The First Horseman

by John Case

  He passed the white clapboard house that he remembered from his visit to the Temple. Behind it he saw the gates to the compound. He pulled the car off the road, humping it up on a grassy shoulder. He knew that gates and a guardhouse controlled the road leading into the compound – so that vehicular traffic in and out was clearly monitored – but he hadn’t noticed any kind of wall.

  He didn’t have even a rudimentary plan. Somewhere, away from the gates, he’d walk into the woods. And then? He didn’t know. He’d look for Annie. Find her. Take her home.

  He ran alongside the road, moving at a jog, so jazzed on adrenaline and nerves that he could hear the blood thrumming in his ears. He left the road and angled in through the trees. The moonlight was dazzling, the trees silver and black.

  It was an old forest, a groomed forest, so that given the ambient light and the space between the trees, walking was easy. The ground was carpeted with needles, spongy and soft underfoot. It was so quiet he could hear the whirs and chirps of insects, or maybe they were birds, and every now and then the skitter of an animal.

  After a while the woods got thicker and darker. It was slow going, moving by touch, and the branches of the trees slapped at him, reaching out through the dark, grabbing at his face with stiff fingers. And then, suddenly, he was in a clearing, and not just a clearing, but a parking lot. Gravel crunched under his feet. The moon was down, but in the afterglow he saw cars, drained of color by the thin light, neatly arrayed against the sides of the square. They had a malevolent, hard-shelled look, like ranks of black beetles. He looked at his watch. The luminous dial read 5:10. Beyond the parking lot he saw a gravel path, which disappeared into the trees.

  He took the path and emerged a little while later in another clearing. This time, a meadow. Off to the right he could detect a slight brightening in the sky, the faintest apricot glow that must be either the first glimmer of dawn or the wash of light pollution from a settlement of some sort. He passed a pond and tennis courts. Then buildings – a cluster of white cottages, and past them, some larger shapes which, when he got closer, turned out to be old brick dormitories.

  A campus. He almost said the word aloud, he was so relieved to get a fix on what in the dark had seemed so mysterious. A campus: that snapped it into focus, that brought it down to size. Now he remembered Stern talking about it. An old private school, something like that. He was walking uphill now, where the path widened into a service road. When he crested the hill, he almost gasped at the sight of a complex of modern glass and steel structures: a factory, a warehouse, office-type buildings. It was so sleek, so big, so clean and expensive-looking, a little industrial park hidden away in the woods. And from the complex came a set of noises different from the sounds in the woods: an automated hum, a faint mechanical chatter. Parts of the complex were lighted, operating – the whole area exuded a kind of cool, fluorescent glow. Roads ran between the buildings. A couple of large trucks were backed up to the bay of the warehouse, their white sides emblazoned with a setting sun and the words ECO-VITA.

  So far he had not seen a single human being, but he sensed that they were present, working inside this complex. Making virus? Despite Tom Deer’s assertion that making virus was about as difficult as whipping up a vat of home brew, he found that he’d been harboring a secret hope that the Temple would not be up to the task, that they’d screw it up. Seeing the size and scope of the operation here, that hope died.

  Beyond the steel and glass buildings, Frank could see another stand of trees. And beyond that, perched high on the hill, with old-fashioned globe lights marking the winding drive that led up to it, stood a large house. A mansion.

  Chez Solange.

  He wanted to skirt the buildings, and to do that he was forced to sidetrack, back into the woods. By the time he’d angled around, the sky had brightened considerably. He was able to move faster, so that he was soon next to the woods that stood between the factory complex and the mansion. This was an old forest of tiger-tail spruce, each tree trunk as straight as a pencil. Here, close to the mansion, the lower branches of the trees had been pruned away so it was possible to walk beneath the canopy. There was no deadwood anywhere; it was maintained like parkland. Frank leaned against a tree to catch his breath.

  A whirring sound made him look up. It was a sound he’d heard often as he made his way through the compound, a bird, a bug, one of the night sounds. So his glance was instinctual. He didn’t really expect to see anything. But he did.

  And what he saw almost made his heart stop. It was a tiny red light attached to a surveillance camera. The camera swiveled as he looked at it, a mechanical adjustment of angle. It swept right with a tiny whir and then stopped, adjusted, swept left.

  His heart sank.

  He wasn’t sure if the machines were infrared sensors or surveillance cameras, but he knew that the whirring sound had been with him all along. He’d been monitored ever since he entered the compound.

  Still, surveillance cameras didn’t mean a thing if no one was paying attention. Besides, he sure as hell wasn’t going back to the car. He was going to find Annie and get her out of this. There had to be a way.

  He’d planned to stay clear of the mansion’s manicured grounds, its carefully lighted and landscaped drive. He’d planned to keep to the edge of the woods, where the light was better, and make his way just inside the perimeter of the trees. Loop up behind the mansion. Have a look-see.

  Instead, he found himself standing in a floodlight, bathed in its hard brilliance, blinded. A woman’s voice said, ‘Step into the clearing, please, and keep your hands visible.’

  He was shackled, hands and feet, and dumped into a small room that had nothing in it save a recessed light in the ceiling and a toilet bowl in the corner. He was allowed that glimpse and then the light was turned off.

  It was impossible to say how long he was in the room, because he had no way to gauge the passing of time. He thought it was at least twenty-four hours, but who knew? The faint rim of light around the door never varied in its intensity. Certainly, he was in the room long enough to get very hungry and thirsty. Long enough so he dozed off several times, each time waking in a sort of disoriented stupor that began to seem preferable to full consciousness. Long enough so he began to worry that either he’d been forgotten or, worse, left in the room to die.

  And then the door opened and out of the dazzle stepped two armed men. They gave him water, and then took him to another room, this one far different.

  ‘Can I offer you some refreshment?’ Solange asked.

  ‘You look as if you could use a little something.’

  They sat across from one another, at an oak library table set atop a fine old Bokhara, in a room that was a masterpiece of burnished woodwork. It had an elaborate coffered ceiling, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, rolling library ladders, one wall of low cabinets topped by a bank of mullioned windows. Beneath an intricately carved mantel, a fire snapped cheerfully. There were two doors into the room, fan-shaped windows above, mullioned side windows in amber glass. Flanking each door were a man and a woman, each dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt. They held what looked to Frank like Ingram submachine guns. These were small weapons, black, compact, efficient-looking. None of the guards had so much as looked at him. They were as impassive as the guards stationed in front of Buckingham Palace.

  Frank had been in the room for more than an hour, trussed to a chair. Finally, Solange had arrived, and sat down.

  ‘Where’s Annie?’ he asked.

  Solange leaned back in his chair, tilting on two legs, something Frank was unable to do. His hands were free, but his legs were bent back at the knee, secured to the chair legs with industrial fasteners – thick-ridged plastic strips that had self-locking buckles. He was tied to the chair in such a way that his quadriceps were pulled as tight as iron bands. The result was that he leaned forward slightly all the time, trying to ease the pressure. Before Solange’s arrival, the chair had been in the middle of the room and Frank had been compe
lled to perform a continual, delicate balancing act. On the one hand, if he didn’t lean forward, the pain in his thighs became agonizing. On the other hand, if he leaned too far forward, the chair would clearly become unbalanced and he would fall on his face.

  At Solange’s arrival, the chair was carried to the table – a tremendous relief to Frank because he could lean forward to ease the strain on his legs without worrying about balance.

  Between the two men, on the table, sat a tray of cheese and fruit, a decanter of wine, and two empty glasses. Solange poured wine into one glass, swirled it around, sniffed, then finally took a small sip, rolling it around in his mouth. He looked at Frank, a fake frown of concern curling his heavy eyebrows. ‘You’re sure?’ he said. ‘This is a really excellent claret.’

  ‘Where is she?’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t turn it down if I were you, Frank,’ Solange said. ‘Why not enjoy, while you can?’

  ‘Why not go fuck yourself?’

  Solange winced, then wagged his head indulgently, as if Frank were a willful toddler. A sip of wine, a sigh. Then he sprang to his feet and strode to the fireplace. He had a predatory, feline walk, way up on the balls of his feet. He removed the fire screen and knelt, expertly rearranging the wood with wrought-iron tools. After a moment, a shower of sparks shot up, and the fire, which had been smoldering, leapt into flames. Solange replaced the tools and the screen and regarded his handiwork. Without turning his head, he raised a summoning hand and one of the guards, a freckle-faced kid so young the Ingram looked like a toy in his hand, approached. Solange said something and the kid left the room.

  Solange returned to his place across from Frank and sat down again. He put his wine aside, made a steeple with his hands and rested his chin on them, regarding Frank with a curious gaze.

  ‘You interest me, Frank. Why did you come here? I mean – what were you thinking of? Not that we aren’t grateful, but . . . really!’ His eyes glittered like a predator’s.

  Frank said nothing.

  ‘Sure about that wine? You might find it relaxing.’

  The door opened and Frank turned, hoping to see Annie. But it was a thin, almost cadaverous man who stood in the doorway. Solange went to him and the two men spoke briefly. The thin man left, and Solange returned to his seat. He sat motionless for a few moments, then seemed to make a decision. He drummed his fingers on the table, picked up his wine and tossed it back. ‘Now, Frank,’ he said, ‘I have some questions that I know you don’t want to answer, but . . . as you can imagine, there are things I really need to know. For instance, how much of what you’ve learned have you shared with the FBI? Hmmmm? How much?’

  Solange was on his feet now, and pacing, his extraordinary voice rising. ‘Does Gleason know about the dispersal tests? Does he know you’re here, you and Dr. Adair?’

  Frank looked up.

  ‘Now, if Dr. Adair is to be believed –’

  ‘I’ll fucking kill you,’ Frank said. ‘What did you do with her?’

  ‘Do with her? Well, we questioned her, of course. And I have to admit, she had every incentive to be truthful. Still, you just never know.’ He made a signal with his hand, and the guards came over to Frank. Seconds later he was on his feet, his legs freed, his hands secured behind his back.

  Solange popped a grape in his mouth, and stood up. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘That’s a ten thousand dollar rug, and I don’t want to make a mess on it.’

  An elevator took them down three floors and then they were walking along a corridor, rough concrete on either side, the floor made of some rubbery, resilient material. Frank’s legs had recovered, although they still felt watery and weak. ‘This floor is made entirely out of recycled tires,’ Solange said. ‘It’s very durable, and as you can see, pleasant underfoot. Do you realize how many tires there are out there? Just mountains of them.’

  Out of his fucking mind, Frank thought, trying not to think about what Solange meant about ‘making a mess’ or what might be at the end of this long corridor. He didn’t want to go into a little room with these people.

  ‘As far as recycling is concerned,’ Solange went on, ‘you can’t simply reimburse people for a deposit that they pay at point of purchase – because a certain percentage won’t give a damn about that deposit. Then again, make the deposit high enough to motivate everyone and it becomes punitive to the poor. Nor can you make it expensive for people to discard things, like tires. Because they’ll just dump illegally, won’t they?’

  ‘So . . . what?’ Frank heard himself asking. ‘You make this stuff?’ I must be going nuts, Frank thought. What next? A lecture about catalytic converters?

  ‘Oh yes,’ Solange replied. ‘We pioneered the technique – made the prototype right here. Sold the rights to PetroChem.’ He paused. ‘I wish we had time for the tour,’ he said. ‘I’d love to show you the facilities.’

  They entered another corridor, and Solange opened a door on the left. A moment later they were in a small room, concrete, with a drain on the floor. Incongruously, in the middle of the room was a black metal-mesh garden table, surrounded by four matching armchairs of the same material. In the corner, a double sink. A garden hose lay coiled on the floor. There was a closed door next to the sink.

  The guards pushed Frank into one of the chairs. Solange ran a hand through his hair. Then he gave a sharp nod and one of the guards spoke into a round grill embedded in the wall near the door. A moment later the far door opened and two burly men came in, supporting Annie between them.

  ‘Annie!’ Her name came involuntarily out of his mouth.

  The figure drooping between the men did not even look up. She was heavily drugged, he saw, as the men led her closer. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, her feet barely shuffling. They lowered her into the chair and her head lolled onto her chest.

  ‘You drugged her,’ Frank said, sounding stupid to himself.

  Solange bounced his eyebrows. ‘Yes, well. You know how it is.’ He tilted his head and pasted a crazy, cartoon smile on his face. ‘Sometimes you feel like a fuss,’ he sang, in the tune of a candy commercial. ‘Sometimes you don’t.’

  ‘Should we get the plastic sheeting?’ one of the men asked. He set two bottles of Pepsi, a church key, and a cookie tin on the table. Frank stared at the bottles, thinking that Solange was intent on playing the host again, and how very weird that was. They were heavy glass bottles, slightly opaque with the scuff of tiny scratches. Returnable bottles.

  ‘No,’ Solange said, leaning against the wall. ‘We’ll just hose it down when we’re done.’

  Suddenly, Frank found himself tilted backward in his chair. Then a wet rag was stuffed into his mouth. One of the guards put his finger over the top of the bottle and shook it up. Solange, Frank noticed, was smiling.

  The man came up to him and held the bottle under his nose. A moment later a jet of supercarbonated foam slammed through his nostrils and into his sinuses. Frank thrashed uncontrollably as the pain shot through his head and every cell in his body panicked. He was drowning. He was dying. He was suffocating in a rush.

  And then the chair was vertical again, and the soda was running out of his nose. He felt drained. Annie was weeping.

  ‘Right to the switchboard!’ Solange exclaimed, laughing. ‘Pow!’ He began to pace, talking in an amiable tone. ‘What I like about it, Frank, is –’ He pulled on his fingers, each in turn. ‘– first, it’s low tech. Secondly, it doesn’t use any resources. Third, its not detectable. Four, inflicts no permanent damage. Five? You can do it over and over, and it never loses its punch.’ His hands fell to his sides and he took a deep breath. ‘Now, tell me about Gleason. Does he know you’re here? Does he know about the dispersal tests?’

  Frank just looked at him.

  Solange shrugged, and Frank’s chair was tilted back for the second time. The rag went back in his mouth and, once again, his head exploded. Then he was upright again, snuffling, tremors running through the odd body part. He watched his leg spasm – as if it were
a frog’s leg laying on a lab tray. Galvanic response. Annie’s head lolled on her chest, her eyes closed.

  ‘So,’ Solange said. ‘I was asking about Gleason.’

  One of the guards pulled the rag out of his mouth, but Frank said nothing.

  ‘You’re a hard case, Frank.’ Solange sighed, and nodded to the guards. Frank watched the man shake up the bottle.

  Solange held up a hand and inclined his head toward Annie. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Her turn.’

  Blood rushed to Frank’s head. ‘Leave her alone.’

  ‘Ah . . . the gift of speech.’ Solange came over to the table and opened the cookie tin. Removing a small, translucent plastic bag, he shook it open. Frank saw the word Safeway.

  ‘A secondary use of the bag,’ Solange said. ‘This is actually considered better than recycling.’

  Out of his fucking mind, Frank thought, watching in horror as one of the guards picked up a small aerosol can. In a single choreographed moment, he sprayed it into Annie’s face – as if he were spraying an insect – while Solange pulled the plastic bag over her head, looping the handles around her neck and pulling them tight.

  Frank surged to his feet, but was pulled down from behind and restrained in his chair –

  While Annie exploded from her torpor. But with her hands cuffed behind her, she had no way to remove the bag, which deflated and inflated horribly with each frantic sucking breath. She lurched, thrashing her head from one side to another, trying to get the bag off, biting at it, her face flushed with whatever it was that they’d sprayed.

  ‘Hello,’ Solange said with a chuckle. ‘Pepper gas.’

  How long this went on – the Pepsi jetting into his sinus cavities, Annie, the bags, the pepper spray – Frank could not have said – although at the end, both of the bottles stood on the table, empty. It could have been ten minutes; it could have been a couple of hours. Pain, as it turned out, was a landscape with its own dimensions, where ordinary rules of duration didn’t apply.