by Steven James
“He is our Father!” shouted Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid.
“He is our Father!” the men and women repeated in unison.
“His vision, our vision! His future, our future!”
“His vision, our vision!” they chanted. “His future, our future!”
“It’s a cruel world!” In his mind, Kincaid was no longer at the ranch with his family, he was beside the whirlpool with Jessica.
“It’s a cruel world!” he heard his family say, and he remembered the jungle and the men with the guns and Jessica’s trembling hands and the shore of a hungry river. His first family. The pavilion. Those who laid down and never rose again.
“But our love will unite us forever!” he cried.
“Our love will unite us forever!” Blood curling through the water. Swirling toward the future. Love that cannot die. Distant dreams and dying babies. A journey through the fabric of the night.
Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid handed the needles containing the CCHF-spliced Francisella tularensis to his family. This time the world would pay. This time the revolution would find its inevitable completion. And this time so many more would be part of the revolution.
60
I arrived at Vanessa’s room at Mission Memorial Hospital a few minutes before 8:00 a.m. to check on her condition. I asked the doctor who was leaving the room when I stepped inside if he thought she was going to be all right.
“Too early to tell.” He didn’t even look up from his clipboard to see who I was. And then he was gone, and I was alone with her.
I positioned myself in one of the chairs beside a countertop covered with pills and bottles and a Gideon Bible.
I’d called Margaret on my way to the hospital, and the conversation had gone better than I expected. She only swore at me twice. “I’m holding you personally responsible for this debacle last night.” Her voice was as taut as a cable.
“I figured you would.”
“You were the senior agent on-site.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Full report. Do you understand? Then we’ll see what happens from there.”
“Fine.”
Click.
As far as I could tell, the killer had called Vanessa and convinced her to go to the golf course. Maybe he threatened to kill her boyfriend if she didn’t, who knows.
The preliminary blood tests on Grolin’s body indicated that he’d been heavily sedated and then drugged. It looked like the killer had abducted him and then released him at the pro shop in a drug-induced delirium, with his hands taped to those toy weapons.
It seemed like I was chasing a phantom.
I hoped Vanessa might know his name.
She lay still, the monitor beeping soft and regular. Soft and regular. Purring out her heartbeat.
I looked around her hospital room.
The scene looked all too familiar.
A hospital bed. A dying woman. Stiff, ugly chairs in the corners of the room. The only thing missing was a fervent young pastor named Donovan Richman.
Of course, this time the woman wasn’t my wife of just five months; instead she was the only person who might be able to lead us to a maniacal killer. That was all.
For a few minutes I found myself listening to Vanessa’s soft, methodical breathing and smelling the stark antiseptic smell only hospitals seem to have. And with each passing moment another wave of grief went roaring through my chest. I was sitting there lost in thought when I heard Lien-hua’s voice. “Dr. Bowers?”
I turned. “Yeah?”
She stepped softly into the room. “You OK?”
I looked down. I was clutching the Gideon Bible; I hadn’t even realized I’d picked it up. “Just thinking. Remembering.”
“Christie?” she said softly.
I set the Bible down. “A pastor used to come and visit her, toward the end.” I wanted to tell Lien-hua everything and I didn’t want to tell her anything at all.
“Did it help?”
I could feel myself getting tense. Thinking back to my discussions with Reverend Donovan Richman made me frustrated all over again. Christie. The doctors. The questions . . .
“Patrick?”
I blinked. “Yeah?” I’d done it again, drifted away.
Vanessa lay motionless beside us. Brum, brum. Brum, brum . . . Lien-hua took a seat in the chair opposite me. “You were telling me about the pastor.” She seemed to have slipped into counseling mode. Maybe she was analyzing me, profiling me. But at that moment I didn’t really care.
I sighed. “I don’t think he really realized how desperate Christie’s condition was because more often than not he ended up arguing with me. ‘Design is evidence of a designer,’ he told me one day, and then recited some of the typical Intelligent Design arguments—irreducible complexity, things like that.”
“And?”
“That was the day the doctors told me they’d given Christie a dose of the wrong medication, and her condition was spiraling downward. So when Reverend Richman said that, I laid into him. ‘OK. Wings and eyeballs, I’ll give you that,’ I said. I was trying to find a way to win at something, it seemed like I was losing everything. ‘But if design is evidence of a designer, Reverend, then let me ask you a question.’ ‘What’s that?’ he said, and I said, ‘What’s chaos evidence of?’”
“And what did he say to that?”
I looked from Lien-hua to Vanessa. “At first he didn’t say anything. I’d stumped him, so finally he says, ‘I don’t know, Dr. Bowers. What is chaos evidence of?’ But then, before I could reply, Benjamin answered.”
“Wait a minute. Who’s Benjamin?”
“One of the deacons at their church. He would come in with the pastor. He usually didn’t say much, just listened. Anyway, that day he answered my question.”
“About chaos?”
“Yeah.”
I walked past Lien-hua and stared out the window at the dirty white clouds scampering across the sky. “He whispered the answer kind of softly. But it was like he read my mind.”
“So what’s the answer? What is chaos evidence of?”
“Us. Human beings.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Well, Benjamin said something about how he knew I’d seen the worst kind of violence humans are capable of, and I mean, he was right. I have. So have you, Lien-hua, its wings and eyeballs, the evil that human beings do to each other . . .” I let my voice trail off.
Vanessa’s heart monitor hummed.
“What then?”
“He told me he’d seen evil too: the evil we do to ourselves. In people’s confessions and tears and prayers.” I hesitated for a second. “He said souls can be just as bloody and torn up as bodies can. He called it the other kind of violence.”
“The other kind of violence,” she echoed. We both looked at Vanessa. I had the feeling Lien-hua was remembering something, reliving something. “I think I agree with him,” she said at last. Something from the past was haunting her.
I wanted to ask her about it, but the time wasn’t right. I didn’t say anything.
And maybe I should have told her the rest, but I didn’t.
Maybe I should have explained that Donovan quietly reached over and held my hand in both of his. Maybe I should have told her that he prayed the simplest prayer I’d ever heard him say, a prayer for hope, a petition for mercy both for himself and for me, and that I just sat there with nothing to say as those two men tried to pass something along to me that my heart had lost—or maybe never had. And all the while Christie lay dying beside us.
No, living.
She was living beside us.
They were living beside her.
I was the one who was dying.
“You’re right, chaos is evidence of human beings,” Pastor Richman whispered to me after his prayer was over. “But hope is evidence of God. That’s the deeper design behind everything, Patrick. Hope despite the pain.”
Maybe I should have told Lien-hua those things, but I didn’t. All I said was,
“Souls can be just as bloody and torn up as bodies . . . Yeah, I think I agree with him too.”
I glanced at my watch and stood up. I had to get going to pick up Tessa.
“By the way,” said Lien-hua softly, “I checked the cell phone records this morning. The call Vanessa got last night didn’t come from Joseph Grolin’s cell phone.” Back to business. Back to the present.
“Do we know whose?”
“No. The number was untraceable—surprise, surprise. But, when Vanessa was talking on the phone back at her house, she was gesturing with her hand. I think that whoever called her was someone she knew.”
“Hmm. Good point.”
“I wonder why the killer went to all the trouble to set up Grolin, and then sent him in like that just to get shot.”
“Maybe he wanted that explosion yesterday morning to end everything, and when we survived he just adjusted, went to plan B. Maybe he wanted to eliminate someone from our team—he knew that whoever ended up shooting Grolin would be taken off the case for a while. Or maybe he just did it because he could, for the thrill. I don’t know. Listen. I need to go get Tessa; can you see if you can track down that cult guy in New Mexico?”
“I thought Margaret was on that.”
“She is,” I said. “But right now I’m not sure who I can trust. So can you?”
She hesitated. “I’ll see what I can do.”
And with that, I left the hospital to pick up my stepdaughter, the raven who’d been blown onto my doorstep by this chaotic thing called life.
61
Tessa’s flight was scheduled to arrive at 11:32 a.m. I arrived at the Charlotte Douglas International Airport about forty-five minutes early, and walked up to the US Airways ticket counter.
The woman behind the counter smiled an automatic smile. Spoke automatic words. “Good morning, sir. Have you tried our automated ticketing kiosk set up for your convenience? Just swipe any major credit card and—”
“I’m meeting up with a subject: Tessa Ellis.” I showed her my FBI badge. “Arrives at 11:30 from Chicago. I want her off the plane first and her bags brought around out front, to the curb.”
By the look on her face I could tell I’d just overloaded all of her circuits. None of those words appeared on the script she’d been given. “It’s a very important case,” I added.
“Um . . . yes. Let me see.” She fumbled for a moment at her computer keyboard then disappeared into a back room to ask her supervisor what she was supposed to say. A minute later she reappeared with her smile fastened in place again. “Of course, sir. We will have the bags waiting for you, sir.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
There aren’t many perks to my job. But it turns out there are a few.
The guys at the security checkpoint hassled me a little about bringing in my gun, but when I showed them my paperwork, federal ID, driver’s license, and told them my mother’s maiden name and favorite salsa recipe they finally let me through.
I grabbed some coffee at Chierio’s, the best coffee shop in any airport in the country. Based on the gently nurtured acidity, I guessed their blend came from the mountainous southeastern region of Colombia, the best country in the world to grow coffee beans. And other types of plants too, from what my friends in the DEA tell me.
The coffee was exquisite. And despite all the things on my mind, after three sips I realized that if I were to die right then and there I would die a happy man.
Some people say I take my coffee a little too seriously.
I took another sip of Chierio’s South Mountain Blend.
Naw.
Not a chance.
I headed to Gate C-14.
Alice led her two kids out of the Basilica of St. Lawrence in downtown Asheville and over to the car. She’d started taking them to church a few months ago when Garrett moved out. Those were hard, hard days, especially at first. She needed strength, and even from the start, coming here had seemed to help.
The basilica’s ceiling had the largest oval-shaped freestanding dome in the United States. The beauty and elegance inspired her, helped her look up toward the heavens again. And hearing the singing and the homilies seemed to help her think more about the things that really mattered, seemed to help her hate Garrett a little less for the things he’d done, seemed to help her feel hopeful about life once again, to trust the power of good over evil, of the future over the past. The angels over the monsters.
It was only after coming here that she’d registered for school to finish her degree. To make a fresh start.
She left the church and aimed her car toward Wal-Mart. She needed to pick up a new hairbrush before going home.
I’d anticipated a long wait, but only a moment or two after Flight 642 landed, the doors opened up and Tessa stepped toward me.
She was dressed in black just like I expected. I’d always thought maybe pink was her color, but with black lipstick, black eye shadow, and even her fingernails painted black, everything about her seemed to convey the tone of her mood, of our relationship. Black.
Don’t mess this up, Pat. Don’t mess this up.
“Tessa,” I said.
She drew in a long, narrow breath, clutched her purse to her side. “Patrick.”
“It’s good to see you.” I stepped closer, held out my arms, offered her a hug. She didn’t move.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
I felt my teeth grit. “No, Tessa, when I say it’s good to see you, you’re supposed to say, ‘Oh, it’s good to see you too.’ Let’s try it again—it’s good to see you.”
A sarcastic, stupid thing to say. Stupid. Stupid!
Why did you say that? Why?
She shook her head very, very slowly. Tears began welling in her eyes. I’d actually driven her to tears in less than thirty seconds. “Why are you trying to ruin my entire life!” She swung her purse around and scootched it up her shoulder and stomped past me.
I stood there in the wake of anger, mumbling to myself, “‘I’ve missed you. I’m glad you’re safe.’ That could maybe follow. That might be a good thing to say next.”
Agent Stanton walked up to me. “And you must be the dad.”
No, I thought. She doesn’t have a dad.
“Stepdad,” I said. “Yeah. That would be me.”
62
After we picked up Tessa’s luggage at the curb, Agent Stanton left us with a feigned salute. I assumed he was flying back to Denver, but I didn’t ask.
“Good-bye, Eric,” called Tessa with a smirk. “Keep up the good work on those puzzles!”
He ignored her. Shook his head. Kept walking.
“What was all that about?” I asked.
She smiled. “Oh, nothing.”
We tossed Tessa’s luggage into the car and headed for the highway. I called Terry and listened as he filled me in on the results of his research. I hung up the phone and turned to Tessa. “Well, did you eat yet?”
“Yeah. So, where are we going, anyway?”
“A place called Asheville. But I have to make one stop first.”
The governor’s mansion looked different in the daylight, more Southern somehow. As if it belonged in Mississippi instead of North Carolina.
Tessa stared out the window as we drove up. “Who lives here?” “The governor does.”
“Sebastian Taylor?”
“How did you know his name?”
“It’s not that complex, Patrick.” She spoke slowly, as if she were explaining something to a five-year-old. “Sebastian Taylor is the governor of North Carolina. We are in the state of North Carolina. It’s called logic.”
“Yeah, well, I know all that, but I guess I was just surprised you knew his name.”
“Why?”
“Because we live in Colorado and most people your age barely know the name of the president let alone the governor of a state on the other side of the country.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m not like most people my age.”
I wasn’t sure h
ow to respond to that. “Anyway, I just need to talk to him for a minute. Then we’ll get going.”
“What are you going to talk to him about?”
“His role in the massacre of 909 people.”
Ms. Anita Banner met us at the door, and although her eyes turned to coals when I asked her to stay with Tessa while I spoke with the governor, she agreed.
Governor Taylor was in the great room lounging on one of the leather couches when I walked in. He had reading glasses perched on his nose, a book open on his lap, and was dressed in a stylish light gray mohair suit. “Agent Bowers,” he said evenly. He wasn’t even pretending to be polite this time.
I decided to follow suit. “You made the tape.”
That got his attention. “What?”
“Q875.”
He waited, probably to see if I was bluffing.
“CIA. Guyana, South America.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Q875. You made one mistake, though. You left it behind.”
Governor Taylor took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. He took his time. “I worked for the state department in the seventies and eighties, Agent Bowers, researching trade agreements in France, South America, and Spain. It’s all a matter of public record. You can look it up. I’m afraid I was involved in foreign relations, not international espionage.”
“Codename Cipher, reference number 16dash1711alpha delta4,” I said. Terry is very good at his job.
The governor slid his glasses back onto his face. “Hmm . . . I’m guessing either military intelligence or NSA. Am I right? Is that where you went?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Of course you’re not.” He set his book aside and rose from the couch. “How long have you known?”
“Just over an hour. I spoke with my source this morning. He was very helpful.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“How far did it go, Governor? Did you do more than make the tape? Were you there on the airstrip at Port Kaituma?”