Star Chamber Brotherhood

by Preston Fleming

  "Later on, during the final weeks of the revolt, Uriah was in protective custody with the camp authorities and survived the siege. But by the time Rocco brought him back in to identify rebel leaders, I think he was already dead inside. Rocco and Whiting had made him betray everything he stood for. To me, it was the same as murder. And then, in front of all the surviving rebels on the parade ground, Rocco ordered Uriah shot in cold blood when he tried to redeem himself with a final act of resistance. I know this because I was there. Now, take my advice, Sam, and forget everything I've just told you. Go on remembering your father the way he lived, not how he died."

  Sam Tucker listened to the entire story without any change in expression. Now he stood on unsteady legs, as if in a fog. Werner wished he could have rewound the tape and taken back his words but it was too late. Tucker's idol was shattered.

  ****

  Werner waited five minutes after Tucker's departure before he left the coffee shop and returned to the Somerset Club by a circuitous route that avoided Boston Common.

  For the first time since Dave Lewis's visit to the Club nearly forty days prior, he felt completely alone. Hank Oshiro was dead. Greg Doherty had moved to Georgia. Hector Alvarez was somewhere in the Caribbean. Sam Tucker would leave soon for West Virginia. The Star Team was down to one man.

  Yet Rocco lived.

  The decision to complete the mission or abandon it lay in Werner's hands. But if he were to fulfill his original commitment, he would have to do it alone.

  But how, he asked himself?

  And even if he could finish the job, was it worth the effort and the risk and the likely collateral damage?

  Is this really what life and fate expected from him after trying twice and failing?

  More than that, he asked himself, why had the team failed? If it was because what they did was wrong, why hadn't they been prevented from carrying out Plan A or Plan B?

  All these questions and more raced through Frank Werner's head as he made his way back to the Somerset Club, taking care to watch for surveillance coverage but finding none.

  His fondest wish as he reentered the Club by the rear service entrance was to find Dave Lewis waiting for him at the bar so that he could renegotiate their agreement.

  But when Werner entered the darkened bar, he found no one waiting for him. Instead he found folded on a table near the door two blue blazers: the one he pulled from the coatroom and the soiled blazer that Harvey Konig had been wearing when he arrived earlier that afternoon.

  Werner picked up the soiled blazer and rolled it into a ball to stuff it in the trash. But as he did, he felt something stiff in the breast pocket. It was Konig's leather–bound datebook and his U.S. passport. And in the side pocket he found a vial of sleeping pills.

  He stuffed all three into the zippered pocket of his windbreaker on the expectation that Konig would discover them missing and return for them. Most likely, the professor had been too tired and preoccupied to think of emptying the pockets. But then he remembered how the Bullet, Hoodie Girl, and Khaki Boy had intercepted him upon leaving the Club and wondered if government agents might have detained Konig the moment he stepped onto the street. In a panic he recalled Konig's letter, still tucked in his shirt pocket, and raced to the stairway to fetch a fresh envelope from the Club office. Until he got that letter out of his hands and into a mailbox he wouldn't have a moment of peace.

  ****

  The entire evening at the Club went by in a blur for Werner. From time to time his eyes would wander to the door, expecting to see Harvey Konig return to reclaim his passport or, in the final hour, dreading to see Bulldog and Bullet show up to demand Konig's whereabouts.

  Werner closed the bar at the stroke of midnight and slipped out the back door heading west to the Arlington T Station rather than the much closer Park Street Station. He arrived at Linda Holt's Brookline apartment shortly before one a.m. and was surprised to find her seated at her antique writing desk.

  "Well, this is a pleasant surprise," he greeted her. "I'm happy you've discovered the joys of the bat schedule, Linda. Are you using the extra time to work on your memoirs?"

  Linda set down her pen and looked up with a welcoming smile.

  "No, just catching up on my correspondence. Once I noticed it was midnight, I decided to wait up for you."

  "Wonderful!" he replied. "Will you join me in a nightcap? A hot toddy, perhaps? Or a spot of brandy?"

  "Not tonight, I'm afraid. But you go ahead," she said.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Of course," she answered, turning to face him with a look of concern. "You look like it might do you some good. Actually, I've never seen you so wound up as you've been the past few days, Frank. Has something been bothering you at the office?"

  "Not really. If anything, I feel relieved tonight. You see, I've decided to sell my interest in the bar," Werner announced. "Jake made the offer a month ago and I took him up on it this morning. We settle on Monday."

  Linda's eyes widened.

  "Well, that calls for congratulations," she offered. "It must have been a difficult decision for you. Though I do recall you telling me last month that you were thinking of moving back to Utah. Tell me, does this mean–"

  "I don't know yet," he replied abruptly without waiting for her to finish the sentence. "You're right; that was my plan. But now that I've made contact with Marie…"

  "Yes, Utah is a very long way from London."

  "Wait," he interjected. "How did you know that Marie was in London?"

  "I believe you told me a few days after we did your reading. You seemed very happy about it," Linda responded with a reassuring smile.

  "At that time it was still only hearsay. And I didn't have specifics. In fact, I didn't get proof until this morning. I have a letter from her and she's…she's fine…"

  Werner stopped as his voice broke and his eyes brimmed with tears.

  "Listen, Frank. Before you pour that drink, would you like to do another quick reading? I've had the sense lately that things may have resolved a bit since we did the last one for you. Do you think it might help to get some more guidance while you're deciding what to do next?"

  Werner hesitated and then let out a resigned sigh.

  "Actually, Linda, it might help a lot. Sure, let's do it."

  Linda Holt opened a drawer in the antique desk, pulled out her tarot deck and closed her eyes in meditation before setting the deck in front of her.

  "Cut the deck, shuffle it, and put it back face down on the desk," she instructed.

  He did what was asked. Then Linda dealt the cards rapidly, laying them in rows and pausing only to turn them over or arrange them in groups. When she finished, nearly all were face up but, as before, Werner could discern no patterns and knew next to nothing about what any of the tarot images signified.

  "I am receiving impressions," she declared half a minute later, her eyes still closed.

  "You have some business here in Boston that you are fated to complete," she continued. "It is already set in motion, and with it comes responsibility for others who have assisted you. You are their leader, the one who has brought them crisis and the opportunity to change their lives, to learn and advance.

  "But something fundamental has shifted since I last read your cards. The others who have been close to you in these last weeks have largely completed the work that brought you together. But for you, one more step remains. Until now, your task was bound up with that of your team. Now it all rests on you."

  Werner swallowed hard before speaking.

  "Do you see success ahead?"

  "Yes," Linda replied. "Though it may be dangerous. I sense a necessary violence here, like a bone that must be set before it can grow straight, if that might help to explain it."

  "And do you see any key or special knowledge I might need to succeed?"

  "No, you must simply go forward and face the danger and you will pass through it safely."

  "What about my daughter?" Werner asked next. "Will
I live to see her again?"

  "Here something has changed. Whatever separated you from her appears to have been dispelled. I believe you will be brought back together. But perhaps not for long. I see your paths diverging again. I see your daughter in a major city with a cold climate and overcast skies. She will thrive there and lead a happy and successful life. But I see you somewhere else, in the village or town, under a warm sun, where you will live content in your final years."

  "And the spirits of my wife and older daughter? Are they coming through or are they still blocked?"

  "I see them close by. They aren't being allowed to speak yet, but I sense that they will come to you in your dreams as soon as you have completed the step that you are about to take. They are staying close by to protect you."

  Werner felt tears welling in his eyes and tried not to blink for fear of having them spill down his cheek.

  "Thank you, Linda," he said in a choked voice.

  "I see them fading now," she replied. "And now they are gone. I'm sorry, but that's all I have for you."

  Werner put an arm around Linda's shoulders and held her hand in his.

  "You are a very fortunate man, Frank Werner," she told him after a moment of silence. "Not everyone is given the chance to change his fate as you are doing. You have much to be thankful for and much still to look forward to in your life. I can appreciate that because mine is largely over."

  Werner drew back and gave her an alarmed look.

  "But you're in terrific shape, Linda. You've got plenty of miles left on you, for heaven's sake."

  "No, Frank," she replied, "It appears that I don't. Which is why I stayed up tonight writing letters. I had some tests done this week and I received the results today. The diagnosis is pancreatic cancer and my oncologist says it has reached an advanced stage. And judging by my symptoms these past few days, I probably don't have long to live. Though I still intend to go on working as long as I'm able."

  "Oh, my God, Linda. I had no idea. All this time I've been in a funk with my own issues and I didn't notice a thing. I'm so sorry."

  "Don't be," she answered. "I've lived a long life and I'm reasonably satisfied with it, though I have my regrets, like anyone.

  "What regrets could you possibly have after a life of service like yours? If there were a Catholic church around here, I'd nominate you for sainthood."

  "No, we all make mistakes and have our regrets," Linda reflected. "My greatest regret is not having seen sooner when the rationing of medical care for the elderly and impaired edged into euthanasia. I still recall vividly the day I was asked to accelerate the termination of an otherwise healthy Alzheimer's patient and I refused. That's when I started spending more of my time at the hospice and less at the Medical Center.

  "Oh, I'm still on staff there and I still dispense medications to keep up my licenses but I don't feel very good about it. To me, it's like handing out guns to murderers. I may not be the one pulling the trigger, but I'm still responsible if the ones who do the killing got their guns from me.

  "It makes me furious sometimes to be so weak that, in order to do good, the people in authority can require me to do evil. Of course, evil has always been with us, but it wasn't nearly so common before Unionism. Now, who can resist? Who can stand up to these people?"

  Werner held Linda's shoulders and felt her frailty and disillusionment.

  After a long moment she seemed to relax. And then she turned around with a bright smile and spoke again.

  "You know, Frank, I think I've changed my mind."

  "About what?" he asked.

  "I think I'm ready for that drink now. The medications don't start until tomorrow."

  They both laughed while Werner rose to fetch brandy from the sideboard. He returned a few moments later with a pair of crystal snifters filled with two ounces of Spanish brandy.

  They toasted to each other's health, drank, and settled back onto the sofa.

  "May I ask your advice on something confidential?" Werner asked uneasily after setting down his glass. "If you are uncomfortable with it, I promise to back off. Perhaps if I pose it as a hypothetical…"

  "Don't be silly. We're not strangers, Frank. You're quite free to ask me anything you like. If I can't answer, or if I don't care to, I won't."

  "Very good, then," Werner began. "Say there was a patient getting care at Boston Medical Center."

  "You do know that's where I practice, don't you?"

  "Yes, actually, I do," he acknowledged. "Now, let's say that this patient was recovering from serious injuries, say in a car accident, and was in severe pain and needed medication for it. Who would decide which medication to give him and who would administer it? And how would they determine the proper dosage?"

  "As a matter of fact, that's the sort of situation that we face every day in my department. There's nothing unusual about it."

  "And what department would that be?" Werner broke in.

  "I'm in the Pain Management Group. But, then, you knew that, too," she observed.

  "Yes, actually, I did."

  "And this patient of yours, he wouldn't be a victim of a recent attack, would he?"

  "To tell the truth, he was," Werner continued. "And now that we've crossed that bridge, please allow me to explain."

  CHAPTER 18

  Flashback: Early May, 2024

  Kamas, Utah

  April of 2024 was a deceptively peaceful month at the Corrective Labor Camp in Kamas, Utah. Unlike March, the guards shot no prisoners and the camp administration transferred no prisoners north to camps in the Yukon. The guards and warders even used their nightsticks sparingly. In return, the prisoners mounted no strikes. But those who had participated in the strikes during March still lived under the cloud of further punishment. Meanwhile, Frank Werner's fifty-third birthday came and went without notice.

  As Werner had expected, promises that the camp administration had made the month before went largely unfulfilled. There was no joint investigating commission, no suspension of trigger-happy guards, no compensation for the victims or their families. Labor quotas remained the same despite fewer men on each work team. And food rations remained as before. The only promises that Warden Rocco kept were to show movies in the yards on Sunday evenings and to permit prisoners to petition for a case review by a special hearing panel.

  Meanwhile, spring arrived late to the Kamas Valley, as had been its pattern for the past dozen years. Snow and freezing rain continued almost daily for most of the month, with the last big snowstorm taking everyone by surprise on April 24. Gradually temperatures rose, the snows thawed and the mud deepened. After the storm, Werner exchanged his heavy winter coveralls and insulated winter boots for thinner summer coveralls and standard-issue army boots. For the first week after the switch, the frosty mountain nights made it more disagreeable than ever to crawl out of bed in the morning. But as always, Werner adjusted.

  Although food rations had not changed, the milder temperatures meant that the prisoners needed less energy to stay warm. Yet no one gained weight because the reduced numbers of men on each work team after the March transfers meant that each man had to work harder to meet his team's weekly quotas. The failure to improve living conditions, the fear of reprisals and the lack of hope led to another outbreak of suicides during the last week in April.

  It was a time of intense vigilance among both the government's stool pigeons and the Star Committee's stoolie hunters. Every day the camp's security director and his staff summoned selected prisoners from the barracks, from the dispensary, from worksites, mess halls, and bathhouses for discreet meetings. There they offered the prisoners cash, food, tobacco, and easier work assignments to entice new informants to report on their fellows. Those who refused were threatened with solitary confinement, beatings, transfers to the Yukon, and even reprisals against family members outside the camps.

  At the same time, the Star Committee counter-intelligence squads followed these same prisoners wherever they went, interrogated them after each s
uspicious contact, and warned them of dire consequences if they informed on their neighbors to camp security. Every week brought rumors of another informer whom the vigilantes had stabbed, smothered, or garroted.

  As Werner had feared, the strikes and the Administration's reaction to them left the camp population more divided than ever. Those who continued to pledge loyalty to the Unionist Party went out of their way to distance themselves from the rebels and to curry favor with the camp authorities. Those who opposed the Party lost no opportunity to remind fence sitters of its illegitimacy and of their collective suffering under Unionist rule.

  Many rookie prisoners became hard-line anti-Unionists during April, having shed in March any remaining illusions about the nature of the corrective labor camp system. Even moderates tended to harden their stance after the second strike was crushed. Only devoutly religious prisoners from persecuted sects like the Amish, Mennonites, Hutterites, Jehovah's Witnesses, Orthodox Jews, and Seventh Day Adventists, together with a few pious New Agers, managed to steer a middle course between the opposing political factions, with both sides reluctantly tolerating their neutrality.

  As for prisoners like Werner, who had been arrested on political or security grounds and who claimed no strong religious affiliation or belief, it had become increasingly difficult to avoid taking sides with one faction without being victimized by the other. Though Werner had opposed the President-for-Life from the start, he had never taken up arms against the Unionist government and had a visceral aversion to violence.

  In fact, the week before, he had volunteered to give up a relatively easy work assignment in the camp distribution center for the very reason that political divisions had led to fighting among the work teams and reprisals by the pro-Unionist warders and guards. Rather than be caught in the middle, he volunteered for more demanding work at a remote worksite in the Deer Valley ski resort among more highly skilled prisoners, nearly all of them anti-Unionist, who worked well together as a team.