks good to me. He's improving every day."
He glanced back at the doctor. "You and Devon both want the same thing. To see that young man gone from here as soon as possible. Well, let me tell you something. I have plans for him and I will make them work. Nothing you or Devon can do or say will change my mind. Put that in your report."
He leaned on his cane and coughed. He grimaced at the sour taste that flooded his mouth. "Now go away and leave me be…" he snarled.
"Very well. Have it your own way…" The doctor threw up his hands as he turned away. "You always do. But don't say I didn't warn you…"
"I won't," Wilton replied as he stepped further outside into the warm afternoon air.
From the house's elevated vantage point among the hills, the vast city of Los Angeles sprawled from horizon to horizon. The high rises of the downtown shouldered their way into the sky far away to the left and were wreathed in a low-lying smog.
But Wilton wasn't interested in the impressive view he'd seen countless times. Up here, the air was clear and fresh, and he only had eyes for one thing.
He walked forward to lean on the massive stone balustrade of the balcony above the grounds. For some time, he watched Michael's progress through his binoculars. He nodded with satisfaction and waved to draw the younger man's attention when he finally turned back toward him.
Michael shrugged as he jogged up the wide flight of stone steps with ease. He ran on the spot for a few moments before coming to a stop and waited to see what the old man wanted with him now. He doubted it was anything he needed to hear.
"Aren't you pushing it a bit, Michael?" Wilton asked. "You've hardly risen from your bed and you're running for hours at a time."
Michael wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I've got to get back into shape fast. I've lost too much ground already and I've still got a job to do. But please, don't think I don't appreciate your hospitality."
His lips twisted with wry humour. "I'd pay you back if I still had access to my bank accounts. But I can't exactly walk into a bank now, with this new face, and try to convince them that I'm still Michael Long."
"Forget it." Wilton waved an impatient hand. "Your accounts are safe enough. Devon saw to that. But I have my reasons and money isn't one of them."
The old man regarded him closely. "And what would that job be anyway? What's so urgent?"
Michael frowned at him. "There's a woman named Tanya and two friends of hers that need taking care of. By me. Personally. For Muntzy, and the man I used to be."
"Revenge?" Wilton queried with a sigh. "It can leave a bitter taste in your mouth. It won't keep you warm at night."
Michael shrugged. "Not just revenge. Maybe Muntzy and I were blown or maybe I just blew it myself. But either way, I've got to be the one to finish the job. We were after them for industrial espionage on a very large scale. They've gotten away with it for years. Now they're going down on charges of homicide. Muntzy's and mine."
"Dead or alive?" Wilton queried with a sharp note of regret. "It won't allow you to sleep any better."
Michael looked impatient to be gone. "Their choice. I'll make it as easy or as hard as they want. I got nothing but time, now." His lips thinned. "I'm dead, remember?"
"But do you have to pursue such a selfish course? After all, you're not a cop anymore. You're not even Michael Long anymore. In the eyes of the world, you're not even alive anymore."
"I get that." Michael firmed his stance. "Look, I didn't become a cop for the money, or the pension, or the sense of power it gives some guys. I became a cop because there's things wrong with this world that need fixing. And I've a mind to be the guy that starts a revolution of making the bad guys pay for their crimes. Quietly or with a full brass band. I don't care."
Wilton nodded. "Like Tanya and her friends?"
"Yeah, like Tanya and her cowardly friends. They need to be put away before anyone else gets killed or worse. And lots more like them. The world is full of bad men. All of them need retribution. Someone to tell them that what they're doing just isn't right or fair."
Wilton watched him. "There is an endless supply of such men, I'd say. But why you? You're just one man. They've already killed you once."
Michael squared up to him. "Because just one man can make a difference, that's why. And I happen to be that man. I've got nothing to lose. Tanya took it all away when she shot me in the face."
Wilton's hands clenched. "And you really believe that?"
"Let's just say I wouldn't want to live in a world where I couldn't believe it." Michael shook his head. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I need to get back to getting into shape. Your chef will soon be serving up a very rare steak and eggs with my name on it. After that, I plan on using your pool to swim some more lengths."
He paused and frowned. "If that's still okay with you. I mean, whenever I see him around, Devon keeps giving me the impression I'm not too welcome around here."
He lifted his shoulders. "And as for the doc…" His lips twisted. "He wants me back in that bed, strapped down and drinking soup through a straw."
"I am still the master of this house," Wilton stated firmly. "You'll stay until I say you may go."
"Fine by me," Michael acknowledged with two fingers touched to his temple. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" He turned away and went back to his running.
Wilton watched the young man run away from him. Only when he was alone could he finally allow his delight and relief to show through his stoic expression. He thumped one closed fist on the stone balustrade as he tracked Michael's progress through the trees of the extensive grounds.
Then he lifted his eyes to the wide blue skies overhead. "All right, Devon. I'm going to prove I'm right, despite all your naysaying and ongoing doubts. Now we might just have a fighting chance to balance the scales before it's too late…"
※※※※※
The night had closed in when Wilton entered Devon's office to find him working hard at his desk. The old man shut the door behind him. He walked to the desk and drew up a chair on the other side.
He sat down eagerly, leaning on the head of his cane. "I've found him, Devon. I've found the one element we need to complete the equation. I've scoured the earth for the last five years looking for the right one. I'd almost given up hope. And yet, here he was all the time, right under our noses."
Devon put aside his pen with a long sigh. "Don't tell me. It's your new protégé, Michael Long. You think he's the one for your pet project. Right?"
Wilton agreed eagerly. "Right. I never expected to find him so close. Fate delivered him into our hands. A decorated police detective with an excellent military background. He's an orphan without any siblings or close family. No one to notice, or care, that he was gone. Who could be more perfect?"
"I see…" Devon sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "For my sins, I suspected he had to be the one you had chosen. But I do wish you would reconsider. Whatever his background, the man is far too impulsive, headstrong and opinionated. And he's too young."
A brief flash of wry humour illuminated his blue eyes. "As my Irish mammy used to say, that young man would happily pick a fight with his own shadow."
He shook his head. "It's far too risky. You'll be wasting millions on an outside bet. I dislike those odds. We need to send Mr Long on his way and keep looking. He'll soon land on his feet somewhere else, well away from here."
"I disagree!" Wilton thumped the end of his cane on the floor. "He's exactly what we need for the project. He's perfect for the very reasons you just said. My God, Devon, he's what I'd be if I could invent a new body for myself. He's what I was fifty years ago. And with it all still in front of him. His youth is the deciding factor."
Devon exhaled roughly. "You know, Wilton, I've never agreed with you about this project of yours. Not at all. And I never will. But even if I did, I question whether Michael Long would even be my last choice. He's brash and impetuous. He would go running off on all sorts of hair-brained schemes and tangents. Then where would you and your precious project be?"
He rubbed his chin on his fingertips. "And we have yet to see the level of his temper and if he can control it. I know you think your bank accounts can take the hit, but we've already spent far too much money on your idea. The board has already been pushing their long noses in to see what you're up to. Both components of your scheme are still vastly unproven. But my money is on the mechanical and not the man."
He shrugged. "Him, we can replace. The car is a one-of-a-kind and state-of-the-art machine. It's now unique and you want to put it into the hands of a dead man who might just pass out behind the wheel at any moment."
"Hang the confounded board and their nit-picking parsimony!" Wilton growled. "It's my money and I disagree entirely with your assessment. Devon, you know I've always respected your intelligence and your drive to succeed. In fact, I don't believe I've ever met anyone smarter or more dedicated to our cause than you. But there's one thing I value even more highly."
"Damned with faint praise…" Devon replied as he raised his eyebrows and dropped his hands to sit forward in his chair. "I know I shouldn't ask, but what's that?"
"My instincts, Devon. My instincts." Wilton nodded. "They have not let me down yet. That's why I asked you to join me in my fight. Now it's Michael's turn to accept my offer and understand his place in my world. I will make him see that or die trying."
"Wilton…" Devon shook his head. "You've got years in you yet."
"No, I don't and we both know it," his boss shot back. "I can feel everything slipping through my fingers like those blasted grains of sand."
The old man flexed his hands on the head of his cane. "But I'm not so old that I can afford to pass up a glass of your finest whiskey. Trust an Irishman to know the good stuff."
"Don't tell the doc…" Devon shook his head as he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle and two crystal glasses. "And I haven't been Irish for longer than I care to remember." He placed them on the desktop and poured two generous measures.
"After all this is over, and we've settled on Michael as being the right man for our project, you should go back home before it's too late…" Wilton advised as he accepted his glass and saluted his host with it. "You've been too long away."
"Home…" Devon's blue eyes clouded briefly as he stared down into the amber whiskey in his glass. "In Irish this is called, Uisce beatha, meaning the water of life…"
His hand clenched around the glass. "And where is home for someone like me and you?"
"Home is the place you make in your heart for those you love and care for," Wilton replied, watching him closely.
Devon exhaled roughly as he looked up and raised his glass in salute of the man he cared for the most in the stark world they inhabited. "Then, here's to home…"
"Home…" Wilton sighed as he swallowed his whiskey in one go and held out his glass for a refill. "Now let's get down to the nutty business discussing our young Mr Long…"
He held up a denying hand as Devon filled his glass. "And I don't want to hear any more of your objections. I want to make this work and you're going to help me. Before I finally run out of time."
"Very well…" Devon consumed the whiskey in his glass and refilled it. "But it still might take a while, and a lot more whiskey, to finally convince me."
※※※※※
Michael lay on his bed in the darkened room he'd been assigned. He'd been given a whole wing of the vast place to himself. But he was still restless and all turned around. He'd decided to eat his early morning breakfast in his room, so he could avoid meeting Devon or the old man. Dr Wesley still hovered around to watch him, any time Michael left his room.
Last night, sleep had been elusive. Now, as the sun was rising again, familiar sounds from outside the house drew his unwilling attention once more. He rose from his bed and moved to stand in the un-curtained window.
"The changing of the guard again…" he muttered as he watched two dozen tired-looking workers moving out and getting into a line of buses. Once more, they were leaving their overnight job.
The same dark-haired young woman left behind the others, seemingly not to be a part of them. She paused and looked up at Michael, sensing his eyes on her. She half-raised one hand and then let it fall again before she set off through the trees and disappeared into the vast back garden.
"Where do you all go every morning and what are you leaving behind?" Michael rested his warm forehead on the cold glass.
But this time, there were no fresh replacements. No daytime shift of grumbling workers had arrived. Everything went silent after the buses drove away.
"What gives?" Michael thought about it and decided he had nothing to lose. It was now or never. "What can they do? Fire me?" He chuckled wryly. "I'll be leaving soon, anyway."
He moved to his closet and pulled out some clothes. He changed into black jeans, a dark shirt and a blue jacket. He shoved his bare feet into a pair of boots.
He would go running later. The bug of needing to get some answers had bitten him too hard to quit now. Whatever they were hiding from him was inside that warehouse and he was damn sure he was going to find out what it was while there was no one around.
He left his wing and eased himself along the empty hallway and down the back stairs. He saw the light shining from beneath the door to Devon's office and knew the man was up and about early. Or he'd stayed up all night. Either way, it was an annoying habit.
His brow creased when he heard Devon talking to someone in a raised tone. Michael figured he was on the telephone because he could only hear Devon's side of the conversation this time. But it was very revealing and made Michael's hands clench at his sides.
Last night, when he had left the pool and was on his way to bed, Michael heard two raised voices coming from Devon's office. Wilton and Devon appeared to be at odds about something and weren't afraid to be overheard.
Michael understood he was the thorny subject under discussion then. And his ongoing presence in this house.
He and Devon avoided each other's company as much as possible. He knew the older man didn't like or trust him.
"The feeling's mutual, Buddy," Michael muttered as he slipped out of the house by a back door and walked into the extensive garden.
He waited and watched from the early morning shadows as the two security guards crossed paths, briefly conferred, and then walked away around the side of the building. Michael crossed the open ground and entered the door vacated by the workers and the dark-haired young woman. He was surprised to find it unlocked. His heart rate accelerated and he felt the adrenalin fizzing through his veins.
"Just like the old days…" he remarked quietly.
Inside, the large, warehouse-like structure was shrouded in darkness. As he descended a flight of metal stairs, Michael looked all around. The whole place might have been designed to accommodate a 747 plane. The huge superstructure was very much like an aircraft hangar, although the sleek Lear jet parked in a far corner was dwarfed by the dimensions of the building. In the foreground, the dark form in the shape of an automobile silhouette stood out ominously, seeming to beckon Michael to move closer.
"Okay…" he breathed as he glided nearer.
Nothing seemed about to happen. The echoing silence was forbidding and the fine hairs on the back of Michael's neck rose with instinctual alarm. He reached for the handgun he'd always carried in the holster beneath his left arm.
He cursed long and low when he came up empty-handed. Until now, he hadn't thought to ask what they'd done with his weapon. The feeling he was being closely observed by unseen danger intensified and his fingers itched to curl around the familiar butt of his handgun.
"All right…" He inhaled deeply as he stood still with his legs braced wide apart. There was no way he was going down without a fight. "Come on then and get me. If you're brave enough to try…" he muttered.
As if in answer to his goad, a narrow line of red light came on and began to move from side to side. It scanned the area between the auto-shape and the toes of his boots as it hummed with unseen menace. It was as if he was being sized up by a red-eyed cobra about to strike.
Michael firmed his stance and sucked in his breath, then he moved warily forward once more. Suddenly, the vehicle's headlights popped up, bathing him in blinding white light. He was startled by the lights but he didn't give way.
When nothing more happened, he was about to start forward again when suddenly the car's engine roared into throaty life. Suddenly, it lunged ahead and seemed to be driving straight for him.
As the car bore down on him, Michael stood his ground and prepared to do battle with whatever - or whoever – was behind the wheel of the car.
Unexpectedly, the sleek vehicle screeched to a halt bare inches from his feet. Before he could react, the lights in the cavernous space suddenly blossomed, with beams of bright light that bathed the shiny, black vehicle.
Standing beside a tall board of light switches and dials, Wilton frowned at their intruder. "Enough, Devon. You've had your fun with our inquisitive guest. It's beyond time we explained before it's too late."
Silence ruled for several more heartbeats and Michael scowled at the car. He was sure he recognised it as his own. His newly-purchased, 1982 Pontiac Trans Am. The car he'd fallen against when Tanya had shot him in the face. But he surely didn't remember installing that red light in the hood.
It was another of his possessions he was determined to reacquire, along with his handgun, cuffs and ID. He didn't realise how naked he felt until that very moment.
"Okay, enough with the games." He frowned as the driver's door opened and Devon climbed out of the car. Michael turned to see Wilton limping forward with his cane.
Devon slammed the car door shut behind him and walked away toward his employer. "I was simply pointing out that it's not polite to sneak about uninvited. You might get more than you expected."
"Now, be gracious, Devon," Wilton chided him. "I think an explanation is well overdue to our unwilling guest. You can see we have his undivided attention."
Michael approached them. "You're damn right I want to know. Now what is all this? What are you two up to with people sneaking in and out of here all day and night? And what have you done to my car?"
"Look who's talking," Devon snapped. "You entered like a thief. What were you seeking to steal? There's nothing here for you."
"Oh, be quiet both of you," Wilton replied impatiently "I'm running out of time. Now Michael here is healthy enough to carry on. We've talked about this, Devon. Now my plans need to be put into action."
"Carry on?" Michael regarded him suspiciously. "All I want to carry on with is my life." He gestured toward the car. "As soon as you two give back everything you've taken from me."
He slapped a hand to his left side. "Including my gun."
"That's not being very grateful toward the man who saved your life and gave you a new one," Devon replied. "Aren't you the least bit angry at the people who left you to die? It's they who need punishing."
"Angry?" Michael queried. "That word doesn't even come close. But I'm going to adjust. Do you want to know why?"
"Tell me," Wilton encouraged quietly.
"Because I've figured out they're just too big. They're the kind of criminals who operate above the law and nobody can touch 'em."
Wilton shook his head slowly. "I don't agree with you. Not one bit."
Michael shrugged. "Well, you're entitled to your opinion. As for me, well, I'm pulling out of here as soon as I'm packed and ready to go. And… ah, I'm taking my car with me."
"Are you indeed?" Wilton inhaled sharply and expelled his breath in a rush. "Very well, then prepare the car for him, Devon," he instructed. "He'll have to know about it so it's safe for him to drive and – "
He staggered slightly and Devon took his arm, his frowning expression full of concern. Wilton sighed again, gently shaking off his friend's clasp.
"I must go back to bed. I'm not… ah, feeling very well at all…"
He turned away slowly, leaning heavily on his cane. Both men looked after him with varying emotions as the old man managed to negotiate the staircase up to ground level and left the building with lagging steps.
Devon turned on Michael with anger blazing in his eyes. "I hope you're proud of yourself! You've just struck down a dying man who has been nothing but kind to you. Have you no understanding at all about how much you owe to him?"
"Hey, listen," Michael defended himself. "I like that old man. I really do. But, Devon, I gotta get on with my own life. I can't stay here forever. I'd go nuts! All I do is run, sleep and eat."
"I always figured you were selfish. You wouldn't have a life if we hadn't brought you here," Devon snapped. "Remember there are people who will take delight in killing you all over again if they find out you're alive. As soon as you try to return to the life you knew. I told you your past is gone. Dead and buried in your grave."
"Yeah, I'm legally dead. I remember," Michael replied stubbornly. "So, Tania and her men can't kill me twice."
He shrugged. "And I don't even recognise myself in this face. It's a stranger who looks back at me in the mirror every morning when I shave."
He turned to wave an impatient hand toward his sleek, black Trans Am. "Now, what's all this about my car? What have you done to it?"
Devon stroked his chin. "Any resemblance between that car and your own is now purely superficial."
"What are you talking about?" Michael indicated the vehicle beside them. "Devon, that's my car. I left it behind out in the desert when I got shot. It should still be out there getting covered in sand and dust."
"No…" Devon denied, quickly taking his arm. "It may look like your car, but in actuality, that vehicle is now probably the most expensive car in the world. We have made some rather radical modifications."
Michael waved a dismissive hand as he pulled away. "Aw, come on. What are you talking about? This is my car. I'd know it anywhere."
He quickly circled the vehicle and checked out the rear bumper. "See?" He pointed. "That's my Californian licence plate, MCC224. That's mine."
He walked back and leaned down to smooth his hand over the vehicle's hood. "What's this? A new paint job. It feels like baby skin." He crouched down to look closer. "Boy, your guys did a nice job. There's not a ripple on it..."
He leaned closer. "It's like a mirror." He stared at his reflection which still caught him off-guard at times.
He straightened up to find Devon watching him with satisfaction. "It's not paint," the older man emphasised. "It's a finish bonded into the molecular structure of a new substance."
Michael frowned at him. "You mean, the metal?"
Devon looked deeply satisfied he'd confused his unwanted guest. "It's not metal and it isn't fibreglass." Devon held up one hand. "Excuse me…"
He walked quickly away. Michael looked after him, wondering what he was up to now. He glanced at his wristwatch, impatient to take his car, collect his things and leave this madhouse run by lunatics intent on saving a world that didn't care.
He ran his hand over the metalwork once more. He hoped they weren't going to charge him for the finish. It must have cost tens of thousands. Money he surely didn't have even if he could access his savings.
He looked up as Devon returned with a large pinhead hammer he'd taken from a nearby toolbox. "What gives now?"
"Here…" Devon held the handle toward him. "Strike the surface as hard as you can."
"No…" Michael refused to accept the challenge. "Come on, Devon. I'm not going to hit my car. It's too beautiful…" He caressed the gleaming bodywork with a loving hand.
Devon smiled and didn't reply. He raised the hammer above his head and drove it down, smashing it into the bodywork. But the tool bounced off the surface and flung itself back into the air. It left not a single dent.
"There's not a mark on it…" Michael stared at the skin of the car in disbelief.
He ran his hand over the bodywork, seeking answers with his fingertips that his eyes couldn't see. He was baffled when he found nothing.
"Well, don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open," Devon advised, looking very pleased with himself and his demonstration. "Get in the car and I'll show you." He walked away around the car and tossed the hammer aside.
Michael stared after him before he acquiesced and got into the driver's seat. He closed the door behind him and settled into the interior that looked nothing like the car he'd left behind in the desert.
"What gives?" he asked as Devon got into the passenger seat.
"Welcome aboard the Knight Two Thousand," Devon replied smugly.
"Thank you," Michael replied ironically. "But what's all this?"
He waved one hand at the lights, video screens and instruments that now made up the panels in front of him. "It looks like Darth Vadar's bathroom."
"It's a one-of-a-kind car, Mr Long. It's the fastest, safest, strongest vehicle in the world. It is also completely fuel efficient and it's operated entirely by microprocessors which makes it almost impossible for it to be involved in any kind of mishap or collision."
He raised one hand. "Unless, of course, specifically so ordered by its pilot."
Michael looked up in shock from studying the panels of lights and screens. "Pilot? Don't tell me this thing flies."
Devon looked satisfied with his level of shock value. "No. But it thinks. And that is a far more important quality than wings."
Michael turned to stare at him. "It thinks? My car thinks?"
"We like to think of it as our car," Devon replied smoothly as he continued with his instructions. "Now, in order to motivate it forward –"
Michael interrupted him. "Hey, I recognise the more rudimentary controls like the accelerator, Devon. And I do know how to drive. I've been doing it since I was ten."
He proceeded to put the car into gear and pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator. He drove straight through the wall of the warehouse and into the early morning daylight outside. He brought the vehicle to a screeching halt among the scattered remains of the wall.
"I would have preferred you allowed me to open the door first," Devon remarked conversationally with a knowing look. "However, as you see, no harm has come to the car."
Michael glared at him. "You also told me this vehicle couldn't have a collision," he accused. "What do you call this then?"
Devon looked at him pityingly. "Not if the system is already operational. And to do that you have to, um… switch it on first."
He proceeded to punch in a series of numbers into a large keypad between the seats. "Like that," he said with satisfaction as he looked up at the man seated beside him.
Deep within the car, the Knight Industries 2000's microprocessor stirred into immediate life. It quickly assessed and evaluated its two passengers. Devon Miles was completely familiar to it.
They'd had many interactions over the last few weeks while everything was being assembled. Devon Miles could be trusted even though he thought it was a good idea to nickname the car K.I.T.T. for easier reference rather than the constant need to use his full title.
Kitt knew a moment of pique when Bonnie Barstow had agreed. But then, he had begun to suspect she would have agreed that day was night if it helped to get the work done and her on her way back to Southern California to continue her project of restoring a coastal wetland.
She'd spoken of it often enough over the last weeks when she and Kitt had been alone together. He prided himself on being a good listener and one who could offer sound advice based on facts.
Soon everyone working on the secret project started calling the car, Kitt. The car was not asked for his opinion and had not offered any.
Kitt turned his wary attention to his pilot. The other man was a complete unknown, even though the car's microprocessor had been programmed to obey any commands he gave. Until this morning, Kitt had never seen him in person.
He knew that his name was Michael Arthur Long and Wilton Knight had ordered Devon to record Michael's voice to insert it into Kitt's memory banks for future references. And to familiarise him with the manner of Mr Long's unique speech patterns and use of language.
Kitt quickly ran a series of diagnostics on him and he was not pleased with what he found. Michael Long's heart rate was elevated and he appeared to be suffering from some kind of anxiety attack. His hands were clenched tight on the steering wheel and his feet were moving restlessly on the control pedals. The fact that he had just driven through the side of the building did not allow for any measure of confidence in his driving abilities.
Kitt tried to discern what was going on and what had the man so agitated. Michael Long's safety and security had been programmed into him as his number one priority and function. But until Long chose to ask a question directed solely at Kitt, the car was forced to remain silent even though he was loaded with all manner of excellent communication equipment. He could not offer an opinion or give any advice.
The car knew a brief moment of dissatisfaction. Kitt understood it was one of Devon Miles' quirky commands for him to remain silent until asked a direct question by his pilot. He'd also made some secret adjustments to Kitt's settings against the car's objections.
Devon has set them to levels that had not yet been fully tested. He seemed intent on pushing the limits of Michael Long's abilities and patience without any help from the onboard computers. Kitt was not pleased with the new developments. It appeared that he was determined to remove Kitt's pilot from the project.
The Knight Industries 2000's microprocessor waited somewhat impatiently to see what would happen next. Whatever it was, he would be ready to assist in any manner possible even if he was forced to remain silent. His abilities were also being tested and he had no intention of failing now.
Michael sighed as he absorbed what Devon had just told him. "So you're telling me, I can't hit anything," he said slowly. "That I can't back up right now and take out the rest of the building."
Devon shrugged, looking entirely unconcerned. "Trust me."
Michael looked away. "I'll never trust anybody again." He stared through the windscreen as he evaluated his options.
He knew he could drive away now and never look back. The only sticking point was what would he do with Devon? He figured that was the idea. Devon was along for the ride like a highly-paid babysitter to make sure he didn't run away now that he had his car back.
"Okay…" He took hold of the gearstick and propelled the car forward. "Let's see what this baby can do…"
Devon didn't say anything, but he did grasp the edge of his seat as they accelerated down the long curving driveway. The security guard barely had time to tip his cap and open the gate before the Trans Am streaked off the grounds and flew downhill toward the highway.
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