by Jeff Gunhus
After explaining how cancer had taken his mother away, his father made him kneel to the floor and pray with him. He asked forgiveness for being away from home so much during her illness. He prayed that she understood the importance of his work. Then, slurring his words and swaying unsteadily, he made his case to his son why he ought to be forgiven. He explained his life’s work in a disjointed, rambling lecture. The story that came out that day was a bizarre tale, so strange and bewildering that young Joe Lonetree could do nothing but stare open mouthed through it all. Even with his ten year old imagination, he could not bring himself to believe what his father told him. It wasn’t like his other stories, of chiefs and tribes and mountain gods which his father used to tell with a grin. His father told this story with a shaking voice and darting eye paranoia. This wasn’t just mythology or legend to him. He thought it was real.
At the end of the story the big man grabbed his son and held him close, promising not to let the bad things hurt him or his brother. The little boy in the dirty trailer hung limp in his father’s embrace, crying into his shoulder. Not from fear, but from understanding that he had not only lost his mother, but now his father as well. One to a disease he did not understand; the other to booze and a story he refused to believe.
Before she died, his father was a college professor, an author, a stable figure in his life. All that remained of that man was a delusional drunk, a paranoid fool who had lost his mind. Little Joe Lonetree wept in the trailer with his father. It was the last time they shared an embrace.
Lonetree opened his eyes with a grunt. He looked around to orient himself, blinking back against the dull winter sun. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes had flashed by. He checked the parking lot. Tremont’s car was still there.
With a sigh, he took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. He felt sick to his stomach from his daydream. At least he woke up before what had happened next. Before he called his father a drunk and a liar. Before he blamed him for his mother’s death. An accusation he never recanted to the old man while he was alive. It amazed him how far from that living room he had to travel before he understood his own father. The world he’d inhabited since his eighteenth birthday was different than anything he’d ever imagined, and in some ways as terrible as the fantasy world described to him that day.
The atrocities he’d seen in service to his country were as bad as any dream, especially now surrounded by the picture perfect Americana of Prescott City. He glanced around him. Store fronts with neatly painted wooden signs. Wrought iron lamp posts that, at night, lit clean sidewalks filled with clean people. Nicely trimmed grass in the open areas. Nothing out of place. Everything just so.
This was what the military told him he was protecting. But he doubted the happy residents of Prescott City would sleep well if they knew the things that he had seen and done on their behalf. The mangled embrace of corpses heaped together in the mass graves of Bosnia. The back walls of caves in Afghanistan covered with a red slime punctuated by the occasional white tooth, the residue of Taliban soldiers smashed against rock by thermobaric shock waves. An encampment of Abu Sayyef militants in the Philippines reduced to bubbling flesh by hemorrhagic fever. All images witnessed, and sometimes caused, by Lt. Joseph Lonetree, United States Navy SEAL Lonetree felt out of place in Prescott City, like a Hell’s Angel who wandered onto the Andy Griffith show. Then again, he knew all he had to do was sleep and the images from his past were just a nightmare away.
At least the war zones where he’d lived for the past fifteen years had looked the part. Bombed out rubble, deep cave bunkers, hot jungles. They all fit his idea of enemy territory. But in this place everything seemed normal. The enemy blended in perfectly and, in his mind, that made everyone a suspect. Lonetree started to feel the entire town was somehow unnatural. Too clean. Too perfect. Walking down the street felt like watching a living history demonstration, as if everyone were in on a collective agreement to create an image of normalcy.
He wondered what the shrink Jack Tremont was talking to would think of this particular paranoia. The thought brought a smile to his lips. He knew he would make an interesting case for a team of psychiatrists. The Navy had offered him counseling a dozen or more times, a product of a kinder, gentler military. But it was common knowledge in the ranks that the offer wasn’t serious. To accept was to be done with fieldwork, a sign you couldn’t hack it. Paranoia was an asset in the field. It had kept him and the men who followed him alive through impossible situations, even though his reputation pointed to something more than simple paranoia as the key to his mission effectiveness. The rumor was that Lonetree had ‘special gifts’ that kept his men alive.
The rumors followed him from assignment to assignment. Whispers trailed him whenever he walked through a mess tent. A spark of recognition attended any introduction to another special forces member. Men volunteered for missions when his name was attached to it. It was more than the deference given by soldiers to the true warriors in their midst. The rumors said that the lieutenant knew things in the field. And his knowing kept his men alive. A sixth sense. Indian magic.
Lonetree knew a sniper was waiting in the next building.
Lonetree sensed a cave was rigged to blow.
Lonetree knew his old man was dead of a heart attack back home…a day before the phone call came.
Nothing was ever said to his face, but he knew the stories were out there. He didn’t think it was anything more than being careful and following his instincts, but he did nothing to dispel the speculation about his strange powers. The stories gave his men more confidence in him. And it ensured people left him alone. Just the way he liked it.
A year ago, after news of his brother’s death reached him during a tour in Afghanistan, he ended his military life. His commanding officer, Colonel Goldman, was shocked when Lonetree didn’t re-up. But he didn’t put up a fight. After the things Lonetree had seen and done, the colonel understood if he wanted to go home. He’d shaken the man’s hand and wished him luck on his new life, told him to call if he was ever in trouble and needed some help. Secretly, he hoped Lonetree would never contact him. The colonel knew the stories, and feared the man as much as he respected him.
Now Lonetree was solo but he still was on-mission. And he intended to stay alive through his current engagement. At least until he settled some scores. He’d led a life of killing and death, somehow knowing that he was chasing away the demons that had surrounded him from childhood. The demons his father had told him about. The same demons that he now believed he was close to catching. The ones he had sworn to destroy.
After the horrors that filled his life, evil forced on him by his military masters from above, it seemed infinitely just that he could now use his killing skills for personal vengeance. He was a hunter-killer and he meant to finish the job that both his father and little brother had died attempting. He would avenge their deaths and send the demons back to Hell where they belonged.
Jack Tremont was somehow linked to his mission. Like so many things, Lonetree couldn’t articulate how he knew it, he just did. And instinct was what he trusted more than anything. Except his instinct didn’t tell him how Tremont fit into it all. Was he a potential ally or an enemy?
Lonetree knew the demons came in every disguise, but Tremont’s actions so far indicated he didn’t know what he was involved in. Lonetree had a feeling that, one way or another, Jack Tremont would prove useful, maybe even pivotal in bringing things to a conclusion. He knew impatience led to mistakes, but he felt he had waited long enough. It was time to take some chances. It was time to make a move.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jack sat back in the chair and eyed the psychiatrist. He told the man everything that had happened over the past two days. Scott Moran listened quietly throughout the story, asking only minor clarifying questions, never offering any analysis or theory to explain the strange occurrences in the Tremont household. Jack noticed that no sign of incredulity passed over the man’s expression either.
Moran listened to the bizarre series of events as if they were the same things he heard day in and day out. Then it struck him. Moran probably did hear these kinds of paranoid delusions all the time. From other people who were going crazy.
Even now that the story was done, the psychiatrist kept the passive expression he’d held during the entire session. Jack placed the heel of his hand under his chin and forced his head side to side until the vertebrae in his neck cracked. Moran winced at the sound.
“So what do you think?” Jack asked.
“I think you need a chiropractor more than you need me.” Jack smiled, only because he felt obliged. Moran rose from his chair and threw another log on the fire. “Trust me, Jack. I’ve heard stories that make your stuff seem boring.” He used long tongs to stack burning embers around the new logs. The fire flared, crackling and spitting sparks into the room.
“I’m glad to hear there are people in town crazier than I am. That makes me feel safe.”
Moran grinned and fell back into his seat. “Not crazy. They have issues to sort out, that’s all. Nothing a little therapy won’t help.”
“Is this when you tell me my time’s up and I need ten more sessions to get at the problem?”
“Nah,” Moran waved a hand at him. “I don’t think it’s that complicated. You’ve had a pretty big shock, a traumatic event that’s gotten under your skin. You never really recovered from the trauma of the accident you had in California.”
“I’ve dealt with that. It’s behind me.”
“What was the name of the girl who died that day?” Jack looked away. He hadn’t spoken her name for a long time. It made it too personal. Too real. He couldn’t say the words without seeing her face. Scott Moran let the silence draw out long enough to make his point. “You see what I mean? You ran away from the problem by moving here, but you never faced it.”
Jack nodded. “But how does this tie into what’s happening now?”
“Maybe this is you facing it. Finally dealing with this demon in your past. You obviously feel responsible for Melissa’s death. Buried guilt may have given rise to a hero fantasy about saving another girl, this one you say you saw in Nate Huckley’s car. No, hear me out before you argue against it. This girl hits the windshield of your car just like Melissa Gonzales. A little too coincidental don’t you think.”
“It’s coincidental. But it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“All right, let’s put that to the side then. Once it became clear that you can’t save the new girl, there’s this paranoia that someone is after your daughters. Once again, you have a chance to save them.”
“But you have it backward. Huckley was after them before I saw the girl. So your theory can’t be right.”
Scott Moran shifted in his chair. “All right, Albert James then.”
“What about him?”
“The man died in your lap with a massive head wound. Didn’t Melissa die of a head wound in the accident? Everything happened right after Albert James died, right?”
Jack felt the pull of Moran’s argument. The logic drew him in. For the first time that day he felt like a rational explanation might be within reach. “How do you explain the tangible evidence?”
“Such as?”
“The numbers written by my daughter. There were pages with Huckley’s room number all over them.”
Moran leaned in closer, like a doctor delivering bad news. “You may not like this question Jack but it’s important that I ask it. Did anyone else see her write the numbers?”
Jack stared. It took him a few seconds to process the insinuation. He felt his face heat up in anger. “No, I guess…but you don’t think I…” His hand involuntarily went to his mouth as he thought through it. Could he have written the numbers himself and not realized it? Was it possible? Could he be that sick? He would have sworn he had seen Lauren and Becky dead in their bed too. Maybe…maybe…
“And the visitor at your door. This strange man warning you about Huckley.”
Jack seized on the suggestion. Something to steady himself, orient him to the real world. “Yeah, how do you explain that away?”
“Did your wife see him? Did she hear the conversation at all?”
Jack wrung his hands. “No, she didn’t see him, but she heard the knock at the door. I’m sure she heard his voice.” Moran sat back and said nothing. He let Jack make his own connections. “You think it could have been someone else and I just imagined the whole thing? Hallucinated this Lonetree guy?”
Moran shrugged. “Maybe. I doubt it though.”
“You doubt it?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out, but it might be explained by something a little simpler. It could have been someone who knew what happened to you and was using your situation to live out his own delusion. Someone from the hospital, maybe? Even someone who heard about your story from a friend over a couple of beers.”
“Great.” Jack said, shaking his head. “So this guy’s some crazy living out a fantasy? That’s supposed to make me feel good?”
“Who knows? Could be some scam artist who heard about your episode in Huckley’s room. He shows up offering to help you, confirms the hallucination you think you saw, next thing you know he’s asking for money for continued help. Believe it or not, there are people out there who do that kind of thing.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair. Moran seemed to have all the bases covered. Everything was a delusion triggered by watching Albert James die and dealing with guilt from the accident. He started to think about the night of the crash. The girl in the trunk of Huckley’s car. Wasn’t there a chance his eyes had played a trick on him? Hadn’t Lauren and Becky looked real in the bed covered with sores? Maybe the whole thing was in his head. Maybe…”
“Jack, are you with me?”
Jack shook his head. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Listen, I’m not trying to scare you. If anything this should be good news.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, think of the alternative. If these aren’t delusions, then your daughter is a psychic who can hear people in her head and Nate Huckley is haunting you while he’s in a hospital bed in a coma.”
“It does sound crazy, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, we don’t use that word. Let’s just say it sounds very, very improbable. You tell me what seems more likely. You’re experiencing psychological distress triggered by witnessing Albert James’ death. This distress has led to hallucinations and acute paranoia which feeds into both your parental need to protect your children and your guilt over the girl killed in the car accident in California.”
“And option number two?”
“Option two is that the boogey man is out to get you. And I hope it’s option one because therapy and a little Lithium will help the delusions, but I’m afraid there’s nothing in the pharmacopoeia to battle against supernatural cults trying to steal your kid.”
Jack smiled. It did sound crazy. He actually felt embarrassed that he’d invested himself in such a story. Mentally, he tried out the new rationalization and it felt good. It was based on rational thoughts. Time lines. Cause and effect. Cloaked in this logic it felt reasonable. Red faced, he asked Moran for a prescription and another appointment time. A little therapy. A few pills. And everything would get back to normal.
Yet, even though Jack admitted the explanation felt good, there was something nagging at him. While Moran checked his appointment book, Jack wrung his hands and tried to push the feeling away, but it kept coming back to him. The new explanation was rational. It was logical. It was just that deep down, Jack didn’t believe it was right.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Lauren walked into Dr. Mansfield’s office without knocking. The old man was on the phone. He glanced up at Lauren and put his hand over the handset.
“Lauren. What are you doing here?” Before she could answer he held up his other hand. “Can you give me a minute?”
“This can’t wait.”
Lauren noticed it was a statement, not a question. “Her body is missing.”
“Yes, the body is gone. Hold on one minute.” He uncovered the phone. “Hello? Are you still there? Yes, I’ll be here this evening. Why don’t you come on by around seven and we’ll see what’s going on. All right?” He paused. “Come alone if you want. Yes, that’s fine. Call me when you get close.”
After he hung up the phone she blurted out, “You know about Felicia already? Why wasn’t I told?”
Dr. Mansfield finished writing a note into his planner, not looking up as he answered her. “Felicia’s body was released to her family.”
“But the CDC—”
“The results came back from the CDC. Negative for all known pathogens. Felicia Rodriguez posed no public health risk. We had no right to stop her body from being released.”
“There should be an autopsy. We don’t know what killed her. It could be something we’ve never seen before.”
“You know we can’t force the family to agree to an autopsy if there is no evidence of a crime or a public threat. I tried talking with Mr. Rodriguez but he wanted nothing to do with it.”
“How can you say it’s not a public threat? The way her body broke down. The symptoms. The lesions. We need to find out what it was.”
Dr. Mansfield handed her the report from the CDC. “Look for yourself. She came back clean.”
Lauren scanned the document from the CDC. In a world full of biothreats, the CDC had become very quick in their lab work. In fact, many of the improvements were a result of her own work on the Homeland Defense Medical Council during her time at Johns Hopkins. But she knew the CDC procedure well enough to know its limitations. Vigilance against bio-attacks had turned the lab into a sprawling bureaucracy with hundreds of technicians working through a constant flood of samples. The sheer volume meant it was impossible to test for everything so the screens were limited to contagions that posed a significant public risk. Still the list of tests on Felicia’s blood work and DNA sample ran several pages. All negative.