by Andrew Mayne
McAllister points to the screen. “Right now we don’t have a lot of information. Tropical Storm Esmeralda wasn’t particularly powerful. But it hit this region really hard.”
A woman five seats down from me speaks up. “How exactly did these people die?”
McAllister’s expression is anguished. “The river overflowed its banks. It wiped them away.”
“They really didn’t see this coming?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “You can usually predict how much rise you’re going to get based on the size of the storm. The problem is they live in a deep valley where small changes in vegetation can affect how much water gets absorbed versus how much comes rolling down the hills. In this case it was a lot.”
“It looks like a dam broke,” says a senior agent from across the table.
“The upriver floodgates are intact,” McAllister explains. “It appears the storm just dropped a lot of water in this area.”
The agent who called this meeting stands up and thanks McAllister, then introduces himself.
“I’m David Collins. The assistant deputy has appointed me to head up this task force. Right now we’re trying to wrap our heads around what this is about. The people behind the Devon tapes haven’t made any demands or expressed any ideological aims outside of what we’ve seen. So we’re in the dark for motive.
“Our computer forensics people are trying to find out the source of the videos. While we’ve now made it a priority to determine the method of the prediction, we already had an agent investigating. She’s here to brief us on what we know so far.”
Crap, he’s talking about me! I wouldn’t call this stage fright as much as stage terror. Usually, I’m much more prepared for this sort of thing.
Usually, there’s not already a body count on my watch.
“Blackwood?” He nods in my direction.
I walk slowly to the podium and try to put together a presentation I didn’t know I had to give. All eyes in the room are on me. The best I can do is give everyone bullet points of the facts.
“As you know, Peter Devon has been dead for several years. Before he died, he became something of a recluse. We haven’t found anyone yet who had contact with him right before he passed away.”
“Not even neighbors?” asks Collins, immediately putting me on the spot by letting me know this is his question-and-answer session, and I better have some answers.
“We’re looking into that now.” I’m planning to, so it’s not a lie—not exactly. “I just spoke with three people who have worked with him in the past, two of whom are in federal custody. As far as how he’s managed these predictions, bear in mind that the first prediction was released after the fact. We have no reason to believe he actually knew the time and date of the DC earthquake.” I realize the images of the flood are on the screen behind me. “This instance is far more specific than we anticipated.”
That’s an understatement.
“How’d he do it?” asks Collins.
He’s trying to keep the spotlight on me. “How’d he do what?” I ask.
“Know all the people were going to die.”
I pause. “I don’t know.” Three words I hate to say. But it’s the honest truth.
“No idea at all?” asks Collins, shooting Ailes a reproving stare.
Don’t pull him into this! That’s bullshit. I can fight this battle.
“I could only speculate.”
“Well, then speculate. We’re all dying to hear what our own expert has to say.”
I get it. This fell into Collins’s lap and he’s trying to cover his ass by making me look incompetent. This way he can buy himself time by saying how much he’s had to fix because of my meddling.
I throw the focus back on him. “The specifics of meteorology and hydrology are outside my areas of expertise.”
“So, what can you contribute, Blackwood?” He rolls his eyes to show everyone he just landed a zinger.
What. A. Dick. He’s trying to assert his authority by calling me onto the carpet. It’s a show of force. It’s weak. I’m being humiliated for not having the answers he knows I haven’t had a chance to get.
Focus, Jessica. You’ve been through this before. You know how to handle it. Stay calm. Stick to the facts. If those don’t work, baffle them with bullshit.
I change my tone, mimicking the professorial cadence Ailes uses. “There are only three possibilities as far as I see them. One”—I look around the room, making sure everyone knows I’m laying out the facts—“he got a one-in-a million lucky guess. I don’t buy it, but it’s possible. Two”—another dramatic pause, write this down, kids—“he really has some way to predict these things.” I raise a very skeptical eyebrow, letting them know what I think of that theory. “Or three.” I gaze above their heads as I say the words, because I don’t want to face them for this part. It’s too absurd, but the only other conceivable option. “He, or rather the people behind it, caused the flooding.”
“God?” Collins scoffs.
“No.” I stare right at him. “I mean they did something to make the storm deadlier.”
“How in the hell do you do that?” he replies.
“Like I said, that’s the question. If I had all those answers, we wouldn’t need this meeting, nor would you be here.” I see Ailes wince, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to be Collins’s whipping boy. “What’s your theory?”
He holds up his hands. “I’ve only been on this for two hours.”
“If I may make a suggestion,” Ailes speaks up. Thank god. “It’s not as outlandish as it seems.”
“Really?” Collins replies. He almost does a double-take. “Illuminate me.”
I can’t tell if he’s a true jerk, or if he’s just afraid of this mess falling in his lap.
“A large area of defoliated hillside would increase the likelihood of flooding or landslides,” Ailes explains. “This is a common problem in third world countries due to deforestation or bad land management. A loss of vegetation increases the kind of damage you can get. A more extreme but still plausible explanation is cloud seeding. Someone could increase the hourly rainfall that way, overwhelming any kind of drainage. Or, on a simple level, you could have a problem like New Orleans did in Hurricane Katrina, where the levees just aren’t able to support the surge.”
“They said the floodgates were intact,” Collins interjects.
“I know. I’m just illustrating that Agent Blackwood’s observation was quite on the mark. I believe that’s at least three man-made ways you could magnify the effect of the storm. But like you”—Ailes dramatically checks his watch—“we’ve only had a few hours since the storm hit to make our guess.”
Damn. Ailes just put this jerk on the ropes and showed him for what he was. We’re the ones trying to solve things, and Collins is the guy getting in the way. I still feel guilty as hell for not doing more, but at least Ailes has my back out here. This kind of shutdown is rare for him. But it only makes me feel worse.
Collins relents. “Fair enough. But we still don’t know how Devon predicted the storm.” He’s trying to put himself back in charge.
I speak up. “He didn’t.”
“Can you clarify?” He seems frustrated that I haven’t withered.
“Esmeralda had already formed and was on a track toward that area when the video was posted. Devon didn’t predict it. In fact, if you listen to the video again, he didn’t say how the people were going to die. He just gave us a number.”
“A very specific number,” says Collins.
“An approximate number. Based on the number of people in the affected area.”
Ailes decides to preemptively move things forward. “Perhaps it would be helpful if we sent a team down to Bolivia to find out what we can? Maybe someone from the FBI and a liaison from FEMA?”
I try to figure out if I have enough clean clothes at home for the trip.
Collins nods. “I think that would be wise. I’ll make contact with our Bolivian consulate
. Who do you have in mind?”
“I know the perfect person for the job,” Ailes says, as all eyes fall on me. He turns to Jennifer. “Agent Mathis speaks fluent Spanish and has a degree in engineering.”
My first reaction is a wave of relief. Then, deep down, a bit of jealousy seeps in. Has Ailes lost faith in me? I did sit on this longer than I should have.
“Blackwood, do you have anything more to add?” asks Collins.
I suppress my fear that I let Ailes down, and remember why he wants me here on the case. “Yes. A few important notes. As some of you may know, on the day of the earthquake a distraught woman showed up at an undercover stakeout where I was working and threatened to either kill me or the abducted infant she was holding. We found her body the next day. She had been murdered with a knife similar to the one I saw her brandishing when she accosted me. We now have reason to believe that she and possibly her assailants are members of a group known as the Red Chain.”
“How is this connected to Devon?” Collins asks, trying to understand where I’m going.
“It may or may not be. But the former head of the Red Chain, who claims to have information on Devon, is serving time in federal prison.”
“Did he contact us?” asks Collins.
“No. I visited him to investigate his connection with the Red Chain.”
“And did he acknowledge knowing the woman you had the altercation with?” Collins is sounding more skeptical.
“No. But, as I said, he claimed knowledge of Peter Devon.” I know this sounds weak.
So does Collins. His voice now takes on a note of condescension. “Did this man ask for any kind of clemency?”
I know where this is going. “Yes.” Collins is making me out for a fool.
And he’s right to. I just told him I made a visit to a random felon who claims to have insight into the man all over the television. Now I sound like an idiot.
“I know it’s specious. My point is there are two or more members of the Red Chain on the loose who may be acting under Winter’s orders and possibly coordinating with whoever is behind the Devon tapes.”
“Noted.” Collins doesn’t even bother with a rebuttal. “Anything else?”
I shake my head and leave the podium. I try to keep my composure. Some of the faces watching me seem sympathetic, others suspicious. They all know me, or at least my work. But they have no idea what to make of me.
Am I the real deal or someone who has luckily blundered through several high-profile cases?
I don’t know the answer to that one, either.
The meeting ends with the assignment of people and units to different task forces. I’m left out. I corner Ailes outside the conference room once everyone has gone their way.
“Why am I being pushed out of this?”
“You’re not. I’m sending Jennifer down there because this is in her area of expertise.”
If it’s rain gauges and levies, she’s got the mechanical edge, but I still feel like I’m being sidelined.
Ailes can see that I’m hurt. “I need all of you doing what you do best.”
“Okay. But what about the Red Chain? Do you believe the connection?” I nod to the conference room. “They looked at me like I was a lunatic.”
“They don’t know what to make of any of it, or you. I think there’s reason to believe there’s a connection. Gerald does too. We all do. We just need more information. But you heard how it sounded.”
I know. Crazy, out on a limb. My only saving grace is that they’re even more clueless than I am, and have no idea where to even begin.
“So now what?”
“Get me more on Devon. He may be dead, but somebody out there knows something. Find them.”
Chapter Nineteen
Psychometry
My life would be easier if magic were real. Standing in what was once Peter Devon’s living room, located in a two-story house in a little suburb a few blocks away from the train line, I stare at the empty shelves and bare floors, wishing I could really just touch something and get an impression of its owner, like I’d used to pretend I could with a borrowed set of keys, or a ring.
Psychometry, the apparent ability to divine information from touching an object, is one of those “blurry tricks,” as my dad used to call them. To half the audience, there was an element of truth. Unlike my grandfather’s psychic occult pendulum that was a bit of winking comic book hokum, the idea you can use some highly developed sense to pick up information from an object isn’t quite as farfetched. Any bloodhound worth her salt could take a whiff of my sneakers and know what park I run in, what kind of soap I use, and how much garlic I’d had for dinner the night before.
My own skills are considerably less developed. Devon’s former home has had several new occupants since he died, and is now vacant once again. Whatever physical traces he left behind have long since been bleached, vacuumed up, and painted over. His body was cremated, and his assets divided to the winds. An estate-sale company auctioned off whatever else was left. The bookshelf he sat in front of to make his predictions is now just a stark white wall of dusty cubbyholes. The only thing that remains of him is his ghostly electronic image. Although that’s quite a legacy.
Sure, there are plenty of little details around the house, but I think most of them were left by people who moved in later. I see an indentation in the hallway door frame from a childproof gate used to keep a toddler in her little prison yard. A patch of carpet in the corner looks as though it’s been clawed by a cat. A nearby wall sports deeper furrows, probably left by a family dog. My guess is the dog moved in after the cat and, frustrated by the scent it left behind, constantly tried to find it. Searching for something he couldn’t see.
I guess Devon is my invisible cat.
I came here to confirm that this is where Devon shot the videos and—a long shot—hopefully to find something else to tie them to him. I also want to talk to the neighbors, to see if anyone remembers him having visitors.
Nobody can recall the man.
Is this how I’ll be remembered? Not at all?
Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been surrounded by the notion that I will never be complete if I don’t marry. I reject this idea on principle. I see myself as fully realized, not needing someone to complete me. But in truth—as my footsteps echo around this vacant house—I think the idea of a partner isn’t so much about wholeness, but rather about giving your voice, your steps, your life a witness. Proving you exist.
I can count in years the time I’ve spent watching television shows I can’t remember, reading articles that don’t make a difference, flipping through catalogs of things I’ll never buy. Is that time wasted? I don’t know. I’m not sure if having someone by my side in a normal relationship would make my life more meaningful. But maybe it would make it count a little more.
I wonder if the first person to realize I’m dead will be the mailman who sees Amazon packages stacking up on my doorstep. This scares me more than I let on.
What if my apartment was a crime scene? What would another investigator notice?
Why did she need two different sizes of the same pair of heels? Was she too lazy to send the other back? (Fact.)
Why was she stockpiling so much bath salt under her sink? Did she have some kind of addiction? (I stress buy salt and candles when I’m in the grocery store after work.)
How can someone have so many recipes taped to their refrigerator, but have a stove that hasn’t been turned on in months? (Wishful thinking for an imaginary dinner party.)
I put aside my pathetic introspection and ask myself what I would like to find in Devon’s house.
Not just information about him. A clue to the person who is the bridge between Devon and the videos appearing online. Our missing link. That’s what I want.
But this person isn’t here.
Okay, so what traces could they, or Devon, have left that would last this many years?
It’s futile. But then, futility is my business.
My phone rings. It’s Ailes. “How’s it going?”
I was hoping to have something to report when he checked in. “I’m about to break out the Ouija board and try contact that way.”
“That well? I guess the trail is a bit cold.” He sounds sympathetic, not disappointed.
“The trail got bulldozed and paved over.” I inspect the empty living room, trying to imagine Devon sitting at the desk where he made his predictions.
“Don’t kill yourself. It’s not realistic to expect to find something after so long,” he consoles me.
“Yeah. Well. Sort of,” I grumble, suddenly reminded of something.
“What do you mean?”
“After Houdini died, occupants of his house were finding little love notes he wrote to his wife, Bess, for years. Tucked away behind the radiator, wedged into window jambs, they were everywhere.”
“Sounds like quite the romantic.” Ailes is impressed.
“He was. He was also a compulsive cheater constantly apologizing for his transgressions. Later on it was revealed he’d been carrying on an affair with Jack London’s wife, among others.”
“Oh. What a guy,” Ailes replies.
“Yeah. He’s still my hero, just not romantically.”
“Keep at it then. Maybe Devon left something behind that was overlooked.”
“I will.”
Ailes’s pep talk convinces me I shouldn’t give up. At the very least, he doesn’t think it would be the craziest thing to keep searching.
I hang up and walk through to the kitchen. I pull out the drawer under the oven to look at the floor. Dirty tile and bread ties. No credit card receipts, matchbooks, or business cards with I did it scrawled on the back.
After I push the drawer back, I use all my strength to slide the refrigerator away from the wall. There I find a Chinese menu and a dead cockroach. The menu looks recent; the cockroach isn’t talking.
I eye the radiator in the corner suspiciously. Did Devon have a secret lover? He never married. I’m not even sure if he was straight.