Guardians of the Secret
copyright © 1998 by Cary Shulman
All Rights Reserved
14.
Every so often Michael would think about the drive back from Massachusetts. At what point was Sara killed? Was there some sign? A sudden twinge in the gut or sweep of emptiness. Maybe if he hadn't stopped at a bar and got plastered there might have been. Instead he was lost in a conversation with himself about his abrupt exit from Nimé's workshop.
No medal for that performance. Mister bravery. Now when it comes to facing a gun I stack up pretty good. Maybe because I never had much to lose. But I stack up pretty good. It's the up close and personal. Should be uptight and personal. Next time I'll call ahead and make sure everybody is armed. Next time. Yeah, next time.
Michael added a few more drinks before he drove to his loft. He climbed the stairs unsteadily, but painlessly.
"Great. The only time my knee works is when the rest of me doesn't."
Suddenly Michael noticed his front door alarm was off. He stared for a second before the thought "it's been disabled" alerted him. He pulled out his gun, cleared his head, and started cautiously up the stairs.
He stood to the side of the doorway preparing to rush in. A similar scene flashed through his mind. Gun drawn, Michael was standing outside a warehouse door. He kicked in the door and rushed in.
Blinding light, deafening gunfire and he was on the ground, wounded as three gunmen stood over him. Michael prepared to die. But instead they shot him in the leg. He writhed in pain while his attackers merely laughed.
Michael took a deep breath to block out the memory. He pushed open the door, expecting gunfire in return. There was none. He entered warily and surveyed the darkened room. Nobody was there. He turned on the light. He had the strange feeling someone had been there, but the place looked exactly like he left it. Michael examined the door alarm and realized he forgot to set it.
"Stupidity, now there's a new way to get a rush."
Michael cleared some papers off a chair and practically fell into it. The papers included a rubberbanded packet of letters to his son, all marked "return to sender". With a grimace, he tossed them to the floor. He made a mental note to get up sometime and check his answering machine.
* * *
Two cops were standing by the coffee machine near the entrance of the police station as if they were waiting for someone. Nearby a working class Hispanic family were talking to an officer at the reception desk.
"Michael's going to flip out," the first cop observed.
"He was born flipped out. Maybe we ought to meet him outside."
The two started for the door as it slammed open and Michael burst in. He was filled with despair and fury in equal measures. The second cop tried to console him.
"I'm sorry Michael"
"Where's the accident report? I want to see the fucking report."
"Take it easy Michael," the first cop said, knowing he wouldn't.
"Fuck you. Sara is murdered and all you can say is take it easy. Okay, okay, you want easy, I'll give you fucking easy."
Michael calmly put money in the coffee machine and watched the cup drop and begin to fill.
"Is this easy enough?"
Michael calmly picked up the cup of coffee and then suddenly hurled it against the opposite wall. The second cop put his hand consolingly on Michael's shoulder.
"Michael."
"Is this easy enough?"
Michael gave the first cop a shove.
"Is this easy enough?"
Michael gave the cop another shove. The cop grabbed for Michael attempting to corral him. Michael wrestled free and was about to slug him when the second cop pinned him from behind.
"Fuckhead, it's no murder! The other driver is dead!"
Michael stopped struggling and the three untangled. The news sank in as they all caught their breath. Michael wasn't buying their story.
"They blew it, that's all. They tried to run her off the road and bang."
"There's no 'they', Michael. I've known the driver for years. There's his family over there. You want to talk to them?"
Michael looked over toward the reception desk. He saw a family obviously distraught talking to the officer at the desk. Overwhelmed, Michael sat down. "It was no accident," he muttered almost to himself, trying to see beyond his confusion and pain.
* * *
Arens was in Los Angeles making a phone call to Everett. He was in a phone booth across the street from Chicken Itza a Mexican charbroiled chicken stand. Designed to look like its Mayan namesake it delighted Arens. It wasn't your usual intersection of vinyl, formica and bad coffee. It was what was left of the exotic. Progress and crowds of "been there, done that" tourists had accomplished what Tamerlane and his hordes couldn't, even with their intimidating giant pyramids of skulls. They destroyed all the fabled cities of the world. The lands of mystery were no more.
Arens collected such tiny surrealistic beachheads in a frontal assault on the mundane as others would collect porcelains or baseball trading cards. He had bad news for Everett. The person who made the death threat didn't kill Sara.
"How do you know?" Everett asked.
"We had a chat," Arens replied. From his tone it was obvious the chat wasn't casual.
"That's unfortunate. We're going to be getting heat for this. Guilt by association."
"The irony is so far he doesn't seem to be associated with anything."
"We've got to run this down quickly, even if he's a freelancer."
"A lone nut. Each nut in a world to himself and yet they all seem to come from the same can. There must be a correspondence course in it. Or maybe there's a lone nut academy that teaches them all how to keep an incriminating diary. They have antisocials on weekends."
Arens noticed Everett's silence.
"Don't worry, I'll see to it that he's ontologically challenged."
* * *
The marina on Long Island Sound was crowded with weekend boaters. Randy and Earl, trying hard not to look nervous and out of place, were searching for a boat along the dock. Finally spotting it, they climbed aboard. Greeting them were Everett and six other Men. Dressed like Sunday boaters, they appeared casual, but had a military bearing. Randy extended a handshake as the boat got underway.
"My name's..."
"Mobile," Everett interrupted. "Mobile and Montgomery, I'd like you to meet Memphis, KC, Indie, Billings, Phoenix, and at the helm, Austin."
The Men exchanged greetings as Everett continued.
"We all share the same beliefs and we're willing to die for them. That's all you need to know."
Austin took the boat out into the middle of the Sound. The men were enjoying themselves in the sun, drinking beer and having pointedly innocuous conversation about sports. Everett was the picture of good-natured nonchalance as he spent the next few hours talking to every one of them. The talk may have been innocuous, but his sizing them up was not. Finally he moved over next to Randy and engaged him in some small talk.
"You think you're ready?" Everett asked with a sudden seriousness.
Randy took Everett's question in and nodded affirmatively. In the same instant, Everett grabbed Randy by the back of his head and jammed a commando knife against his throat.
"Who are you?!"
Everybody was transfixed as they stared in disbelief at Everett. Randy was petrified. He struggled to say something, but couldn't.
"Who are you?" Everett asked again as probing as the knife in his hand. The group tensed, wondering if they had a traitor in their midst.
"Don't try to speak. Just listen. You hear what I'm saying. Every syllable of every word. Your eyes miss nothing. Your mind is racing, but your thoughts are focused and clear. Until now you might as well have been deaf, dumb and blind. You're about to die and this is the only time in your whole fucking life you're alive and not sleepwalking. You sleepwalk with your wife, you sleepwalk with your children, but I'll be goddamned if you'll sleepwalk with me."
The group was stunned. Everett released a badly shaken Randy. "You want an answer to who are you?"
Randy just managed a nod.
"Unfortunately, you're a helluva lot more than you'll ever know." Everett handed Randy the knife.
"For luck."
Everett thought to himself he must be getting old, he'd given that demonstration a hundred times and it had never lost some of its edge before. It still enabled him to eliminate Randy. He definitely was what he said he was.
"I want to call your attention to an interesting landmark on the right."
Everybody turned to look. Across the East River was the UN building.
copyright © 1998 by Cary Shulman
All Rights Reserved