A Murder of Crows

by David Rotenberg

  “Right. But I always could figure out things like that. Always. A library is just another kind of riddle.”

  “Books speak to you?”

  “I won’t answer snide questions like that.”

  “Fine,” she said and pointed to the computer. “Back to work with you.” She turned to go.

  “Read the books,” he said.

  She turned back to him. “And L’Étranger, should I read that, too? You still don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what?”

  “The moment you picked up that le Carré book in Johannesburg I had someone read and annotate it for me. You got the John Fowles book and L’Étranger from the library, they immediately reported it to us and they’re being annotated, too.”

  “Like Coles Notes.”

  “What?”

  “Canadian reference.”

  “I can Google it or you can tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “They publish précis of books so school kids don’t have to read the whole thing.”

  “Ah, CliffsNotes. America invented that.”

  “Another fine American export.” Decker remembered Eddie’s admonition that there was no shortcut to living your life. “So, did you read the précis?”

  “Yes, and the full books.”

  “Good. Okay, so what did you think?”

  “Well I get that the le Carré book implies that college towns are incestuous pits of liars and cheats, which we’ve found to be absurdly true. But I don’t get what attracted you to the John Fowles book or L’Étranger. Or Fanny and Alexander while we are on the subject.”

  “How did you—”

  “Never mind. Tell me about the books.”

  “Okay, remember the ‘Ebony Tower’ short story in the book?”

  “Yeah, the old writer goes to a cabin on the moors to complete his novel. A young thug comes in, ties him up and robs him.”

  “Not as simple as that. The kid robs him but then promises to call the police to tell them to come and free the guy. Then he makes sure that the restraints aren’t too tight, that the guy is comfortable.”

  “Right,” Yslan said. Her eyes brightened as she said, “Then he sees the almost-completed novel.”

  “Yeah, and when he learns that the old guy had written it what does he do?”

  “He tightens the bonds, burns the novel and never calls the police. The old guy almost starves to death.”

  “And what does the professor make of the thug’s change in behaviour?”

  “Something about those who—”

  “Those who feel part of the secret of the written word and those who know that there is something special out there but they can’t comprehend it. That they know they are being left behind. Left out of what some Irish poets call ‘life’s roar.’ Outsiders . . . l’étrangers.” Lost in the woods, he thought, unable to find the clearing.

  “Not outsiders like an anchorite, though,” Yslan said.

  Decker looked at her. “A what?”

  “Nothing. Just a random thought. But you think—”

  “That it’s more likely you’re searching for an outsider. Someone who feels he’s been looking in the window of an expensive restaurant knowing he’ll never have the money—or perhaps even the taste—to enjoy the secret in that place.”

  “Stoney River.”

  “Yeah, a whole town that works here but is on the other side of the glass—outside the secret.”

  Yslan was suddenly on her feet. “And this person could have access to the entire university.”

  “Yes. Access to the labs. Access to the graduation ceremony.”

  “So a worker, a lab technician, a teaching assistant.”

  “Or a janitor.”

  She looked at him sharply.

  “Read this,” Decker handed over Grover Cleveland Rabinowitz’s paper on the microwaving of human fecal material.

  Yslan quickly scanned it and was about to speak when Harrison barged back in, his face contorted with anger.

  “What?” Yslan demanded.

  “The president’s changed his mind.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s decided not to come in four days, he’s decided that the nation can’t wait so he’s coming the day after tomorrow.”

  52

  A MIXING OF THE GREY-HAIRED MAN AND FUNERALS—T MINUS 2 DAYS

  THE WALL-SIZED FLAT-SCREEN WAS ON AS THE GREY-HAIRED MAN entered his three-storey loft. CNN was flashing a bulletin that the president had moved the funeral at Ancaster College forward.

  He put aside his coat and watched the rest of the coverage, then poured himself a drink of pure rainwater as he thought about funerals.

  He liked funerals. No, that’s not the correct way to put it. He found that in the midst of the grief and grieving he was able to catch a whiff of their feeling. For a while he’d attended many funerals but never got exactly what he wanted from them. But this funeral in the small upper New York State town was something different, in both size and scope. So many people grieving at one time in one place—so much feeling in the air to wrap around himself.

  He hit number 2 on his speed dialer and when the other end was picked up he said, “You know who this is.”

  An affirmative response.

  “I want a seat for the memorial at Ancaster College. Can that be arranged?”

  Another affirmative.

  He disconnected, then hit number 4 on his speed dialer and said, “Get the crew and plane ready.”

  53

  A KILLING OF A SUPERVISOR—T MINUS 2 DAYS

  SO THE PRESIDENT IS COMING TO BLESS WHAT I HAVE DONE, Walter thought. Good. Very good. Very right. Yes, it’s right that he comes and sees what I have done.

  He almost used the word “wrought.” As in “See what I have wrought.” He knew that word from Sunday school. His teacher told him that the word meant “done.” He recalled asking her why they didn’t just say what they meant. Then he remembered the girl beside him laughing at him.

  He wanted to grab her long, narrow nose and pull it and pull it and pull it. But of course he didn’t. He never did anything he really wanted to do back then—when he was a boy.

  But now that he was a grown-up . . .

  The president would speak at the church on Main Street, of course, he thought. No, not the church where my mother made me go to Sunday school—no, that wouldn’t be good enough. And—and oh, yeah, of course—I won’t be invited. Not invited. Left out, again. Laughed at. He wanted to do more than pull someone’s nose this time—much more.

  He felt the headache begin and he tried to keep his eyes away from the setting sun. The sun sometimes made it worse. Then he felt himself smile, before he knew he wanted to smile.

  But no, he thought. I have to be there. It wouldn’t be right if I wasn’t there.

  Then he asked himself: But how?

  He knew that the Secret Service agents were already securing the church. Who had cleanup duties on the church? he wondered. Then he knew that it wouldn’t matter who was scheduled. It would be left to the head supervisor and his assistant, both of whom had clearance to go anywhere on campus.

  “But if only one of them showed up to clean before the ceremony? What would they do then? Cleaning the church was usually a four-man job. But if only one showed up . . .”

  He considered that for a moment. He went to the cupboard and pulled out a pack of animal crackers. He liked animal crackers, although when he bought them in the grocery store he always had to pretend they were for his nephew—even though the girl who checked out his groceries had known him since high school and probably knew he didn’t have a nephew.

  He stacked together two tigers and bit their heads off and felt better. He took his box of animal crackers over to his computer and turned it on. He had a momentary tug to go to his favourite porn sites but he resisted.

  He opened his PROMPTOR account and waited to ge
t the all-clear signal. Once PROMPTOR announced that he was anonymous he searched for an address for the head supervisor and to his surprise he found it under the Rotary Club listing for the town.

  Twenty minutes later he was standing outside a grey clapboard house with a rusted boat trailer—but no boat—on the front lawn.

  He looked up and down the patchwork street of tiny houses, then, not seeing anyone, walked up the cracked paving stones to the front door and pressed the button.

  The supervisor answered the door in his bathrobe and boxers. Hair sprouted from his ears, his pits and over the top of his wife-beater T-shirt.

  “Who are you and whaddaya want?”

  Walter didn’t know for sure until the man spoke that he was going to kill him, but his tone of voice and not even knowing who Walter was after all these years, and then there was all that hair—well, it was just so disgusting.

  54

  A CACOPHONY OF OUTSIDERS—T MINUS 2 DAYS

  “HOW CAN IT HURT?” DECKER SHOUTED.

  “Some kid mutters something about a piece of shit and all of a sudden he’s the access to—”

  “Look at the essay he wrote. The kid was a fucking scientist. The thing interested him as a scientist. So he kept notes. Times and places. Just get the records of which janitor cleaned that restroom and cross-reference them with the appearances of the piece of shit.”

  “Why? Is this more of that outsider stuff?”

  Decker stared at her. “You called it something else.”

  “What are you—”

  “An anchor—something.”

  Yslan sighed then said, “It’s a Catholic thing—an anchorite.”

  “What’s an—”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Yes,” Yslan said without looking to the door.

  Mr. T came in and handed Yslan an elaborate security pass.

  “I already have a pass.”

  “Not for the church service you don’t. Everyone who’s going gets a new pass.” He turned and left.

  Yslan held the pass up to the light. Even from a distance Decker could see the intricate metal threads in the plastic and the large hologram imprint on the front. Decker didn’t know much about such things, but he assumed it cost a minor fortune to produce these gizmos.

  “Well, Special Agent Yslan Hicks, you do get invited to the finest of parties,” Decker said.

  “Yeah, I’m a real . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she shot Decker a look.

  He nodded.

  “I’m an insider, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And he’s an outsider—l’étranger.”

  Decker nodded again and waited for her to piece it together.

  Finally she said, “And he’ll try to get in, won’t he?”

  “If I was an outsider I would.”

  “Get into the church to see the funeral!” She swore softly under her breath, then said, “Give me the kid’s notes and I’ll meet you in the provost’s office in half an hour.”

  * * *

  While Decker waited for the half hour to pass he googled “anchorite”—and what he read shocked him.

  55

  A CALLING TO ORDER—T MINUS 2 DAYS

  DECKER ARRIVED ON THE DOT IN THE PROVOST’S OFFICE AND immediately didn’t like what he saw.

  Harrison was clearly in charge of the room. Yslan had been relegated to one side.

  And they both were scowling.

  “What’s—”

  “Wrong?” Harrison demanded.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s my question.”

  “Well a few things, Mr. Roberts. The first is that apparently the janitorial staff at the university regularly sign in for one another on those time sheets. Second, there are nineteen listed janitors, but there are also thirty subs who come and go.”

  “So how many of them were potentially on call on the day of the explosion?”

  “Almost fifty.”

  “So, interview them all.”

  “We can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Only six are kept on for the summer. The rest have eight-month contracts.”

  “What? Does this university treat these people like itinerant workers? Can they do that?”

  “Money-saving crap again,” Yslan said.

  “The rest have left to find work for the summer, probably field work, picking. We’ll be lucky to find half of the total. But there’s another problem.”

  “Most of the signatures on the time sheets are illegible,” Yslan said.

  “Find the supervisor and ask him,” Decker replied.

  “That’s the last and biggest problem.”

  “What is?”

  “He’s missing.”

  56

  SCORPIONS AND THE SOUTHERN SKY—T MINUS 2 DAYS

  THAT NIGHT DECKER ACCOMPANIED YSLAN AND HARRISON AS they interrogated the few janitors they could find. Over and over he closed his eyes, felt the cold and blood between his fingers and saw perfect geometric shapes—all of these people were telling the truth. Exhausted, he climbed into his bed. It was just past 4:00 a.m. when he heard it again.

  Clattering. He’d heard it every night he’d slept in the dorm room, but now it was louder. He flicked on the light and there standing on his desk, its tail raised and ready to strike, was a large scorpion. He stared at it. This wasn’t the Southwest. This was upper New York State. Then the thing turned and Decker saw its heart pulse in its thorax.

  He pulled on his coat and yanked at the door handle. It was locked. He banged on it and his marine opened the door. “Tell her I’m not staying in this room. Tell her now.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Yeah, well what are you going to do? Shoot me?” He pushed his way past his marine and strode out into the cold night.

  The sky was cloudless and the stars pierced through the darkness and made Decker shiver. The moon was above Venus, the four stars of the Southern Cross were to one side, and Scorpio dominated the western sky, its red heart-star pulsing.

  Decker turned quickly—this couldn’t be. Fucking upper New York State was way up in the Northern Hemisphere and yet above him was the southern sky of Namibia. Then he thought about that—above him, above him, not above everyone, just above him.

  His phone buzzed, and Eddie’s excited voice whispered, “Mission accomplished.”

  “Eddie are you—”

  “Sure? Hell yes, otherwise I’d never quote George W.”

  57

  AN AGREEMENT OF TRADE—T MINUS 1 DAY

  “YOU THINK YOU CAN TRADE WITH ME!”

  “Yeah—you and the NSA, and that grumpy guy.”

  “I can have you arrested.”

  “I know that.”

  “Mr. Roberts, the president arrives in four hours and there are more than two hundred people dead and you at least claim to have the information as to who did this, so—”

  “So trade, Special Agent Yslan Hicks—trade. I give you the URL at the other end of Professor Frost’s PROMPTOR account, and you pursue a certain New York City lawyer as if he were the inventor and head of PROMPTOR itself.”

  “That Charendoff shit again?”

  “Bingo. Haunt him, make his life a misery with the PROMPTOR stuff, and I’ll give you the URL at—”

  “Yeah, I get that.” She thought for a moment then said, “Crazy Eddie figured it out, didn’t he?”

  “Yep.”

  “How?”

  “Apparently something to do with the Arab Spring and thousands of people wanting PROMPTOR accounts so your counterparts in repressive regimes can’t track them down.”

  “Don’t compare me to—”

  “Fine. I don’t compare you. You work for the good guys—as you no doubt believe—hence using the same tactics as those who work for the bad guys is okay.”

  “You’re on a tangent, Mr. Roberts.” Decker recognized the line as something from an early Sean Penn film—something based on a Springsteen song.

  “The Arab Spring
?” she prompted.

  “Eddie says there were so many requests that PROMPTOR couldn’t handle them. So they began to pass them off to subsidiaries who didn’t have the refined protections that PROMPTOR has.”

  “So he got into the system itself.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re right. He got inside and now he can navigate within PROMPTOR and hence has the information that you are so desperate to find.”

  “And you’ll trade—”

  “For you and yours making Mr. Ira Charendoff—lawyer of Patchin Place, New York City, probable killer of that boy in Stanstead, Quebec, and definitely the one who forced Crazy Eddie to betray me—make his life a living hell. So that he can’t even think about coming after me again. Accuse him of being the mastermind behind PROMPTOR. Eddie will supply the information.”

  “But it’s a lie.”

  “Yeah, well that may be, but it’ll take him almost all of his considerable resources and probably the better part of five years to prove that it’s a lie.”

  “And that’s what you want in return for the identity of the terrorist?”

  “It is. And I’m not prepared to negotiate my terms.”

  That was when Harrison barged in with Mr. T and Ted Knight—and a set of handcuffs and shackles.

  58

  A VISION FROM ON HIGH—T MINUS 1 DAY

  WALTER WAITED OUTSIDE THE CHURCH. TWICE HE NODDED TO the Secret Service guy on the steps and the guy nodded back. Eventually the supervisor’s assistant came out on the front steps looking for the supervisor, as Walter knew he would.

  “You not doing anything, William?” the guy asked.

  Walter didn’t bother correcting him but climbed the steps and acknowledged that he was free. “Do you need a hand?”

  “Sure as hell do. Come on. The fucking supervisor thinks that cleaning’s beneath him.”

  “Does he?” Walter asked innocently.

  “Yeah. And my back’s killing me.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you a hand.”