Day Eighteen ∞ Monday, August 27, 1979

KEEPING WATCHFUL, Barrett strolled to the car and got into the passenger seat.

"I couldn't get him. Not on the alternate line either. Sit-rep?" He put the paper cup holder on the dashboard, exchanged the bag of donuts for the small scope and scanned the sparse foot traffic. Diagonally across the street stood the old Columbus HQ building, now occupied by the unknown contingent and the subject's family.

"They're still in there. Two men inside the entrance. Otherwise, nothing," Petersen said, fishing out a donut.

Barrett focused past the Lincoln parked beside them at the entrance to the underground garage. Only one guard was visible. He swept his view up the fake-windowed building, along the storefronts of this older part of town, and passing vehicles. Spotting a black sedan at the southern intersection, he zoomed in.

"Is that one of ours?" he asked.

Petersen reached for his long-lens camera as the lights changed and the Dodge Aspen turned left toward them. "Yep. But the passenger isn't."

"Why is he here?" Barrett added as the driver came into view.

"Chief?" Petersen panned with the car and snapped several shots of O'Malley and the front seat passenger. "There's another unknown in the back seat. Another deep-black arm of the agency?"

"Unlikely. Hm... I don't think they're from the Feds or Air Force SOCOM either."

"He was unaware of the activity here when I reported to him last night. That was before they snatched the asset's family. Yet here he is."

"Could be on an interagency assignment." Barrett watched the car and the guard disappear into the depths of the garage. "Or..." He frowned, lowering the scope.

Petersen looked at him. "Or what?"

"Or... Chief's got himself into some deep – unauthorized – shit. This is the same case that got us evicted from here days ago, yet he has us poking in it searching for Weaver—and why? To cover himself? We probably shouldn't even be touching this with a long stick."

∞

The last time O'Malley looked at a monitor in this observation control room was after that mysterious blonde turned up inside his office—the woman who implied she was the 'ghost' that paralyzed him and his staff the day before. Her appearance had marked the end of his department's involvement in all matters relating to the 'Party Crasher'. At least, that was what was supposed to have happened. But letting Weaver speak with her was his first mistake. His second was allowing Weaver to stay rogue with Dawson, after he found out that Apocalypse had taken over the entire case.

Chaos and damnation.

He'd brought it all upon himself, made himself a target by breaching the chain of command. And the only way to keep the tentacles of the 'Storm' from touching his sister's family was to cooperate.

Completely.

No point trying to negotiate with these people. He knew what they were.

Four of the five holding room monitors were turned on. A male in a doctor's shirt lay on the cot with knees bent, staring at the ceiling. A long-haired young woman sat hugging her arms in the corner of the next room. And in the third room, a middle-aged woman with shortcut hair rested her clasped hands on the table, lips moving—all in black and white.

The fourth room was empty. O'Malley suspected he'd soon have the dubious pleasure of occupying it himself. If the 'Storm' hadn't needed somebody with clearance to conduct the interviews...

The man at the console handed O'Malley a Manila folder, and he opened it to scan its contents. He knew whom he'd be seeing first. His two escorts walked him to the first door and positioned themselves facing it. He entered and glanced up at the unexpected flicker of light as the door locked behind him.

The woman jumped to her feet. "I want to see my daughter," she blurted. "Right now!"

"Sit down, Mrs. McGahn." O'Malley placed the folder on the table. "Your daughter is fine."

"You have no right holding us. We have the right to a lawyer."

"Sit down," he repeated with a sharper tone. "I'm Special Agent Smith, FBI"—he flashed his I.D. badge—"and I'm here to ask you some questions. Let's get this done as smoothly as possible, shall we?"

He waited as she stared at him, and after a moment she sank back on the chair.

"Thank you."

"And she said... unto them... Call me not Naomi," she said tightly, "call me Mara. For the Almighty hath dealt – very – bitterly – with me."

"You know your verses, hmm? Find them comforting?" And I can't remember when last I went to confession. He dismissed the thought as it came and sat down facing her. "Is that Ruth?"

She hesitated. "One, verse twenty."

O'Malley hummed, studying her. "Your situation is nothing like Naomi's. Do you have two dead sons and a dead husband? No." He opened the folder and glanced at the first page. "Forty-nine... divorced... two children. Returned to Eufaula eighteen years ago. HR supervisor of Eufaula Medical Center."

"You have a file on us?" Her face reddened. "We're not criminals! I demand to—"

"Tell me about your son's girlfriend."

She huffed at the interruption. "Girlfriend? He doesn't have a—" Her hands flew to her head as she grimaced, closing her eyes. "I – I'm not interfering... I promised I won't interfere."

O'Malley lifted an eyebrow. "Who are you talking to? Her?" He reached for the jug and glass and slowly poured some water.

"N-no..." She looked up from her hands as if the pain had just as suddenly disappeared. "I promised my son." Her gaze wandered to the side with a frown.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He... left with her."

He pushed the glass across the metal table. But the woman pressed her back against the chair rest as if to put maximum distance between her and the water without appearing to do so.

"Ah. You think it's been tampered with. I can assure you, it's not." He took the glass and drank a quarter of it. "How long has it been since you last had something to eat or drink, hm?" He took another swallow. "Last night?"

She eyed him and the glass but didn't move.

"This is plain water. See? I'm fine." He topped up with more water and pushed the glass back to her. This time she took it and drank slowly without taking her eyes off him.

"So you gave your son a promise. Why?"

"He's... infatuated with her. But they hardly know each other, and I didn't approve. I still don't."

"Well, he's a big boy, isn't he? Has to make his own decisions." O'Malley paused when her brows furrowed over the rim at the reminder. "Let me clarify why you are here, Mrs. McGahn. We've been tracking a human trafficking ring and—"

The glass landed with a clank on the table, water splashing over the edge.

"I knew it. I knew she'd be trouble but my son won't ever listen to—" She groaned and rubbed her temples. "I want my lawyer."

"As I was about to say," he said, watching her closely, "you are no longer suspected of being an intermediary en route to the rest of the states, so you won't be needing a lawyer. We're only interested in finding the girl."

"I promised I wouldn't interfere."

"You're not interfering, ma'am. She's an escapee, a victim. Just tell me what you know about her."

Massaging her temples, she muttered, "If she were here... she'd get rid of my migraine."

"Why would you think she could do that?"

"She's done it before."

"How?"

"With her hands... She'd just put them here on my head and it'll be gone. I don't know how she does it but—"

"Just like that?"

"Yes... Mickmi's blessed with the gift of healing, you know." Mrs. McGahn looked up, the pained expression gone from her face. "I don't understand why she won't use it in service of our Lord."

Odd. O'Malley was not sure what to make of the on-and-off headaches and sudden shifts in attitude. "Could she be taking advantage of your faith?"

Mrs. McGahn looked surprised. "Why would she do that? She helped me."

"So why should we believe you?"

"Excuse me?" Her face reddened up to her hairline. "As if I would lie about something like this. Do you even know what a migraine feels like, mister?"

Touchy. He believed she was telling the truth now, although he wasn't sure what conclusions the man in the observation room would make. In either case, O'Malley needed to drill down and find out whether this woman had any idea of what and who Mickmi was.

Hopefully none of them do. Hopefully he wouldn't find anything pointing in that direction, but even if he did, he was not inclined to simply hand over that as his assessment. If he could satisfactorily complete interrogating these civvies with the conclusion that there was nothing to pursue here...

"What else can you tell me about her? Did she talk to you about where she's from, her family, perhaps? How did she come into your lives?"

Mrs. McGahn stared at him, then finished the water as if to compose herself. "No family—she said she's an orphan. She'd run away from abuse so she needed somewhere to stay. And my daughter knows her. From college days apparently," she thought a moment, "six years ago... That would make her very young for college. She's only seventeen and a half. I suppose her being homeschooled would make her advanced enough..."

O'Malley jotted on the blank page in the folder as she spoke, and put X-es against most of the statements she made. At the end of the session, he concluded the woman had no clue of what her guest was. But he would do at least one more round of questioning a few hours later to make sure the stories remained consistent before making his final report.

Final report. The thought sank like a stone to the pit of his stomach. Final breaths. "Thank you, Mrs. McGahn."

Mrs. McGahn watched him as he rose and picked up the file. "I... I wish I could be more helpful."

She seemed uncertain so he gave her a polite smile. "I may return later with a few more questions. And I'll see to that you get something to eat."

∞

Next to be questioned was the male who rose from the cot to his full lanky height as O'Malley entered. His eyebrow and cheek were bruised and swollen, and he held his locked wrists in front of him.

"What have you done to Georgina and Mrs. McGahn?" he demanded.

"Please sit at the table, Doctor Roberts. Your lady friends are fine."

The doctor glared at O'Malley for a moment before he dragged out the chair with both hands and sat down. O'Malley introduced himself by his alias, briefly showing his badge.

"FBI Agent Smith? That's original." Phil pointed at him. "You have no right holding us here, you know. Let me see that I.D. again."

O'Malley held up his badge for Phil to inspect. There was nothing on it to reveal it was fake. "Doctor... Lieutenant Roberts," he said, slipping it back in his pocket, "you and your lady friends are here solely to answer questions regarding a highly classified case of human trafficking. However, you are no longer suspects and none of you are being charged with anything. Now... can I expect your cooperation, or do you intend to make things difficult? The men outside can accommodate you either way."

Phil pressed his lips together, then settled back in the chair.

"Thank you." O'Malley removed the handcuffs and sat opposite him at the metal table. He scanned the file contents and decided to skip them, turning to a blank page. "What can you tell me about the girl who's been staying with the McGahns?"

"Mickmi? Is she a victim of..." He looked disturbed, brow furrowing.

"Yes, unfortunately. But she is key in helping us crack this case. Why were you at the house last night?"

"Georgina asked me to, because her brother didn't come home. Said he'd eloped with Mickmi."

At least that lined up with Mrs. McGahn's statements. "You're a reserve lieutenant, and you're a medical doctor at Eufaula Medical Center, correct?"

"Yes."

"Was Mickmi a patient of yours?"

Phil gave O'Malley a long look. "Not officially."

"Tell me everything you know about her. When did you first see her?"

"That was... three Fridays ago." Phil described the bruising and slight lacerations, and his theory that the amnesia was due to psychological trauma. He had no idea where she was from except that Danny had picked her up outside of town the night before.

O'Malley pushed the glass of water to him. "So what else did you find?"

"I took a blood test." Phil reached for the glass. "And it—" He hissed, jerking his hand off the metal surface, then stared at his fingers, frowning.

O'Malley picked up the pen, deliberately sliding the heel of his hand against the table top, but felt nothing unusual. "What's wrong?"

"Must be static electricity." Phil gingerly touched the surface again. "It gave me a shock—just like... just like... Don't you ground this place properly?"

"Just like what?" O'Malley prompted.

"What?"

"You were saying it gave you a shock... just like what?" He studied Phil's puzzled frown. "Have you had one before?"

"Hasn't everyone?" The doctor chuckled suddenly as he picked up the glass. "I was notorious as a kid, with my experiments..."

Electric shock. Sudden lapse in memory. And lights flickering in the first room. Is that coincidence? O'Malley swept his gaze around the room without moving his head. "What did you learn from the blood test?"

"Normal... All values within normal range." Phil drank one gulp. "Universal blood donor type—negative. She's an exceptional healer. When I visited the following day, her lacerations had almost healed. Can't say the same for her amnesia though. That's unpredictable."

O'Malley jotted more notes to his list of points. "Did you keep a file on her?"

"No... Like I said, she wasn't an official patient. I did a house call. As a favor to Georgina."

"Your girlfriend."

"Correct."

"So what do you think caused the trauma?"

Phil thought a moment, then returned to O'Malley with a slight shake of the head. "A fall maybe. I wasn't there to find cause. I only treated her."

"Any other observations you made that can help our investigation?"

"Ah... Well... Her language, syntax was odd, and I didn't recognize her accent. And there was something about her choker necklace."

"Okay, one thing at a time. Accent and odd syntax, do you think English is not her mother tongue?"

"I couldn't say—I'm not a linguist."

"Would you say she's Spanish? French? Perhaps Indian?"

"Hm... No, none of those. If I were to venture a guess, she's probably from some exotic country in the East."

O'Malley pretended to record that in his notes. "What about her necklace?"

"It—" The doctor squinted to the side with a deep furrow in his brow. "I... don't know."

Lapse in memory—like Mrs. McGahn. Something's off. "Are you okay? Do you have a headache?"

Phil snorted. "What do you expect? Do you think I'm used to armed men breaking in a family home in the middle of the night and dragging everybody, forcibly and without any explanation—no charges, no nothing—into lockdown? I bet it was illegal. We should report—"

O'Malley narrowed his eyes at Phil's sudden vacant expression. Again? This was not coincidence. It was as if they'd been subjected to some sort of mind control or hypnosis. By the girl? Or the ghost?

The ghost. It could interfere with electricity. If it could paralyze people like it did with him and his staff when it invaded HQ that day, then it probably could control minds.

The doctor snapped to attention and shook his head as if to clear it.

"You don't look too well, Dr. Roberts." O'Malley tested the table again, then reached for the jug and refilled the glass as he peeled his senses. "Why don't you have some more water?"

Mind control... Electrical interference... Did that mean it was in this room right now? O'Malley couldn't feel anything out of place. He glanced at the steadily shining fluorescent bulb behind the ceiling panels. Was it here, preventing the subjects from accessing their memories of the alien girl? Smart. The less the civvies knew, the better for them—and a small weight off O'Malley's shoulders.

It must be here.

If that were the case, then he had no intention of including that tidbit in his report. The man in the observation room would report the subjects' erratic behavior but it was unlikely he'd be aware of the HQ incident, let alone of the existence of a—

What did it call itself—an Omega...? An Aumega.

He inhaled slowly. What were the chances of using this knowledge to his advantage?

— ∞ —

©2018 by kemorgan65

*Bible reference:
Ruth 1:20 [ASV]: "And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara; for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me."

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#NBR REVIEW QUESTIONS:

(1) What more would you expect from O'Malley's thought process?

(2) Any follow-up questions O'Malley should have posed based on his observations and the responses received?

(3) Is it clear what was happening to Phil?