Vigilare (14 page)

Tony looks at him confused, wincing his eyes as if to say,
Isn’t that the reason it’s unknown? Because we don’t have proof?

“You think I’m talking in circles.” He pauses for a moment. “Maybe I am. My mind’s not quite as sharp as it used to be.” He smiles. “Soak up your youth, my friend. Get it while you got it, ya know. Anyway, where was I? The unknown. Yes. I’m simply stating that we, as humans, have this magnificent thing—a brain. Within that center, all other bodily functions are controlled. The mind controls all things. It’s just that some of us don’t know that. We don’t know how to tap into that resource. Take the psychic for instance. They hone in on their powers, welcoming such a distressing diversion from what most of us consider reality. The olympic athlete. Sure, they train, preparing themselves physically for phenomenal feats. But it’s with their mind, their mental control that they rise to such an occasion. They have a
super
ability, if you will, strict mental resolve to make the physical happen.”

“So, based on that assumption, super humans walk among us every day, without knowing they’re superhuman because they haven’t nurtured it, haven’t tapped into it,” Tony reasons, remaining skeptical.

“Eureka!” Dr. Godfrey claps his hands together. “By George, I think you’ve got it!” He walks to Gina’s bedside, assessing her monitors, looking over her with great admiration. “Then, every once in a great while, you stumble upon a true gem. Something or someone with all the factors, all the attributes to make magic.”

“You know all this sounds kind of...Dr. Frankenstein-ish, right? Do you really believe all these theories? And surely you don’t expect others to believe them?” Tony rubs his hands together. “Really, you probably shouldn’t talk about this stuff to just anybody. You might end up losing your medical license, or on the tenth floor of this hospital reenacting
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
.” He smiles, nervously.

“Did you know O-negative blood is the purest blood in the world?” he continues without missing a beat. “The universal donor. A person with O-negative blood can donate to any other blood type, but they cannot receive from anyone other than their own type. It’s incompatible with life. You think there is nothing unique about that? It has no relevance?”

Tony is silent momentarily. “I would say it makes them vulnerable...weak. If they can give to everyone else but can’t receive, then they’re dependent on their own kind. What’s so
super
about that?”

“Match point,” Dr. Godfrey credits. “So you argue, maybe O-positive blood type is superior? O-positive is the universal recipient. This blood type is the only blood type that can receive from all others and maintain compatibility with life. Also, an Rh-positive female can bear a child with an Rh-negative male, however the reverse is incompatible in the natural selection of things...without medical intervention.” He wrinkles up his nose, once again hoisting his bifocals in the direction of his eyes. “Alas, who is superior? The age old question, is it better to give or to receive?”

Tony stands from the recliner, stretching his hands up over his head. “I’ve had all the science, hypothesizing, theorizing, aliens, superheroes, mumbo jumbo I can take for one day, Doc. All I want to know...when is she going to wake up?”

“That’s up to her. She’s good and stable. See here,” he points to the monitor measuring vital signs. “Heart rate, blood pressure and body temperature in check. Within normal limits.”

Tony notices her blood pressure is 105/72. “I thought 120/80 was normal?”

Dr. Godfrey smiles. “Rh-negative blood types usually have lower heart rates, lower blood pressures, and lower body temperatures than normal.”

“Back to this again.” Tony grabs a pillow and a blanket out of the linen closet, tossing them into his recliner.

“The protein in Rh-positive blood types allows them to be cloned. Rh-negative blood types lack that protein, whereby arming them with resistance to cloning. They cannot be cloned. A true original.” Dr. Godfrey tidies up his work area, assembling his rolling metal desk for departure. “They also have higher than average IQs, the most reported paranormal occurrences and psychic abilities.”

Tony rolls his eyes, hunkering down in the recliner. He fluffs the pillow behind his head and pulls his blanket up over his face. “Could you catch the light when you leave, Doc.”

“Many are red-haired with green eyes, like our Gina.” He rolls his desk to the door. “Oh, and did I mention, many Rh-negatives have keen hearing and sight.
Vigilare
—to supervise, keep an eye on.” Dr. Godfrey pulls the light switch down, dimming the room. “Goodnight, Detective.” He exits the room. The large steel door closes behind him,
Clink!

Tony pulls the covers down from his face, his eyes momentarily wide with wonder, reminiscent of his youth when he would hole up in his tree house with the latest edition in the
Captain America
comic book series, his mind fully open to the possibilities. He shakes his head, nestling back into his pillow. “Get a grip, Gronkowski.” He closes his eyes, drifting off to dream.

Chapter 9

A LARGE, FRENCH colonial style home awaits a young woman as she pulls into the long, elegant drive. A feeling of safety and security flashes over her. Fully content in her surroundings after a long day’s work. Turning the air off in her Mercedes Coupe, she relieves the engine, grabbing her briefcase from the passenger seat. As soon as her lungs are exposed to the outside air, she is reminded of the suffocating heat a Louisiana summer delivers.

“Mama!” a gorgeous six-year-old boy calls to her, running in her direction from the verandah.

A smile graces her lips. “Hey baby,” she greets, catching him in her embrace, planting a kiss on his cheek.

He giggles, wiping at his cheek. “Did you leave that smoochy stuff on there? That stuff you always leave on Daddy’s cheek when you kiss him goodbye in the morning.”

“No baby. That loses its shade throughout the day. You know how you bite your lip when you’re concentrating?” He nods his head, cupping her face in his hands. “Mama does that too.”

“You eat your smoochy stuff ? Euw!”

“Euw,” she mocks, gently rubbing noses with him, an Eskimo kiss.

He returns the gesture, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re home. Daddy and I waited for you all day. Daddy said it’s prelobsterous they make you work on a Sunday.” She carries him in her arms as she makes her way up the steps to the elaborate French doors.

She giggles at his pronunciation of preposterous. “Yes, it is
prelobsterous,”
she concurs, nuzzling his neck, causing him to laugh.

“We made you dinner,” he says proudly, pushing her hair back off her shoulders with his hands, as he has watched his father do often.

“You did!” Her expression pleased. “You’re such a good boy. What’d you make?”

“Lobster.”

She tips her head back, chuckling. “I should’ve known.”

“Hey sugar,” a darkly handsome man with a thick Southern accent greets her. A regular Harry Connick Jr. He leans into her for a kiss, a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, elbow deep in lobster meat and butter sauce.

The
tap tap tap
of little paws resonate off the vintage hardwood floors. “Bou Bou!” short for Boudreaux, the little boy calls to the dog, scuttling down from his mother’s arms. He scuffs his hands against the long fur of the black and white Border Collie, whose tail is without containment, winging from one side to the other.

“Ah, that smells incredible, baby.” She takes in the succulent looking fare with all her senses, laying her briefcase down on the counter. “What can I do to help?”

He smiles at her. “You can shuffle off to the bathroom where a warm bubble bath and chilled watermelon wine need some company.”

She moves to him, running her hands through his hair and down around his neck, softly taking his lips in her own. The little boy giggles, hiding his face in Bou Bou’s fur. “And later, you can shuffle off to the bedroom where a warm-blooded woman will most definitely need some company,” she whispers in his ear before heading off to the bathroom.

He snaps the dishtowel against the counter with a smile of victory and begins to sing, “‘I see trees of green...red roses too...I see ’em bloom...for me and you...and I think to myself...what a wonderful world.’”

“Not that song again,” the little boy jeers.

His dad hoists him up in his arms, dancing him around the kitchen, encouraging him to join in on the singing. “‘I see skies of blue...clouds of white,’” they continue with their best Louis Armstrong impersonations. Bou Bou performs his own dance moves, jumping up around them, and chiming in on the singing with a howl here and a bark there.

The woman is within earshot and chuckles to herself. She pulls the crucifix from under her shirt collar, planting on it one solitary kiss, a grateful gesture.

SIX-POUNDS OF lobster, one family-friendly movie, one hot bath, and one hotter session between the sheets later, the roomy house hums quietly as its inhabitants rest in the dark, peaceful night.

“Mama?” the little boy calls from the door of her bedroom in his Superman Underoos.

She sits up in bed immediately with the sound of his voice. Her husband groans, reacting to the absence of her body next to his. “What is it, baby?”

“Bou Bou can’t sleep. He keeps pacing in front of my bedroom window.”

“Come here, love.” She pulls the sheet back from her side of the bed.

Her husband, Lon, rolls up on his side, pulling her back against his chest as the little boy climbs in nuzzling his back against her chest. “That’s what I’m talking about,” Lon whispers contentedly.

The little boy giggles, pulling his mother’s arm snugly around the front of his body, holding onto her hand. “Now you’re the cheese, Mama,” he refers to their bodies making a sandwich, in which he is usually ‘the cheese.’

She chuckles sleepily, kissing him on top of his head. The moon, large and full, shines in through the bedroom window. The clouds accenting its eerie pattern, a perfect werewolf moon.

“Goodnight moon,” the little boy says, closing his eyes.

“Goodnight stars,” his mom finishes, their bedtime ritual.

The sound of glass shattering jolts Lon from his slumber. Bou Bou barks and growls ferociously at the heavy stomps flooding up the stairs.
Cha-chink
, the action bar of a twelve-gauge shotgun sounds before its blast resonates through the house. Bou Bou’s growls are replaced by whimpers.

“Bou Bou!” the boy screams attempting to go to him. His mother grabs him tightly.

“Go to the closet!” Lon orders as he busies himself searching through his bedside stand for his .38-Special Revolver. The bullets disassembled as a safety precaution with a child in the house, he opens the cylinder.

“Hey pretty boy,” a deep, gruff voice sounds from the bedroom door. Lon turns toward the voice, only time for one bullet in the chamber.
Bang!
he fires the revolver as he turns, stunning his attacker. Another man charges the room, bashing Lon in the face with the butt of his shotgun. Following him to the ground, the man continues ramming the gun into the back and side of his head. Blood seeps from his nose, mouth and ears.

The woman and the boy hide in the back of the closet, sitting Indian style on the floor up against the wall. She holds him in her arms, her hand over his mouth attempting to camouflage his sobs. The light from the moon reveals a dark shadow at the bottom of the door casing. The woman’s eyes grow wider, tears forming. She holds her breath. The man Lon shot and stunned has regained his bearings as he was wearing a bulletproof vest, padding and impeding the impact of the revolver round.

“Lawyer lady,” he taunts. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He jerks the door open to the closet, holstering his handgun, walking the full length of the lavish walk-in rectangle.

“You find her?” his partner yells from the bedroom where he has bound and gagged Lon’s lifeless body to a chair, purposely positioned at the foot of the large California King bed.

“I think I’m getting warmer,” he jeers, hearing the labored breathing of both the woman and the boy.

She lunges at him from the corner, an iron clothes bar in her hand. She misjudges her target in the dark, the bar misses his face, falling into the bulkiness of hanging clothes. He deflects the bar from her grasp, twisting her wrist until she has no other option but to let go. The man wields the bar crushingly down onto her back, dropping her to her knees. The boy surges from the corner, coming to his mother’s aid.

“Leave her alone!” he screams, banging his fists against the man’s legs.

The man, in all black from head to toe, with only the whites of his eyes visible, laughs, winding up his right leg heavy with a steel-toe boot. He releases into the boys stomach, catapulting him into the air until his back hits with a staggering thud against the wall behind him.

“No!” The woman screams, on her hands and knees, reaching for her child. His body limp, the air fully knocked from his lungs.

The man kicks her in the stomach, knocking her over onto her side in the fetal position, then allows all of his weight to fall onto his knee which he buries into the side of her face. She cries out.

“What the hell’s taking so long?” his partner calls, accompanying him in the closet.

“The bitch is noncompliant.” He laughs, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her to the bedroom. She kicks her legs trying to get them underneath her body, only to have him jerk her down every time, handfuls of hair scattering about.

“Jesus Christ. I didn’t say kill the kid. Not yet, anyway,” his partner sputters, picking the boy up off the closet floor by the back of his neck.

“He’s not dead. Just stunned,” the man chimes, dragging the woman up on top of the bed.

“Lon! Lon!” she screams, seeing him sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. His head, face and chest are covered in blood.

“Bria...” he gurgles, attempting to call her name, Brianna. His head hangs to his shoulder, as he has been beaten so intensely the strength to hold it upright has escaped him. He fumbles deliriously with the rope holding his arms behind his back.