Blue's Code

by James Abel

  Holly laughed and asked, “How could I possibly forget?”

  Then Riggs saw the headlights through the windows and heard the horn. He smiled at Holly and said, “Sorry. Gotta run. Eddie’s here.”

  “Okay, hon. Just don’t be late. Love you.”

  Riggs walked to the door, looked back, and said, “Love you, too.” He disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER 11

  Bennings, sitting at Jordan’s kitchen table, handed Jordan Blue’s letter and said, “So, if Blue’s being held prisoner and her phone’s been tapped, Warring must be afraid that she might spill the beans about something!”

  Jordan laughed and asked, “Spill the beans? Haven’t heard that one since I was a kid. Anyway, Molly’s already got a letter drafted that uses Blue’s code to ask her what we can do to help. Anything you’d like to add?”

  Bennings stared off into space for a moment and then turned to Jordan and said, “Yeah, there is. See if Molly can figure out a way to let Blue know that I’m heading down there, to Milledgeville. I want to snoop around a bit, especially out at Warring Pharmaceuticals. I think it’s about 50 or 60 miles out of town.”

  “How are you gonna pull that off with the case officially closed?”

  “How? That’s simple, I’m gonna retire.”

  “Retire? What are you, like 45 years old?”

  “Give or take. But, like I already told you, something big is going down, and I think Warring is right in the middle of it. All I see, or should I say smell, in D.C. anymore is a giant sewer, and I figure I have a better chance of fixing it as a private citizen than working for the turds running the shit show.”

  Jordan stood up and started pacing. When he sat back down, he looked at Bennings and said, “Well, I’ve put off my law degree for over 20 years so far. I don’t think another six months is gonna matter.”

  “What? You going with me?”

  “Might as well. Maybe we can see if the devil really did go down to Georgia.”

  Bennings smiled and held out his hand.

  Jordan shook it and said, “Oh, and by the way, I’d suggest you get out and buy some jeans and T-shirts.”

  Bennings nodded and said, “I know. And maybe some camo. Too!”

  CHAPTER 12

  Blue reached the bottom of the steps, turned around, and told Peanut, “You can relax now. Nobody’s down here.” She turned off the flashlight on her iPhone, and Peanut got her first glimpse of the eerie world that existed within the two-foot-wide space between the temporary walls of the war room and the original plaster walls of the governor’s mansion.

  Thin streams of light, seemingly cut by a laser into large square patterns, flowed in from the war room through gaps around the television monitors. As Peanut’s eyes adjusted, she saw large bundles of electrical cables that ran along the floor with offshoots spidering up to the television monitors as the cable made its way around the perimeter. She saw aluminum supports that ran from the top of the temporary walls and angled over her head to the base of the original walls.

  The two-foot-wide path surrounding the entire war room could be navigated, but it required both caution and patience.

  Blue motioned for Peanut to follow her. They slowly worked their way around the perimeter, ducking under support beams and weaving their way around cables. When they reached a large brick-lined fireplace, Blue pointed to it. They stepped inside the hearth, giving them more room. Blue had to kneel, but Peanut was short enough to stand. Blue smiled and asked, “Sorta cool down here, isn’t it?”

  Peanut, looking around at the fireplace said, “Yeah, I wonder if they cooked right here, in this fireplace?”

  “Good question.”

  “What would happen if your mom ever found out we were here?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t wanna know! But as long as were careful, the only way that will happen is if a worker comes back here to fix something and sees us.”

  “How do they get in?”

  “There’s a door built into the war room. I used it to sneak out there once, just to see what was there. Want to check it out?”

  “No, thanks!”

  Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the bookcases opening. Blue put her finger to her lips and motioned for Peanut to stay where she was while Blue ducked out from the fireplace and peeked through the opening next to one of the monitors. She saw her mother standing by the conference table, talking to Brandon Newsome, Warring Pharmaceutical’s senior vice president of sales and community relations. Blue had only met him once or twice, but she recognized him immediately by his perfectly groomed silver hair. He looked exactly the way he was supposed to, as a man who spent most of his adult life wining and dining the bureaucrats and politicians of Washington D.C. in return for favors directed at Warring Pharmaceuticals. Blue put her ear against the wall just in time to hear her mother ask, “More trials? I thought we were past that!”

  “So did Dr. Shulman. But several patients have started to revert. Last night, we lost contain on one of them, a 20 year old, and she couldn’t be saved.”

  “That’s impossible. Shulman supposedly mastered the sequencing code months ago. What the hell is going on out there?”

  “Please, I’m only the messenger. Shulman started mumbling about Yamanaka factors, misaligned pluripotency, and on and on. I don’t have a clue what any of that means. All I know is that I was called in to help with the bio cremation. Why me, I’m not sure.”

  “Stop complaining. We all have to do our share.”

  “I understand, but really?”

  Warring ignored the comment and asked, “How much more time does he need?”

  “He said he’d have a new sequence ready for trial in a couple of weeks. Then it’ll be at least a couple of months until we know if it works.”

  “Damn him! This could not be worse timing. Look, keep this strictly between us. Make sure that Shulman and his team keep their mouths shut.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Oh, and one other thing.”

  “Just what might that be?”

  “We need a few more trial participants.”

  “Talk to Lance and have him harvest them out of WWA. He knows the procedure. Now, if you don’t mind, I have an important phone call to make.”

  Newsome nodded and walked past the sensor. After the doorway opened up, he left the room.

  Warring walked over to the conference table, took a deep breath, and dialed a phone number. By chance, the monitor that Blue was standing closest to suddenly flashed on, startling her. She regained her composure in time to see her mother look in her direction and say, “Mr. President, I’m told that you wanted to talk to me.”

  From the voice box at the conference table, Blue heard the unmistakable voice of Mark Reynolds, the current President of the United States say, “Yes. I wanted to tell you that I have decided to accept your offer. I’m ready to join.”

  “Congratulations. You won’t regret your decision.”

  “Thank you. Does this make me a card-carrying member of the Deep State, or is there something more that you require from me?”

  “Mr. President, we don’t refer to ourselves by that name. We are the Guild, and yes, you are now a card-carrying member. But you already know the rules. You can never tell anyone that you are a member of the Guild, nor can you disclose our name. If that would happen for any reason, you will be immediately terminated. Sorry to put it so bluntly, but I was told the exact same thing when I was asked to join, and it applies to all members equally, even to those on the governing counsel.”

  “And who comprises the governing counsel?”

  “I can guess many of the names, but no one knows for sure. Maybe someday soon, we will all know.”

  “But how do you communicate—even operate—under those restrictions?”

  “On the principal that communication only occurs when it is essential to the completion of a specific task, and then, it is restricted to only those assigned to that task. Long ago, the governing counsel
established a framework, using what they refer to as progress pods. Each pod is established for a very specific purpose or task, and only members deemed essential to achieve that purpose or task are put into that pod. For example, I was notified, along with several others, that I was being assigned to a progress pod for the specific task of recruiting, and subsequently mentoring you in the ways of the Guild. It is only when you are working within an assigned pod that you may come to know other members. Otherwise, we all remain anonymous. It seems odd at first, until you come to realize that it helps protect all of us individually while also serving the Guild’s long-term objective. What I’ve found very beneficial about it is that, when I am not assigned to a pod, I can continue to live my life in exactly the same way as I always have. And when I am assigned to a pod, I am always given all of resources required to achieve it, which includes access to, and the required use of, state-of-the-art encryption and electronic communication tools.”

  “Okay, I get it. We’re a modern-day Knights Templar, Freemasons, or Skull and Bones.”

  “With one significant difference. We are using today’s technology to leverage power, wealth, and wisdom in order to...”

  The President interrupted and said, “I know…in order to make the world a better place! Speaking of that, how is your own work coming along? After all, you used that little tidbit of information to recruit me.”

  “You are correct, I did. But that was at the direct instruction of the governing counsel. But now that you are one of us, I can only repeat what you already know, that the End Game will be initiated during my first term as President. There will be some suffering, some bloodshed, and a massive redistribution of wealth. But it will be well worth it in the end.”

  “Thank God that’s all gonna go down on your watch!”

  “Sir, you are being far too myopic. You need to work on that.”

  “I guess you’re right. I do feel very privileged.”

  “As you should. Our world is about to change forever, and you are now going to be on the right end of that change. But now, I have to run, so welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you and good day, Governor—or should I say Madam President?”

  Warring laughed and said, “No, that can wait. One thing at a time.”

  With that, she hung up the phone and the screen went dead.

  Blue, listening from the other side of the wall, stayed frozen in place until Heather Warring left the room. Then she turned around to face Peanut and said, “Wow! Maybe I shouldn’t have heard that. Could you hear it from back there?”

  Peanut nodded, closed her eyes, and asked, “Can we get out of here?”

  Blue quietly said, “Yes. It’s time to go.”

  CHAPTER 13

  It was lunchtime at Bully’s Bar and Grill, and Jordan was one of about a dozen patrons sitting in the main dining room. Set in the heart of downtown Milledgeville, Bully’s was the kind of place that every Southern town has—a place where the drinks are cheap and the food tastes good, even if it’s not good for you. Bully’s menu was pure Southern, and most everything other than the burgers saw the bottom of a deep fryer, even the pickles. The owner and head cook was an overweight, baldheaded, 45-year-old man known by everyone as Ducky. With his deep booming voice and quick smile, Ducky was easy to like.

  Bully’s décor tended toward rural farmer, if there is such a thing. Old sickles, rusty hay hooks, and other miscellaneous farm tools decorated the walls. Inside the front door, a cornucopia full of fake fruit spilled out onto a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth covering a hay bale that sat directly behind the cash register. A Formica counter fronted with a stainless-steel strip of metal stretched the entire length of the main dining room. In the morning, the locals sat there to eat their grits, pancakes, and bacon. As the day wore on, the same people came back in after work for a cold beer or a shot of whiskey.

  Across from the counter was a row of booths, each with their own window and view of the parking lot. At the far end of the booths, there was a separate room that could seat 15 for private gatherings. Based on the yelling coming from behind the door, Jordan could tell the room was currently in use.

  Jordan, sitting in the booth closest to the main entrance, finished his fried chicken, wiped his fingers using a paper towel ripped from the roll sitting in front of him, and turned his attention to his iPhone. He scrolled through a couple of photos until he found what he was looking for: a picture that Molly had sent him of the latest letter from Blue.

  Dear Molly,

  Hope this letter finds you well. I know we’ve pretty much exhausted recounting our Disney experience, but I wanted you to remember the very last ride we went on— the Tower of Terror. Remember how freaked out I was after we entered the mansion and Rod Serling said we were about to step through a door and into a nightmare? From then on, everything on that ride was almost unbelievable—impossible to explain. In fact, I’m getting scared now just thinking about it.

  But let’s talk about something new. I want you to bring me up to date on how your art is coming along. I hope you are still painting because you’re the best. One of my favorites has always been that sad painting of the young girl standing outside of the cancer clinic with a tear in her eye. Even though you would never admit it, I still think you painted that for me because of what happened to my mom. You captured the fear and loneliness that young girl must have been feeling at the time. In fact, right now I have a young friend, I call her Peanut, who’s facing those same fears and loneliness. She’s fighting lymphoma, but thanks to my mom, I’m able to be there for her.

  Mom let Peanut move in with us here in Milledgeville and has gotten her the help she needs at Winship Cancer Institute at Emory University, in Atlanta. Speaking of Atlanta, I need to cut this letter short to give me time to prepare for my upcoming quarterly WWA board meeting at the Georgian Terrace. Cool hotel!

  Anyway, in your next letter, please tell me about your favorite paintings and what makes them special to you. Are you still doing some of those seascapes that you loved to paint?

  Love,

  Jessie—aka Blue!

  Jordan set down his phone and glanced outside just in time to see Bennings hop out of a white Toyota and head for the door. The two of them had flown into Atlanta the day before, rented the car, and driven the 100 miles to Milledgeville. When they got there, they had checked into Star’s Bed and Breakfast, an old Southern, Victorian-style home about four blocks from Bully’s. Bennings was now returning from a field trip some 60 odd miles out of town where he had checked out Warring Pharmaceuticals, while Jordan had used the time to scout Milledgeville on foot.

  As Bennings approached Jordan’s table, Jordan asked, “So, did you see what you wanted to see out there?”

  “Pretty much. But the place looks more like a prison than a campus complex for a private pharmaceutical company.”

  Jordan nodded, held out his phone, and said, “Here’s the latest from Blue.”

  Bennings took the phone and sat down across from Jordan, but he was quickly distracted by the shouting going on in the back room. He looked up and asked, “What the hell is going on back there?”

  Jordan shrugged and said, “Good question. They’re definitely pissed off about something.”

  “Do you know who is in there?”

  “No, but based on all the trucks outside, I’m guessing it’s a bunch of good ol’ boys.”

  “Yeah. This lifestyle is gonna take some getting used to.” Glancing at the remnants of Jordan’s fried chicken, he added, “Including the food.”

  Jordan laughed and said, “Yeah. I’m gonna need to do some extra sit-ups, that’s for sure.”

  Bennings refocused on Jordan’s phone and said, “Let’s see what Blue has to say.”

  As Bennings studied Blue’s letter, an attractive waitress in her early forties approached their booth. She had a small frame, shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, light green eyes, and freckles. She was wearing Bully’s official uniform: a whi
te apron over black slacks and a black-and-white checkered blouse. Flashing a mouth full of white teeth, she looked at Jordan and, in a pleasing Southern accent said, “I see your friend’s finally here.”

  Bennings, focusing on Blue’s letter, didn’t look up.

  Jordan shook his head, winked at the waitress, and said, “Earth to Bennings, earth to Bennings. Do you copy?”

  As Bennings pulled his eyes away from the phone Jordan said, “Ah. There he is. Bennings, this is our waitress, Kylie. She’s a sweetheart, so please, take your nice pills.”

  Bennings said, “Hi, Kylie, pleased to meet you. But don’t let him fool you, I’m the good guy on this team.”

  Kylie laughed and said, “I’m sure you are. Now, can I get you anything, or would you like to see a menu first?”

  “Uh, for now just a cup of coffee, please. No cream, no sugar.”

  As Bennings refocused on the phone, Jordan looked at Kylie and added, “If you don’t mind, would you bring me a Bud Light?”

  Kylie smiled and said, “Sure, sweetie, be back in a minute.” She flashed another smile at Jordan before turning away with a purposeful flip of her ponytail. This time, Bennings noticed. He put the phone down, smiled, and said, “Am I missing something, or is she flirting with you?”

  Jordan blushed a little and said, “No way. She’s just looking for a good tip. And everyone calls you sweetie down here, so get used to it. Now what do you think of the letter?”

  “To me, it looks like Blue’s Code has just been upgraded to Release Number Two. She wants to use Molly’s paintings, imagined or real, as a second way to communicate. Makes total sense. It will give both of them more flexibility. As for the Tower of Terror, I think she’s seeing or hearing things that are freaking her out. Notice how she referred to the ride as being inside a mansion? The Tower of Terror is in an old hotel, not a mansion. Clever!”

  “I agree. Oh, and the reference to a painting of a girl with cancer has to be a bogey of some sort. I know all of Molly’s paintings, and that’s not one of them.”