by Will Mosley
Jacoben walked into an office and sat in one of the two faux leather chairs facing the desk. After letting him in, the officer closed the door, eying the strange man as he walked past him to the opposite side of the desk and sat down.
“No ID, huh?”
“No.” Jacoben flatly stated.
“And you were just out for a run?” The LT's condescension was marked.
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I was running, yes. But not for no reason.”
The LT placed his heavy arms on the desk and leaned on them. He peered at Jacoben behind slitted eyes and a patronizing grin. Then he waved his hand. “Care to elaborate?”
Hunger blistered in his stomach balling the organ into knots. At that moment, he smelled something as if he not only wanted to smell it, but had conjured it there.
“Fine. I can do that. You got some doughnuts back there behind that desk, don't you?” The LT sat motionless for a moment, then leaned back.
“I do.” He nodded. The grin flattened.
“I haven't eaten in... quite a while. You mind?”
LT smiled, opened a top drawer and removed a package of unsealed, powdered, cake doughnuts and slid them across the desk. Jacoben snatched them, tore the cellophane and shoved two into his mouth. White powder snowed his beard and finger tips and the lack of moisture made for slow chewing, but the sweet flavor and the calories he could nearly taste individually, made him smile childlike.
“Don't know how you knew they were there,” LT mumbled, “and I was saving them for after lunch, but... considering.” He raised his voice to a gentle command and pointed. “I want the truth, pal. I gave you my damned doughnuts, so no bullshitting me, okay?”
“Sure.” Jacoben tossed back one more doughnut, worked his jaws faster this time, swallowed, wiped his mouth, placed the doughnuts on the desk and dusted his hands over the floor.
Jacoben told the LT, who eventually stated that his name was Craig Westbrooks, everything he knew starting back as far as he could remember, which was only last night. He discussed his employment with Hunt Mining, how the supervisor and his assistant wore guns on their sides, his two co-workers and the beer. Jacoben had begun formulating a theory on the beer during his run and discussed at length what he believed its purpose was. Only since he'd stopped drinking the beer had he begun to remember things – though sporadically – about life before the mining camp. It only begged to reason that the beer played some role in keeping the three men in a fog. For what reason? He didn't know, and even explained that to Westbrooks.
To Westbrooks, the story sounded believable enough, but how many homeless people through the years had come up with stories as engrossing, as detailed and as equally full of crap. It would do no good to jail the poor man, but if Westbrooks could help in any way, he would.
“You mean to tell me, you were never paid for your work? Don't blame me if I say that's just a little hard to believe.”
Jacoben shrugged. “Not a dime. But as I told you, I really don't remember. They could have and put the money in an account somewhere. I don't remember anything from a week ago and I certainly don't know how long I was there so I can't know whether or not they paid me.”
“What do you need to get you by?” Westbrooks asked.
“Get me by?” Jacoben laughed. “How the hell should I know? I just know that I need to be headed south.”
The phrase contorted Westbrooks' face. “South? Why south?”
“Don't know. I feel that I can get some answers if I go south.”
“But where in the South, son? West Virginia? North Carolina? Florida?” Jacoben only shrugged. Westbrooks sighed, stood up and opened his desk drawer. “Tell you what. The city allows us to use petty cash to help fellows like yourself.” Westbrooks took a twenty dollar bill from the drawer and handed it to Jacoben. “I don't know how far that'll get you, but if you want more, maybe you can sell that story of yours to one of the kids over at Montgomery College for their newspaper.”
The thought of selling the story wasn't the appeal. However, money was. To Jacoben, there was no story just tangled facts that he needed to unravel and if that could purchase a bus ticket south – whether it was a story or not – he'd divulge all he knew. Jacoben wanted directions, but Westbrooks told him that he'd have someone meet him around the corner from the police department at a pizzeria called Manny & Olga's. Jacoben left the office with a confident stride and kept his hand close to that the pocket with the twenty dollar bill in it as if no one in the precinct could fathom such a sum. He caught the eye of his arresting officer, nodded and exited the building.
Jacoben paced in front of Manny & Olga’s for ten minutes, then sat on the curb and massaged his calves. The run he had made from the mining camp and sleep deprivation had begun a fatiguing process on his leg muscles that he wasn't used to. The proprietor of Manny & Olga's came outside only one time and inquired into Jacoben's loitering. Jacoben told him the reason saying that an officer Westbrooks told him to meet someone here. Understanding, but unsated, the proprietor returned to his restaurant. Thirty minutes later, a '90's model Nissan Sentra slowed as it reached the establishment. The passenger of the car pointed to Jacoben and excitedly waved. Jacoben stumbled off the curb and met the car in the parking lot.
Two overly caffeinated college students exited the car, asked his name and introduced themselves as Lance, a hairy faced, dread locked suburbanite, and Kartikeya, a young Hindi with a teenager's face. They explained that Craig Westbrooks was an old fraternity member who often helped them with stories for their paper. Jacoben nodded politely and followed the men into Manny's.
The proprietor no longer looked as unpleasant as he had when he confronted Jacoben outside now that money was being spent in his restaurant. He seated the men and personally saw to their service. He brought over three gigantic, red plastic cups of Pepsi to start them out and disappeared into the back with their pizza orders.
“That policemen, Craig, said that you were interested in stories.” Jacoben said.
“Oh, yes!” Kartikeya exclaimed. “Unusual stories is what we are always looking for – for the paper, that is.”
“They don't even have to be true, long as they're interesting. That's all our readers care about. Karti'll give'em that spinning touch if they need it.” Lance, with a grin.
“You boy's reporters? I thought you were supposed to seek the truth.”
“Truth.” Lance rolled his eyes.
Karti backhanded Lance in the ribs. “In most cases we do. In fact, we always do. It's just sometimes the storyteller can't tell a story properly, so I doctor it up. Our paper basically centers around strange occurrences and your general weird happenings.” Karti looked around at the other patrons of Manny's, then leaned towards Jacoben. Lance leaned in too. “You know, the CIA headquarters is just over the river.” He whispered. “In Langley. No more than a thirty minute drive from here. I know they do some pretty dirty stuff and what we are trying to do is catch them in the act.” Karti sat back in his seat. “So that paper is really a front for our activities surrounding the afore mentioned agency. Sometimes if we get a really good story, it'll get picked up by local paper or something and we'll make a few bucks in the process.”
“That never hurt anyone.” Lance remarked.
Jacoben smiled and nodded. “How do you know that I'm not one of them? Agents, I mean.” Karti's face went blank and he looked to Lance. Then, back at Jacoben. Lance looked spooked. “I'm pulling your leg, guys. Lighten up. I got a story. It's really not much of one since I can only remember recent events.”
Relief washed over their faces, then Karti asked. “Why is that?”
“To tell the truth, I don't know. I believe it has something to do with the beer we were forced to drink. Maybe they put something in it.”
Karti slapped Lance on the shoulder, but he nearly missed him because Lance was bent over retrieving his book bag from underneath the table. He heaved it up took out a small digital recorder and tossed Karti a note pad
with a pen protruding from its wire spiral binding – which Karti immediately opened – and sat the bag on the floor once more.
“This is gonna be good!” Lance exclaimed.
“Beer, you say? You believe that 'they' put something in your beer?”
Ten minutes into the story, the proprietor brought out two steaming pizzas, both covered in pepperoni and molten cheese and little else. Jacoben didn't wait for niceties and during his story, removed several slices from the tray. Lance and Karti were too involved and virtually forgot that the pizza was there.
After Jacoben's sixth slice, the hot cheese and spicy tomato sauce began to warm him up. He removed his coat and took off a thin sweatshirt underneath, which revealed a white T-shirt, yellowed around the neck and arm pits. As he continued the story, he noticed that Karti and Lances eyes were more focused on the shirt than on him.
“What?” Jacoben asked and wiped at his shirt. “Did I drop some on me?”
“No, no!” Karti said. “There's something underneath... a tattoo, it looks like. I can see it through your shirt.”
“Oh, that thing. It's nothing. Don't pay no attention to that.” Jacoben waved his hand at the shirt. “But as I was saying, this fellow Guillermo pushed the beer in my face and –,”
“Mr. Jacoben? You mind?” Karti asked.
“Mind?” Jacoben looked bothered, wanting to finish the story and collect his money.
“Yeah,” Lance broke in. “Can we see your tattoo?” Jacoben shrugged, untucked his shirt and lifted it to his chin. His chest was pale and sparsely covered in hair, and the tattoo stood out as if from a dry erase board.
“You happy?” He said.
Fixated, Lance and Karti stared unblinkingly like overwhelmed children.
“What the hell is that?” Lance asked.
Jacoben joined the two men and looked down at the tattoo.
The tattoo was of the Centaur type in silhouette. Though the body was of a horse, the torso was not just a man, but of a soldier aiming his rifle forward. In the center of the horse's body was the word 'Faust JD.
“I have no idea.” As Jacoben began to lower his shirt, Karti reached across the table. “No!” He nearly screamed. “No, please God, no! Can – can I take a photo of that?”
“Sure.” Jacoben smiled. “If you pay me some more for it.”
Lance interjected. “So you mean you don't know how you got the tattoo?”
“Nope. It's always been there. At least as long as I can remember.”
“How much more?” Karti fumbled with his camera.
“Honestly, I just need money to get a ride south. if you could buy the ticket, that would satisfy me.”
“Where?” Karti asked.
“I don't know. I just know that the answers I need are down south.”
Lance laughed. “It was just there, huh? That's ridiculous!” He slapped Karti on the arm, “You hear this guy?” Then he turned back to Jacoben. “Do you remember getting it? You can't have forgotten the pain of that thing being drawn onto your chest like that.”
“Nope.”
“There are so many cities down south to choose from. You don't have one in mind.”
“Karti, I feel I need to go south.” Jacoben emphasized with steady nodding of his head. He then shrugged, still holding his shirt up. “I don't know what to tell you.”
“This guy is perfect!” Lance laughed. “I'm getting light headed thinking about this story!”
“We'll talk about more about pay when you finish the story.” Karti said.
“Thank you.” Jacoben lowered his shirt and continued.
It took Jacoben ten minutes to tell the story, but took four more hours of questions from Karti and Lance before Jacoben would be free of them. Now that his stomach was full, and only rinds decorated the tray – of which he snacked on as the questions continued – his body and muscles were demanding sleep.
At six p.m., with half of a seventy page notebook filled and almost all of the storage space of the eight gigabyte digital recorder replete with valuable information, the three men left Manny's. Lance started up the car and Jacoben followed Karti across the three lanes of Fenton Avenue to the Greyhound bus terminal where Karti purchased Jacoben's ticket to Orlando, Florida. They thanked each other and Karti and Lance were off.
Jacoben read his ticket, which showed that he would arrive in Orlando, Florida Saturday morning, or, in 1 day, 6 hours. That meant that today was Friday. But what if the answers I needed were further south than Orlando? He thought briefly, then decided to worry about that when the time came. Besides, his gut instinct was what had brought him to Silver Springs and a friendly man named Craig who gave him twenty dollars, which he still had in his pocket. And Craig had helped him pay for his ticket south by selling his story to the two college guys. And how ironic was it that the Greyhound bus terminal was directly across the street from Manny's? For a moment, it seemed that everything was located in its correct placement in order to lead Jacoben where he needed to go. But he knew better than that. Deep down he knew that it had something to do with how things turned out, an extra sensory of places and people who would help him accomplish what he was after. Therefore, if he did end up in Orlando and it was too far north of where he needed to go, he would simply 'know' this and be in position to garner the resources to get him further south.
Exhausted from the questioning and running, his mind approaching a zombie like trance, Jacoben sat on a bench in front of the Greyhound station and let his chin fall onto his chest naturally. Sleep was no more than a few seconds away.
To help him doze, he pondered the questions that Karti and Lance asked, trying to see if any of the answers or the sheer amount of answers would help him figure out what purpose the mining camp served.
Karti: When did you notice the guns that Billy and Joe were carrying, and did you have a gun?
Jacoben: I noticed... well, they've had the guns since last week, at least. Probably longer, but, as I've said, I can't remember. No. Me, Tatem and Guillermo had no guns. They said that they needed to keep them in case of bear attacks.
Lance: Bears don't normally attack unless provoked.
Karti: I know. That's what makes the guns interesting. Why did they have them at a mining camp? It's ridiculous. Unless they were afraid of the workers. Jacoben, you mentioned Guillermo and Tatem, but overall, how many workers would you say worked there?
Jacoben: Me, Guillermo and Tatem. That's it. Billy did some work, and Joe always helped, but there were only five of us.
Lance: At a mining camp? That's not enough people to mine...
Karti: Exactly! The mining camp was not intended to mine coal! I think that mining was the cover that was used!
A cover? Jacoben thought, shrugging the notion from his mind. For what? If it was a cover, why would we have created such a grand illusion, or even mined coal at all? Half awake, half sleep and allowing his brain to begin temporarily shutting down all non-vital systems, he chuckled at the questions and the preposterous implications that their young minds came up with. They're just kids. He thought, and a slight grin grew below his closed eyes as he settled on the bench. We've all been there. I was just as inquisitive during my freshmen year at Georgia Tech.
Jacoben's eyes sprung open.
Part 2 Chapter 16.
March 6
“How do you think she'll take it?” The company's Chief Operating Officer whispered to the Chief Executive in a comment loud enough for the others to hear. Suddenly, bellows of half-forced laughter echoed from the walls of the small office which drew an investigatory, open and closed door peek from the secretary. To most of them, the laugh seemed overdue, welcomed like the roll of credits after a bad movie. It momentarily helped ease tensions surrounding issues that branched from Heather Luzader's project: Trojan.
“Are you serious, Richardson?” Thomas Kimble turned his calculated gaze to the COO. Frank Richardson shrugged, conceding to Thomas rather than answer the obvious, understanding that once the board
of directors had fired their first and only female field operations manager, there would egg shells everywhere and they'd have to tread carefully to avoid a trumped up wrongful termination or discrimination lawsuit. You couldn't simply fire ambitious and competent people without any recourse and everyone quietly braced for impact. “You act as if this is your first time.”
“What if it is?” Richardson returned.
“Doesn't matter. Where'd you come from, Frank? The D.O.D?”
Frank nodded. “Executive Director.”
“And you never fired anyone?”
“Nope. Not face-to-face, anyway.”
“A termination virgin.” Kimble mumbled, his wafer thin lips curled into bent daggers. “Your cherry will be popped in short order.” Kimble turned to Phil Kirby. “She was one of yours, no?”
“Was.” Said Kirby.
“It appears she was an exceptional talent.” Kimble said as he flipped through her separation papers.
“She was born for this work, Tom, because she thrives on conflict. I wish I'd known about this sooner so I could've warned her.” He said. Though Phil Kirby was considered to be a decision maker with the company, he functioned as an executive consultant and assumed the role of facility security, dressing not in a business suit, but digital camouflage pants, black boots and a white polo with the company's logo.
“Well, Philip, it's clear we made the right decision not informing you. We don't need someone of her caliber with two weeks to a month of browsing and copying our files only to turn them over to CNN. That wouldn't work.”
“I understand. It's just that talent like hers is hard to replace.”
“Tell me about it. Her success rate is astonishing. Nevertheless, we have a budget to keep and no rogue manager can seize total control of spending. Just a fact.” Kimble said, looking over her separation papers from behind black rimmed spectacles with thick glass. “But that is why they are the more powerful of the genders and can never be told that; tender and kind one minute, more ruthless and blood thirsty – than any man – the next. Let's just be happy that all pussy doesn't come with her wrapped around it!” Kimble and Richardson laughed once more at the slighting, Kirby only smiled and sighed, and the only other man in the room didn't find any humor in the debacle: his name and re-election efforts were attached to it.