Almost God

By Dennis Glawe

Evolution has happened to four individuals on the planet who can now receive messages telepathically. They truly believe that the voice they hear is the voice of God. In reality, it is the voice of an alien being held prisoner at Area 51, hoping to use their help to escape. With his spaceship retro-engineered and in the hands of the US military,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Mar 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781643459431

Dennis Glawe

Dennis Glawe is a retired family practice physician. His previous works include novels with medical themes, historical novels, murder mysteries, as well as science fiction. His hobbies include baking bread, gardening, walking in the woods, and church activities. He lives with his wife, Cindy Sue, in Pickwick, Minnesota.

Book preview

Prologue

One Small Step

July 1947

Harold Christoffer sat on the tailgate of his pickup waiting to catch his breath. As he waited, he lit a cigarette. He only had three left in the pack, and he promised himself he’d never smoke more than one pack a day. When these three were gone, that was it until tomorrow. He suddenly realized that it was still a long time until tomorrow. In his mind, he tried to negotiate a solution. Maybe he could borrow one or two today and smoke less tomorrow. It was a bad habit he picked up in high school, made worse by the demands of being a truck mechanic in France during the last six months of the war, a war that pushed him up to three packs a day for a while. The war may have worsened his health, but it had also brought him Jesup, his only child, his godsend.

As his son played in the dirt at his feet, waiting for his father to catch his breath, Harold studied his playful movements. This child had become his life, his reason for living. It was the only truly good thing that had come out of the war for him. It claimed the lives of his brother and all three of his best friends.

It was a warm July evening, just about sunset, and the soft light cut a sharp image of his two-year-old son’s blue bib overalls against the golden wheat swaying in the gentle breeze behind him. With his favorite toy tractor in one hand, Jesup jumped up and down in a pile of dust, his father knowing that he would be doing the exact same thing if it were water instead of dust.

Once a week since early May, when the tiny shoots of wheat pushed up through the tired Kansas soil, Harold drove out to check his crop. Tonight, the only difference was that he had a copilot, albeit a small one, and the state of the crop hardly seemed to be a thought in his tiny copilot’s head. Bringing him along was one small step in making him a farmer, and that, more than anything in the world, was what Harold wanted—a son to take over the farm.

Finally catching his breath, Harold stood up and straightened his aching back. He felt much older than his forty-two years. The sun slowly slipped below the western hills, dimming the landscape. Soon it would be too dark to see across his field. Time was slipping away, for both the day and his life, and Harold couldn’t stop it. With Jesup’s hand in his, they started for the top of the knoll where the rest of the field could be seen. It was only fifty yards away, and walking at a slow pace, they soon stood gazing upon the sea of gold that stretched a mile or more to the south. The crop looked good. All the wheat looked good, but Harold wasn’t feeling the satisfaction of his accomplishments. Other things were weighing heavily on his mind.

Since the war, Harold always read the newspaper, keeping up with local, national, and international news. And if he knew anything at all about what was going on in the world, it was this simple truth: the current world situation was a mess, and it didn’t look like it was going to improve.

The second anniversary of the end of World War II was still almost a month away, and now they were talking about a conflict coming in Korea, against Communist North Korea. If that happened, would President Truman use the A-bomb on them too? With the memory still fresh in his mind of the many thousands killed in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Harold shuddered to think what would happen if the Communists got their hands on the bomb. They might drop one right here on this field and destroy everything he had worked for all his life.

As these thoughts settled into his tired bones, much like the canopy of night that inched over the spot where he stood, other things crowded into his mind, more personal things, and he couldn’t deny them any longer. His shortness of breath had gotten worse over the past six months. He had an appointment to see the doctor in two days, and somehow he knew it would be bad. His coughing spells had grown longer and deeper, and now he coughed up blood more often than not—never a lot, just tinges—but it was slowly getting worse. He realized that it might be cancer, and that this might be the last time he ever got to see this part of his land. So he stood there and studied it for as long as he could, watching his son play in the dry soil at his feet. Jesup was using the time to put his tractor on the ground and play along imaginary roads, just like his father did in real life.

As he watched Jesup, a proud smile floated across Harold’s face and immediately changed into a sad frown. He realized that, when he died, his son would face a much different world, a world he had hoped would be a safer place for him to live. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like it was going to turn out that way.

Stopping his play, as if sensing his father’s thoughts, Jesup looked up into the sad eyes of the man he called Daddy. As he wondered why Daddy coughed so much and looked so sad, he caught sight of a bright light in the eastern night sky, just over his father’s shoulder. It moved about in a crazy dance, first moving side to side, then higher and lower, zigzagging about in the darkening sky like some crazy firefly. And it seemed to be moving toward them. Its erratic movement mesmerized Jesup. His curiosity held no fear.

Look, Daddy, light! he exclaimed, pointing at it.

Harold swung his head around, his wandering thoughts gone, quickly focusing on the strange light. It didn’t pulsate like an airplane. Its movements were too sudden and swift. If it was a military aircraft, it was something new. Before he could react, the light grew larger, growing into a half dozen intensely bright lights along a line. The shadow outline carrying them was a large saucer-shaped disk.

A cold chill ran down Harold’s spine as fear temporarily paralyzed him. Perhaps this was a Communist invasion with some new, top-secret weapon, and they were about to be killed.

Jesup watched the light in childish amazement. He stood up as if in a trance and walked a few steps toward the lights, the strange ship hovering above the treetops close enough to see windows. Harold guessed it to be about two miles away.

Wow! So pretty! Jesup exclaimed.

Grabbing his son’s arm, Harold pulled him close, wondering what he should do, needing, somehow, to protect his son from this threat.

Yes, Harold said quietly into his tiny ear, but it might be mean people looking to hurt us.

The craft moved closer, as if the farmer and his son were the target, growing in size as it approached. And then it was there, over the lower end of his field, about three hundred yards from where they stood. A bright white light emerged from the underside of the craft, putting a spotlight on the ground. It lit up a thirty-foot diameter circle of the wheat, still swaying gently in the breeze. Suddenly the light swung up and pointed right at Harold and Jesup, momentarily blinding them, bringing their hands in front of their faces.

Harold wanted to scoop Jesup into his arms and run for the truck, but fear cemented his feet where he stood. There was no mistake now. They’d been spotted. Whoever was inside that strange craft knew they were there.

Before he could put much thought into the matter, the light that blinded him disappeared. The large craft silently hung there in the sky as if on a wire, motionless, mesmerizing, like a coiled snake ready to strike. It seemed to be considering their presence, so close, maybe too close, perhaps deciding what to do with them.

The answer came in an instant. As if shot from a cannon, the strange aircraft suddenly lifted straight up into the night sky. There was no sound. It happened so fast, Harold couldn’t follow it with his eyes. It was there one moment and gone the next!

Harold waited for his heart to stop pounding and his rapid breathing to ease before he glanced down at Jesup. Are you all right?

Jesup nodded. A puzzled look crossed his young face as he caught his father’s eye. Who is Eon?

Harold didn’t know what to say. What a strange question to ask. Ian? I don’t think we know anyone named Ian? Why do you ask?

Jesup’s face cleared. That was his name.

Whose name?

Pointing to where the strange craft had hovered, Jesup replied, The man in the funny airplane.

Studying his face, Harold knew that his son had a big imagination but wondered if it was more. Now how do you know that?

He told me.

Harold didn’t know what to think. Could the strong light have somehow mentally tampered with his son? If it had, what could he do about it? Absolutely nothing! Picking up Jesup, Harold held him at eye level. Well, if his name is Ian, I hope he’s one of us!

Jesup nodded with a reassuring smile. He is!

Harold never told anyone about their experience, and for Jesup, it was forgotten before he got home. Only years later would he remember what had happened that night in his father’s wheat field.

*   *   *

Two weeks later…Eon

I was a prisoner. That, in and of itself, was no surprise. We are all prisoners in one way or another. Whether it be trapped in an existence of poverty and powerlessness, or controlled by inner demons that bow to addictions like alcohol, drugs, or the more generic evils like greed and vanity, we all have something that shackles us to the world we live in. Even the weight of past mistakes will crush the spirit and poison all efforts at forgiveness, if we let it, right up until death, held hostage by an unforgiving conscience. I was long past any such self-indulgence. My feelings were safe, for now.

No, my prison had no such imaginary walls. This dungeon was real. It was a concrete bunker, four floors beneath a guarded building on Wright Field (later to be named Wright-Patterson Air Force Base). It was initially built as a repository where important documents were to be stored in case of a nuclear attack, even though the United States was currently the only nation with nuclear bombs. (Were they already planning for the inevitability that others would also develop nuclear weapons? Their insecurity demanded it.)

The smell of paint hung on the gray walls of my prison cell, and I tried to ignore it. This small room was my world, a twenty-by-twenty space with a low ceiling and sparse lighting. Although it was new, the cold, impenetrability of its reinforced borders pressed home one singular reality. This would be my tomb if I did not find some way to escape. I did not realize it at the time, but I was embarking on a sixty-eight-year mission.

I had not seen the light of day for ten days, and the lack of vitamin D needed for my body made my thinking laborious and murky. If I did not acquire this necessity soon, I would slowly drift into madness. My mission to retrieve my lost brothers, already set back by my capture, would end a failure. However, should I somehow escape this entrapment, my parents would only have four sons to mourn instead of five. My brothers were all dead, I learned later, victims of a new experimental weapon being tested by the US military.

My capture outside Roswell Army Air Base back on July 12, five days after my brothers crashed in the same area, had been intentional. My crash was faked, and only relatively minor impact damage occurred to my ship. I wanted to find my brothers, hopefully still alive, and this was the only way to do it.

My poor brothers! They had not expected an electromagnetic pulse beam to hit them while unshielded. (They were unshielded so they could gather information.) It knocked out the guidance systems; they lost control and crashed. It was as simple as that. I had not been contacted by Ages Past, my oldest brother, as scheduled, so I went looking for him. In order to find him and the others, I would need to find out where they had been taken. Moving about unshielded, I had been unsuccessful in discovering that information. So I had to revert to drastic measures. The only way to gather the necessary information was to move among these ‘humans’, and in order to do that, I would have to allow them to capture me.

My brothers’ deaths were a stunning setback to my race, (a race named Soulers), as well as my family’s carefully conceived long-term expectations for the planet. I wondered if their deaths had truly been from the crash or, more grievously, from the autopsies performed on them shortly afterwards.

These thoughts were weighing down heavily on my brain. I had to step away from the spiral of doubt that carried me downward ever so slowly toward depression, a place that would try to imprison me forever. So I focused on something else—the day, early in my life, when I realized when it was that my life truly began.

My life did not begin at birth. That simple truth is still completely ignored by all intelligent civilizations that believe with certainty that a person’s life begins with their expulsion from the female body (unless you split hairs and insist that life begins at conception).

It was on the eve of my one hundredth cycle that I realized the truth about my body, my soul, and, more precisely, my place in the universe. I had been wrong about understanding who I was for almost one hundred years. Like everyone else, I, too, believed that I came into being during my time in my mother’s womb, or at the time of my expulsion from that blessed place. But I was very, very wrong.

My life began shortly after an event labeled by scientist as the Big Bang or, more appropriately, the Singularity, the beginning of the fourth known cycle of our universe, when all matter came into existence, cooling from the unmeasurable state of energy it had left the moment before. That Big Bang was when my component parts were made, or more accurately, my precursors were created. My collection of elemental atoms began moments after this universe was created, and my organic compounds followed some time shortly thereafter. If you want to be scientifically accurate, you need to think of the birth of a human being as that moment when a unique collection of matter comes together and forms a person. If you think of human life in that way, it becomes easier to think about death as the dissolution of that collection, but not necessarily the end of its existence.

The best way to think of human life is to picture an hourglass. The sand funnels downward, representing the vast universe moving in time, channeling bits of matter toward a tiny point, a creation point, the point of a person’s birth. At the narrowest point in the hourglass, the sand becomes pressed through an opening where only a few grains of tightly squeezed sand can pass together—one solitary moment in time. This represents, in similar fashion, that moment when a very unique collection of material coalesces and a human being comes into existence, an individual, like a group of tiny grains of sand, a one-of-a-kind collection of parts passing through time together, embarking on a journey. At the end of that journey—a journey most would agree is very, very short, when that person dies—the elements are broken down. They become scattered back to their original dissociative state, and the soul is freed. In the hourglass, the sand lands on top of the grains of sand that have gone before, joining them, mixed among the other grains, waiting to become tiny parts of the universe again, ready for use in a new form, perhaps a new life.

Is that collection of sand at the bottom of the hourglass different from the grains of sand that came together while traveling though the narrows above? In truth, the answer is both yes and no. They remain the same grains individually, but they have completed a journey together, and because of that journey, they have changed. The matter at the beginning of the Big Bang will be the same but different matter when it reaches the end of this universe’s life. The cycle will end as it has before, and I know for a fact that it will end. That which has a beginning must have an end. So when this body ends, will I also end?

Since I had no individual memory of the time before my birth, will I have any memory of my existence after I die? The answer to that question, more complex, was proven to me by my parents when I was quite young, and it came to explain the role of self-awareness and the soul in the preservation of…

A light switch was flipped, and the pale double row of incandescent lights glowing in the ceiling suddenly paled behind half a dozen glaring spotlights placed evenly along the side walls. The cell door squeaked open, and two men stepped into the doorway staring at me. Self-reflection time was over.

*   *   *

Richard Allagainy stood in the doorway with his full attention directed at the person standing at the far end of the room. He knew that this first impression was supremely important, and he seized it with focused intensity, burning the image of this strange man into his memory, trying to prepare himself for the task ahead.

Unbuttoning the front of his new black suit, he turned slightly and whispered to the tall uniformed man standing behind him. Colonel, I need twenty minutes alone with him. Please wait for me.

The colonel nodded, keeping his eyes on the prisoner, not trusting him. I’ll be right outside. Reluctantly, he left the room and closed the noisy door.

Standing just inside the doorway, Richard took in the room with a slow sweep of his judgmental eyes. It was a twenty-by-twenty room illuminated by six cage-covered, incandescent lights buried in the ceiling, muted by the spotlights, three along each wall, giving the room a stage-like feel. The gunmetal color of the walls was brightened by the harshness of the portable luminaries. An army cot with several folded blankets hugged the back left corner of the room, their green and brown colors exaggerated by the bright light. A portable latrine occupied the right back corner. Richard sniffed deeply and found the air surprisingly free of the smell or urine or feces. It did little to change the fact that the air was still stale and held the underlying scent of paint. A small field table sat in the middle of the room with a pencil and yellow pad on it. A couple of folding chairs faced each other from opposite sides. The rest of the room, except for the gaudy spotlights, remained empty. It was Spartan to say the least. Richard could not imagine spending a single night in this dungeon, let alone ten days!

Walking to the table, he placed a folder on top and quietly sat down. Motioning with his hand for the prisoner to take the chair opposite, he waited patiently while the short man did so.

Richard nervously noted the peculiarities of this unique prisoner. He was all of five feet tall, and even though Richard knew all about his diminutive size, he still couldn’t believe how tiny the man really was. He looked preadolescent. His eyes were small and narrowly spaced, very dark, and yet surprisingly warm and soft. His eyebrows were thin with fine light-brown hair, the color matching the short growth on top of his humanoid head, accentuated by his pale skin. His ears, slightly smaller than normal, gave the soft, oval face balance. His small nose and mouth only made the ears more noticeable. Dressed in a blue air force jumpsuit, modified for his small stature, Richard noted the normal shoulders and skinny arms. In many ways he looked like a normal, prepubescent teenager, clean-shaven, with only the pimples missing. Richard knew that wasn’t the case.

Their eyes met. Richard showed no expression. The prisoner curled a sly grin at the corners of his closed mouth and winked. Richard wasn’t impressed. He remained fully on guard, his holstered .45-caliber gun at the ready in his left armpit, concealed by his unbuttoned suit coat.

My name is Richard Allagainy, and I have been assigned as your new interrogator. He pushed the pad toward the prisoner. Is there anything you would like me to get you?

The prisoner blinked several times without moving. After a long pause, he stood up and stepped up to the table, picking up the pencil in a slow and deliberate manner. Writing a single word on the pad, he slid it toward Richard.

Richard noted the five fingers on each hand and realized that none of them was a thumb. He also noticed the strange tattoos at the tips of his fingers, tattoos he’d seen in pictures in the dossier earlier that morning. Richard picked up the pad and turned it to see what he had written. The word freedom stared at him. Suppressing a grin, Richard nodded. He would want to be free too if it meant escaping this place!

Sorry, but for now, anyway, we need to keep you in isolation. Anything else?

The prisoner stared at Richard for a long minute and seemed to be thinking. Leaning over the table, he took the pad and again worked the pencil against the paper.

Richard turned it around when he finished and saw the word sunlight. With a slight smile, he nodded. In a few days, we are moving you to a new location where there will be lots of sunlight. You will remain there for the duration. One small step at a time. That’s the best I can do. Is there anything else you want?

The prisoner lowered his head and paused for another minute, as if he were having trouble coming up with an acceptable answer. Finally, he picked up the pad and pencil. After he wrote his answer, he placed both on the table and returned to his chair.

Richard looked at the pad. Bible appeared below the previous words in the same square penmanship. It surprised him. Why would he want a Bible? That I can get you right away. Anything else?

The prisoner shook his head slowly.

Very well. Since this is our first meeting, I’m going to keep it short.

Opening the file, Richard took out a four-inch square photo and studied it before placing it on the table in front of the prisoner. We found this photograph in the wreckage of the other aircraft. I assume you know who it is, am I wrong?

The prisoner slid his chair closer to the table and remained seated. He picked up the photo and smiled showing two rows of even white teeth.

The picture was not made of paper but a plastic-like material. There were actually parts of two faces in the photo with a line down the middle separating them. One face, on the left—that of a man looking up, facing the camera—showed a greater portion of the face than the other. The image in the left picture was sporting a well-groomed beard with dark shoulder-length hair flowing down the back of his head. His eyes were squinting in a pained expression. It was a troubled face. The definitions were clean and sharp, not so in the right half of the picture.

The face in the right half of the photo appeared to be closer, but only the top part of the face could be seen completely. The mouth and bearded chin were mere lines beneath the blood-covered nose. There was just enough definition to ascertain that it was the same person. The eyes and the hairline were the same, but the angle was different. Whereas the left face presented features at a lower angle slightly from the right, this one was taken from directly overhead looking down. The hair was tangled, disheveled, matted to the forehead, and the beard had red lines of blood streaked in it. The face was bruised and swollen. If any doubt existed that this man had been beaten, the blood across the swollen nose erased it.

Richard watched closely as the prisoner took a finger and touched the white line between the two photos and pushed it to the right edge, uncovering the left face in a larger context. It doubled the size of the picture and made the other picture disappear. There were now heads of other individuals standing near him, and it looked like he was standing next to a doorway.

With his finger still on the edge, the prisoner swept it across the surface to the far left side, moving the beaten man into the center of the photo, expanding it, making the other picture disappear. This image also had other men standing around him, but these were wearing shiny helmets, and they held what looked like weapons, some pointed toward the beaten man while others pointed away from him, at something out of the photo.

Richard watched in stunned silence. How was it possible to manipulate the images on this pliable material? Obviously, it had to be a special type of plastic paper. And who were the other people in the pictures?

When he looked up at the prisoner’s face, Richard was surprised to see that he was weeping silently. Tears streaked down both cheeks as he gazed upon the beaten man’s photo.

Richard had seen thousands of similar pictures of beaten and tortured prisoners of war from Japanese and German prison camps. The images of pain and fear always told him where the prisoner of war was emotionally in his captivity. Fear came first, then pain. Eventually, when all hope was lost, empty eyes glared back at the camera. And then in those few pictures taken, when death was imminent, a look of acceptance slipped from blank faces, eyes of sorrow sealing a final, fatal expression. Richard never liked looking at these photos of the living dead, but curiosity prevented him from turning away. The first few hundred had made him sick. After that, he didn’t care; they were just faces. Sometimes the images still disrupted his sleep. But over time, he’d been conditioned not to let them get to him.

I’m sorry, Richard said. Did you know this man well?

The prisoner nodded.

Was he a relative?

The prisoner looked deep into Richard’s eyes and simply shrugged.

Richard frowned. Did the enemy do this to him?

The prisoner stared as if considering the word enemy. Then he nodded.

Richard swallowed hard. Even though the allied forces had tried hard to prevent the torturing of enemy combatants, it still happened. If this were a relative, it meant, one, that there were humans running around with alien DNA inside of them, and, two, that they may have been mistreated by American servicemen. This could be a problem if they were a large number and became hostile. Then again, maybe it was all a lie in order for the prisoner to try and get out of this hellhole.

Richard eyed the prisoner suspiciously. New interrogation techniques recently discovered in German concentration camps might be applied here to good benefit. This man knew things of vital importance to the American government.

Did we do this to him? Richard asked.

With emotional eyes, the prisoner nodded again.

On behalf of the United States government, I apologize, Richard said sympathetically. He could tell that the prisoner didn’t believe him.

The prisoner swiped from the right edge again and moved a third, hidden picture into view. It was of an older man smiling into the camera surrounded by half a dozen individuals that were short and pale-skinned, resembling the prisoner. Smiling with a touch of sadness, he swept the picture away and returned to the original setting of two half-images. Carefully, he handed the photo back to Richard.

Richard wanted to study the photograph and try to make it reveal its secrets, but that would have to wait. He placed the photo in the file and closed it. I apologize for these conditions, he said soberly. Your new quarters will be much more pleasing. I would certainly like to let you go free, but under the circumstances, I’m sure you know why we can’t do that.

No reaction came from the prisoner.

Your aircraft has proven to be a treasure beyond measure. The other one was in so many pieces…well, it didn’t offer much information. The remains of your four fellow crewmen will be stored until such time as you inform us of a proper disposal method.

The prisoner watched Richard talk. He showed no emotion. Blinking his eyes every few minutes, it gave the appearance of disbelief at everything Richard said.

Trying to bridge the gap, Richard had to give it one more shot. Look. I know you don’t want to talk. On the matter of your crewmates, I am sorry for your loss. We will do everything possible to make your continued confinement as comfortable as possible. We only ask for your cooperation. We want to make this a friendly relationship. Okay?

Still no reaction.

Standing, Richard was satisfied. It was an acceptable beginning. I will have a Bible brought to you right away. Goodbye. I will see you when you get to your new quarters.

Nodding, he turned and walked to the door, peering through the small glass window where the guard and his military friend waited. The guard opened the door to let him out, but Richard Allagainy paused and turned for a moment to look at the prisoner one last time. He realized that he couldn’t read his thoughts. What was he thinking? Why did he want a Bible? Was he a Christian? Or was he playing games? And who was the man in the photo? It had been his only emotional reaction during the whole interview.

As Richard left the room, he knew one thing for certain—one way or another, he would get every bit of useful information out of him. Richard walked out, and the guard closed the squeaky door.

*   *   *

I watched Richard walk away from the window, noting that he had left the bright spotlights on. I wiped the last remnants of tears from my face and reflected on this new situation. The only positive result from this exchange was the fact that I’d be leaving this prison cell soon.

I am sad for you, Richard Allagainy. You have failed to learn anything from the Great War you recently ended. Citizens who follow their government blindly are destined for disaster and destruction. That was the one true lesson, and you still have not learned it. The governments of Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan were horribly wrong, and for different reasons! Think it through! Wars will continue until you figure it out. Governments must end! Look at the current situation. The United States government is now king of the hill, the biggest player at the table. Only Russia comes close, and this ally in war is now your enemy! You just don’t see it. Big government is always self-serving…always! And the military is simply the enforcer of that government. The military will blindly do whatever government tells it to do. Power, it’s all about power. Governments exist by it, for it, and can never get enough of it. One day I will have to tell you the story about the serpent.

You came into the room seeing a prisoner, not a confined innocent man. It’s what your government told you, and you believed it without question. The Master, your God, told you through the messages of Jesus Christ to be careful when passing judgment, but you do not listen. He who is without sin may cast the first stone. Don’t you see where this all leads? Government regulation is no replacement for a life based on God-given religious principles! You must suffer until that point is recognized!

I stood up in the bright light of captivity and walked to the back wall. Placing my hands beside my eyes, I was able to block out most of the harsh light, light that provided no natural vitamin D. I needed darkness to concentrate. My thoughts continued along their previous path.

I had at least one contact on the outside, a young boy with his father, first seen standing in a Kansas wheat field. Eventually, the child might help me escape. I will need to find more.

I’m sorry, Richard, but this war has caused an evolutionary arrest in your progress. Your species has made it through the first three phases with only minor setbacks. Your time in the examination phase taught you about self, family, and community. The exploration phase showed you a world full of wonder and opportunity. Unfortunately, you used most of this time to gain power individually and collectively. It is this exploitation phase that you cannot seem to overcome. Your animal instincts have made greed your most important goal, and hate has flamed it into destruction. How long will you continue to flounder in the moral abyss? And now you have nuclear weapons. Your wanton killing of each other for temporary acquisitions shows no limitations. What am I to do?

At least you are using the three tenants of evolutionary progress properly. You trust nothing until you examine it. You question everything to better understand your world and then make improvements to your life with that information. And you do, for the most part, try to follow the path recommended by the Master, the entity you call God. It’s just that you can’t recognize the danger of big, unbridled government! How will I ever teach you?

Yesterday, July 26, your President Truman signed a law creating the Central Intelligence Agency. You are a military liaison to the air force from that agency, and as a prisoner with information critical to your so-called national security, you will hold me prisoner until you have all the knowledge you can possibly coax from me. In one week, you plan to have me transferred under deepest secrecy to a new cell at a top-secret installation called Area 51. Your scientists along with top scientists from Germany are already hard at work trying to reverse engineer my aircraft. And from reading your mind, I know that all my brothers are in cold storage at this new facility in Nevada.

Turning around with a sudden epiphany, I glared at the harsh light realizing the reversal of our situations. Why, Mr. Allagainy, you are more of a prisoner than I am!

With an apocryphal realization, the thoughts automatically flowed from my mind. You do not yet know me. My name is Eon, and you have now given me the reason for my last name. It is Witl. One day, I hope you understand what it means. You have no earthly idea who or what I am. That is most unfortunate. I will pray for you, Richard Allagainy, that the Master will take pity on your soul and not judge you by way of your intransigent stupidity!

An evil grin slipped quickly across my face and was gone, shades of things that must be controlled. I closed my eyes and focused on praying. All that is…has been. All that can be…will be. With a will…is a way. The Master speaks. Thy will be done.

I stared at the face in the tiny window gazing back at me, an unknown guard doing what he was told, detached, indifferent. I winked as I read the empty thoughts coursing through his simple mind. He didn’t think much of me, but then again, he didn’t really know me. I knew the battle between myself and the US military would be long and dangerous, but I had the advantage.

I will teach you one thing freely, Mr. Allagainy. Evolution—how do you say it—is a bitch.

Turning away, I concentrated on my new last name, Witl. Where is the love. I would have to remember it daily…or else I might kill someone.

Chapter One

Sixty-Eight Years Later

Anthony Bellicoss had been a detective with the Washington, DC, police force for twenty-eight years, the last ten of those assigned to homicide. Today he was working as a fill-in for a regular detective out with the flu. This new case was a piece of garbage. Now it was his. Luck of the draw. He didn’t mind that the call had ruined his Christmas morning with his family; he could understand that, in fact, he half expected it. It was part of the job when you were on call. So be it. If he had to try and solve this case, bring it on. It was the fact that he was standing in a psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane that bothered him, and he really hated hospitals, all hospitals!

This was a missing person case, and even though it wasn’t his cup of tea, he could deal with it. He could deal with the fact that his partner was an inexperienced rookie four months out of the academy. Tony, as he was called, knew he’d get stuck doing the paperwork. None of that bothered him. He was bothered by the fact that a mentally disturbed patient, a convicted murderer in fact, had escaped from the most famous psychiatric hospital on the East Coast! This was St. Elizabeths Hospital in Washington, DC, the hospital that held John Hinkley and other well-known, even notorious, criminals. No one had ever escaped from here before! It was simply unthinkable! So Detective Bellicoss stood with his partner in the hallway, wondering what kind of major incompetence had caused this to happen.

His keen eyes did not see a scene of Christmas cheer, even though decorations were everywhere. The ward from which the escape had occurred was in chaos. It was on the fourth floor, east wing, and the staff was running around like the place was on fire, spreading fear and panic everywhere instead of peace and joy. The clients, twenty-four on this floor, minus one, were herded into the break room for the time being. They sensed something was wrong and filled the air with hoots, whistles, and screams.

Tony stood outside the room of the escapee, waiting for Dr. Harper, the head psychiatrist, to arrive from his home across town, a good fifty-minute drive. Tony and his partner, Stan Freesen, a gangly man with a boyish face that made him look ten years younger than his twenty-five years, had been questioning the staff for almost an hour. They had a pretty good picture of what had happened, but there were some details only Dr. Harper could provide. And they needed to search the patient’s room. They could not enter Mr. Christoffer’s room (that was the escapee’s name, Jesup Scott Christoffer) until Dr. Harper gave them permission. Nowadays it was all about privacy and human rights, and Tony wasn’t going to commit some tiny mistake that would allow some lawyer trick to spring this criminal on a technicality. He knew that if they searched the room without permission, any evidence found that might be used against the patient in court would, almost certainly, be deemed inadmissible. It was a cute lawyer stunt that allowed many criminals to walk, or in this case, get out of jail free, and Tony didn’t like that.

As they stood waiting, Tony went over the checklist in his notepad with his partner. With his long tan trench coat and rumpled suit, he could have played the part of Columbo on the old TV show. Yes, he had some extra weight around the middle, and his arthritic knees were noticeable when he walked, but he still had a young man’s twinkle in his eye and a quick smile when needed, even at fifty-six. His curly salt-and-pepper hair, compliments of his Greek mother, and his grizzled face, compliments of his Irish father, gave him the appearance of a man who could be trusted. His cluttered persona often put people at ease, allowing them to talk more freely, often causing them to give away important information.

Okay, he said to Stan. So far, we’ve got the night watchman, Mr. Spencer Casteel, saying all was well when he rounded at midnight. At 3:30 a.m., he noticed that Mr. Christoffer’s bed was empty. Night nurse—flipping pages in his notepad—"Mrs. Helen Moylis, saw no unusual activity during her shift. Building superintendent, Mr. Cole Parther, found a folded set of patient clothes just outside the front door, with a master key lying on top. That was at 3:45 a.m., just after he clocked in, earlier than his usual 5:00 a.m. start due to the holiday.

Since the patient hasn’t been found on the grounds, we can probably assume that he escaped on foot or got a ride off the premises. Since his hospital clothing was left here, we can assume he changed into civilian clothes and is probably trying to blend in with the public. Yes, it is possible that he is still hiding somewhere in the facility, but then, why would he leave the master key at the front door, a key that would open any door in the hospital? No, it means he didn’t have use for it anymore.

Tony scratched his head as if manually pushing the gears in his mind to help him think. "Okay. The campus has a high wall around it, which means he probably left through one of the two gates. Fred Belger at gate 1 had ten arrivals, all new clients. All ten vehicles were examined when they left, and no one was found hiding in them. Then there is Sam Hester, security guard at gate 2, the service gate. His shift lasted from midnight to 6:00 a.m. He said that of the fifty-five vehicles that left, forty-nine passed between midnight and 1:30 a.m., almost all employees leaving after their shift ended at midnight. Only six vehicles left the campus between 3:00 and 6:00 a.m. One pizza delivery van, three POVs (privately owned vehicles) with employees going home sick, one food service truck making regularly scheduled drop-offs, and a laundry service van, picking up dirty laundry.

The only thing Mr. Hester noted as unusual was the laundry truck. He said it had a doctor sitting in the passenger seat, and he thought that was strange. When he asked, the driver told him he was giving him a lift into town. Mr. Hester couldn’t remember the doctor’s name.

The cellphone on Stan’s belt began to ring loudly. Holding up his finger for Tony to pause, he answered it.

Tony frowned. He didn’t like interruptions when he was working a case.

Detective Freesen. He proceeded to listen for several long minutes. Really? Great! That answers one question. Thanks. He ended the call.

What? Tony demanded.

I called the precinct and asked Phillips to see if he could ring the laundry service while we were interviewing the rest of the staff. He got the driver’s name and phone number from the owner. A Mr. Manny Washington told Phillips over the phone that he picked up a naked guy walking down the road here at St. Elizabeth’s about 3:30 a.m., said he let him wear a set of dirty scrubs from a laundry bag in the back of the truck. Said he came back up to the passenger seat with a lab coat on, a lab coat with Dr. Harper’s name stitched above the pocket. Mr. Washington said he was running late and didn’t want a hassle from the guard. If he had admitted that he was a patient, he never would have finished his route, and he had Christmas plans with his mother. He said he had no idea who the guy really was.

Tony wasn’t buying it.

Stan took notice and continued. "When Mr. Washington asked the naked guy if he was a patient here, the man said no, he was just a free man setting out on a mission. He didn’t ask him anything else but figured that if he were really a free man, he’d certainly become a patient if he kept walking around naked. So he gave him the scrubs. The lab coat he got back when he dropped him off at a Denny’s over at Liberty and Jackson. The scrubs he let him keep plus the Georgetown sweatshirt he kept in the truck to wear if he got cold.

Mr. Washington told Phillips that the stranger didn’t say much during the ride, but he did tell him that he had to make it to some church by seven this morning. The stranger never said which church.

Tony checked his watch as he considered arresting Mr. Washington for aiding a fugitive. It was 7:12 a.m. Wondering if the escapee made it to whatever church he had mentioned, Tony noticed a man getting off the elevator just beyond the glass doors. He wore an expensive topcoat over a dark-gray suit. With silvered hair and wire-rimmed glasses, his walk was focused.

That must be Dr. Harper, he said under his breath to his partner. Wonder if he’s missing a lab coat?

Unlocking the door with a passkey, Dr. Harper quickly joined them. Detective Bellicoss? I’m Dr. Harper. We spoke on the phone.

Detective Bellicoss shook Dr. Harper’s outstretched hand, noting the doctor’s sour disposition and shortness of breath.

Dr. Harper quietly gulped air as he read the detective’s mind. I have asthma, the doctor added, pulling an inhaler from his coat pocket.

Tony ignored his comment and looked down at his notebook. A nonconfrontational demeanor was important. Seems you have a patient missing, he said dryly.

So it would seem, Dr. Harper answered bitterly.

Tony watched Dr. Harper for a reaction. When his blank face flashed frustration, fear, and then anger, he knew the good doctor most likely had nothing to do with this whole affair. If any information came in that suggested that Dr. Harper helped him escape, he could always put his name back on the short list.

Is he dangerous? Tony added.

Slowly wringing his hands, more from the morning chill than nervousness, Dr. Harper’s eyes narrowed. His breathing eased, but his sour mood didn’t.

Tony was surprised at the doctor’s arrogant demeanor. It was his patient that had escaped, and he might suffer serious consequences because of it. This was a reflection of incompetence at some level, and the reputation of the hospital was at stake here. His job and reputation were probably on the line if this couldn’t be resolved quickly.

Of course he’s dangerous! Dr. Harper replied, irritated. That’s why he was here!

Tony noted his condescending tone. With an understanding nod, Tony assumed Dr. Harper was thinking about the inconvenience this imposition was causing him, probably some Christmas getaway. Tony suppressed a grin.

When did you last see Mr. Christoffer? Tony asked, still maintaining a curious and friendly tone.

Last night about 6:00 p.m., as I was leaving. The night watchman was walking out with me. We stopped in front of Jesup’s room when he called my name. We looked in the open door. Dr. Harper paused to add the details. "The head nurse locks all the patient room doors