The Empowered

by Craig Parshall

  The best I could do was to put it into a question.

  “Have you ever been to Washington, DC?”

  She shook her head.

  “I think the two of us should catch a flight to DC as soon as possible.”

  “Why there?”

  I said, “That girl we saw in the porthole of the boat two nights ago? We may be her only hope.”

  She gave me a long look. “That sounds noble.”

  I said, “I’m hoping it’s providential.”

  50

  Several facts pointed to Washington, DC, as our target.

  I was convinced that the federal insider who called Dick Valentine originally about the “voodoo” death of Jason Forester was the same person who called me, using a voice distorter both times. And I was betting the caller was Louisa Deidre Baldou. After all, she had a motivation to get someone—obviously me—to investigate the cruel abduction and exploitation of young girls. In my first conversation with Turk Kavagian, he mentioned that an occult-sounding voodoo network with Internet prowess was behind it, and Dick Valentine’s intel pointed the same direction. All of that rang familiar.

  The fact she attended the ABA told me she was a lawyer. And Morgan Canterelle’s intel told me her bailiwick was the District of Columbia. According to Turk Kavagian, she did graduate work in technology, which is a bewilderingly vast field. But if her particular niche was Internet-focused, that would also explain a lot. Dick Valentine said Jason Forester was closing in on criminal child exploitation activity on the dark net at the time of his death. Those pieces also seemed to dovetail with the data shared with me recently by Detective Ashley Linderman.

  And the fire-breathing creature flapping its wings over all of this—orchestrating and reveling in it—was some demonic voodoo cabal yet to be identified.

  As I talked to Heather that night about plans for our flight to DC, I shared it all with her.

  She had a pointed question: “You’re telling me this Deidre who talked to me at the ABA, and who you think was the anonymous caller to Dick Valentine as well as to you, was a double threat in terms of expertise: an expert in technology as well as the law?”

  I told her that was my best guess.

  “So the bottom line is, what . . . ? You want to talk to her?”

  “Exactly. Bring her out in the open. Stop the shadow games. Find out what else she knows.”

  Heather shrugged. “Washington, DC, is a huge place.”

  “Right. Lots of lawyers and lots of technology experts.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “I’m betting she’s in the government sector.”

  “I don’t see it,” she said. “At least not that clearly . . .”

  I gave her the short list of facts we knew up to then.

  “Morgan Canterelle thought that she could have government employment based on all the federal barriers raised to his getting more information about her—including those from Homeland Security—despite his ABA insider status. I’m also reading between the lines with Sheriff Haywood’s comments to me in that FBI parking lot. He made it sound like some official in a heavy-duty capacity was behind my apprehension and lockdown at Morehaven. Somebody outside Louisiana.”

  “How does that lead back to Deidre?”

  “Because that’s why she needed an outsider like me. Outside the system. Beyond the Beltway. In her call, she described our ultimate overlord bad actor—not as an outsider who’s running wild in the streets, but as someone inside the power structure. Which means she has to watch her back.

  “Also, Dick Valentine looked into the federal personnel data she shared with him about AUSA Jason Forester, and it all checked out. It sounds to me like she’s a whistle-blower—except she’s not squawking about the usual corruption fare, like cost overruns or padded federal contracts, but about a whole different deal altogether. A cancer embedded deep inside Washington. Engineering an occult campaign of hellish female abduction and perversion. Even human sacrifice.”

  That night, as Heather was in her hotel room booking our flight for the next day, I was slumped down in the chair next to my bed, practically tasting the bitter despair. The battle had become so elevated and the odds against us so astronomical that I felt overwhelmed. And then there was the crazy immensity of the evil we were facing. The enemy was a giant. And we were insects.

  I plucked up my Bible, returning again to the book of Joshua, where I had left off. It was the part where God sent the Israelites through the Jordan River and into the Promised Land by holding back the waters, just like the Red Sea. Another miracle. Then God directed them to do something unusual. To collect stones from the river bottom and set them up as a memorial on the dry land so they wouldn’t forget the victory. And wouldn’t forget who had won it for them.

  I was deep into it when a call came to my cell from Dick Valentine.

  “Trevor, breaking news. Still sketchy, but I thought you ought to know. That international child exploitation ring we’ve been talking about? Our sources tell us there’s a major rush now to get a large number of abducted girls out of the United States. Like, right now.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Not sure. Maybe they think someone’s onto them and they’ll be shut down. . . .”

  “What part of the country are we talking about?”

  “Sorry, we don’t have that. Just some chatter on the Internet that was picked up by our guys here in NYPD doing surveillance for a terror cell, and they happened to land on this instead.”

  While I was mulling it over, Dick said, “So frustrating. We’re trying to figure out how they plan to drag these poor girls outside the country—transportation routes, that stuff. But we don’t have enough hard data to make an educated guess. To do that, we’d need to know where the command decision is coming from. That’s the key.”

  “Any closer to identifying who’s calling the shots?”

  “Our guys are sure there’s a controlling administrator in America who’s running this entire putrid business and using the dark net to do it. But we can’t pierce it. Too sophisticated, digitally. We’ve asked the feds for special IT assistance, but no answer yet.”

  The image of that girl’s face in the window of the boat was in front of me again. “You’re talking possible transportation routes,” I said. “I’ve got a story to tell you.”

  “Should I grab some popcorn?”

  “Not unless you’re into horror. I’ve got solid information that some of those girls are coming down the Mississippi River, being motored into the Gulf of Mexico, and then into international waters.”

  “Makes sense. Our terrorism guys tell us about the vulnerability of ports and harbors. Good deduction, Sherlock.”

  “I can’t take the credit. I have a credible witness. He dropped it right in my lap. I checked it out and saw it with my own sorry eyes.”

  I could tell Dick was thinking. Then he said, “Are you still down in New Orleans? You’re right near the mouth of the Mississippi. You need to talk to law enforcement down there.”

  “Already tried that. Their hands are tied.”

  “Want me to give them a call?”

  “Let’s hold on that. I want to keep our relationship close to the vest.”

  “Coast Guard?”

  “Tried that too. They sent me back to the local authorities.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “I’m flying to Washington tomorrow with my daughter.”

  “To do what?”

  “Solve the problem.”

  “Washington actually solving a problem? That’s strange logic.”

  I smiled at my end. “To kill a snake, you have to strike at the head.”

  He wished me luck and we both promised to keep in touch.

  I popped into Heather’s room to check on her progress.

  “Done,” she said. “I’ve got us on a direct flight leaving tomorrow morning from Louis Armstrong International Airport.” Then she asked what I had been doing.

&n
bsp; “Mostly reading the book of Joshua.”

  She smirked. “Old Testament.”

  “Yes. Glad you’re familiar with it. . . .”

  “Well, you know, those of us in the anthropology field have to acquaint ourselves with all the ancient mythological religions.”

  I was tempted to take the bait but let it pass.

  She asked, “Anything else going on?”

  I told her about my phone call with Dick Valentine. And the extreme urgency now behind our trip to Washington.

  I saw in her face that she was shaken, as I already was, by the news that captured girls were about to be hurriedly exported out of the United States.

  Heather’s voice cut like a knife. “How can we stop this in time? Keep them from being shipped out of harbors? Or down the Mississippi to who knows where . . . ?”

  I thought on it. “Here’s how. By drying up the river,” I said. “And then, when that happens, we take stones from the river bottom and build a memorial. So we don’t forget who gave us the victory.”

  She gave me a funny look.

  I smiled. “I’ll explain later.”

  51

  The next morning, after we returned the rental car to the airport, I sent a quick text to Ashley Linderman:

  Thinking about that article you mentioned, the one from the underground Internet site—about some voodoo cult involved in child exploitation. Anything more about the web source of that article? Your true-blue friend, Trevor.

  Our flight was scheduled to depart from gate B-12 at the very end of the concourse, so we knew we had to hustle. First the typical drill: received our boarding passes at a kiosk because we only had carry-ons, and then on to security. I received the “random” extra security screening. I thought nothing of it. It had happened before.

  I lifted my arms and spread my legs for the full body scan, and then was told to wait while my carry-on bag and laptop were searched. Nothing came of it. Until I was told to keep waiting exactly where I stood, with no explanation about the delay. I stood there, turning only to raise my hand to wave over to the next line, where Heather was also going through security.

  The TSA woman grimaced and said, “Put your arm down, sir.”

  I complied, but by then I was getting wary of the nonroutine treatment. I didn’t blame the woman in the blue TSA uniform, or the airlines or anyone else. But I had the sinking feeling that they might just be pawns on the wrong side of a drama more dangerous than they could have imagined. I steeled myself for the worst.

  At that point, my belt, coat, shoes, laptop, keys, and cell phone were lying in front of me in two trays at the end of the conveyor belt, having already been successfully scanned through the X-ray machine. Then I heard a digital ding from my cell. I leaned toward it and noticed a text. I reached down and pushed the message icon. It was from Ashley.

  Urgent. New information. Call me ASAP.

  The TSA lady grabbed the cell out of my hand. “Step back, sir, behind the line immediately.”

  My premonition came true when two men in suits rushed up to me, one on each side, and ordered me to follow them. Again I began to comply, but I asked about my luggage. I was told it would be “taken care of.” I half turned to Heather and yelled for her to follow me.

  That must have been some kind of last straw for them, because I was thrown to the ground, hands behind my back, and handcuffed. While my face was being smooshed to the floor, I tried to process my dilemma. The men were definitely not TSA. FBI? Homeland Security? Yes, probably DHS.

  What did they have on me? Whatever it was, it was time to extricate myself yet again from more administrative quicksand that could stop me from getting to the monsters who were preparing at that moment to convey a caravan of victims toward international waters.

  I was yanked to my feet and fast-walked up to the second-level lobby of concourse C. I tried to turn around to see if Heather was behind me, but each time I was warned that if I did that again, I would be tasered.

  After being pushed into a small, unadorned office by the two agents, the door was closed behind me. No pictures on the walls, just a few telephones on bare desks. It had all the naked ambience of a telemarketing station. I was seated on a plastic chair by one of the agents as the other looked on.

  “What is your reason for leaving New Orleans?”

  “A trip to Washington.”

  “Your business in Washington?”

  “Meetings.”

  “With whom?”

  “I’ll know when I get there.”

  The other agent smirked.

  The agent questioning me said, “You need to explain your travel plans, Mr. Black.”

  “And why is that?” I asked.

  No answer to my question.

  Meanwhile, in my head, a quick review: events were breaking. Ashley had just sent me an urgent text. I had to get to Washington ASAP and couldn’t afford to miss my flight.

  I grabbed the discussion by the tail. “Okay, what list was I erroneously placed on? Watch list? No-fly? I believe in those lists, by the way. When they’re accurate. But yours can’t be.”

  My criminal practice had given me insight about the process. FBI gives data to the NCTC, the National Counterterrorism Center, which inputs it into the Terrorist Screening Database for the creation of watch lists used by the Terrorist Screening Center. Yeah, at that moment, I thought I was so very smart.

  Until the agent spoke.

  “Who says you’re on a list?”

  Having just been humbled down to size, I asked, “Then what’s this all about?”

  “Tell us about Morehaven. . . .”

  Just then, daybreak in my brain. All that was lacking in this drama was a choir of soprano voices, high and airy, in the background as the sun burst through the clouds.

  This was no watch list. I was being specifically targeted. Probably by the same entity that caused the New Orleans FBI and Sheriff Haywood to round me up on phony psychiatric grounds and drag me to Morehaven. To stop me or at least slow me down. And accomplishing that required not only manipulating federal and state law enforcement, but also feeding slanted information to a supernaturally skeptical psychiatrist and now sending a directive to the Department of Homeland Security.

  Of course, all of that would take immense power, coupled with malicious resolve, something on the level of molten-hot road rage. The thought gave me pause.

  With ironclad certainty, I had arrived at one uncomfortable realization: ever since leaving Ocracoke Island, and even before that, I had been swept into extreme spiritual combat, version 2.0.

  Had I really faced up to that?

  By then I didn’t consider myself a novice. And maybe that was the point. This battle wasn’t ultimately about flesh and blood. No mere battle of wits between “experts.” Not some political power play. This was an ancient conflagration raging between heaven and hell, and I was sitting in the front row. Or actually, closer.

  As I looked at the agent from DHS, I decided to lay it out.

  “Morehaven was a mistake,” I said. “But behind that mistake, just like behind this mistake you are making right now—and I’m sure yours is a good-faith mistake, by the way—behind all of it, there is something malevolent. Here’s the truth: I’m being targeted. Someone a rung higher than you mistakenly informed you, based on orders from someone higher than them, that I was a court-committed psychiatric patient at Morehaven. Probably gave you a song and dance about my being an escapee from that institution or being a public danger or both. You currently have possession of my cell phone. Along with my laptop, my suitcase, and my belt, by the way. Now, if you bring my cell phone to me, this can be handled quickly.”

  Neither agent budged.

  I added, “I have great appreciation for what you gentlemen do for our country. Nevertheless, there is something you need to understand: God wants me on that airplane. If you give me my cell, you’ll learn everything you need to know about Morehaven. And why you have to release me immediately.”


  The DHS agent who had been questioning me looked at his partner and nodded. A minute later I had my cell back in my hand. I pulled up my in-box and showed him the message from Judge Levall’s clerk of court—the e-mail that contained the judge’s order granting my habeas corpus petition, vindicating me, and declaring that my confinement at Morehaven had been unlawful.

  The agent read the e-mail and then showed it to his partner. After a few seconds, he opened the door. “Have a nice flight, Mr. Black.”

  52

  Heather was waiting outside the office, along with my luggage, my laptop, and my belt.

  “What’s going on?” she shouted. “Oh, my gosh, I couldn’t believe it—they took you down, I mean, right to the ground, like some kind of terrorist. . . .”

  I told her we had to hustle to the gate and make sure we made the flight. I would fill her in about everything else during our flight to Washington.

  By the time we arrived at gate B-12, we had a good fifteen minutes to spare before boarding started. A miracle.

  I used that little window of time to respond to the text from Detective Ashley Linderman. I phoned her. She picked up.

  “Ashley, Trevor here,” I said. “Talk to me.”

  “You sound hassled.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Okay, so here’s what I found out,” she said. “Another e-mail alert today. This one’s got some really juicy information dealing with that Internet article, the one about the supposed voodoo child-abduction and sex-abuse cult. The domain name associated with the article is real sketchy. It’s part of something called Odin. An underground Internet network full of shadowy postings and nefarious activities.”

  “I heard about this. It’s part of the dark net.”

  “Right. Well, let me give you a comparison. There’s this other site out there, pretty well-known, called Tor, where some of the content is legit, but other activities described on that web engine are questionable or illegal. But Odin? Trevor, it’s even worse. Practically everything that goes on Odin is criminal. Really vile, awful stuff. That’s where the article originated.”