I, Weapon Page 5

  “Because I said my name is Bannon or because you think I’m late?”

  “You sound tired, and maybe you’ve been having those headaches again.”

  He massaged his forehead as the faintest beginning of a headache began in his frontal lobe. Had she cursed him by talking about headaches? That seemed ridiculous. What wasn’t ridiculous was the severity of headaches when they started like this. In time, they would become blindingly painful and would last for days.

  “Did you have a pleasant trip?” she asked.

  “I’m getting a headache now.”

  “Here?”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Dr. Parker seemed to hesitate. Bannon could feel her choosing her words.

  “Mr. Gemmell, I’ve helped you for several years and know something about your condition. This may be the beginning of another of your episodes. I don’t think it’s good for you to be active at a time like this. Come see me in my office and I’m sure we can make the headache go away.”

  “These start small and always get bad, lasting a long time.”

  “Yes, we’ve talked about them before, remember? I know all about them. You need to come in now.”

  Bannon nodded. “I’ll be there right away.”

  -7-

  Most cars Bannon passed were headed toward Great America. In the near distance he could see roller coasters. They were the largest and most visible of the park’s attractions. There was Flight Deck, The Grizzly and Psycho Mouse.

  Bannon passed large glass buildings that were near the amusement park. He recalled a city council fight several years back concerning a strip club near here. The owners of the amusement park had pushed the petition to have the strip club relocated. The strip club owners had spoken about their right of free speech. But the landmark Supreme Court decision of Barnes v. Glen Theatre, Inc. in 1991 had decided the issue years ago. The plurality decision said that states had the constitutional authority to regulate nude dancing as a form of expression. He thought Justice Souter had summarized it best by writing, “Nudity itself is not inherently expressive conduct.”

  Bannon rubbed his forehead. Am I a lawyer? Why do I know such things? No. He wasn’t a lawyer. At least, he didn’t think so. The trouble was he had no idea what he did to make a living. That was odd, wasn’t it? Why should he know case law like this?

  He slowed down and pulled into a medium-sized parking lot. Half the slots were filled with various vehicles, all of them new, with shiny paint jobs. The main office building was made of glass, like the larger, nearby buildings. It reflected the amusement park. Bannon spied the Grizzly roller coaster in the panes as faint screams of enjoyment filtered through the warm California day. It was nice outside. Not like…

  He shrugged, unsure of the place he’d wanted to compare with Northern California. Wherever it had been must have been muggy and hot. As he thought about that, his headache grew a little larger and powerful, and it splotched out more of his vision. Therefore, he avoided thinking about it. He tried to focus on Dr. Parker. She was a beautiful woman and had always been sympathetic to him.

  He got out of the car, slammed the door, beeped the lock shut and started down the building’s hedgerow. This place felt hauntingly familiar, as if he used to live here as a child. It was a strange feeling. He stopped and looked up at the glass side.

  He stared like that for some time. It felt…as if he used to think about staring out of the same window, but from the inside, and looking at the amusement park. Bannon turned toward the park. He’d never been on the rides. He used to long to sit in the Grizzly as he watched the cars loop and turn upside down.

  Why hadn’t he ever gone to the park? Did it have something to do with—he wasn’t sure what.

  He shook his head. It was time to get better. He’d been sick for some time with these headaches. He wanted to get better so he could go to his wife’s grave and put dandelions on his daughter’s tomb.

  Bannon straightened his sports coat and headed for the entrance. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting someone to be watching him. But there wasn’t anyone, just the cars in the parking lot.

  He pushed open a glass door and entered a reception area. There were blue tiles on the floor and pseudo-granite on the walls, with several columns in the area, each of them adored with a Roman numeral clock. A large man sat erectly on a tall stool behind a counter. Bannon glanced around. Something seemed out of place today. It was faint, a memory of…

  “Can I help you?” the man asked.

  Bannon focused on the man, and his mind seemed to whirl, to analyze as it collected minute pieces of data.

  He’s a guard. He has a gun, and he’s watching a hidden bank of TV screens.

  Had the man been watching him through hidden cameras while he’d been outside? Yes, of course he had. The man was Security, and Bannon was making him nervous.

  As Bannon neared the counter, he saw the implant in the man’s ear. The lapel pin clipped onto the man’s plaid coat was really a tiny microphone.

  “Do you have a—” The guard quit speaking as he cocked his head the tiniest fraction.

  He’s listening to the implant. For some reason, that made Bannon’s palms itchy. The fingers of his right hand flexed slightly.

  The guard noticed, and it heightened the man’s tension. “Are you…” The head cocked again an almost infinitesimal amount. “Are you…Luke Gemmell?”

  Bannon almost said, “No, I’m Bannon.” He wanted to see the man’s reaction to that. Instead, he nodded.

  “Dr. Parker is waiting for you.”

  “She’s on the third floor?”

  The guard stared at him. “First floor,” he said. “Do you want me to show you the way?”

  For an answer, Bannon headed for the elevators.

  “That’s the wrong way,” the guard said, stepping out from behind the counter. He swept back his suit, revealing a large revolver on his hip.

  Bannon kept walking. He was going to force the guard to come after him to grab his arm. Then—

  The guard stopped abruptly, and he grew pale. What had he heard over the implant? The man backed away toward his counter. That made Bannon halt. He faced the man.

  “If you want to ride the elevators,” the guard said, “that’s fine with me. I have no problem with you, Mr. Gemmell.”

  Bannon’s eyes tightened. Was the guard summoning help? Was that a code?

  “I’m supposed to let you go wherever you want,” the guard added.

  Bannon thought about that, and he grinned. “Fine, I’ll see Dr. Parker then. It’s why I came.”

  “Sure,” the guard said. “She’s waiting for you.”

  Without another word, Bannon headed the other way, toward her office on the first floor. It was time to find out what was happening and why things seemed so out of place.

  The tiles changed to white and the walls had scenic paintings of the ocean and various seafront beaches with rocks, sand, seals and otters. None was of people, ships or of anything human. He passed several closed doors and an open one with a huge male receptionist typing clumsily on a computer.

  He glanced at the big receptionist, who looked back at him without expression. Bannon kept walking, but he took in the situation. The flat-faced giant typed, but it was obvious he was a soldier or a gunman of some sort. The man only pretended to be working. He was more Security.

  Bannon’s nostrils flared. This didn’t feel right. He almost faltered in his stride. That would be a mistake. Hidden cameras surely watched him. The guard at the desk likely sat on his tall stool, gauging his reactions. The reason he almost stopped wasn’t due to the typing guard. No. Something about the flat-faced man triggered a thought: that the headaches had robbed him of selected memories.

  What did that imply?

  He recalled something he’d read once. How in the old days of the Cold War, the Soviets had beamed microwaves and other radiation at the U.S. Embassy in Moscow. They attempted to affect the Americans
in hidden and subtle ways. While he’d been in Mexico, had someone done that to him? Did the typing guard have something to do with that?

  Bannon debated leaving, just turning around and going anywhere but here. There were blank spots in his mind just like there were blanks in his vision due to this headache. He might have left, but he found himself in front of Dr. Parker’s office just then. The door was open and he glanced inside.

  “Mr. Gemmell,” said a beautiful blonde woman. She wore a yellow dress under an open lab coat. She had thick black retro-styled glasses that only heightened her classic features. Nylons covered her shapely legs and she had low-heeled red shoes. He estimated her to be five-five without the shoes. Despite her age—mid-thirties or a little older perhaps—she could have been a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, she was so pretty, and she gave him a stunning smile. It was Dr. Parker.

  While maintaining his suspicions, Bannon stepped into the office and glanced around. The walls were white. There were a few hanging photographs of old San Francisco and some potted plants on a desk.

  “Where’s the receptionist?” he asked.

  Dr. Parker laughed. “Suspicious as ever, I see. She’s on an extended lunch break. I’m afraid I’ll have to tell her that’s unacceptable. Would you like to step into my office? Maybe you could tell me about your trip?”

  Bannon scanned the room again. Something didn’t feel right, but he didn’t know what. He looked at Dr. Parker, meeting her green-eyed gaze. She seemed at ease, still smiling at him, although it slipped a bit.

  “I’m afraid to ask what’s wrong,” she said. “You’re so intense. It’s unsettling. Has something happened since our last session?”

  He shrugged, uncertain what to say.

  “Let’s sit down. You can tell me about your trip.”

  The urge to leave returned. He wondered who would try to stop him. Dr. Parker, the giant guard typing a report or the Security guard at the counter? He pitied them if they tried. He gazed into Dr. Parker’s eyes. Was he afraid of her? Is that why he wanted to run? Fear of her seemed unreasonable.

  She stepped to the inner door and opened it. “See, no bogeymen are hiding.”

  “Doctor, do you know what’s wrong with me?”

  The smile disappeared, and now she appeared nervous. That only lasted a moment, though. The smile returned, although it felt forced. “I have some ideas, yes.”

  “Can you explain them to me?”

  “That’s exactly what I hope to do.”

  He nodded as he continued to stare into her eyes.

  “Do you trust me, Mr. Gemmell?”

  “It’s Bannon.”

  “I know, but for now let’s keep up the pretense. It will make things easier.”

  “You’re not making sense,” he said.

  “Now Mr. Gemmell—”

  “Bannon.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Bannon is preferable. I’m afraid that’s part of the problem.”

  He realized then that he did trust her. She had compassion, which was rare. He headed into her office. It contained a large desk, a black psychologist’s couch, diplomas and certificates on the walls and large bookshelves thick with medical tomes.

  “Would you prefer to lie down?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Good. Make yourself comfortable. Oh, can I get you anything? Bottled water, perhaps, coffee?”

  “Water’s fine.”

  She opened a mini-fridge and took out a bottled water, pitching it to him. He caught it neatly, twisted the cap, drank a long swallow and lay down on the couch.

  She picked up an iPad and moved to the chair near the couch. Sitting down, crossing her nylon legs so the fabric rubbed pleasantly, she set the iPad on her lap.

  “I miss that,” Bannon said.

  “What is that?”

  “The sound of nylons. My wife sounded just like that when she crossed her legs. She—” Bannon rubbed his forehead as he frowned.

  “Are you having another headache?”

  “It’s right between my eyes. I’m afraid it’s going to grow and—”

  “Oh, how forgetful of me,” Parker said. “I have a special prescription for you. Some pills to help with that headache. Do you remember we agreed that I keep some here?”

  No. He didn’t remember.

  She rose, went to her desk, opened a drawer, took out a bottle and pried off the cap. She dumped two pills onto her palm and returned to the chair. “Here,” she said.

  Bannon hesitated, but then accepted the pills. They were greenish, and they were big pills, ugly things with little grains embedded in them.

  “Would you like to check the prescription order?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer, but continued to stare at the pills. “These will help?” he asked, dubiously.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “They will make you feel like new.”

  He heard something odd in her voice as she said that, but he was too absorbed with the pills to care. They drew his eyes and both repulsed and called to him. He needed these…because they would take away the headaches. He felt very certain that the doctor spoke the truth about that. So why should the pills also repulse him? He was sick of the headaches, and he for sure didn’t want the bad one coming to get ahold of him.

  Psyching himself up and taking a deep breath, he popped the pills into his mouth. They felt gritty and almost too big to swallow. He drank water, letting them float in his mouth. Then he tilted his head back and swallowed. He could feel them sliding down his throat like two big lumps.

  “Good,” Parker said, and she seemed relieved.

  Bannon lay back and moved his shoulders, trying to find a comfortable position.

  “Would you like to hear a quote?” she asked.

  He glanced at her.

  “With much wisdom comes much sorrow,” she said, “the more knowledge, the more grief.”

  Bannon blinked several times, and it seemed as if rusty wheels began to turn in his mind.

  “It’s from Ecclesiastes,” she said.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Solomon—who was supposed to be the wisest man who ever lived—wrote it in the Bible, in the Book of Ecclesiastes. What do you think of it?”

  With much wisdom comes much sorrow, the more knowledge, the more grief. The sequence of words…it was a key. It made his eyelids heavy. He fought it, but the sense of drowsiness was overwhelming. Yawning, he let his body relax and closed his eyes.

  “Feeling better?” Parker asked.

  He grunted. He was feeling better. Except…way down deep in him a voice seemed to shout as from a deep well. He tried to focus on the voice, but it kept getting quieter and quieter. The person down in the well…Bannon got the feeling the voice shouted as loudly as possible. The man with the voice tried to warn him, but the sound dwindled and then Bannon didn’t worry about it anymore.

  “The pills can make you sleepy,” Parker told him.

  He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. There were dots in the soft tiles up there. “I wanted to make Ramirez suffer,” he whispered, “but I only had a short time to do it in.”

  “Relax. Don’t think about anything right now. Let’s make sure the headache is gone and then you can tell me about it.”

  “It?” he asked.

  “Whatever is troubling you,” she said.

  His eyes closed again, and the pain in his frontal lobes dwindled. He felt so tired. The rusty wheels in his mind were like millstones, moving with ponderous slowness.

  “Relax, Mr. Gemmell.”

  He frowned. Gemmell? My name…my name…what is my name?

  “Relax,” Parker said.

  “I am.”

  “Good, good. We’ll talk later, you and me.”

  He made a last effort to open his eyes again. Then a wave rolled over him in his mind, a thing of tidal proportions, moving the millstone blocks in his brain from one position to the next with grinding power that dragged him down into the unconsciousness of
sleep.

  -8-

  “Even after all this time it doesn’t seem natural,” Karl said. “The lion lies down like a lamb.”

  An unconscious Bannon lay in a clear, man-sized cylinder in a sterile room. Karl stood outside the chamber, looking through glass. He stood beside the bitch of a psychiatrist, Dr. Parker. She always figured she knew everything.

  “I’ve caged Bannon again,” she boasted. “And I’ve learned it was the girl’s violent death that shattered the mind-barriers. It’s why he broke loose of the conditioning.”

  “I know,” Karl said. “I already read the report.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Have you indeed?”

  Karl glanced at her. She was the ice queen, and it paid to handle her with care. He wanted…well, it didn’t matter what he wanted to do with her. He’d like to get his hands on her tits and a whole lot more. But he’d never get the chance so there was no use thinking about it.

  It was better to stick to the program. “Has your father decided yet?” he asked.

  Her chin lifted and frostiness entered her eyes. “He is the Controller, not just my father.”

  Sure thing, bitch. Karl kept his features deadpan. What he’d like to do to her… “Has the Controller made up his mind yet? Do we strike?”

  She gave him the glance. “I presume you’re speaking about the Justice?”

  “I am.”

  “No, he’s still considering the pros and cons. The risks are great.”

  “We’ve been over that. Bannon is primed to go and we just saw how deadly he—”

  “No!” she said. “Bannon was primed. The emergency use against the cartel…we’ll have to start from the beginning.”

  Karl was good at keeping a poker face. Her little outburst surprised him. What was going on here? He wasn’t a psychiatrist, but he could make shrewd guesses concerning motivation.

  “Bannon frightens you, doesn’t he?” Karl said. “He’s deadly and his mind…who can really know what makes a man tick?”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she said. “I have cataloged his motivations and his key responders. It’s why I can bring him in when no one else can.”