by Weston Ochse
Simon stood. He glanced at the door and the camera in the corner of the room, a red light below the lens blinking. Dammit! Simon was one of the good guys. Hadn’t he joined the Army? Hadn’t he joined the clergy? Was he in this life for the money?
Two hours later the interrogation began. Five feet tall, one-hundred pounds of taut muscle, a Japanese woman strolled in, placed her briefcase on the table and began removing items: a mini tape recorder, a yellow legal pad, two number 2 pencils, a small pencil sharpener like one you’d give a second grader to take to school, a protein energy bar, an 8 ounce bottle of Sparkletts water and a business card, the latter which she placed in front of him. She nodded her head as if giving permission and Simon picked up the card.
Holding it between thumb and forefinger he read—Teniko Sato, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Special Agent. There was also an address and a phone number, but all Simon cared about was the FBI Special Agent part. Besides reruns of The FBI on television, usually dealing with kidnappings or bank robberies, his only contact had been regarding Billy Bones when he’d conducted an identity search.
Simon nodded and pocketed the card.
This was it.
His behavior and attitude in the next moments would determine whether or not he’d spend the next few years a free man or somebody’s wife. He tried not to look too hopeful, but sat up straighter on his chair to give a good impression.
The Special Agent noticed and smiled. Razor thin, the professionally penciled deep red of her lips seemed a little too perfect. “As you see,” she said, her voice low and unaccented, “My name is Special Agent Sato. You may call me Special Agent Sato or, since we’re informal here, go on and call me Agent Sato.”
Informal, thought Simon? If this is informal, I’d hate to see it when she’s formal. She probably even color codes the lipsticks in her purse.
The agent frowned slightly, causing Simon to worry that she’d read his mind.
“We’ve been looking for you, Mr. Drury.”
“Call me Brother Simon,” he said. Just as she’d established protocol by the use of her title, he’d do the same. “No one’s ever called me Mr. Drury.” Which was true, considering he’d he joined the military right out of high school.
“Brother Simon, then. I’m going to record this,” she said, pressing the red button on the micro-recorder. “Do you have any problem with me recording our conversation?”
He could see the wheels of the mini disc already turning, waiting for him to say no and exhibit signs of uncooperativeness. He nodded then noticed her raised eyebrows, a twinkle of a smile at their corners. Licking his lips, he told her no.
She made some notes on the legal pad with one of her pencils, then began speaking. “The date is Saturday, June 30. The time is 1843 hrs. Interview with subject, Simon Drury. Age 35. Blonde hair, medium cut, left part. Blue eyes. Five foot ten. One hundred and eighty pounds.”
Each fact was a shovelful of dirt in his grave. Questions and answers, questions and answers until he’d buried himself. Informal, my foot. He couldn’t have imagined anything more formal. There’d be no talking his way out of this one.
Agent Sato pressed the pause button. He could have sworn the long thin tape was quivering, barely able to contain itself as it waited for another fact to condemn him. He wiped sweat from his upper lip.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” said Simon in his best not guilty voice. “I think so.”
She pressed the pause button again. “On the 20th of June you called the Tucson offices of the FBI in order to trace a subject you believed to be a missing person, is this true?”
“Yes. That was Billy Bones, I mean, we call him Billy Bones here on account of how thin he is. His real name is William Geddes.”
“Um hmm,” she said, pulling out a folder from her briefcase. She opened it and leafed through several pages then found what she was looking for. “The fingerprinted matter you sent, an empty milk carton it says here, revealed that your Billy Bones is indeed a Mr. William Reginald Geddes formerly of Tucson, whereabouts currently unknown. He’s been missing for nearly a year.”
“He’s around town somewhere. I was looking for him when the deputies picked me up. You can ask them. I was at the hospital talking to the Emergency room Nurse. You can ask her too.”
Special Agent Sato glanced at the two-way mirror. Her expression was implacable, but Simon felt consternation. Maybe he was getting somewhere. If he cooperated with her, maybe they’d go easy on him with the car theft.
“So you spent a large amount of time around Mr. Geddes?”
“Not a large amount, but more than most. As an Alexian my duty is to help people like Billy get back on their feet. In fact, much of my time was spent dispensing—”
“All right,” she interrupted. “When you were with Mr. Geddes did he ever mention to you anything about his past or where he worked?”
“Not really,” Simon thought hard. Had there been anything? “He mainly spoke in rhymes and such. He was a very strange sort to talk to, but fun in his own way. He wasn’t a drunk like many of the others. Come to think of it, I don’t even think he drank.”
“Did he ever mention to you anything relating to or the words, ROMEO 5 XRAY?”
She’d used the military phonetic pronunciation. Who or what was an R5X? In fact, what was this conversation about? Simon shifted in his chair. “No,” he let the word draw itself out. He watched as the special agent halted her note taking, her hand hovering over the page. “What’s this about anyway?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Simon could tell she didn’t care whether he answered or not. She’d gone back to taking notes. “I mean, I thought you wanted to talk to me about what I’d done.”
“About what you’ve done?” She still wasn’t looking at him.
Was he going to have to spell it out? Was this her way of getting a confession from him? He recognized the tactic immediately. She was doing the Columbo on him. She wanted Simon to confess and make his life easier.
He grinned and leaned back. His action caused her to glance up and his grin fell. But they knew he’d stolen the car. He’d had the keys in his pocket when he’d been arrested. They didn’t need any confession from him. They had him right where they wanted him.
“Brother Simon?” The special agent was now staring at him.
Simon realized he’d been mumbling aloud. “What?”
“You were going to tell me what you’ve done,” she said.
He was so confused. He wasn’t sure what to do. His problem was that honesty was as ingrained a part of him as searching for the truth of things. “Grand theft auto.”
“Grand theft…you mean you stole a car?” She rifled through her paperwork. “I don’t have anything about that here. Hold on a minute.” She stood and walked over to the door. She rapped hard and waited, tapping her foot. She was one who wasn’t used to waiting. The door opened partway. Simon recognized one of the deputies who’d picked him up. They spoke in whispers too low to discern. When they concluded, Special Agent Sato returned to her seat. He noticed the door had been left partially open. The small gap was inviting and he couldn’t help but entertain convict dreams of escape. His attention was drawn back to Agent Sato as she cleared her throat.
“I spoke to the deputies and they have no record of your involvement in any car theft.”
“But the Lincoln…”
“If that’s the car you were driving when you were picked up, then Deputy Franklin did mention that your boss picked up the keys a little while ago. Deputy Mozingo drove him over to the hospital to pick it up.”
“Why was I arrested then?”
“You weren’t arrested. Did anyone say you were under arrest? Did they read you your rights?”
“Well, no. They didn’t actually come right out and say…” Simon groaned. He should’ve known better—he’d seen thousands of cop shows and knew that the Miranda warning was an imperative. She was right. The deputies had never rea
d him his rights. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how careful they’d been not to mention it.
“So, I was brought here to—”
“Speak to me, of course. What did you think this was for?” She smiled slightly and titled her head, mocking innocence.
She knew that he knew he’d been played.
He didn’t know whether to be angry or glad.
“You asked what this was about. Let’s call it National Security. One of the charters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation is to protect against illegal technological transfer, especially when defense issues are at stake. Your Billy Bones,” she said, leaning back in the chair, “ was the leader of a development team working on a classified program contracted through Raytheon for the Federal Government.”
“A classified program?”
“That’s as much as I can say, I’m afraid. You can understand why we want to find him.”
Simon was as amazed. “The fax I received before said he was a rocket scientist, but mentioned nothing like this.”
“We didn’t want to give you too much information, just enough to let you know he has a job waiting for him.”
“What about his family? Was he married? Does have children?”
She replied without conferring with her paperwork. “He was married and he had a child. They were killed by a drunk driver about a month before he disappeared. He sustained injuries as well, but was released.”
* * *
Chattanooga, Tennessee
“I don’t give a flying bleep if you don’t like it. It’s my body and I’ll bleepity bleep bleep do what I want to it.”
She threw herself back onto the chair. Her legs sprawled out in front of her. Open like a man’s, her womanhood was visible for all the audience to see, but blurred by the television editors. Her skin was multi-colored with tribal swirls and Celtic curls. From her wrists to her neck, most visible portions of her body had been tattooed and colored. Three Silver spikes protruded from both sides of her nose, another from her chin. Her lips were chained loosely together by a length of fine silver that allowed them to open just enough for speech and the occasional tongue waggle. Her hair was purple and rose as if gravity-defying straightness was the perfection it sought.
“But don’t you think you’ve gone a bit too far? I mean, look at the others on the stage with you.” The host moved through the audience towards her as he spoke.
“The others? You mean these sheep who’d rather be buggered than be true to themselves? Puh-lease! These preppy bleeps have no right to even breathe my bleeping air. They’re about as fake as your bleeping hair. Let’s get real, why don’t we?”
The crowd erupted into cheers and guffaws. The host winked at the camera and with a broad grin, introduced a commercial.
Bergen groaned and wished for the thousandth time that he had the remote control. He could be watching a movie right now or some cartoons. Even the news. Anything but this crap they called talk television. The mind-numbing babble was driving him insane and there was no way for him to change it.
As the next commercial came on with three singing Labrador Retrievers lamenting gravyless dinners, Bergen felt the painkillers begin to take effect. He needed them. His surgery had been successful, but the space where his spleen had been still ached with a depth of pain he hadn’t known existed. It came from far away, sharp and sickening, promising an abyss of agony behind it. The painkillers numbed it for a time and the pretty nurses seemed willing to give him more. He’d just had a double dose and watched helplessly as the television show returned, the purple-haired girl being held down by three large men in black T-shirts.
Poor girl, he thought as his eyes drifted shut.
He awoke sometime later, his mouth a vast and waterless desert. With trembling fingers he sought the cup from the stand next to his bed and drew the straw into his mouth. It required most of his energy and all of his concentration to drink the tepid water. When he finished, he let the cup slide to the floor.
The television was still on. Another talk show. Just your average bunch of pregnant midgets, it seemed. Before he could figure it out, however, his eyes shut again as three short people in yellow bikinis with pregnant protruding bellies strutted the length of the stage like albino Oompah Loompahs in a fashion show.
He awoke to the ministrations of a nurse who was doing something to him down by his pecker. He was still numb, so he couldn’t be sure what it was. Her back was to him as she worked carefully with something. There was a time when he’d wondered if his legs existed at all, if his pecker had perhaps gone missing. Something about a spinal block, they’d said. When they’d left him alone, he’d levered himself up just to make sure. He was happy to see his legs and even happier to see his manhood, laying damp and sick against his leg, tape and a tube protruding from the end.
His first thought had been to rename it Robo-Pecker. When they’d explained what a catheter was, however, the idea seemed less interesting so he tried to forget about it, enjoying the idea of peeing whenever and wherever he was. Like when the comedy show with the big fat woman with an attitude came on, he’d peed as he watched, his own private sign of disgust.
The nurse finished and turned. She smiled when she noticed he was awake, but he averted his gaze. On the television behind her was a giant spider attacking a house. She didn’t seem to mind, however, so Bergen didn’t either. She mumbled something unintelligible and reached behind him.
Again the darkness.
The lights were dim in the hall when he awoke. The television was still on, the flickering screen the only light in the room. His mother slumped in the chair beside him, snoring softly.
The pain was returning. His bladder was full as well. He looked away from his mother as he peed, inspecting the dark corners of the room. He knew it was somewhere past midnight. The hospital was very still and very silent. He could use some more pain killers but didn’t want to wake his mother.
He tried to make himself comfortable. He noticed they’d refreshed his water. He reached for the plastic glass, careful not to drop it like last time. As he sipped, he turned his attention to the television. He had to strain to hear it.
“…says one Paradise Valley resident. For now, police and local government officials are stalemated in their negotiations with the leader of The Church of the Resurrection. In what many are afraid will become Waco II, all access to the compound is now controlled by a task force of government agencies including the Border Patrol, the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department, and the Arizona Highway Patrol.”
“We’re not so much controlling access as we are protecting the people in the compound.” White letters at the bottom of the screen identified the stout Hispanic who was speaking as Deputy Sheriff Aprella. “There’s a lot of folk who’d like to do them harm. We’re the only ones standing in their way.”
Back to the girl.
“Attention was first drawn to this small southern Arizona community when the Reverend Harry Philips and his congregation managed to spirit away a young woman who’d been a member of the church during a demonstration in which explosives, motorcycles and automatic weapons were used. In this exclusive, we’ve been provided footage taken by members of the congregation.”
The scene shifted to a view from head level of the front of a compound. People shifted in and out of the view. Bergen could tell it was an amateur video. The sound was muffled, but he could hear the chanting of a group of protestors. Suddenly the front door of the church opened and several people walked toward the camera. In the lead was a slender man, and following closely behind were seven bald girls.
Bergen felt his eyelids grow heavy.
His gaze focused on one of the girls. She looked familiar—he was sure he’d seen her someplace before. He was beginning to feel a little loopy. They must have given him some more medication. He could feel his vision tightening. Suddenly there was an explosion on the television.
People started running and screaming, but the cameraman kept his camera trained on the Cult Leader. The man’s placid visage switched to rage and he began screaming unintelligible words Bergen thought sounded Asian. The girls cowered behind him. The one he thought he recognized turned her face full towards the camera. Her eyes were wild and full of tears. The freckles that bunched across the top of her nose were pinched as her face struggled with fear and sorrow.
Bergen’s head was extremely heavy. His hands fell to his sides. He began to slip back into the healing darkness. As he went, a name came into his subconscious and he dreamed of purple-headed monsters and a trapped little girl named Elaina.
CHAPTER 19
Sunday—July 1st
Chattanooga, Tennessee
“Can’t do this for long, boy,” said Maxom plopping down on the couch. “I’m as tired as dirt snot right now. Between working nights at the chicken plant and helping you days, I ain’t getting much sleep. If I don’t start taking care of myself, Maggot Man I’ll be, ‘cause I’ll fall right into the slop in that great big old vat.”
Danny couldn’t hide his disappointment. He’d been looking forward to the freedom of The Land. Last night in bed with his head deep in his pillow, he’d watched the shadows twist and churn upon the wall. He’d strained to hear what his mother was saying to his father. He couldn’t help himself when the tears came. He tried to flee to The Land, but he couldn’t concentrate. He tried not to listen, but couldn’t help himself. When she’d said the word divorce he’d cried, waking in the morning upon a pillow still wet with the night’s tears.
“You know, not everything in this world works out the way you planned,” said Maxom. “Just look at me. Do you think that when I was your age I had a plan to become your Maggot Man?”