Panacea

by Brad Murray

  The two stood staring at each other for an uncomfortable second before the guard broke the silence.

  “Delivery for you, Zulu. Stand back.”

  Zulu stood dumbfounded, staring blankly at the guard before taking a step away from the door. In all his time at the Outpost, he’d never once received a delivery. This was out of the norm to say the least. The guard passed through a small black envelope that dropped unceremoniously and slapped the concrete floor, coming to rest face down at Zulu’s feet.

  “What is it?” asked Zulu.

  “How the hell should I know,” replied the guard. “Open it and find out yourself.”

  The guard spun and marched away, his heavy booted footsteps echoing through the corridor. Uniform’s shrill voice echoed in a muddled, melodious sonnet; no doubt his special gift for the pod’s visitor. The guard’s boot steps seemed to quicken as he passed Uniform’s cell.

  Zulu stared at the envelope for a full minute before picking it up. His mind raced, searching for an explanation of what it could be, what it could mean. Turning it over so that it was face up, the envelope bore the white-lettered insignia he had seen once before – long ago. In a graceful looping white font, the stationary letters “B.B.” sat perfectly centered on the envelope’s thick, textured cardboard facing. The envelope was expensive, stately; a simple item, yet one carefully designed by its owner to convey its intended tone.

  “Brumeux,” Zulu muttered breathlessly.

  Instantly, Zulu’s mind shot to the promise Brumeux had made him so many years ago. His nerves tingled and he became dizzy with the possibility that it might come true. He flicked at the lip of the envelope, feverishly yet futility trying to tear it open. His fingers wouldn’t cooperate. They shook and spasmed about as if they had a mind of their own. Finally, with much effort, Zulu was able to liberate the envelope’s contents.

  A single white sheet of paper containing a hand-written note.

  Eleven words.

  Eleven words that Zulu read over and over again. Dizziness overcame him. His knees shook, becoming weak to the point of collapse. Zulu dropped onto his bed and closed his eyes. And then, from deep inside the laughter came. It trickled out at first, and then in short bursts. It oozed up from the pit of his stomach where it had been hiding for years, suppressed. And with each passing breath, the laughter flowed more forcefully, until he was totally and completely hysterical with elation. Tears of joy welled in his eyes until they spilled out onto his cheeks. The vision of being lowered deeper and deeper into a well and the sky above shrinking into oblivion had reversed itself. The sky grew brighter in his mind as the laughter destroyed the demons that had been circling like vultures for so long. He opened his eyes and gazed at the charcoal sketched faces that adorned his walls. They felt so close now, when just five minutes earlier they couldn’t have felt further away.

  For a second, the doubt crept back in; a shot of anxiety coursed through him. What if he had misread it? Zulu jumped up in his bed and unfolded the hand-written note, studying it. But the brief apprehension and doubt disappeared and the laughter returned. He gazed down at the words – tasting, savoring each one like a fine bottle of merlot.

  “Prepare yourself. He will be coming soon. Just as I promised.”

  19

  Today - May 29, 2011

  Prosser Place was a breathtakingly beautiful estate that rested on ten acres of rolling green hills. A thick awning of lush trees veiled the mansion from view when standing at the grand iron gates that marked the property’s edge. The French provincial style mansion was a sprawling 14,000 square feet and contained over 50 rooms. Each level of its four stories presented its own unique version of splendor and opulence. Vaulted ceilings, a plethora of skylights and arched stain-glass windows offered a comfortable, natural feel despite the majesty of the place.

  An elderly woman by the name of Esther Monague resided at Prosser, and had for decades. She kept to herself and most days it was a good bet she could be found sipping tea in the paneled library on the ground floor, her nose buried in a classic. Though she was its sole occupant, Esther did not own Prosser. She was, effectively, its caretaker. In exchange for free-of-charge residency, Esther opened the house for guests – when required - and looked the other way when group members needed to utilize its seclusion. She had learned at a young age how to keep a good thing going. Therefore, she turned a deaf ear to group meetings, and ignored the fact that some of the most famous and powerful people in the world would occasionally deliberate within Prosser’s walls. The Alicante had always been more than good to her; with so little to ask in return for being allowed to live for free in one of the stateliest mansions in North America. For Esther Monague, that was all she needed to know about the Alicante.

  On most days, Prosser Place was as quiet as a cemetery; with only the occasional droning of a vacuum cleaner or the whirring of lawn mower blades managed by the grounds crew. But on this day, even though Esther had informed the grounds crew not to report to work, there would be no peace at Prosser. Last night, the Sisters had arrived with their human punching bags, and the mansion had been haunted with the grisly echoes of their cries ever since.

  The Sisters had informed her – not so delicately – that Lars and Letta would be arriving this morning at 9am. When Malvado called to notify her of their touchdown in St. Louis, it had been 9:30. And now, as she triggered open the front gates and the white SUV snaked up the tree-lined driveway, it was nearing 10. Ester shuddered when she caught the first glimpse of Letta’s face. Letta was unhappy; clearly perturbed at something – most likely their late arrival.

  “Welcome Miss,” said Esther nervously. “Can I help with your things?”

  Malvado was already fumbling with the wheel chair, scrambling to get it set in place for Letta’s exit from the SUV. Letta frowned and shooed her away with a flick of her hand.

  “The driver will manage,” scowled Letta. “Of course, if his skills in retrieving luggage are comparable to his driving abilities,

  I will have long passed this Earth before my things arrive.”

  The driver lowered his chin to his vest and grimaced as he walked past her and began removing luggage from the trunk.

  “Young man,” Letta squawked after him, “your one responsibility is to drive. You receive very handsome remuneration for this simple task, so when there are children on bicycles moving at a faster clip than I, rest assured you will hear about it from me.”

  “Yes ma’am,” said the driver.

  Lars rolled his eyes and hurried past his sister. He eyed Esther and beamed from ear to ear. It was as if his entire body was smiling; as if he had laid eyes upon a goddess.

  “Why Esther, dear,” he said with arms outstretched. “How truly wonderful to see you again! What has it been – three years? Four perhaps? You are more radiant than ever.”

  Esther blushed. There was something dark and dangerous and mysterious about him - maybe it was his thickly foreign accent, or perhaps it was the power and the boundless romantic excitement she imagined that came with him. He was eternally single, as far as she knew; a playboy who no girl could tame, though many had tried and failed. There had been only one woman in his life; only one he truly seemed to cherish. Despite her cruel, ill-tempered, and wholly foul manner, it was apparent Lars revered his sister. Even before Letta’s husband died years back, Lars had always remained attached at her hip. It was peculiar really, a brother and sister being as close as they were.

  They came to Prosser Place only once every few years, but when they did it was always the same. The pair talked in hushed tones while on private walks around the grounds; plotting, planning, calculating. They met with all variety of odd people and spoke of strange and disturbing things, though Esther did her best to mind her own business. And now, today, the strangest and most disturbing visit in all of Esther’s years. Whatever Lars and Letta had going on with the twin Irish devils inside the mansion and the poor beaten souls they had carried in, Esther didn’t want to k
now.

  ***

  The Sisters had set up shop in the grand dining room on the main floor. As Malvado wheeled Letta in, Lars closed the door behind them, sparing Esther from further angst and mercifully freeing her to escape to her bedroom in a far wing of the mansion. Letta sneered with unblinking, vulture-like eyes at the hemorrhaging mounds of flesh that were strapped to antique dining chairs at the far end of the inconceivably long dining table.

  A pretty blonde haired woman crumpled listlessly to one side, her mouth overstuffed with a heavy white cloth. Sitting next to her was a middle-aged man, bald, with one eye swollen completely shut, dried blood crusted in the corners of his lips. Hands bound behind his back, the morning sun silhouetted him in golden light, and the beads of sweat on his forehead shimmered. On the white linen-covered table were the Sisters’ tools of the trade; a wicked collection of ominous-looking metal gadgets. Judging by the fact most of them were flecked with gooey maroon fluid, they had recently been put to use. The Sisters stood proudly behind their prey – grinning - like a pair of orange tabby house cats who had killed a field mouse and brought it to the doorstep seeking their master’s praise.

  Letta’s wheelchair came to a rest a few feet from the pair of captives; close enough for her to get a good look, but at a safe enough distance. She looked the man over from top to bottom, studying him while she sipped her tea from an elegant floral patterned china cup. Lars circled around behind the man, hovering over him like a hawk about to swoop.

  “Dr. Dmitri Minkowski I presume,” said Lars. “Tell me Dr. Minkowski, where are you from?”

  Minkowski blinked. His eyes were helpless, hopeless. Any strength and fortitude that had once offered resistance had long been beaten from him. He was as committed to the Order as anyone and his will to protect its secrets was as strong as steel, reinforced by an iron-plated determination to die for the cause if necessary. But the Sisters had lucked into his one Achilles’ heel – Tatiana. He couldn’t bear to watch her suffer, to be a bystander to her death. In Tatiana, the Sisters had found his heart, and with it the keys to unlocking the answers to all the questions they desired.

  “Moscow,” he muttered dejectedly.

  “I presumed,” said Lars, strolling towards the fireplace in the corner. “And when did you come to the US?”

  Minkowski shrugged his shoulders. “In the 80’s. What does it matter?”

  Lars chuckled. “I suppose it doesn’t. Just trying to get to know you, Dr. Minkowski.” He picked up a metal poker that hung near the fireplace and held its pointed end to his nose, inspecting the tip for sharpness.

  “Are you a Russian Jew, perhaps?”

  Minkowski nodded reluctantly.

  “I thought so,” said Lars in a pleasant, soothing tone. “I have a keen sense, you see. Always have. So you were part of the mass emigration of Russian Jews under Gorbachev, eh?”

  Minkowski nodded. “I saw my opportunity to leave Russia and I took it.”

  “Very wise,” smiled Lars. “And now look at you! A key member of the Order. You probably never imagined when you left Moscow that you’d be sitting in a room as magnificently appointed as this, no?”

  Minkowski coughed painfully, and a drop of blood dripped from his crooked, swollen nose.

  “No,” said Minkowski. “But had I imagined myself in such a room, I would have filled it with more likeable people.”

  Lars and Letta grinned and chuckled in unison. “I suppose our Irish friends can be quite inhospitable at first. But once you get to know them, you’ll find them agreeable.”

  “I was talking about you,” said Minkowski.

  Letta resumed sipping her tea. She and her twin brother exchanged knowing glances, wordlessly communicating as they were prone to do. Immediately, Lars’ pretentious pleasantries ceased, his expression transformed. The smile he had held on his face had disappeared, replaced by a grave somberness. He leaned closer to Minkowski and held the sharp end of the poker at his throat.

  “The Sisters have informed me that you’ve discovered a human panacea.”

  Minkowski said nothing, but looked emptily ahead at the table.

  “Aye, Porter is due to be in St. Louis in less than two hours,” said one Sister.

  “But Minkowski hasn’t set the exact meetin’ place, have ye Doc?” said the other.

  “Sounds to me that Dr. Minkowski owes this Porter fellow a phone call. Need to make sure he is in fact on his way,” said Letta.

  “Ya heard ‘er ya bald prick,” said one of the Sisters, thumping her fist on Minkowski’s forehead. “Make the call!” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the cell phone.

  “No,” murmured Minkowski.

  “What’s that ye say, Doc?” said one Sister, leaning in close to his busted face.

  “’Ye grown a set of balls, have ye?” said the other.

  Minkowski lowered his head, closed his eyes, and waited for the beating to commence. Instead, Tatiana moaned through the cloth gag and thrashed about in pain. Minkowski opened his eyes and saw the old man bearing down on her with the fire poker. A gash on Tatiana’s left arm, the handy work of the Sisters, had opened up under the poker’s pressure. The old man shoved it in deeper, sending a current of blood oozing down her arm. Tatiana wailed and thrashed furiously.

  “Stop!” cried Minkowski. “Please! I’ll cooperate. Give me the phone, but please stop hurting her.”

  Lars eased the pressure, lifting the poker away from Tatiana’s wound. The Sister dialed the number and placed the phone to Minkowski’s lips.

  “Just find out where he is,” said Letta. “Make sure he’s on his way. And, Dr. Minkowski, if you try anything smart, Lars will find other places for that fire poker to explore.”

  A young man’s voice answered, his “hello” could barely be heard through the speaker.

  “James? Dr. Minkowski here. I just wanted to check and make sure you were on your way to St. Louis. Are you making good time?”

  “No sir,” said Jimmy. “I’m stuck --- I-44. ---- serious accident.”

  “Sorry James, you’re cutting out. Did you say you’re on I-44 and there’s been an accident? Are you still going to arrive at noon?”

  “Yes, I-44. No, my truck is destroyed and I’m still 100 to 150 mi --- St. Lou--.”

  Letta leaned forward in her wheelchair. “Tell him you’ll come pick him up,” she whispered.

  “James, stay where you are, I will come pick you up.”

  “Sorry, say again?” Jimmy said.

  “I will come pick you up, James. It’s important that we meet.”

  “Oh no need - - - that. I - - - - way there, but I wi-- be late.”

  Letta whispered, “Tell him he’s in danger. Tell him to stay put and you will pick him up.”

  “James, you’re in danger,” said Minkowski. “Please stay where you are and I will come to pick you up. I will call you as I get closer.”

  “Danger?” said Jimmy. His voice crackled heavier than ever, the static worsening. “Why ---- in da---”

  “James,” said Minkowski.

  “I ----- breaking up,”

  And with that, the signal was lost. The Sister examined the phone’s screen and cursed aloud. She redialed the number but did not make a connection. Lars and Letta stared at each other for a moment; speaking to each other without words.

  “An accident?” said Letta, casually holding the tea cup to her lips. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

  “Hard to say,” said Lars. He rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “Certainly we must remain cautious - prudence is our ally. I am leery that Brumeux is behind this.”

  Letta’s tea cup clinked as she laid it on the dining table. “Yes, dear brother, I agree we must be wary. But an accident on I-44 will be very easy to verify.”

  She turned to Malvado.

  “Make some calls. See if you can substantiate the authenticity of Porter’s story.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, one foot already out of the room by the time
she finished her sentence.

  Letta turned her attention to Minkowski.

  “What say you, Doctor? What do you make of it?”

  Minkowski shrugged his shoulders wearily. “I don’t know. I have no reason to doubt him.”

  “Is it possible the Order could be behind this?”

  “James said his truck was wrecked. ‘Destroyed’ is the exact word he used. We would do nothing to risk his life.”

  “So you’re saying you believe, if Porter is telling the truth of course, that this was most likely just an ordinary automobile accident?”

  “I have no reason to believe otherwise,” said Minkowski gloomily.

  Lars paced to the window and stared out over the sunlit garden while Letta picked up her tea cup from the table, sipping delicately. They deliberated silently for a full minute, when Malvado came charging into the room.

  “Porter appears to be telling the truth,” Malvado announced. “I have multiple sources confirming an accident about 120 miles southwest of St. Louis on I-44. Multiple vehicles. Police and ambulances from several locations are at the scene.”

  Lars turned from the window, twirling the blood-tipped fire poker in his hands.

  “The Order will be on full alert by now, especially considering that Minkowski’s disappearance will be on their radar by now,” said Lars. “And it is highly likely, if Porter was able to escape this morning without the Order knowing it, that Brumeux will by now have his people scouring all of Missouri in search of the boy – if they haven’t already located him.”

  “What are you saying, brother?” said Letta.

  “I’m saying that, while it would be nice to hold Porter ourselves, the risk is far too great. We have what we need - once we bring Minkowski to the Alicante, and he spills his guts, the Order will be finished. All we needed was proof Brumeux was behind the thwarting of our viruses.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Still, it would be nice to study Porter; allow our own scientists to understand the Order’s supreme interest in the young man. And perhaps determine whether there’s a link to the stories of the Superstes of our youth.”