by Lee Baldwin
“Mr. Clay, what is her name, what do you know about her?”
“Lillian. Insurance adjuster from Virginia she said.”
“Lillian. Surname?”
Clay shakes his head. Garcia curses, looking around the clearing, making his habitual mental catalogue of places, faces, things. His own official car, a faded blue El Camino looks like it’s not driven, a yellow Mazda sedan with a surfboard rack, an older model Lexus Coupe. No name.
“Mr. Clay this is most disturbing. Parts of your story make sense. Your GPS and phone records place you here the night before this Jane Doe, Lillian, was found dead. I spoke to one of the individuals you called, and he also placed you here on the night in question. We have your DNA from her car, but no one at the Sea Snake can place you there that night.”
“Well I suggest you go back. Ask about two people downing tequila shots and leaving together. Around nine, last night.”
Garcia’s intuition is to arrest Clay on suspicion of insanity. But there is too much doesn’t add up. He starts down the steps.
“I believe I am about to do that, Mr. Clay.”
“That’s not the woman I was out with. Can’t be. Just saw her.”
The detective can only shake his head. As Garcia drives away, a random thought strikes him. Bizarre, absurd. After his second round of interviews at the Sea Snake Brew Pub, perhaps he’ll check the morgue, see if Mark Hermon has somehow come back to life.
Who’s Her Daddy?
“So, report. What have you got on Tharcia Harrison?” From his field office in San Francisco, Special Agent in Charge Averill Constantine’s voice crackles on the secure conference call.
“Her trail stops at her old address. Agents made a visit there, found the new owner living at the residence. The property sale checks out fully. Except for…”
“We looked at USPS,” another agent cuts in. “No mail was forwarded in either of those names.”
“The mother worked for Santa Clara County Parole Division,” says a third. “Killed in line of duty. The daughter picked up a family award check in person.”
“You couldn’t trace her from the sale of the house?”
“What I’m trying to tell you,” the first agent says. “Home was listed by a Realtor named Jalinda Burroughs. She gave us a phone number, a Verizon cell unit registered to the old home address.”
“Where are the phone bills going?”
“Auto-debit from a checking account in the mother’s name. Phone bills the only activity for a year. Address still the same.”
“What do the phone records tell us?”
“Her GPS trace is frequently near Felton, California. We have teams in a one mile area.”
“Get agents on foot there.”
“Three agents covering the terrain by bicycle now sir, it’s the fastest way.”
“Good, what else?”
Another agent cuts in. “Title company for the sale was Frontier National Title. Daughter signed documents at their office on Camden Street, back in March. Escrow check was picked up in person by the daughter. We’re tracking where that was deposited. I visited the title company and they showed me that the grant deed was recorded and mailed to the new owner at the address, approximately seven weeks after the sale. It was recorded incorrectly. The purchase date was off by ten years at County. Shows the Rodriguez couple purchasing the home before Hannah Harrison bought it, an obvious error.”
“The daughter didn’t update her driver’s license or vehicle registration.”
“Well I hope she gets stopped. At least a parking ticket.”
“We have her plate number. No citations. Put it on the radar of all northern California police, Sheriff and Highway Patrol. Next time she goes to buy a tampon, we’re bringing her in.”
“How did she get out East?”
“Flew, probably.”
“None of the airport surveillance cameras picked her up.”
“Keep working it. Little blonde chicks don’t disappear. Not in this man’s country.”
“We turned up her aunt’s address. San Fernando Valley, California. An agent goes there, learns she is living with her father.”
“But Harrison was single.”
“Did she ever file a tax return? Social Security number?”
“Who is the supposed father?”
“Cicero Clay, lives in Felton, California. Paroled felon. Same grid as her GPS.”
“Felon eh? Find a way to bring him in.”
“Not that simple, chief. His arrest and conviction were overturned. He received compensation for that.”
“We turned up something else on the girl, Chief. A legal motion was filed with the Santa Clara County Adoptions branch. Someone claiming to be Harrison’s natural father has come forward, wants to adopt. Sending photo images across now.”
“Is the daughter underage?”
“She’s nineteen according to DMV.”
They wait a few seconds while images cross the link.
“Hey, looks like our guy in the pentagon.”
“This guy is older. Close enough for a family resemblance. Hair a possible disguise.”
“Pretty damn convincing. Better talk to him. Chester Porterfield. He goes on our watch list.”
Mole in the Hole
“Playback! What the hell just happened?” In the security trailer, Lieutenant Alan Jackson is pushing his team hard. With the many camera angles at their disposal, he wants to sort through all of them, review the peculiar events as a group to ensure nothing is missed. Unobtrusively, the psych evaluator observes facial reactions and body language of personnel in the trailer during each replay.
“The big bad monster changed back, sir. He’s a man again.”
“Talk straight Gibson! Psych Eval, is everybody seeing that?”
Jackson’s security team has been at this duty for thirty hours with little rotation. Turbulence in the streets and highways has blocked traffic, injected personal challenges into every life. Civilians are not the only ones affected. Team members are beyond mere exhaustion. Jackson has commandeered a rock group’s tour bus to provide local rotating rest breaks and meals. It will be available within the hour.
“Incoming!” A voice announces. A woman in uniform shirt and slacks, pulled-back hair and a black work case is visible on the security monitor outside. She stands easy as she’s body-scanned by two armored Marines.
“Got it. IT tech, she’s with us.”
“Up or down vote everyone, now!” The psychologist’s voice booms over the team’s headsets.
“Aye.”
“Yea.”
“Yes”
“Up, sir.”
No abstentions or dissenting votes, everyone sees the same thing.
The IT technician enters the crowded trailer, squeezes her way through sandwiched chairs where too many security officers crowd before too few workstations. She goes about her business efficiently, doesn’t have to take anyone’s system down, patches into USB and video data ports, uses her meter and test probes, moves along quickly. Checking the network for planted superbugs, Trojans, wormlets, bots. As she works, she sees many images on the center’s displays: Tharcia with Lian as a 20-foot winged monster, with Lian as a hunky guy in slacks. While she works, she silently makes note of everything.
“The woman fainted sir, he’s holding her in his arms.”
“Fainted? Then why is she talking?” This question has been asked many times.
“Close-up, someone get me a close-up.”
“Her eyes are shut but her lips are moving.”
“What’s wrong with this audio? What is she saying?”
“We don’t know, sir.”
“When do we get a linguist in here?”
“I have reminded them sir. Resources are stretched thin.”
“Remind them this is priority. I need this in clear now!”
Quietly, with a nod to Jackson and an OK sign, the IT tech leaves. Jackson’s eyes cup her bootie as she turns for the exit. Unknow
n to everyone, a flash drive in her test kit now holds every image that hit a monitor during her entire 10-minute stay.
The Evening News
A network news telecast that evening opens on the graying, avuncular anchor known to a billion people worldwide. His usual bright smile is strained as he welcomes viewers to the program.
“Good evening. Our broadcast into American homes tonight is going to be devoted to a detailed rundown of developments over the last week nationwide, events which have affected many of you watching this evening. If not, you know people who have experienced or witnessed unusual, sometimes frightening, behavior.
“Five days ago, there was an unexplained evacuation of the Pentagon in Virginia. As you know, the Pentagon is the headquarters of the United States Department of Defense and the world’s largest office building. It is the workplace of some 25,000 people normally and as many of you know directly or indirectly, the building has been empty for the last five days. Government sources are tight-lipped about the reason for this. The airspace over the building, tightly controlled since the attacks of nine-eleven, has been closed completely over a wide radius.
“That same morning, it was discovered that pop singer Annetka, admired by billions of music lovers around the world, was murdered with three others in her New York City apartment. The details of that horrific event are by now well known. A similar scene was found at a film star’s residence in Malibu, California, where three were killed. Fourteen similar crime scenes have since emerged, not only in this country, but around the world. Authorities can provide no cause or motive for these macabre killings. The single linking factor is the beauty and allure, and often the extreme financial success of those who are the victims of this unknown killer.
“Turning to events nationwide, we report some statistical anomalies. Murders in all 50 states are up more than double, ranging from incidents of road rage to crimes of passion among friends and family members. Rapes are down to near zero, which is completely unheard of. An epidemic of public sex between consenting adults has broken out, and has caused many parents to keep their children home from school. This after one school principal took a grade 5 teacher into a lavatory and had sex with her.
“Car crashes are so frequent that towing companies are adding jobs, some wanting to triple the available drivers. These companies are offering signing bonuses to qualified people. Some employers are asking their workers to stay home and telecommute wherever possible, to keep themselves off the highways.
“Police forces are strained to breaking and many cities have asked their state governments for emergency funds to return peacekeepers and emergency workers to the job after the many recent layoffs. Unfortunately, these police departments and other first responders have not been immune to the crime wave. Crimes of passion, sexual fugues, and other violence have visited emergency workers even while on duty.
“Congress is stalemated on the need to provide emergency aid for things that haven’t happened yet. The latest filibuster turned into a physical brawl during which three Senators were sent to the hospital, one with serious knife wounds.
“The President, not waiting for any help from our nation’s leadership, has called out the National Guard in six states. One deployment was delayed when the division’s team of three senior officers left their posts and checked into a hotel room with uppers and champagne.
“We break now for an emergency appeal from the Red Cross, and we ask that those of you who can will give generously. God willing, we’ll be back in a moment.”
Let’s Make a Deal
“Lylit told me we are supposed to make a bargain. Is that what you mean?”
Tharcia sits on a courtyard bench, Lian beside her in tailored slacks. To him sitting is no different than standing. Although heavy rain falls, the courtyard remains dry. Tharcia, in her Goddess Culture T-shirt and black tights, legs crossed lotus fashion, finds the air comfortably warm.
Tharcia liked Lylit. Seemed a sensible woman. Except for the inside-her-head thing, she felt a kinship. A woman as old as the universe? Unlikely, but she would like to meet this Lylit face to face.
It has taken Tharcia some time to get used to the language. She hadn’t realized at first that Lian and Lylit were speaking a strange tongue, but after listening a while, her brain clicked it into focus. The language of the spell, the language she’d learned on the CD in her car the night those skritchy-skritchy noises chased her from the house. The harder she tries to listen, the less she comprehends. When she stops trying, meaning flows to her and she’s able to respond without thinking about words.
Lian nods. High above in gray sky he follows wide looping arcs of two winged craft. They have held station above the building since an hour after his arrival, watching, waiting.
“That is the nature of the spell you cast. You summoned me to make a bargain.”
“A bargain. Did it also turn my bedroom into a deep freeze?”
“Oh that. Some of Lylit’s demon friends have a warped sense of humor. We can get rid of it.”
“Really? Is it hard?”
Lian shrugs. “It’s done. But back to the bargain. Your spell demands this, it’s one of the oldest rules. The usual thing is, I grant whatever the petitioner wants for the rest of their life, in exchange for their eternal soul. So ask away. Money, friends, adulation, achievement, beautiful lovers, supernal talents. You name it I can get it for you wholesale. And get on with my work.”
“My spell? Don’t put that on me!”
“It is the spell you cast. I can’t leave until I grant what you ask.”
“Well, I didn’t pick it. Your girlfriend picked it.” Tharcia tells him how she found the handwritten poem, how it had sounded like nonsense syllables when she read it aloud in Clay’s shop. “Also, there was this dream. I spoke to a woman who said she was my secret twin. She said I needed a larger pentagram. She sounded like Lylit.”
“But you came here to summon me. It was your intention.”
“Yes, only I didn’t come here. I did it at my house.”
Lian shakes his head slowly. “Humans are becoming unreasonably powerful. And how did it happen that it took three days for me to find you?”
“No idea. But please don’t scare me like that, ever. I only wanted to talk to my mom.” Tharcia does not associate Lian’s question with the fact that she uttered the spell while gazing at the Pentagon on Clay’s laptop, its clock three days in the past.
“Your mother has passed into Spirit. What would you say to her?”
“Stuff between us. My mom was very bad in life. I figured she is a demon by now and I could conjure her.”
Lian throws back his head with a pleased laugh. “It doesn’t work that way. Except for the ones who were created in the beginning, a good demon takes eons to develop. Like achieving sainthood.”
“Can you really not hurt her? She doesn’t deserve it. Things happened to her in life, you know.”
“Mortals have such a mixed-up view of things. Do you suppose she is in hell?”
“Dude, where else?”
“Aside from the fact there is no such place? She has rejoined One Spirit, the universal consciousness, as all living beings do. Your mother is fine.”
“Well I still want to talk to her. I want to take care of her. But what is this bargain we’re supposed to do?”
“We’ll come back to that. There are things you must understand. You wonder where your mother can be. She still exists, but she is not in a body. There are many mythological, religious, philosophical, and psychological descriptions of human essence. We’re talking about the incorporeal essence of a person, which holds the record of their life.”
“The soul?”
“Nearly so. There is so much folklore about that word. You’ll be clearer if you call it consciousness. Or Spirit. The vital breath within all living things.”
“Consciousness. Do animals have souls?”
“Well, yes, but that term will confuse you. Consciousness is fluid until it take
s mortal form. Ego does not exist until consciousness takes human form. So if you think of your cat as going to heaven, you are confusing concepts. The cat’s consciousness goes back to One Spirit. But animals don’t have ego.”
“Where does ego come from?”
“I invented it.”
“Wait wait. You invented the ego?”
“Not exactly. The Creator made it, I marketed it. The Creator made me work hard, as with the other supreme angels, as you call them.”
“So the ego, why did you want one?”
“When I became separated from Lylit, I was lonely. Powerfully so. I gave myself an ego, the center of self-realization. The Creator provided the ego as a survival tool for mortals, for self-preservation. But I overdid it. The ego’s vital purpose is to build a strong dynamic self. In my loss, mine took control, and caused me to forget about gratitude. For a time, I saw myself as above everything. Found myself in disagreement with the Creator. I was told to take some time out.”
“Time out. So how was it after?”
“Mm. Still going on.”
“How do you feel about that?” A question Tharcia’s psychologist often falls back on.
“I feel fine. Most humans assume that I hate the Creator. The Creator and I are closer than you could understand. We respect each other well. We have the same intentions for the universe but our approaches do not agree at this time.”
“Different approaches to what? Didn’t this Creator like the way you run hell?”
“Please get off the hell thing. The Creator and I both value free will in mortals. We both want to see the design of mortal beings become perfected.”
“Huh? You mean we’re not done yet?”
“Not nearly so. Humans presume that creation took place in an instant. To the Creator it is a process of eternity, ever incomplete. The Creator and I are unwilling to force people to a particular decision. We hope that they will properly educate themselves and become complete. We both desire for mortal beings to see the truth.”
“Dude, what does being complete look like to you?”