The Twelve Stones (11 page)

“Do you see these plans
,
Mr. Tate?” Kline pointed to the schematics in front of him. Geoffrey remained silent, another trick he had learned.

“
These surveyor maps show absolutely no mineable ore or natural gas deposits here in the middle of nowhere. Do you know why I’m here
,
Mr. Tate?”

Geoffrey wordlessly shook his head.

“No
,
you don’t, and neither does anyone else. I want to keep it that way, so brainless, dimwitted do-gooders do not come out here and ask a lot of questions that we are not prepared to answer without resorting to violence. And you don’t want that
,
do you
,
Mr. Tate?”

Geoffrey shook his head no, and Kline nodded, his faith restored in Geoffrey. Kline walked over to the wall examining more surveyor maps keenly, forgetting for the moment that he had nearly killed his most valued employee only seconds before.

Without warning, Kline turned to Geoffrey
.
His subordinate
winced
,
expecting another attack. Instead
,
in a low, kind voice, Kline said to him, “Mr. Tate, I believe all our Suburbans can be tracked through their GPS
,
can they not?”

Geoffrey
,
ashamed at not thinking of this sooner
,
nodded his head.

“Well then, it’s a simple matter of turning that on and finding him
,
isn’t it?” Kline asked, his eyes glowing with merriment instead of the murderous rage that had been there only a few moments before.

“
I’ll get right to it
,
” Geoffrey murmured.

“
Excellent, Mr. Tate, excellent.” Kline rubbed his hands gleefully. “Take a chopper, find our little nuisance
,
and put him in the ground.” Kline’s eyes narrowed as Geoffrey began
to exit the room. “And Mr. Tate…
” Geoffrey turned and looked at his boss
,
expecting another threat against his life. “Please be sure to not miss this time, yes?”

Geoffrey
,
not wanting to argue the point
,
exited Kline’s office
,
typing furiously on his PDA’s keypad. He had narrowly avoided his boss
’s
wrath; he would need to prove to Kline
,
once again
,
just how valuable his talents were
,
and why he was paid as he was. His PDA beeped in response to the text message he had just sent out. Geoffrey flipped it open
.
T
he
text read:

Stolen vehicle SB Route 94

Geoffrey opened up his phone and began running through his pre-operation checklist in his head. It was time to go to work. Within minutes, a security force made up of locals who knew the area would be joining him
—
with an impressive array of firepower.

The young man may have slipped away for the moment, but his victory would be short lived
;
of this, Geoffrey had no doubt.

Chapter Nine

Alex slammed his fist against the Suburban’s Auto-Navigation system
,
breaking the screen apart. After fifteen minutes on a dirt road, the GPS had finally put him on a real highway road, paved and everything. However, only a few short minutes after finding the asphalt, Alex realized that the GPS probably worked both ways, and it was possible for the owners to track him. He hit the GPS system again, knocking it off its perch on the large Suburban dashboard.

“
Stupid technology
,
” Alex muttered to himself. Alex pushed the truck harder down the pothole
-
ridden road. He knew he would need to abandon the truck somewhere soon, but he was hoping he could get to the Sheriff's station first before they could get organized and pursue the stolen truck.

Alex was driving so quickly that he almost didn’t see the small, dimly lit police station.
He slammed
on the brakes, the truck
fishtail
ing
wildly in the dirt. Alex threw the heavy truck into reverse, the rear tires protesting their treatment as they squealed loudly in the normally dark and still night.
Finally coming to a stop, Alex
got out of the car and attempted to open the police station’s front door. His heart sank as he struggled with the door, realizing it was locked. Alex began pounding on the door, praying that someone would answer.

Deputy Mark Rogers heard the pounding on the front door, shaking
him
loose from a provocative dream. He slept most nights, as it was Joshua Tree, and nothing really happened here. Occasionally
,
he’d patrol the highway, looking for speeders and the occasional drug smuggler (you could always tell which ones those were), but for the most part, his days were long and dull. He wasn’t especially thrilled with the position he was in, but his father had been stationed in worse places in his life.

A born and bred military brat, Mark Rogers’s family traveled across the world as his father was transferred from base to base. His mother tried to keep some semblanc
e of a family life in the Army h
ousing, but it wasn’t easy. The young Mark had often made more trouble than his overwrought mother could handle, so it
brought some relief to
his family when he turned
eighteen years of age and could enlist.

His years of living on Army bases across the world had given him the ideal upbringing for all the discipline he expected to find in boot camp and the Army. His father had died somewhat unceremoniously in the first Iraq war
,
from
friendly fire. So, ten years later
,
while Sergeant Rogers was still carrying a torch from his father’s death, he inadvertently fired on some Iraqi civilians
,
killing several.

The discharge was swift and quiet. The military handled their own problems, and abhorred the press. The administration went along with it
,
as they felt a long investigation would sour the public’s opinion in an already
-
unpopular war.

Discharge papers in hand, Mark Rogers contacted an old friend of his father’s (who just so happened to be the current
s
heriff
of San Bernardino County), and was given a job with the promise of something better maybe coming along in a month or two. That had been seven years ago.

It was far more than he deserved, Mark sometimes thought to himself. At night when he was alone, he was sometimes haunted by the ghosts of the Iraqi children he had accidentally killed. The only thing that had helped over the years was whiskey.

Tonight, the
drinking
had begun
earlier than normal
,
which was why the good deputy did not hear the initial pounding of Alex’s fist on the heavy door.

Resembling something clos
e to a hung-
over grizzly bear, Deputy Rogers opened up the front door to the
p
olice
s
tation, looking to see who was responsible for waking him.

“
Stay
in the station!” Alex shouted, pushing with his shoulders past the Deputy. Surprised at the young man’s fright, Deputy Rogers did not say anything at first, only watching in puzzlement at Alex cowering behind the heavy police station door.

Deputy Rogers rolled his eyes.
Great,
he thought to himself, a
nother kid who took too much peyote out in the desert and is now trippin’ balls all over my police station.
He only hoped that this one didn’t get sick all over the place like the last one did.

“What seems to be the problem?” Deputy Rogers had gone through this routine several times even this month. The problem, as he was sure the man would tell him, was he thought he was Hunter S. Thompso
n and was looking for some life-
altering mind trip. Usually
,
guys like him scored low
-
grade hallucinogens out of Mexico and came to the desert to have a “spirit vision.” Really
,
it was just an excuse to take drugs.

Spiritual
it
y aside, it was the same pattern every time. He would ask what the man took, the man would deny he took any drugs (at this point they were usually so far gone they barely remembered what planet they were on), Mark would repeat his question
,
and the man would begin to rave about how he was covered in roaches, or aliens were invading, or some other damn craziness.

Sighing, the deputy rose and turned looking at the scraggly looking man hiding behind his desk. He reached towards
the
belt that held his taser. He held up his hand and cocked his head. “So, what exactly did you take while you were out in the desert there
,
son?”

Alex’s eyes narrowed as he looked up in confusion at the police officer.
He thinks I’m on drugs,
Alex realized. Considering his long hair, and
his
paranoid appearance at the front door, he could hardly blame the man. He needed to convince this man he was stone cold sober, and deadly serious.

“
I didn’t take anything,” Alex said urgently, “There’s a team of men operating in the desert right now
,
and they’ve just killed my father
,
and tried to kill me only a few minutes ago.”

Why can’t they just collapse out in the middle of nowhere where the coyotes can eat 'em?
Rogers
thought to himself. The fifth of Jack from earlier that evening had clouded his brain somewhat, but he was still sober enough to know when someone else wasn’t.

“
Son, I really need to know what sort of drugs you took
,
”
h
e repeated as he took out the taser and held it ready at his side, ready to fire at any second should the man turn violent.

“
You’re not listening to me!” Alex desperately cried out to the officer. “My father was killed by a bunch of men out over by the Mesa and climbing area. If you come with me, I’ll be glad to…”

The deputy had had enough. He grabbed Alex, twisting his wrist violently
and
using the momentum to slam him against the wall. “I’ve h
ad about enough of your chicken-
f
ried brain. You’re under arrest,
” Mark growled at t
he young man.
“Public intoxication
,
and after I search your car, I imagine I’ll be adding trafficking to the list of charges.”

He slipped one half of the cuffs on Alex, “You have the right to remain
—
” A pop loudly sounded through the room as a dark red spot began to spread across the deputy’s chest. Rogers looked down at the blood on his hands before looking back up in shock at Alex.

Alex grabbed the police off
ic
er and carried his body
to the ground as Deputy Rogers struggled to breathe. Alex ripped off the deputy’s shirt, watching in horror at the blood running down his c
hest. The hole from the bullet
began to foam bright red, splashing as the deputy attempted to draw oxygen into his lungs. His eyes pleaded for help as he looked up at Alex.

The stone began to shine brilliantly blue under Alex’s shirt. The soft blue glow appeared all over Alex’s body
,
ran
down Alex’s arm
,
and travel
ed
directly onto the
wounded
deputy’s sucking chest wound.

Alex watched in disbelief as the glow from the deputy’s healing wound
gave off
the same soft blue light. On instinct, Alex dropped the deputy’s hand, the glow disappearing instantly once he released
it
.

He stared at his arm, watching the blue glow retreat back into the stone. The deputy, who had been near death only moments before
,
began to breathe once again. The wound
,
still not quite healed, appeared bright red, with a dark purple bruising throughout the skin’s surface. Whatever healin
g process
Alex had begun by holding onto the deputy’s hand,
it had
stopped the very instant Alex had let go.

Alex’s eyes grew wide as he realized what was happening. The stone that now hung around his neck, that had repaired his broken best friend all those years ago, and himself only a half-hour earlier, had an incredible power for healing – a power that wasn’t just limited to himself
. I
f he touched someone who had been injured, the stone could heal them as well!