Saboteur: A Novel

by J. Travis Phelps

“I believe one Samara Patterson has visited you of late. I’m certain she has told you of her own suspicions.”

  He had Downy’s complete attention now.

  “The poor girl, Samara. So beautiful. Her fate is most upsetting of all to me. I can assure you it is not of my doing.”

  “I don’t follow. Is Samara in some kind of danger?”

  “Samara believes her father’s death was something else entirely, and about that at least she is quite right.”

  “Do you have some information about Charlie’s death?”

  “Oh, I don’t know what happened exactly, but he’s gone, in a purely physical sense, here at least.”

  Tannehill looked nonchalantly at his fingernails. “I have no information that a man of your intellect would accept, I’m afraid.”

  Downy’s buzzer rang. “Professor, I’m so sorry to bother you but you have a very important call on line two.”

  “Janine, tell them I'll call back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know that in almost every single office I have visited over the past eleven years a sudden, urgent call has come through for the person I’m speaking with? It’s ok, I would think me a madman myself if I didn’t know better; I’m quite used to being thought unworthy of attention, in these hallowed halls anyway.”

  Downy smiled sympathetically.

  “Do you know how the universe is arranged professor? It’s just like your computer there, except infinitely more vast of course. Eternities of code spreading out in all directions. Just numbers really. If you have a correct name and address, well you can call almost anyone.”

  It was odd, at times Tannehill seemed like he was talking in riddles, pure nonsense, but at other moments he seemed absolutely lucid and clear.

  “I’m sorry my knowledge of physics is limited Dr. Tanehill.”

  “No mind, I wonder, Professor Downy, have you ever read Dicken’s Christmas Carol?”

  “Sure, a long time ago.”

  “I feel just like the ghost of Christmas past sitting here in your office. You will be visited by three ghosts,” he said putting on a spooky voice. “Actually there’s no such thing as ghosts, but for you it will certainly seem so. Old dear friends, long gone, now ghosts.” Tannehill looked around the room at the pictures on the wall.

  “My dear friend Charlie,” he said looking at the shot of them all on set together in Rome, almost mumbling. “He was kind to me through it all, you know? The only one.” Tannehill reached into his pocket pulling out what looked like a sugar cube, putting it to his tongue. Forgive an old man his need for sugar. I am in the advanced stages of the illness.”

  “I’m not sure quite what to say, unless you know something important,” Downy said.

  “Say nothing. I thank you for your hospitality and if you talk to Samara Lee Patterson, as I’m sure you will, you need not trouble her with the wild apparitions of this old has been. I wish the best to both of you. Before I leave though I have something I want to give you. It’s a gift, I suppose.” The old man reached into the satchel at his feet and pulled out a piece of rolled cloth. “I imagine you may be able to appreciate the value of such a thing more than most.” He sat the object on the desk as he stood up, grimacing in some pain. “It’s this hip of mine, and the other and on and on. Old age takes from us far more than it gives. You needn’t worry about it though professor, you are young yet.”

  Downy leaned forward.

  “Ahh--I would prefer if you open it later. I know you will do your due diligence, to verify its authenticity.”

  The old man hobbled out the door limping without a word. He could hear him asking Janine for another water, which he drank as before. Downy watched through the blind as Janine’s expression morphed from curiosity to disgust. He finally walked into the lobby once he had gone. Janine looked at him perplexed.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  “I wish I knew.” he said, “I wish I knew.”

  Chapter 23

  The carriage pulled to a stop at the peak of the hill. Below the man could see down to the ravine where the ruins stood. How long had they been there? No one knew for sure. Perhaps long before the Greeks even he supposed. Gods had built them for certain, not mortal hands. Titans. The architecture was impossible. Everything was built to the scale of giants it seemed. Strange lights reflected out from the interior as if the gods still lived there. Flowers of unknown origin, not native, bloomed suddenly, then disappeared. They could be seen growing and wilting again in only a few minutes’ time. Men and women of the most beautiful physiques were often reported to be wandering the edges of the ruins. He had been told the stories as a child of these ephemeral creatures leading unwary travelers into the ruins, never to be seen or heard from again. Some thought it an ancient madhouse, or an asylum, and few dared tread there. The pond was just beyond the wall. A ghastly odor emanated from its depths. It was the smell of death.

  The day was a beautiful one though, with a soft, cool wind, which blew against his face. The hills were almost silent. Even nature retreated from the place it seemed. It reminded him of his boyhood, traipsing across the meadows pretending to be heroes from the past: Hercules fighting in the Trojan war alongside brave Achilles; holding him as he fell in battle, killed by an arrow to the back of his ankle, where the goddess had held him as she dipped his body into the ocean, making him forever immortal.

  As he approached he could see the dark water’s surface. He turned his face away so as not to get lost in the strange visions that shone in its depths. It was a picture of chaos in the pond. Inky, primordial chaos. Some said it was full of snakes, but he could see none. He had made it. There would be no stopping him now. He tried to put the feeling in perspective, but found he could not. His blood surged with the victory. There was simply no other feeling like it. He wondered if the gods would speak to him once it was finished. That wasn’t too crazy to believe was it? A kiss from Venus, perhaps? Perhaps she would take him as her lover. He looked back into the carriage and saw his captive sleeping. He would be awake soon. He would be free soon. His color had returned, though he was completely still, his expression light, almost pleasant. It looked like his eyes might flutter open any second, but it would all seem a dream to him in any case. But once he returned home his mind would return as well. It would be an unrecorded episode. “Barely a ripple on the surface of an unimaginably large ocean,” the teacher had said.

  The man circled the courtyard before pulling the carriage to a stop. He popped two more sugar cubes into his mouth and waited. The usual rush didn’t overtake him. He was already in such an elevated state and needed to slow down. How could he experience more pleasure than this? He laughed. He was a god then. He would not need to take any more in any case. There were several left in his pocket, but he would eat them only at the very end, and all at once, just for fun. That should test his godly powers. The sleeping man opened his eyes with a soft whine, but they fluttered back shut. He whinnied just like a child waking from a long afternoon nap.

  The man got down from the carriage and pulled his cloak back over his head. He needed to move the man to one of the gated cells just to be cautious. Walking around to the back he grabbed the man’s sleeping body and heaved it over his shoulder in one swift jerk. He struggled down the staircase, stopping at the bottom only to wipe great streams of sweat from his brow. He lay the man’s body as carefully as he could manage onto the floor, but it hit with a dull thud.

  “We always hurt the one’s we love my dear,” he said with a laugh into the man’s sleeping ear.

  He lay on his back on the floor. The room smelled of amber and incense. There were bones of slaughtered sacrifices in the corner in a pile. They were nearly opaque now, otherworldly. He had certainly never seen such creatures in his travels. The sound of a woman’s quiet laughter echoed through the halls. A sudden wind blew past and a man’s voice sounded off a “No!” He had to ignore these things. They meant nothing. They were a distraction, probably intention
al, but couldn’t hurt him. He was merely amongst jealous peers now, a feeling he knew all too well.

  He rolled the man’s body into the cell and clanked the gate shut behind him. Ok, so he wasn’t completely a god yet. His heart pounded in his chest. He rather liked the feeling, but he could not yet move himself. What a spectacle was before him. Something or someone was chained to the wall in the next cell. He looked in. It looked like a gladiator, a hulk of a man completely stripped nude. Great lashes bled from his back. He wanted to ask the man if he was ok, but he was interrupted by a voice.

  “Don’t speak to me. You must never speak to me.” The man had read his very thoughts it seemed. A neat trick. He could nearly do it himself though.

  “I need nothing,” came the voice again, “go away.”

  “Fine,” he thought.

  The man walked back to the top of the staircase, then through the courtyard, resting finally at the edge of the pond. The valley walls seemed to sway with the wild grasses that grew there. What great struggle had taken place here he wondered? That he would like to see, but it was too late for any more adventures. It was time to assert his place once more. He laughed at how grandiose his thinking had become. He thought of the Vestals. They would be consumed in the very morass they had created. Poetic. Beautiful. He had nothing to write with or he would have written some lines of verse to commemorate the occasion. He missed writing actually, but of these things it would be for others to write. He had chosen someone perfect for the task in fact. He had his life back now and soon so would his dear companion. They were prisoners no more.

  Chapter 24

  Downy stood at the window overlooking Mission Bay. He was relieved to be home finally. He went to the liquor cabinet and pulled a bottle of scotch from the shelf, pouring a little longer than usual. He looked at the spot just in front of the bay window where he had seen the detectives and tried to imagine what might have taken place there. That someone might choose a spot of such beauty as a place to kill someone was unimaginable. But a true killer probably cared little about beauty did they? The detective had said “mountains of blood.” What could have happened? Downy couldn’t get the image from The Shining from his mind, of the blood flowing like a river through the corridors of the Overlook Hotel. The two twin sisters. Ghosts. Downy drained his glass. He was a writer after all, just like Nicholson had been in the film. Maybe it was time to get out his typewriter and retire to the grand hall of the Overlook Hotel.

  He threw his bag down and opened the doors to the bay. The scotch tasted smooth and warm going down and he laid his head back letting out a long exhale. He might have slept, but instead got up and walked back to the kitchen to pour another glass. Reaching into his bag he put the strange gift that Tannehill had given him on the table. It was still wrapped in a fine piece of linen, which was tied with a purple ribbon at the center. Downy could see what looked like a seal of some sort, but the writing was too small to read. He pulled at it, unwrapping it carefully so as not to break the seal, hardly knowing what to expect. He saw the gold immediately. Holding it in the light he could see it was a laurel, covered in gold leaves, clearly made to be worn on the head. A tiny string of what looked like black pearl or amethyst hung from the back by a clasp, which connected to a smaller amulet. On the amulet was an insignia. He had only seen it once before: the first century Roman sword, in the collection at school, one of the few in the world of its kind. He turned it with his fingers. There was also a Latin script written on the amulet, which he immediately recognized as Roman. It read:

  C. Caesari,

  Romam primain animis.

  Downy paused for a moment and translated.

  For Gaius Julius Caesar. First in the hearts of Rome.

  Downy could see a piece of paper sticking out from the linen. The writing was a scrawl, undoubtedly from Tannehill’s unsteady hand:

  This is exactly what it appears to be. It is stolen, for the record. Have its age tested at once.

  Professor Jacob Tannehill

  He shook his head. Poor man. It was a clever prop, probably fabricated by a talented artist in fact, but it was clearly too clean and far too unblemished to be a true relic. But the insignia interested him. Why would someone take the trouble to copy that particular feature unless they were truly trying to pass it off as real? It could be a serious forgery and Downy felt an obligation to look into it. Tannehill, in his state, might have even paid for it. He plopped down into his chair putting the laurel on his head like an old hat. It nearly fit. He grabbed for his phone and dialed the school. Janine answered at his office.

  “Hey, you’re still there.”

  “Sure, ever the busy bee.”

  “Could you do me a favor and phone the archives and let them know I’m coming by to check out one of their pieces?”

  “Sure. Only one piece?”

  “Yep, just give them our budget number.”

  “Done.”

  “Thanks, Janine. You’re the best.”

  “That’s what you keep saying.”

  Looking back at his bag he could also see the letter of recommendation from that rather strange student, what was his name again? Tero, Taro? It was poking out of his bag. He leaned forward pulling it out and sat on the floor with his glass. He unrolled the pages and began to read:

  Greetings Distinguished Professor Downy,

  I apologize that I must write to you, but in my advancing years’ travel has become something of a difficulty for me. I write to you today on behalf of Monsieur Guy Taro. Monsieur Taro came to our brotherhood, the Brotherhood of the Gracchi, under what I can only call vague circumstances. Let me take a moment to explain that this is not unusual in the brotherhood. Many men who choose to renounce the material world and the pursuits of the flesh in favor of a purely spiritual life never share with us what their lives were like before they arrived. It is a policy going back nearly two thousand years in our order to never force a man to make an accounting of his past. Having said this, I must confess that our order must at times protect its interests, both in the name of safety and of continuing good relations with the community. In any case, our inquiries, which were quite thorough, revealed nothing of concern either legally or personally, therefore we welcomed Monsieur Taro into our community with open arms. That was nearly eleven years ago. It has turned out to be a most prosperous decision on our part.

  I must be frank and tell you that I believe Mr. Taro to have suffered some great misfortune or tragedy in his past. In the years I have known him only a spare, few details have given any glimmer of the true nature of what this tragedy may have been. One gets the impression that his loss was of a deeply personal nature, some great indignity perhaps. Of his origins I can tell you only that a man who did not wish to be identified delivered him to us late one night. He came to us a broken soul, nearly mute and completely disoriented, probably intoxicated, having been rescued by the stranger from a local tavern near us, where he was found unconscious. We thought him possibly mentally ill when he arrived. I have never seen one so pitiable in his demeanor in my long years and let me assure you I have seen many a broken man. His recovery, while slow, was nevertheless steady and after only a year’s time he was a fully functioning, though silent, member of the brotherhood. Allow me to stop for a moment to tell you on this point that Mr. Taro is without question one of the most industrious and motivated men I have ever come to know. Even before he began to speak he worked with great diligence and energy, as all who live amongst us must. Our order operates under what I must call a rather strict standard of both spiritual and physical obligation, but Mr. Taro took to our Spartan ways immediately, without complaint. It is common for us to work sixteen hour days in our vineyards or on construction projects in our surrounding communities. Mr. Taro has clearly had much experience in this regard, as his understanding of how to get things done as a manager of men is only eclipsed by his individual ability at doing them. He is a natural leader and a man of few, but choice words. He is also a deeply learned man. W
e have many scholars of renown among us, but rarely do such men appear in our midst under such circumstances. In fact, a great part of our work here at the monastery involves the translation of ancient texts and in this regard Monsieur Taro excels to a degree that is difficult to measure. His mastery of classical Greek and Latin is unparalleled. In his time with us he has decoded texts that our most prodigious scholars have struggled with for many years. Furthermore, his elocution of the Latin tongue offers rarely seen insights into the true nature of that language as it might actually have been spoken in antiquity. For this reason and many others, I suspect he comes from a very distinguished background, though on this point he has only spoken of his people rarely and always with a note of melancholy.

  I must finish by telling you that when Mr. Taro indicated his desire to leave the order some months ago he also made known his wish to bestow upon us an endowment. It would be a breach of his trust to divulge details, but let me say that his gift to us was truly astonishing in its scope, so much so that the continued preservation of our lifestyle will be guaranteed for many generations to come. I must tell you on a personal note it was a great shock to us all that he made the decision to leave the monastery. Each of our members may leave whenever they wish of course, but it is unusual since we had only recently passed his ten-year confirmation, a time when our brethren may freely depart without explanation, should they choose to move on. His reasons are his own and I shall not speculate on them, not in light of his incredible contributions, nor his impeccable character.

  Monsieur Taro has asked, as is his way, very little of me in writing to you on his behalf. I do so with great enthusiasm. His interest, if I understand correctly, is to be allowed a chance to both receive and share knowledge with you. I know how busy a man of your talents must be. I would consider it a gravely missed opportunity though, for someone like yourself, who is so deeply interested in classical studies, to miss out on the opportunity to converse with Monsieur Guy Taro. His knowledge of the classical period is second to none I have ever encountered. Your interests and his converge in every respect I would say. Our order has benefitted tremendously from his presence and it is with something of a heavy heart that I present him to you, knowing we are losing such a man. We had come to believe that he would in fact be staying with us, as most in our order do, until the end of his days, but we wish him God’s own speed and all the blessings life has to bestow nevertheless.