We were met at the curb by armed security guards, some were Native American and others white. They stared at me but no one said anything as we were ushered inside, led to an open waiting elevator that had only one-floor button – ‘P' for the penthouse. The ride took ten seconds and with a discrete ding, opened on a space large and luxurious. Equally as expensive and impressive as the Hamilton estate.
“Bullet-proof glass and treated so no lasers can penetrate. You should be safe enough from anyone accessing the tracer in your chest until we can remove it,” George said.
“Remove it? I was told it required heart surgery!”
“It’s no more complicated than putting in a pacemaker. We have top heart surgeons who can do it here under local anesthesia. We do have a state-of-the-art hospital,” he returned. “The choice is yours. You can hide in here indefinitely and wear the shield 24/7 or have the bug removed so you can go anywhere.”
“So, heart surgery or prison?” I twisted my mouth. “Not much choice.”
Rachel and the driver had disappeared into one of the hallways. I assumed it led to a bedroom but she emerged carrying a plate of sandwiches and coffee. She set it down on the glass covered table and poured three mugs of fragrant black brew. I recognized the smell of chicory.
“There’s a room for you, Lakan. When you’re ready, I’ll show you to it.”
I grabbed two sandwiches, lifted the bread and saw roast beef and ham with Swiss cheese. Took a bite, chewed and swallowed as if I hadn’t just eaten a half hour ago.
“What is it I’m supposed to be able to do?” I asked after both sandwiches were gone. I picked up a cup and poured myself a coffee. Added cream and sugar to the mug which had a picture of Wayne Newton on it, whoever he was.
“We know Dr. Cameron worked on GMO research. We know he used Indian babies that were diagnosed with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and that you were the only child to survive,” George said.
“My mother didn’t drink.”
“How do you know? You said you can’t remember,” she said.
“I don’t know how; I just know she didn’t.”
“According to the records, you were in a fatal car accident that killed your mother when you were three. You suffered serious brain damage and weren’t expected to live. But you did and were diagnosed Developmentally Disabled. Failed to advance beyond an IQ of 40 yet you clearly created items that were of significant advancement in microchip design,” George added. “There’s more, too. Our scientists have postulated on what modifying an embryo’s genes could achieve.”
Then, he did something that made me screech in pain and alarm – he poured hot coffee on my hand. Instantly, the skin blistered and scalded. I ran for the nearest water source – a dispenser in the corner but by the time I reached it, the burn had stopped hurting, the skin had turned my normal color. There was no sign of what had been the beginning of 1st and 2nd° burns.
“You heal almost instantly from minor injuries,” George said. “Your blood carries antidotes for anything you can contract, you’re faster, hear better, see better than any human on this earth. You learn instantly what you’ve read and know it word for word.”
“Bullshit,” I returned and he handed me a book. I opened it, flipped through the pages and stopped. It was a book on anatomy and my head was suddenly full of the Latin names of bones and medical conditions.
“You could fly a 747 after reading the manual, pilot a helicopter, perform brain surgery,” he continued. “Just after reading or seeing it done.”
“No,” I whispered. “No. I can’t even remember my childhood. How can I know this stuff? I was slow as a child, I suffered brain damage.”
“We think it took years for your brain to repair what had been done to it in the accident and because you had some awareness of the danger, it caused you to suppress your intellect; your brain kept you in the dark until puberty kicked in. That started everything. Then, the Director’s men caught you. From what we could learn, she’s had you for two years, re-programming you as her grandson. Your mother was Agent Strong. She was an FBI Special Agent and she had an affair with Hamilton’s son, Michael.”
“An FBI agent had an affair with the President’s son?” I asked.
“Agent Strong was dating the son against her wishes. Your mother vanished and we suspect Dir. Hamilton scared her away before she could do anything worse.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “I give up! Get this thing out of me so I can go back to my old life!”
Once I had made my decision, George wasted no time in setting up the operation. That’s what he called it---the ‘operation’. He was on the phone for an hour and I grew tired of sitting around doing nothing so I stood up and went exploring.
The Penthouse was huge and on one top floor covered by a huge skylight was a shimmering blue swimming pool. I was amazed but even more so when Rachel showed me the stairwell to the roof which was a marvel of garden engineering.
The staircase was circular, one piece and each stair tread supported the one below and the one above. I was fascinated by the mechanics and engineering behind it and my brain conjured images of bridges, roadways, and pedestrian walkways all using the same techniques. In a frenzy of inspiration, I drew on the walls with a BIC and no one stopped me.
Rachel dragged me away after an intense fifteen minutes to show me my new room. It was nearly as large as the one at the Hamilton estate; done in earth tones that reminded me of the desert. The furniture was modern and comfortable, clearly expensive. I bounced on the low bed with geometric quilt, ran my hands across the ASUS computer keyboard and opened and closed the oak dresser drawers. There were clothes folded neatly inside---underwear, socks, t-shirts and jeans.
The closet was big enough to house me let alone my meager clothing collection which consisted of one pair of jeans, torn t-shirt, and underthings. Someone had lent me a thin jacket on the plane but I had left it in the limo.
There were soft paintings on the walls of desert landscapes. Some so realistic that they resembled photographs. The bathroom was done in terra cotta tiles, double sink, commode, walk-in shower with three glass sides and a whirlpool tub. The towels were thick and plush, the faucets and knobs gold and I meant real gold. Ostentatious in a gaudy way that seemed at odds with the understated elegance of the rest of the suite.
Rachel stood in the doorway. “There’s Netflix, HBO, Showtime, Cinemax and Hulu on TV. It’s in here.” She went to the only wall not holding a painting and pushed on a small knob. The wall slid back to reveal a 52” TV, bookshelves and a steel door.
“That’s a safe,” she added. She went to the other wall near the bathroom and opened another hidden panel to reveal a door to a panic room. “Once inside, only you or Uncle Redline can open the room. It has independent electric, air and phone lines. Enough food in storage for a month’s siege. An escape hatch into the cellars via a pneumatic tube. It’s only one way and leads to a tunnel, buried in bedrock out into the desert where a mini bike and radio are stored. The former owner of this Penthouse was a bit of a zombie Apocalypse fanatic.”
I’d seen the movie with Brad Pitt, thought it was stupid. The reality of my situation hit and I was overwhelmingly depressed. Turned around and smashed both hands into the mirror over the vanity and screamed in anger as glass shattered and blood splattered.
Rachel yelped in shock and tried to wrap my hands but I ran for the roof. I had a sudden irrational idea of throwing myself off to see if I could heal from that.
I was halfway up the circular stair when Rachel’s yells brought others into the room. Before I could open the door to the roof, George had thrown something. When I could look, it was a south American bola. It hit me in the legs, wrapped around them to knock me down. I tumbled down the steps only to be caught in his arms.
I cursed. I ranted and raved, punched him, tore my nails into him and when he was within reach of my mouth, I even tried to bite him. Just when I thought I had broken free, somebody stuck me in the butt with what felt like a needle the size of a drinking straw. I felt an instant heat, lethargy, and my vision darkened to a tiny pinhole. Then, even that popped and I was washed into a sea of impenetrable darkness.
*****
I woke up in stages. Whatever they had given me kept me dragged down. I’d open one eye, stare at a picture of a desert rose and then drift into sleep. I knew something was wrong but I didn’t care, the hold of the drugs was stronger than my will.
What finally woke me was not my stomach though I was starving but the need to pee. I rolled over and slid out nearly onto the floor as the bed was very low. I had to stand up to walk off. My feet had a tendency to drag and I stared, puzzled as the layout of this bedroom did not conform to the memories of my room at home.
I went to the door I assumed was the bathroom but it turned out to be a huge walk-in closet with clothes in my size that looked like the kind I’d wear. The bathroom was a study in some playboy’s dream, even the mirror over the marble sink was just too much. I did my business and washed my hands staring at the sleepy-eyed boy who stared back at me. My hair stood up in rat-tails, my eyes were bruised underneath and matter caked the sides of my mouth.
I was thirsty. I drank out of the faucet and nearly brained myself when a man’s voice spoke to me.
“That is a disgusting habit, Lakan. There are tumblers under the sink.”
I whirled around. George stood there, holding out freshly pressed jeans, polo, and underthings. He sported a black eye and I flushed, knowing I was responsible for it.
“Sorry,” I said briefly. I reached out and to his credit, he did not flinch away as my fingers touched the swelling mouse.
“What happened, Lakan? Rachel said your eyes went all flat, completely black as if your spirit had just…gone.”
“I was suicidal, I think,” I whispered. “I was going to hit the roof and jump. I’m tired of this whole GMO/DNA thing. I just wanted some peace.”
Under my fingers, his skin grew warm and then cool. The mouse disappeared and the black and blue with it. His eyes widened and he reached up to prod what had been swollen flesh and was now normal healthy tissue.
“You healed me,” he said, dropped the clothes in my arms and examined his face in the gilt baroque mirror. The black eye was completely gone but I looked like death warmed over.
“What did you shoot me with?” I rubbed my butt where there was a huge bruise.
“Ativan and Thorazine. You were psychotic, Lakan and hard to handle. We were afraid you were going to hurt yourself.” He grinned and his eyes sparkled. “I feel great. You’re a healer, too.”
“I don’t know what I am except hungry,” I returned. I picked up the clothes that I had set down, stripped and started dressing not caring that he watched me.
“You’re in pretty good shape, Lake. What did you do at Hamilton’s? Go to school, play football? Work out?”
“I told you all, I don’t remember anything more than waking up on Friday. Everything else is like a dream. Breakfast? Or lunch?”
“Closer to lunch. You can eat here or in one of the restaurants in the Tower. Your choice.”
“You’ll let me out of the cage?”
“You’re not in prison, Lake. The door is open any time you want to leave. Just know that once you leave this Tower, every satellite and cell tower will home in on you.”
“I want a hamburger and fries,” I said. “How about your chef cooks up one or three for me?”
He laughed. “I’ll see if Rachel is up to it.” He left me to follow or not.