Saboteur: A Novel

by J. Travis Phelps

  Apollon stared at it intently.

  “The ink has been on this parchment for some time. It must be very old. But why bring it now if it is to be a warning? If it is a warning, it is a very old one.”

  “We won’t know until we find him.”

  “I’m right behind you, madam.”

  “Tell every guard to stand at the ready. I fear they will be needed before the day is done.”

  ***

  The man stood over the edge of the bridge and vomit poured from him until only the bile from his stomach was left. He continued to heave nevertheless.

  “I told you I should not take off my hood,” said the man in the cloak to the boy. “You can’t imagine what a shock it is for him to see my face.”

  The man collapsed now onto his knees, too weak to stand. He could vomit no more.

  “We can’t stay out here for very long, I’m afraid. I need you to get back inside, both of you,” said the man in the cloak.

  In a weakened voice, the man muttered in response, “I cannot.”

  They lifted him to his feet and put him back under the cover of the carriage.

  “Ey’e but you will. We will need some time in the country. The fresh air will serve you well my friend. Time is no enemy to us, but being seen even on the city’s edge is very dangerous to our cause.”

  “This is some trick of the gods, the black arts,” groaned the man as he heaved yet again.

  The boy suddenly spoke, though his voice quivered.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this is the only way to save you. You won’t understand any of this for some time, but later it will be a tremendous relief, I assure you. You know that I love you as my own true father, sir. You must trust me and trust the gods.”

  “You deceive me, boy, with some sorcery,” he replied, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I’ll have your head on a pi--.”

  The man’s eyes fluttered like loose marbles in their sockets and then he lost consciousness yet again.

  “It’s much better this way,” the man in the cloak said consoling the young boy. “He may sleep for days now. The shock is tremendous. Many die from it alone, or never fully recover their wits. He will though. Trust me, trust me,” the man said laughing. “Now put him in the back quickly,” he demanded of the boy.

  There was much noise in the city behind them, more than usual, but nothing but empty countryside ahead. Above them the last vestiges of the storm clouds that had been brewing since early morning sped past. To the man in the cloak they looked like ragged soldiers marching off to war, an army of ghosts. He pulled the hood of his tunic up just slightly to see them better. The boy sitting in the carriage looked out to him and thought he saw a fresh tear suddenly race down the man’s cheek, and then another.

  “Are you injured, sir?” the boy inquired. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m not injured, but I am hurt. I will survive as I always do. It is you I rather worry about, my son.”

  And with that the man in the cloak wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat, almost lovingly, and in one sudden spasm snapped him at the nape of his neck. The boy’s eyes rolled back in his head as a gush of blood poured from his mouth and nose. The man squeezed with all his might, until the last of the air escaped the lungs and the boy’s frail body went limp. It had taken no more than a few seconds. The man walked to the back of the carriage pulling out a large rug, which he methodically unrolled. The boy’s body fit perfectly and once rolled, you would never guess anything or anyone was inside. Leaning over the edge of the bridge, he thrust it over, where it smacked against the slow moving water below. He looked to his left and to his right again slowly. An old woman sat perched in filth very near to the bridge’s edge. He hadn’t noticed her before.

  She yelled in his direction, “I seen what ya’ done. I knows what yer up to.”

  The man simply ignored her and stared out instead across the point on the horizon where the river disappeared. The sun blazed a crimson red, but a razor thin slice of moon could be seen low in the sky.

  “No, I doubt you do, old woman,” he muttered. “I doubt you do.”

  Chapter 5

  Case 1032

  Sullivan walked into the office, which had “Chief of Police, Robert P. Tierney” inscribed in gold lettering on the door.

  “Detective Sullivan, welcome to SDPD,” came a voice from across the room. “Have a seat. I’m Bob Tierney.” He began to sit, but Tierney extended a handshake bringing him to his feet again. “I hope they weren’t too rough on you out there. A little hazing is good for everybodys’ morale around here from time to time. That Rodriguez is a piece of work, isn’t she?”

  Sullivan managed an awkward smile.

  “One of the best we have, to be honest.”

  Tierney slid a pair of bifocals up the bridge of his nose and pulled at a stack of papers, which he had clearly been reading on his desk.

  “Says here and I quote, ‘you have been the most decorated officer on the force and your skills as a detective, your intuition are unrivaled.’ Now I have to ask myself what would compel a curmudgeon like Carl Dickson to say such a thing if it wasn’t true? And yet here you are. Page two is brief, but far more telling if you ask me,” Tierney said raising his eyebrows and tilting his head. “I’m quoting again, ‘has self-control issues, and though they haven’t had direct bearing on his work with the force, risks seriously compromising the moral and civic values expected of all officers in the city of Richmond.’ Tierney chuckled. “Sounds like a pretty personal beef to me, especially if I know Carl like I think I do. I’ll bet you got into his cookie jar and stole some sweets huh?” An awkward pause followed. He started to speak but Tierney cut him off.

  “Have you read your Emerson detective?” Tierney shifted in his seat, looked up and pointed to a framed picture on the wall. It was one of those ancient and faded frames filled in with old yarn cross-stitching, which read, “A man must never be too moral, lest he miss out on the finer things in life.”

  “I don’t know, sir, I don’t read much to be honest,” he answered.

  “That’s too goddamned bad. A man who won’t read is a fool. Reading improves the soul and teaches refinement.” Tierney seemed to reconsider for a moment and then waived his hands through the air with a groan. “I never read Emerson either to be honest. My mother had a thing for sewing and for making sure I remembered to have some fun is all. Look, let me level with you, I don’t care much about your past--not any of it. You make for an interesting read on paper and I’ll bet you are what this recommendation says you are, more or less. Out here in Southern California we have just two threats to police work: criminals and the press. Both are equally dangerous. If you make me, or the force look bad, I’ll make it hurt for you in ways you can’t imagine. I know every police chief from here to Kalamazoo and if you think this job was a demotion, just you try me.” Tierney finally looked up from his papers. “A cop has to be disciplined to be effective and I can tell just by looking at that goddamn suit, not to mention that piece of shit car of yours that was sitting in the lot, that you have very little of either.”

  He thought the car would go unnoticed. Damn. Tierney sat up in his seat.

  “Tell me something detective. What could you tell an investigator about Bob Tierney after only one meeting? Please, you have permission to speak freely.”

  Sullivan’s gaze suddenly hardened, losing its boyish playfulness. He went into the almost primal state, the trance that overtook him when he was keenly observing. It was a test then. He brought his fingertips together to a point before speaking, his pupils appearing to almost dilate.

  “Well, go on,” Tierney said chiding him.

  “Frankly sir, Bob Tierney is a true professional, but he plays his cards very, very close to his chest. He uses his eye glasses as a prop to imply thoughtfulness, not from necessity, and shitty wall art to distract people from his real motives. He claims the art was made by his mother, but this is very doubtful since it still has the Salvation Arm
y price tag still clearly visible, from underneath, on the back. Probably his mother is still alive, though his use of the past tense suggests he has a poor relationship with her.” Sullivan pulled his hands together behind his head and leaned back in his seat. “He has family working in the department, and based on a strong physical resemblance is related to one Detective--Sheppard whose name was changed to his mother’s maiden name to avoid any suggestion of nepotism. Sheppard is subpar since talent would erase the need for subterfuge and endlessly seeks the approval of his father, causing him to take needless risks on the job. Bob Tierney feels guilt over both of these issues, naturally, but he genuinely respects cops, which suggests he used to be one, so he’s worked his way up through the ranks. This is why he doesn’t make eye contact when hurling threats against them, because he knows they are empty. He is actually very well read, though he likes to pretend to be more superficial than he is, probably to preserve the sense that he is still just one of the gang, though in his current position as chief he knows he most certainly is not.” Sullivan suddenly looked up, stopping himself. Tierney’s face was unmistakably flushed, drawn, but he did not seem angry exactly.

  “I can see why Carl Dickson didn’t want you around. That’s remarkable.”

  He had been right on everything it seemed. Tierney sat back down and picked up a large manila folder from his desk.

  “Here is your first case,” Tierney said holding it out with a chilly look in his eye, “It’s from the basement, a cold case, eleven years ice cold. This should keep your self-control issues at bay for at least, oh I don’t know, the next year or two or so, but do take your time.”

  He grimaced as he took the folder from Tierney’s hand. “With all due respect, sir, I think my abilities clearly demonstrate that I can handle something mo--”

  “More what?” Tierney snapped. “Take every case I give you seriously Detective Sullivan.”

  “You were right about my reading habits though,” he said without looking up. “Tell me, have your read your Sherlock Holmes detective?”

  “No sir, but I saw the movie--I think.”

  “You know, there is no such person actually,” Tierney said ruefully. “He’s only a figment of Conan Doyle’s imagination.”

  “Ok sir, if you say so,” he said sheepishly.

  “Holmes says when you have eliminated all the possibilities whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth. I would think a man like you would have read some of it--your powers of analysis being what they are. Every man has a blind spot, detective, try not to forget that.”

  “I won’t forget it” he said dryly.

  “One last thing. How could you see the resemblance after meeting my son just the once? That’s incredible.”

  “There’s a picture of you two playing golf together right over there on the wall,” he said pointing. “It says, Father Son Golf Tournament.”

  Tierney sniffed, “So it does.” Tierney’s patience had clearly run out and he rose from his chair escorting him to the door.

  “Enjoy the city. This town can be a lot of fun for a young guy like yourself.”

  “Sir, if I may ask?”

  “Yes?”

  “Earlier you said my car was parked in the lot? That’s an unusual shift in tense.”

  “Yeah, I had it towed, you were in my spot. You can pick it up at impound for about four hundred and fifty bucks, I think. It will give you a chance to learn your way around, meet people. Think of it as a self-guided orientation,” Tierney said laughing out loud. “And don’t forget to close the door behind you.”

  Chapter 6

  The Glass Case

  Downy stared out the view across the campus quad with his arms crossed. Students moved in packs silently; through the tinted glass, from his fifth floor perch, they looked orderly and thoughtful. They weren’t. Like cities at night they looked rather beautiful at a distance. Up close though, in the light of day, they were full of pathos, curses and complaints. Not all of them of course. Not Samara Lee Patterson. He looked at his phone, the message light was blinking and he thought it would be wise to phone his wife. Her voice would help cancel out some of the feelings at least—help calm him down. Randomly, he thought of her thighs, his wife’s, and of course the short black skirt that she wore when she wanted to get his attention. But then there was Samara. It was Samara that had him all charged up. He allowed himself a moment to think about her too--the simple dress, which hung so perfectly off her shoulder, the soft nape of her neck, olive colored skin. Perfect lips. And of course that tattoo across her back left shoulder, a Latin script. He’d only made out the last word: VERITAS. Truth. Lots of kids wrote things like that on themselves these days--reminders perhaps of what was important. Samara, of course, was a scholar like her father though and was already reading Latin by the time she was twelve. It had been their secret language. His imagination finished the daydream, placing some beads of sweat on her chest and the hungry sound of her voice in his ear. He interrupted himself and pushed the blinking button, almost punching a hole in it.

  “Uh, yello. Professor Downy, I need a moment of your time some day this week, I wonder if--well I’m calling from the prec--”

  He punched for his secretary ignoring the voice and the rest of the message.

  “Janine, could you put all my messages through until tomorrow, I’m feeling a bit of a fever coming on and I’ll be heading home for a nap.”

  “Of course, professor,” came the voice on the other end.

  “Janine, could you stop calling me that for God’s sake.”

  “No, professor, not when I so enjoy how much it bothers you.”

  “Thank you, Janine.”

  “I hope you feel better boss,” she replied.

  He slipped down the back staircase, which he always used when he wanted to avoid getting held up. His car waited only a few feet from the back entrance. He would have been a professor for the parking alone, never mind the paycheck. He slid into the bucket seat of his Porsche Roadster and sped off like a banshee, hair blowing in the wind. He knew it was imperative to get home to his wife, who he hoped would be willing to get a drink and wear a certain piece of clothing that he could then carefully remove. He never grew bored of that routine. But today, as he turned the volume knob all the way up, there was a third member at the party. It was summer after all and what hurt could come from letting himself dream a little.

  ***

  The cloaked man pulled the carriage to a halt under a small cover of trees in the otherwise open countryside. He had ridden until there was nothing man made in sight in every direction. Stopping at last he grabbed the cask of water from beneath his feet and drank voraciously. It was the best taste of anything he could remember. His plan was going exactly as he had imagined and most importantly he had escaped without notice, save for the vagrant, who was of no concern. Her words would be considered those of a raving fool. It pained him deeply to kill the boy though, but life and death had come to mean something far different to him of late. It had been quick in any case, though certainly not painless. Most of all it had been necessary, and in that regard he had always maintained a clearness of purpose and of conscience. The boy was not his own blood anyway, though he had been very fond of him. This time, more than any other, he had killed for necessity. As shrewd as the boy was, he might even have agreed with the decision himself, if he’d had the chance. No difference now, it was the next twenty-four hours that presented the most danger to his plan. He was being followed, of that he was sure, but he must not let them catch up to him.

  It was now completely dark. The birds in the grove, usually silent by this hour, were strangely unsettled and he could hear the howling of wild animals far off in the distance. The man pulled from his cloak the stack of letters, finding the one from his dear friend and teacher. He read it slowly. At the bottom was the list of names. His hands shook uncontrollably and the veins in his neck swelled. His eyes hardened before a flood of tears raced down his cheeks. He knew the names
well, but the confirmation was more powerful and disturbing than he had imagined. It all made such sense now. How had he not seen it coming?

  There was blood at the bottom of his boot and up his arm, now dried. It was not the boys. He hadn’t had time to clean it and now he thought of a bath. Probably the safest place for him, but he couldn’t risk re-entering the city. The river stream was all the way at the bottom of the ravine, but he would be able to watch the carriage from there at least. It wasn’t likely his hostage would wake up anyway. He had slept for three days after the first shock himself, not to mention the days of sickness afterward. Gratefully, you only suffered the sickness once with such acuteness. After, it was purely a matter of maintenance. Plenty of water and of course as many sugar cubes as you could carry. He reached into his pocket and pulled two out, popping them into his mouth. He could feel them taking effect instantly. He had felt a cold sweat coming on, the nauseous and now the relief was undeniably pleasurable. He looked into the back of the carriage at the man sleeping. He looked like a child, peaceful and harmless, as all men do when they slumber. He punched at the ribs.

  “Hey, old man, you in there,” he prodded with a fake growl. There was no response. “Sleep it off my friend. We will have our day together soon. The future belongs to us.”

  Chapter 7

  Downy’s car sailed silently into the garage of his home overlooking Mission Bay. It was empty which disappointed him mightily. It could mean but one thing: Naomi was trapped at work. He reached into his pocket to look at his messages. It read six. It was a lot, even for someone in as much demand as he had been lately. Only a very few close friends had his number now. It was the only way he could get any work done. Sure enough Naomi was the first two.

  Be home late…sorry my love. Eat without me.

  N

  And then a voicemail saying the same thing. Then a number he did not know appeared. It too was a text.