The Tree of Knowledge

by Daniel G. Miller

  “One of the things I’m most proud of, Scott, is our security here at Fix Industries. As our nation’s leading security contractor, we are keenly aware of the trust that our citizens put in us. They trust us to build the defense systems that will protect them, but to also ensure that we keep the information about those systems classified. In the current environment, where hackers from all over the world are breaking into supposedly impenetrable systems, I want to make sure that we used not only standard methods, like encrypted computer systems, twenty-four-hour surveillance, etcetera, but also certain nontraditional methods that would only be able to be overcome by the high-caliber individuals that currently work with Fix Industries.”

  “Nontraditional methods? Could you enlighten us?” Pelley questioned.

  “I knew you weren’t going to let me get away with that one. Let’s put it this way: I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

  The two shared an awkward laugh, and Ying guffawed while watching.

  The door to Cristina Culebra’s office opened, and the pair continued walking as Pelley narrated. “Culebra has used the enormous wealth generated by her company to run a highly unorthodox and successful campaign. She’s by and large bypassed traditional media outlets and used her funds to connect directly with voters, often presenting nontraditional and—some say—radical ideas.”

  The camera cut back to the interview. “You have said that on your first day in office you will sign an executive order that permits California residents not to pay federal taxes and will eliminate California’s income tax. The federal government has said that you do not have the authority to do that.”

  Again, Cristina smiled, this time touching the interviewer on the arm. “These are great questions, Scott. Frankly, I just disagree with the federal government’s interpretation. Currently, for every dollar that Californians pay to the federal government in taxes, they receive seventy-eight cents in federal spending. Now, imagine if I went to the bank and asked them to hold ten dollars for a year, and when I went back a year later, they returned seven dollars and eighty cents. The bank would be prosecuted for fraud or embezzlement. That is what the federal government is currently doing to the citizens of California, except they are doing it to the tune of two hundred and fifty billion dollars every year. To me, this is a scandal when our state is on the verge of bankruptcy.”

  Albert practically popped out of his seat. “She’s so right on this. I read that we in New Jersey only get sixty-one cents back for every dollar.”

  The interviewer continued as though he could hear what Albert was saying. “Yes, but folks in the federal government would say that the government provides for a lot of things like defense that benefit everyone.”

  Cristina leaned back in her chair with a confident smirk. “That’s true, Scott, but currently our federal government spends more on defense than all of our enemies combined. That is just wasteful. No offense to the folks in the federal government, but my company alone has enough firepower to handle any of our enemies, especially when you consider the two hundred thousand Californians serving in the military and our own Red Army, which at last count was at one million soldiers. I and the citizens of my state want to send a message to the federal government: we’ll keep the two hundred and fifty billion and defend ourselves.”

  “But isn’t what you’re saying treasonous, Ms. Culebra? Isn’t that what the folks in the South said before they seceded from the Union before the Civil War?”

  “Scott, that’s just silly. I and the people of California love the United States. We intend to follow the laws of the United States. We just want our money spent more wisely. If the federal government disagrees, we’ll let the appropriate courts decide that. But until then, I’m going to make sure we get to work solving problems. One more thing I’d add is that politicians always say that our problems are hard and it will take a long time to solve them. I disagree with them. I think our problems are pretty easy to solve; it’s just that the system we have in place makes it impossible. In my time as CEO of Fix Industries, I’ve seen problems ten times more complicated than what the state of California faces, but I was able to solve them in a matter of months because I didn’t have to deal with a corrupt legislature. All I’m asking is for the chance to do the same for the people of California.”

  With that, the clip ended.

  Albert sat back in his chair, nodding. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but she’s incredible. I would vote for her tomorrow if I could.”

  “I know, that’s what I’ve been telling you all along,” said Ying, pulling her chair up to Albert and grabbing him by the hands. “I’ve never been interested in politics, but every time I see her speak, I want to drop what I’m doing and go be a part of it. It’s so exciting!”

  Albert smiled at Ying. As she jostled up and down in her chair, some of her shiny black hair had escaped her ponytail and fallen in her face. He carefully put his hand on her face and brushed the hair away, but then quickly pulled it back down to his lap.

  Ying broke the awkward silence. “You don’t think there’s any way she knows about what Eva’s doing, do you?”

  Albert paused and took a long look into Ying’s hopeful eyes. “My head says no, but my heart says yes.”

  Chapter 22

  The following day, three hundred miles away, Detective Weatherspoon’s cell phone was ringing. The bullish detective had just returned to the station from another disappointing interview with one of Puddles’s clueless colleagues and was getting ready to dive into his meatball sub lunch when the shrill ringing began. Groaning and licking the sauce from his hands, he pulled the small phone from its holster.

  “This is Weatherspoon,” he grumbled.

  “Hello, Mike. It’s Rich from surveillance.”

  The detective leaned forward in his seat. “Yeah, Rich. Tell me you’ve got something.”

  “Yeah, well, you know how you told me to keep an eye on the email accounts of Puddles and his accomplices?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, one of the accounts, the Google account for a Ms. Ying Koh, was just used in Washington, Vermont.”

  Weatherspoon leapt from his seat and quickly lumbered over to the captain’s office, hanging up the phone as he entered. “Great. Thanks, Rich.”

  As the detective burst into the office, the captain distractedly looked up from his papers and removed his glasses. In all the years he’d been with Weatherspoon, he’d never seen the great bear of a man so excited. “What do you got . . . besides meatball sauce all over your face?”

  “Puddles and his associates are in Washington, Vermont,” said Weatherspoon, wiping the sauce from his face.

  “Great. Let’s go get ’em. Call the Vermont FBI. They probably won’t be there long.”

  “Got it.” Weatherspoon turned to exit the captain’s office.

  “Oh, Spoon? Before you do that, make sure to call Agent Beel. I want to be certain we don’t step on any toes.”

  Weatherspoon rolled his eyes at the thought of having to talk to that bleached-blond moron and his mysterious partner, but an order was an order.

  “Got it.”

  The detective quickly pulled out Beel’s card from his tattered wallet and dialed from his desk phone.

  “Agent Beel?”

  “Yeah, this is Beel. How are you, Detective Weatherspoon?”

  Weatherspoon paused. How did he know it was me? This guy must really know voices. “Um, good. I’m calling because we just got a lead on Puddles. He’s in Vermont.”

  “Great work, Detective,” said Beel. “I’ll get a team down to Washington immediately.”

  Weatherspoon resisted. “Oh, that’s alright, Agent Beel. This is my case. I can follow up with the feds.”

  “Thank you for the offer, Detective, but that will just make it more complicated. I can take it from here. I’ll be sure to inform Captain Willard that
I assumed command and that your work should be commended.”

  Beel hung up.

  Weatherspoon stood at his desk with the receiver in his hand. He had just broken the case open, and now it was being ripped out of his hands. Dazed, he slumped into his chair.

  How did he know they were in Washington? I just told him they were in Vermont.

  Chapter 23

  Albert’s hands trembled.

  Today was the day. Over the past few weeks, with the help of Gabe’s combat-training glasses, he had mastered the Tree and could defeat all the local amateurs that Brick could find. Albert was dispatching Salazar with ease, patiently anticipating every punch and countering with coldhearted efficiency. He’d even forced the stubborn man to take his toothpick out of his mouth before the fight. He could see his fights unravel in advance just as he was once able to see the moves and countermoves played out on a chessboard. First a telegraphed punch, then an off-balance grab, then a swift kick, all revealing themselves like a dance. At times, he felt as though the fight were nothing more than a reenactment of an exchange that had already taken place.

  The words of the Chinese military philosopher Sun Tzu now resonated with Albert: “Every battle is won before it is ever fought.” Before his fights with Raphael or even Turner, Albert knew what they would do and what would happen. Winning was just a matter of reacting and acting.

  But with Brick Travis, things were different.

  Despite his best efforts, Albert had still been unable to defeat Brick in hand-to-hand combat. The range of attack moves at Brick’s disposal made the glasses’ calculations unreliable at best. He would stand in positions where the glasses predicted an 80 percent chance of a right jab, but then Brick would issue a kick to the groin, debilitating Albert and ending the fight. Even when Albert did anticipate the correct move, he would often react too late. The rules of the game changed every time they played.

  Earlier that week, frustrated with the consistent beatings, Albert had allowed his ego to get the better of him and had pledged that by the end of the week he would defeat Brick Travis. Brick gleefully accepted.

  Now, this evening as the sun faded and starlight peeked through the barn, Albert stood in one corner of the ring, legs quivering, hot sweat pouring from his face, staring at the man he had promised to conquer. On the other side of the ring, Brick’s eyes glowed and his mouth was curved in the snarl of a predator confident of victory. The smell of straw and sweat tickled the edge of Albert’s nose. He looked down at his oversized red boxing gloves, which looked like two overripe tomatoes ready to burst.

  “Ignore him,” said Turner, who had taken on the role of Albert’s trainer for this fight. Turner grabbed both of Albert’s wiry arms and pivoted the scared student toward him. “Look, I know you’re afraid of Sergeant Travis, but you have to find a way to put that aside. You cannot win if there are emotions inside of you. If you feel fear or anxiety, he will be able to beat you. But if you can calm your mind and clear those emotions away, then you can use your reasoning to beat him.”

  Albert nodded, breathing heavily, jogging in place as if to shake away the fear. “I know, but he’s just so good. So fast.”

  Turner frowned. “Have I taught you nothing? It doesn’t matter how strong or fast he is. You can see the future.”

  Albert snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “No, I’m serious. How many times have you fought this man?”

  “I don’t know, probably eight times.”

  “Exactly. You know how he fights. You know what he’s going to do. Think if you played a man for two weeks in chess. Do you think there is any way he would beat you after you had played him eight times?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Not probably—from what I hear of how you used to play as a child, never. Now I want you to forget that this is hand-to-hand combat and pretend you are playing Brick Travis in chess. Would you be intimidated then?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Now go play Brick Travis in chess.”

  And with that, Turner walked into the middle of the tattered blue ring and announced the start of the fight.

  Albert took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He pictured himself in the middle of the ring with the sergeant. Brick knew that Albert would expect him to begin with a right jab because of his standard stance, so he would probably attempt a kick. He envisioned himself grabbing Brick’s leg and sweeping him to the floor. This would rattle the sergeant, who would then attempt to grab Albert as he pinned him . . .

  The bell rang, and Brick strode confidently to the center of the ring, navy-blue trunks and red shirt rippling like an American flag. Albert took one look out at the small audience. He saw Ying, literally on the edge of the wooden bench, with both hands over her mouth, her bright eyes emitting both hope and fear. Ariel stood lookout at the barn’s front entrance, arms crossed, her eyes darting back and forth between watching for unwanted visitors and evaluating the skirmish that was about to take place. Salazar stood, adjusted his cowboy hat, and smiled, toothpick twirling in his mouth, excited for Albert to get what was coming to him.

  His gaze returned to Brick. But to his surprise, Albert was no longer afraid or anxious. He was calm. He could see what Brick was about to do, and he knew he would win.

  Within seconds, the fight was over. It took Albert three moves. First, Brick fired a kick at Albert’s stomach, which he unflinchingly caught in his hand. Then, using the giant man’s foot as leverage, he sharply spun Brick to the mat. Finally, flopping on the mat behind the sergeant, Albert swiftly curled his arms around Brick’s neck and began choking him of oxygen to the point where the sergeant turned the same color as his shirt and was eventually forced to tap him on the forearm to prevent passing out.

  Astonished by what they had just seen, Albert’s audience first sat in awed silence, then began clapping slowly, and then erupted in a standing ovation. Though the “crowd” consisted of just four people and a handful of crickets on a quiet evening, Albert felt as though a stadium were cheering his triumph.

  “Bravo!” shouted Turner, waving his walking stick up and down.

  Albert’s heart pounded with joy, and his cheeks burned against the crisp air with the happiness of victory. Without thinking, Albert raised his hands to the sky as he had once seen Mike Tyson do, and he danced around the ring in total glee.

  But as he passed Brick, crouched on all fours on the canvas in abject humiliation, he knew that his victory would be short-lived. Brick’s face held the impatient rage of the superior man who through a twist of fate has been defeated; like Goliath, if David’s stone had merely stunned him.

  “Again” was all the sergeant said as he rose to his feet. The power of his voice silenced the gathered observers. The veins along his arms and forehead raged against his skin, his navy-blue trunks covered in sweat and dust.

  Albert wished he could simply leave the ring and enjoy his victory, but he knew Brick would fight forever before he quit.

  “OK, let’s do it,” said Albert, attempting to regain his composure as he returned to his corner for round two. He closed his eyes and envisioned Brick’s moves in this next fight . . . but try as he might, he couldn’t. The pure adrenaline rush of defeating Brick had infected his thoughts, and as he approached his opponent, his mind dwelled on the image of his past victory.

  Seeing Albert’s hesitation, the fuming sergeant charged him and, in one swift move of his hand, spanked the combat glasses off the fledgling fighter’s face. Albert looked up, but without his glasses, Brick was now a different man. His fists and feet no longer glowed blue or red. There were no percentages to guide him as to what would happen next. He had been driving cross-country with a GPS that had now gone blank in the middle of an Iowa cornfield.

  Brick smiled smugly as he sized up his helpless opponent. He paused for a second to consider how he would disable Albert as if he was debating what to order off
a menu and then sent a thunderous punch into Albert’s nose and then jaw, dropping him to the mat.

  Albert rolled on the ground in dazed confusion, blood pouring from his nose onto the filthy mat. His blurred eyes searched for orientation and fell on his opponent’s enraged mug. Brick leaned in inches from his face. “You’re nothing without those glasses. Never forget—”

  Before the sergeant could finish, Ariel leapt from her seat and pointed.

  “They’re here! They’re raiding the farm!”

  Brick rose from his vanquished foe. “Who?”

  “The FBI!” She waved her arm, pointing to Albert, Turner, and Ying. “They know you’re here!”

  Part III

  Reckoning

  Therefore the Lord God sent him out from the garden of Eden,

  to cultivate the ground from which he was taken.

  —Genesis 3:23

  Chapter 1

  Brick hoisted Albert off the canvas and shouted to Albert, Ying, and Turner. His voice echoed through the barn’s worn wood panels. “You three, go out the back door and meet me at the shed at the bottom of the hill.”

  The trio remained motionless in the dusty barn. The crickets had gone silent, knowing something was afoot. Albert heard the rumble of footsteps and shouted orders echoing outside. Dust trembled in the moonlight filtering through the cracks in the ceiling. Just then, Ariel screamed. Albert looked back and saw her collapsed on the ground in the fetal position, shaking, two metal Taser strings rippling from her body. Salazar lofted two smoke bombs at the entrance to slow whoever was coming around the doorway. With seemingly inhuman strength, he threw the tall blonde woman over his shoulder and ran out the side door. The barn went black, and Albert coughed as the smoke filled his lungs. They’ve cut the power.

  “Now,” screamed Brick.