The Essence of Darkness

by Thomas Clearlake

  The numerous factors that came from unexplained phenomena forced Agent Andrews to accept the irrational side of the investigation. If this obscure ore really existed, Cooper’s delusions would seem more credible. This would be extremely annoying for Andrews because Cooper was his most implacable rival. Even when Cooper failed, he managed to get the better of him. He thought back to his horrible story. Okay, Isolde Hohenwald had been a follower of black witchcraft, and okay, she had also engaged in sacrificial rituals. But she hadn’t needed to transform herself into a terrible, ten-foot-tall monster, like the one Cooper had described, to perform her bloody ceremonies. Andrews remembered the young German woman’s half-shredded face on the autopsy table at the St. Marys morgue. The part of her face still intact had had angelic features. How could Cooper have invented this delusion of a monstrous creature?

  An email from the Interpol offices in Berlin appeared on his screen:

  We’ve lost Agent Patrick Fournier. He was working on an operation to dismantle a human trafficking network, of which we suspect Volodymyr Prazdniev to be the mastermind. Agent Fournier was unable to set up the purchase operation with Prazdniev. He took the initiative to act individually, without the assistance of the team our services assigned to him. Agent Fournier’s signal stopped when his vehicle went off the road in Bavaria at the Austrian border. Authorities found his body and identified it less than four hours ago, with identification awaiting confirmation.

  Andrews read the email and slumped back in his chair, overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness and plagued by doubt. What had Fournier been doing on the Austrian border, more than 120 miles from Munich, where he was supposed to have been working on the Ukrainian network? A highly trained special agent wouldn’t have made that kind of driving mistake.

  Andrews’ mind went blank.

  He had spent the last forty-eight hours glued to his computer, following the French agent’s operations. What had happened to Fournier was regrettable. But it wasn’t an accident. Someone had put him permanently out of commission. But who—or what? There would be a specific investigation—that was for sure. For the time being, he had to bounce back quickly and get back to the reality of the investigation on the American side. When his gaze returned to the desk, it landed on a notepad where he had scribbled Madeline Jones’ cell phone number. She was the mother of Ryan, the first child abducted from St. Marys. The other parents had appointed Jones to head the St. Marys Missing Children’s Group. Andrews felt he had wasted enough time. He had to get back to working efficiently.

  Fifty days had gone by since the last abduction. The chances of finding them alive were low. Yet it was still likely that at that moment they were locked up somewhere, trapped and left to fend for themselves. In any case, the families of the missing children of St. Marys had to find answers to their questions so that their suffering would end, one way or the other. It was a sad formality to carry out, and somebody had to handle it.

  He shoved his computer away and pushed aside everything in the middle of the table that served as his desk. He unfolded a map that included St. Marys and twenty miles of surrounding forests. He circled the area where the ruins were, based on the coordinates he had. He would go there later. First, he would try to mark on the map all the places where the three witches had been, starting with the homes of the five children. His goal was to work by process of elimination until he identified the most likely place the witches could have locked them up while waiting to sacrifice them.

  28

  Lauren’s problem was finding a valid reason to contact Colin Andrews. She couldn’t pretend to run into him on the street. If it had been New York, it could have been a credible coincidence. But here in the small town where the FBI was conducting the strangest investigation in years, two special agents wouldn’t be meeting by chance. Besides, she and Andrews had no connection. That guy was as cold as ice. She had never seen him flirt with any of those trampy trainees. She had never even seen him with a woman. He sometimes reminded her of Eliott, but the thought of seducing him had never crossed her mind. It was almost repulsive. Eliott had that warm and uplifting side, that adorable smile—a real guy. Physically, Andrews looked like his pseudotwin. But the guy was so austere and devoid of emotion that his presence alone was enough to bring the temperature down by five degrees. Really, he was a phenomenon. And apparently, it didn’t bother him at all. He lived his life in a sad, gray duplex clinging to the slopes of the Catskills, in upstate New York—alone, obviously. She even had trouble picturing him with a pet.

  She parked the Jeep in a corner of the Pizza Hut parking lot, which was next to the Holiday Inn where Andrews was staying. She was starving. A meal would do her good. She went into the restaurant, placed her order at the counter, and took her ticket. She then sat down at a table near a wide bay window through which she could see Andrews’ white Lexus. In addition to the toddlers playing loudly in the indoor playground, older children were running around and shouting in the restaurant. Their parents were wolfing down pizza, lasagna, and other Italian specialties, paying no attention to the noise their offspring generated. Lauren wondered if having a pack of kids to look after was an excuse for them to come and stuff themselves in this type of restaurant.

  Her eagerly awaited Neapolitan pizza finally arrived, carried by a smiling waitress, a brunette with sparkling eyes and more than generous curves. She had just started to eat when she saw Andrews get in his car and pull out of the Holiday Inn parking lot. All she could do was watch him drive away and turn left at the intersection. Technically, agents could never tail colleagues without being sure they would spot them, since the other agents were also experts in tailing. Lauren started eating her pizza and turned to the idea of sneaking into his hotel room to see what she might find of interest there.

  Andrews continued along the main avenue. He was crossing the city to the north to go to the woods. He had to know for sure. The place where the ruins supposedly contained the ore with abnormal properties was only accessible on foot. He had the equipment needed to bivouac. At the same time, the missing children could be in this area.

  He was about to take Flower Valley Road, which led to the first wooded areas, when a fully loaded fifteen-ton tractor-trailer braked hard at the last intersection in town. The truck couldn’t avoid another tractor-trailer that had also entered the intersection. The two titanic vehicles collided in a deafening metallic crash. A pile-up ensued, involving about ten vehicles on either side of the intersection. As if to echo this brutal chaos, a violent and unpredictable rumbling filled the streets of St. Marys one after the other. The screech of interlocking metal resounded in all directions, so powerful it shattered windows. A mass of vehicles collided at almost every intersection the town, which lasted at least five minutes.

  One by one, the drivers emerged from their crumpled piles of metal. Some stumbled over to sit on the pavement with their cell phones in their hands; others staggered and collapsed a few yards away, seriously injured. Emergency sirens soon wailed all over the city.

  “What the hell is this shit?” Andrews muttered in disbelief.

  He noticed that at every intersection, the traffic lights had gone out. A power failure had just hit the entire city. He continued to drive slowly, avoiding passersby who were helping drivers in a state of shock. Clouds of smoke billowed from some of the homes and buildings. Two major explosions shook the ground. He parked carefully at the side of the road and got out of the car.

  A teenager was talking on his cell phone. “Wow, this is crazy, dude. You know what? I bet we won’t have school today. Coooool. And your dad told you it was bad in New York too?”

  Andrews’ cell phone had no signal, and the vehicle’s radio wasn’t working either. He walked up to the teenager in his baseball cap and took his phone from his hands, waving his FBI agent ID under his nose.

  “Hey!” the boy protested.

  Then he saw Agent Andrews’ photo next to the FBI logo.

  “I’ll just be a second, kid. Stay put.
I’ll have a couple of questions for you later.”

  The boy immediately complied, seemingly admiring the agent.

  Andrews dialed the emergency number for St. Marys.

  The line wasn’t available. He wasn’t surprised. It was the same for the police station switchboard. Captain Sherman had given him his cell phone number. He called it.

  “Captain Sherman here.”

  Andrews could hear he was out of breath. “How’s it going, Captain? This is Special Agent Andrews, in charge of the kidnapping investigation.”

  “Not all that great, Agent Andrews; we’re in deep shit right now!”

  “Exactly, Captain—can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s complicated! We’ve lost connectivity between all public services; it’s coming from communications. Same for the electrical supply: generalized power outages, and they’re spreading. This bullshit is affecting every state, and it’s only getting worse!”

  “Any idea what’s causing these problems?”

  “That’s exactly what all the utilities are trying to figure out, Andrews.”

  “Have the authorities declared a state of emergency?”

  “No, but it’ll probably happen soon.”

  “I’ll meet you at the station in about twenty minutes, Captain. Are you there now?”

  “Yes, and I won’t be going anywhere for a while; we have a lot of work to do. Emergency services are overwhelmed; they need our help.”

  “Okay, I’m hanging up now, Captain. I’ll see you shortly.”

  He saw that a crowd had formed around a crashed Chevrolet about a hundred feet away. Andrews gave the teenager back his cell phone. About ten men and women crowded around the car’s passenger compartment. As Andrews approached, he heard the nasal voice of a radio announcer coming from inside the vehicle.

  “. . . recommend that you stay safely at home. Avoid driving; accidents are increasing on the roads, especially if you live in Los Angeles or a megalopolis like New York, Chicago, or Miami. I have just learned that violent acts of looting are taking place in some of the major business districts of these cities. Remember, an economic crisis is causing this. According to our sources, money markets are plummeting! Experts are already talking about an economic collapse! Yes, dear listeners, you heard me right, we might well be heading for complete chaos. We advise you to stock up in small shopping areas. We also advise you to remain calm; don’t give in to panic. That doesn’t do any good, so let’s stay cool! Don’t forget, panic is contagious. It’s just the end of the world, but we’re zen! This is Chad Rodriguez, live from Compton, L.A. where the atmosphere in the streets is mind-blowing. Some people think it’s not so bad, but for many, mainly merchants, ‘It’s the worst thing that could happen!’ We’ll be back in a minute for a full news flash with the very serious Jeffrey Rower. . .”

  Andrews returned to his car and headed for the police station. The streets were deserted except for a few haggard passersby, disoriented pensioners, and young people filming the burning vehicles.

  Lauren finished eating her pizza while methodically scanning the backside of the Holiday Inn. There were only two floors and at first glance, no more than thirty rooms per floor. She had counted only five vehicles in the parking lot. In this season, the hotel was almost empty. She could quickly find the room where Andrews was staying. Suddenly, she heard the squealing of tires followed by a violent impact. It came from the interchange on the expressway. Parents sitting two tables away jumped to their feet, trying to see the highway. Mothers called to their children, who came closer to the adults. Little by little, the restaurant sank into a subdued calm. At the cash registers, people started to lose their patience. The food didn’t seem to be coming out fast enough. Credit card payments were no longer available, and customers were raising their voices. Some left the restaurant without paying their checks. The manager, followed by two heavyset Hispanic chefs, ran outside after them. But then they let them go, filming their license plates as the cars left the parking lot in a hurry.

  Lauren automatically pulled out her phone. She wasn’t expecting a message from Eliott, for the good reason that he had probably kept his Sentinel form to escape the ruins. She thought he would soon run out of energy and would then have to feed to survive. One or two soldiers or members of the scientific team would do. She imagined he would wait until night to strike, staked out in a cave near the maze. She was surprised to be able to think of such things so naturally, as if Eliott’s metamorphosis had become ordinary. She trusted him because she loved him, even in his monstrous form.

  She left the Pizza Hut and then walked toward the back of the Holiday Inn. She took the outside service stairs to the upper floor. Only two rooms had a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob. More than likely, Andrews was staying in one of them. She approached the first room that overlooked the parking lot and opened it with a passkey adapted to this type of lock, which wasn’t very secure. It was indeed Andrews’ room. Of course, he hadn’t left his external hard drive plugged into his computer, but maybe she could get something from the data on the internal drive. She copied all the accessible files on the laptop onto a phantom USB key. She left quickly, closing the door behind her.

  As she walked past the Pizza Hut again, she could see that something was wrong. There was a crowd at the cash registers. The level of tension between customers and employees was seriously escalating. She was in a hurry to read what she’d pulled from Andrews’ computer but saw that the conversations were turning into skirmishes in the restaurant. The manager had placed himself between the cashiers and the customers, who were demanding refunds, by force if necessary; the commotion was at its peak. She took out her agent ID and shouted to make herself heard.

  “FBI Agent Chambers!”

  She first addressed two men who were shouting angrily. “Gentlemen, please calm down; we can’t solve the problem with violence.”

  The two men refused to take her seriously.

  “Why is she sticking her nose in?”

  “Go back to your kitchen, sweetie, and let us handle this!”

  Lauren stuck her ID right in front of their eyes and pulled out her gun.

  “Sweetie is authorized to kick your ass if you walk up to those registers again, got it?”

  She came between the two loud, fat guys and the manager who was shaking in his boots.

  This defused the conflict.

  “Are you in charge of the restaurant?” she asked the man who had quickly regained his confidence.

  “Yes, we’re having major technical problems. A power failure hit the connections for all of our devices, starting with the credit card readers.”

  “You should have a backup generator. Has this kind of problem ever happened to you before?”

  “Don’t you know?” the manager asked, surprised.

  “Know what?”

  “Repeated breakdowns, accidents in the cities . . . The whole country is in the middle of a crisis. Plus, the power plants are down!”

  Lauren got out her cell phone and saw that she had received several calls from her mother and sister as well as alert messages from her bank, power company, and insurance company. She tried to connect to the internet for more information, but the network was down.

  “Can you give me more details about the situation?” she asked the manager.

  “It started this morning. News flashes on the radio announced that securities were in free fall, and we didn’t know the reason for the collapse. Then the impact spread to transportation, industry . . .”

  Lauren listened while reading messages from her mother and sister, who lived in Seattle, plus all the others. She could see the magnitude of the problem.

  “Indeed,” she said. “Okay, listen, Mister . . .”

  “Will Agostini.”

  Okay, Will, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to set up a crisis center to deal with problems that may arise later on because there will definitely be some. Okay?”

  “A cris
is center? Here, in the restaurant?”

  “Yes, right here.”

  “Why not work with the police and do that at the station with qualified officials, like police officers?”

  “Will, these are our orders at the FBI. Provide a secure place from which we can transmit and receive instructions and respond to civil emergencies. That’s called a crisis center. It’s simple, and the better we put it together, the more citizens will be able to face the problems that arise. Do you understand, Will?”

  Yes, I do. Sorry, I—”

  “All right then, gather your employees, as well as customers, in the main room, I’ll take care of giving them instructions.”

  “Okay, Ms. Chambers, I’ll do it right away.”

  “Lauren.”

  “Okay, Lauren.”

  When Agent Andrews barged into the police station, crowds of people were peppering Captain Sherman with questions. The officers present were all busy taking statements. At least thirty civilians were waiting their turn to file complaints or make various claims. The city, already in turmoil since the beginning of the St. Marys affair, had now practically moved into a state of civil war.

  When Captain Sherman saw the agent approaching, he took advantage of his arrival to free himself from the grip of the horde of rabid citizens and took Andrews to his office. Once they were inside, the captain locked the door.

  The African American police officer was in his late fifties, with ebony skin, a massive silhouette, and a significant waistline. He was probably under pressure but coping well.

  “This is a critical time, Special Agent Andrews,” he said in a rather solemn tone.

  “Captain, can you outline the situation for me? My laptop can no longer access a network, and I can’t reach my colleagues from my vehicle’s console.”

  The captain looked at him for a brief moment as if he were some kind of alien who had just landed on Earth. Then he rested his imposing backside on the edge of his desk, across from Andrews. He crossed his arms and replied calmly, without taking his eyes off him.