A Story by Gayle Highpine
"Fox says that Dr. Rios plans the first use of the experimental drug, ABCTV, in three days, and then to give him increasing doses at approximately three-day intervals thereafter," Sam said to Al as he walked through a park under a beautiful May sky. His boss had ordered him to take an hour break for unexplained reasons. "Fox is supposed to interrogate Forrester for five minutes at the first session, ten minutes the second session, fifteen minutes the third, and so forth. Supposedly, that will minimize the stress on the `subject,' according to the great Dr. Rios."
"Well, they aren't even gonna have him that long," Al replied. "Three days from now is six days after the capture, and according to Ziggy, that'll be the only session they'll ever have."
"I know," said Sam, discouraged. He slumped down onto a park bench and lapsed into silence. A few yards in front of him, a trio of laughing children were playing Frisbee.
"Sam, doesn't it seem odd that they always refer to Forrester as the `subject' rather than as the `suspect' or the `prisoner' or the `informant' or something like that?"
"Yes, it sure does. And sometimes Fox calls Forrester `it.'" Sam shuddered. A black Labrador had appeared seemingly from nowhere to join the children's Frisbee game. The children squealed with delight as they tried to beat the Labrador to the sailing Frisbee.
"I've heard that, too. Gives me the creeps. I'm thinking more and more, Sam, that this sounds more like they're doing a scientific experiment than trying to investigate something criminal or subversive."
"I'm thinking the same thing," said Sam. "But what could it be? Surely, they wouldn't perform experiments on helpless, innocent people."
"Sam!" cried Al. "Yes, they have! The CIA and the military and other secret government agencies have performed experiments on innocent humans. Especially during the 1950s. Don't you remember when it came out how they gave unknowing subjects LSD and other psychoactive drugs? And what about the radiation experiments they did? Injecting people with plutonium. Feeding radioactive oatmeal to retarded kids in institutions. Deliberately releasing radioactivity from the Hanford Nuclear Plant in Washington state to the surrounding farm communities, to see the cancer patterns that developed. And those are just things we know about. Who knows what kind of experiments they did, maybe still do, that no one's ever found out about?" He was becoming more excited. "Maybe Forrester's not a criminal at all. Maybe he's the subject of some sort of ongoing experiment and now they are trying to find out the results."
"Well, Fox is trying to get some kind of information from him," said Sam. "He seems to be chomping at the bit to get at the interrogations, but he has to follow Dr. Rios's schedule. But, you know, when Forrester told me he didn't know any secrets -- Al, I believe him. He said that the only things he wasn't telling them were things he didn't know how to put into words they'd understand."
"Maybe they're interrogating him to find out the effects of the experiments. Maybe they want to ask him what happened at a certain time, what he felt as a result of some drug they administered, or something."
"Yeah," Sam said. "Those effects, things he felt and went through, might be just about impossible to put into words -- Forrester might have a hard time understanding the effects himself."
"Maybe he didn't even know they were performing an experiment on him, Al said. "Maybe these guys did something to Forrester before, like a drug or radioactivity thing, and what they are doing now, it's like some kind of follow-up, to find out the results."
"Maybe it's some kind of genetic experiment," said Sam. "That would explain their interest in his son."
"Yeah! And in his cellular structure, like his hair and stuff!"
"But he couldn't be a product of genetic engineering. He's, what, mid-30s? That puts his birth in, what, '52? There wasn't any bioengineering in those days."
"Yeah, but they were doing the radiation experiments on people back then. Radioactivity affects the genes, causes mutations. Maybe they couldn't create mutations toorder, but they played around a lot with radioactivity. Played around with people's lives."
"And there are drugs that can cause mutations, too," said Sam.
"Oh, my God," said Al. "It might be something like in FIRESTARTER. Did you ever read that book? It's by Stephen King."
"I'm afraid I'm way behind in the literature of Stephen King," said Sam, a touch sarcastically. "What's the book about?"
"As I recall it, it was a long time ago I read it, the father of this girl, or maybe both parents, had been subjected to some kind of experiments with some kind of psychoactive drug while they were in college. The offspring of the parents subjected to this experiment were, I think, born with different kinds of special powers, like this little girl was born with the ability to start fires mentally. The whole book, the government's chasing the two of them, want to use the girl for their nefarious purposes."
"Just innocent people, being chased," mused Sam. "I don't know, that... that fits somehow. It's not just the way they treat him as the `subject' of their... whatever it is they're doing. It's that... Al, I've looked into Forrester's eyes, and I cannot imagine in any way that this man has done anything wrong."
"Me, too, Sam. That goes double for me."
"I wonder," said Sam with a touch of bitterness, "did Agent Wylie know what he was doing when he helped to capture Forrester? Is he one of those people who just follows orders blindly? Or did his conscience prick him -- did he consider that what he was doing might be wrong?"
"Who knows, Sam. The important thing is helping Forrester. Haven't you gone yet to talk to Scott Hayden and Liz Baines?"
"And just what do I say? Here I'm Agent Wylie, the man who helped to capture him. How am I supposed to get them to trust me? They could never believe that one person could be walking around with the appearance and identity of another."
"You'll figure out something. You always do." The portal appeared and Al disappeared into it, just as Sam was starting to say, "Hey, can you have Ziggy check the DMV records..."
Sam got up from the park bench. Slowly he walked from the park back to the featureless gray building that was FSA headquarters, and as he did, he mentally rehearsed his conversation with "Ishtar Warren":
"Hello?"
"Hello, Ms. Warren?"
"Yes?"
"I need to talk to you about something very important."
"What is it?"
"Well..."
"Who are you?"
That part of the conversation was always a stickler.
"I'm... a friend."
No, under the circumstances -- trying to protect a boy she knew to be hunted by the government -- she would probably be unconvinced by a mysterious stranger who would give no other identification than "a friend."
Try again.
"Hello?"
"Hello? My name is Sam Beckett. I need to talk to you about something important. Paul Forrester."
"Paul Forrester!" Her imagined voice came in gasps. "Do you know where he is? What condition is he in?"
"Yes, I know exactly where he is."
"Where?"
"At the FSA headquarters."
Her imagined voice turned sarcastic. "I assumed that! Do you have anything more specific?"
"He's in a room in the subbasement. There's no number on the door."
"Well," even more sarcastic, "I am certainly glad that you phoned me. You've been very helpful. Now, may I askyoua question?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"How do you know this?"
"Ma'am?"
"Have you seen where he is being held, with your own eyes?"
"Ma'am? Why, yes, ma'am."
"Funny, I've had the impression that only FSA operatives are even allowedinthere. So, Mr. Beckett, how is it that you have recently witnessed what's going on deep in the bowels of the FSA? You don't happen toworkfor the FSA, do you, by any chance?"
"Umm... I sort of do, but not exactly. I mean, it's not really me that works there. They think I'm somebody else."
"Well, that certainly clears things up!" said the voice in his mind. "SO! I suppose the next step is to arrange a meeting for us! I tell you, Mr. Beckett -- if that's really your name -- it's really a shame that our tax money pays for such incompetence. If you can't do better thanthisat luring someone into a trap...."
No. Try it again.
"Hello?"
"Hello, may I speak with Liz Baines?"
"Who are you?"
"My name is Sam Beckett, and I know it sounds weird, but by a circumstance very difficult to explain I have found myself in the persona of FSA Agent Wylie, whom I am sure you know, and I've seen your friend Forrester, because they think I'm Wylie so they let me in to the FSA headquarters, and I have to get Forrester out of there in the next five days, and I have no idea how to do it, so you're my only hope."
No, probably not.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Ms. Baines?" No, make that "Hello, Ms. Warren?" No sense in alarming her prematurely.
"Yes, who is this?"
"I'm a friend of Paul Forrester's. I want to help him, but I don't know how. If we get together and talk about it, maybe we can come up with something."
"How did you know where to find me?"
"What?"
"How did you know where I was staying?"
"Um..." Forrester told me? No, he surely wouldn't know where they'd be.
"How did you know that I'm a friend of this Forrester character?"
"Well, I, um..." Forrester told me? But he wouldn't say he was a friend of Ishtar Warren's, would he? She surely wouldn't use a pseudonym that Forrester knew, because they might get it out of him during interrogation. Besides, then they got back to the problem of how he'd seen Forrester.
"Does the FSA have me under surveillance?"
And, of course, her next move would be to flee Washington. They wouldn't be here in the first place unless they thought their presence was secret -- at least that of the boy.
"Wylie!" Fox's voice broke into Sam's musings. Sam found himself under the harsh fluorescents of the office he shared with Fox. He had scarcely been aware of entering the FSA building.
"This morning we reviewed yesterday's videotapes of the subject," Fox said. Sam's heart skipped a beat. "Why didn't you tell us the subject had talked to you?"
"Well, um, sir, he didn't say anything important."
"Anything may be important. It isn't your job to judge that."
"Yes, sir."
"I admire your efforts to get it to talk, but you don't need to try to scare it by threatening it."
"Threatening...?"
"Telling the subject that it'd die in five days if it didn't cooperate. Your heart's in the right place, but Dr. Rios said that we shouldn't threaten or scare the subject; that that creates too much stress and can adversely affect its health. Nice try, though."
"Ah... thank you, sir."
"But if it shows any more inclination to talk to you, encourage it."
"Yes, sir."
"You don't need to try to get information out of it, but be sure to pay attention if it does say something."
"Yes, sir."
"If you can gain its trust..."
"I should act as though I'm on his side."
"Yes, if you can. If the subject believes you're on its side you might be able to get information from it."
"Good cop/bad cop," said Sam.
Excitement seemed to churn within Fox. "If we could catch the boy based on information you got, I'd recommend you for a promotion. And you'd get it, for sure."
If there's one thing I'm NOT going to do, thought Sam, it will be to let Forrester let slip any information he shouldn't. But by pretending to try to get information from Forrester, he might be able to talk to Forrester more freely without arousing suspicion. "So I can say anything to him?"
"Well -- whatever works."
Sam suddenly realized that this could be an opportunity to get some clues to the mystery of Forrester's case. "Sir," he asked, "what are the most important pieces of information to get out of him?"
"Oh." Fox seemed to tremble with excitement at the thought of what might be coming within his grasp. "Other than the whereabouts of the boy? I think... the most important questions... Hmm, the first priority would have to be finding out how many more there are like it, and how many offspring they have seeded. How many more of them are there out there."
"You mean... genetically like him," Sam hazarded.
"I -- guess you could put it that way. You must have been talking to Dr. Rios about her plans to bring in a team of molecular biologists to study its genetics? She thinks there may be some... I don't remember the terms she used... something that may happen to genes when they're cloned, that can help us to positively identify others like him."
Cloned??! Sam was feeling sick to his stomach. Others like him?
"Of course, in Forrester's case, there are more obvious physiological differences than that, due to the acceleration of the growth process. Dr. Rios wants to take bone samples, get them analyzed by a bone expert -- I forget what they're called -- because, she says, they couldn't be like natural bones that developed over years and years. The way the body laid down calcium is very different. That's not exactly how she said it -- you know how she uses a lot of technical terms -- but that's what it comes down to."
Fox was saying more, but Sam's mind was attempting to grapple with what he had just heard. Cloned. Acceleration of the growth process...
"...so you can keep watch on Forrester until one o'clock." Sam suddenly became aware that Fox was speaking.
"What, sir?"
"Dr. Rios scheduled you to watch Forrester during the noon hour. She says that your presence produced a relaxation response in the subject. She said there was an expansion in the pupils of his eyes when you entered." Fox had a slightly sarcastic tone that suggested that he wouldn't waste time looking at a prisoner's pupils. "And, like I said before, maybe he'll say something to you. If you could get us any clues as to the whereabouts of the boy..."
"I'm not sure I can promise that, but..."
"Just do your best. Well, it's five to twelve. Let's go on to Forrester's suite."
A moment later, Sam found himself alone -- but for four videocameras -- looking down at the closed eyes and motionless figure of the prisoner.
"Hello, Mr. Forrester," Sam said softly.
For a few seconds, there was no response. Then Forrester opened his eyes. A smile came to his face. "Hello, Agent Wylie," he said with genuine happiness. "Hello, my friend."
"They've left me in here for an hour," Sam said.
Forrester glanced toward the wall clock to his left. "Then that's till one o'clock," he said.
"Yes," Sam said.
"One o'clock in the afternoon," Forrester said. "Not one o'clock in the morning."
"Yes," Sam said. He suddenly felt how disorienting it must be to be shut up in a windowless room for days at a time... and drugged for much of those days.
"So!" Forrester said cheerfully. "They've gone to eat lunch, and left you here."
"Yes," Sam said.
"And you aren't hungry?"
Hungry? Sam had hardly even thought about being hungry. "Not really," he said.
"Do you eat here -- do they have a cafeteria here?"
Sam suddenly realized that there was no sign around of any lunch for Forrester. "Are you hungry?" he asked.
"No, not really, they gave me something just before you came in."
"What was it?"
"I don't know... some kind of brown cakey stuff, and then a very thick drink."
"I think Dr. Rios has designed a strict nutritional regimen for you."
"I think so," Forrester replied. "Do they serve pizza up in the cafeteria?"
Sam tried to picture the cafeteria's selection -- he had been sent there that morning when Fox had forgotten to plug in his office coffeemaker -- but his mental image wasn't very detailed. "Maybe they do, but nothing in that cafeteria is very good," he said.
"Are you coming to watch me during lunch hour tomorrow?"
"I think I may be."
"Do you think you could smuggle in a cheeseburger?"
Sam laughed. "I don't think I could keep it much of a secret. And I don't think Dr. Rios would like it."
"You can say I offered to tell you some secrets in return for the cheeseburger," Forrester said with a twinkle in his eye. "Then if they convicted you for smuggling, I bet Fox would get your sentence commuted."
Sam laughed. "But what if you didn't tell me any secrets?"
Forrester thought. "I could tell you some."
Sam hesitated, wondering if he should let Forrester go any further.
"I'll tell you one of my secrets right now, if you'll promise to bring the cheeseburger tomorrow. I'll tell you a secret I have never even told my son."
Sam cast a glance toward one of the videocameras. "Ah..."
"Well," said Forrester, not waiting for the promise, "my socks don't match. I don't have a single pair of matching socks left, and I've been going around in mismatching socks for months now. That's something even Scott doesn't know."
Sam giggled. Then he looked into Forrester's eyes. He realized, admiringly, that Forrester had been concerned about Sam's feelings and trying to set him at ease. Sam struggled for words. "I wish..." he said. "I wish we could have met under different circumstances."
"But you're here with me now," Forrester said, "and now is when I really need a friend. I am so glad you have come to be with me now -- you and your friend."
"Fifteen years I've been on this case. Fifteen years I practically never thought of anything else."
Fox's voice startled Sam. Sam had almost forgotten that he was not alone in the silence of the small office that Fox and Wylie shared. When Fox had entered the office -- sent out of Forrester's room by Rios and her technicians, while they did who-knows-what to the `subject' -- he had sunk silently into the chair next to his desk, and stared expressionlessly out the window, not even acknowledging Sam's presence. As the minutes went by, Sam, lost in thought himself, had nearly forgotten that Fox was there.
"Fifteen years..." Fox said softly, at last. "And now... it's over."
"Yes, sir."
"We'll never have a more important case than this one. And then, having to sit and just wait and wait and do nothing. We could be out there right now, on the boy's track, interrogating witnesses." Fox's voice trailed off, and he focused for a few silent minutes on doodling -- jerky little zigzags that looked like the readings on Forrester's monitors. "But they won't let us. They have to do everything `scientifically' nowadays."
Long minutes passed. Fox's doodles dug deeper and deeper into the paper. Sam wondered if he was leaving gouge-marks on the desk.
"It's all computers now. They're going to strip every clue from Forrester's brain about the boy's habits and thinking processes and put every speck of data into a computer. Then they'll send an army of agents in a computer-coordinated sweep. A net he can't escape."
But he does escape, Sam thought with secret satisfaction. Ziggy's already said that they never find the boy.
"Rios takes forever to get anything done. Data, data, data, recording every little brain wave and waiting forever to get to the important things." Fox had abandoned his doodling, and was now occupied with unbending paper clips.
"Well, the important thing is getting the information, not who gets it, isn't it, sir?" Sam said, knowing that his words were touching a nerve.
Fox was silent for a moment. I m sure Dr. Rios is very qualified to oversee the investigation. He picked up one of his straightened paper clips and began to stab holes into a piece of paper.
"Confidentially, Wylie," Fox added after a long pause -- how confidential could anything be here, thought Sam -- "I think Rios is a little overcautious, if you ask me. She acts as though Forrester's made of glass."
"I'm sure she knows exactly what she s doing," Sam said with secret maliciousness.
"I did a lot of field interrogations, especially during the year we were hunting for Forrester, but it's been so long since I've... I... guess I didn't realize the advances that have been made in interrogation techniques." Fox crunched up the perforated piece of paper and pushed it off the desk toward a wastebasket. The ball of paper hit the rim of the wastebasket and bounced noiselessly onto the carpet near Fox s foot. "It's become a science, now, I guess."
"So that's why they had to get a scientist to oversee the interrogation," said Sam, taking concealed pleasure in needling Fox.
"Wylie, do you know how to play double solitaire?" Fox said, looking up suddenly.
"What, sir?"
"Do you know how to play double solitaire? I could teach you. It's easy. Do you want to come down and play cards with me in the cafeteria this afternoon?"
"Well, ah, sir, I was planning to work crossword puzzles. In the paper."
"I could help you with them," Fox said hopefully. "I'm good at crossword puzzles. I used to buy crossword puzzle books by the stack when I had to do stakeouts."
"Well, sir, it's more, ah, fun to solve crosswords without help."
"You like a challenge, don't you, Wylie? So do I. We're two of a kind, aren t we? Neither one of us is built to stay behind a desk. We need to be out there. Out on the front lines. Out in the battle."
"I suppose so, sir."
"We're men of action, aren't we, Wylie? We need todothings! The home office boys just could never understand us field agents."
"No, sir, probably not," Sam said sullenly.
"We've been through a lot together, haven't we, Wylie?" Fox said after another long pause.
"I suppose so, sir."
"How long have we been together?"
"Ah, well, sir, I'd have to figure that out..."
"Six years," came Al's voice behind them.
"Six years, isn't it, sir?" Sam said to Fox.
"Yes, I think so, Wylie. Seems a lot longer. You've been with me longer than any other assistant."
"Yes, sir."
"About five and a half years longer than the second-longest," Fox said. He stared past Sam, at the gray walls with the faint cracks in the paint. "I know I've been impatient with you at times..."
"That's all right, sir."
"But you came through in the end. You were the one who did it. If not for you, Forrester would have escaped over that interstate bridge."
"Yes, sir," said Sam, with a touch of bitterness.
"You're the closest thing I have to a friend, Wylie."
"Ah... thank you, sir."
"It's like we're war buddies, isn't it?"
"War buddies, sir?"
"Gimme a break," came Al's voice behind them. "You don't know what it's like to be in the jungle, shooting at invisible enemies, seeing your buddies' guts splatter next to you..."
"Yes," Fox mused, stacking his straightened-out paper clips into a little pile, "it took a long time. A lot of blood, toil, sweat, tears, headaches, and budget cuts. But it's finally over. We finally caught it."
"Yes, sir."
"That's the important thing," Fox sighed, kicking at the paper ball near his foot without much conviction, "we caught it."
"Sir, may I ask you a question?"
"Yes?"
"Sir, why do you refer to Forrester as `it'?"
"Well, Wylie, we don't actually know its real gender, do we?"
"Well, sir, if it comes to that, we don't actually knowyourreal gender, do we?"
"What?"
"You have male secondary sexual characteristics -- but so does Forrester. And, granted, that is not absolute proof of an individual's sex. Extremely high levels of estrogen or testosterone in a male or female, respectively, can give a male female secondary sexual characteristics, such as breasts, or a female male secondary characteristics, such as a beard." Sam noticed Fox staring at him in a very peculiar way, but he continued. "Nevertheless, we generally accept one another's secondary sexual characteristics as prima facie evidence of sex."
Fox was still staring. "Where did you get all that, Wylie? One of your tabloids?"
"I'm only asking, sir, why do you call Forrester an `it'? Is it something about his genetics? Is he not genetically male -- does he not have x and y chromosomes?"
"I suppose he does." Fox shrugged. "I guess he'd have to. The real Forrester was a male. This one's got to have the same genes." Fox sighed. "I guess the main reason I call Forrester `it' is to combat people's infuriating tendency to sentimentalize the thing -- to think of it as though it were a human being. You know how many times people helped it get away because of that. And I've had to discipline myself not to get sentimental, too. But I guess it doesn't matter now, now that we've got Forrester. Even Dr. Rios calls Forrester `him,' and you know that lady is no sentimentalist." Fox fell silent for a moment. Then he said, "You know, Wylie, you sound... smarter, or something."
"Night school," said Sam absently.