Patient: Crew (The Crew Book 1)

by Hannah Kaplan

  “He calls you? He’s called you more than once?”

  “Yes, he has. Are you ok?”

  “Yes Kevin. Yes!” I yelled. “I – am - fine. I am ok, and I’m going to kick you into next week if you ask me again. I’m fine. I want to know if Jim and Jima are fine as well. I want to know if they hurt Joshua Caleb.”

  “They’re all good. I think Jim tries to keep things level for Jima’s sake. He’s called every day to ask about you.”

  “That’s good, she should have a normal life,” I said not giving in to my emotion. “Not so much chaos.” Kevin didn’t say anything else about Jim or Jima, and I was relieved. Talking about them ripped my heart apart. I put my folder in the back seat. There was nothing in it I didn’t already know.

  “You’re not going to read it?” he asked. “One of the first things I did when I made detective was look myself up on the FBI database. I wanted to know me the way they knew me.”

  “It’s just facts,” I said. “It doesn’t tell anyone who I am.”

  “Aren’t you just a little curious?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to fill you in on what the crew said about Finneaus?” he asked.

  “I’d rather read it myself.”

  “Still don’t trust me?”

  “It’s not about trust.” We drove the next few hours in total silence. I started to doze off to the music of tire treads on the asphalt; it was a symphonic sound I had never noticed before. I felt the car sway and opened my eyes in time to see Kevin’s body jolt awake from the drumroll of the breakdown lane’s safety grooves. His arm went across my body and held me against the seat as he righted the car.

  “We’re going to stop ahead to get some food and coffee,” he said.

  “Good idea,” I said. The sun was beginning to rise as we pulled into the Love’s truck stop, a mile outside the Arizona state line. I stretched my legs and went inside ahead of Kevin in hot pursuit of the nearest restroom. After relieving myself I walked through the diner and joined Kevin at a booth. The room smelled like weary travelers and fried fish. The clinking of metal on porcelain as the diners ate mesmerized me. I found myself turning in the direction of whatever conversation hit my ears. Kevin started reading the Finneaus Albert folder to me before I could sit down.

  “Slow down Kevin, I didn’t hear most of what you said and couldn’t understand the rest of it. I can hear people talking, real people talking all around me. Isn’t it wonderful!”

  “We don’t have the luxury of slow right now. We’re about two hours outside Sedona. We need to check into a hotel, get some rest and be ready for battle tonight.” His demeanor and look had transformed into Detective Kevin Stewart.

  “Just say it so I understand,” I said. “I’m a fast study, just tell me what it is I need to read.” He looked at me as if I were the most foolish person he had ever met. I felt an unfamiliar and sudden intimidation that made me want to crawl under the table. “What?” I asked.

  “You need to read it all, both books and everything you’ve written since, not to mention the transcript of the verbal days. You need to know their style and rhythm,” he said. His downward glare never left my eyes.

  “We don’t have time for me to read it all,” I said staring him down.

  “When I was fifteen and thinking I was all that, I started hanging out with some kids in a gang. South Houston was a breeding ground for those types back then. I decided they were what I should aspire to become. I saw these guys in high school with wads of cash, wearing the bling, and the latest pair of kicks. Most of my friends were going that direction anyway, and I didn’t want to be left behind.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “What does this have to do with anything?” I was frustrated and starving. “I need some food.”

  “Like I was saying,” he continued. “One day around Christmas I decided I would go ahead and try to join one of those gangs. I had to accept, and pass a challenge for the privilege of getting the shit beat out of me, and only then would I be allowed to join.” The waitress was at our table with three plates of food. The busboy was behind her holding three more plates.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  “You know it,” he said and arranged the food so that we could graze from plate to plate. Kevin continued with his story as we feasted on eggs-three ways, pancakes, waffles and a huge helping of hash browns.

  The first story he told was about the gangs in Houston. His mother took him to the hospital after his beating and then moved them both to Abilene. His second story was about buying a fake ID so he could get a job as a bouncer at the Up Stairs Club. I couldn’t, even if I tried, remember the rest of them, and I stopped counting at eight when I finished my last cup of coffee.

  “You won’t find one of those stories in my folder,” he said as we entered the highway headed west towards Sedona. “Nobody knows those stories except me and my mother, and now you. It’s a hell of a lot more than I’ve found out about you.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “What the hell do you mean what’s my point?”

  “Isn’t that why you told me all those stories? You wanted to make a point so make it already.”

  “My point is that you have no reason not to trust me. I have studied the crew, and I know we know they’re right about this. I can show you how, and I will but it’s ridiculous to think you could catch up to us in one night.”

  “Far be it from me to be ridiculous. By we and us, I assume you’re talking about the Crewbies,” I said.

  “Don’t be sensitive. It’s a simple fact.”

  “Don’t be so pissy,” I retorted.

  “I’m not pissy, I’m worried,” he said.

  “Me too.” We drove for another hour before stopping at a motel off the highway. Most of them looked seedy, but we were lucky enough to find a small semi-clean place to stay. We got one room with two full size beds and took turns with the shower. After we had settled in Kevin again opened the Finneaus Albert folder.

  “When I read the session about the month of a thousand deaths I knew it struck a cord in me.”

  “Ok,” I said.

  “It was in the first book,” he held up the first page in the folder and then returned it. “I have to say something first. I have to say it so you understand, and then I don’t want to be forced to explain myself again.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I told you before, I don’t know what I stand for outside the law. I don’t know if I believe in God, Jesus, both or neither. I know I believe in something—something bigger than us. I believe the crew is a part of that something, or sent by that something to help us as a people. To help us change.”

  “Crazy Kevin,” I mumbled.

  “Shut it,” he growled back at me. “I knew that the session sounded familiar and when I showed it to the others they reminded me of book one, page one ninety two, The Singer sings.” He pointed at the page and followed the words with his finger as he read out loud. “Some are not yet born and some just starting to live, but the man has made a plan and a thousand promises given. The time line now remains. From the four corners, the heat intensifies. The man has made a plan, and a thousand promises given. The time line now remains. Fueled from a gut of rage there’s none that can stop Finn now, because the man has made a plan and a thousand promises given. The time line now remains. It’s obvious that The Singer is letting us know a plan has been hatched and Finn, aka Finneaus, is the man, and he’s mad. He not only sings about the plan and who’s creating the plan, he sings about the firebombs, the children who will die and the intense anger of Finneaus. Each session or day of writings has a certain leader, and the others give a basic commentary. This was The Singer’s day, and this was his first writing of that day, or session. It’s hard to tell which it is, day or session, because the books are different from the raw writings, but we’re on the right track.”

  “The Singer was the leader that day. Did he say more?” I asked. “What about the others,
did they talk about it?”

  “No and no, not that time,” he said. “It becomes more regular throughout the last pages of the first book.” He thumbed through the pages, and I moved to the other bed.

  “What’s wrong? Is it my breath?” he asked.

  “No, it’s me trusting you. Tell me what you know I don’t need to see it,” I said. Kevin had a goofy grin on his face, and wiped his eyes. “Are you crying? Big baby,” I laughed.

  “I’m not crying, but you did touch a little soft spot, thank you. Going forward, on page one ninety-eight it appears that Joseph the leader is in control for the session. Joseph says; the master plan is set in stone and became reality when the butterfly flew away. He fashioned the sixteen tunnels of fire. Now, he lies in wait for an introduction. In the same session he says.”

  “How do you know it’s the same session?” I asked.

  “It fits that way.” He threw the crew book to me, and I looked inside. “In the books, each speaker is named but there’s never a date or time. When you’ve read it enough times, you can figure out which sessions happened within the same time frame.”

  “Which is better the sessions or the book?” I asked.

  “Your way is specific, and that equals truth not redaction,” he said. “In the same session, The Hippy talked about sixteen tunnels of fire that travel a straight line three times with one to grow on. The Professor says, if it were to travel by steam engine the news wouldn’t reach the architect until the next day. Both bombings consisted of four bombs fueled with gasoline and strategically placed in the four outer corners of each building. This is what caused the buildings to fall inward. The gasoline fireballs ignited everything in their paths creating four tunnels of fire traveling straight lines. It will happen four times total. Four bombings. There have been two so far. The Professor is letting us know the bombs were set off from a distance of at least a day’s travel.”

  “How can you be so sure? How do a steam engine and architect equal this guy setting off the bombs from a distance? It doesn’t say that to me, not at all. You’re forcing it.”

  “I layer the crew sessions with the facts of the case and bombings. With Tim, Marla, and you wrapped around it and a little bit of me in the mix.” Kevin stood up and started pacing. “I know it’s hard for you to believe me at face value, but I have others that I confer with. We have all come to the same conclusion. You need to have faith,” he said.

  “Never, faith is the tool of the weak.”

  “Trust it, know that it is truth. On page two hundred, the last page, Mother says—Mother always speaks on the last page—nowhere but the last page. She says; Bend a knee, say a prayer for the little ones we lose.”

  “I have to say something first. I have to say this so you will understand, and I won’t be forced to explain myself again, ok?” I asked.

  “Go ahead,” Kevin said.

  “I don’t believe in anything good, bad or indifferent. I don’t believe in any of it. I believe mankind has a need to be fooled into thinking there’s more than this shit hole. There is nothing greater than us. We’re at the top of the food chain and the only entity with more power than us is the earth, but we will win that battle some day. You want to create change? Take religion out of the equation, and then you can’t blame your deeds on a god or a devil, you have to own it. The world will start to change in the instant we take all the blame we deserve.” I started rummaging through the luggage.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked with a smidgen of fear in his tone.

  “A drink,” I said. He handed me a bottle of water, and I knocked it across the room. “Libations!” I yelled. Kevin filled a hotel glass with whiskey he’d stored in his bag. I downed it. “Why Marla? Why did he take Marla?” I slowly drank another shot. Kevin sat silently across from me.

  “The plan is made, the sixteen tunnels of fire and the three straight paths. I’m not sure what one to grow on means. In the second book, the plan becomes clear.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Kevin took it all in stride, but I couldn’t drink enough to disconnect from her words—the little ones we lose.

  “No problem,” he leaned over, and kissed my forehead. “Book two, page thirteen, The Poet makes a poem out of numbers.” He fumbled around for the book and then the page.

  “Stop it Kevin. Don’t read it just tell me already,” I said.

  “The Poet makes up this poem, and it turns out the rhyming numbers at the end of each line are the exact geographical coordinates for Finn’s house. Just a side note, those same numbers also won the Powerball a month before the first bombing. At that point, page thirteen to the end. Every session has at least one reference to the month of a thousand deaths. The sessions you wrote in Sunny are specific and in literal terms gave us his name, address and even his phone and social security numbers. We know who, what, where, and how, but not the why. Why did he take Marla, and why is he blowing up children?”

  “I give. Why?”

  “The crew,” he sat on the bed. “He wants the crew. That’s why he took Marla and it’s why he’s blowing up the children. He wants you—he doesn’t know he wants you—because he doesn’t know you possess the crew. We know that because Marla said to bring the crew with you.”

  “When you went verbal, do you remember anything during the sessions?”

  “Very little.”

  “Do you remember sitting up and talking to me?”

  “No.”

  “It was five AM, and you’d been out for two days and deep into the fourth session. You were going on five hours, and suddenly the talking stopped, you sat up in bed and turned to face me.” He took his cell phone out of the cargo pocket in the leg of his pants, and handed it to me. “Push play and watch for yourself.”

  “You recorded me?” I asked before pushing the play button on the screen.

  “I did. Momma was asleep. She knows nothing about this.”

  The video began. I was sitting up in bed with my head cocked to one side. It appeared to be me, but the look on this girl’s face was far too cheerful. Both eyes were open as I talked with different voices making it sound as if there were seven people in one body, male, and female. I began to sing. “Everything set in motion won’t back down won’t let go. Set in motion set in stone.” I struggled to breathe as I watched and heard the voice of The Singer coming out of my mouth. “We are the army we never fail, never fall. From within without and around all strive to destroy but we soldier on, we soldier on.” The voice of The Singer seamlessly transformed into The Poet. “The loss not worthy of the cost. The history no need for mystery. The third brings forth the word. The voice humanities last choice. This is the last chance the final choice.” The Preacher’s voice took over. “God save us everyone as we enter the time of heavenly revolt. We have no power over the change that will occur as promised in the days of old.” I watched as my body turned and held my hands together like a spout placing them in the palm of Kevin’s hand. “Let the knowledge flow from the pipe to the vessel. Together let our voices be heard as one before all words are turned to dust. Let the church say amen.”

  “Amen,” Kevin could be heard, but not seen on the recording.

  “It’s like a crazy acid flash,” The Hippy said using my mouth. “Big brother dug his code name. Man called himself the butterfly. Finn fancied himself a stud, tripping all over the world man, and then suddenly it was peace from the butterfly, and Finn was left to fin for himself. Not cool. He freaked out. It’s never cool to take away the people’s power.” I’d cleared my throat, and furrowed my brow before The Professor began. “We wait on the edge of the unknown for an explanation of life. We know that not a single element has eternal continuation. Everything that is will eventually meet its own demise. Not humanity, earth, or anything on it, not the planets, not the stars, not the universe that houses it all, nothing can escape the inevitable end of existence. And just as that fact remains another is created. For as sure as I am that death will occur, I am equally convinced in the
certainty of birth.” Joseph’s voice took over. “Today, the endings take place in Albuquerque, New Mexico. From atop his perch, Finneaus will create chaos between the four walls of the past, present and future. Complete destruction. From a day’s journey done in the split of a second. Today, he lives at twenty-three Jacob Lane in Sedona, Arizona. He’s not alone, but he’s the only threat. The numbers are 3696923849.” I watched my head straighten and face the camera lens. Looking in my eyes on the recording as I heard the voice of Mother come out of my mouth was a guttural experience. “Do not doubt the force behind your actions.” The recording stopped, and I returned the phone to Kevin.

  “We, you and me, are the only ones who’ve seen this,” he said. “And the only ones who ever will.” He took a small video card out of the phone, went into the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. “The numbers Joseph gave were to a cell phone that triggered the bombs in the children’s museum to explode,” he said, and sat on the bed.

  It was almost noon we had driven all night, and I had consumed an inordinate amount of emotion. I was at the point of complete exhaustion. “Do you think Marla’s alive?”

  “I hope Marla’s alive.”

  “That and a nickel won’t buy you a hunk of cow shit,” I said disgusted by that word—hope. “What’s the plan?”

  “Can we talk about the video?”

  “No. What’s the plan?”

  “We’ll sleep for a few hours. We’ll find the house and stake it out for a few more hours,” Kevin said.

  “And after that?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far. Any suggestions you have would be appreciated,” he said, and we slept.