I stared up at the massive bell within its frame and with its famous crack in the side and felt a touch of awe that I was in the presence of something ageless and timeless. Something that represented a fundamental freedom and right that had been sorely lacking in this nation these last fifty decades.
The bell was green with age yet it conveyed the same majesty as the day it was poured and beaten. Though cracked, it was still unbroken, untarnished and defiant. I laughed at the foolish notion of hearing it ring once more even when I knew from the guard’s recital and my own history lessons that if it rang again, it would vibrate apart.
Mike stood next to the museum’s doorway where he could keep an eye on me without actually entering the exhibit hall. He stood out in his motorcycle leathers and helmet almost as much as when we had pulled into the parking lot on the Spyder. Even though we weren’t the only ones riding bikes, nor were we the only ones on Spyders. Can-Ams were becoming the ‘new thing’ if you were retired and rich.
A group of forty or more were touring together and had stopped to take in the Liberty Bell and other famous Philadelphia sites. They approached us and Mike made small talk over their different bikes and they complimented him on the now bright yellow colored Spyder. I had learned that she had a repertoire of six colors---white, black, silver, navy, yellow and beige. No red. Mike was one of those rare few males who did not like the color red. Go-fast-red.
I ran my hand across the bronze bell and was warned not to touch it by the docent. He led us over to the other exhibits and we saw up-close and personal Betsy Ross’ flag, an original Poor Richard’s Almanac and other Ben Franklin memorabilia. It was all fascinating even given the late hour of the tour.
Presently, we heard the loudspeaker announce that the museum was closing in ten minutes and followed the docent out like obedient goslings.
I walked next to Mike down the marble steps heading for the motorbikes. Mike’s pocket buzzed and he pulled out his IPhone. The conversation was short and one-sided; from his facial expression, it wasn’t good news.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your friends were pulled in by the FBI for questioning and the NSA stepped in, removing them from FBI jurisdiction. They’ve disappeared.”
“I knew that would happen,” I sighed. “I warned them. Still, they knew what to do. Mairy was with them?”
He nodded. “DeCarlos, the Kitwillies and the Jacobis have all become persons of interest.”
I smiled. “That’s what the news said? Persons of interest?” I dug my quipp out of my pockets and accessed the internet delving deep into the Undernet, the hidden systems that no mortal was aware of---where data was exchanged and evaluated almost as if the system was alive. An AI if you will. I had calculated that within the next five years, the system would achieve an artificial intelligence and that it would only converse with me.
“They’re safe.” I read the data streams and saw that all my dominoes were falling into place. The FBI agents who had escorted each member of my troop were not who they claimed to be but pawns in this chess game I had created.
“They’re on their way,” I said in satisfaction.
“On their way where? Who? If you set this up, why do you have to check?”
I gave him a look. “I’m smart but I’m not God. Shit happens. Where are we going now?”
“You tell me.”
“I could use a shower and a bed. I made a reservation at the Hilton under the name Franklin.”
“With what credit card?” He was amused.
“Does it matter? I can use anyone’s number with the connections I have,” I shrugged.
“You stick people with your bills? Not very honest or fair.”
“No. It charges back to what used to be the proceeds of the black budget funds which are now untraceable and digital.”
“Yeah? How do you get to it?”
“Magic.” I climbed on the bike and waited for him to drive downtown towards the massive hotel that was the Hilton. We had one of those en-suites but nothing extravagant, just a basic three room—bedroom, kitchenette, and bathroom. A king-sized bed in a pale blue room with a twin off to the side, a huge walk-in shower with real plants and a window that looked out on the harbor. Three egresses if we needed to make a fast exit and better yet, I knew that there was an old laundry chute covered over with wallboard and paper if we needed a fourth unknown way out. We would only be in the room for eight hours, anyway. Just long enough to shower and catch a few hours of sleep.
I called dibs on the shower and lost. Even I couldn’t predict the outcome of random chance more than fifty/fifty but Mike told me to go ahead first anyway. I warned him about making any phone calls even though I’d reprogrammed his SIM card on his cell. Anyone tracking it would see that it was pinging off towers in the Florida coast near the Keys. I wanted them to think we were heading for a coastal way out to the Islands where there was no extradition.
I tore my clothes off and Mike’s eyes widened as he spotted my fading scars. A ragged 12-inch line ripped down my chest with a large star-shaped pucker in my back.
“Holy Christ!” he said. “You should be dead!”
“Like you should be?” I smiled lopsidedly. “You have scars that are worse than mine.”
“No, Lakan. When you healed me, you took away even the scars. The physical and mental ones.”
“Don’t show me. I’ve seen enough wounds in my lifetime.”
“You were shot only a few days ago. It looks like it has healed for months.”
“Mike, I repaired your amputated…parts and fixed your damaged brain and my healing rate surprises you?”
He grinned sheepishly and sat on the gray comforter of the bed, kicking at the blue dust ruffle. “Well, I never saw my wounds. I only heard the doctors talking about them. I was locked in my head and wanted only to die. Will those scars on your chest go away, too?”
“Dunno. Sometimes they do, sometimes don’t.” I showed him the scars on my forearms from briar thorns and one on my foot where I’d stepped on a broken piece of glass. “I did this at Hamilton’s house. In the garden on a Coke bottle. I threw it at the sundial and it fell in the grass. Forgot it was there and ran right over it.”
“She was your grandmother?”
“She didn’t take me for stitches. Cameron came and superglued it in her office. She was my jailor. I never knew my family. My father never knew I was born. My mother died when I was a child and my great-grandfather raised me until he died when they chased us in the mountains. When Cameron took me, he had Hamilton’s doctors reprogram my memories. I don’t remember much about those years. I do remember Rachel.”
“Rachel?”
“She helped me escape from…before and from Chase. I loved her and they killed her.”
“I thought---Maiara?”
“She says she’s my fiancée. She looks like Rachel but it’s not the same. I look at her and see Rachel. Rachel’s dead.”
He didn’t know what to say and I could see he wanted to hug me but couldn’t bring himself to do that. Instead, his face hardened and he stood up. “Fuck. Get over yourself, Strongbow! Stop being a whiny pussy and deal with what’s here and now!”
I gaped in astonishment. He was actually yelling at me, spitting the words out, telling me that people’s lives were dependent on me as if I didn’t know that. I narrowed my eyes and stalked into the bathroom turning the water on as hot as it would go. I stood under it and steamed the bathroom so much that it resembled London’s fog. In that misty realm of my own creation, I pretended that Rachel was still with me but for the first time, I saw Maiara’s face not Rachel’s and I heard Rachel’s voice in my ear telling me not to be an ass-wipe or to reject the gift she had given me. Only then did I cry for that loss and when my last tears mingled with the hot, steamy water, I felt the burden of that loss lighten.