Sixteen Sunsets

by Mark Gardner

  He had to get away from there. So he waved to a reluctant cab. The car pulled over and took him.

  Major Jacob Globe heard a soft knock on his office door. “Yes?”

  The doorknob rotated and the door swung inward. A technician walked through the door and cleared his throat.

  “I said, ‘yes?’” Globe said, allowing his frustration show through.

  “General, you asked to be notified if a listening post picked up one of your keywords.”

  Globe scowled. “It’s ‘Major,’ young man.” He leaned back in his chair. “Which keyword?”

  “Toppan, Sir. Jane Toppan.”

  “Shit!” He exclaimed. “What tower?”

  “By the east river, Sir.”

  Globe nodded. “That’ll be all, thank you.”

  The tech returned the nod and backed out of the office. Globe pressed a button on the phone perched on his desk. “Denisha, please have the motor pool ready a car for me.”

  “Yes, Doctor Globe.”

  Globe sighed. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his doctorate in medieval history, but the honorific of ‘Major’ held more weight in the circles he kept to. He knew attaining the rank of General wasn’t in the cards. He’d been saddled with the off-book operation and off-book meant redactions in his time-in-rank counter. He could possibly trade in his gold oak leaf for a silver one in the next few years, but he doubted he would remain on active duty long enough to get the silver eagle symbolizing the rank of Colonel.

  His phone beeped and a voice emanated, “your car will be ready in twenty minutes, Doctor.”

  He pushed a button and replied, “Thank you, Denisha.” A beep indicated his assistant was no longer listening.

  “Until recently I believed in heroes. I thought they had the right to be known, to be heard. I believed they were heroes not just by choice, but by nature. I trusted my gut that everyone wanted to be one – to be loved and respected. I was wrong, so, so wrong. There are people out there who are not destined to be the heroes. They are born with a different purpose. It’s encoded in their DNA and no evolution would be able to rewrite that. Their desire is to hurt people, to be Gods amongst men - to dictate and rule, not to guide and help. That is by both their choice and nature. Super-humans exist, but they are a danger I did not foresee. I destroyed the evidence...”

  Andy took a glance at the pieces that had been just an hour ago his beloved camera. He had smashed it with a hammer.

  Andy looked back at the red blinking light. The video recording was still going. He looked at himself through the eye of the laptop camera. The people needed to know, he thought, to at least be warned. He continued with a gravelly voice.

  “I obtained footage that would have changed the world. Tomorrow would have been different, and I’m sorry for robbing you of it, but it’s for the best. No one is ready for what’s out there. I don’t fear for my own safety. I am afraid for the security of the world. The fewer people who know, the better we’ll all be. Goodnight. Andy Kitz out.”

  Andy hit a button. The screen wrote: VIDEO UPLOADED

  He sat back in his chair, more words escaped him.

  So, are they still beautiful, now that you saw them?

  Aftermath

  Peter awoke in his cabin. He preferred the desolation and the rugged living that the Canadian wilderness provided. It wasn’t just the desolation he desired, but the anonymity the vast frontier offered.

  He worried about the events that would transpire in the next few days. It took him two more days to finish the pits. Two days to line them with sharpened sticks. The number of sticks in each pit was a multiple of five - Peter labored to ensure this. Finally, two more days to build up the berms and set the traps. Each pit was now ten feet deep. Ten days and ten feet were just fine because it fit in nicely with his way of doing things.

  Peter awoke before he usually did. He was still covered by layers of furs and blankets, but the sun wasn’t in the right spot. Peter dressed quickly while eating a slab of wolf meat. He tore off the tough meat with his molars. He would need his strength for the task ahead. He piled more logs into his fireplace than he normally would and nodded to himself that his task was completed.

  Peter walked onto the porch, finished eating a King Solomon apple and grabbed a bundle of pine tree branches. He swung his shovel over his shoulder and dragged the branches behind him. He paused at the bottom of the steps and gave a silent prayer where he should’ve died six days before. Satisfied he had properly thanked the wolf, he walked slowly toward the tree line in a zig-zag pattern doubling over his trail several times.

  When he finally found his way to the tree line, he heaped mud onto the branches to disguise them from prying eyes from airplane or satellite surveillance. He climbed a tree with easy sight lines to the five hidden pit traps. The tree also gave him a good view of the canopy of the many trees that made up the forest he called home for the last twenty years.

  Peter had just gotten himself into position when he felt the trees rustle. He didn’t exactly hear it, but he was in tune with his surroundings, so he felt the disturbance before he could actually see it. I should’ve brought binoculars, he thought, cursing himself. He held his breath and stared in the direction of the rustling trees and saw them: two figures threading between the trees heading straight toward his cabin.

  “Jarret, we’re not far from the smoke. What’re we doing here?”

  Jarret paused and skirted around a large tree trunk before responding. “How many times do I need to tell you, Malinda? We’re investigating a man who freaked out a week or two ago.”

  Jarret’s accent could have been Middle American, but he had a showy way of speaking as if he were a teacher instructing an unruly classroom. He strangled each syllable with over-precise consonants and looping vowels.

  “But why here? In the wilderness?” Malinda waved her arms, encompassing the protected wilderness area. Her accent was nasal, with low vowels and she dropped the letter R. “Is anyone even supposed to live here?” Her accent was an almost clichéd Bostonian.

  “No, no one. And he fits the description of someone we’ve been looking for.”

  “I hope we find out quickly, this place...” Malinda didn’t finish her sentence. She fell through a faux-floor and into a pit lined with sharpened sticks. She cried out as one of the sticks pushed out of her leg, spurting blood.

  “Malinda!” Jarret yelled.

  “Stay back, the ground is unstable.”

  Jarret crawled to the edge of the pit, feeling for weak spots. His probing hands discovered the artificial nature of the deadfall. “What the hell?” Trying to reassure Malinda, he called out, “I’ll find something to get you out.”

  “Jarret, behind you!”

  Jarret tried to roll over, but a mass fell from somewhere above in the center of his back. The wind was knocked from him and before he could react, someone grabbed him by the waist and pushed him into the pit. He landed on Malinda’s legs and the stick protruding from her leg impaled his chest.

  Jarret gasped, each breath a labor. Pain radiated from his puncture wound. “Why?” he called out, unable to vocalize more than the single word query.

  A man with a scraggy beard appeared at the lip of the pit, shovel in hand. He stared into Malinda’s pleading eyes for the briefest of moments before his shovel bit into the smooth packed earth. He straddled the shovel collar and put his entire body weight on the stop, flinging dirt and other debris onto the two at the bottom of the pit.

  “Stop! Help us!” Malinda cried out, tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping from her chapped lips. She cried out again and again. Her fifth attempt at reasoning with the man who had set the trap resulted in a face full of dirt. Each time she tried to free herself, her leg screamed out. Pain caused her vision to blur on the edges. She had no doubt that if she had been able to free herself, her efforts would’ve been met with the shovel.

  Jarret’s jacket stopped its ragged rise and fall. As more and more dirt piled up on them
, Malinda made a final effort to free herself from the strange mountain man trap. She cried out and the last thing she saw before losing consciousness was Peter shoveling another pile of dirt on her. The taste of cold, damp earth was her final meal.

  It took Peter only five hours to fill the hole that had taken him two days to dig. He ignored the cries for help. His resolve almost broke when the man, she called him Jarret - like the apple variety, stopped breathing. Peter quickened his pace, not wanting to see the unmoving Jarret.

  The next test of his mettle was when the woman, Malinda, lost consciousness. Another apple variety, he remembered thinking. Who names their operatives after apple varieties?

  When he saw only Malinda’s nose and closed eyes sticking out of the dirt, he questioned himself for the third time that day. He paused and watched the dirt roll away from her nose as she exhaled. He remembered watching his wife sleep next to him in the bed they shared almost a lifetime ago.

  They killed her... He hadn’t thought about his wife in years. They killed her and framed me for murder. His jaw set and his brow furrowed, Peter dug into the disturbed earth, and aimed the shovelful at Malinda’s head. Five repetitions were all it took to cover his hesitation. The inert soil covered them both as if they never existed. Each pile of dirt falling into the pit was justification. He wasn’t burying bodies; he was burying years of fear. His heart raced each time the shovel emptied. Each foot of the earthen tomb solidified his resolve.

  Peter stood studying the barely discernible circle of the disturbed earth. By morning, rain would completely obscure it. He planned to return the following day to look for settling. He swung the shovel over his shoulder and walked back to his cabin, dragging the pine branches behind him.

  Justin hung a trench coat over a barefoot Anne. It hid the tatters of her dress, but it did nothing to conceal her stained skin and matted hair. He walked her to a limo, opened the door and gently placed her inside.

  They drove in silence to a nice hotel on the east river. As they pulled up to the concierge, Justin stepped out of the driver side and shook his head to the valet, hand at the ready. The valet stepped back and clasped his gloved hands in front of him. Justin placed a rolled up one hundred-dollar bill in one of the valet’s hands. The valet nodded and returned to his post, squinting at the limo, but making no attempt to go near it.

  Justin jogged into the hotel and spoke briefly to the maître d’hôtel, then returned to the limo. He stepped into the back and emerged ten minutes later with the trench-coated Anne. The valet tipped his cap with a single word, “Ma’am.”

  Anne stopped and stared at the valet. “You will address me as Miss Toppan,” she snapped.

  “Come, now, Jane,” Justin cooed to Anne, mimicking a Bostonian accent. “I’m sure the lad meant no disrespect.” He steered her by the elbow to the hotel, directly to an elevator, dinging in defiance as a bellboy stood to prevent the elevator from being used.

  Justin and Anne stepped into the elevator and before the bellboy could stand aside, Anne leaned toward him and whispered, “Queen Mary the first was very much a misunderstood monarch, and the Bishop of Winchester spoke beautifully at her funeral.”

  Justin shoved a crumpled bill into the bellboy’s hand and shoved him out the elevator door. The bellboy staggered back, looked at the crumpled up one hundred-dollar bill in his hand and stayed only long enough to watch the antique elevator indicator rise to the top floor.

  Justin had helped Anne wash her face. The tattered dress was placed in a garbage bag. He wasn’t sure what manner of DNA or other evidence was left at the scene, but he knew no one would find any matches in the National Crime Information Center database. Aside from helping establish the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Anne employed a team of computer experts who’s sole purpose was keeping their people out of such databases.

  Anne soaked in a warm bath and Justin waited for a delivery. Anne’s measurements were 36-28-38. She usually wore a tall size six, but most of her clothes were custom fitted. He sent out for replacement clothing and now waited for their arrival. A knock at the door should’ve indicated his delivery, so he though nothing about it when he walked to the door.

  When he opened the door, it wasn’t the delivery he expected, but an older gentleman in a military uniform. Justin need not have searched the man’s uniform for rank insignia for he recognized the man when he saw his drawn face.

  “Major.”

  “Sergeant,” replied Globe.

  “It’s been a few years since anyone’s called me Sergeant.”

  “Should I call you Justin, then?”

  “Whatever.” Justin scowled. “What do you want?”

  “I want to not stand out here in the hallway. Is her majesty here?”

  Justin rolled his eyes. “You know that’ll only piss her off.”

  Globe bowed slightly at the waist, and Justin motioned him inside.

  “She’s not ready yet,” declared Justin. “Shall I pass along a message?”

  Globe sat in an oversized leather chair. “I’ll wait.”

  Justin shrugged and started for the door after another knock. This time, Justin utilized the peephole. Satisfied it was the delivery he was expecting, he opened the door, accepted the three boxes and tipped the delivery boy.

  “Dressed for time?” inquired Globe.

  Justin ignored the barb and walked the boxes to the master suite. He stepped through the door, but before he closed it, he called out over his shoulder, “no snooping, or stealing anything.”

  Globe smiled at the proffered barb, and glanced around the opulent suite, waiting for the impending meeting.

  “Major!” Anne cooed from the master suite. “What an auspicious occasion!” Anne breezed through the door wearing a yellow sun dress and matching pumps. She sat in a chair adjacent to Major Globe. “To what do I owe this visit?”

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Oh, Jakey, you mustn’t make excuses! I’m always happy to entertain a man of your prominence!” She squeezed his knee and winked.

  Globe brushed her hand away and looked sullen. “How long is left of your visit to our fair city?”

  “Oh, I’ve accomplished everything I came here to do, and you?”

  “I just wanted to know if you needed assistance back to wherever you spend your nights.”

  “Why Mister Globe, that sounds like some sort of sordid invitation.”

  Globe struggled out of the chair and straightened his tie. “You know very well it’s ‘Major.’”

  Anne smiled. “And don’t think I didn’t overhear your little quip earlier.”

  “I trust you’ll be leaving soon?”

  “Only your visit prevents me from leaving post haste.”

  “Very well. I’ll leave you to your leaving.” Globe strutted out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Justin came from the master suite grinning. “It sounds as if you’ve won today’s battle.”

  Anne looked at her sometimes lover and rolled her eyes. “The day I need reassurance from you is the day I’ll figure out how to die.”

  Justin’s face reddened. He opened his mouth to retort, but Anne held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Justin, it’s been a hell of a day.” She wrapped her arm around his waist. “Please take me home.”

  Justin mimed tipping a porter’s cap. “Right away, mistress.” He bowed deeply before continuing. “After you, Ma’am.” He finished his overt pantomime with a flourished wave toward the door.

  Anne smiled and allowed Justin to hold the door open for her.

  Kristof took an enormous bite of his cheeseburger. Krystal watched a ketchup-soaked onion slice fall and land on her husband’s shirt. He noticed it and slid his free hand under his shirt and lifted it to his lips to eat the errant onion. Her own massive burger sat on her tray untouched. Kristof let out a loud burp.

  Krystal sighed. “You’re disgusting. What do you say when you belch?”

  Kristof smiled. “Man, that felt good...” Kris
tof grinned even wider, “mother!”

  Krystal rolled her eyes at the same joke Kristof made every time this situation presented itself. “Sometimes I feel like your mother. Always cleaning up after you.” She sighed again, “and would it hurt you to put your damn shoes in their cubby instead of leaving them in the foyer?”

  “Hey, babe. Where’s this coming from?”

  “Nothing’s changed. I thought your...” She raised her fingers to make sir quotes, “powers...” Krystal started to continue, but she ended up staring at the carbs on her tray.

  “Man, I’m so hungry, I could eat the butthole out of a skunk.” He took a long pull on the straw of his extra large beverage. “You gonna eat that, babe?”

  Krystal allowed her face to show apparent disgust. “Kristof...” She waited for a response from her husband.

  Kristof operated the straw once again and raised his eyebrows.

  “We really do need to talk,” Krystal said.

  Where’s a would-be robber when you need one, Kristof thought. He emptied the contents of his cup with a loud annoying slurp. He scanned the room for the soda dispenser. “Sure thing, babe. Lemmie get a refill first.” Kristof stood, shoved a handful of fries in his mouth and made his way toward the soda dispenser.

  Déjà vu, thought Krystal. She watched Kristof stroll to the soda dispenser. He waved to the cashier and she beamed at his attention. He made some comment and the girl laughed. She turned and retrieved another burger, looked over her shoulder and slid the wrapped sandwich across the counter. Krystal noticed she wasn’t the only one watching Kristof’s antics. A man sat alone in a booth and his eyes never wavered from her husband. Soon to be ex-husband, the errant thought popped into her head. If he lives that long. She watched him saunter back to their table. It’s been a long time coming.

  Kristof plopped the burger down on his tray. “Remember that girl from last time? She got me another burger.” He winked, “a hero burger.”