by Lee Baldwin
Sorry I Missed You
Detective Garcia steps toward an apartment building in Santa Cruz, his unmarked cruiser angled in amid the mix of Police vehicles, the County Coroner, a paramedic van. A TV news truck stops, its driver has a few words with a cop, drives on. It’s a bright November morning, already warm. For once the detective has slept enough to feel normal. Flashes his shield at the Santa Cruz PD officer outside the second-floor apartment
The Coroner and a uniform cop at a bedroom door look up.
“Hey, Garcia, what brings you here?” The speaker is Reggie Shoates from the Coroner’s office. He holds a bulky digital camera and a tablet computer.
“Hey Reg. Got a call.”
“From us?”
“Dispatch. They picked up your guy’s name. I interviewed him a few days ago. I’d like to review the scene with you.”
“Really. What was the beef?”
“Jane Doe homicide in San Jose. PD there found an abandoned car, deceased female in the trunk. There was a job ticket from a body shop over here. Your guy Hermon worked it. I talked to him.”
“Sure, look around. Everything check out?”
“Seems like. Got a cause?”
“Mph. Need an autopsy. No wounds or forced entry. Guy fell on his face after showering. Yesterday, maybe. Daughter let herself in.”
Garcia looks at his tablet. “Guy’s not that old, eh? Forty-three.”
“Bob’s your uncle. We’ll send the autopsy your way.”
“I’ll just look around.”
Garcia has his own white cotton gloves, slips them on. The two-bedroom apartment is neat. Bag of what looks like dirty laundry by the door, ready to go. Ordinary sofa, flat screen TV, sound system, model cars and planes on a shelf, kid stuff, but put together right and detailed with precision. Couple nice-looking boats in bottles on polished wooden stands, not kid stuff. Fridge has a takeout pizza box, beer, milk, condiments, microwave dinners in the freezer, frozen pot roast. Guy lives alone, no lady, works all week.
The bedroom’s more interesting, Hermon unmoving on the floor face down in a bath towel, bed neatly made, photos of him with a woman on the wall, with a young girl, the daughter maybe, the three of them on the boardwalk, could be Capitola. Smiling. Alive. The part Garcia secretly can’t take, the interrupted life.
Notices something in the guy’s fingers, hand raised as though holding it when he fell. Calls out.
“Hey, Reg, come in here?”
Shoates appears in the doorway. Garcia is crouched at the guy’s head, looking at a folded orange flyer in Hermon’s unmoving fingers.
“Anybody take a look at this?”
“Restaurant menu from downtown.”
“When I interviewed Hermon, he mentioned seeing one of these in a car he opened up for a customer. It wasn’t in our scene inventory.”
Shoates hands Garcia an evidence bag. “Look if you want, no touchie.”
Garcia’s white-gloved hand flips him the bird, grips the orange paper. Beneath the Sea Snake logo, in a woman’s handwriting, a phone number. Looks up, the Coroner is in the other room.
“Hey Reg?”
Shoates comes in. “Need you to step out, Garcia. Gonna move him.”
Garcia stands, holding the evidence baggie and the takeout menu. “Hermon described seeing this in the Jane Doe car. Didn’t tell me he took it.”
Shoates shrugs. “Maybe she gave him her number.”
“Sure, but why tell me like it was some lost clue?”
Couple guys squeeze into the room, unroll a body bag. Garcia watches from the narrow hallway while they turn Hermon over.
“Hey!” Three men utter the word at once. One shouts out, “Chief, you gotta see this. Carpet under this guy is like charcoal!”
Garcia takes this in. Beneath the spot where Hermon’s torso rested on the tan nylon carpet, a triangular discoloration roughly matches the shape of his chest. It’s a burn spot, almost black. A waft of something odorous. The flesh appears cooked, patch of hair missing.
Shoates pushes through, stands over the corpse. Garcia turns his attention to the guy’s face. The expression. Two days ago Hermon at the body shop had that tough-guy look, ready to deal with anyone who crossed him. Now dead for maybe a day, Hermon’s face is that of someone completely at peace. Searching for the right description, Garcia steps down on the word that wants to come. Angelic.
The detective pulls out his phone, lifts the evidence baggie with the menu, dials the handwritten number. Two rings and Garcia gets the message.
“You got Clay. Say something interesting, maybe I’ll get back to you.”
Garcia punches out, shakes his head. What are the odds, same guy lands on my radar twice in two days? Gotta pay him another visit.
Take Her for a Ride
Tharcia kicks bare legs free of the sleeping bag. Too hot. It is past noon, Clay up hours ago, his side of the bed made. Stretches, reaches from a shopping bag a new pair of black leggings, pulls the stretchy fabric up her legs. Goddess Culture T-shirt not too wrinkly. Walks to the kitchen, decides it’s a strong coffee morning, starts the water. The day is dark outside, cold in the house. She pokes at the fire.
On the sofa a newspaper, Santa Cruz Sentinel, folded open to a story from Washington D.C., supposedly from leaked U.S. Military communications about an intruder in the Pentagon.
The Pentagon?
There’s an aerial photo of the five-sided building with a circle over the courtyard in the middle. Holding the newspaper, Tharcia sits down hard. She flash-reads the article, which continues over two pages, starts again at the beginning. In her chest a rapid flutter. No. It can’t be true! Staring at the photo, her head spins. But it’s all built on rumor, no government confirmation. Sees the intrusion was four days ago, relaxes, no connection with her spell, yesterday. Deep breath.
Her coffee is ready. Studying the paper, she’s taken her first sip when there’s a firm knock on the door. She heard no car drive up. Peers through the window, sees a man on the first step down, not near the door. Very handsome, nicely dressed, full head of ash-blonde hair. She opens the door a crack.
“Hello,” she says. “You’re not from around here.” His eyes remind her of Clay.
The man grins, perfect teeth in the face of a Greek statue. “You might say that. Sorry to disturb you, miss. I have a message from Father Tilton.”
Tharcia pulls the door wider. “What’s up?” She’s not ready for an interruption, wants to search the news about this Pentagon thing.
“He explained your difficulty. With your bedroom. Said you might be needing the services of a clairvoyant.”
Tharcia nods, remembers what Tilton said. The man’s voice smooth, his manner so calm, non-threatening. She steps out onto the porch. Glances toward Clay’s shop. It is closed up, Clay’s car nowhere in sight.
“A clairvoyant. Someone who…”
“Can see things at great distances.”
“Yes.”
“As I have seen you from very far away. May I introduce myself?” The pleasant man takes a confident step toward her, extending his hand. Tharcia reaches out. The man much taller than she. But he does not take her hand in polite greeting, his fingers instead lock her slender wrist in a too-tight grip. His face looms menacing above her. The day darkens, wind-whipped clouds rush across the sun. Fear washes her heart. Her cup hits the porch, coffee splatters.
“I am the one you foolishly summoned, Tharcia Anne Harrison. I shall take you to a mountain, and you shall cast yourself down.” The voice thunders through gritted teeth, as though originating among sharp rocks in a deep cavern. Tharcia’s knees sag, her composure gone she screams tries to pull away. Then it’s like a movie, a nightmare, the big man lifting into the air. Wrist locked in iron, her body follows after, screaming screaming screaming as dark wings extend above his shoulders, his face morphs into a scaly lizard’s beak. The nice clothes rip away, his body reptilian, a covering of dark scales, clawed feet, muscled legs. She gets a look at the rib
bed menace that swings from his crotch.
Shrieking her lungs out, Tharcia is pulled through a twisting maze of dark tunnels, body jerked side to side, shirt flapping, hair flying out behind. They speed past red-lit caverns, glimpses of naked bodies being wrenched apart, wild screams and urgent gruntings, scent of blood, deep callous laughter.
Suddenly, they are stopped. He releases her wrist. Tall before her stands the enormous winged thing. A broad treed courtyard surrounds them. Looking up at him, her mind tells her to runrunrunrunrun. Her legs do not respond.
“Here is where you summoned me, and here is where it ends.” The huge scaly head looms above her, the voice a demon snarl.
“But I didn’t…” Trembling and afraid, Tharcia takes a halting step back, ready to pee herself.
“You did this!” The demon bellows leaning down, the stink of hot breath in her nostrils. “You labored many weeks to accomplish it, thinking you would hide from me with your clever time-shift. Your sand has run out, I am going to kill you now. Slowly. I shall drink your fear. You shall have no Devil’s Bargain, here awaits you only Death.”
“No! Wait! I’m sorry! I didn’t know!”
The horned and scaled head glares down with black and accusing red-rimmed eyes. She takes a step backward, transfixed at the horror. Please let this be a dream.
The enormous lizard-being laughs. “This is indeed a dream, the one you mortals always long for. Your dream of power. Fame. Riches and beautiful lovers. And you shall never cross that threshold. An eternity of torment awaits you in the talons of my demons.” A hand the size of a truck tire reaches down, clawed thumb and fingers grip her delicate perfect head, begin to squeeze.
Small hands scrabbling frantic on the hard scales, she feels the terrible pressure build, red darkness closing in when from her throat is ripped a sound, a prayer, a single word she does not recognize and has never known. She screams it now with everything she has.
“Lian! It’s me!”
The Security Trailer
“Play that back! Did you see? Last two minutes!” Army Lt. Alan Jackson, Incursion Observation Security Lead, looks around at the wall monitors, his security team. Judging from the collective reaction of others in the room, he’s nearly certain everyone saw events as he had. He wants a review for benefit of the Psych Evaluator who was attached to his security team mere hours ago. Yet another jarring change in a long day of unpleasant duties and stressful assignments.
The room is dark except for the light of two dozen security monitors. Fourteen civilian and uniform personnel attempt to work in a space usually occupied by eight. The atmosphere is tense. Everyone under headsets has halted their routine chatter about views, activities, feeds, events. Jackson is intent on the main monitor. As playback begins, he and the others are silent in personal capsules of disbelief.
Three days ago Jackson’s crew had occupied the quietest place at the Pentagon, the Integrated Emergency Operations Center. Protected by a series of electronic doors, guarded by an armed detail and open only to cleared personnel, operatives in that facility go about their work in a measured, professional way, with checks and double-checks, seeing everything inside and outside the vast complex, communicating with other departments through encrypted channels. Everything by the numbers.
Now Jackson’s security team occupies a sixty-three foot truck trailer at the far reaches of the Pentagon parking lot, parked near the yacht basin. A completely new production vehicle housing a native 720p and 1080i format video suite, the trailer had been in reserve, an idle fallback measure until the sudden exodus of all Pentagon officers and staff. Then, the portable facility came quickly online. The unit is capable of monitoring all wireless Pentagon security cameras, can record 120 simultaneous digital channels, its audio control room capable of handling over 1294 separate wireless sources. One of the largest production and routing switcher systems in the world, all packed into a dark green trailer now surrounded by four APCs and rings of armored, sandbagged Marines.
“He disappeared again, Chief.” One of the operators states the obvious. The Psych Eval officer had encouraged observational chatter. Not everyone in the trailer had been watching the moment the smartly-dressed man vanished from his position in the Pentagon courtyard. It was not the first such. During three days of standing motionless, the lone figure had abruptly vanished and reappeared eleven times for short periods. Each time, he had returned to the identical pose and location. He did not walk away. He disappeared like a movie effect.
Teams and consultants have spent hundreds of hours theorizing why the man leaves, and where he goes. Someone had fired a rifle into the courtyard during an interval when he was absent. Those projectiles like the others now hang suspended in midair.
“Wide view.”
“Still not there.”
Jackson keys a mic. “All Incursion Team alert to channel 494. Playback of anomalous courtyard event.” His terse announcement will call a team of senior officers to follow his live incident report.
Excited voice of another technician. “Something is there! Definitely not human. Holding a woman.”
What appears on their video monitors is no man, but a grotesque creature three times a man’s height. Leathery, talon-tipped wings project from the massive back. A collective gasp in the hushed compartment as the macabre creature grips huge clawed fingers around the delicate head of a small female. Activity in the trailer freezes as the girl struggles futilely to free herself. She screams something. The huge hand releases her. She collapses.
“That thing was talking chief.”
“We heard,” Jackson agrees. “What did it say?”
“Didn’t get it.”
“Don’t recognize the dialect.”
“Sorry, missed it.”
Abruptly the massive creature shrinks, returns to human size, human form. The smart clothing reappears, the man drops to one knee. Supports the limp female in his arms.
“Play it back again!”
“What are we seeing everybody?” The psychologist’s voice commands the room as the sequence repeats.
“We see a man vanish, reappear minutes later. Very large winged monster. Dragon. With a girl or woman. We hear him talking and her pleading.”
Other voices add and rephrase. “Wings with claws on their tips.” A chorus of assent ripples the shocked room.
“What’s that on her shirt?” Jackson wants to know.
“It says Goddess something.”
“Culture,” another adds. “Goddess Culture.”
“Goddess Culture? Is that a band? A movement? Is it a website? A deodorant? A Petri dish? Find out!”
“What are they doing now?” The Psych Eval officer asks. He knows damn well what they see.
“It’s holding her by the head.”
“She said something,” Jackson again. “Did we get that?”
Sounds in the courtyard come over the audio, sounds of a scuffle, heavy breathing. The girl screams something.
“What was that?”
“A name? Sounded like Leon.”
“Sounded like a woman’s name. Leanne.”
“Lion, maybe, and something else.”
“Isolate on her face,” Jackson orders. “Get that woman to FBI Face Recognition. I want her in front of every Federal and Police agency in the country. Tell them to search passports, northeast airport cameras, DMV. I want her name now!”
“DMV, yes sir. Of what states?”
“All of them. Run ethnicity analysis. We need to know who that is.”
“Damn, Chief, she’s gonna be dead in a second.”
“Either way, get me a damn name!”
Jerry’s Way
Nine hours into the Whalesong decoding at Next History. Carl’s machine sounds a tone. “Whalesong seventy-two is in.” He reads silently, then begins to summarize for the team.
“This is a kind of encyclopedia. The first part describes a storehouse of information,” Carl says. “It suggests that early peoples had access to the
history of pre-creation. There’s a term for it. Akasha, or primary substance.”
Sami perks up. “History of pre-creation?”
“I’d read the history of procreation,” Gary says with a grin. “Illustrated, of course.”
“Akasha is Sanskrit,” says Jerry, the team linguist. “Can mean sky or space.”
“Ah. So this primary substance, this akasha, holds a store of knowledge.” Carl reads silently as the group waits. “This says there is knowledge encoded in a non-physical plane of existence.”
“What!”
“Sounds like theosophy,” Sami puts in.
Everyone looks at Sami strangely although Jerry nods. “Sure, akasha can mean divine wisdom. I’ve seen it used as the aggregate of knowledge that underlies the universe. Sometimes said to hold all past and future events.”
“Sanskrit wasn’t in your bio.” Strand aims a what the hey look at Jerry.
“Came up in my Southeast Asian Languages group. It’s the language most used in comparative religion.”
“Wait a minute,” Sami says, “non-physical plane of existence?”
“All past and future events?”
“That’s what it’s getting at,” Gary says. “I can’t wrap my head around it. Let’s step back a second. We have one hundred and eight messages, and here’s one that hints at a record supposedly of all knowledge in the universe? Did the whales get these messages from that record?”
Still reading from his screen, Carl breaks in. “This says that animals with a neocortex can directly access the akasha.”
“But let’s not forget the larger situation,” Strand reminds them. “We have seven thousand whales that show up with strings of numbers tattooed on their bodies. This scares the bejeezus out of me.”
Nervously, Gary cracks, “Is bejeezus the technical term?”
Strand ignores him. “But if I stay focused on facts, ask myself where this information could have come from, I get one answer.”
“The whales…”
“I studied brain structures in mammals,” Jerry says. “Carl’s Whalesong mentions the neocortex. It’s the latest part of the mammalian brain to develop. Responsible for the evolution of intelligence. In most mammals, including humans, the neocortex has six layers. A whale’s neocortex has only five, which some scientists use to claim that the whale brain is not as evolved as the human.”