Chapter 9
Stimulate the Nervous System
After Ridley’s brother-in-law collapsed onto the floor in the restaurant, Ridley dragged the limp body into the restroom. A neat pile of folded clothes, shoes on top, awaited him in one of the stalls. The orderliness of the stall matched the restroom’s pristine tiles, shiny doors, and an aroma of bleach and mountain pine, aerosol fresh. It felt clinical.
Only the squeak of Eric’s bare heels rubbing on the tiled floor disturbed the quiet sterility. Ridley hurried, easily lifting him onto the toilet and propping him against the stainless-steel wall for support. Ridley eyed heavy waves of condensation, pitched out by Eric’s deep breaths, rolling across the wall’s cold surface. Reassured, he also pressed his fingers against Eric’s neck, where he felt a steady pulse. Steady drool also flowed down Eric’s cheek.
The presence of an angry and bewildered restaurant manager made dressing Eric difficult. The man contacted mall security, and as Ridley tied the last shoelace, security began taking a statement from Megan for their incident report.
“He hasn’t been himself lately,” Megan said, probably a dozen times.
Ridley showed the security guards his badge, gaining their full cooperation and an understanding that they did not need to contact the Clark County Sheriff’s Department. When a packet of smelling salts failed to revive Eric, the security guards produced a wheelchair.
“We can have the paramedics come and check him out,” one of the guards said, gravitating toward his newly found law-enforcement colleague.
“No thanks,” Megan said, insistent.
Ridley struggled to understand, but deferred to his sister’s decision. “Just help us out to the parking lot, and then we’ll take it from there.”
“Yes, sir.”
The procession, with Eric at its head, plied through the mall’s broad courtyards. Outside, they skimmed past green hedgerows on their way to the parking structure. What little sky Ridley saw was already black. The functional orange haze emanating from overhead lights, buzzing all around, filtered out any celestial details.
Once they made it to Nick and Megan’s parents’ house, John and Anna cooperated, helping to put Eric in Ridley’s old room. Megan did all the talking, while Ridley borrowed a thermometer. Anna went downstairs to pray.
A nightlong rotation ensued.
By 6:00 a.m., Ridley was alone with his brother-in-law. Temperature, heart rate, respiration, and pupil dilation all seemed normal. Eric started snoring, but Ridley did not know whether that was a good sign. But it was something.
Downstairs, someone made coffee. The scent enlivened Ridley’s alertness, but also made him realize how sore his muscles were from sitting on the hard Shaker chair, brought from the breakfast nook.
Ridley looked around the room. Not much had changed since he moved out after college. Simple furnishings, some pictures of the family, and a dusty Exercycle occupied the room. His eyes wandered to the closet, its mirrored doors reflecting an unflattering image. He stood, and then stretched, rolling his neck.
With blood flowing again and as Ridley’s eyes settled back onto Eric, he realized something about his brother-in-law’s condition.
Narcolepsy.
Aloud, Ridley said, “A neurological disorder in which a person suffers from irresistible sleep attacks and, and…Stimulate the nervous system.”
Ridley stopped speaking and headed straight for the kitchen. Once there, he mixed some fresh coffee grounds with those already brewed in the filter. As far as he knew, his brother-in-law never drank coffee, just juice, water, or milk. Eric was the healthiest person he’d ever met.
A few pats of coffee grounds should suffice, Ridley thought. For someone unacquainted with caffeine, Eric would not need much. Ridley felt confident about his rationale.
Ridley bounded up the stairs. By folding the pillows in half and pressing them against the pine headboard, he adjusted Eric into an upright position. He pinched some of the grounds, still warm and moist, between Eric’s lower lip and gum, and then measured his pulse.
Sixty.
At around eighty-eight beats per minute, Eric spit out the coffee grounds and said his first words.
Chapter 10
To Do List
Colonel Bennet, Saint Mary’s disinformation officer, was already awake when the caller rang his office’s phone number at Nellis Air Force Base. Bennet kept a cot in his office. Lying or sitting on it, he routinely made lists. “To do” lists. He never kept the lists, of course, just checked off the items, one by one, until he had fulfilled the tasks. Then, into the shredder they went, or sometimes, he burned them over an ashtray.
Strategy was for others. He just got things done.
That was why he did not mind complying with the caller’s instructions and driving into Las Vegas for an unplanned Thursday-morning meeting at the Stratosphere Hotel.
Once inside the hotel room, Bennet’s blond-haired host placed the “Do Not Disturb” placard on the doorknob, and then he said, “Take a load off, Colonel. This won’t take long.”
Unlike others, Bennet did not feel uneasy around this man. No anxiety. After all, he had nothing to hide.
“I assume there’s a development?” Bennet said. He sat next to the window and took out his notepad.
The man started to put on his shoes, a new pair of brown loafers. “Yep. Stone decided to take Taylor’s approach to, shall we say, the next level. No weak links.”
“What are the details?” Poised to write, Bennet noticed his eyeglasses beginning to slip downward along the bridge of his nose. His skin was oily, as he had not yet showered.
“Both have been adequately discredited.” The man’s smile formed into a perfect grin. “But in about three hours, Airman Bresch will be found in his apartment. The girlfriend, from what I understand, is supposed to hook up with him there. She has been driving him to his counseling appointments.”
“Uh-huh. Did he leave a note?”
“Yep.”
“And the gun?”
The man shaped his right index finger and thumb into an imaginary pistol, pointing it at the colonel. “No problemo there. The airman liked to hunt.”
Bennet crossed his legs and cleared his throat. Protocol One measures never failed to arouse him. “What about the sergeant?”
“I’m on it. Had some fun with him last night in a restaurant. I am authorized to exercise my own discretion.”
“Will it be soon?”
“Given the renewed urgency, I don’t believe we need to wait very long. Can’t be too soon, though. People might get too curious if both of them croaked at the same time. We have to strike a balance.” He looked into the mirror and adjusted his turtleneck collar. “Sergeant Gonzales has been more difficult to manipulate than Airman Bresch, but the outcome will not change. Besides, I’ve grown impatient with this matter. It should have been wrapped up long ago.”
After a few more notations, Bennet said, “I’ll get to work on the press packets. The performance evaluations on Bresch should be enough.”
“They will have to be. Officially, we know zilch about his private counseling sessions.”
“I understand. And his family?”
“His thoughts were very clear on that subject. We won’t have anything to worry about. He’s been tight-lipped, just like Gonzales. But that’s why we needed to act now instead of later. There’s no telling what could happen down the road.”
“Good. Then it seems to me that things will run their natural course.”
“You betcha.”
Bennet flipped to the top page of his notepad and targeted the first item on that day’s list. Meet with James Evans. He checked it off.
Chapter 11
Just Normal Background Noise
“Where’s Megan?” Eric said.
“She’s in her room with Owen. They’re both asleep,” Ridley said. By Eric’s expression, Ridley could tell some of the bitter coffee grounds remained in his mouth. He held the filter unde
r Eric’s chin and waited through several finger swipes before setting the mess aside on the dresser, next to his wallet, holster, and keys. And a business card.
“I need to talk to her.”
“You will. But first, I need to talk to you. How do you feel?”
“Like I got a good night’s sleep.”
“Do you remember anything from last night?”
“Last night? Oh, you mean at the restaurant?”
“You remember being at the restaurant?”
“Sure I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“You passed out. You went to the bathroom, and, well, when you came back, you passed out. Do you know why that might’ve happened?”
“Allergies?” Eric folded his arms and nodded profusely. “Yeah, maybe I was allergic to something?”
“Nope.” Impatience cut the single-syllable word short.
“It’s possible. This guy I know told me about something like that happening to him. Couldn’t do a thing about it.”
Ridley clenched his jaw and said, “Did this guy’s allergy cause him to completely disrobe and parade through a restaurant?”
“What? Why are you getting so angry?”
Ridley took a deep breath. “Look, Megan has told me about your recent problems.”
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just stress. She worries too much.”
“No, Eric. Something is wrong, and you need to see a doctor. Your sleep disorder can be treated, if that’s what it turns out to be. Frankly, I’m really surprised by your irresponsibility.”
Eric’s hands tightened into fists. “Don’t lecture me about responsibility. You don’t know what it’s like. I’m trying to raise a family, to make a better future. Are you surprised by that? What would you know? I don’t need some cop to tell me how to run my life.”
“Oh no, that’s not what this is about.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“You tell me.” Ridley grabbed the business card. “Look at this.”
Fists relaxed, Eric took the card, but did not look at it. His eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Yeah, so?”
“I intended to show this to you last night. That is, before your ‘allergies’ kicked in. What did you want to talk to me about? And what does July seventh have to do with it?”
“That was nothing. I can’t even remember now what it was about.”
Ridley thought back to an earlier conversation he had with Megan, remembering the phrase she said Eric kept repeating. Time for another ruse. “That’s not what you said last night. You were talking in your sleep again. You were responding to orders, weren’t you? ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir.’”
Eric closed his eyes.
“Systems normal, tell no one,” Ridley said, suddenly coming to a realization. It hit him hard. Blurry intuition crystallized into something sharp. For some reason, autopsy photographs he and his fellow recruits saw in the academy came to mind. The pictures always had a keen focus and explicit colors. They also had white glare on the metal table where the camera’s strobe reflected. There were pictures of belly wounds. He held his stomach. The outside, everything, pressed in. He never imagined that clarity could be so sickening. “Why the hell would they order you to tell no one if everything was normal?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“What happened on July seventh?”
Eric rolled onto his side, facing Ridley, and opened his eyes. They were clear. No darkness underneath. “You went on vacation the next day, you son of a bitch.”
The Shaker chair underneath Ridley creaked as he leaned back.
“Did you have a good time in Havasu, Nick? A nice break from work? You know, from crooks, from the paperwork, from the routine?” Eric sounded as if he had just aged forty years.
“Yeah.”
“Must have been nice. Did you take a radio with you?”
“Huh?”
“To listen to out on the lake.”
“No.”
“Oh well. You probably wouldn’t have been able to pick up very much out there. Just static.”
Ridley stood, feeling the need to pace. It helped him think. He paused by the window. Outside, he saw his father on the front lawn. John Ridley practiced chip shots. One trickled onto the driveway, coming to rest against the rear tire of Ridley’s Suzuki.
“Yeah, static. Or maybe some kind of interference. Like clicking,” Eric said.
When Ridley turned around, other images came to mind, memories of a slow Saturday night. “Rapid clicking?”
“Whatever. It doesn’t mean anything though. Just normal background noise. Nothing to get upset about. You wouldn’t want to turn it into something that it’s not. People might get the wrong idea about you. So, you tell no one.” Eric set the business card onto the dresser, next to Ridley’s wallet, holster, and keys. “You leave it to others to figure out what really happened.”
Chapter 12
Weak Links
By 11:00 a.m. on Friday, Harrison collected the last police report. He was in Los Angeles, driving a rented Chevrolet Corsica along familiar streets, with nearly three hours until his flight to Tucson. Los Angeles had been his home before he entered the FBI, and it still felt like home. He’d left much behind at the time, but these days, there was nothing and no one to return to in Los Angeles.
Except for one place.
Harrison had what seemed like an easy choice to make. Either go to the airport for three hours of boredom, or, go to the hills just above the city, to Griffith Observatory. His parents would like that. They rested in Pasadena. Too far and too risky a trip to make given the incoherent impulses of LA traffic. Besides, he’d never liked cemeteries. Memories did not originate in cemeteries.
When Harrison arrived, empty school buses, rows of them, told him they had successfully delivered their hundreds of small occupants, sent to explore the lush hilltop grounds and discover, under the various Griffith Observatory domes, nothing less than the infinite horizons of their universe. He lit a cigarette and turned on KNX-News Radio for their regular traffic updates. As he rolled down the window to let out the smoke and to smell the air he had breathed growing up, Harrison wondered how many of the children he saw that day would eventually become astronomers or physicists. Or criminals.
“Damn.”
He regretted the afterthought but knew it was unavoidable. Cynicism came easily for those who patrolled the streets, made arrests, or vowed that they would try to make a difference. Sometimes, over the years, the doubts tugged at his principles and his motivations. Bad guys were not supposed to win.
He had the sleepless nights. Dreams—nightmares—where he yelled, simply yelled, at the top of his huge lungs, in the faces of his coworkers and supervisors. Something was wrong. Bad guys were not supposed to win. Cynicism, embedded in doubt, could be enough to make anyone, even the most dedicated, also feel utterly useless.
But bad guys did win.
This had been a hard lesson for Harrison. Some would tell him—he knew whom—that he had not yet learned it, or even come close to learning it. But he had. What drove him to anger—to the nightmares—was that sometimes the bad guys won because they had so much help from the inside. From incompetence, politics, careerism, compartmentalization, distrust.
He let the cigarette dangle between his fingertips, holding it outside the driver’s window. His briefcase sat on the front passenger’s seat. He rested his right palm on it. The leather was cold, chilled by the car’s air conditioner during the drive from downtown. Los Angeles was always warm or hot. Today it was warm, on its way to being hot. The radio said Santa Ana winds were kicking up again.
But the tree-shaded parking lot and breezy hilltop location gave enough relief. Only a small chunk of the Chevrolet’s white hood poked out from under the tree and into the sun, depending on the wind. The familiarity of it all—comforting, like the effortless and faithful support of a corpulent recliner—helped Harrison relax. He needed to focus. Too much reflection on his bureau past strained his th
oughts. Harrison, the private investigator, sought no reminders of what work Harrison, the FBI special agent, had done. He thought he had won the battle against remorse over lost opportunities. But feelings of uselessness due to an inadequate legacy still troubled him.
Harrison finished the cigarette and removed Echo Tango’s most recent letter from his briefcase. His curiosity was not about its contents, although those did interest him. This anonymous client, sincere or not, tugged him in a direction he did not necessarily want to go.
Harrison needed to identify Echo Tango. His, or her, intentions and motivations may have sounded nice, and Harrison had worked with confidential informants on some of his FBI investigations, but he needed face-to-face contact to establish trust. The importance of this was perfectly obvious to Harrison. What was also obvious was that Echo Tango knew him.
One other thought surfaced again. It made him hold his breath this time. What if he did not know, or had not even met, Echo Tango? Eerie as this was, it remained a possibility. As he reread the latest letter, he hoped that this was not the case…
Mr. Harrison,
I apologize for intruding. There’s much to do, little time, and great danger. My measures may disturb you, but please understand that I mean you no harm. Because of the sensitive nature of the matter at hand, and the secrecy surrounding it, I must go to great lengths to conceal my efforts and, hopefully, yours as well. Yes, I need your cooperation to accomplish a very important task. It’s more important than any investigation you have ever conducted, including Silver Star or any of the other ARDCom assignments. The details will become clear as we proceed. Until I’m certain that you’ve joined me, I’ll have to limit your direct knowledge. This is for your protection.
Here’s what I can tell you: Harold Groom “died” of a heart attack. Medical authorities in Florida have confirmed this. The press has duly accepted the explanation, despite Groom’s perfect health. The truth is, Mr. Harrison, agents of the US government eliminated Groom using sophisticated techniques developed under the pretense of “national security.” Groom’s assassination of the computer software executive wasn’t directly related to the organization that he worked for many years ago, but Groom’s ploy threatened this organization. They couldn’t risk exposure, so, they eliminated him. But, these people need to be exposed. They have betrayed a sacred trust and violate, every day, the Constitution of the United States. Sadly, I’ve helped them to do this.
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 10