The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  A winter rain began to spit at the windshield as he drove into the town of Creighton, the lights along its main street standing in a neat row. Halfway down the block, he noticed a stationer’s shop, a small diner two or three doors beyond. Again, fate. Fifteen minutes later, he sat in the last booth, coffee, soup, and a small pad at his side. He would get to the books later. For now, it was enough simply to write.

  It was five to seven when she landed, 7:15 by the time she walked across the tarmac, the cold rain on her face a welcome relief after six hours of flying. She had slept for the first few, the stopover in Chicago allowing her time to pick up more packets of dye, along with a second mirror and hair dryer so as to rectify the miscues from the Palametto station. Sarah had managed it all with several trips to the airplane rest room, a series of fitful naps in between, each filled with too many disquieting memories to make the sleep even mildly restorative. Pritchard himself had crept into her dreams—his face draped in despair, eyes darting about, spying her through the door, yelling to Tieg’s men that she was there, behind them, his finger pointing in a desperate attempt to barter for his own life.

  She had awakened to the sound of her own screams ringing in her ears even as she had realized that no such terror had passed her lips. Only silence to accompany the strange feeling of pity she felt for a man who had never shown her the least bit of kindness.

  She reached the terminal. Within ten minutes, she had purchased three sets of black pants, turtlenecks, ski masks, and gloves. They would come later. She then rented a car from the same young man she had patronzied just yesterday—no hint that he recognized the blond, suntanned woman as a onetime redhead—and was soon back on the road to Tempsten. The highway would be quickest, a more circuitous route safer. She opted for the latter, soon putting the bright lights of the airport behind her.

  One hour. Yesterday, she had made the same trip in order to gather information, to find a link to the horrors that had turned children into time bombs, innocents into killers. Then, it had been speculation. Now, she knew far more. Vice President Pembroke, Senator Schenten, Pritchard—other players, other roles. She knew about the schools, about the children who were learning to hate all over again, and about the prototypes from thirty years ago who had grown up to become an army of devoted minions, capable of unleashing untold chaos. More than that, though, she knew the strategy—less than a week, and then explosion after explosion. Washington, Chicago, New Orleans on a grand scale. Alone, the information was meaningless, a series of disjointed facts. She needed more. She needed the connections.

  She needed Jaspers. Somehow, more than she wanted to admit.

  He had written for nearly two hours, half the pages of the small pad filled with his familiar scrawl, the first few neater than the rest—a short-lived attempt to make the paragraphs legible. But his mind had raced too fast for careful penmanship, his need to set down the initial statements on state theory too overpowering to leave time for presentation. Those first eight pages, a dizzying array of academic logic, had formed the shell, a series of assertions couched in the starkest of terms so as to leave no room for misunderstanding. One point following the next, a rigorous patterning of reasoned argument. It was what he had been trained to do, what he knew best—to synthesize what others could not see.

  With that in mind, he had turned to the texts themselves in order to lend the theory pragmatic force. Spreading the books out on the table, he had cross-referenced the corresponding passages from among them, explained away the discrepancies as misinterpretation, and identified their common purpose—to place power in the hands of three men, each controlling a separate sphere, each distinct in the public eye, and each bent on coordinated manipulation so as to ensure the ultimate prize: stability in the abstract, iron domination in reality. The price, individual freedom. The tools, chaos and hatred. From Eisenreich to Ireton to Rosenberg—a clear progression. Then, citing what little he could recall from the files, he had extended the lineage to Votapek, Sedgewick, Tieg, and the overseer. Only then had the abstract taken on a human face, more so when he had forced himself to recount his own experiences—the depravity beyond the men themselves—ever careful to maintain an academic objectivity despite his own outrage. Perhaps the least comprehensive, they were the most compelling statements within the document; they alone specified the meeting point of theory and practice. Turning conjecture into reality.

  He had put the pen down half an hour ago, eager to get back on the road. He had made a copy of everything—including the manuscript—and had sent it to Mrs. Huber, again for safekeeping. Granted, holes peppered his argument—theories without evidence. Whether they would be enough, though, remained to be seen. That would depend on Sarah. So much, now, depended on Sarah.

  The car hitched as he pulled into the Sleepy Hollow, the transmission living up to all the dealer had promised. It was a classic single-level motel, eight to ten rooms directly on the driveway, each with its own parking space. He eased the car into one of the spots, grabbed the backpack, and started for the small office, its VACANCY sign somewhat redundant, given his was the only car within two miles. At the front desk, the little bell emitted a high-pitched twang.

  “Just a second.” The voice came from beyond a curtained doorway, the sound of a television quickly turned off before a woman appeared. She was wiping her hands on an apron. “All right, all right, here we are.”

  “I’ll need a room,” said Xander.

  “Yes, I should think so,” she replied, reaching for the registration book. She slid it toward him and asked, “You wouldn’t be Mr. Terni, would you?”

  Xander started to shake his head, then stopped as the word sunk in. Terni. Ternistato. Iron state. Eisenreich. The clue to Carlo’s notes. Clever girl! Xander smiled. “Then she did call ahead. I’m so pleased.”

  “Made the reservation yesterday.” The woman was reaching behind for a key. “She said it would be either today or tomorrow, so I suppose your conference ended early.”

  “Not a minute too soon,” he answered, signing the book. He pocketed the key and moved to the door. “Thank you.”

  “Paid up through Monday. It’s the fifth one down.”

  The key took a moment to find the lock before he pushed open the door, the smell of pine unmistakable. He stepped in and fumbled for the light switch, tossing the pack onto the bed before he heard something move on the far side of the room. The light came on.

  A young woman sat on the floor, her back against the wall, her eyes veiled in terror.

  “Please, don’t hurt me,” she said, a gun in her lap.

  Xander stood motionless, aware that she was shaking, her hands held firmly under her knees, eyes locked on the edge of the bed. In his own confusion, he managed to find the words to comfort. “I won’t hurt you.” He let the door shut, careful to keep his movement to a minimum. Alison Krogh sat rigidly, her long hair, draped in her lap, oddly caressing the barrel of the gun.

  “She told me to stay here,” whispered Alison. “She said I would be safe. That they wouldn’t find me.” She suddenly looked up at him. “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

  “No, I won’t hurt you.” He removed his cap and placed it on the floor as he sat, his back against the door. “Did Sarah tell you to stay here?”

  She nodded her head, a single jerked motion.

  Xander watched as her eyes welled up. “Has Sarah been here?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “She said she would come back. And that you would come. And someone else. That’s what she said.”

  “It’s just me.”

  “Yes.” She now looked at him, wiping the tears away. “We’ll wait for Sarah.” She placed her hand on the gun and nodded. “We’ll turn off the lights and wait for Sarah. That’s what we’ll do.”

  O’Connell sat at the end of the bar. He’d been nursing a double whiskey for the last ten minutes, waiting for the damn phone to ring. It was an odd sensation, anticipating the contact, a voice now no longer faceless. And yet, i
t felt strangely familiar. Too familiar. Seven years had evidently done little to dull his senses. Everything fit in perfectly.

  Except the waiting. It always felt like a setup. The phone rang.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Stein sounded tired.

  “I’ve been firing up the furnace. Getting the blood running again. You didn’t tell me how cold it could get in these woods.”

  “Didn’t think I’d have to. Any sign of her?”

  “None. Nor her young professor.”

  “Any unusual activity at the house?” Stein’s voice conveyed a confidence O’Connell had never heard before, an authority obviously reserved for those in the field. It was a pleasant surprise.

  “No. Looks like the senator is taking the time to recuperate. His ‘illness’ has prompted a few more guards on the fence at night, but I suspect that’s just an old man’s weakness showing itself. No unexpected guests, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “There will be, trust me.”

  “And why are we so certain of that?”

  “Because he ties in, and Sarah knows it. Schenten hasn’t taken a sick leave in nearly thirty years. Why now?”

  “Setup?”

  “That’s why you need to spend a few more nights in the cold, Gael. Make sure they’re not that clever.”

  “And then what? Bring her in?”

  “I don’t know.” It was an honest admission. “I don’t know what she has. I don’t know what either of them have, if Jaspers is even back in the country. The Germans lost him. They’re convinced he didn’t get out, or at least not to the States. Our young professor has a hell of an instinct for survival.”

  “That is if he hasn’t been given up already.”

  “Keep your distance. If we move too fast, we could give them both up.”

  “If the boy’s not dead, my guess is that he soon will be.”

  “Don’t count on it. He’s obviously got something they want.”

  “So how long do I keep watch?”

  “The program’s changed,” said Stein. “Pritchard’s dead.”

  There was a pause on the line before O’Connell answered. “That doesn’t answer my question. How long?”

  “Just keep watch. Timing’s always been one of your stronger points.”

  It was almost an hour later when the beams from a pair of headlights swept across the far wall. The woman remained motionless, unaware, save for a hand gently stroking the barrel of the gun. Xander listened as the car pulled up outside the room; a moment later, the light gone, the engine silent. He began to inch his way to the far corner. Footsteps followed, the sound of a key in the lock, all the while the woman staring into an unseen distance. He stood, his body masked in darkness; she looked up, the gun now gripped tightly in her hands as the door opened.

  In shadowed profile, Sarah stepped into the room.

  “Hello, Alison.” Her voice was hushed. “You can put the gun down.”

  Slowly, the woman lowered the barrel to the carpet, her expression unchanged. “Hello, Sarah. I’m glad you came back.” Xander watched as Sarah closed the door, stepped to the night table, and flicked on the lamp. Only then did she see him, her eyes distant at first. For a moment, they stared at each other, he squinting against the light, both unable to speak.

  “You look tired,” she said, breaking the silence. Xander nodded. She remained by the bed, tossing her bags on the blanket. She began to fumble with her hair. “Tired … but well.”

  Again, he nodded. “You, too. … Blond, tanned. That’s a change.” She smiled, and, for the briefest of moments, he thought he sensed—perhaps wanted to sense—something beneath the self-control, a tenderness. It forced him to stop, to let his guard down. “It’s good to see you, Sarah.”

  “Yes.” The room became quiet again before she spoke. “I see you’ve met Alison … who must be very tired.” The woman had not taken her eyes from Sarah. “The room next door is safe,” she explained. “Would you like to sleep in there?” Alison nodded and stood, then looked at Xander.

  “Thank you for waiting with me.”

  Xander smiled and watched as Sarah walked her out into the rain. A few minutes later, Sarah reappeared, tossing the two sets of keys onto the bed. She closed the door and leaned up against it.

  “She’ll sleep for a while. I told her everything would be all right.”

  “Promise?” he asked.

  Sarah smiled and let her head drop back. “I’ll do the best I can. If you’re wondering, she’s the girl who killed the boys thirty years ago. Here in Tempsten. The little girl whose name never quite made it to the papers.”

  Xander tried to respond but could only shake his head.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I found her yesterday. Set her up here. They’ve kept her in town for some reason. Probably think she’s harmless.” She looked at him. “She isn’t. Strangely enough, she thinks Votapek’s her father.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “No, that’s who Tieg thinks he is.” She pushed off from the door and headed for the bathroom. “We have a lot of catching up to do.” She stopped before disappearing. “Where’s Feric?” The question caught Xander off guard. Somehow, he had managed to forget. He stared at her for an instant, an instant too long.

  “When?” she asked.

  It took him a moment to answer. “Outside of Frankfurt … he saved—”

  She nodded, another twinge of tenderness in her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment and then slipped out of the room.

  “I’m sorry.” It was all he could offer. “I wouldn’t have found the manuscript without him. He was …”

  She reemerged, a towel in her hands. “Yes, he was.” Again they stared at each other. After several long moments, she tossed the towel to the chair and asked, “Does it tie any of this together?”

  “Tie … Oh, the manuscript. Yes. Yes, it does.” Xander stepped to the bed and pulled the manila envelope from the backpack. Handing the package across to her, he said, “I think that’s what you want.”

  They talked for nearly an hour, he first, recounting everything that had happened since Florence—the madness at the Institute, the insanity at Ganz’s, the train, Feric’s death, every minor detail so that she could understand. Through it all, he spoke with a strange objectivity, as if relaying a long-forgotten history he himself had never witnessed. Sarah sensed the detachment, heard the distance in his voice, but said nothing. Only once did she see the pain beyond it. Only once did he let her in.

  “You know, he seemed so light in my arms. … I don’t know why. Doesn’t really make sense, but I remember the sun being very hot, almost scorching my cheeks. … Freezing, early morning, sun barely above the trees, and yet all I could feel was that hot sun, and how light Feric was in my arms.” He shook his head. “I dropped him, you know. Just … let him go. That’s what he said I should do. Strange, but it didn’t feel all that different without him.” His voice seemed to trail off. “I don’t think I moved after that. I think I just stood out there … all the way to Frankfurt.” He looked over at her. “Maybe not. I don’t really remember.”

  Thereafter, he spoke with little feeling. He ran through the rest of the story, focused on the hours he had spent with the books, the pieces that had begun to fall into place. Only when he mentioned the schedule did he seem to regain himself.

  “And you think they have one?” asked Sarah.

  “It would make the most sense. If they’ve followed the manuscript to this point, they’ll have concocted something that spells out—with dates, locations, and methods—how they intend to create the chaos beyond the first trial. All we have to do is find that schedule and use the information in it to pull the rug out from under them.”

  “You mean connecting them to Rosenberg and the Nazis.”

  “Trust me, the media’s the media. They’ll do the damage.”

  “If they have the time.”

  Xander looked at her. “I don’t understand.”

  “Less than a we
ek,” she answered.

  “What?”

  “Less than a week,” she repeated, “until they get that chance. That’s what Tieg said.”

  “What?” His eyes went wide. “Less than a week? That doesn’t make any sense. The manuscript talks in terms of months. That would mean—”

  “Yes,” she added, “that everything and everyone is in place. They’re ready to push the buttons.”

  “It’s supposed to be months. They’d—” He stopped and looked at her. “Oh God. How could I have been so stupid? We do things today in a few hours that would have taken Eisenreich weeks, months. …” He took the envelope from her and pulled out the pages he had written that afternoon. “If it’s that quick, I don’t know if this will be of any use.”

  “This?” she asked. “You mean this isn’t the manuscript?”

  “It’s something that goes a good deal beyond it.”

  He began to explain, she leafing through the pages with him as he tried to pinpoint the areas where she could give him the detail he needed—they needed. Soon, it was she who was instructing, recalling the documents she had taken from Justice, the violent history of the Learning Center with its esteemed graduates Pembroke, Grant, and Eggart—the latter two, she reminded him, conspicuous in the recent killing of the Dutch diplomats. He listened with wide eyes, amazed at the names and events she was bringing together. She recounted her first meeting with Alison, the frightened woman who remained the only real link to a devastating past, but who could no more recall her part in the death of the two boys than relieve herself of the guilt she kept tucked deep within. Sarah then told him of her visit to Votapek, the first hint that the men of Eisenreich were vulnerable, dinner at Tieg’s, the wild diatribes on conquest, eugenics, power. She even told him about Pritchard, the Committee, hinted at her own involvement to underscore the full extent of Eisenreich’s grasp. And finally, she gave him Schenten.