by George Wier
“Anyway, I went to see him.
“The upshot of that meeting was that he told me about a special assignment ― strictly a volunteer thing. It required someone with no attachments. It was to be a post in a sleepy little town stateside with pay at regular scale either until the job was finished, or until I died of old age.
“I queried him on it, cautiously, but the old pug wouldn’t let out any more than that.
“I slept on it for a couple of nights, and then accepted.
“I was sent back to the States in the belly of a C-47 ― that’s one of those big transport planes. It was the longest, coldest trip I ever took in my life. During that trip we stopped off at Wake Island, where we took on one other passenger, a kid about two years junior to me who was supposed to brief me on my assignment.
“His name was Roth Hayward.
“He had my papers all ready to go. I was to be a young lawyer who was returning from the war who had married a girl he had met in Hawaii. A WAC named Maudelle Stevens.
“Your grandmother, Darla.
“There was no ceremony. We didn’t consummate the arrangement for nearly a year. At first we couldn’t stand each other. It was an assignment, you see. Nothing pretty or romantic about it. There was no first date. No touchy-feely heavy petting in the back of an old Chevrolet at the drive-in movies. No wedding ring, except for the ones supplied to us by the Department of the Navy. It was a job. The sheer monotony of it nearly drove me crazy that first year.
“I had set up a practice in Hearne, Texas. I had to quickly learn the law. Even my diploma was a fake. The lawyer bit was my cover ― our cover ― but we had to be convincing. Small town people are typically nosey. These people surprised us. They weren’t nosey. We were accepted almost without question. And we began to live life.
“The assignment, though ―
“We had the full briefing. The ‘straight dope’, as they say, although I’ve never figured out exactly who ‘they’ are. The straight dope was that ― here I go, violating sacred pledges. I suppose, though, that there’s nothing sacred about what I’m about to tell you ―
“In the late 1890s our government was sold on the idea that man could be controlled. That his allegiances could be twisted around. The most able man for the job was Helmut Pfeffer, an Austrian born professor who had been trained by the most ‘learned minds’ ― I remember, that was one of the buzz phrases they used. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now ― anyway, he was fully trained in the subject of Psychiatry. We brought him here, gave him a laboratory, gave him a life.
“His notes were copied off on an almost daily basis and forwarded to Washington, probably by telegraph and by courier. I don’t know all of those details. There was a newly-established department in Washington, the Office of Research Intelligence, I believe it was called. Something like that. It has changed hands over the years to become something... else.
“Helmut Pfeffer’s experiments were supposedly very revealing. Innocent people could be beaten, knocked out with drugs, electrically shocked into a temporary state of catatonia and given post-hypnotic suggestions. You could create assassins, carve out whole units of people hypnotically controlled. Essentially, with the right word given at the right time, you could create havoc.
“But even the government became appalled at the atrocious nature of Pfeffer’s experiments, or so I have been told, mostly by Tyler Hennessey, here.
“Pfeffer was headed over the cliffs of insanity, just like the insanity he instilled in his own test subjects. One of the agents sent to check up on him was knocked over the head and given the shock treatment. The man emerged a vegetable who reputedly lingered for years before dying in his own soup.
“Pfeffer’s final communique to Washington was minus his notes. It was a letter of sorts. A tirade. The tirade, written in German, alluded to the existence of his journal. I believe the translation goes something like this: ‘All of my work awaits discovery by the right man. A man with no ties to nations, to politics. It is all there, innocently so, in my beloved journal, waiting for someone with a vision for the future.’
“I’d hate to think what his vision could have been. But, to a degree, something of what he researched has come about ― but more on that later.
“Pfeffer committed suicide in 1905. I understand that many psychologists and psychiatrists do that. From what I know about them, it is small wonder.
“I’ll omit the details of his passing, if you don’t mind. Suffice it to say that he did not go gently into that good night.
“Following this, the house was ransacked. It was, ultimately, taken apart board by board, nail by nail. Not so much as one brick was left standing on the other. The whole thing was dug up and eventually had to be filled back in. Of course, they found nothing. There was, however, an old hay barn half a mile from the house on the southern edge of the property, away from everything. Apparently, no one bothered.
“It was my job to watch. Simply watch and report.
“The journal contains the experiments, the atrocities and findings of a madman. But no one knew what else was there. What ties there were to our government. The establishment of an entire secret bureaucracy could have been referred to there.
“As to what it actually does contain, I know now, as, by and large, do you, Bill. But I suspect there’s more. I don’t know what, though. I wish I could read German.
“I’m sorry, Tyler. I meant it before. I mean it more so now. I should have listened to you.”
Judge Sinclair’s tale was done.
*****
“Your turn, Mr. Hennessey,” I said.
Ty Hennessey sat forward slowly and placed his hands on his knees with a slow groan of pain. His scraggle of beard hung at an odd angle, but he didn’t look funny at all. The color had returned to his face a bit, but he still looked like a natural disaster survivor, barely clinging on to life despite his shocks and injuries.
He began.
*****
“His name,” he said, and pointed to the Judge, “was Eric Thomason. In his early years his hair was reddish in color, so knowing his real name, I called him ‘Red’, after Eric The Red. I don’t think he liked it too much, but he let me get away with it in private.
“I came to see him the year your father was born, Darla. It was official business, but I enjoyed being away from Washington. The weather is too damned hot and muggy in the summer, and too blasted cold in the winter. Besides that, the people are―
“But I reckon I digress.
“I came to see him, to check up on the case. I stayed a week that first time. They were probably happy after I was gone. Especially Mandy ― I mean, Maudelle.
“I came every chance I could get, which worked out to once every two years.
“But I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see, and it set me off. You don’t open folders that have the word ‘Classified’ on them and not expect to get an eyeful. But I did. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.
“What I saw would curdle your blood.
“They were plans for the infiltration of every level of our society. From the destruction of organized religion to the establishment of a drug culture. Those things, mostly, have come to pass. This was long before Haight Ashbury and the flower-children era. Before Vietnam.
“The year I saw that, a President was killed in Dallas. I hadn’t seen enough to connect that to the file, but I had my suspicions.
“I left the Agency and came down here. I tried to talk to Red ― I mean the Judge. He wasn’t a judge then, though. I tried to reason with him. Our parting was not gentle.
“I knew, though, that those woods held the key.”
Ty Hennessey was done.
*****
“The journal,” Lief said. “You sat for almost twenty-five years in a forest, looking for a journa
l?”
“No sir,” Ty said. “I knew where it was, the moment I found that safe.”
“Had you opened it?” Lief asked.
“Of course I have. And I haven’t been camping in the woods for twenty-five years. I have a small plot of land adjacent to the Pfeffer place. On it I have a forty foot travel trailer with all the luxuries of home.
“Why didn’t you do something with the journal?” Lief asked.
“Like what? I knew what it contained. I knew it was explosive.”
“So,” I said. “You bird-dogged it. You bird-dogged the town and the judge and his wife and that plot of land adjacent to you. Why?”
Ty Hennessey sighed.
“People have to do something,” he said.
I laughed. I couldn’t help myself.
“Okay,” I said. “So you knew. Why was it called Project Arrowmoon?”
The Judge spoke up: “There is a Boy Scout Camp not far from the Pfeffer place called Camp Arrowmoon. Maudelle thought it sounded right. It’s just a patch of woods.”
The conversation died away into a lingering silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“I know it’s too little, too late,” Judge Sinclair began, “but I had a family. Also, I had orders.”
“Shoot and kill this man?” Lief asked, pointing towards Hennessey.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Orders,” I said. “From Roth Hayward?”
Judge Sinclair nodded.
“Grandpa?” Darla asked. There was a bit of the bewildered child in her voice.
“I’m sorry, Darla. It’s all true. My life has been a lie, but yours doesn’t have to be.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Sheriff Noonday said. He dropped the footrest of the lounge chair to the floor and stood up slowly.
“I ought to arrest all of you,” he said, and then scratched his bristly hair. “But I can’t. You’re all forgetting.”
“What?” I asked.
“Roth Hayward. Don’t you think he knows we’re here? Who wants to be first out that front door?”
“Not me,” Ty Hennessey said.
“What do you suggest, Sheriff?” Judge Sinclair asked. “We can’t go to war with the United States Government.”
“I don’t care about the Government,” Noonday replied. “I want Hayward.”
“Dead?” I asked.
“In my jail, at the very least.”
“To pay for Sam?”
He sighed and turned to face me.
“You talk pretty smart, Mr. Travis. You’ve got a lot of fine answers. But one thing you don’t have right now is a funeral to prepare for. I do.”
And there was nothing to say to that.
“The question still remains,” Lief said. “I don’t relish walking out that door, unless, of course, someone can tell me with some degree of certainty that I’m perfectly safe to do so. My granddaddy lived to be ninety-five. I fully intend to top his record.”
“That’s simple enough,” Judge Sinclair said.
“What?” Lief asked.
“We go out the back, and preferably loaded for bear.”
It was a good idea. As good as any I’d heard. Unfortunately, we never got the chance.
*****
Before we could open the back door to make our bold dash, we heard the rattle of keys in the front door.
We stopped. We turned back around.
Darla stepped past me and stuck her head around the corner from the rear hall.
“It’s a lady,” she said.
We re-entered the living room just as the front door came open.
“Grandma!” Darla said.
“Does Grandma normally carry a gun like that?” Lief asked.
*****
“Hello, Mandy,” Ty Hennessey said.
“Tyler! I didn’t expect to find you here. I thought you were dead.”
“What are you doing with that gun, Maudelle?” Judge Sinclair asked.
The regal and poised woman who had welcomed Lief and me into her home two nights before stood there in the doorway. She had a very large pistol pointed at us. From her stance I understood that she had no intention of lowering it.
“This? I’m doing your job for you. As I always have.”
“We can’t kill him, Maudelle,” Judge Sinclair said.
“Stop calling me that! Apparently all of our secrets are out. You may as well call me by my name, or say nothing, I don’t care which.”
“Alright then, Amanda. But we can’t execute Mr. Hennessey. He was right, about too many things.”
“Oh. He was right. Well, I’m glad you’ve cleared all that up for me.”
“Grandma,” Darla said and stepped forward.
“Darla. I’d ask you why you’re here, but it’s your grandfather’s fault. You, at least, understand duty. You’re a policewoman. Him,” she said, indicating the Judge with the barrel of her pistol, “he doesn’t understand a blessed thing. So, I want you to go into the bedroom there and lock the door behind you. And don’t come out until I tell you it’s okay.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore,” she said,
“Oh, but you are. Ever since your father died I have looked out for you. Your mother has always been useless, living like the trailer trash she will always be. She didn’t put ten thousand dollars down on your new house at the lake for you. She didn’t pay your way through your police training. I did. I’ve always been there for you. So now I’m telling you to step aside.”
Darla stood completely still. I could tell there was a war going on inside her. That it was a crossroads moment for her was fine by me, but at the moment it was useless for our purposes.
“All of you!” Darla’s grandmother barked. “Put your weapons down on the floor. Do it now!” She raised the pistol another inch or two.
We complied, slowly, all except for Darla. Her gun was in her hand, but it was still pointed at the floor, as if she had forgotten that she was still holding it. There was the heavy clunk of metal on the hardwood floor.
“Good,” Maudelle Sinclair said. “Go to the bedroom, Darla. I’ll make you a cup of hot cocoa in a few minutes. After the mess is cleaned up.”
“No,” Darla said. It was her small-child voice again, yet it had a slight edge to it.
“Interesting family ya’ll got here,” Sheriff Noonday said. His comment was ignored.
“Go, Darla,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “I don’t want you to watch this.”
I couldn’t see Darla’s face, but I could see that she was shaking from head to toe. For a moment, I thought she might pass out.
“Mandy,” Judge Sinclair said. “Ty’s already been shot once today and nearly drowned. He’s like Rasputin. I’m not sure he can be killed anyway. You’ve never killed anyone before. Why start now?”
“What makes you think I haven’t? What do you think I did while I was on the peninsula, dole out vaccines?”
“Okay,” the Judge said. “Maybe you have. But that was fifty years ago.”
Mrs. Sinclair laughed.
“Time? What is that? It’s nothing.”
I spoke up. Sometimes I can’t help it.
“Ma’am,” I said. “If you thought Hennessey was dead, then why did you come here packing iron?”
“Oh,” she said. “Mr. Travis. William B. Travis. It appears the entire Travis clan doesn’t have an inkling of when they’ve been surrounded. It must be genetic.”
“Judge,” I said. “Tell me you don’t have a Ford pickup in your garage. Please.”
“Why? Of course I do. It was my son’s.”
“That’s right, Billy Boy,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “It’s like a bad joke. How many snipers does it take to shoot a Texas turkey? Do you want to venture a guess?”
“Three,” I said. “One to hold
the gun, one to gobble, and one to hold a tarp over all their heads so they don’t drown in the rain.”
“That’s very funny,” she said, but she didn’t laugh.
“Grandma,” Darla said. “Have you been shooting at people?”
“Don’t be stupid, child. Of course I have.”
“I take it,” I began, “that you are not what Roth Hayward was referring to as a ‘cooler head’. I take it that you ―”
“So, Eric,” she said to the Judge, “I see you have told all.”
“I have,” he said. “And it’s about time.”
Darla raised her gun and pointed it at her grandmother.
“You are under arrest,” she said. There was vehemence in her voice.
“Don’t be silly, child. You can’t shoot me.”
“I will!” Darla said. “Put the gun on the floor!” She barked it.
“Geez Louise,” Sheriff Noonday said. “I’ve seen enough shooting and killing for one day.” The Sheriff took a step forward and stood at Darla’s side.
Mrs. Sinclair’s gun swiveled slightly to aim directly at him.
“I’m counting to three,” she said. “If you’re not out of my way, Noonday, you are going to be one dead duck.”
It was another one of those damned moments. There had been too many of those of late.
“One.”
“Grandma. Don’t,” Darla said. The power of command in her voice had vacated. The two words sounded almost like a little prayer.
“Two.”
The pause was brief.
Mrs. Sinclair appeared to jerk, to spasm. The gun in her hand wavered.
A spot appeared on the front of her blouse and began to grow. A red spot.
Her mouth opened, as if to say something, but instead it leaked crimson.
The report came an instant later, a distinct “pop” sound.
Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes were open wide. We watched as they rolled up toward the ceiling and she collapsed inside the doorway.