THE GIFT

Chapter 5

“I gotcha, now.” Stephens hissed satisfactorily, reading the email. He had tried tracking them down with his limited computer skills, but quickly decided to turn it over to the hired geeks…and his decision paid off. “Texas, eh? That won’t help you.” He hoped.

He didn’t like Texas. Just a bunch of blowhards. They all think they’re bad asses. It’s too damn hot, too. He also hated western movies. He preferred the “civilized” city life, air conditioning and good ol’ actionadventure flicks. Give him the sweaty, muscle-bound hero who kills everyone and destroys everything. The city is where he felt comfortable, and it’s where his skill set was most effective.

“I’m gonna take you down, hero. These Texas podunks can’t help you.” He sneered, “Fuckin’ do-gooder.”

A security company that served the pharmaceutical corporation had hired him right after he separated from the Navy under General Conditions…which meant he hadn’t served honorably and was a bad fit for military service. They no longer wanted him. His fellow swabbies didn’t like him, either. In fact, he had been thrown out of the Navy B.U.D.S. training for having a bad attitude.

Knowing that a General Discharge was poison on a resume’, he did the only thing he was capable of…he lied. He managed to get past the halfhearted vetting of the security company. Apparently, they didn’t have a problem hiring the military’s rejects. His deviousness served him well. In a short amount of time, he rose to become a lead investigator. But it wasn’t because of any real talent for investigation. His rise came via blackmail and intimidation. Several breakthrough patents were signed over to big pharma with fingers under threat of being smashed or cut off…or families under threat of “accidents”.

“Is it really worth it?” his threats always began, “We’ve offered fair compensation, haven’t we? Why are you being so greedy. We can do a 32 much better job of getting this out to the people who need it, than you ever could. Seriously…take the offer and live a long life…or not. That’s up to you. But consider the kids.”

His threats were well rehearsed. He even had to follow through with a couple. They were distasteful episodes, but necessary. People had to understand that there were rules, and the rules say that if you have an idea while you’re employed by big pharma, the idea isn’t yours…it belongs to them. They claim ideas as “intellectual property”, because their lawyers told them they could.

It’s been done for a long time. Thomas Edison was the master idea thief. Many of “his” inventions were the ideas of other talented scientists and engineers who worked for him. But since he paid them, they could never claim credit. He was a legend in his own mind. If you didn’t believe him…just ask him, he’d set you straight. He, and his good friend and fellow antisemite, Henry Ford were industry titans, and in America “might makes right”.

Today’s media overlords use fear of illness and loss of security to manipulate the gullible. Ingrown toenails…take this pill. If you grow a sixth toe on each foot or start having heart problems…then take this shot…and so on.

“You fools think you can outwit me?” he hissed silently. “Hide all you want. When I find you…and I will find you…you’ll never know what hit you. They said “alive” is preferred…for clinical reasons…but “dead” is acceptable…just collect a pint of blood first. I can do either one.” He chuckled to himself. But then, it occurred to him that only a “live” James could give him the original formula, which was far more valuable than blood. Well…he had to be persuasive before. He thought waterboarding was hilarious.

There was a roadhouse just down the road from the hotel. “That’s sounds real Texas-like.” He quipped, tired of hotel food, “Look out, bubba!” He mocked aloud as he left.

After a rack of ribs and a couple tall beers, he returned to his room to find the message he had been waiting for. The techie had managed to 33 narrow the search down to a specific town served by specific microwave towers.

“Where the hell is Panther Pass?” he groused out loud. “I hate Texas. Too damn big.” After finding his destination on a paper roadmap of Texas, he calculated a four-hour trip through wide open, featureless ranch lands. Open roads go by quickly.

The next morning, he checked out of the hotel and headed to the speck on the map called Panther Pass, to the completion of his assignment…and the beginning of his fortune.

His timeline fizzled when he passed the second car pulled over by State Troopers. He passed two more in twenty miles. With firearms onboard, he had to be the perfect driver. He dropped his speed to two miles an hour below the posted limit, hit cruise control and concentrated on not getting too anxious.

Curtis hung his cell phone up and took a deep breath. “Melanie?’ he asked across the spacious living room.

“Yes, Curtis?” she answered, lowering the copy of Orwell’s Animal Farm she was reading.

“When you went into town, yesterday…did you go online?” he queried bluntly.

His tone gave her pause to think. “Uh…yes, I did.” She answered slowly, but quickly defended “I read some of the stuff that people were saying on the net. They were freaking out. If they felt hopeless, they might get angry and turn violent.” She added. “I felt that if they knew that the miracle was still out there…then so was hope…and they would calm down.” She paused, then finished defensively “I think it worked…a little.”

The silence in the vast room was deafening. Sharon broke the silence. “Oh, Hun…you didn’t.”

James was speechless. He understood her motives. Her compassion was one of the qualities he admired most in her. But they were here to keep their heads down, not broadcast their location to the world.

“Only the people in this room, and a very few essential others know the status of the formula.” Curtis started, “Only we would know that Irene’s death wasn’t the end of the cure. Only we could put that information out there.” he growled. “You didn’t encrypt your message, did you?” Her hesitation was his answer. “I didn’t think so. Now…every hack on the planet can back-trace the IP address and everything else attached to your message…like which microwave towers your WiFi pinged.” His smoldering ire seemed to seethe through his very clothing.

“I…didn’t…” she mumbled, thoroughly intimidated by Curtis. “I…wasn’t…” Feeling her distress, James moved toward her.

Seeing how he had frightened her, Curtis’ countenance changed, and he let out a deep breath, “Look…” he said after a pause, “what you did wasn’t necessarily a bad thing,” he reassured himself, more than the others. “I mighta done the same thing, myself. I just wish you had talked to me about it, first. We could have worked something a lot more secure out.” He finished with a burly wink.

“I’m so sorry.” Melanie squeaked, tears filling her eyes. “Oh my God. What have I done?”

“Hey…hey!” James called out soothingly, wrapping his arms around her. “Don’t worry. We can deal with it.” He reassured her. But he wondered if they would be able to deal with the damage. Her fragility nurtured strength in him. He had gotten her into this, he had to protect her and see her through everything. He held her closer, as she wept silently. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Shh…shh!” James gently reassured.

They had to assume that their cover was blown. The thumb drive with the formula was safely secured in a fireproof safe bolted to the floor of Curtis’ underground “tornado” shelter that looked suspiciously like a bomb shelter. Curtis was extreme, if nothing else.

That left James as the target…and that meant virtual house arrest. What had been a pleasant “getaway”, was now a lockdown. No more outdoor activities. He had taken to riding Roy every day. That had to stop. Curtis had a surprisingly large and diverse library, so that helped…some.

Curtis made good money gunsmithing and training law enforcement in the counties and towns around him. He built an indoor firing range, in addition to his longer outdoor range, for bad weather. This allowed James to hone his marksmanship skills, which he did with a feverish enthusiasm. Protecting Melanie became his obsession, and this was one way he could do that.

Curtis noticed. “Damn, Cuz. You’re a natural at this. Most folks run a few dozen more magazines down the pipe to get patterns like that.” He said, referring to James’ consistently close grouping of hits on the human silhouette target…in the head and heart. He told Curtis that he took personal offense from each of those silhouette targets. They were, after all…men in black.

Struggling to cope, Melanie fell into a debilitating depression. James and Sharon tried to help in whatever way they could, but she insisted on blaming herself and was sure she had gotten them all killed. Keeping her under wraps was easy. She simply curled up on the sofa and stared at the dead fireplace, watching non-existent flames rise from invisible coals, casting only flickering despair.

It had been her idea to have Irene and Reggie go public, so their deaths were her responsibility, as well. She wrongly felt she had helped to create the monster that was currently hunting them.

Stephens convinced his masters that he had killed the elderly couple in “self-defense”. The old man had pulled a hidden gun on him, and that there were too many witnesses to collect Irene’s blood, even though truthfully…there had been none. But Melanie didn’t know any of this, nor was she likely to see it that way. She had got them killed. She was sure of it. Now this…

Panther Pass Motel…how quaint. Stephens thought sarcastically, as he walked past the well-worn motel sign. Glowing pink neon tubes outlined the faded body of a black panther lounging lazily atop the motel name. Socially dated promises of air conditioning, color TV and now WiFi flickered along the bottom, as well as credit cards they honor, even the extinct Diners Club.

Pink…Panther? Another dated reference. It seems time had only recently remembered the motel. It was the typical roadside stop-over arrangement of single rooms all in a flat-roofed row, air conditioning units sticking out the windows, looking comically like piano keys with the shabbily repainted doors being the black keys in between.

The obligatory, illuminated swimming pool, shimmering a pale greenish tinge surrounded by a low chain-link fence, festooned with caution signs that children always ignored, served as an obnoxiously bright night light for all the rooms. The chlorine vapors caught a soft breeze and wafted toward the office. It was late into the evening, so the pool was vacant, but he was sure that it would be just as vacant in the daytime.

Not many vehicles in the parking lot. The ones that were there, mostly pickup trucks, hinted more at low rent rendezvous than it did travelers passing through. Not that it meant anything to him. In fact, a no-tell motel served his purposes just fine.

He requested the room at the end of the mostly vacant building furthest from the office and pool. It was a tactical move he felt could give him some sort of edge. It wouldn’t, but he’d seen it in a movie.

Tomorrow, he’d start his hunt. He felt prepared, anxious to get going…but he didn’t know about Curtis and his friends.

He hadn’t taken the time to analyze why his target would be in this remote Texas hamlet. He assumed that it was James’ version of “the middle of nowhere”. Perhaps he had relatives he thought could help.

His disdain for Texas had blinded him to what it meant to be a Texan. He assumed them to be a bunch of loud, tobacco chewing, mechanical bull-riding bubbas. That was the opposite of his rarified world.

He was raised by the “do your own thing” mantra of pseudo-hippie parents in the great northwest wilds of Seattle coffee shops and city parks. It was all about selfish fulfillment disguised as sharing and caring. Anyone outside their convoluted community was assumed to be doing their own thing…and therefore of no concern. Especially if that “concern” involved taking a real stand, or if it meant violence.

He saw his father cringe and run away from confrontation. He claimed he didn’t want the responsibility of knowing he had hurt someone with violence. He never saw his father stand his ground. He never saw him suffer personally for the “values” he shouted so loudly about. He only saw the picket signs that proclaimed their sanctimony, or the other side’s lack of morals. His mother was no better. She turned her paralyzing fear of violence of any kind into her political mantra of extreme pacifism. Her big accomplishment in life was being dragged away from over a hundred non-violent sit-ins.

However, violence upon their opponents by someone else who supported their cause was okay. Something about cracking a few evil eggs to make a righteous omelet.

He hated the feeling of coming from cowards…from people unwilling to fight for anything. Civil disobedience was not fighting…it was a mass public tantrum, that’s all.

That’s what drove him to join the Marines. They would teach him how to fight. But nobody had ever taught him what it meant to be an honorable man. Integrity was not a common theme among the hippies. Loyalty only went as deep as your personal needs or desires. Hypocrisy was far more common. Everything was relevant; therefore, nothing really mattered. He never trusted any of them. Trust was not a virtue he recognized or bothered to develop. Honesty was a laughable concept.

It was this fundamental dishonesty that cost him any chance at being a good person. Violence is his redemption, and gold buys his loyalty. If you cross his masters, he sets things right. He wasn’t normally so careless as he had been with the O’Connors. He had failed to plan properly and had over-reacted as a result. His lethal track record saved him from the wrath of his keepers, but another such mistake would be fatal. He was not going to let that happen.

He drove around the small town, searching for a little black sports car and scanning parked and passing cars for out-of-state license plates. He started locating as many WiFi provider locations as he could, but was surprised at how many possibilities there where, since nobody in town bothered to secure their own connections from outside access. She could be connecting to any one of them, or even multiple sources. He needed help. He placed a call to his company’s IT center. After a long, drawn-out explanation of what needed to be done, which he didn’t understand…or retain, the geek on the phone said “Hey…I’ll overnight you something you can plug into your laptop that might help you narrow your search down.”

Seriously? You couldn’t have said that twenty minutes ago? He stewed. “Uh…great, thanks.” He said, instead. Fuckin’ geeks.