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"Brain Blast"
Dec. 4th, 2022 01:08 pm"Brain Blast"
4/12/1967
I.
Under a black moonless night, the Deacon crept up out of the ocean, crouching low, and moved onto the beach. He waited until water stopped dripping from his dark jumpsuit, listening intently and peering into the gloom. Tom Halwick was not a large man, standing a few inches under six feet tall and being slight of build. The black hair was combed straight back over a narrow face with intense dark eyes and a pointed nose. More than once, people had described him as having a ferret-like quality.
From a watertight plastic pouch, he unwrapped a small .25 Beretta in its holster, checked its mechanism and clipped it to his belt next to the sheathed combat knife with its seven inch serrated blade. The Deacon hid the snorkel he had been using behind a bush. The long swim to this island had forced him to pare his usual arsenal down to the two favorite weapons.
Ahead of him was the only structure on this tiny, privately owned island within sight of the North Carolina coast. A large, two-story white stone building, never properly finished. It had been intended to serve as an getaway for a well off lawyer, but
his being disbarred after a corruption scandal had halted its construction years earlier.
But although the paved lot around the building was dark, two of the windows showed yellow light. So it wasn't unoccupied any longer.
Unseen by anyone in the gloom, the Deacon stole up the incline and took what cover he could find in the sparse bushes and occasional solitary birch. He was agitated by the worry that he did not know why he had come here. It was not at all him to operate on whim or impulse but still, he had driven to the town of Racicot and left his Italian sports car on the beach to swim out into the darkness to this island. Something was drawing him here. It felt like the strong impulse one gets to open a window in a stuffy room or to go to a window to see an approaching storm.
"I hope my subconscious isn't starting to take over without consulting the rest of my mind," he thought wryly. "I get into quite enough trouble as it is."
Bypassing the wide porch which extended across the front of the building, the Deacon selected a side window and examined it for signs of alarm systems. He slid it slowly up and climbed through with a nimble ease that suggested he had broken into many houses in his day. As he got to his feet inside a darkened room, he caught a whim of some unpleasant, caustic aroma. But he did not have time to even try to identify it.
( the rest of the story )
4/12/1967
I.
Under a black moonless night, the Deacon crept up out of the ocean, crouching low, and moved onto the beach. He waited until water stopped dripping from his dark jumpsuit, listening intently and peering into the gloom. Tom Halwick was not a large man, standing a few inches under six feet tall and being slight of build. The black hair was combed straight back over a narrow face with intense dark eyes and a pointed nose. More than once, people had described him as having a ferret-like quality.
From a watertight plastic pouch, he unwrapped a small .25 Beretta in its holster, checked its mechanism and clipped it to his belt next to the sheathed combat knife with its seven inch serrated blade. The Deacon hid the snorkel he had been using behind a bush. The long swim to this island had forced him to pare his usual arsenal down to the two favorite weapons.
Ahead of him was the only structure on this tiny, privately owned island within sight of the North Carolina coast. A large, two-story white stone building, never properly finished. It had been intended to serve as an getaway for a well off lawyer, but
his being disbarred after a corruption scandal had halted its construction years earlier.
But although the paved lot around the building was dark, two of the windows showed yellow light. So it wasn't unoccupied any longer.
Unseen by anyone in the gloom, the Deacon stole up the incline and took what cover he could find in the sparse bushes and occasional solitary birch. He was agitated by the worry that he did not know why he had come here. It was not at all him to operate on whim or impulse but still, he had driven to the town of Racicot and left his Italian sports car on the beach to swim out into the darkness to this island. Something was drawing him here. It felt like the strong impulse one gets to open a window in a stuffy room or to go to a window to see an approaching storm.
"I hope my subconscious isn't starting to take over without consulting the rest of my mind," he thought wryly. "I get into quite enough trouble as it is."
Bypassing the wide porch which extended across the front of the building, the Deacon selected a side window and examined it for signs of alarm systems. He slid it slowly up and climbed through with a nimble ease that suggested he had broken into many houses in his day. As he got to his feet inside a darkened room, he caught a whim of some unpleasant, caustic aroma. But he did not have time to even try to identify it.
( the rest of the story )
