The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  On inspection, the men discovered the cabins to be empty. Only the single house held anything of interest. Inside, they found two adults who had been gouged to death. Several documents were also found, included herein.

  Sarah flipped through to the next pages. Whatever they had meant to include had obviously not made it to the files—nothing that might explain why the children had been there in the first place, or what might have triggered the violence. Instead, the file simply detailed the events of the next few weeks, the subsequent hospitalization of the children, and the attempt to track down Anton Votapek, whose name had appeared on several of the documents they had recovered. Failure to find Votapek had left the commission no choice but to label its efforts “a continuing investigation.” The last page was dated January 9, 1970, various signatures underneath.

  Sarah quickly turned to the second folder. Opening it, she was greeted by a list of fourteen names, ages, and phone numbers. The children at Tempsten. She read the list. She was about to flip to the next page when her eyes froze on a name three from the bottom. For a moment, she stared at the letters, not quite sure what she was reading. That’s not possible, she thought. At first, she wanted to explain it away as some bizarre coincidence—it was, after all, a common-enough name—but her instinct knew better. She had found the name here, locked underneath seven levels of clearance, a place she was never meant to see. That she had no idea why his name had appeared mattered very little. She had found it, and that, somehow, was confirmation enough. It was him. The name, the age.

  Walter Pembroke, sixteen.

  Pembroke, the golden boy, third youngest VP in history. Somehow, he was a part of Tempsten.

  There had to be more. She turned to the next page, hoping for further confirmation, but found only the updates the commission had so diligently prepared. Paragraph after paragraph on each child—each new address and number carefully noted, but nothing on Pembroke. Nothing. She read more closely and discovered that the paragraphs described only those children who shared one disturbing trait: they were all dead—some from injuries sustained at the compound, but most from car accidents. Checking the dates, she realized that only four of the fourteen had survived beyond his or her nineteenth birthday.

  Sarah quickly scanned the names of the survivors. It took her a moment to make the connection. There was something familiar, something recognizable in the last two names … Grant, Eggart.

  And then it hit her.

  The shooting of the Dutch diplomats during last week’s mayhem. Eggart, the assassin—gunned down at a farm in Virginia; Grant, the state trooper who had killed him, and who had then lost his own life.

  Eisenreich’s first trial confirmed yet again.

  The simple facts she had wanted, the facts that would tie everything together, were staring her in the face. And yet all she had were names. Disturbing names to be sure, but still …

  Sarah looked at the last name on the list. Alison Krogh. Next to it, a ten-digit phone number. No update. No change. No apparent connection. A six-year-old girl now in her mid-thirties. Somewhere.

  Sarah wrote down the number and placed the piece of paper in her pocket. She then returned the folders to the shelves and walked back to the door.

  Alison Krogh—that was where she would start; that was where she would begin to put the pieces together.

  Xander had opted for a once-familiar tea shop near the library. He needed to take some time with Carlo’s notes, and perhaps, more honestly, to distance himself from the Institute. The memories had all been a little too real, too vivid. He needed a few minutes of release. To that end, he had bought a copy of the Trib. The puzzle. Certainty in a fifteen-by-fifteen grid.

  But he never made it beyond the front page. Walking along Store Street, he glanced at the lead article, the grain debacle—the panic that had hit the streets of Chicago sometime in the early hours of the previous morning. Sources described farmers in Iowa already arming themselves to keep government assessors from determing levels of available stock. In response, Cargill Agricultural had issued a statement: All shipments of grain from the United States were to be halted for an undetermined period of time. Xander scanned the piece, not wanting to admit to its connection with Eisenreich; he had no choice when a single name forced him to stop in midstride. Martin Chapmann. Dead, suicide, the investor responsible for the fiasco.

  Xander stared at the words, recalling the files he had read in Florence. Chapmann. Sedgewick’s cabal: “What he intends to do with them is left to the reader’s imagination.” Not anymore. The only question remaining was how far the first trial would extend. More frightening, if Washington and Chicago were merely experiments, how devastating was the chaos Eisenreich meant to unleash? How many other markets would Sedgewick send his associates to destroy?

  The answer, Xander knew, lay in the manuscript. First, though, he had to understand it as it was, not as three madmen were using it now. That meant understanding its context, its lineage. And that meant Carlo’s notes. He tucked the paper under his arm and proceeded to the shop.

  Within minutes, Xander was deep into the manuscript’s history.

  “Eisenreich titled his manuscript On Supremacy. But who was to know that this innocuous little title was the beginning of something so daring, so bold?” Evidently not one eighteenth-century cataloger who had placed it among a group of fourteenth-century diatribes on spiritual supremacy. Not exactly the most likely spot for a document bent on redefining the nature of power. “Had this Ludovico Buonamonte taken even a moment to read the letter of dedication, he would have seen the mistake, and the manuscript might not have been lost for another two hundred years.” Reading his friend’s comments, Xander sensed both the elation and the frustration. There were a good four paragraphs on the incompetence of Signore Buonamonte.

  Not surprisingly, the path Carlo followed to the German version of the manuscript had been anything but simple. In fact, it had taken him almost eight years just to find the name of the original. The difficulty was that what few references there were to the manuscript had invariably been either to the Science of Eisenreich or, more disparagingly, to The Swiss Delusion. “The second,” the notes fumed, “is of no help. And the first—any child knows this is useless.” No mention of On Supremacy.

  As fate would have it, Carlo had come upon the title by dumb luck. While checking a few citations from a student’s thesis on church courts during the Inquisition, he had run across a correspondence between two Spanish bishops, one of whom, rather intrigued by an unknown short tract, had described it as “an uncanny theory that describes how best to place full temporal authority in the hands of the Church.” At the time, it had meant nothing to Carlo, until he had read the second bishop’s assessment, describing the manuscript as “nothing more than a piece of Swiss intrigue.” Its name, On Supremacy. Its author, evidently Swiss. A bit more digging, a few more letters, and Carlo finally located the author’s name. One Eusebius Iacobus Eisenreich. “Today,” the entry concluded, “we drink champagne.”

  Finding the name, though, had provoked greater difficulties. Why would two Catholic bishops have had access to the manuscript? And how could they have possibly thought it had anything to do with church supremacy? It was about power and chaos, authority and manipulation. “The pieces do not fit together. The church and Eisenreich? This makes no sense to me. No sense at all.” The notes charted two shattering days, Carlo sitting and drinking cup after cup of coffee, nearly convincing himself that he had run into an insurmountable dead end. Nonetheless, three days later, the entry in the notes began, “This cannot be coincidence. I will not let you beat me again.” Xander wondered how many times his friend had written the same challenge to himself, how many times he had forced himself back into the fray. So, taking time away from the university, Carlo had spent over two months combing through the endless volumes of archival listings at the Vatican Library. “Naturally, the idiots who compile these roles of paper find it too much to offer a single author’s name. Only
titles! When will these clerics learn?” The omissions had caused Carlo no small amount of inconvenience; they were a relief to Xander. No names, no cross-references. No cross-references, no easy access to a manuscript tucked neatly within the pages of a medieval collection.

  Carlo had ultimately found six manuscripts on church policy titled On Supremacy. One had been the German version he had discovered in Belgrade. That volume, however, had been damaged considerably, water stains and torn pages leaving only bits and pieces from which to decipher the theory. Carlo’s enthusiasm at the discovery had naturally been tremendous, but the book’s condition had left him far from satisfied. “It is as if you are testing me, seeing how far you may stretch my will. But have faith, my Eisenreich. I will find you.” Unfortunately, none of the next four On Supremacy titles from the Vatican list had proved to be by the Swiss monk. Three were eighteenth-century treatises, the other a tract on divine intervention. Carlo had found the last in Milan four days before Xander’s arrival in Florence. “There is only one left. It must be the one. Of this, I am certain.”

  The sixth waited in the Danzhoeffer Collection, buried somewhere in the dark recesses of the Institute of Historical Research.

  That it was now a reasonably simple task to find those documents and extract the manuscript had at first excited and then alarmed Xander. By his third cup of tea, he had begun to wonder, If it was all so clear, wouldn’t it be the same for Tieg and his cohorts? They had found Carlo’s copy, why not this one? And they had the name. Had had it for years. A quick search at the Vatican … The answer had struck Xander in midswallow. Tieg had only learned of the third copy a few days ago. There would have been no reason for a quick search at the Vatican, because they wouldn’t have known there was something to search for. Even aware of the third version now, Tieg would never be able to draw the connection between Eisenreich and the church documents. That had been a fluke. Even Carlo had described his discovery of the bishops’ letters as “a gift from God. I will thank Him in full when I have the manuscript in my hands.”

  Those playfully irreverent words were the last Carlo had written. The lightness of style, the little jabs, the digressions on the best cappuccino in Florence—all reminded Xander of the man he had known since his first days with Lundsdorf. “That emotional Mediterranean,” he had often called him. “Wonderful mind, but it gets all cluttered with … too much enthusiasm.” If there had ever been a phrase to define the difference between the Teutons and their neighbors to the south, Lundsdorf had found it. When Xander had told Carlo of Lundsdorf’s remarks, the Italian had at first dismissed them with a wild hand to the air, as if sweeping away an annoying bee. Then with a shrug, he had smiled, “Of course, he is right. Then again, what marvelous clutter it is.” A quick wink, the slightly nasal laugh. Vintage Carlo.

  More telling, though, was the detail. For a man who had seen only small pockets of a damaged version of the manuscript (selections of which were scattered throughout the thirty-odd pages of notes), Carlo showed an uncanny sense for its totality. Even more so, he allowed Xander to see Eisenreich in a light that challenged the stereotype that too many scholars had accepted. Granted, the theory of power and supremacy (from Carlo’s extrapolations) made Machiavelli’s approach look tame, even inviting, but Xander couldn’t help but marvel at the apparent genius. If Carlo was right, Eisenreich displayed an understanding of statecraft that was at least two centuries ahead of its time.

  The notes offered so much. It was now time to see how well the manuscript lived up to that promise.

  Sarah had expected to find a disconnected number, or, at best, a forwarding address. What she found, however, came as a complete surprise.

  She called from a phone on the corner of Eighth and D.

  “Hello.” The voice on the other end was a woman’s, quiet, hesitant.

  Sarah waited, uncertain.

  “Hello … Anton, is that you?”

  The question was enough to force another silence. “Alison?” Sarah asked.

  Again nothing. “Who’s speaking?” The tone carried no mistrust, no hint of insecurity, only a kind of innocent curiosity. “Hello?”

  “Yes, hello. This is … Sarah.”

  “Hello, Sarah.”

  “Am I speaking with Alison … Alison Krogh?”

  Another pause. “Yes. … Yes, this is Alison. Sarah who?”

  “Sarah … Carter. Were you expecting to hear from Anton?”

  “He has the number.” Silence. “Did Anton ask you to call?”

  Again, Sarah waited before answering. “Yes. He asked me … he wanted me to come and talk with you. Would that be all right?”

  “I see.” Another silence. “Anton gave you the number?”

  “Yes.”

  “He said he wanted you to come?”

  “Yes,” replied Sarah.

  “Then … it must be all right.” She remained, however, less than forthcoming with the address. “Didn’t Anton explain everything?” she asked.

  “No.” Sarah waited, then continued. “He said you would tell me, but only if you wanted me to come.”

  Another few moments of silence. “All right.”

  That conversation had taken place an hour and a half ago. Since then, Sarah had caught the first flight to Rochester, New York, rented a car, and driven to Tempsten. As much as she recognized the necessity of the trip, she had grown more and more uneasy at the prospect of meeting one of the last of the survivors. Still there. Still so close. She wondered why they had allowed her to live.

  The small cottage, no more than three or four rooms—a screened-in porch at the front—stood along a quiet lane. Sarah pulled up to the curb and stopped the car. She noticed a shuffling at the curtains as she moved up the path, someone anxious to meet guests. Even before she could reach for the bell, the door opened; there, in a simple print dress, hair tied at the back, stood Alison Krogh. For a woman in her mid-thirties, she looked surprisingly young. Thin, elegant, a long trail of thick red hair flowing down her back.

  “You must be Ms. Carter,” she said, stepping back and ushering Sarah down a short hall to the living room. The place was sparsely furnished—sofa, two chairs, bookshelves, and television. Two glasses and a pitcher waited on the coffee table. “I hope you like lemonade,” she said, taking Sarah’s coat and hanging it in the closet. “I made it myself.”

  Sarah nodded and moved to the sofa. “Yes, very much.” She waited for Alison to sit and then took a seat by her. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  Alison nodded, keeping her eyes from Sarah’s.

  “Do you live here alone?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Except when Anton comes. Then I don’t.” She smiled and took a sip of the lemonade. The frailty was even more apparent in person, thought Sarah.

  “Does he come often?”

  Alison shook her head and took another sip. Still, her eyes would not meet Sarah’s. “Why did Anton tell you to come?”

  “He said I should talk with you.”

  “Like the others?” For the first time, Sarah heard an edge in her tone.

  “Others?” she asked.

  “The doctors. Who want to talk about … the school.” Alison stared, saying nothing more.

  “And that bothers you.”

  “I don’t like to talk about it.” There was no reprimand in the answer, only a simple statement. “I don’t remember very much. Isn’t that funny?” She tried a smile and took another sip of the lemonade. “I have some fruit. I grow it myself, in the greenhouse. Would you like some?” Not waiting for Sarah to answer, Alison stood and disappeared through a swinging door.

  Alone, Sarah studied the few pictures hidden among the trinkets on the shelves, wondering what lay behind the frightened eyes of the woman she had just met. Beach scenes, a younger Alison wading waist-high in the ocean, an older man at her side—Votapek no doubt—smiles from ear to ear. But the eyes remained the same, distant, uneasy. Even in a fading picture. Something so familiar.

  The door
swung open.

  “You have some lovely things,” Sarah smiled.

  Alison placed a tray on the table and nodded. “Gifts. From Anton.”

  Sarah waited, then spoke. “Do you ever talk about the school with him?”

  Alison kept her eyes from Sarah, her expression completely blank; she then sat, her eyes now focusing on the bowl. For a few moments, she seemed totally unaware of anything else in the room. Finally, she looked up. “Would you like some fruit?” she asked, the smile tighter than before.

  Sarah shook her head. “I was hoping to talk about the school.”

  Again, no reaction until Alison’s eyes darted to the corner of the room, her struggle to maintain control evident in the deep breath she took. She turned to Sarah, eyes damp, the smile trying to hold back the tears. “I don’t like to talk about that.” A single drop glanced down her cheek.

  Gently, Sarah pressed. “Then why did you ask me to come?”

  “I don’t have many visitors.” Alison brushed the tear away. “It’s … nice when people come.”

  “Is that the reason?”

  For the first time, Alison looked directly at her, Sarah seeing something behind the stare; Alison quickly pulled a leg to her chest, her head resting on one knee, eyes again on the bowl. “The school was a long time ago.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, you don’t.” Again, nothing combative in the tone, only a statement of fact. “No one does. Not Anton. Not Laurence. No one.” She looked at Sarah, eyes swelling. “Everything was fine, you know, just the way it was supposed to be. It was … such a good place.” Tears began to trickle through the smile. “We all belonged; we all learned—that’s why we were there, you know. How to be strong, how to take what was ours.” Her eyes darted back to the corner, the smile dropping, “and then, everyone so angry …” Her words trailed to a near whisper, tears caught in her throat. She looked as if she might give in, let the torrent come, when she suddenly stopped. One long breath, and she turned back to Sarah. “Would you like some fruit?”