The Overseer

by Conlan Brown

  “I took the gun.”

  “Took it?” John asked, eyebrow raised. “How?”

  “He went to use the firearm on himself, so I delivered a swift jab to his face and stripped the firearm, like I would with anyone making threatening motions with a firearm.”

  “You punched the man in the face?” John choked.

  “Then,” Devin continued, “I took him to a reputable institution where he can get the help he needs from people who have better…people skills. I’ll be paying his expenses personally.”

  John closed his eyes, still recovering from the shock. “At least he’s safe now.” John sighed. “First it’s Hannah, then you—”

  Devin snapped to attention. “What about Hannah?”

  “I just visited her in the hospital. She was caught in a house fire while on a mission.”

  Devin’s eyes glared into his. “Was she hurt?”

  “Yes—I mean, no. Not badly anyway,” he stammered. “She’s already been discharged.”

  “Did you send her on that mission alone?”

  “No! You know I don’t like her operating on her own. She just felt…called. It involved a kidnapping—of young girls. You can guess that would get her attention.”

  Devin processed the information. Literal input, literal output. “She’s overcompensating. The trauma of her own kidnapping is causing her to project onto these girls. Perhaps it’s an attempt to cope, but she’s not being wise.”

  John nodded, glad they were on the same page on this one. “I told her she could continue work on it—but not alone. She needs backup. I know I’ve had you working on other people’s stuff that I shouldn’t, but is there any chance I could get you to help her?”

  Something passed through his eyes—a flicker—but before John could identify the emotion, it was gone. “I’ll do it.”

  “Another thing.” John looked away. “This is weird, but Hannah was rescued by someone named Angelo. Claims to be a Firstborn, but get this—he can see past, present, and future. And he made a warning about Thresher.”

  Devin waved away the concern. “The Thresher is an intellectual bogeyman. There have been a lot of false scares over the years.”

  “You don’t view it as a threat?”

  Devin stared him down. “We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Our real focus should be on achieving what God put us here to do. Now, let me show you what I’ve got. It may even have a connection to Hannah’s mission.”

  Devin reached for his briefcase. He snapped it open on his lap and lifted a few items before tossing a newspaper on the desk between them.

  “Senator Foster to Visit Nevada to Investigate Sex Trafficking,” John read from the page, looking at the picture of an African American politician—American flag pinned to his lapel. “So?”

  Devin set down his briefcase and sat up straight. “He’s going to be assassinated in Las Vegas. I think it’s going to be racially motivated.”

  “Really?” John shook his head. “That stuff still happens?”

  “We have an African American president now,” Devin stated. “The illusion that America is a purely white nation is evaporating. Some people don’t like that—and the death knell is going to be loud.”

  John looked at the picture again, studying the image. “I don’t buy it. It sounds like something from the fifties or sixties. Not today.” John shook his head, still having trouble with the idea. “And why Foster? There are other African American politicians—including the president himself.”

  “He made some very unflattering comments about the white supremacy movement,” Devin said, brushing something from the sleeve of his perfectly pressed tan sport coat. “He’s even made allusions to the idea that the FBI should declare war on those groups again like Hoover did decades ago.”

  John shook his head. “They’d really kill him over that?”

  Devin shrugged. “I don’t know the details. You know how vague our visions can be.”

  John held the paper in his hands for several seconds, looking it over, feeling the thin pages on his fingers. He looked up at Devin—the difference in their skin tones suddenly painfully apparent—a fact that John worked very hard not to acknowledge and even harder still not to think about.

  “I need funding,” Devin said in his usual businesslike manner, handing John a piece of paper. “This is a cost breakdown. I need the money to get people and equipment to Nevada, a place to keep them, and funds to support them at the time. We need to stake out the area and be prepared to stop the assassination before it begins.”

  John looked at Devin’s skin, moving to the eyes that were housed in it. He couldn’t say no. Not to this. Could he? He picked up the sheet of paper, the numbers blurring on the page as they washed together.

  “Look,” John started, “there’s something I should probably tell you.”

  “Yes?” Devin said without blinking.

  “Well,” John replied, hesitant. “It looks like we may have drawn the attention of the SEC.”

  Devin’s ire was somehow crystal clear, despite his placid features. “What?”

  “And the IRS.”

  “The IRS? You’re joking.”

  “No,” John chuckled nervously. “I really wish I were. It looks like they may even freeze our assets.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “We’ve been accused of insider trading,” John offered as calmly as he could.

  Devin didn’t flinch. “You dumped that stock, didn’t you?”

  John nodded.

  “I told you it only takes once.”

  “Three times actually.” John shrugged, trying to make light of it.

  “Three times?” Devin shook his head. “I told you not to take me off of financial duty. But instead you’ve had me running all over the continental United States for the last year chasing visions had by people in HR and accounting.”

  “I’m doing the best I know how.” John felt himself get defensive. “I still think you should have kept the Overseer job when they gave it to you instead of handing it over to me. Just the other day I had one of the Domani Financial staff tell me that God appointed you as Overseer, and you were therefore unable to step down, making you the rightful Overseer.”

  “I’m the wrong man,” Devin insisted.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because the job of a leader is to get people to do things, and there are only two ways to make that happen—you can either make people want to do things, or you make them afraid not to. And I’m not above using fear to push people.”

  John heaved a sigh. “But at least you’d be pushing people in the right direction.”

  “No,” Devin retorted. “Bullying people into doing good is just as despicable as charming people into doing evil.” Devin stood, picking up his briefcase. “This is your job, whether you like it or not.”

  John followed him out the door.

  “The Firstborn are going to need a strong and worthwhile leader through this,” Devin said. “Listen to counsel, but lead with your conscience.” Then he turned and walked away.

  John nodded. “I’ll keep that in—”

  She was standing in the hall, typing something into her cellular telephone. Blonde hair. Business attire—black and red. Her features—every one of them—sculpted and beautiful. Her eyes lifted, as if she could sense that she was being looked at.

  “John,” she said with enigmatic shock.

  The syllables fell out of John’s mouth without heed: “Trista.”

  Devin nodded at her. “Miss Brightling.”

  Trista’s eyes snapped away from John. “Devin, just who I was looking for. I was told to see you to get up to speed on the financial situation.” Her eyes darted back to John for a split second as she approached Devin.

  “Yes,” Devin said, “I can have you up to speed in very little time. I’m headed back to the office; I can brief you on the way.”

  “Excellent,” she replied with a nod.

  “Trista,” J
ohn said again, just trying to get her attention in some way now. She looked at him, face neutral. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” she said, eyes only making contact with John’s for a moment, then looking away.

  “Last I heard you were in Belize.”

  She nodded, looking at him again. “It was good.”

  Devin cleared his throat. “I’ll be in the lobby.”

  Trista smiled, nodding at Devin. “I’ll be right with you.”

  Devin turned away, walked down the hall, and disappeared around the corner.

  “So,” John asked, feeling a bit unsteady, “how was it?”

  “What?” she asked, expression stoic.

  “Belize.”

  “Oh,” she replied, snapping back to the conversation. “It was…” She paused for a moment, thinking. “It was good.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, nodding, as if the movement would shake the feeling of awkwardness from him.

  The hall was quiet for a moment as they simply looked each other over.

  “So,” John began again, heart rate a little quicker than before, “any chance we could catch up?”

  “Sure.” Her eyes searched his face. “It has been…awhile.”

  “A year,” John agreed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He looked to the sides, realizing they were alone in the hall. “So, are you free tonight?”

  “Uh,” she said with a lilting smile, “I think so.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Sure, I guess we could do dinner.”

  “Good.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll give you a call. Does that sound good?”

  “Do you have the number for my new phone?”

  “No, I…”

  “I’ll call you,” she said, walking the same way Devin had gone, looking back.

  “Does eight work?” John called after.

  “That should be fine,” she nodded, waved, then turned and walked away.

  John watched her disappear around the corner. Trista was back. And his world had turned upside down.

  Devin Bathurst stood in the lobby, waiting for Trista.

  His cell phone buzzed in his chest pocket, and he reached into his jacket to retrieve it. “This is Bathurst.”

  “It’s a trap,” the voice announced in a hushed tone.

  Devin looked around the lobby, trying to see if someone was watching him. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “Do not help the senator—it’s a trap. The Thresher will be unleashed.”

  Devin continued turning in his slow circle, eyes open for someone with a cell phone who might be watching him. “I’m afraid I didn’t get your name. Who did you say you were?”

  “That doesn’t matter now. The Thresher will be unleashed— the Firstborn will turn against each other.”

  “I’ve seen that happen before. It can be survived.”

  “No,” the voice warned, “the Firstborn won’t survive this. They’ll be marched to destruction if you do this.”

  Devin shook his head. “I’m going to need evidence if you want me to listen to you.”

  “You have to trust me.”

  “I don’t make a habit of trusting anonymous callers,” Devin stated. “Do you have any evidence?”

  “I’ve seen what happens if you move forward.”

  “And I’ve seen what happens if I don’t,” Devin rebutted.

  “You have to listen to me!” the voice said again, emphatic.

  “I would be more than willing to sit and talk,” Devin said, watching Trista approach, “but until you’re willing to meet me in person, I’m afraid we have nothing to talk about.”

  “I won’t do that, Mr. Bathurst. You have to understand that—”

  “I do understand,” Devin replied.

  “You aren’t listening to—”

  Devin snapped his phone shut.

  Trista approached. “Who was that?”

  Devin returned his phone to its pocket. “Wrong number.”

  The man named Crest sat in his office playing Solitaire on his desktop computer. It had been a slow morning, and he had a few minutes to kill. Government work wasn’t always as secure as people liked to think it was, but it was enough so that playing digital cards every now and again wasn’t the end of the world. The position of government desk driver was only his cover anyway, and as far as he could tell, showing too much of a work ethic might draw unwanted attention.

  The phone rang, and Crest gave it a moment, adjusting his glasses and clicking a few cards with his mouse before he lifted the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Crest,” the assistant, a guy named Jim, said on the other end of the line. “You have a call. They wouldn’t give a name but said it was about someone or something called Angelo? He said that you’d know what he was talking about.”

  Crest sat up, clicking out of his card game. He thought his heart might have stopped for a moment. “Put him through,” Crest ordered without hesitation.

  “OK,” the confused assistant said, transferring the call with a click. He waited for a moment.

  “Mr. Crest,” the contact said from the other end of the line, an unrecognized voice. Probably some low-level person who had been given the task of passing on information. “The asset known as Angelo may have appeared on the grid again.”

  “Where?” Crest asked, glancing at the door to make sure it was closed and firmly latched.

  “A hospital in New Jersey. One of the cards he was issued by the Agency three years ago was used to pay a hospital bill for what appears to be a random patient.”

  “Who was the patient?” Crest asked, eyes fixed on the door, glancing at the windows, trying to make sure he kept his voice low in case someone was standing too close outside his office. Not the ideal talk space for this kind of discussion.

  “Uh…” whoever the contact was searched through files, “Hannah Rice. Sound familiar?”

  Crest frowned. Rice? That did sound familiar for some reason. Something having to do with the Pennsylvania incident the previous year? “Nothing solid,” Crest replied. It didn’t matter. Keeping track of the names of the so-called Firstborn wasn’t his job anyway. There were other people for that. “Has the OGA changed Angelo’s status?”

  “Not yet,” the contact replied, “The Agency still considers him MIA—missing in action. The use of a credit card is certainly a breach, but it doesn’t guarantee Angelo is alive.”

  “Do the…” Crest paused, reminding himself he was on an open line. “Do the analysts have any guesses as to what he might be trying to do?”

  “No word from them, but management thinks that if he’s still alive, he might know about your current operation regarding the senator.”

  Crest cleared his throat with discomfort, knowing that these phone lines were relatively secure but not so much so that he wanted the senator mentioned in any way. “Assuming that Angelo is alive, do they have any reason to believe that he ever recovered from the…” Crest tried to think of a word that might serve as a mutually understood euphemism for things they had done to Angelo, things like psychotropic experimentation, mind-altering drugs, or draconian cold war–era research.

  “The work he did with the OGA?”

  “Yeah,” Crest agreed, considering the idea of pumping a human being full of LSD and how that might be considered “work.” “Between the effects of that work,” Crest continued, “and the fact that he was confirmed as having all three ‘skill sets,’ I thought he wasn’t capable of trade craft or even civilian life.”

  “The analysts think if he is alive that he may be recovering,” the contact said with a certainty that frightened Crest. “Regardless,” the contact continued, “they doubt that he’ll attempt to make contact with anyone from the OGA—even on the outside chance he is still alive.”

  “Then why did they want me to know?”

  “I wasn’t briefed about the specifics,” the contact conceded. “All I was told was that Angelo may be alive—and active. Regardless, this i
s the kind of information that can change everything.”

  Crest nodded to himself, slumped back in his office chair. “This changes everything.”

  Chapter 5

  JOHN WALKED THROUGH the largely vacant offices adjoining Domani Financial. These offices had been set aside for the Prima to use, but they had shown little interest in having representatives at the Manhattan office. There were calendars on the walls of several offices where members of the Prima had set up shop for a few days at a time, but they were all set to October of the previous year. A fact that lay in stark contrast to the sunny spring weather they had been having all week.

  Of course Hannah Rice came to the offices sometimes, but never for long. She’d moved to New Jersey, just across the river, so she could be closer to the central office that Manhattan had become, but it was still far enough that she didn’t drop by often. Even when she did, it was mostly just to use the phone or to talk to one of the other Firstborn there. Usually Devin or himself. But it had been nearly six weeks since the last time she had done that. Hoping to keep a friendly eye on her, John had invited her to work full-time in the empty Prima offices, but so far she’d put him off. Something about not being ready for office politics.

  John came to the door of the one occupied office and tapped on the frame with his middle knuckle. He waited for Jerry Kirkland to notice him. Jerry, who had been hunched over his computer, shot upward and turned toward the door.

  “Hello, Mr. Temple.” He reached out with a chubby hand to shake. Jerry was bald with virtually no distinguishable neck between his tiny ears and the collar of his brown polo shirt. He was the official historian of the Firstborn—a position John had created about nine months ago after becoming Overseer. It had been meant as an olive branch to the Prima, and indeed they gave their full blessing for Jerry Kirkland to work from the Manhattan office, but he was still the only actual representative they had sent.

  “Come in, Mr. Temple,” Jerry said, beckoning with a hand. “Have a seat.” He lifted a pile of documents the size of two phone books off the seat of the nearest chair. To the casual eye, Jerry’s office looked like a mess, but he always assured people everything was in exactly the right place. The floor was filled with boxes, and the windowless walls were covered in charts with strings attached to pushpins.