The Portal

by Russell James

  “Agent Kyler,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  Kyler barely looked Milo in the eye. He unfolded a wrinkled tourist map with Blue Fin B&B stamped on the lower right-hand corner. He laid it on the desk and held it in place with one hand.

  “I need the main power station and the phone exchange from the mainland. Where are they?” Kyler’s eyes never left the map.

  Milo thought fast. Once inside there, these men could cut power and communication, even cell and satellite. Stone Harbor would be isolated from the world.

  He considered giving Kyler the wrong locations. But this killer would be back in twenty minutes, waving that automatic in Milo’s face, or worse. It wasn’t like the buildings didn’t have big signs on them anyway. Whatever he did, Kyler would find both places eventually.

  But knowing what Kyler was up to, Milo thought he might be able to protect some of the townspeople. They were the important thing. If he could play the fool here, he might live to play the hero later.

  “The power substation’s here, Agent,” Milo said, pointing at the map, “and the phone exchange’s in the basement of this building here. The door’s in a stairwell in the rear.”

  Kyler marked the two spots on the map with a pen from Milo’s desk. He finally looked Milo in the eyes.

  “Shit’s going to hit the fan in a few hours,” he said. “The town is going to be dark and scary. People who stay in their homes don’t get hurt. You keep them there. Understood?”

  Kyler had dropped all pretense of having a legitimate purpose in Stone Harbor. This authoritative show of strength was supposed to leave Milo cowed. To stay invisible, and fight these men using inside information, Milo figured he needed to act like the threat worked.

  “You don’t have to hurt anybody,” Milo pleaded. “Tell your men. I’ll help keep people off the streets.”

  Milo did his best to look frightened. He was surprised that he wasn’t.

  Kyler eyed Milo as if checking Milo’s bullshit against some internal bullshit database, looking for a match, and a solid reason to shoot Milo as a liability. Milo’s heart pounded so hard he was sure Kyler could hear it.

  “Anyone we kill,” Kyler said, “is on you.”

  A smug look of satisfaction crossed Kyler’s face as he turned for the door. Milo held his breath. The door closed behind Kyler. Milo stood until the Ram pulled away. Then he collapsed back into his chair.

  His heart rate slowed back to normal. He needed to call Scaravelli and tell him what happened. Scaravelli wouldn’t do anything about it, but calling would be what Scaravelli expected him to do. He had to stay in character. Once Scaravelli relieved him, he could start doing something to save the town.

  An image of John Wayne raising a posse in some old Western popped into his head. Wayne always wore his star prominently when he played a sheriff. Milo looked down at the badge on his chest.

  To Protect and Serve was inscribed on the rounded bottom.

  Milo stood back up behind his desk. He adjusted his gun belt. This was going to be a long day.

  * * *

  Kyler chirped the Ram’s tires as he pulled away from the station. He smiled with self-satisfaction at how quickly the little boy playing cop had caved. Just the threat of force had him quivering. He’d have lasted five minutes at Quantico.

  Kyler pulled in behind the phone exchange building, under the town’s only cell tower. An underground stairwell led to the exchange door. Kyler got out and folded the seat forward to access the behind-the-seat storage. He pulled out some hand grenades from ammo pouches and clipped them to his belt, along with several spare magazines. Before this was all over, he’d probably have to send some of the five he’d brought here to Oates’ final reward ahead of schedule. He needed to be armed for it.

  “Time to get this party started,” he said.

  He jogged down the steps to the thick metal phone exchange door. A cheap silver padlock hung on a crooked clasp. Rust bubbled up through a faded white outline of a telephone and an outdated warning that read:

  PROPERTY OF NEW ENGLAND BELL

  NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS

  “May I present my authorization?” he said. He pulled his pistol, aimed it at the lock, and fired. The gun’s blast echoed in the stairwell. The lock exploded into pieces and fell to the ground.

  He kicked open the door and flicked on the light. Thousands of wires of all different colors ran in and out of junctions on the walls. Tiny lights flickered red and green. The wires’ labels were coded with tags filled with short strings of numbers and letters. Kyler started trying to trace the lines to find the main junction. It quickly grew frustrating.

  “Screw this shit,” he said. He stepped outside and pulled a grenade from an ammo pouch. He turned and yanked the pin. The handle flipped off and hit the concrete with a ping. He tossed the grenade into the exchange, and then slammed the door. He leaned against it and covered his ears.

  A muffled boom sounded on the other side of the door and it expanded from the doorframe for a split second and then relaxed. Acrid white smoke drifted out from the door’s edges.

  Kyler cracked open the door. The beautiful smell of spent explosives wafted out. He breathed in deeply, to savor the sensation. Inside, the room lay in shadow, the fluorescent overheads shattered by the detonation. Smoke rose from the junction boxes. All were dark, their green and red telltales snuffed out.

  He closed the door and walked back to the Dodge Ram.

  Fifteen minutes later, another dull thud at the power station severed electricity to every house on the island. As the residents slept, every water heater went cold, every refrigerator began to warm, every digital clock faded to black. Being late for work wouldn’t be a problem though. Oates and Company had declared a holiday.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  As Kyler drove away from the power substation, Oates materialized in the passenger seat of the truck.

  “Are we on track, Mr. Kyler?”

  “The men have the town surrounded, sir,” Kyler answered without looking over. “Power and communication are down.” He paused and decided that he needed to add the rest, even if it meant consequences. “They won’t be enough to hold the town. It’s too much area. They’re too undisciplined.”

  “I’ll arrange support,” Oates said.

  Kyler did not know what that meant, but he knew enough not to ask. “Next step, sir?”

  “Somebody here’s got my property,” Oates said. “We’re gonna find out who. It’s gotta be one of the older families. They would have found it back then and hidden it. I want the descendants questioned.”

  Interrogation was one of Kyler’s favorite parts of the job. It was brutal and sadistic, and unlike the other brutal and sadistic things he did, interrogation actually had a purpose. Over the years, he had learned how to inflict intense physical suffering while prolonging life. He considered it a gift.

  “First stop, sir?”

  “Top of the list,” Oates said. “All Souls Church. Let’s start with Reverend Snow.”

  Kyler spun the Dodge Ram around in a tire-smoking maneuver the bulky truck was never designed to execute. He drove back through the blacked-out town and pulled into All Souls parking lot. Though the power was out, dim light glowed behind the church’s colored glass windows. Kyler pulled up in front of the big wooden doors.

  The two got out of the truck and mounted the steps. At the top, Kyler opened the church door. Oates preceded him in.

  In the darkness, a pool of soft light illuminated the altar. Reverend Snow knelt on the bare floor, facing the huge suspended crucifix. A row of candles lined the altar’s edge, and two more flickering collections flanked him on either side. The dancing flames reflected in the aisle between the pews like tiny fireflies. The reverend’s head was bowed, his eyes closed. He murmured a prayer to himself.

  Oates stood behind the last pew and
motioned Kyler forward. Kyler advanced down the aisle, the measured thud of his boot heels like a countdown clock. One boot landed on Zebedee Snow’s grave marker and left behind a clod of earth. Kyler stepped up to the altar to the reverend’s left.

  The reverend did not react, perhaps lost in prayer, perhaps afraid to see his own future. Either reason pissed Kyler off. He spun around in a roundhouse kick. The rush of air extinguished the candles on the left.

  Kyler’s boot struck the reverend’s chest. Reverend Snow flew backward away from the altar and crashed on his back in the aisle. The blow knocked the wind out of him and he gasped for breath.

  Kyler stepped down and spun the supine cleric around to face Oates. He yanked the reverend into a sitting position, and then pinned both his arms behind his back at the wrists. Kyler slowly lifted the reverend’s arms. Ligaments cracked as the man’s arms rotated in the wrong direction. Reverend Snow groaned and rose to his knees to relieve the stress on his shoulders. Kyler pointed the reverend’s head straight down the main aisle, straight at Oates.

  Oates advanced down the aisle with slow, measured paces. He paused atop the white marble marker of the first Reverend Snow and looked down in disgust.

  “First in a line of weaklings,” he said.

  He continued forward until he was a few feet from the reverend. Kyler grabbed the reverend’s forehead and yanked the old man’s head back. The reverend’s eyes met Oates’.

  “Reverend,” Oates said. “Pleasure to meet you. My name is—”

  “I know who you are,” the reverend said, his voice strained. “We’ve waited for you to slink back to the island.”

  “Do I look like I’m slinking?” Oates said.

  Oates began a slow pace before the altar, a few feet down, a few feet back. He gave his goatee a thoughtful stroke. He spoke without looking at Reverend Snow.

  “My Portal, it’s missing, Rev. I know where Providence hid it, and it’s gone. Got a strange feeling you can help me with that.”

  “Maybe it rotted away,” Reverend Snow said. “It’s been three hundred years.”

  Without looking over, Oates raised the pinky finger on his left hand. Kyler reached down and grabbed one of the reverend’s pinkies. He quickly bent it backward until the nail touched the wrist. Brittle bones snapped like dried bamboo. Reverend Snow let loose a high-pitched shriek. Tears ran down his cheeks. Kyler dropped the pinky. It drooped limp and crooked.

  “Lies from a man of the cloth,” Oates said. His pacing did not pause. “Truth’s gonna hurt lots less, Rev. In fact don’t you always say that the truth will set you free? Now did one of your foolish relations –” he gave the slab on the floor a dismissive wave, “– steal my property? Ain’t there some commandment against that?”

  “That was three hundred years ago,” the reverend gasped. Pain flushed his face a dark red. “How would I know?”

  Oates raised his ring finger. Kyler snapped the reverend’s ring finger with a twist. The reverend screamed at the second wave of pain. The cry petered out to a whimper and he slumped forward. Kyler jerked him back upright.

  “You’d know because your misbegotten family of do-good shitheads would have been proud of it,” Oates said.

  Kyler blinked as profanity passed Oates’ lips. Oates had broken Kyler of the habit when in his presence. But then, last night he also saw Oates angry for the first time.

  Oates stopped dead center of the altar. Kyler yanked the reverend’s head back again for a proper view. Pain painted the old man’s face. Kyler smiled.

  “Look who you been working for,” Oates said to the reverend. He pointed at the crucifix. “You sacrificed having a real life for him? You got no wife, no kids, nothing. Do you even own a car? Everyone your age worth anything took a ferry out of here. But old Zachariah stayed trapped here in Stone Harbor, tending a flock of idiots.”

  Oates renewed his pacing, now maintaining eye contact with Snow at each step.

  “And you don’t get no appreciation,” he said. “Do they shower you with rewards for your sacrifice? Do they even give your church the support it needs? No. Just a little lip service to your Sunday sermon, and then off to do as they please the rest of the week. They blow thousands on new cars, and then tip you a buck in the collection plate. You’ve helped them in their time of need, but where are they now for you? You’re taken for granted.”

  Oates spread his arms and pointed at the walls.

  “You ain’t a man to them. You’re just a fixture, a piece of furniture in this house of misguided worship.”

  Reverend Snow’s shoulders sagged. Kyler had seen Oates turn many a man at this point. The boss knew the right buttons to push. Every time.

  “All this for him?” Oates asked, pointing at the crucifix above the altar. “You see him saving you now?”

  Oates pointed one finger at each cleat that secured the crucifix’s suspending ropes. With a twist of his wrists, the two ropes spun off the cleats. The crucifix seemed to hang in the air unassisted for a second, then fell to the floor with a crash. Christ’s head broke off the carving. It rolled across and off the altar, then bounced off each step with a hollow thud. It stopped face-up against the first pew.

  “He don’t care about none of you,” Oates said. “If he did, why would he allow war? Why allow famine? Why create serial killers? Most of all, why would he let me exist?”

  Oates paused. The reverend sighed.

  “Trust me,” Oates said. “I know the guy. To him, you’re toys, an amusement.”

  Oates sat down before the reverend. A subtle change crossed Oates’ face. His features relaxed, his eyes calmed. In the candlelight, there was something almost angelic in that face, some of the Lucifer before he was cast out. This was Eden’s snake.

  “Now, Reverend,” Oates said, like an old pal who had just dropped by. His Brooklyn accent retreated, and his normal monotone grew melodic. “The difference is, I do love you. I love all mankind. I encourage all to find their own happiness, unrestricted by some artificial morality.”

  Oates put his hand on the reverend’s shoulder. He cocked his head, his eyes dark brown and soft as seal fur.

  “It’s not too late to right this injustice. I am magnanimous enough to reward you for your service, even if it was to the wrong cause, because I respect your sacrifice. In an instant, I’ll give you more than God has given you in a lifetime. By my side, you will have power, comfort, and respect. I’ll restore your youth and you can live life the right way, enjoying it. Kyler will tell you I’m a man of my word. I deliver what I promise. All I need is the Portal, and you will join me as I rule this reality. You will do so little, and I will give so much. What do you say, Zachariah?”

  The reverend said nothing. He reared his head back as far as he could in Kyler’s grip and spit in Oates’ face. The reverend managed a small smile, and then closed his eyes.

  “Our Father,” he said, “who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

  Oates’ salesman face vanished in a flash. Cold Brooklyn Oates was back. He slapped the spittle from his face and stood up.

  “He’s yours,” Oates said flatly over the reverend’s continued prayer. “Find out what I need. I’ve other things to set in motion.” Oates turned and stormed down the aisle toward the main doors.

  Kyler released Reverend Snow’s head and yanked the old man’s arms straight up with his left hand. The reverend yelped in pain and his prayer was silenced.

  Oates stopped beside the last few pews. He pointed up at the sanctuary’s back wall. A beam of fire shot from his fingertip. He traced a huge smoking design on the white wall, two inverted concave triangles within a circle. Then he burned a message beneath the diagram, and disappeared into the darkness out the main doors.

  Kyler pulled out an old-fashioned straight razor from his pocket. He flicked it open inches from the reverend’s eyes. The sharpened edge sparkled in the rem
aining candlelight.

  “Rev,” he said, “I once used this to peel an onion skin, one layer at a time. It took forever. Human skin has damn near as many layers.”

  He gave the reverend’s wrist a twist, just to hear him scream again.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lucky’s ears perked to attention and the chunky black Labrador retriever popped up wide awake, despite the pre-dawn hour. His paws skittered on the hardwood kitchen floor as he scrambled to his feet. He sniffed the air in the dark. Carrot peelings in the trash. Ground coffee beans in the coffee maker for the morning. Lemon oil in the floor cleaner. Moldering kibble behind the refrigerator.

  No, none of that awakened him. Someone had called his name. But everyone in the house was asleep. He cocked his head.

  He heard it again, somehow not from anywhere without, but from somewhere within. It wasn’t a call, so much as a directive, a demand for his presence so urgent that his body practically responded on its own. He bolted through the pet door and into the night.

  In the backyard, the command grew stronger. Without hearing it, he shouldn’t have been able to determine its location. But somehow, he knew it came from the east, from under the rising moon. The summons promised to fulfill his every desire: the need to belong, the need to be loved, the need to serve. Lucky’s heart pounded against his ribs. He danced right and left in anticipation.

  A five-foot barrier of chain-link fence blocked his way to the powerful master who called from beyond. He ran along the fence line in vain, doing a blind search for a hole he knew wasn’t there. There was only one way out, and that was over. He ran to the far end of the yard, and charged the silver barrier.

  Rolls of fat jostled up and down as he sprinted toward the obstacle with the amazing energy level he’d had as a puppy. He closed on the silvery mesh and leapt for the top.

  His front legs crested the fence, but his belly grazed the top. A sharp, broken tip along the mesh snagged his rear leg. The metal point ripped a gash along his inner thigh but Lucky hit the grass on the far side and kept running. The tsunami of the master’s summons washed away the pain from his leg.