by Matt Brolly
A vision of Gregor Razinski, trapped and dying in his glass prison, shimmered in front of him, the image so real that Lynch reached forward and touched the man’s skin. Lynch muttered something to the dying man and reached out his hand.
With that, the music stopped.
The Razinski mirage faded as white noise rang in Lynch’s ears and his eyes snapped shut.
If his head struck the concrete floor he didn’t feel it.
When they woke him some time later, Lynch wiped drool from his mouth as the guard rattled a baton against the metal of the prison door - the rhythm, the sound of a train roaring across the tracks.
‘Turn around, against the wall,’ said a voice. The guard sounded young, the voice thin and reedy.
Lynch complied, feeding his hands through the trap door. The snap of cold metal on his clammy skin was almost welcoming. Once Lynch was cuffed, the guard placed a tray of food on the cell floor. He failed to make eye contact and despite the hours of sleep deprivation Lynch was alert enough to see an opening.
‘Samuel,’ he said, to the man.
The guard pushed the tray into the center, the plastic scraping across the hard floor. The man was young, early twenties, the remnant of acne scarring visible in the gloom of the cell. ‘I’m not supposed to speak to you,’ he said.
‘Just a name?’ asked Lynch. Although he sensed weakness in the man, and a potential opportunity, Lynch’s request was genuine. He was desperate for human interaction, the words spoken by the young guard the first he’d heard in an indeterminate time.
The man paused, the thin sound of nasal breathing filling the small room. ‘Ethan,’ he whispered, leaving the cell.
Hours passed without the music returning. Lynch slept for as long as he was able, not knowing when he would next be attacked by the music.
Ethan.
The guard was soft-spoken, nervous. Could he really be one of the Railroad? The most obvious explanation was normally correct, and Lynch concluded that the man was there for his benefit, another mind game for him to contend with.
Time didn’t exist in the cell. Lynch estimated five hours elapsed by the time the guard next knocked again on the door. ‘Ethan,’ he said, under his breath, as he shoved his hands behind him into the trapdoor.
‘I shouldn’t have told you that,’ said Ethan, as he dropped another tray onto the floor for him.
‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’
The guard smirked, meeting Lynch’s eyes for the first time. Lynch was about to question him but it was too soon. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
Over what could have been days, Lynch searched for patterns in the guard’s occasional appearances. The music never returned and Lynch felt as rested as at any time since his incarceration. Even the quality and quantity of food increased. The poison he’d ingested from the spiked water had vanished from his bloodstream and he’d begun to think straight once more, but he was yet to determine a pattern to Ethan’s movements. The only constant was the initial procedure, of feeding his arms behind him into the cell opening so they could be cuffed. Lynch was formulating a plan to utilize this information when the guard knocked on the door once more.
‘Long time, no see, Ethan,’ said Lynch, as the cold metal snapped down on his wrists. He stretched his hands, searching for space, for the flesh of Ethan’s hands. Even if he could grab hold of the man they were separated by inches of thick metal. Somehow he would have to prevent the cuffs from locking, but it was too late this time.
Ethan placed another tray of food on the floor and retrieved the two buckets that constituted Lynch’s bathroom.
‘This a full-time job?’ asked Lynch.
Ethan smirked, his scarred flesh crinkling into a spider web of fine white lines. ‘It’s not a job.’
‘You’re one of them?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me. You’d be surprised.’
Lynch’s hands were still cuffed. He played with the metal, twisting his index finger until it found a small keyhole.
‘All I can say is, you have it easy here,’ said Ethan. He bent down so they were at eye level. Inches separated them but he was still out of reach.
‘It doesn’t feel easy.’
‘There’s much worse going on.’
‘So you are one of them?’ said Lynch, his voice harder than before.
‘In a way.’
‘How does it work?’
‘We all have different tastes,’ said Ethan, as if he was colluding with Lynch.
Lynch held the man’s gaze searching for something he could capitalize on.
Ethan was warming to his subject. He sat cross-legged on the floor like they were best friends. ‘I help out here and I get to fulfill my desires,’ said Ethan, reminding Lynch of Balfour’s words just before he’d skinned his colleague alive.
The guard was animated now, the sickness evident in his wide eyes.
‘Which is?’
‘You wouldn’t want to know,’ said Ethan, getting to his feet.
That was one thing they could agree on. The guard stopped by the door. ‘I’ve been told to give you something.’
Lynch craned his neck. Ethan held something in his hand, something Lynch thought he’d never see again. Was that a smile on Ethan’s lips? Lynch held himself, wanting to dart forward and snatch the object, but unable to move.
The door shut, and Lynch let out a soft cry as the guard dropped the patch of material, the remnants of Daniel’s sweater, into the cell where it fell gently to the stone floor.
52
Guilt engulfed Rose as she made the journey to headquarters a few hours later. What sleep she managed had been restless, her tiredness greater now than before she went to sleep. Abigail’s phone was switched off, and Rose feared this was the end, that there would be no forgiveness waiting for her especially if something happened to her mother.
McBride was already in the holding area at the top of the building waiting for her. Outside, the blades of the 407 blurred into one as Rose bent down and followed McBride into the back seat of the machine, pulling at the headphones that had the dual purpose of deadening the noise and keeping her and McBride in contact with the two pilots.
‘You okay, Rose? You look a bit pale,’ said McBride, as the helicopter began hovering above the FBI headquarters.
Rose had never been the greatest of flyers. Despite having flown recently in one of the machines, the thought that the only thing preventing her from falling to her death was the continued rotation of four blades of metal did little to comfort her. She frowned but didn’t respond, thoughts of her mother keeping her preoccupied.
The pilots introduced themselves. ‘I have the coordinates of where you want me to go. Towards Otisville, is that correct Ma’am?’ said Rebora, the lead pilot.
‘That is correct.’
‘Not the greatest sightseeing but we’ll get you there as soon as we can,’ he said, through the static of the headphones.
The city soon disappeared, the ground beneath them thinning out until signs of civilization all but vanished. It was even easier to appreciate how vast the state was from above. The faded landscape stretched in all directions, pitted with the occasional dwelling and vehicle travelling on the roadways. The journey to Otisville was cut by almost a quarter and Rose wished they’d used the chopper the first time around.
‘This is the location,’ said Rebora, circling the spot where the signal in Gunn’s car had disappeared.
Rose checked her phone.
There was no phone signal but the GPS was working.
‘Can we circle out of here in cumulative circles?’ said Rose.
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ said Rebora, moving the joystick and sending the helicopter into a turn.
McBride placed on his sunglasses and gazed out of the window. ‘So we’re looking for the ruins of a church which may or may not have existed,’ he said.
Rose rolled her eyes. ‘Something like that.’
The emptiness stretched
on forever, punctuated by random buildings, abandoned barns, small homesteads, herds of cattle, and wild horses. Rose struggled to fathom the desolation, and was confused by the solitude she experienced viewing the barren land. She tracked the helicopter’s progress on her IPad, as they covered over fifty square miles.
‘Fucking needle in a haystack,’ said McBride.
Reluctantly, Rose agreed. They wouldn’t find anything this way. The researchers would have some feedback on the book soon; it couldn’t be that easy to completely erase history.
She was about to instruct Rebora to return home when the pilot spoke up. ‘Can’t go any further,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ said Rose.
‘This area is showing as a restricted site. I’m not allowed to fly over it.’
‘Military?’ asked McBride, removing his shades.
‘Not sure. All I know is that if I travel much further we will be in severe trouble, and more than likely danger.’
Rose checked the location the IPad. They were twenty miles inland from Otisville. She marked the place and questioned Rebora. ‘You ever come across this sort of thing before?’
The pilot glanced at his partner. ‘Now and again. As you suggested, probably military. Could even be Bureau for all I know but I can’t take the risk of going any further. I imagine you would need some form of warrant. That would be a minimum though. I’ve heard of light aircraft disappearing in such places.’
‘Very Twilight Zone,’ said McBride.
‘No, sir. Shot down.’
McBride shook his head, incredulous, glancing at Rose.
Was St Bernadette’s beyond this invisible border? ‘You sure you can’t be persuaded, Agent Rebora?’
The pilot’s silent colleague shook his head. ‘No way, Ma’am,’ said Rebora.
Rose cursed under her breath. ‘Take us back then.’
She tried to take the positive from the situation; it was still early in the day. She could get permission from Miller, and be back here before noon.
Civilization began to creep into the landscape as they made their way back. McBride didn’t speak, his attention still focused outside. Rose’s thoughts oscillated between her mother and Lynch, guilt the overwhelming emotion. She still had a chance to rectify the situation with Abigail - all it would take would be another visit - but she couldn’t say the same for Lynch. It was her fault he was missing, her pragmatic side taunting her that he would never be seen again.
She didn’t thank Rebora or his colleague as she left the helicopter. She headed for the incident room, accompanied by McBride, where she began searching for the restricted area. She found it with little effort, a red mark on her screen approximately twenty square miles in area. There was no further information other than a brief description stating the area was restricted.
‘There must be something more we can find out,’ said McBride, hovering behind her shoulder.
Rose checked the clearance status on the area. ‘We’ll have to speak to Miller,’ she said.
Miller stopped her before she had time to ask the question. He pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose as he held his hand, palm out, in front of her. ‘I know what you’re going to ask, and it’s classified,’ he said, before either of them sat down.
‘You know what’s in this restricted site?’
‘That’s neither here nor there, Agent Rose. What I do know is we’re not allowed anywhere near it.’
‘There must be something we can do,’ insisted Rose. ‘With everything that is happening, we must be able to get clearance somehow. Who do we need to speak to?’
Miller didn’t take kindly to the question. ‘You’re speaking to him,’ he said, his voice dropping an octave as it rose in volume.
‘Sir,’ said McBride, about to protest when Miller stopped him by raising his index finger.
‘This is getting quite embarrassing now. I’ve humored you Agent Rose, through your wild goose chases on the railroads, and your fly overs on the say of some work of fiction.’
‘You’ve read my case notes then,’ said Rose, beyond cares of insubordination.
‘Yes, I’ve read your case notes, Agent Rose,’ said Miller, reddening. ‘How come we’re only finding out now that Captain Haig was having an affair with Mrs Gunn? I’ll tell you why, because you’ve taken your eye off the fucking ball.’
‘We should have found out about Haig earlier. But with all due respect, sir, hours after arresting Razinski I was under gunfire attack at our compound and fleeing for my life. The natural course of my investigation has led to this very spot, to this dead area we can’t enter.’
Miller’s tongue darted, lizard-like, from his mouth. ‘I can’t help you. Bring me something more concrete than a poorly written book with some vague underlining and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Sir, I…’
‘That is all. Good day, Agent Rose, McBride,’ said the SAC, pushing his glasses further up his nose and focusing on the mound of paperwork on his desk.
‘What now?’ said McBride, back at the incident room a cup off coffee in his hand.
‘If we can’t fly over, we’ll drive through,’ said Rose.
McBride drank his coffee, silent.
‘What?’ said Rose, defensive.
‘Even for you, that’s a bad idea. You know the sort of shit goes on in those restricted areas. We know it’s probably military or CIA. If they’re going to the trouble of fucking with the GPS they’re not going to welcome us turning up by car.’
‘I don’t think it’s military or CIA.’
McBride smiled sardonically. ‘Is that right.’
‘Ok, let’s say it is. That only raises further questions. If it’s a government site, then why was Gunn visiting it?’
‘It’s a government site, Rose, that much is clear. Why else would we be forbidden from entering?’
‘It could be private land. You know the sway some of these companies have nowadays. You’ve heard of Green Bank, in West Virginia?’
‘The place with the telescope?’
‘Yes. In parts of that you’re not allowed phone or radio signals of any kind in case it interferes with the radio signals on the telescope.’
‘Yeah, but you’re allowed to fly over it. And it’s registered, we know about it. All we know about this site is that it’s restricted. It has to be government.’
Rose tired of the argument. She returned to her computer, receiving an email about the Railroad. ‘Here,’ she said to McBride, pointing to the report on the screen.
The researchers had run checks on the images and text within the book but had failed to find any matches. They confirmed the existence of tributary railway lines disused for close to a century throughout the state, but so far no record could be found of St Bernadette’s church, or a railway station of that name ever existing in West Texas.
‘What does it mean?’ said McBride, scrunching his eyes as he stared at the screen.
‘It means we need to go back to the dead zone area.’
McBride rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I may have another way,’ he said.
53
All other tortures paled in significance. Released from his cuffs, Lynch crawled to the center of his cell and grabbed the piece of clothing, inhaling deeply as if the material was his only source of oxygen. He didn’t know if he could smell Daniel anymore, the scent of his son fading with the passing of the years, but the sight of the sweater was enough to highlight his complete isolation. There would be no rescue. People disappeared all the time, the last six years of his life was testimony to that, so why should he be any different? He would spend the rest of whatever life he had left in the confines of his cell, the piece of Daniel’s clothing a constant reminder of his folly.
Absently he fiddled with the tracker device he’d inserted in the hem of his jeans. The denim was soaked and clung to him - a sodden, filthy, second skin - but he could feel the outline of the tracker. If Rose knew his location she would have reac
hed him by now. Head in his hands, Daniel’s sweater against his nose, he started rocking. His eyes closed as he thought back to the time before Daniel went missing. His old self was selfish and obsessive, focused only on work and not his family; yet he spent the next few minutes recalling the good times he’d banished from his memory: the boat trips the three of them made together; Daniel swimming in the sea at Galveston, the pair of them jumping into the waves; simple days lounging in their house; barbecues on the lawn; kissing Daniel goodnight after reading him a bedtime story. He regretted the negativity defining his last few years, wished he’d held more tightly to those precious memories, celebrating them rather than punishing himself by trying to forget.
The thoughts rekindled his strength. If these were to be his last days, and this cell his last resting place, then he would take what comfort he could from these positive memories.
Then the music returned.
Everyone had a breaking point and there was no accounting for how and when that point was reached. Lynch learned that early in his career. He’d seen the hardest of people crumble from innocuous events. He was still in the game but was slipping. Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush was playing at half speed, the singer’s voice a nightmarish distortion. Lynch clung to the remains of Daniel’s sweater, rocking on the spot as tears streamed from his eyes, and concentrated on staying sane.