by Tony Bulmer
Karyn closed her eyes momentarily, nightmare visions of the past flooding in. Hurting people could become an addiction—a pleasure even. There were so many ways to inflict pain. Karyn had been doing the job so long now she had invented very many of her own. Allowing a controlled burst of the horror that lurked within her, she imagined the face of Ted Congo, contorted screaming, his features distended beyond the normal limits of humanity. He was the kind of person she liked to make suffer. Jack Senegar had
been right to send her out here, no doubt about that.
An epiphany hit.
Karyn opened her eyes.
“Are you suggesting that the girl was
working for the Federal Government?” asked Karyn, her voice hard and even. Ted Congo and Chief Donald Mālama exchanged wary glances, “We have no evidence to support that theory,” said the Chief uneasily.
“Yet,” added Congo, his face oozing contempt.
10
“I am going to need a detailed synopsis of your progress so far,” said Karyn.”
“You think I got time to be tippity-‐tapping out reports for the Department of Justice?” snapped Ted Congo nastily. “There ain’t no way in hell sweetheart. I got myself an investigation to take care of, but soon as I am through, you can be assured that your superiors in Washington will get all the requisite paperwork, signed sealed and delivered.” He sat back in his chair arms folded, and regarded her with a steady gaze.
A grimace caught at the edges of Chief Mālama’s, mouth and lingered there momentarily. “I happen to have an interim report right here on my desk, Special Agent Kane, if that would be of any help?”
Karyn smiled, then, nodded very slowly, “Thank you very much,” she said.
“Not a problem,” said the chief, “We are on the same side after all, are we not?”
Karyn’s smile became broader,
“Absolutely,” she said. “Anything I can do to further assist with the investigation, please let me know. Naturally, I will be reviewing the case files and making a few enquires of my own.” Big chief Kahuna burger was trying to be nice, either through fear, or an inescapable compulsion to do his duty. More likely he knew that the big wheels at the Department of Justice would run both him and his jurisdiction flat in a New York second, if they thought he was trying to screw with them. Maybe, if he knew he was dealing with the CIA he would be
even more cooperative. A happy thought. Karyn turned to Ted Congo, flipped him a wink.
Congo gave a derisive snort.
The chief said, “Anything further you need, just let us know, Special Agent, we have got to pull together on this one.”
“I am sure I will think of something,” said Karyn. Her tone was light, with a hard
undercurrent of authority.
Ted Congo pulled a face. But Karyn was already out the room, the special police report nestling snugly in the top of her big black Gucci bag.
As Karyn headed back towards the lifts, with the analysis of the brief meeting tumbling through her mind, the neo-‐Stalinist décor looked somehow less austere than it had seemed on the way up. Karyn glanced over to the cubicle where she had spied the familiar face, but the chairs were now empty, the mysterious occupant and his police interrogator long gone.
Maybe she was losing it? There was a time when she would have snapped an ID on the guy she had seen, just as soon as look at him. Worse, Senegar had said this was a level-‐nine gig—threat level advanced and imminent. Now that little creep Ted Congo might be a prick on wheels, with a mouth a yard wide, but there was no way that short-‐stop loser was a nine—not even if he was running down hill with the breaks off. As for big Chief Mālama, he looked and sounded for all the world like a straight arrow career cop just doing his job—right down to his stack of office sports trophies and the pictures of his grown up family hanging all over the walls. The idea that these two were running some kind of advanced level
conspiracy against the United States just didn’t wash. As for the untimely deaths of Senator Tex Johnston and the governor, the events there still posed too many questions. Karyn glanced at her Rolex, almost five, nearly cocktail hour. One of the few good things about having business at police headquarters was the guarantee that there would be a kick ass bar near by. The sound of cold ice rattling into a hard glass, followed by a generous hit of tequila and lime, made her taste buds jump-‐ alive. It had been a hell of a morning, and chances were the evening would pick up the pace from here.
With a rapidly forming plan racing her mind forwards, Karyn strode into the lift, as she did so, a quick figure darted after her, his thin fingers prizing at the rapidly closing doors. Karyn stood at the back of the lift and watched him come. It was the thin-‐faced guy with straggly black hair she had seen earlier, except this time he was up close and personal, squirming his thin little body through the half open doors.
Having given up their attempt to close, the lift doors swished open, allowing the dark-‐haired figure to burst inside, released abruptly from the metallic clutches of the doors, he staggered forward unsteadily, almost bumping into Karyn.
She didn’t move, not even a fraction. “You got to help me,” blurted the figure. Karyn raised her eyebrows in tandem, tilted
her head very slightly to one side, to assess the newcomer more fully, but said nothing.
“You know the chief right?”
Again Karyn raised her eyebrows, gave the newcomer a disapproving twist of her mouth.
The newcomer stared, his soft brown eyes bugging fearfully behind his thick-‐framed glasses. He swallowed now, ran his fingers through his straggly black hair. He took a step closer, “They don’t believe me you see,” he whispered, rather louder than was necessary. “I told them, but they don’t believe me—if I could only get to see the chief—make him understand.”
Karyn raised an accusatory finger, wagged it in the newcomers face and said, “I have seen you somewhere before,”
The lift gave a jolt and started its slow descent.
The thin face grew tight, his anxiety peaking, “I don’t know, I mean, maybe—you are a lawyer or something, right—a friend of the chief?”
“What’s your name?”
The guy looked about desperately—Verner, I mean Brad—Brad Verner, that is. I came in here to tell the chief what has been happening. We are all in danger. You know that don’t you?”
“Yeah, that may well be so Verner, but you might want to ease down the stress level just a tad, and tell me what the hell you are talking about.” His eyes flickered nervously, as though he were looking for some kind of camera, or listening device. Suddenly, Karyn made the connections,
remembering Verner’s face staring up at her from the pages of a CIA report, an e-‐file PDF Jack Senegar had given her before she split out for the Islands. It was always nice to meet the face behind the file and establish just how closely the intelligence matched up.
“They are going to blow the Island up. If my
calculations are right, this thing is going to be as big
as Pearl Harbor, maybe even bigger.”
“Who exactly are we talking about here
Verner, the Japanese?”
Brad Verner paused momentarily, his
mouth hanging open, before scrunching his eyes.
His thin fingers drumming against the sides of head
with frustration he said, “No, not the Japanese, of
course not the Japanese, this is worse than that,
much worse—a disaster bigger than Banda Aceh
and the Fukushima Daiichi crisis at Tōhoku
combined.”
“Wow, said Karyn, “That is going to be quite
some event. Who did you say was going to be
responsible for this?”
Brad Verner’s eyes popped wide behind his
thick-‐rimmed spectacles, “The Federal Government
of course, they are going to blow up Hawaii, and the
rest of the world too, if they get chance.” Brad
Verner paused for breath and said, “I have to stop
them. Will you help me? If only I can get in to see
Chief Mālama, I can convince him, I am certain I
can.”
Karyn nodded thoughtfully, “So tell me
Verner—this is a hell of a theory you got going, but
where exactly did you first come across this
information, the Internet?”
“You don’t believe me do you?”
“Oh, I believe you alright Verner. Trouble is,
you have got to have evidence to back up those kind
of theories—over and above the kind of crapola
you might have heard on talk radio a week last
Tuesday. I don’t suppose you have any evidence to
back up these claims do you?”
A soft ping rang out, as the lift reached the lobby.
Brad Verner looked indignant, “Of course I have evidence, plenty of evidence. I have my research.”
“Your research?”
“Of course my research. You didn’t think I would be just making this up did you?”
Karyn gave Brad Verner a thin, sympathetic look, as the lift doors opened wide, revealing a small crowd making ready to board. “Tell me, where is this research Verner?“
Brad Verner looked immediately down cast. “Burnt. Gone—they destroyed it, didn’t they? You didn’t think they would allow the facts to come out did you, it would ruin their plans.”
Stepping out into the lobby, Karyn turned to Brad Verner and said, “It is usually the way these things work Verner. The Government has people— facilitators who take care of such things, now if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to.” And with that Karyn turned her back and headed out the door.
11
As Karyn hit the pavement the large crowd of protestors out front of Police Headquarters was now being roughly marshaled, by a squad of uniform cops in riot gear. Slipping into the broiling crowd unnoticed, Karyn headed down the block, with a thousand thoughts racing through her mind. The Verner kid had to be a kook of some kind, it stood to reason. Enviro-weenie protestors, all they ever did was cry about how the world was going to come to an end. It didn’t matter if it was global warming, or the nuclear energy that supplied power to millions of homes, you name it
environmentalists had a gripe about it. It was almost as though anytime someone tried to make the world a warmer more comfortable place to live, nutso nature huggers like Brad Verner popped up their little gopher heads, squealing that
technological progress might kill the planet or something.
With dusk falling fast in a kaleidoscope of colors, Karyn walked down the block until a reassuring neon throb rose up out of the coming darkness, Club Carmady, Irish Bar, read the sign. She quickened her step. This was the kind of place she liked, hard liquor and soft lighting. She had spent her formative years in many bars just like this, blue-‐collar dockside bars, filled with sailors and working men, kicking back in the only way they knew how, an ice-‐cold beer, chased down with a generous side order of raucous company. As she headed inside, through the broken fly screen door, Karyn thought of the Admiral, working to Eastern-‐
time. Pops would be three drinks ahead of her at least by now, the old reprobate. Her father was a man of tradition, whose iron clad will, would not be diverted from life’s meager pleasures, no matter how stormy the going might be. As headman at the US Navy’s station in Norfolk Virginia, the storm tide ran pretty high most days. But the Admiral was a hard man, like Dwight D. Eisenhower, born of parents with a robust work ethic and hard knuckled religious conviction. Nothing would divert The Admiral from his evening snifter—be it a hurricane force naval crisis, or an icy
Washingtonian wind, blowing in from the Chesapeake Bay.
Walking up to the bar, Karyn peripheralized the room. The place was narrow, but it ran deep, with red leather banquette booths filling one side and high-‐sitting metal bar tables grouped tightly in the middle of the spit and sawdust floor. The place was half empty, only a few members of the early-‐ evening office crowd settling in for beer with friends. Karyn headed for the bar and caught herself a stool, up front of the action.
The barman, a big Samoan in a white A-‐ shirt, with tattoos running down to his elbows looked her way and flashed the briefest of smiles. He finished topping out a jug full of suds for a cute little waitress with an ill-‐advised poodle-‐cut hairstyle, and headed over.
Karyn nodded to the barman, “Tequila Blanco Añejos.”
“I mix an awesome margarita,” said the barman wiping off his hands with a grimy looking towel.
“Do I look like a margarita kind of gal to
you?”
The barman paused a beat, laughed and
said, “I guess not. You want ice and a hit of lime
with that?”
“Now you are cooking cupcake,” said Karyn. The barman grinned. “I got all the top shelf
shit, but I am guessing you are in a Don Julio kind of
mood, it is Monday after all.”
“You got it Kane, the most gruesome part of
the working week.” Karyn slid a c-‐note across the
bar. “I’m feeling thirsty tonight, so stay sharp.” “As always lady,” laughed the barman,
moving away now, to tend to the next customer. Karyn sipped her drink, felt the cool power
of the desert Agave pounding through her. Man that
tasted good. The kind of good you wanted to keep
on coming. As she placed the glass back on the bar
and admired its sparkle there came a sudden
distraction, a dark figure sidling alongside her,
pulling her back from the cold, high plateau to
which she had so briefly ascended.
“Er—I hope you don’t mind,” mumbled the
figure hesitantly.
following me, or something, Verner? Because if you
are, I might have to hose you down with pepper
spray.”
“I wasn’t following you per se,” stuttered
Verner. “At least not in that way.”
“I got to tell you buddy, you are only
making things worse for yourself, so unless you got
some fast breaking news, you better slink out of my
personal space, or I am liable to get all cranky—and
trust me, that is not a position you want to find yourself in.”
Brad Verner leaned in against the bar and looked at her now, his face hard and angular in the barroom twilight. “I didn’t tell you everything,” he hissed in a confidential tone.“ I meant to, but I didn’t,” he paused, as though this statement in itself would be enough to engender understanding.
“Just cut the bullshit Verner and get to the point, because I got myself a very busy evening ahead of me, with only limited time for R&R. And I have got to tell you, your creepy little stalking routine is already cutting into that time in a way I don’t much appreciate—you understand?”
“But I didn’t tell you what I do…”
“You are some kind of blow it out your ass environmental researcher. Big deal. Who gives a shit?”
“I am a geostatistical engineer,” announced Brad Verner his voice wavering with the drama of the revelation.
“No kidding.”
“You know what that means right?”
“It means you are getting the drinks in. I will have a large one.”
“Are you getting loaded?” asked Brad Verner, the disapproval in his voice tinged with the slightest hint of concern.
Karyn narrowed her eyes. “So tell me Verner, what in the hell does a geostatistical engineer get up to on his nights off?”