Song of Ariel: A Blue Light Thriller (Book 2) (Blue Light Series)

by Mark Edward Hall

  A nurse stepped out of the rear exit and onto the terrace. She stood behind the old man and watched for movement. When she saw none she went carefully to the chair and made as if to move it.

  “Please,” the old man whispered. “I wish to stay here, just a bit longer . . . if you don’t mind. Until my guest arrives.”

  The nurse moved around to the front of the chair and went down onto her haunches. “I thought you were sleeping,” she replied. “I was going to take you inside.”

  “I cannot talk in there,” the old man complained. “It is dangerous. They are listening.”

  The nurse made a noise of derision. She could not imagine who could be listening in a nursing home, how they would accomplish such a feat, and even if they could, why they would care what a dying old man had to say.

  “Still you doubt me, Holly,” the old man said. “I can tell by your expression.”

  “It’s so hot out here,” she said. “And your breathing is not good. You should be more careful with your health.”

  The old man emitted a short, wry laugh that turned into a deep asthmatic cough. “I am ninety-four years old,” he told her after the spasms had subsided. “Can you not find it in your heart to indulge an old man, please?”

  An almost unbearable stab of empathy seized the young nurse’s heart when she looked in his eyes. “What makes you so certain this one will come?” she said.

  “I have his word.”

  “Others have given their word.”

  The old man’s deep-set blue eyes were as sharp as daggers. “Yes, but this one is different . . . I have a feeling he will come. You will see.”

  “Very well then,” the nurse said with a weary exhalation. She smiled sadly and brushed the long, white, unkempt hair from the old man’s eyes with tenderness. She got up and left him sitting alone on the veranda, overlooking the back lawn where parched jacarandas and bougainvillea pushed out of the dry earth and hot wind whirled fine sand into tiny dust devils.

  “You are a good girl, Holly,” he said, but the noise of the laboring air conditioners covered his voice and she did not hear him speak.

  Indeed it was warm on the veranda, but at least the aluminum canopy offered shelter from the direct sunlight. There was a certain amount of satisfaction that went with being in the out-of-doors. As pitiful an excuse for the outdoors as this place was, it offered a certain measure of freedom that did not exist on the inside. Out here one could breath. It was a welcome respite from the sterile white Lysol cleanliness of the environment inside the air conditioned atmosphere that did nothing to hide the underlying odors of urine, feces, decay . . . death. Dr. Shutzenberger shuddered. At least out here he did not feel claustrophobic, he did not feel infirmed, and for a few precious moments each day he was reminded of his humanity; that he was one with the universe and that any and all of man’s efforts to the contrary could not change that simple truth. He could die here with these thoughts and be a happy man. He had nothing more to lose.

  In recent years nature had become increasingly inhospitable, Shutzenberger observed. He had been following the catastrophes on the television. Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, tsunamis, global warming, glacial depletion, floods, terrible acts of terrorism and war, new and deadly strains of killer viruses, man’s constant battles with members of his own species, and, his unprovoked attacks on nature. Shutzenberger believed he understood why this was happening. Man was an anomaly, an aberration, a blight on nature. Man existed not in harmony with nature, but in defiance of it. The planet was warming by degrees each and every year, and man’s insatiable greed was responsible, and in his ignorance and his arrogance he refused to see the reality. Long ago humanity had been given a final chance, and the powers-that-be had refused to act. Now, sadly, it was too late.

  There were no birds today, Shutzenberger observed, and few insects. It seemed they too had crawled back into whatever holes they lived and were waiting out the heat with the rest of the town. Perhaps they were waiting for something else entirely. There was an ominous quality in the air today. Shutzenberger sensed it. It had color, and substance, and it tasted of death. He knew the end was near. He had never doubted what he’d learned in New Mexico all those years ago. Others had doubted, but not Franz Shutzenberger. No, never. He knew this day would come.

  Too-dry palm fronds rustled in the torrid breeze, and the other indigenous plants, normally well kept by the home’s gardener—who seemed to have abandoned his duties in the face of the heat-wave—were now brown and wilted. Everything in the garden seemed beyond salvation. In the distance the San Joaquin River trickled like gray cesspool water through the center of a dry and cracked creek-bed.

  Shutzenberger clutched the magical object in his hand and marveled at the endless flow of exhilarating images that whirled through his mind. After all these years he could still make no logical sense of them but he knew in his heart that some were chillingly prophetic and that his knowledge about the fate of mankind was correct. The end was near. The being that had delivered the message had not lied, and he knew that the object did not lie.

  “Dr. Shutzenberger?” the young nurse said. “Your guest has arrived.” Shutzenberger came awake with a start. He had slept. For how long, he did not know. He quickly placed the object back inside the scrap of paper and closed his hand around it.

  It was an effort for Shutzenberger to lift his head high enough to view his standing guest, for the man was tall. But with a roll of his eyes he managed, and he smiled. The face he saw was boyish, though Shutzenberger suspected the young man to be at least thirty-five, the hair dark brown, straight, windblown, growing a little over the ears, the sleeves of his striped sport shirt were rolled up, wet beneath the armpits, the tie loose in the unbuttoned collar.

  “Mr. Cobain?” the old man inquired with a voice that was as cracked and dry as the distant creek-bed.

  “Yes, sir, I’m Johnny Cobain,” the young man replied, extending his hand.

  “I am Franz Shutzenberger,” the old man said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” After his hand had been extended for several seconds Cobain realized suddenly that Shutzenberger could not lift his arm, so he dropped his hand to his side a little too self-consciously. A gesture that did not go unnoticed by the old man. “I’m sorry,” Cobain said.

  “There’s no need. It is not your fault. They tell me I have suffered a series of strokes.” The old man managed a small shrug, as if to say it was of little consequence. He tried to lift his frail, liver-spotted hand in defiance of the reality, to no avail. It sat in his lap folded tightly, twitching spastically. He grunted in frustration, looking at Holly with small, bright azure eyes as the young nurse turned to leave.

  She took two steps, stopped and turned back around. “There are chairs, Mr. Cobain,” she said pointing to a stack of molded plastic seats against the back wall of the veranda near the door.

  “Thanks,” Cobain said, joining her.

  “You see what I was telling you?” she whispered.

  “Yes, but even so, I’m shocked. I knew he was old . . . but I was not prepared for the state of his condition. How much . . . time does he have?”

  The nurse frowned deeply. “Who knows? Six months ago he suffered a massive stroke. It would have killed any normal person. But he’s stubborn and he’s hung on. For what, I don’t know. The entire right side of his body is paralyzed, and he’s in denial. Now, he only wants to sit out here and broil in this heat. The air conditioning is far better for his condition but he refuses to listen to reason. He says they’re listening. Who’s listening, Mr. Cobain?”

  Cobain looked puzzled. “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

  “I think he’s been waiting for someone to confide in, if you want the truth. I believe it’s the only reason he’s hung on this long.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me?”

  The nurse paused in thought for a moment. “I’m not sure it has any significa
nce.”

  Cobain shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

  “Well, he’s been talking in his sleep. He keeps rambling on about some terrible thing that’s coming and how we were warned and did not listen. I can’t help think he must have suffered some personal tragedy in his life, something he has never come to terms with.” She shrugged as if to say this was only conjecture. Then she said, almost as an afterthought, “He has an object.”

  “An object?”

  “Yes, a medal of some kind. Something he obviously holds very dearly. He keeps it in his possession at all times and will not let anyone take it from him.”

  “Why is this significant?” Cobain asked.

  Holly frowned. “Just strange is all. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “He’s a holocaust survivor, is he not?”

  “Yes, I believe so, although he doesn’t talk much about those days.”

  “Maybe it’s some sort of memento from those times.

  “Yes, maybe.”

  “Well, I’ll try to make this as brief as possible so you can get him inside,” Cobain said.

  “I’d appreciate that, but the stubborn old fool will probably refuse to go in. We might have to take him under duress. In his eyes we’re all Nazis.”

  Cobain saw the glint of wetness in the nurse’s eyes. He understood that health care providers often become attached to their patients and losing them was like losing a member of one’s own family. The nurse held the young reporter’s eyes for a long moment then turned away in embarrassment, pulling the door open, ducking back into the coolness of the building. Cobain took a chair from the stack and went to the infirmed man, sitting down.

  “You have something you wish to tell me, Dr. Shutzenberger?” he said, pulling a small digital recorder from his pocket and snapping it on. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s the most efficient way of keeping facts straight.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.”

  “Why me, Dr. Shutzenberger? Why did you choose to confide in me particularly?” Cobain sat as low in his seat as was humanly possible, trying to make eye contact, so Shutzenberger would not have to strain what was left of his neck muscles.

  Shutzenberger was silent for a long time, his white stubbly chin resting on his breastbone, his eyes rolled up toward his guest. A small thread of drool ran from the corner of his seamed mouth. “I have been searching for nearly a year for just the right journalist to listen to my story.” His voice was a straw-dry whisper. “You were the one I chose, Mr. Cobain.”

  “I . . . see,” said Cobain. “But why me?”

  “The internet is such a liberating tool,” Shutzenberger said. “It gives the masses a voice they’ve never had until now.” The old man managed a wan smile. “I will say, there are some voices we could do without.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  “You work primarily for Rolling Stone Magazine, am I correct?” Shutzenberger said.

  “Yes that’s correct. Although I’ve done stories for other papers as well. The New York Times for instance, and I’ve done features for Time Magazine. But you are right, these days I work primarily for Rolling Stone. Why do you ask?”

  “They have a decidedly liberal bias, but it is my belief that they try harder than most to get at the truth. Your pieces, Mr. Cobain, they have life, vigor. You are not afraid to dig, to challenge the status quo. This is why I have become interested in you. Why I have chosen you to tell my story. People will listen to you.”

  Cobain gave a wan smile. “I’m flattered at your confidence in me, Dr. Shutzenberger, but the truth is I’m skating on thin ice. If you’ve read my work, as you say, then you know I don’t always follow their political bent. The only reason they keep publishing my work is because a lot of people read it.”

  “Yes, of course they do. You are a rebel. You do not care whose toes you step on. Yours is some of the finest investigative journalism I have ever read, and in the face of adversity, you have become—how do you say? An outlaw reporter.” Shutzenberger made a face that might have been a smile.

  Cobain grunted in derision.

  Shutzenberger said, “No, no, it is true. False modesty does not become you. You have self-assurance written all over your face.”

  Cobain became pensive. “What is it you wish to tell me, Dr. Shutzenberger?”

  “You have, no doubt, delved into my past since I contacted you on the internet, and confirmed that I am who I say I am. Otherwise you would not be here.”

  A small dust devil swirled in the dry yard and whipped across the edge of the veranda. The two men closed their eyes and each held his breath until it had passed. For some reason the reporter became unnerved by it. He did not like the heat, or the quality of the air around him. It seemed charged with electric particles. He could feel them patting the hair on the nape of his neck.

  “Yes,” Cobain replied. “You were a rocket scientist. But you are also a Jew. When you refused to work for the Nazis they put you in a concentration camp. You survived the holocaust. You escaped and took others with you. The account is famous. You were a hero.”

  “I was merely trying to save my life and along with it the lives of others. Nothing heroic in that.”

  “After the war you came to the United States and took a job with the government.”

  “They needed scientists to develop long range rockets to carry nuclear weapons. I was not comfortable building weapons of mass destruction after everything we’d just been through, but I was convinced, along with the rest of my colleagues that the weapons we built would be used as deterrent only. And with talk of a new space program, well, I was hopeful.”

  “All of this is very commendable, Dr. Shutzenberger. You did the world a great service, but frankly, it is old news. Nobody cares anymore about what happened all those years ago.”

  Shutzenberger grunted out a rude noise. “Do you care about what will happen tomorrow?”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Do not play coy with me, Mr. Cobain! You can sense it. I see it in the way you act, like a nervous animal. The planet is becoming unstable. Too much heat, too many natural disasters, species becoming extinct. Man has become irrational, nobody trusts anyone. Governments are collapsing in deadlock, cities are dying, financial markets are in disarray. People everywhere are behaving badly. There are terrible acts of terrorism, murder in our schools and on the streets. And all of the technology that promised to set us free has instead enslaved us. Open your eyes and see.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Are you sure you know?”

  “Dr. Shutzenberger . . . I . . .”

  “Why did you come here, Mr. Cobain?”

  “Let’s say it sounded like you could use a sympathetic ear.”

  “You came all the way from New York because you thought I needed a friend?”

  “Not entirely. I liked your sincerity. I read something in your voice.”

  “Then you should listen very carefully before it is too late.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I had to be careful, you understand,” Shutzenberger said lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. His sharp eyes darted to and fro. “I could not tell my entire story on the internet or over the phone lines. It is the very reason I have had so much trouble finding an ally.”

  “Why couldn’t you talk on the phone, Dr. Shutzenberger?”

  “Because they are listening,” the old man whispered. “They listen to everything.”

  “Ah.” Cobain nodded sagely. “They?”

  Shutzenberger managed a small shrug. “The government knows what’s coming and they will do anything to keep it secret. You kid yourself if you think they are not listening.”

  Cobain smiled sourly. “I see,” he said. “What is it that you think is coming, Dr. Shutzenberger?”

  “I will tell you if you will listen.”

  “I’m all ears,” Cobain said.

  “This is the story of a gift, Mr. Cobain.”

  “A gift?�
� Cobain said.

  “Yes, the greatest gift mankind has ever received. The gift of salvation, and a government that refused to use this gift for the good of all. A government that refused to even publicly acknowledge the existence of the gift.”

  “Governments are notorious for keeping secrets, Dr. Shutzenberger.”

  “Ah, but this one is different.”

  Cobain watched the old man carefully.

  “You think I am a delusional old fool, don’t you, Mr. Cobain?”

  “I think that you’re a brilliant physicist who may be a little confused, that’s all.”

  Shutzenberger’s small ice-blue eyes hardened. “Do not patronize me, Mr. Cobain! Listen to what I have to say and then do a little bit of investigating, and then I want you to come back here and tell me that I am confused.”

  Cobain settled back in his chair, threw one leg over the other. “All right, Dr. Shutzenberger, let me have it.”

  “Have you ever heard of an organization called The Project?”

  “No.”

  “It is an organization that grew out of the Manhattan Project. It was formed by the United States Government after World War II. It is an organization that exists to this day. And it is one of the best kept secrets in the history of mankind.”

  “What is its purpose?”

  “It has two facets. One is the clandestine study of paranormal phenomena, the other is to keep the world from knowing about the gift.”

  “What is this gift you speak of and where did it come from?”

  “After the second world war, three of us, all close associates, were assigned to the government’s atomic energy laboratory in Las Alamos New Mexico where we were to work on a variety of ultra-secret projects, including the development of long range missiles. Then in 1947 an alien spacecraft was shot down just outside of Roswell.”

  Shutzenberger paused for a long moment in order to allow what he’d just said to sink in.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Cobain said.

  “Please, Mr. Cobain. I know what you are thinking but I can assure you that you are wrong. The story, the cover-up, the conspiracy of deceit, they are all true.”