The First Horseman

by John Case

  He looked at the list of names, which were arrayed in alphabetical order:

  Leonard Bergman, 22

  Arturo Garcia, 26

  Thomas O’Reilly 39

  Ross D. Stevens, 52

  Christopher Yates, 27

  None of them meant anything to him. But what did jump out at him was the fact that each of the dead men had the same hometown: Lake Placid, New York.

  How could that be? And then he thought about it. Maybe they were volunteer firemen who’d won a trip, or salesmen for a mail order outlet, or . . .

  I don’t think so, he thought. Unless we’re in the presence of an astounding coincidence, this is it. The satellite photos proved that the miners’ bodies were exhumed from the Kopervik graveyard on September 9. The date on the death certificates in front of him was September 12, with the remains coming into Boston four days later.

  He thought about what to do, and the answer was obvious: Easy does it. Don’t jump. You don’t even know what the game is.

  He got the number for J.S. Bell’s Funeral Home in Saugus and dialed it.

  According to Annie, the miners’ bodies would have gone through a lot of changes. After eighty years in the ground, there’d be some dessication. You mean they’d look like mummies?

  No, she’d replied. More like what happens to food in your freezer. After a while, a chicken breast changes texture because it’s losing moisture. Ice cream changes, too, and so do cadavers. After a month or so, even ice cubes are only half their size.

  It was good copy. The sunken eyes, the prominent ribs, the lips drawn back in rictus. It was zizzery-zoo. The bodies would have lost about half their weight – which wasn’t something you could hide. A mortician would see it immediately.

  A woman answered the phone on the third ring and, hearing that Frank was a reporter, told him they didn’t have anything ‘new for him.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Frank said, bewildered.

  ‘You’re on the obit desk, right?’

  ‘No,’ Frank replied. ‘I’m not writing obits, I’m . . . I’m with the Post.’

  ‘The Washington Post?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh. Oh! Usually, it’s just the local paper, but – if you’ll hold?’

  In fact, it was nearly six minutes before a man’s voice came on the line, and during that time, Frank put the call on speakerphone. Then: ‘This is Malcolm Bell.’

  Frank lunged for the receiver.

  ‘Hello! Yes, it’s Frank Daly, Washington Post.’

  A pause. ‘Well . . . How can I help you, Mr. Daly?’

  ‘Frank,’ he corrected, sounding a little weaselly to himself. ‘I’m working on a story that’s . . . well, it’s pretty unusual in that it . . . well, it involves some deaths that occurred, uh – quite a while ago . . . and some people who drowned and . . . I guess the remains were . . . handled by . . . you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Frank hesitated, trying to figure out how to put his question in a tasteful way. ‘Well, as I said, these were drowning victims.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Right, and . . . as I said, there was an accident . . . at least, we think it was an accident . . . at sea. And this was on a ship called the Crystal Dragon, which is –’

  ‘I know what the Crystal Dragon is, Mr. Daly. What’s your question?’

  ‘Well, what I’d like to ask – and I know this sounds strange, but – did the deceased . . . Let me put it this way: was there anything unusual about the appearance of the bodies you handled?’

  After a long pause, Bell replied in an apologetic tone. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Daly, but there are privacy concerns. Industry regulations and – well, as you can understand, we aren’t in a position to discuss the appearance of the deceased – not with the press, in any case. There are sensitivities. . . .’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying, but –’

  ‘If you could explain your interest, perhaps I could help. You said you’re working on a story?’

  ‘Right . . .’ It was obvious to Frank that the tables had been turned. He wasn’t going to get anything from Bell.

  ‘But you said you’re with the Post . . .’

  ‘Yes, well –’

  ‘I’m curious why the Post would be interested in something that happened – well, so long ago and far away. If you see what I mean?’

  ‘I do.’ Frank was beginning to get the uneasy feeling that he was the one being interviewed. ‘But, uh . . . well, look, sorry I bothered you.’

  ‘It’s not a bother! I’m happy to help. If you’ll give me your number –’

  Frank tapped the Flash button on his phone. ‘Can you hang on for a second?’ he asked. ‘Let me just see who this is. . . .’ He pressed Hold and counted to ten. Finally, he returned to Bell. ‘Listen, I’m going to have to take this. Why don’t I get back to you tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but – it was ‘Daly,’ right?’

  Somewhere in the middle of his chat with the mortician, Frank had begun to feel uneasy. Very uneasy. And it was his own fault. He’d been impatient. He was always impatient! When he was on a story that interested him, and the leads were panning out, he had a tendency to just wade in – when what he ought to do, of course, was sit back and think it through. Make a game plan. Prioritize the calls. Otherwise, you wound up telling people more than they were telling you. And sometimes you were talking to the wrong people – and that was what he had just done.

  Because, when you thought about it, if someone was going to bring five dead Norwegians into the States, pretending they’d been killed in an accident at sea, they’d want a mortician they could trust when the bodies came through Customs. And that, obviously, was Mr. Bell, whose curiosity was at least as great as Frank’s own. Yes, of course, but it was ‘Daly,’ right?

  Irritated with himself, he turned on his computer and logged onto Nexis – which, he knew, was what he should have done before calling the funeral home. If five Americans died at sea, it was a news story.

  At the prompt, he keyed in his User ID and password, and clicked on the All News button. A new page flashed on the screen, and he filled in the Topic:

  crystal dragon and drowning and five

  It took about ten seconds before another page replaced the last, reporting that twenty-seven hits had been found. He scrolled through the list. The first story was a Boston Globe piece, dated September 16. The most recent one ran in the Albany Times Union on March 5. He called up the first story, which was headlined:

  ATLANTIC STORM CLAIMS FIVE

  In the story, the captain of the Crystal Dragon said that the ship was making a transatlantic crossing, east to west, when one of the crewmen was swept overboard in high seas. Four others put to sea to rescue him, but their boat was quickly overturned. Though each of the men was equipped with a life vest, all of them drowned. The fact that the men were wearing vests, and that the ship was equipped with a helicopter, enabled them to recover the bodies.

  The last paragraph reported that the Crystal Dragon was a ‘missionary vessel’ owned by the Temple of Light, a ‘new religion’ headquartered in Lake Placid. Led by a charismatic healer named Luc Solange, the Temple operated ‘wellness centers’ in Big Sur and Cabo San Lucas. Each of the crewmen was said to be a member of the church, and a collective service was planned.

  Frank was intrigued, but Nexis was expensive, and he wasn’t actually supposed to be using it. Not while he was at home, and not while he was on a leave of absence. With a practiced eye he scanned the stories as quickly as he could, and saved them to his hard disk. Then he signed off the service and printed them out.

  As the printer did its work, he called St. Mary’s. His father was still in critical condition, the nurse told him.

  ‘May I speak to him?’ Frank asked.

  ‘No!’ she barked, ‘you can’t speak with him. We have a very sick man. He’s under sedation. He’s intubated.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You said you’re family?’
<
br />   ‘His son. Could you tell him I called?’

  ‘Tell him you called? That’s the message?’ Her tone spoke volumes about what she thought of his filial devotion. ‘Just tell him his son called?’

  ‘Yeah. Tell him I’m on the way.’

  18

  MADISON, WISCONSIN

  AH, MADISON, MADISON in the spring!

  Under a brilliant blue sky, Andrew trudged up Bascom Hill, thrilled by the thaw after months of freezing cold. Although it wasn’t quite warm enough for shorts, the hillside was littered with young women, prone and supine, their white legs pale against the bright green grass.

  Like a lot of the students he knew, Andrew had a part-time job that helped to pay for his tuition and books. Students did anything and everything to earn money. He knew girls – serious students – who made extra money dancing at the topless place, and others who dressed up as clowns for little kids’ birthday parties. He knew a guy who had a summer job driving the Wienermobile for Oscar Mayer. Now, that was cool.

  Andrew’s own job was a work-study assignment: as part of his financial-aid package, the university required him to work fifteen hours a week. Whenever possible, the school tried to match the work-study assignments to the student’s own interests (assuming those interests could be ascertained, which in fact was not always the case). In general, though, Library Science majors worked in the stacks. Theater Arts majors sold tickets in the box office at the Student Union. And Ag students worked in the university’s legendary ice cream shop.

  As an Engineering student, Andrew had been given a work-study assignment at the steam-generating plant, where he added chemicals to the boiler feed pump and made drawings to facilitate pipe runs or the replacement of old equipment on the plant floor. Like many large institutions, including hospitals and military bases, the university found that it was a lot more economical to heat with steam than electricity.

  Andrew came down the hill, heading toward the West Campus where the Walnut Street generating plant was located. The sidewalks were packed with students, coming and going to classes, and his progress was slow. But it didn’t matter: he had lots of time.

  Still, he was nervous. Even if it was just a test, if he got caught putting anything other than Amertrol in the boiler feed pump, his boss would crucify him. And what if a lot of people got sick, really sick – could they trace it back to him?

  He thought about it. No, he decided. No way. That was the beauty of it.

  The other reason he was nervous was that he wanted to do a good job. Solange was counting on him. That’s what the woman from Special Affairs had said, and he believed it. She’d shown up at his apartment two weeks ago, unannounced, holding a Walkman. ‘There’s something you need to hear,’ she said, and handed him the earphones.

  And then Solange’s voice was deep in his head, saying, Andrew . . . her name is Belinda, and I want you to do exactly what she tells you to do. There was no question it was him. Andrew had listened to his voice a hundred times – on radio, TV, and motivational tapes. His voice was unmistakable, as unique as a hurricane. And hearing Solange address him by his own name, speaking directly to him as if they were friends, made his heart climb the walls of his chest. We need your help in the secret war. Everything is at stake, and you’re the only one who can do this thing. Don’t fail me, Andrew. Don’t fail me, old friend.

  Until that moment he’d had no idea that anyone at the compound – much less Solange – even knew that he existed. He’d sent checks, of course, and subscribed to all the necessary publications. He’d attended seminars, and healed his chakras at the wellness lodge in Big Sur. But he’d never visited the compound itself, or met anyone who was really high up in the Temple. Until now.

  And yet, Belinda had known everything about him, including things about himself that he himself hadn’t known – until she revealed them. Solange says you were brothers in another life. Is it possible, Andrew? Have you sensed that?

  Of course he had.

  He passed the football stadium, with the Bucky Badger billboard and the message:

  WISCONSIN ATHLETICS:

  SEE BUCKY RUN SEE BUCKY PASS SEE BUCKY DRIBBLE

  SEE BUCKY KICK SEE BUCKY SWIM SEE BUCKY PLAY!

  See Bucky puke, he thought, going through the security gate and heading for the lockers. He hung up his backpack and jacket and took out a pair of red coveralls, pulling them on over his jeans and shirt. The coveralls were loose, with a large cargo pocket that held the thermos easily.

  The thermos looked a lot like one of those fancy, brushed-chrome jobs that Starbucks sells. And if anybody asked, that’s what he’d tell them it was.

  The generating plant was kind of neat, though not many people knew how it worked or what it really did. Most people – even engineers – thought it was a closed system that was only used to produce heat in winter. But that wasn’t true. The steam, which was superheated to 750 degrees, was used throughout the year. Delivered by miles of pipes, it heated buildings in winter and helped to air-condition them in summer. It provided hot water year-round. And far from being a closed system, the excess steam it generated was vented into the open air through underground traps all over campus.

  The vent traps were critical to the system’s operation, because they prevented ‘water hammer.’ People with radiators in their homes were acquainted with the phenomenon. Essentially an imbalance of pressure caused by condensation, water hammer surged through the pipes, causing them to rattle and knock. To fix it in a house, you bled the pipes, removing the bubbles of air and equalizing the pressure. But what was only an annoyance in a home-heating system was a problem of a whole other magnitude when it occurred in an industrial system that used superheated steam. If left unchecked, water hammer could build up sufficient pressure to rupture the pipes, sending a geyser of steam into the air, where in an instant it would expand to 1,700 times its original volume. In other words, it would explode. And it would take your head off if you were anywhere near it.

  The vent traps prevented this by continually and automatically releasing steam in tiny amounts, so that uniform pressure was maintained in the pipes. Called ‘flash steam,’ it was vented into the storm sewers beneath the university, and then escaped to street level through manhole chimneys in the streets.

  ‘Hey, Drew, how’s it shakin’?’ Steve Belinsky, one of the electrical engineers, rattled open his locker and began to remove his coveralls.

  ‘Can’t complain,’ Andrew said. ‘Nice day.’

  ‘A beaut. I was thinkin’ of goin’ fishin’ – over to Monona.’

  ‘Hope they’re biting.’

  ‘I don’t even care. Out on the lake . . . coupla brewskis . . . who needs the fish?’

  ‘Meanwhile, you’re leaving me here in the belly of the beast.’

  ‘Sucks to be you,’ Belinsky said, shutting his locker door with a clang. ‘Catch you later, man.’

  Andrew shut his locker door, twirled the dial on the combination lock, and stopped at the office to pick up the day’s checklist. He headed first for the feed pump, where one of his jobs was to oversee the addition of Amertrol into the water supply. This was a demineralizing chelant that formed a resinous mass, overcoming the valent attraction of the pipes, and capturing impurities like calcium and silica. It prevented minerals from forming deposits inside the pipes, which would have impeded the flow of steam.

  He’d add the contents of the thermos to the water supply at the same time he added the Amertrol. It would only take a few seconds, and there was very little chance that anyone would notice. There were only five workers in the entire plant.

  Solange says you were brothers in another life. Is it possible, Andrew? Have you sensed that?

  Of course he had. He could feel it even now.

  19

  FRANK HAD BEEN down with the flu all week, and so had Annie.

  It was a woozy, snuffling, ache-in-the-back kind of thing that hung on and on and on, as if it would never go away. It had taken him out of commissio
n for three straight days, and was only now beginning to get better. The Post said there was a lot of it going around: half a dozen schools were closed, K Street was almost empty, and Congress was having trouble getting a quorum.

  All this, despite the fact that the flu season had been over for weeks. And it wasn’t just in Washington. L.A. had its own outbreak. They called it the ‘Beverly Hills flu,’ because that area had been hardest hit. Frank had seen a story about it on the evening news. The reporter sat in the Polo Lounge, surrounded by empty tables. At the end of the piece he ordered a bowl of chicken noodle soup and winked at the camera. Cute, Frank thought, and blew his nose for the umpteenth time.

  He shook his head to clear it and began to go through the take from Nexis. Mostly, it was the same story – an AP dispatch that ran in scores of newspapers, a concise version of the Globe’s piece.

  He read it over and over, but there wasn’t much to it. If anything, the piece was curiously bland. There were no ‘I was there’ interviews, and no quotes from fellow seamen describing the storm, the size of the waves, or the moment when the lifeboat overturned.

  There was only the captain’s account, a concise and seemingly straightforward one, of what had happened.

  Even stranger, to Frank’s way of thinking (which is to say, from a journalist’s point of view), was the absence of local stories. The Lake Placid Sentinel – which might have been expected to put the story above the page one fold – did the opposite. It ran an abbreviated report on an inside page in a column dedicated to ‘World News,’ treating the incident more like a tidal wave in Bangladesh than what it was: a disaster at home.

  The exception to this was a series of stories by a guy named Eric Overbeck, writing in the Rhinebeck Times-Journal. The stories reported the travails of Martha and Harry Bergman, parents of one of the sailors.

  FAMILY BARRED FROM FUNERAL SERVICE

  Parents Press Inquiry