METHUSELAH - Chapter VI - "Interlude"
The Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Drug Enforcement Agency, working in tandem to uncover the operational leadership of an international criminal organization dubbed “Red Star” (after the name of a mini-yacht seized from a heroin trafficker out of Northern California), had finally received intelligence from a reliable source that a meeting composed of regional Red Star representatives was to occur in the early hours of December 16th, 2015.
It was a breakthrough in the investigation nicknamed “Red Scare” from the more cynical agents and analysts at the FBI’s field office in Chicago. The investigation encountered nothing but setbacks, red tape, and overt obstruction right from the get-go, seemingly from the highest offices of the Department of Justice. Furthermore, both junior and senior agents were repeatedly swapped in and out of Red Scare, preventing any real authoritative custody over the investigation’s resources, planning, and executive action from being formed. In a memo written by Special Agent Gerard Cosentino to Attorney General Loretta Lynch and Director of National Intelligence James R. Clapper,
“… intentional and effective sabotage of Bureau efforts to uncover and bring to justice any and all persons associated with the criminal organization known unofficially as ‘Red Star’ is what we conclude to be encountering at every step of our efforts to dismantle an organization that is destroying the lives of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Americans through the domination of the illicit opioid market. Furthermore, at the time of this memo’s writing, there is incontrovertible evidence that additional nefarious activities including kidnapping, murder, extortion, robbery, bribery, gambling, counterfeiting, theft, embezzlement, human smuggling, fraud, and commission of murder-for-hire are all perpetrated for the single end of amassing enough material and financial resources to initiate an armed rebellion against established and legitimate United States Federal and State authority.”
Citing various and repeated infractions against the professional and honorable conduct expected from a Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Special Agent Gerard Cosentino was placed on an involuntary leave of absence without pay on February 5th, 2015. Roughly three weeks later on February 18th, 2015, after an internal investigation reportedly uncovered numerous abuses of power committed by Agent Cosentino that could’ve placed the FBI in a defensive posture against several possible lawsuits, Cosentino’s tenure with the FBI was officially terminated. Two months later, after a rapid decline in his mental health observed by his wife Jeanette, Gerard Cosentino was found dead in the basement of his home on April 12th, 2015. The Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office determined the cause of death to be suicide by a gunshot wound to the head. He is survived by his wife, his three sons, his mother, and his sister.
It is unknown if the memo ever reached the desks of the Attorney General or the Director of National Intelligence.
As Cosentino had taken charge of the investigation and did everything himself when the agents under his supervision didn’t meet impossibly-high standards of performance or patriotism, the Red Scare seemed to die with him. It wasn’t until seven months later when Special Agent Derrick Voskanyan, a newly divorced melancholic from San Francisco who’d lost custody of his children in a divorce, was assigned to Red Scare after requesting a transfer out of California. It was a decision he immediately regretted, as his alcohol habit worsened in Chicago — he was alone and on his own with no family or friends for support. The pile of folders he inherited, all relating to the investigation, were disorganized and messy; memos were out of order, evidence was scattered across folders, digital files of key photographs and recordings were corrupt, and, much to his dismay, there were witness testimonies and other important pieces of information with significant redactions before ever being released to a public channel. Had it not piqued his curiosity, he’d have resigned from the Bureau in frustration and defeat. Voskanyan sought answers. Most people couldn’t explain anything — and a few wouldn’t.
On December 1st, 2015, the Chicago office was throwing a retirement party for a Hannah DeMartino, a secretary whose bubbly personality and motherly instinct gave warmth to the otherwise severe workplace. That morning, Voskanyan discovered that his office had been designated as the space to hide all of the presents. It was impossible to get any serious work done among a sea of wrapping paper and pretty red bows. So, much like his predecessors who’d taken the reins of the Red Scare, he allowed for himself a relaxing morning during which he’d get nothing done much too slow, all on the taxpayers’ dime. This investigation’s been dormant almost the whole year. They don’t care. Why the fuck should I? He kicked his feet up onto the desk. Out came his phone. He scrolled away for hours, chuckling at memes and ogling at young women doing yoga.
“Voskanyan?” Special Agent Bridget Turner caught him by surprise with a knock on his door. He rushed to plant his feet back onto the ground and stuff the phone into his pocket, but Turner laughed and waved away his efforts.
“Don’t worry, it’s a slow day,” she remarked. “Hey, Hannah’s right around the corner. Can I hide her present in here?”
“Sure,” Voskanyan replied, laughing to himself. “Go ahead.”
“Here, I’ll throw it right under your desk if that’s fine.”
“Uh … yup. All good.”
Hannah beamed a smile and, tossing it under his desk, flicked a folded note onto Voskanyan’s lap and made for the door.
“Uh —”
“Hey, we’re opening presents in an hour. You’ll be there?”
“… Sure.”
She closed the door and disappeared down the hall, making small talk with everyone she passed.
Voskanyan fingered the note nervously. He began to unfold it, keeping it on his lap and out of the sight of colleagues strolling by the office window.
STOP ASKING ABOUT RED STAR / RED SCARE. THE DIRECTOR MAY TALK TO YOU ABOUT CLOSING THE CASE. DO WHAT HE ASKS. YOUR CAREER IS IN JEOPARDY. YOU MAY BE IN JEOPARDY. I’M LOOKING OUT FOR YOU. SOMETHING’S VERY OFF ABOUT RED STAR/SCARE. LET IT GO.
Voskanyan swam in terror. He packed a bag and left his apartment. Shattered family, aging face, fucked career. What else? What else? At the hotel bar he drank until he was cut off and he drank some more in his room, and still some more in the bathtub where he considered punching out the mirror and cutting his wrists with a shard of glass, but he knew that he could be a dramatic fellow and it’d be no good to leave his children behind over something so inconsequential as an investigation that was nonetheless wasting time and resources and ought to have been closed if his superiors recommended it. I’m not in danger, he convinced himself. What a stupid fucking threat. Still, he closed his eyes and saw the entire office peering at him through the breaks in the blinds of their office windows, wondering what he’d be doing next, wondering why the hell an incompetent like him was there, wondering if it was finally the week he’d be out on his ass, and —
This is a panic attack. Realize it, then suffocate it. He repeated the advice his sister had often given him. He breathed in, and out, in and out, and in the tranquil place between breaths, a liminal space wherein lived glimpses of truth, he saw a man — a suited man, his face darkened by a heavy shadow — rise from an office chair in the fog of his imagination and leave behind on an otherwise tidy desk a manila envelope with a single word stamped on it:
METHUSELAH.
Voskanyan gasped for a breath, but daggers of hot bathwater rushed into his lungs. He splashed around and coughed up the water and realized he had passed out. Hell of a way to die. The names of celebrities who died in similar ways came to mind as he climbed out and dried himself off. Methuselah. It was the a codename that was sometimes repeated in wiretap transcriptions and text message logs, one that nobody was able to attach to a real identity. Half of the supposed “upper echelon” of Red Star had been positively identified, and the other half had a few possible identities, but Methuselah? Not a single clue. A ghost, a joke, a nothing-at-all was Methuselah. Maybe all three. Maybe none of the above.
Two days later, on December 3rd, Voskanyan was instructed by Supervisory Special Agent Marcos that, for good, the Red Scare investigation that made eyes roll and embarrassing jokes out of good men’s careers was ordered to be closed. As Voskanyan was able to write more than ten sentences without a grammatical mishap or a spelling error, he was trusted with writing an updated report summarizing all the findings. It would then be forwarded to Marcos, who’d forward it to … elsewhere, as Marcos put it with a strained look on his face.
“Sounds good to me. Realistically, this could take … two, maybe three weeks.”
“Why’s that?” Marcos rubbed his eyes.
“Well, sir … this … well, look. This was a sizeable investigation with multiple channels of information. Much of it hasn’t even been looked at yet. Do you —”
“Right, but anything other than a summary of findings is none of your business.” Marcos snapped back with an irritation uncharacteristic of his conduct.
“Yes, I understand that. But it needs to be accurate, right?”
“ — For fuck’s sake. One week, Voskanyan. I better have it by next Friday.”
“Understood. Thank you.”
“Yeah.”
By design, the evidence heap was too much for one man to parse through over only a few days. Phonetaps, emails, text messages, photographs, surveillance footage clips, traffic camera footage, radio transmission intercepts, social media accounts and their countless posts, financial transaction records, crime scenes — Don’t ask questions. Just do what you’re told, Voskanyan told himself, convinced that he’d actually listen if he told himself enough.
The resulting chart of all the actors and leading figureheads of Red Star and how they were related to each other was a messy expanse across two walls of his office, but clear and concise enough to adequately illustrate a vast, active criminal conspiracy that would eventually lead to an attempted armed revolt in the continental United States. There was enough evidence to implicate just about everyone involved in what could’ve been the largest RICO and sedition case the country would ever see. What was immediately alarming was that at least one member of Red Star, Indrajit Chaudhury, the man codenamed “Singh” who seemed to head the entire financial and resource planning wing of the organization, allegedly had strong connections with folks in the Central Intelligence Agency and the National Reconnaissance Office. Voskanyan wasn’t a genius, but he was seasoned at his trade. Criminal types, as far as he could tell, loved to tell tales and puff out chests jam-packed with hot air, but this was different; Singh was a serious man, attentive to his many matters, whose past didn’t seem to be a bluff. Georgios Stavropoulos, who went by the name “Theo”, was recorded in the bugged bathroom of a downtown Kansas City bar owned by a Red Star chemist who oversaw drug production in one of the heroin labs down in Mexico. Theo and the bar owner, Peter Welling — who curiously used his real identity — had a discussion about the more violent activities of other Red Star criminals. While Jack’s volatility was discussed — as always — and Methuselah’s name was mentioned briefly, Special Agent Voskanyan fixated on Theo’s mentioning of Singh’s “service record” — particularly, things he had done in Afghanistan, Germany, and India with a unit that had direct orders from [REDACTED] and [REDACTED], but again, that last juicy detail, while causing great alarm, could’ve been nothing but hearsay.
He scoured the internet for Chaudhury’s name. Indeed, he was a Georgetown graduate. Magna Cum Laude, 1981. Impressive. In 1980, the student paper named him the Ferguson Scholar of the Year for his distinguished internship at the Department of State, where he enhanced food security in Bangladesh's three primary agricultural states without stressing vulnerable farmland. Another paper listed him and four others as guests of honor at the Winter Ball hosted by the Rockefeller Family, and during that same semester, he was awarded the Roosevelt Foundation’s Emerging Leaders Scholarship, an occasion celebrated at a dinner with Washington bigwigs and even bigger donors from non-governmental organizations. Wherever Chaudhury went, there was money, high government, or both.
But still, the man’s capabilities remained a mystery.
There was only one way to find out.
December 4th, 2015.
Voskanyan wasn’t without his own connections. After having assisted Homeland Security in joint counterterrorism operations across the Greater Los Angeles area in the years just after 9/11, he came to know a strange fellow named Claude. Tall and lanky, his sunken eyes and stern brow framed a face that hid a tinge of sadness somewhere underneath its many age lines. His was an expressive face, although never in excess, and the salt-and-pepper hair gave an air of authority he never seemed to care much for. In the company of friends, Claude was less severe, and when Voskanyan met with him at a secure location — a table in a café outside Chicago that was right beside the coffee grinder that seemed to be whirring constantly — Claude’s face lit up. Voskanyan rose from his seat and extended an arm for a handshake, but Claude instead opened his arms for a hug.
“Special Agent Voskanyan.” He patted Voskanyan’s back during the embrace. “You’re looking older.”
“Nice to see you too, Claude. Look at you,” shot back Voskanyan, glancing at the perfectly pressed suit, “Some things never change. Going to the Grammy’s?”
Claude laughed. He had nothing to say in response.
“Thanks for coming out.”
“I was in town,” said Claude. “It’s providential, really.”
“Providential. Big word, huh?”
Claude smiled.
“What are you up to these days? Where’re you working?”
Claude cleared his throat. “Working? No, I’m retired.”
Voskanyan’s eyebrows raised. “No shit. Since when?”
“I had a change of heart, Agent, last summer. You know how these things happen. One minute you get a wild hair across your ass at two in the morning, and the next … you’re drafting a letter of resignation.”
“…Wow. The way some people spoke, you’d be in forever.” In what, Voskanyan didn’t know; nobody did, and nobody was indecent enough to ask who in D.C. was signing his paychecks. All everyone knew was that he broke bread at the tables of the highest offices in the nation, in the company of well-known leaders and the lesser-known men who, behind the scenes, with their very particular trades, ensured all affairs foreign or domestic went smoothly, and without too much bloodshed.
“I found God, Voskanyan.” Claude stared off into the distance above Voskanyan’s right shoulder. The Agent waited for a smile, some kind of a laugh to signal the beginning or the end of a joke, but instead Claude’s face grew heavier.
“Never took you for a God-fearing man.”
“Life will surprise you.”
“You’re telling me.”
Claude cleared his throat. “I heard about Anita, and the kids …”
“Who told you?”
“Actually, Anita.”
“… Wait, you …”
“I dropped by your house in Sacramento to say hello and catch up. She told me everything.”
Voskanyan clenched his teeth and looked away.
“Don’t be upset. This life of ours, Agent …”
“Yeah. I know. I know.”
“Are you going back?”
“We’re divorced, Claude. There’s no —”
“For the kids.”
“… Right, but … well, at some point. It wasn’t pretty. You know, you probably have her side of everything, and she made a good fucking point to make sure everyone we knew had her side before I could get a fucking word out, and the truth is, she —”
“There’s three sides to every story. I get it.”
“Three?”
“Yours, hers, and what actually happened.”
Voskanyan rubbed his eyes. “Look, I appreciate it, but —”
“You have questions, Agent.”
“Yes.” He paused for a moment, and, glancing over his shoulder, focused back onto Claude’s eyes. “Red Star.”
“Red Star.”
“… Yeah, do you know anything about it?”
“Sounds familiar. Remind me.”
“Organized crime. Drug cookers and dealers, uh … kidnapping, extortion, arms dealing, all the usual money-making schemes, apparently … from what we gather, to overthrow the government. Real teenage power fantasy shit, but they’re more than capable.”
“Marxists?”
“I guess,” said Voskanyan, shrugging his shoulders.
“Northern California? Red Army associates?”
“I … actually, yes. Yes. They’re the ones who are training in those camps. You know — militia types. Red Army — that’s the militia. Tons of the money is going everywhere — Northern California, Chicago, New York, Seattle … all of the big cities.”
“But none down South, correct?”
“No. Now that I think about it, no, other than maybe El Paso, and … and Charleston, I believe.”
“Makes sense. Yes, I’ve heard about them. Red Star isn’t their name.”
“No, we just named it after … wait, what’s their actual name?”
“The Red Army.” Claude sipped from his coffee.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Not very creative.”
“These types never really are,” smiled Claude.
“Let me ask you — am I at danger here?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“Claude, I’m sorry, but enough with the games. Nobody wants anything to do with this investigation. It’s given to an agent one week, taken from him the next … agents have been transferred from it right when they’re about to follow up on a serious lead or make an arrest, the last agent was found fucking dead in his home, and I was passed a note from someone that —”
“Have you personally made any arrests?”
“No. I’ve been told it’s closed in a week. Or two. I can’t remember.”
“Well, you’re not at risk, then.”
“But what the hell is going on here?”
“Sounds like an inside job.”
“And by that, you mean there are people in the Chicago Field Office who are in on this?”
“Well, yeah.”
“You’re not concerned? You’re sitting there all cavalier, I’m —”
“No. Not one bit. This happens all the time, Voskanyan.”
“What does?”
“Inside jobs. Look, you’ve been to high school, college … what did you study again?”
“Accounting.”
“You started as a History student, right?”
“Yes.”
“And — oh! That reminds me — did you ever get to finish that book I lent you? The Fosco Maraini one?”
“I … fuck, Claude. Yes. Secret Tibet. Great read. Very nice. I’d crack it open right before crying myself to sleep as my marriage fell apart.”
“… Be a good sport, now. And what about the other one?”
Voskanyan was close to rising from his chair and leaving without a word. “Remind me.”
“The Decline of the West.”
“No. Too wordy. Too heady. And I don’t have the time.”
“Shame. I think it’d give you some insight. It’s far from perfect and, as I now understand things, I don’t think I would’ve recommended it to you. Maybe I still would’ve. Who knows. Keep it anyways. There’s bits of it I still don’t understand … but, yes, these inside jobs happen all the time. Not so much when I was younger. Actually, those things rarely happened on the Beltway, believe it or not. But now … all these damned field offices, budgets that just disappear, personalities, shit pay … well, it’s not the first time, this Red Army. And it won’t be the last.”
“So, you’re not worried?”
“No. Well, who do you think is heading it?”
“I don’t know. Could be … very high up. Names are redacted left and right. But there’s one man watching over all of the criminal activities, the fundraising … he could be in charge of the the entire country, or only the Central region. We don’t know.”
“Central region?”
“The Midwest. That’s what I meant.”
“And who’s the man?”
“Indrajit Chaudhury.”
The hallmark tapping of Claude’s fingers on any surface they were resting on ceased. His eyes narrowed, their sights fixed over Voskanyan’s left shoulder at a framed photograph on the wall.
“I know Indrajit.”
“… Yeah?” Voskanyan leaned in.
“Sure. But first — what do you know about him?”
“Seems like a rich brat. Georgetown, Rockefeller Foundation fellowship, Department of State internship … NGOs, NGOs ...”
“He’s a potent man. Don’t let his monied past fool you.”
Voskanyan’s back straightened. “What do you know, then?”
“CIA.”
“I … really? Still?”
“Yes. I think. I saw his name on a, uh, an internal circular just four months ago. On paper, he’s a Senior Political Analyst working with a joint terrorist taskforce. That’s what I heard, anyways, and read. That particular taskforce, you know, falls under the guardianship of the black-budget gatekeepers, so what they actually do is anyone’s guess, really.”
“And you don’t know?”
Claude labored to hide his grin. “Indrajit Chaudhury is a man with exquisite intelligence and leadership abilities. He’s … a curiosity. That kind of talent isn’t often found among his generation of immigrants from the Indian subcontinent. Technicians, engineers, entrepreneurs … they’ve excelled in those regards. But Indrajit — wrong man at the right place at the right time. Well, the right man, at the right place, all on God’s time … he was a deadly bright and athletic young man whose father was wise enough to find him private tutors from the best a …”
Claude hesitated. His face fell into a frown.
“Go on.”
“Well … private tutors from the best a man like him could afford, a man with a … stunningly beautiful, exotic wife twenty years his junior who turned heads everywhere she went.”
“… I don’t … oh, shit.”
“It’s sad. It’s also through these channels that Indrajit benefitted from. I can’t imagine, knowing your mother was … either way. He was raised, essentially, with all the other kids from D.C.’s wealthy and influential. Studied hard, lettered in football, and waited for his friends’ fathers to finish their closed-door meetings with his mother before being given scraps of their world. Well, it’s what he was fed on, and the kid actually had a knack for navigating the circles of Washington. Then … goes to Georgetown, lives the life you’ve recanted to me, and is scooped up by Langley days after graduating.”
“…OK.”
“That’s it, really, or at least that’s his beginning. I attended that Rockefeller Foundation ball he was at, now that I remember it. Stupid thing. Exchange of egos, of kleos. Nothing more. And yes, he was inducted in … 1995? Yeah, I believe 1995 … inducted into the Bohemian Club down at the Grove.”
“You mean, the Bohemian Grove stuff?”
“Yes, but really, Agent, don’t believe the hype and conspiracy literature. The whole thing’s a faggy affair focused more on sculptures of naked boys peeing into fountains than orchestrating the world behind … you know, some queer-looking curtain. Singh spends big money on artwork for his private collection. That’s what all that’s about. Anyways, as I said, that’s his past. It’s a sad one, really. He’s done impressive work in South Asia over the last twenty years, and in Europe too, recently. But really just Asia. Knows politics, knows people, knows pistols.”
“Ex-military?”
“No. Not formally, no.”
Voskanyan’s back straightened in his chair. “So … you tell me all of this, you tell me he’s a — what did you say — a potent man capable of many things. It’s obvious you know things about him that you can’t say, and that’s fine. I get it. But here is this — what did you say — man with, uh, exquisite intelligence successfully running a dangerous organization with cover from inside-men, rats in my own fuckin’ office … you know all of this … and you think I should just let it all go.”
“What other choice do you have?” Claude grinned.
“I — you know what? There is none. You’re right. I don’t have a choice, but someone should know about this. This Inda-guy should be locked up.”
“He won’t be in that position long. Trust me.”
“Trust you?”
“Yes. Do you think I’m untrustworthy?”
Voskanyan sighed. “No.”
“And you mean that?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Then trust me on this when I ask you to trust me.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“It’s strange thing,” Claude continued without interruption, “To encounter what you’ve encountered: an investigation that could easily conclude with dozens, if not hundreds, of arrests, with maybe up to a quarter of them being government employees themselves, maybe even members of Congress. And the only reason why this investigation is going nowhere much too fast is because you’re being hamstrung — like the last hundred agents were — by your own office. Look, it’s certainly the case that one or two bad apples are operating in the Chicago FBI offices and every other metropolitan Field Office in the country. Not only do I not doubt it, but I doubt the good and sound judgment of anybody who’d claim otherwise. Don’t forget, Voskanyan — I’ve been around. I’ve been around a long time, longer than I should’ve been. I’ve been in this decrepit, rotten little swamp since before you were born, or … maybe only a few years afterwards. I’m frankly surprised it’s taken you this long to witness something like this, and I implore you to pray about why that is. Nobody’s innocent if they never repent of their sins, but you’re more innocent than most, which is why you care more about the investigation than wrapping it up to make a big name for yourself. Had you not been sabotaged in your efforts by your own superiors, well, you’d be famous. You’d have a big name for yourself, at least within the DOJ. But I bet you didn’t even consider that because you don’t care about that nonsense. You never did.”
Voskanyan fell silent.
“Let it go, Derrick. Conspiracies aren’t exciting. They aren’t intriguing. They’re a normal nuisance, like taking a much-needed vacation to a lakehouse in Maine only to find it’s been infested with rats. Conspiracies — they’re real and they’re menacing, but they’re also a lower-hanging fruit, a cheaper distraction, for people who refuse to look up at things higher up, at things much bigger than me and you and this silly plot … bigger than anything in history, really.”
There was nothing the Agent had to say. The disbelief and anger at the reality of his impotence in the face of something nasty was neutered by the wisdom shared by his friend.
“If I felt there was a danger,” continued Claude, “I’d tell you so. I’d be brainstorming with you all the ways to blow this thing up. But … trust me. I’d bet every cent to my name that this will sort itself out. Any other names?”
“Georgios Stavropoulos.”
“Good man. Good man! I’m not worried, Voskanyan. If a man like him is involved in this nonsense, then an agency other than yours is at play here, too, and they’re the good guys.”
“And I’m the bad guy.”
“No, no. You’re just a man who discovered that the good guys and the bad guys carry the same badges.”
“I appreciate that, Claude. I really do. I’m fucking honored.” He made no effort to veil the sarcasm in his remark.
“Hey. Hey. Take it easy, Derrick. I know it’s all quite frustrating.” He glanced at his wristwatch and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Well, look — will you come visit me in Des Moines before I leave?”
“… I didn’t know you were living in Des Moines these days. Where are you off to?”
“Petersham, Massachusetts. Nice little place in the woods. Idyllic. Silent.”
“You have family there?”
He smiled. “We can say that.”
Voskanyan rolled his eyes. His patience for the old man’s quips wore thin, and he was happy the meeting was coming to a swift end.
“C’mon.” Claude opened his arms to initiate a hug. The two embraced. “You’re a good sport. Here’s my card. If your situation doesn’t let up, come see me, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Voskanyan obliged.
“Take care, Claude. Nice seeing you, as always.”
“Likewise.”
Claude’s coat fell snugly on his shoulders. He took care to fix the loosely-hanging buttons through their holes. His hands patted its pockets, and, feeling the wallet and keys and other necessities sit exactly where they were supposed to, he turned back towards Voskanyan, seemingly with one more thing to say.
“I don’t mean to proselytize. Well,” he corrected himself, “I do. I should. The intentions of the messenger, nonetheless, are meaningless. But, you should pray. Take prayer seriously. Come see me in Des Moines and we can talk about this. I won’t push you to. But I think you —”
“Thanks, Claude.” He refrained from spitting the ten sharp remarks that flooded his mind. “Maybe someday.”
“Maybe someday. Until then.” Claude waved, and, turning his back to the shady corner of the café, disappeared into the brightness of the mild winter day.
December 5th, 2015.
Claude knocked on the red door at 89 Marlowe Street, a stunning Jeffersonian residence on five acres of rolling land in Fort Hunt, Virginia.
“Georgie. You in there?”
He pressed his ear to the door. Nothing.
He knocked again.
“George. It’s me. Open up.”
The sudden shaking of the doorknob startled Claude.
George — or, Theo — opened the door a crack, and, seeing Claude, opened it fully.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah. You’re good.”
The scent of filth attacked Claude’s nose the moment he stepped inside. Two fat trash bags were slumped over beside the door. Beer cans and liquor bottles of various sizes were strewn about. The couch cushions had fresh stains. Claude took a seat; the cushion was far too stiff, and, rising to his feet, he inspected the cushion with curiosity. The zipper was slightly open, revealing tightly-packed hundred dollar bills.
“That cushion is …” A loud burp escaped from Georgios’ mouth. “That cushion’s a … million-dollar cushion.”
“You’re not doing well.”
“I … no.” Georgios collapsed into the recliner facing Claude.
“I’m here,” Claude admitted, focusing on the wall clock to deaden the impending guilt, “To tell you that it needs to be done next week.”
Georgios fell silent. His head turned to the sliding glass door to his right. Outside, the snow had long since started to melt in the mild winter air; icicles hung from the birdbath, which was in need of a good scrubbing.
“Do you remember, Georgios,” Claude continued, “The stories I’ve shared with you about that cursed Indian bastard from my time in Pakistan and India?”
“Yeah.”
“You remember, then, the shrewdness, the ability, the talent, the savagery this man was capable of?”
“Yeah.”
“His name is Indrajit Chaudhury. Ring a bell?”
“No. Not at all.”
“He’s your Singh.”
Georgios’ eyes grew wide. His head slowly turned back to face Claude.
“You’re sure about this?” Georgios’ voice was hoarse and pensive.
“I am. I’m sorry. I flew over as fast as I could to tell you.”
“Better than walking, right?” The weak attempt at humor fell flat on both sets of ears. Neither smiled.
The silence they shared was awkward; neither wanted to face the reality that became apparent in its midst.
“She appeared to me again yesterday.”
“She … the Mother?”
Georgios’ eyes welled with tears. “Yes, Claude,” he whispered. His eyes fixed on a painting of the Crown of Thorns, set just above the fireplace’s mantle.
Claude was overcome with disquietude. Let me not lead this man astray. Holy Ghost, come to me.
“What did she tell you?”
The tears grew in size and number, but his face remained placid. “She said to me, ‘My son the Lord will not abandon you. Lay to waste your wicked ways. The Lord has suffered the death on the Cross for you, but you must follow Him to the Crucifixion to be resurrected with Him. Be obedient, and lay to waste your wicked ways.”
“Have you spoken to Father Kostas about this yet?”
Georgios shook his head.
“… OK. Will you?”
Georgios nodded. “I will. Maybe tomorrow.”
“You don’t believe you’re doing the right thing, do you.”
A wild passion overcame Georgios. Rage entered his eyes. “The right thing! The right thing!” He shot upwards from the couch. The veins in his neck and forehead appeared like lightning bolts snaking across a wrathful sky. “Jesus, the Son of God, like a — like a thief in the night, came to tell me, Claude, that I am going to Hell! I am damned if I continue this May Day bullshit! That priest — we didn’t know, for fuck’s sake! He — what was he doing?” He collapsed again into the seat, burying his face in his hands as sobs rose from a heaving chest. “What the fuck was he doing, injecting fucking carfentanil? I didn’t mean to … we didn’t do it on purpose.”
Claude didn’t interrupt. He listened intently.
“And now … he’s burning. Jesus Himself, Claude … He came to me, a dirty rat fuck … I have to repent. I have to stop this. I can’t do it any longer. I didn’t know … nobody knew this guy was a priest … and now you tell me, fucking Singh … he’s that … Chaudhury.”
Claude gulped and braced for the blowback his next statement would elicit. “Georgios.”
Silence, sobs.
“Georgios. Look at me, boy.”
His face rose from his hands. He wiped away the tears.
“The meeting is happening on the 29th, isn’t it?”
“Fuck you. Fuck you. You better not say it, you —”
“It must be done. You have to.”
“No. No. I’m not hurting another soul. I can’t. No more killing, Claude. No more killing. No more fucking blood. No more drugs.”
“Ge—”
Georgios again shot up from his seat. “What’d I say, damnit! Am I fuckin’ speaking Swahili? I’m done! It’s over! No more! He —” Pointing upwards towards the heavens, his face crinkled into another wave of sobs. “I’m not doing that. Not to Him. These people, Claude — these people, oh my God — everyone, everyone — don’t you know what He showed me? Don’t you fucking understand? Fuck! They’re all stained with their … their sin, soaked in it, right down to the fuckin’ bone, in their blood, in their breath, they’re drenched in it, in the sin and the death, but so are we, Claude! So am I! But I know better! I fucking know better! Who am I, a man who Jesus Himself spoke to — to kill, to —” He collapsed again into the chair. The sobs worsened, and Claude, seeing his friend tremble in fear, felt great pity.
“Georgios. Pull yourself together. Take a deep breath. Listen to me. Are you listening? I need you to take a few deep breaths. In and out … in … and out. And listen.”
Georgios struggled to speak in the storm of sobs.
“I … why me, Claude? I … He should’ve just killed me. He should’ve let me die. I can’t carry this cross. I can’t. How … there’s no way out. I don’t want to save myself. I don’t care if I die.” He caught his breath and met Claude’s gaze once again with reddened eyes. “I don’t. I’m done. I can’t. If I stop this, I save myself and disobey Him. But if I turn myself —”
“Enough!” Claude seldom shouted; on the occasion his voice struck like thunder, all present paid attention. “Enough,” he repeated, but with gentleness and good will. There was a wooden chair in the corner of the room. Claude walked over and set it down not a foot away from Georgios, directly afront him. On it, he sat.
“Do you have your rosary?”
Georgios nodded. “Yeah, yeah. In my pocket.”
“C’mon. Let’s pray a decade. Let’s call on her for clarity and calmness.”
Georgios nodded again, and tried to say something in agreement under his breath between the sniffles, but Claude couldn’t hear. Reaching into a tattered pocket of his jeans, Georgios produced a rosary, the wooden-bead kind strung together with dark-brown twine.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen. With two fingers pressed together, Claude made the sign of the cross; Georgios followed suit.
Blessed Mary, ever Virgin, our beloved, beautiful Mother — we need your guidance. Through your intercession, Claude said with closed eyes and a bowed head, let us know the will of our Lord, the Savior of all Mankind, Jesus Christ, your Son. Let us know God intimately in this moment of suffering and confusion. Let us be strengthened by His hand, for the Lord is a warrior; the Lord is His name, and allow us, Georgios Stavropoulos and Claude Descoteaux, two old, tired warriors who fought mostly for ungodly, selfish, hurtful causes our entire careers, see what is good and right in our current conundrum. Amen.
Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name … As the prayer echoed throughout the house, Georgios felt his heartbeat slow.
Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Claude repeated this prayer nine more times; with each utterance, Georgios found a bit more of himself again.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost — as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. And thus concluded their brief prayers; thus concluded the violence of passion in Georgios’ chest. He laughed, sighed, and picked his head up.
“… Thanks, Claude.”
“No problem, kid.”
“Didn’t mean to yell.”
“We seldom do.” Claude’s smile was that of a good teacher knowing only joy with his student. The weight of the previous conversation was gone; they were two friends sharing an honest moment with something greater than themselves.
Claude cleared his throat. “Listen. You … have been called by God in a way that most aren’t. He appeared to you in the middle of the night. That’s … such a beautiful thing … and Georgie, you saw His face. That … changes a man.”
“It’s … I can’t explain it. I don’t know why.”
“And you don’t have to. You don’t have to know why. In fact, in the truest essence of the phrase … it’s none of your business. But when you saw His face, His mouth didn’t move, did it?”
“No.”
“But just by looking at His face, you were told many things — not through your ears, but through your heart.”
“Yeah … yeah. That’s right. It’s …”
“Beautiful … perfect.”
Georgios smiled. “I’ve been given a new life. A new heart.”
“One that doesn’t want to kill. One that doesn’t want to murder.”
Georgios was silent.
“The right thing to do,” said Claude, “Is to go to the authorities.”
“That’s what I’d like, but —”
“You are the authorities. Guess where I was before I flew out here.”
“Where?”
“Chicago,” Claude admitted, keeping his voice hushed. “Talking with the FBI agent who’s been put in charge of investigating your gay little commie drugs club.”
The two men laughed.
“Yeah? What’d he say?”
“All of the urban FBI field offices have been infiltrated by you guys. I’m very impressed, actually. And, well, there’s enough evidence to put every single one of you away forever. But the investigation’s been hampered every step of the way.”
“Yeah … so I’ve heard.”
“You are the authorities, Georgios. There’s no getting around this.”
Georgios fell silent.
“I am the only man you can trust with this right now. And there’s no time to go into the city, to one of the parish priests and get spiritual direction on something like this.”
“I know, Claude.”
“So let me take carry this cross with you. Have you gone to confession recently?”
“Yesterday.”
“Excellent. So did I,” Claude continued at a whisper. “So, let me take this cross with you. As the only man who could advise you on such a thing due to time being a luxury we just don’t have, I will take it upon my own soul — look at me, now, look at me — I will take it upon my own soul if what I am saying you need to do is the wrong thing. You are the authorities, Georgie. Only you and the others can stop this. Indrajit — he's dangerous. This isn’t just another amateur conspiracy among guys who have badges and ideologies and … government email addresses. This … this is serious. He is a potent man. And it’s my fault for telling you to watch and wait. It’s my fault.”
“No. No, Claude. Stop it. I appreciate the sentiment, but this isn’t your fault. It isn’t. None of this. Nobody put a gun to my head and told me to get involved in any of this shit.”
Claude nodded. “Yes. You’re right. But all things are in His providence nonetheless. He … appeared to you. There’s something much greater going on here. We don’t see it now, but … in the fullness of time, we will.”
“I don’t care what the grand over-arching reason is. As you said, it’s none of my business. I just …”
“Yes?”
“I … me from a year ago would think I’m insane, or stupid, or corny, or all three for saying this. But … I just want to follow Christ. That’s it.”
Claude’s heart swelled with wonder.
“Claude … I … I need a big favor. I don’t feel right asking you. But I’m going to ask you anyways.”
“Yes, Georgie. I’ll come along.”
Georgios was stunned. “You know this guy better than I do. But what you’ve said makes sense. He’s … I don’t know how to put it.”
“Like an alien. Can’t read him until it’s too late, and by that time, he’s already accomplished everything he’s set out to do.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve known him a long time, Georgios. The man’s a jackal. The things he did in Islamabad …”
“I’ve heard about that, actually.”
“It’s all true. All of it.”
Georgios shook his head. “We’ve gotta move on this. I don’t like it and I’m not happy about it at all. But we gotta go. We gotta go.”
Claude smiled. “What are you thinking?”
“Alright … so, check this out. Jack fucked up big time on one of the deals, a weapons-for-protection trade with the Cartel down in Mexico … I forget which one, but these guys run the territory that the largest H-lab is in. Anyways, for months, we’ve been hearing that the ATF’s been in hot water for letting the … the straw buyers, that’s the word that’s used … they’re the ones who buy the guns here in the States under legal pretenses and then hand them off to the cartels.”
“I know.”
“OK. Well, some of the suits aren’t happy that the ATF lets this happen for the purpose of making big arrests down the line. Any day now, this whole strategy of theirs is going to backfire. It’s going to make big headlines — everyone knows it — and the ATF’s going to be forced to make a ton of high-profile arrests to get everyone off their back. Well, guess what fuckface does? Not only has this been the case for months, and not only has Jack refused to stop using high-profile straw buyers known by the ATF, he decided to use the one seller that’s been under investigation for six years. We told him, we fuckin’ told him, the profits he’ll keep by giving them weapons instead of handing off H right from the warehouse doors isn’t worth it. But …”
“Jack does what Jack does.”
“Yup. You already know.”
“He’s always been careless. I kept him far away from anything we were doing in Kandahar. Didn’t care at all that he came recommended from this one, that one …”
“Yeah, smart move. I don’t know how Jack didn’t get caught before getting … subsidized by the Red Army.”
“They were probably watching him from the very beginning,” said Claude.
“Then Red Army had plants in the feds from the very beginning,” confirmed Georgios.
“More than most likely. So …”
“What?”
“The plan, Georgie.”
“Oh. Right. I’m a bit … I haven’t slept.”
“And you won’t until all of this is over.”
“He doesn’t want me to. There’s no … peace. There hasn’t been for years. You’re right — and there won’t be until this is all over. This is a mess I need to clean up. And … this is how we’re going to do it.” Georgios leaned forward in his chair, staring intently at the floor. “In three weeks … about three weeks, there’s going to be that big powwow out West, in Wyoming. I told you. I’ve been there before. Someone’s ranch or compound or whatever. Tons of people are going to be there — many more than who’s actually needed, a lot more. McPherson’s not happy about it at all. So, here’s what you’re going to do, Claude. Can you go back to Chicago? I need you to make an anonymous tip not to this agent you know, but to his section officer or supervisor, or whatever the hell they’re called. Anonymously — protect yourself on this one. Make an anonymous tip to the section supervisor overlooking your guy that this conference is happening, and make it very fucking clear that you’ve also considered alerting the DEA and the ATF, but they don’t actually need to be tipped off —”
“Well, I actually will consider tipping them off.”
“… What? Why? That’s too much, and —”
“If I don’t consider it with absolute sincerity, Georgie, then it would be a lie.”
The confusion on Georgios’ face relaxed into calm understanding. “Got it. I trust you to do the right thing anyways, whatever you decide. So … we’ll all get word about that tip. And me and McPherson will convince Singh to reschedule, to call an emergency meeting much sooner than the original date keep the feds on their toes … that would be the night of the 15th, early morning of the 16th. We’ll get McPherson to convince the General to keep things limited, … you know, in terms of attendance. Yeah … this works. It definitely works, especially once they hear the ATF and DEA have also been tipped off.”
“But Indrajit must be there, Georgios. In fact, he’s the only one we’re truly concerned about.”
“Yes. He will be. Trust me.”
“OK. So we’ve caused the date to change and the meeting to be smaller. Then what?”
“We raid the barn. Simple as that. I’ll get Anthony and John Junior, and their boys, all former operators —”
“I’m sorry — a barn?”
“The meeting’s in an empty barn.”
“That’s …” Claude shook his head. “That’s unbelievable. With all of the money you jackasses have, a barn is where you’ve all decided to do this.”
“I don’t know. Look, I didn’t do it.”
“OK … this … no, this works. This works. I’m picturing the space now — one point of entry, the —”
“Two. There’s a small door in the far right corner, behind where I imagine McCarthy, Jack, and Singh will sit, up at the front. Oh … and Methuselah.”
Claude’s head bowed with laughter. “Ah. The immortal.”
“Laugh all you want, Claude … this guy, there’s something off about him. Something very strange. He … I don’t know. Whatever. This works out. They’re keeping him close to Singh and Jack, and McPherson, like some sort of bodyguard. Once the shooting starts, he can get them out of there and into the adjacent house. And once in there …”
“Was there ever an ID on this Methuselah?” Claude’s eyes squinted with curiosity.
“One guy heard Jack call him Sammy. Who knows. But most of the upper echelon doesn’t even know he exists. Central — well, really just Jack — is doing everything he can to make sure he stays local and doesn’t make himself known. I don’t get it. But once in the house, Methuselah … he’ll take care of them.”
“Take care of them? He’s one man.”
“He’s a demon,” said Georgios.
“Possessed?”
“I would think so. He’s getting worse. Every time I see the guy — and it’s only been a few times over the past year — but he’s … I’m not a psychologist or anything like that, Claude, but he’s going to snap. He’s barely there. The look in his eye … I saw that only twice in my life. The autopilot-far off-savage look, when someone is in the middle of … killing, committing the worst acts of violence you’d ever see … I saw it twice in Rwanda. Once in Bosnia, too.”
“Oh, I know it … I know it well. Heard a wild thing about something like it some years ago from an Army medical officer … the prefrontal cortex — he said much of it shuts down in those moments, and one becomes more animal than man. I believe it. A lot of people don’t. But it’s a plausible explanation. Doesn’t make a difference either way. But it’s scary to imagine a man stuck in that … fugue for any extended amount of time. Something’s grabbed a hold of him.” Claude shook his head.
“He’s not well. And … I’ve heard the stories. He’s … a violent man, and you can shoot him, blow him up, stab him, whatever you want. Nothing takes him down.”
“And he wants out of this thing, too?”
“Can’t imagine he doesn’t. The only other thing that I’ve heard is that he’s with us because Jack knows something about him, or is holding something serious over his head, and the guy has no choice.”
Claude glanced at his watch. “You know, it isn’t like John Wheeling to be so careless.”
“Who?”
“Your General. John Wheeling heads the Red Army, as far as I know. He did several months ago, and he isn’t dead, so I assume it’s still him.”
“I thought you said John Welling — Peter’s father.”
Claude laughed. “That would’ve been a hell of a twist, right?”
“You know him?”
“Peter’s dad?”
“No. John Wheeling.”
“Oh. Well, of him. Not personally. But … why would he do something so stupid as to stack a meeting full of leadership and muscle in the middle of nowhere, a meeting held in one of the most vulnerable settings I could think of, big enough to attract almost every law enforcement entity at once?”
“I had the same thought.”
“Is he going to be there?”
“Which one?”
“Both, the one that was supposed to happen and the one that will.”
“No … and no.”
Claude smiled. “Excellent. Well, he’s done too, it seems. He wants out.”
“That’s … yeah. Yeah. I was thinking the same exact thing.”
“OK. Are you going to approach Methuselah directly?”
“No. I’ll go talk with Peter. He knows the guy a little bit. And Peter’s in the area.”
“Peter … he’s trustworthy?”
“You met him. What did you think?”
“Good kid. Very confused and scared. But, if this whole thing is going belly-up anyways, his weaknesses are irrelevant.”
“OK. Well … that’s it, then.”
“Come with me to Massachusetts once this is over. There’s a man there — the abbot — he will hear your confession of everything, absolutely everything, if that’s what you want. He’s a good man. Great priest.”
Georgios nodded and smiled. “Let’s see how things play out. We’ve no idea …”
“It’ll be fine, Georgie. It’ll be fine. You’ve been careful up to this point. Leave the rest to God. I’ll do what I can afterwards to clean up, but God will take the wheel on this one.”
“Pray, hope, and don’t worry,” recanted Georgie.
“It’s the only thing we can do.”
December 12th, 2015.
The black phone screamed into the night. The man sleeping beside it, groggy and anxious, answered.
“Who is this?”
“Samuel.”
“… How’d you get my number?”
“I spoke with the baker.”
Silence. Heavy breathing.
“The baker?”
“Yes.”
“OK — Kansas City, Dodge City, or Dearborn?”
“Kansas.”
“OK.”
“I’m in. But there’s one thing I want, Ferry.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re going to be there a day before, yes?”
Silence.
“I want,” said Samuel, his breathing heavier, “I want you to leave me some toys.”
“…Toys?”
“Yes. I’ve been told to take care of the three. And I oblige. But I want to have fun.”
“… What are you thinking?”
“Three chairs. Rope. Gasoline.”
“That’s it?”
“Leave them in the basement. Anything else I’ll need or want should be there.”
“…OK.”
Click.
The tired circles under the eyes of the man opposite Voskanyan in the mirror seemed lighter; he joked and hummed and shaved at the Agent’s tempo, and smiled when he did, too. Both fixed their tie and promised themselves they’d be more focused at work and celebrated the end of their respective investigations, work projects they wanted nothing more than to have behind them.
The traffic was light, as Voskanyan had left an hour earlier than normal. There was time to stop for a bagel with onion and chive cream cheese from Solomon’s Deli and flirt with Jessica, the girl working the cashier, although he found the new hair dye — blue and pink — to be a distasteful reminder of the cotton candy he’d buy his oldest son Frankie at the summertime street fairs of San Francisco. He missed Frankie and made the decision to call him when the day’s work was done, finding gratitude for the time zone differences that would allow him to at least hear his son before both of them were to go to bed in their respective cities.
He was alone in Chicago, a city that seemed old and wide and confused, but at least his car was new; the heat came on quickly and the seats had warmers. The bagel was tasty and Jessica was cute and his muscled frame in the mirror that morning was a welcome surprise, and he remembered there was still time; still youth, still avenues to explore and get lost on and curse and follow as they winded back around on themselves again, and he shrugged his shoulders at what he saw to be just another chapter to endure — a few more pages to turn, passages to read out loud again and once more as the eyes grew tired while the heart begged them to stay alert and pay attention to some kind of elusive wisdom that needed to be gained before the curtains closed and the flurry of stagehands swept through, and the scene was changed for the next act of the well-attended matinee. And when he arrived at the headquarters, he nudged open the door to his office with a placid sigh, and after flipping the light switch, he saw an empty room: no files, no folders, no wall pierced with push-pins holding papers nor posters, no notes nor photos, and his laptop was gone, too. The chair wasn’t where he left it, and the few personal affects that lived on his desk were gathered into a cardboard filebox tucked away under the desk, right beside a bag of trash with other miscellanea that mostly belonged to him. He set his bagel down and a knowing grin that hid a sad fearfulness spread across his cheeks. Is this it? Supervisory Agent Marcos snuck behind him, wished him a good morning, and delivered the news — the particulars of which Voskanyan couldn’t exactly hear, as the ringing in his ears grew loud, and as Marcos spoke, Voskanyan noticed the hallway behind him was terribly empty — There’s a book signing in the lobby café, the guy who worked on the Aldritch Ames case — although Voskanyan strolled right past the empty café with coffee bean grinders that had signs reading “OUT OF ORDER” taped to them for weeks. In either case, Voskanyan was done there, and Marcos was to walk him out, out through a rear exit with little traffic and oversight, through a bay where goods arrived and the sanitation-men took away the discarded, but Voskanyan first asked to make a phone call real quick to his wife, who needed to ask him something regarding the divorce proceedings, although Marcos knew the divorce had been finalized some months before, and Voskanyan knew that Marcos knew. Marcos relented and Voskanyan called and then he asked her about the day Frankie was born, and if she remembered how she punched him square in the jaw on accident; and she giggled through the phone, and he heard the other two, Jason and Kaiden, fighting over who’d get to feed the goldfish that day, and a silent tear welled in his right eye, and he cursed Marcos and the Bureau and the corruption with words that remained lodged in his throat, and his wife finally asked who the hell even were they the day the papers were signed, I didn’t even recognize us, I was like a stranger to myself, and she remarked that it was all a bad dream, and she’d be willing to give the couple’s therapy another try, truth be told, but you just need to listen, you need to really listen, and so do I but … damnit, you just shut down and became someone else, and Voskanyan admitted with brightness and confidence in his voice that she was right, and as he stood at the precipice and saw he was dizzy and losing control and almost sobbing, he told Jessica he still loved her as much as the day he met her, even more so, and that no matter what, she was his world, her and the kids, and somehow, things would be rectified, things would be corrected, but he had to go, he had to get back to wrapping up the thing he was doing. And she loved him, too; she made it known, she said it thrice, and he knew it to be; and when he hung up the phone and turned to look at Marcos, there were two others with him, and they just wanted to go for a walk outside, we’ll take care of your belongings — no need to bring the box, and as Voskanyan followed Marcos, the other two whose faces he had never seen at the headquarters followed right behind, and he smiled again, a smile at the irony of finding a shred of peace only when the ship started listing to starboard, only when the wells went dry, and he laughed a bit more, and as they walked through the wide door to the cargo bay, there was a light shining from the other end, creeping through the bottom cracks of the bay door — and no matter what, there was light outside, and the sun was high in the sky, and always would be, despite the clouds that sometimes floated across town, above the people living out whatever lives they were able to; indeed — youth, there was some if it left, perhaps even a lot of it — he was still young, and in the dark building under a covetous moon, Voskanyan saw a mess of unhung drywall beside a bare section of wooden framing and voiced the setup for a joke, an attempt at humor, a joke about a carpenter who left a nailgun behind at a jobsite; and Marcos rolled his eyes, not even bothering to turn around and acknowledge the sad thing, and when the grand metal door was unlatched, a great noise was heard like the rushing of a water-drum, and the rays of daylight rushed in and skipped across the concrete floor to the tempo of a pneumatic rhythm echoing throughout the bay.
In the back of the police car, the fever-beast which danced its blood-dance in the material realm struggled to keep hold. The apprehended man’s peace was waning. Like a river it tried to drown Samuel in its currents. Sometimes he sank; sometimes he swam; and in the midst of this dramatic fight, he broke through the handcuff’s chains. Still not himself. Rage like a flood rushed through his lungs and up his neck and into his head, and he kicked out the rear driver-side window of the police car. With free hands, he simply climbed out of the moving vehicle, tumbled around, and sprinted down the sidewalk. Covered in blood and frothing at the mouth with violence, the sight of the beast terrified a few people who were looking through the window of a café. There was nothing left of Samuel; no musical tastes nor memories nor favorite radio broadcast of The Fred Waring Show — just the evil that pulled the levers in his head — and the idea that he could go run through the café and exit through the back to evade his pursuers seemed wise to the beast. One man, an old tattooed fellow name Cary Loveless, was all the wiser and locked the door to the café as they saw the rabid man sprinting down the street. Samuel tried the doorknob and cursed up a storm when it wouldn’t budge. The storefront’s bow window seemed to be an adequate secondary entrance, and anticipating that the madman would try it next, Mr. Loveless ordered everybody to the rear of the café and drew his gun, a forty-five caliber pistol, and waited. The animal was blind to the movement inside, and kicking four, five, six times, the window shattered and he jumped through, and that’s when Mr. Loveless fired his gun until it wouldn’t any more. Eight rounds in total were fired, with seven striking the chest — including the heart — and one striking the head of the man who was assumed to be another local meth-head having a bad trip.
… Lights out. The nameless man was pronounced dead at the scene.
Samuel.
Samuel.
“Where am I?” A veil of smoky blackness embraced Samuel’s mind.
Samuel.
“Who are you?”
What have you done, Samuel?
“I don’t know. Where am I? I can’t remember anything.”
Singh, McCarthy, Jack — their blood cries out to me from the earth.
“I can’t remember a thing. I don’t know who I am,” said Samuel like a lost child on the verge of tears. “I don’t know who I am.”
You are Samuel Carmichael. You’ve murdered them, Samuel. Don’t you remember?
“I thought that …”
That was no dream. You’ve murdered them. Singh, McCarthy, Jack, all of them — their bones cry out to me from their tombs.
“I … where am I? I can’t remember … I … mister, I can’t remember anything. I’m sorry. But I can’t even remember who I am.”
I’m disappointed, Samuel. You’ve upset your mother. She cries before me. You’ve broken her heart. Her tears run like the River Jordan that overflows in the springtime.
In that foggy place, a young, boyish Samuel hung his head in shame.
“I’m … I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t … I promise.”
I know, boy. I know. It hasn’t been easy for you. They were wicked men, Samuel, but their lives weren’t yours to take.
“Mister, please don’t tell my Pa. He’ll whip me dead.”
Your father loves you, Samuel, but there must be justice. There are penalties. Not a drop of blood shall be unaccounted for, and you have spilled so much … so much; don’t you see? Yours is a chalice of blood that boils over with fury. But I shall not let you sip from it; I your Father shall not let you drown in the sea of your boiling wrath. You shall be guided to the tranquil waters; you will drink from their untainted spring; this is the word of the Father, and my word is kept unto eternity, for I the Watchman tend the day and night and all that happens betwixt, and all whom call upon my name in their sufferings and needs; you shall know peace, Samuel; but first you must know pain like no man has before; you must die from the torment of a thirst like the pitiless javelins of Assyria plunged deep into your rattled lungs.
There are always penalties, Samuel.
Judgment is always passed.
His body was laid down with care on a retractable cot that was rolled back into the freezer at the Coroner’s firm push. This fucking meth, he thought to himself. Sending the whole town straight to Hell. The autopsy of the unknown man would have to wait; there was another autopsy queued up for Rosalita Dominguez-Diaz, a 19-year-old Mexican girl found dead in an alleyway besides a downtown bar. Another overdose, knew the Coroner, even before the autopsy began. Nothing ever changes. Nothing will, and that damn detective, he —
THUD.
A loud knock was heard from the cadaver locker where the man was just placed. The Coroner, frozen with fear, fixed his eyes on the one locker slot where the noise originated from. Almost five minutes passed. Without moving his eyes, he shuffled across the room, grabbed his cigarettes and cellphone, and made for the door.
Presence of mind returned to Samuel. He awoke from the dark place into a dream.
… He was driving one of the Precision Mechanical delivery vans. The windows were drawn and a cigarette hung from his lip, smoldering away. He felt calm. In control. The road was I-29 South — he was returning from a product delivery at one of the warehouses in Sioux Falls for the Western Region Power Authority, the company’s most profitable client.
The radio was sweet and clear. John McCormack’s The Sunshine of Your Smile was crystal clear through the van’s speakers. Samuel wasn’t partial to McCormack’s songs, but for some reason, every other station was broadcasting static. Just as well, he thought. A gentle breeze grew strong and cold and whipped up into a gust that sent Samuel’s hair jumping in the wind; then, that station also died down to static, the static to silence, and just ahead — How did this escape my notice until now? – there they were: three towering outcrops of rock — mountains in their own right, despite their unusual narrowness – spotted with greenery throughout, from their bases to their clouded peaks. As the van continued south on the interstate, a large wooden sign approached. Hand-painted, it read:
THE THREE SISTERS OF GALAHAD NATIONAL PARK
GALAHAD, IA
Indeed, in the map on his lap was a green block that read “THREE SISTERS NATIONAL PARK”, a feature that wasn’t printed there moments before. That’s strange, thought Samuel. I’ve motored this route a few times before and never saw signs for a town named Galahad in Iowa, let alone these three peaks.
Jack, when wearing the hat of supervisor at Precision Mechanical, gave clear instructions to all drivers of company vehicles that they cannot, under any circumstances, use the vans for personal errands. But the beauty of the Three Sisters was too enticing. A half-mile after the first sign, another one — much smaller in size — read “TRAILHEAD”, with an arrow pointing to the road that broke off from the interstate, and Samuel merged onto the exit.
… He was then on top of the tallest mountain with no idea how he arrived there. The view was stunning: he could see for miles and miles around. There was one issue: the trail leading up the mountain was a one-way road. It snaked around the peak and descended again, but that section of road had been closed off.
… Then, he was swimming in a turquoise lake at the foot of the mountain. He must’ve jumped — there was no other explanation as to how he arrived there – and he lingered in that pool for some time alone, treading the water and splashing about.
… He found himself, afterwards, in a hostel. There was a long row of beds, maybe twenty in total. The floors and the walls were made from the same dark-stained planks of wood, and large windows in the wall opposite the beds offered a view of a green forest during a rainy Spring day. He kept glancing at his watch, and each time he did, the lines marking the time bent and curved and went erratic, until, after the fifth time or so, the watch face was nothing but a bunch of black lines zigzagging and crossing each other. Three beds over, his sister Marie was talking away on one of the newer smartphone models via videospeak, as Samuel knew it it. To whomever was on the other side of the conversation, Marie was talking about some man who had killed three people in a manner so vile somewhere in Wyoming. I know him, actually, she said. Lovely person, but … he’s still bleeding. Lightly, Samuel frowned.
The housekeeper walked into the sleeping hall pushing a cart full of cleaning supplies. Her face was familiar — the housekeeper was Tex’s wife. Samuel smiled. The two times he had been invited to the house for dinner, she was a sweetheart, tending to his every need and always packing food for him to take home. She didn’t notice him as he passed, so he called out to her.
“Hey, you.”
“Samuel! Hey, man. What are you doing here?”
He giggled. “I don’t know, really. Can’t remember. You’re looking cute today.”
She blushed. “Y’know … man, Samuel, I’d really like to go to bed with you. Come by tonight. I’ll have the bags packed. Can’t stand Tex anymore.”
“… No, you won’t do that to him. I won’t have it.”
She frowned. “If you say so, Jack.”
“Come again?”
“… If you say so.”
“ — Besides, you see that girl over there, flapping her gums on that damn thing?”
“What about her?”
“That’s my sister, in fact.”
Her eyes widened. “No way.”
“And you were her, for a while. I’m sorry, but … I’d never go to bed with you.”
She understood, and she nodded knowingly. “Ah. Got it. Sorry for getting you all mixed up, then. Anyways — Tex misses ya, man. Give him a call. I gotta go clean these bathrooms. They’re a mess.”
“What happened?”
“The Red Army came through like a derecho and destroyed them. Broke the mirrors, pissed on the floor, smeared shit on the walls. Flushed cherry bombs down the toilets — now the pipes are all burst.”
“The Red Army? The Russians? … You don’t say?”
“No, silly goose. The other ones. Your crazy friends.”
“Friends? … no, I don’t think so.” He hung his head in shame.
“Cleanliness is next to holiness, Samuel.” Her voice had changed, matured; he lifted his head to meet her gaze, and she was visibly older; age-lines ran marathons across her forehead, and elsewhere, wrinkles had deepened on the face of a weary but persistent woman. “See ya later, kiddo.” As she pushed the cart further up the aisle, he noticed her maid’s gown had changed color to a deep blue. The wedding ring Tex spent so much money on was brighter than ever on her tired hands. There was something he had forgotten to ask. He called out her name.
“Yes, Sammy?”
“Are the showers working? I need to clean. Maybe a bath would be nice.”
“Almost. But why are you fretting about that?”
“I … I need to clean. I haven’t bathed —”
“You bathed already in 1892. Bath bomb and everything.”
It was all Greek to him. Samuel was confused, scratching his chin. Before he could ask her to clarify, she rolled the cart down the aisle, and, turning right, disappeared into the building’s depths.
… He appeared, then, in his childhood home. Marie and his mother were sitting at the table in the dining room, as well as a friend of Marie’s. He checked his watch again, but the watch face was a drawing of Bugs Bunny with a bouquet of poppies in his hand.
“Ma, where’s Pa?”
“I … he’s just about out of the house.”
“I … I need to get back. I need my work van. Ma, you have to see this place — this Galahad in Iowa, near the Dakota Territories. It’s —”
Angry feet stomped down the stairs. Samuel’s father held two trunks, one in each arm, and had a few coats and other assorted articles of clothing draped over his shoulders and arms.
“Where are you going?”
“Open this door for me, boy.”
“Look, I need to get back to Galahad, you know —”
“What? To where, you say?”
“The c”
“What did you say?”
“The Three Sisters of Galahad, Pa. My work van, it’s —”
“Three sisters. What hogwash are you putting in this boy’s head, woman? What the hell did I tell you about —”
“John, please, not now, not with guests here.”
“Pa,” Samuel continued, “I really need a ride.”
“Fuck you. All of yous. I’m gone.”
Samuel watched him slam the door and disappear down the sidewalk.
“Pa —”
John Carmichael raised a pointed hand, waving his son’s calls away.
“Sammy, don’t be sad,” his mother said amongst her tears.
Still, Samuel flew into a rage. He threw dishes and plates and glass bottles of milk. Marie, their mother, and the friend all hung their heads, enduring the show of anger. Soon, the shame spread to him; and, reading the room, he took a deep breath, and another, and another — but he couldn’t catch his breath.
He awoke, still struggling for his breath, chilled to the bone.
. . .
“Did Mary and Aaron go to bed?” The Coroner held the phone to his ear with his right hand, and a lit cigarette with his left.
“Yup … they’re asleep. Aaron just didn’t want to take a bath. I don’t know, he’s been so fussy with that lately.”
“Yeah, well …” He took a drag from the cigarette. “He’s six, Anna. I barely bathed until I was, what, thirteen?”
“That’s gross. When are you coming home, Mr. Gross?”
“I don’t know. We’re going to start the autopsy on the girl any moment. I’m not sleeping enough. I can’t even stay awake. Seven coffees today.”
“This really can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it can. I’ve got her laid out, and … fuck it, I may.”
“May what?”
“Just wheel her back into the cooler, and come home for a bit. Get some sleep.”
“I’d like that.”
“I know you would. Just don’t get your hopes up. Mary wakes me up every time she comes into bed. I’ll probably just crash on the couch tonight.”
“She’ll follow you there.”
He inhaled again. “… Fuck. Yeah, you’re probably right. Daddy’s little girl.”
“You shouldn’t be upset with her, she’s just —”
“I’m not. Who said I was? I’m just … so exhausted, Anna. Look, I’m going to wrap up here. I’m calling it a night. And —”
The door behind the Coroner crashed, and a flurry of footsteps was heard. He turned around.
“Fuck! He’s alive, Matt! He’s — he’s banging around in there and screaming!”
“I — Anna, I’ll call you back.” He hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. “What the fuck is this, Mike?”
“Let’s go! I called the police! You have to see it! He’s alive!” He ran back into the building. The Coroner ran after him. “Mike — Mike!” He called after him, but Mike wasn’t listening. “Gunshot wound to the head, you fuckin’ idiot,” he screamed. “He’s dead!”