I immediately called my buddy, Steve Bailey, at the Dept. of Defense. I explained my problem, so he told me he would do some checking and would get back on to me.
So, it was with some surprise that, less than an hour later, I received a visit from Steve and his boss Walter Benson - Colonel Walter Benson.
They came into my tiny office in the FBI building, and made themselves at home.
“Tell me what you already know?” Walter asked.
I showed him the thin file, containing the notes by the surgeon Captain, with a photograph of the removed artificial knee joint. There was a brief note of the explanation given by Ryan, and a few comments by the surgeon as to the inexplicably healed knee.
I showed them a copy of the police report into the foiled armed robbery of the store in South Carolina.
“It was alleged that Ryan was outside the store when he was alerted by his pregnant wife that there was an armed robbery. He alerted the police, while she maintained a running commentary of the activity inside the store. This included a full description of the perpetrators and blow by blow account of their movements.
“One man was shot and killed by police as he attempted to shoot his way past them. The other took a mother and child hostage. Threatening to kill the little girl, the man attempted to get past the two officers. Then, Ryan told the officers to prepare for something strange. Suddenly, the man fell to the ground, releasing the girl and dropping his gun. The officers arrested him and no one else was hurt. The security guard had been seriously hurt, but recovered after a long hospital stay.
“When one considered that at no time were Ryan and his wife in either visual or audible range of each other, one has to ask how the hell they managed it. No cell phones, no walkie-talkies, nothing! The only logical and reasonable answer has to be that they are telepathic and one or both can control the minds of others.
“Now, I have done some back-ground checks. It seems the couple met on a British University organised expedition to some small island in the Atlantic. Ryan’s wife, then Dr Gillian MacLeish, is an internationally renowned linguistics specialist in West African dialects, amongst other things. She was a member of the scientific team that was looking into the origins of a small group of African peoples who were the descendents of shipwrecked slaves.
“The group chartered a converted trawler owned and run by an Ex-U.S. Marine called Mickey Flynn. Ryan, recovering from a knee operation, was granted extended leave by his colonel, went along as security and tactical advisor. It seems that Ryan and the good doctor became lovers relatively quickly, and their relationship flourished on the island. The expedition was a great success, and all the scientific participants, including Dr MacLeish, produced papers for various academic institutions reporting their findings.
“However, during their stay on the island, it seems that Hurricane Mable hit them, causing widespread devastation. During the storm a child was found to be missing, so Ryan and one of the islanders went searching for him. In the process, the islander was swept away in a flood, but was rescued by the resourceful Marine, who went on to locate and save the child. However, his already weak and partially artificial knee was severely injured.
“There followed a ceremony by the local witch doctor, during which the expedition’s own doctor was present, but could not recall anything of value. Sufficient to say, that Ryan walked from the hut, with a perfectly healed knee, as the wrecked artificial joint had been removed without breaking the skin. Dr MacLeish had been literally bound hand to hand with Ryan during this ceremony. Their relationship deepened, and they were married shortly after their return to civilisation.”
Walter looked at me for some time without speaking.
“Would you object to handing this one over to us?” he said, at last.
“Not in the least, but I have to confess to being curious, so I would like to stay involved. Could we not look into this one jointly?” I asked.
The colonel looked briefly at Steve, who shrugged and nodded.
“I don’t see why not, seeing as you have already covered most of the background. I have to tell you that this is now under strict military classification, so no one, I mean no one, is informed about it!”
“I understand. As we are not dealing with allegations of criminal activity, how exactly should we approach this?” I asked.
“We have found when dealing with the military, that the open and straight forward method works most effectively,” Steve said, to which the Colonel nodded his agreement.
* * *
Gillian.
About two weeks after the robbery attempt, I was just arriving home after work when I noticed a plain, pale blue sedan parked outside the house. I instantly got a bad feeling about it, so mentally called Ed.
‘Hey Honey. Trouble!’
‘What?’
‘I’m not sure, I think they’re government. I’ve just got home and two men are waiting in a car outside the house.’
‘I’ll be right home.’
‘Okay, I’ll stall.’
I pulled the Cherokee onto the drive, leaving enough room for Ed’s Mustang. I got out of the car, picking up the bag of students’ books I had brought home from school to mark. As I walked towards the front door, the two men in suits got out of their car and walked towards me.
“Dr Ryan?” the one with the slight limp asked.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“Dr Ryan, I am Special Agent Howard Miller, and this is Steve Bailey. I am with the FBI, and I was wondering if we could have a few words with you?” he said, showing me his wallet with badge. I examined it, but for all I knew he bought it in the market this morning. The other man made no effort to show me his badge, but I realised that he was not FBI. My gift was beginning to make me aware of more every day.
“Mr Bailey, I take it you are with another Federal Department?” I asked, and his eyes showed his surprise.
“Yes ma’am, I am with the Department of Defense,” he said.
I stood and stared at him, so eventually he produced his identification. I took it from him and looked closely at it. Once again, I had no idea what I was looking at.
“I take it that neither of you have any objections if I make contact with your respective organisations and verify that what you tell me is correct?” I asked, being as snotty British as I could.
The men looked uncomfortable, but shook their heads.
“Then please wait here while I do just that,” I said, going into the house. I telephoned the local FBI number to be informed that Howard Miller with the relevant number was indeed an FBI agent. The Department of Defense also verified that Bailey was one of theirs.
I opened the front door, and watched with relief as Ed arrived as the Mustang pulled onto the driveway.
‘The tall one is FBI, Howard Miller, the other one is Dept, of Defense, Steven Bailey.’
‘Okay honey. You know why they are here?’
‘The store?’
‘That and the leg. I have been half expecting them for some time now.’
‘How do we play this, innocent?’
‘No, with power.’
‘Huh?’
‘Stay ultra cool, and watch.’
“Mr Bailey, Agent Miller. Please come in,” Ed said, while both men paled visibly at his use of their names.
The men sat on the sofa, so I offered them coffee, which they accepted.
“So, gentlemen, we have been expecting you before this, how come it’s taken you so long to come and see us?” Ed said.