Chosen One Protective Services

As prison hospitals went, it was pretty nice. Cyrus wasn’t sure which hospital it was, but there were no windows, the doors were guarded by people in uniforms, and the smell of the place had a reek of desperation you only really got in places where people ended up if they were guilty or unlucky.

Cyrus figured he was a little bit of both. Playing the events of the last few days while he lay in bed and uncommunicative doctors and nurses came and changed out his bandages, and checked his bruises, and adjusted his medication drips, Cyrus saw quite a few places where he could have done things better. Or at least, failed in a less severe way.

Somewhere around what he thought was the third day, the door opened and an older man in a suit walked in. He had thinning gray hair, the sallow face and fingernails of a hardcore smoker, and enough crow’s feet around his eyes to start his own aviary. Cyrus shifted his head to get his eye on him, watched the man nod, pull up a metal chair across the tile floor with a chalkboard-like screech, and take a seat next to his bedside.

He was well-within reach of Cyrus’s arm, and that lump in his jacket told Cyrus where he could grab, if things went to shit. But Cyrus was sure that wouldn’t help him, or anyone else, in the long run.

“You’re Cyrus Colfax,” the man said. “I’m Agent Solomon Gable. I’m the former assistant director of the Denver branch of the FBI. You’re… what are you, now? Retired?”

“A dumbass, mostly,” Cyrus admitted.

Agent Gable snorted, laughed. “Cute, but I doubt that. Why don’t you tell me what happened. I have the feeling it’ll sound crazy, but do not let that stop you.” The mirth vanished. “I want to hear it all. Even the crazy parts.”

Cyrus licked his lips. He searched Agent Gable’s face. He might as well have been trying to read Mt. Rushmore. Shit. Can’t make things worse. And they’ve probably talked to one of the others before me, so…

“So it all started when my brother went swimming, back in June…” Cyrus began.

Agent Gable listened to the whole tale, consulting a notepad as he went, and jotting down more notes. But his eyes never left Cyrus’ face.

“And then we stepped back into the compound. I hope your boys got some good shots,” Cyrus said. “Because otherwise, I haven’t got a shred of proof for any of this and I’m probably spending the rest of my life in a padded room.”

Agent Gable considered him for a long moment. Then he reached into the back of the notebook, and drew out three small squares.

Photographs.

Color photographs, and Cyrus gasped to see the rainbow whorls of the dimensional door open wide, and the four of them falling out of it.

“You’re lucky,” Gable said. “We had the cameras there to document the crime scene. Lucky too, that the Dallas branch brought a colorized one. Those are a bit pricey for commercial use, but we’ve got the funding for it. That and more. You see, Mister Colfax, I believe you. Between these, between the stories that check out, and between the fact that I’ve got a small Hispanic girl in custody who can literally turn invisible, I believe that you’re telling the truth to me. So now I have a very important question for you.”

“Okay,” Cyrus gasped, getting ahold of himself. “And I’ve got one for you. But you first.”

“That thing you made. Can you duplicate it? Can you make something to find more… magic doors?”

“I’d better,” Cyrus said. “Or I’ll never see my brother again.”

“Good enough.” The pencil scratched on the notepad.

And Cyrus mustered his courage. “My turn. What the HELL was George doing, working for you? That asshole should’ve never been anywhere near that kind of position!”

Gable sighed, and looked away. “We didn’t know he was a freak at first. Then we made the call to quietly push him out, instead of biting the bullet and risking damage to the Bureau. Hell, freaks are useful, sometimes. The things Hoover gets up to… ah, forget I said that. Anyway, the shit George did is on me. If I’d known he was capable of doing this much damage…” the agent stood, wincing as his knees unbent, and paced, hands behind his back. “The best I can do is try to move forward and work with you, and get you your brother back. And recover the other Americans that these foreign agents have been snatching. So let’s talk about that, instead of a dead man. You’re certain George died?”

“The last thing I saw was him catching arrows like an outfielder going after fly balls.”

“Good. Hopefully that’s the last I ever have to hear about George Gordon Liddy. Now, let’s talk about what I want you to do for us, and what we can do for you…”