The REM Precept

by J. M. Lanham

  “Your ‘well-being,’ Mr. Graham? Trust me, ‘well-being’ is putting it very lightly.” Ramírez tapped the folder. “This is serious business. And it’s your last chance to make a deal.”

  Dawa said nothing.

  “Okay then,” Ramírez said. He took the folder, stood up, and knocked on the door behind him. In walked two armed guards to flank each side of the prisoner. “Please escort Mr. Graham to the enhanced interrogation room.”

  The guards knelt down to add a set of shackles to Dawa’s wardrobe, tightening cuffs around his wrists and ankles. The guru ignored the jostling. “I am sorry we could not come to an amicable agreement, Mr. Ramírez.”

  “You’re not sorry. Not now,” Ramírez said as the guards exited with Dawa in tow. “But you will be.”

  ***

  Back at Langley, Stephen Cline glared into the bathroom mirror and picked his teeth, meticulously ridding his pearly whites of any remnants of the tuna salad sandwich he’d had for lunch. He was moments from meeting Michelle Freeman for the first time, and he knew first impressions were everything. That meant putting his best spinach-free face forward.

  Word that Dawa had refused the plea bargain was fresh on Cline’s mind; a fact that added further complications to an already delicate situation. Every good case officer knew that the best assets were converted over time, not overnight. But in this matter, time was a luxury he didn’t have. That would mean persuading both Graham and Mrs. Freeman in less conventional ways; ways the Senate Intelligence Committee would never approve of. It was an inconvenient truth, the need to straddle the frayed edges of which intelligence-gathering tactics were acceptable for God and country and which tactics went too far. But that was the nature of the business. Personally, Cline loved it.

  Michelle’s case, however, differed from Graham’s, and that wasn’t lost on him. Graham had aided and abetted a known felon wanted by the FBI—a fact the agency could fully exploit even if the detective refused to cooperate. But the only thing Mrs. Freeman was guilty of was being married to Paul Freeman; a true innocent in the matter, far from any asset or outlier or double agent he’d silenced countless times before. If Cline could present himself to Michelle as a friend instead of a foe, he might be able to gain her trust in the matter, leading to her full cooperation.

  He cupped his hand to draw a sip of water from the sink, swished his mouth out, toweled off, and left. Outside, one of his field agents waited in the hall, briefcase in hand.

  “Did you finally get Mrs. Freeman situated?” Cline asked.

  “Yes, sir,” he said as he handed a briefcase over. “She’s down the hall, room 312.”

  “And everything’s all here?”

  “Yes, sir. Inside you’ll find we’ve put together two files. One if she decides to cooperate, one if she doesn’t.”

  “Perfect,” Cline said. “And the child?”

  “He’s in a separate room, just as you requested.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  “She’s fine. She understands it’s probably best he’s not in there for the interrogation. She doesn’t want to expose him to any of this.”

  Cline patted his subordinate on the shoulder. “Good man.” Then he turned and walked down the hall.

  ***

  Inside the interrogation room, Michelle sat and chewed her nails, her right knee bouncing so nervously it hit the bottom of the table a time or two. She tried her best to rein in her nerves, but it was little use. The more she tried to calm herself, the more her mind raced.

  What had she gotten herself into? Over the last six months she’d tormented herself, ceaselessly unsure whether she should break from Paul’s lead and turn herself in for the sake of her son, or stick by her husband’s side. The former always made the most sense; after all, the entire conspiracy sounded more like science fiction than science fact. She wanted to believe her husband, the stories about the clinical trials, the outliers, the CIA … the problem was a lack of evidence. The only thing Michelle had ever had to go on were the strange circumstances surrounding Ryan Tanner’s death—that was it. And when it came to the man choking up and keeling over before her very eyes, there were countless other explanations besides a magical sleeping pill. High cholesterol. High blood pressure. Any number of undiagnosed preexisting conditions. Anything but dreams and fairy tales of highly sought-out superhumans on the lam from pharmaceutical giants and superspies alike.

  Now she was a prisoner in the custody of the CIA, handcuffed and left to sweat while separated from her son. Her worst fear—losing Aaron—had been realized, and the look in his eyes as officials pulled him from her arms was enough to get Michelle crying all over again.

  She had just dabbed another stream of tears off her flushed cheeks when Stephen Cline walked through the door. He took a seat in front of her, then slid the tissue box sitting on the table a little closer to his guest. She nodded as if to say thanks, and Cline started in.

  “I’m sorry to have to put you in this situation, Mrs. Freeman. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” Cline set his briefcase on the table while he gave Michelle a moment to collect herself. He pulled out two folders and set them to the side.

  Finally, Michelle asked, “Where is my son? Where’s Aaron?”

  “He’s being taken care of in an undisclosed location for the time being. Rest assured we have officials dedicated to handling situations like this, and every effort is being made to make both your and your son’s stay here as comfortable as possible.”

  “Can I see him?” Michelle asked through tears.

  “If you cooperate with us, then yes. You can see him. I’m sorry but that’s all I’m authorized to tell you at this time.”

  “It’s just—we were snatched up by the police this morning, and no one’s told us anything the entire time.” She looked around a fluorescently lit and featureless interrogation room, then asked, “I mean where in the hell are we, anyway? And why aren’t you wearing a badge? Who are you people?”

  Cline said, “My apologies, Mrs. Freeman. I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Stephen Cline, Atlanta Station Chief for Central Intelligence.” His extended hand went unanswered.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cline,” she said through sniffles, “I’m really not in the mood for formalities. Only answers.”

  Withdrawing, “Very well then. Let’s get to it.”

  Cline slid the first folder over the Michelle. She opened it to find a couple of pages that could only be described as a plea bargain. She flipped between pages as Cline spoke. “What you’re reading is the agency’s offer to you. As I’m sure you’re already aware, your husband has been implicated in a litany of crimes, beginning with the deaths of Richard Doyle, Ryan Tanner—”

  “Those were all self-defense,” Michelle said, eyes sharpening. “How can you possibly—”

  “Then there are the deaths of the entire security detail working in cooperation with the Costa Rican government linked to your husband, as well as countless assault and battery charges linked to Mr. Freeman at our Skyline facility. All in all, your husband has acquired a rap sheet that could land him in federal prison for a dozen lifetimes. And that’s not even considering what may happen should the death penalty stay on the table …”

  The charges were frivolous, and infuriating. As her tears dried, Michelle quickly went from upset to outraged, gripping the pages so tight her fingernails left five little crescent-shaped creases on each side of the paper.

  “Are you serious right now?” she asked. “How can you sit there and make up this set of bogus charges before sending my husband off to the gallows? You know damn well everything you just mentioned is a false narrative based on your perverse interpretation of what really happened.”

  “And what did happen, Mrs. Freeman?”

  “Paul was drugged! Kidnapped, by your people! Taken and held at some illegal CIA black site in Costa Rica where he was tortured and held against his will.” She threw the papers at Cline. “Honestly, how in the hell can you ex
pect me to sign this?”

  Cline sat, unflinching, as the papers glided to the floor. This was going nowhere. Disappointed Michelle wouldn’t play ball, he reached for the second file and slid it over. She sat and sifted through an inch-thick stack of incriminating documents. Confused, she said, “What is all this?”

  “Evidence, Mrs. Freeman. Phone records. Fingerprints. Most of all, motive. Everything we need to tie you to Mr. Freeman in the murders and assaults of the aforementioned parties.”

  “You know damn well I had nothing to do with—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Cline said. “Inside you’ll find more than enough evidence to link you to your husband’s crimes. From innocent victim to accomplice, all in a single case file.” Cline leaned back and crossed his arms. “Take your time sorting through those. I’ll wait.”

  The so-called evidence was overwhelming. Page after page, Michelle read through and viewed one incriminating text log and photograph and phone record after another. An orgy of evidence, enough to convince a jury of her peers. She pulled one paper-clipped to a page and held it closer. In it, a Jeep that looked just like hers was parked as a woman knelt by it, appearing to be pumping gas into a red five-gallon can on the ground.

  She looks just like me, Michelle thought. Only, it wasn’t. She looked in the bottom-right corner and noticed the date on the timestamp, a date she’d never forget: 2/13/2021. The day Ryan Tanner died. Her first day on the run.

  Puzzled, “But how …”

  “Oh, we have our ways,” Cline said confidently. “This is just one photograph that further proves you were complicit in the kidnapping of your husband’s boss at Asteria, Mr. Tanner, as well as his subsequent murder and cover-up.”

  “You know that’s not true. That’s not what happened.”

  “What I do know,” Cline said, “is that on the morning of February 8th, your husband’s boss went missing. One week later, investigators working the site of an arson found his body hastily buried on the rural property that just so happened to belong to your husband’s father, Frank Freeman.”

  “This is insanity.”

  “You might have gotten away with it, too,” Cline said confidently, “had a nearby gas station security camera been out of order. But as you can see by the evidence, Mrs. Freeman, the cameras were working just fine.”

  “Everyone’s got Photoshop these days, Mr. Cline. A few grainy photos are hardly enough to convict anyone of being an accomplice to murder.” She got the words out, but Michelle didn’t sound too sure of herself.

  Reaching across the table, Cline fished out more photos from beneath the pile of documents. He picked out a few and tossed them to Michelle. Shock washed over her face as Cline leaned in and quietly said, “Pumping gas may be one thing, Mrs. Freeman. But getting pumped by your husband’s new boss at the Atlanta Ritz? Well that just puts the ‘motive’ in means, motive, and opportunity, now doesn’t it?”

  The hotel room photos were impeccable. Fake, but impeccable. A set of partially pulled curtains framed each shot—no doubt taken with a telephoto lens by a professional from a high-rise across the street. Satin sheets draped the couple from the waists down as Ryan Tanner’s body double lay atop a woman in the throes of passion who bore a striking resemblance to Michelle Freeman. She turned through them rapidly like an X-rated flip-book, then slid them back into the folder, closing it.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.

  Pleased with the reaction, Cline asked, “So, Mrs. Freeman, are you ready to cooperate with the agency?”

  Defeated and speechless, she could do little more but hang her head, nod, and cry.

  Chapter 5:

  Revival

  The streetlights kicked on at dusk, casting their trademark yellow-orange glow across the parking lot adjacent to Fruit of the Faithful Ministries as a line of cars slow-crawled between rows in a desperate search for parking spots. Holding up the back of the line, a jacked-up 4x4 moved at a snail’s pace, the driver craning his neck and scanning the packed strip mall for somewhere, anywhere to park his SUV.

  Well ain’t this some shit, Alex thought as he turned the wheel to follow the herd down yet another lane, peering up at the dilapidated Spring Hill Mall entrance sign and wondering what all the fuss was about. He started to look for other alternatives when he noticed a one-lane drive that hugged the corner of the building and wrapped around to the back; no doubt a service entrance for deliveries. He waited for a gap to form in the cars ahead, and after some crafty maneuvering through a couple of tight spaces he was rounding the building and parking in a dimly lit space by the dumpster in the back. As good a space as any. Out of sight, too.

  At the church entrance, the Reverend Jonas Perch greeted incoming parishioners with doors wide open, doling out two-handed handshakes to every man, woman, and child entering the cinder-block cathedral on the corner. Dozens upon dozens slowly made their way into the modest rented space at the Spring Hill Mall, like families waiting in long lines to see Santa Claus. The church was surrounded by a sub shop, a hair salon, a sports bar, even a premium cigar shop. But on this night, every single car in the parking lot belonged to the members of Perch’s congregation.

  Alex rounded the corner and took a place at the back of the line that stretched into the parking lot as cars continued to pull in from the highway. He took short half steps forward in a packed line, careful to keep the toes of his logging boots off the heels of the folks in front of him as he peered out from the side to catch an occasional glance of the man of the hour standing at the church entrance.

  The years hadn’t been easy on the reverend; his weathered, creviced face and slicked-back, silver-toned hair were impossible to hide under the awning light hanging above the double doors at the front. Alex noticed the glare of the overhead light beaming off Perch’s pomade and his thoughts instantly went to a man out west who had been struck by lightning seven times, turning his jet-black hair a silvery gray. Maybe that’s what had happened to Perch. Because if anyone deserved a billion volts straight to the crown from God Almighty, it was the con artist at the front door luring in every parishioner with a pocketbook.

  After what seemed like hours of inching closer and closer, Alex was finally face-to-face with the reverend. Perch was grinning from ear to ear.

  “And how are you doing this evening, young man?” Perch extended a hand.

  Alex looked down, then up again. “Nah. I’m good.” Then he walked inside.

  Dumfounded, Perch turned to watch as Alex took an empty spot on the wall to the right just inside the front door. The moment caught him off guard, and he thought he’d seen the same sour young man in his congregation before. But the line wasn’t stopping. He did his best to shrug off the interaction and turned to the handful of late arrivals, ushering them inside before closing the doors.

  Gospel music filled the jam-packed hall. All week, the church had been standing room only, with churchgoers lining the walls and packed into every available spot like sardines in a tin can. People came from far and wide to hear Perch’s message—even if most of them couldn’t tell you why. “There’s just something about him,” they’d say, or, “I just got this feeling, you know? Like the Lord was telling me that I had to be here,” or, “I honestly felt like my life depended on it.” While the stories were all unique in their own ways, the rationale varied little.

  A feeling, unknown and unexplainable, had led them there.

  It wasn’t long before the service was in full swing. The music wrapped, and Alex watched as Perch stood at the pulpit, Bible open, both hands clinging to the sides of the mahogany podium as he sized up the crowd.

  “I see a lot of familiar faces here tonight,” he said. “See a lot of unfamiliar ones, too.” He cast an implicative glance Alex’s way, but didn’t let his eyes settle on him for long. He opened his Bible up to Galatians 6:7 and read:

  “Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, this he will also reap.”

  Murmurs of appro
val echoed through the church.

  “For the one who sows to his own flesh will from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the Spirit will from the Spirit reap eternal life.” The reverend continued, “Let us not lose heart in doing good, for in due time we will reap if we do not grow weary.” He closed the book and looked over a congregation eager, for reasons Alex couldn’t understand, to hear his creative interpretation of the Good Book.

  “Whatever a man sows,” Perch repeated, “this he will also reap.” A long pause, then, “You know, folks, I don’t think I can stress enough the importance of these words. Think about what the writer here is saying for a minute: your lot in life has nothing to do with bad circumstances or bad health or bad luck, and everything to do with how much you’re sowing!”

  He loosened his collar and stepped down from the podium to pace the floor in predictable fashion. He pointed to a man in the front row and said, “Tell me, Brother Gill. If you sow a lot, what do you think’s gonna happen?”

  “I’m gonna reap a lot,” Gill said.

  “Precisely!” He moved onward down the line. “What do you think, Sister Katherine. If you sow just a little bit here, little bit there, what do you think’s gonna happen?”

  “Well, I guess I’m going to reap just a little bit.”

  “Mercy me!” he yelled with a hop and a clap. “Why, if I didn’t know any better I’d think y’all done got this whole thing figured out!”

  Alex wasn’t sure if there was any truth to that statement, but he was damn sure he’d had the man figured out since he was ten years old. That was the first time his grandmother had forced him to come watch the nice preacher on television speak the Word—one of the Sunday-morning requirements she put on the Freeman grandkids when they stayed over on a Saturday night. Of course, Paul and Alex’s parents never picked them up before lunchtime, so they would sit and listen to Jonas Perch, watching as their grandmother leaned forward intently to the point of almost falling off the couch, telephone receiver in hand, eagerly waiting for that 800-number to pop up on the screen requesting tithes.