Jackson hit the highway and floored it. He was afraid he would never make it to Salt Lake City. Whoever these people were, they wanted to get their hands on him pretty badly. He flew down the highway, not allowing the truck to drop below 90 mph. He was tempted to put his lights and siren on, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself. However, if the Highway Patrol came after him, he wouldn't hesitate to turn on his flashers and keep right on driving.
Jackson Wolfe was not a man that was easily rattled. He had been through dark times and there were parts of his past he tried to keep locked away so he didn't have to think about them. His sister for one. She was the reason he had left home. He couldn't save her and that was unacceptable. Their parents died when they were young. Still just kids. They were both placed in foster care, but were kept together. His sister was two years younger and when their mom and dad were killed Jackson was already 16. He wasn't in foster care for long.
Lillian, his baby sister, went on to college after high school and she went after her passion. Science and technology. She loved everything high tech and futuristic. She wanted to help with the advancement of robotic technology and artificial intelligence. It fascinated her and she became very highly respected in her field of study. Jackson didn't pay much attention to any of it. When she talked about her work, he found it difficult to keep his mind from wandering. It bored him, but he was happy that she was happy.
He felt a duty as her brother to protect her and see that she behaved and stayed safe. He loved her, but because their parents had died it was more than that. He felt like they were depending on him to look after their little girl. The most important responsibility of his existence and he had failed. She was dead. They were both in the car accident and should have both been killed, but somehow, miraculously Jackson survived. He figured it was so that he could live with it for the rest of his life and be punished by the guilt.
All that aside, here he was heading back toward those memories. Back to the place where it had all happened. He was never able to run from the guilt, but he had at least been able to put some physical distance between himself and the scene of the pain.
He did his best to shove the memories from his mind. His best wasn't working though, and things kept popping up. Intruding on his thoughts. Her face. Her laugh. Her excitement about her job and where it was taking her. Her tenacity. Her rebellious nature that refused to back down from him when he thought she should or shouldn't do something that she wouldn't or would do anyways.
He thought of the night of the accident. He had accompanied her to a get-together so that she didn't have to try to find a date. There were scientists and nerds everywhere. He knew her job was important but he didn't pay enough attention to know exactly how important she was. When they were at the "small gathering" he had attended with her and he was being introduced to the Vice President of the United States, it gave him a clue as to how important her work had become.
He remembered her smiling and introducing him to "Doctor This" and "Doctor That" and (well, not Doctor Who, but possibly Doctor What), she had been so proud of her detective brother. At least so it seemed. All of the doctors and nerds had been dutifully impressed. He remembered one in particular asking him so many questions he had to pretend he needed the restroom in order to get away. As Jackson recalled that night for the first time in the couple of years since, he pondered that he couldn't remember what the guy had been asking him about. Cop work he assumed, but he couldn't remember exactly. It was hazy.
Images flashed through his mind and suddenly he swerved, nearly hitting the guard rail. He felt the dizziness wash over him and he fought to keep the truck under control. He took his foot off the gas and slowed almost to a complete stop. He was shaking and there were spots in his vision, making it difficult to see. It was nearly dark out.
He pulled to the shoulder and came to a stop. His head was swimming and there was a feeling similar to vertigo (but far more intense) pulsing through his body. He stepped out of the truck and slowed his breathing to a steady pace.
Once he had it under control and the feeling had subsided, he got back in and pulled back out onto the highway. He was just about to turn his stereo back up when something caused him to hesitate. He cocked his head, listening.
Thwap thwap thwap thwap thwap...
He looked out and up, into the sky. There was nothing.
Thwap thwap thwap thwap thwap...
It seemed to be getting louder.
Thwap thwap thwap thwap thwap thwap...
It was definitely a helicopter. He slammed his fists on the steering wheel and floored it. The truck responded and the needle crept up to over 100 mph.
Thwap thwap thwap thwap...
The chopper was getting closer. Jackson kept scanning the sky in every direction, trying to see it. He couldn't quite tell what direction it was coming from. He kept his foot on the gas.
Suddenly he was blinded by huge, bright lights directly in front of him where the chopper finally made an appearance, surging up from behind a hill. He swerved, trying to regain his vision. There it was. It came out of nowhere right in front of the truck. It was so loud and so bright that he almost lost control. The propellers were kicking up a dust storm that blinded him even more than the temporary loss of sight he'd experienced because of the bright lights.
"Detective Jackson Wolfe," he heard a voice say through a loud speaker somewhere on the chopper.
"You have got to be shittin me," he growled under his breath.
"Please pull over your vehicle and surrender or we will use deadly force."
"Like fucking HELL!" he snarled and with a swift jerk of the wheel, he threw the truck into 4WD and left the highway. He was driving out onto the open desert. Only a few hundred feet and he'd reach the mountains but then what? There wasn't much out here and hiding places were limited. Also, his truck was a 4WD, but it was not a mountain goat.
He bounced over the terrain, glancing behind him. The helicopter had taken a minute to regain composure. They had not expected him to take of across the desert and it was dark. It must have seemed to them, in all the dust and confusion, like he'd vanished. He knew it wouldn't be long before they picked up his tracks. He kept going.
The terrain was getting rockier and more uneven. This was a good sign. It meant he was getting closer to the mountains where he might be able to find cover. He turned his headlights off and drove by braille.
He was hoping the chopper wouldn't see him in the blackness of the Utah wilderness. Ahead he saw the lights of St. George coming into view. He would be able to melt into the scenery there. He drove carefully, keeping the lights off. He could hear the helicopter in the distance, somewhere behind him, but he didn't give up hope. He kept going.
He crawled into the coverage of the outskirts of St. George and made his way onto one of the side streets. He looked around, trying to find a decent place to hide his truck. He heard the steady "thwap thwap thwap" of the helicopter. It was closing in. Suddenly he spotted someone's wide open garage. It looked as though they had pulled away from home and forgot to hit the button to close it. The house was dark. He pulled into the garage slowly and put the truck in park. He got out and found the button on the wall that closed the automatic door.
It had hardly touched down when he saw the lights from the chopper come into view through the windows in the big door. They had their spotlight on, scanning the quiet neighborhoods for his truck. He smiled, knowing they weren't going to find it.
He prayed that his gracious (unknowingly so) hosts wouldn't return before the men in the chopper finally gave up and went looking elsewhere. He stood listening to the thwap thwap of the propellers as it slowly and meticulously combed the neighborhood.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour but was probably more like 15 minutes, he could no longer hear it. It was gone.
He pulled out of the garage and turned his lights back on. He drove slowly, searching for a way to get back to the main roads. He found his way back and made his way carefully into town. He was going to have to borrow someone's vehicle. On official police business of course.
He came upon a small convenient store where there were several vehicles in the parking lot. He pulled in and hopped out of the truck. He went in and bought some snacks and then went back outside. The first person to come out of the store after him was a man who looked to be in his late 30s. He was walking over to a blue Chevy Camaro. Perfect.
Jackson ambled over to the guy and pulled out his badge.
"Sir."
The guy turned to look at him and then glanced down at his badge. "Aww man! I didn't do anything, dude."
"I never said you did, buddy. Way to look guilty though." Jackson grinned and winked at him.
The guy shrugged and then looked up at Jackson suspiciously. "Well, then what do you want?"
"I'm going to need to confiscate your ride. You'll have the use of mine until I return it, of course." He jingled his keys and nodded his head toward his truck. The guy's eyes grew huge.
"Are you shittin me, dude?"
"Absolutely not. You keep 'er safe for me and I'll return yours safe and sound in a day or two. I'm on a case and I need something a bit more.... inconspicuous."
"Man, that's a nice truck. I don't know if my little Camaro is a fair trade, but alright. If you're for real here ya go."
He tossed Jackson his keys and then caught Jackson's keys in return. The two men grinned at each other for a moment. Jackson took the guy’s name and number down and then got into the sports car. He revved the engine and, with a nod at the stunned man, he peeled out of the lot.
He hoped the guy intended to go home and stay low, so the chopper didn't come back around and find out he had swapped. They would only have to run the guy's info and find out what he drove. Then they would be right back on his tail.
He pulled onto the highway and floored it once more. The Camaro was a sweet car even if it wasn't as nice as his truck. It responded enthusiastically and before long he was flying up the highway at 120+ mph. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he would make it home.
........
Chief Munson decided to go by his medical friend's house before heading to F.B.I. HQ. He stopped in front of the huge Beverly Hills mansion and got out. He went up and rang the bell. He fiddled with the papers while he waited. He hated disturbing people unannounced, but that was part of the job description when you were the Chief of the L.A. P.D.
After a moment, a small woman in a crisp uniform opened the door.
"May I help you?" she asked, looking at him as though he had just dropped down from space.
"I'm sorry to disturb you unannounced. I'm an old friend of Doctor Heim. Is he in, by chance?" The Chief stood to his full stature and gave the woman a friendly yet "I mean business" look. She was hesitant.
"The Doctor usually only sees people by appointment, Mr....?"
"Munson. Chief Munson of the L.A.P.D. It's quite urgent, miss."
A look of surprise washed over her features and she stepped back allowing entry. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize you were with the police. Come on in and I'll let him know you are here."
The Chief nodded and stepped into the huge foyer. He took his hat off and waited patiently for her to return and see him to Dr. Heim's study. Instead of being led in, he heard the booming voice of the Indian doctor himself and then a tall, East Indian man stepped into the room.
"George Munson! My friend! How are you?" The doctor was grinning and held his arms out to the Chief. Chief Munson smiled and stepped forward, allowing the man to kiss either cheek as was customary in his country.
"I'm sorry to disturb you at home, Baasim. I realize it's getting late, but I've got a situation on my hands."
"Of course! Of course, my friend! It is no bother! No bother at all! Come to my study!" Still smiling, the doctor led him down a long hallway and into an enormous study. He was a very successful and well respected man in medicine. He'd developed many successful techniques and his expertise was in high demand.
"Katrina!" he called, clapping his hands. The woman from before appeared almost instantly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Please, Katrina... pour some brandy for my friend and me, and.... George, would you like anything to eat? Some biscuits, perhaps, or cake?"
"No, no thank you... and no brandy, either, but I'll take a glass of water if you don't mind, miss."
"Right away." She scurried off and the Chief sat down opposite his friend. He held the papers out to the doctor without saying anything.
Doctor Heim took the papers and drew his glasses from his front pocket. He glanced at the Chief before turning his attention to the medical jargon. The Chief sat back, giving him a few moments. The doctor looked up at him once or twice as he quickly scanned over the pages. When he finished, he lay the papers on his lap and studied the Chief's face.
"This is very odd, George. These reports. Notes. Very strange indeed."
"Do you know what they are talking about there?"
"It... they seem to be notes and reports about an accident, but..."
The Chief leaned forward. "But what?"
"These people were conducting some kind of experiment. This patient was the first human subject and he was in a coma. They seem to be talking about some kind of operation, but it doesn't go into specifics."
The doctor's face was serious for once. He looked shocked. Worried even. He flipped through the papers again, this time more slowly. He paused here and there to read something over and then he would move on, his face growing more and more puzzled. Finally he looked at the Chief, his eyes wide.
"Do you know this patient, George?"
"He's one of my best men. One of my most valuable detectives. Why? Tell me what you think's going on here. He's on the run as we speak from who I assume are the feds. Least that's who they claimed to be. There were other files in the folder where I found those records but I was locked out. When I called to get them to give me clearance, they got deleted."
"Oh, oh, George. This is not good medicine, I think. Not good at all."
"What are they up to, Baasim? Can you get specific?"
"Well, my friend. These records indicate something very dangerous and experimental. It looks as though there's a possibility of instability on the patient's part. It seems they nearly killed him at one point, but were able to keep him alive. As I said, what exactly they did to him it doesn't spell out, but... whatever they did... it wasn't a procedure approved by the Medical Association. It was below the board, my friend. This is serious... serious, no good!"
The Chief sat back and stared at the doctor for a moment. It was worse than he had anticipated. So, the government and some wacko doctors and scientists did something to Wolfe when he was in the coma from the accident. But what? Why Jackson? Suddenly he stood to his feet and put on his coat and hat.
"You hold onto those papers, Doc. I got another stop to make. Do me a favor and read them over carefully. See if there's anything else I should know. I appreciate your help as always. I'll be in touch."
They shook hands and Doctor Heim showed him to the door, personally. As the Chief turned to go down the walk, he stopped him.
"George." Chief Munson turned back, eyebrows raised. "Be very careful, my friend. These people. They are no good. You be careful."
The Chief smiled. "I will do that. Thanks again, Doc." With that he tipped his hat and turned and strolled to his car. Next stop. F.B.I.
Edited.
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