Rememberers

by C. Edward Baldwin

  “We got lucky,” Newhouse offered as if reading Bennett's mind. Sweeping a suspect's computer for all email and social media accounts was now considered elementary. Nowadays, a growing number of people kept multiple email accounts and had developed ingenious ways to keep them from others, namely spouses and law enforcement. Still, no investigator wanted any of his suspects to have an email account surface that the investigator hadn't learned about through his own investigatory efforts, and he definitely didn't want another investigator to be the one to discover it. “This particular email service provider is not widely known,” Newhouse continued. “But it's popular with the criminal-minded, particularly pedophiles who are into file-sharing. Principe's email was still open on his computer desktop when we searched his apartment a few days after the bombing. If he'd been alive and known that we were on to him, he might've scrubbed his computer clean and we might not have ever found out about the email account. But judging by the way his apartment looked; we think Principe had every intention of returning to it.”

  Bennett nodded his head slightly, appreciative of Newhouse's professional gesture. It was apparent that the FBI was serious about promoting the spirit of cooperation between all law agencies in the war against terror. Not showing up a colleague went a long way in that regard. Bennett flipped through the rest of the stack and then felt his blood flow stop cold as he stared at an email message with the subject line: WARNING.

  In the body of this particular email message was the name Father Frank McCarthy.

  * * *

  Four brave bomb response specialists had been killed and the corporate headquarters of one of the nation's leading financial institutions had been destroyed in an explosive concrete and steel beheading that had also significantly damaged several surrounding buildings. But in the days following the nation's second worst homegrown terrorist attack and its most devastating since 9/11, the mainstream media, frustrated by the government's unwillingness to compromise its investigation by feeding the media's incessant twenty-four hour hunger for information, decided to exacerbate the blame-game and finger-pointing. Republicans blamed Democrats and Democrats fervently pointed fingers at Republicans. While the average, sensible American only wanted answers to why the attack hadn't been prevented in the first place, and assurances that the necessary steps would be taken to ensure that another one wouldn't happen ever again in his lifetime or the lifetimes of his children or his children's children. Void of anything new and useful to report, the media gleefully played all sides against each other.

  In Philadelphia, Father McCarthy, like most Americans, stayed glued to the television, waiting for any morsel of news concerning the attack. But unlike most Americans, McCarthy knew the real gist of why the attack had occurred. “How is she doing?” he asked, speaking into the phone receiver. He was in his office, having his fifth conversation in two weeks with Johnny Swag. When the young preacher didn't answer immediately, McCarthy wished this time he'd Skyped him instead. Misrepresentations were harder to pull off visually.

  “Physically, she's fine. But mentally…” he paused again.

  When it became clear that the pause would be interminable, McCarthy said, “I don't mean to second guess.”

  “Then don't,” Swag said sharply.

  McCarthy was undeterred. “I don't mean to second guess,” he repeated strongly, “but the Alliance wanted the Rogue alive.”

  “He was too corrupted.”

  “It was not your decision to make.”

  “It was a decision that had to be made and only I was in the position to make it.”

  McCarthy looked off for a moment, dropping the phone from his ear. That was the Alliance's standpoint as well. It was clear that Swag had already spoken to them and received their blessing for his reckless act. It wouldn't be long before the young preacher would state the obvious—with the Alliance leadership's backing, he was untouchable. But he wasn't infallible. McCarthy brought the phone back to his ear. “Why didn't you prepare the girl?”

  Swag groaned noticeably. “She was prepared. At least as much as she could've been.” His words sounded distant, as if he was doing his own second guessing. “She had to see the demons for herself. Otherwise, she wouldn't have believed it. Even now, she's still a little unsure of exactly what she saw. The first week afterwards, she wanted to run away and bury her head in the sand, and she didn't want to have anything to do with me. And so I obliged her and stayed away.”

  “Didn't you consider that she could run and tell the authorities?”

  “That wasn't likely to happen. You'd already crippled that possibility with your story about Beamer. She doesn't trust the authorities.”

  This time McCarthy groaned. He was still uncomfortable with the lie he'd told Kallie. But it was situations like this one that had justified it. If Kallie Hunt had gone screaming to the authorities about gate-openings and demons, she'd likely be locked up in a mental institution right now, not a useful outcome for herself or the Alliance. “Did she confide in her boyfriend?”

  “No,” Swag said confidently. “She came back to me as I'd anticipated. She knows that I'm the only one who can guide her through this.”

  “And you're certain that she's the one?”

  Another pause, and then he said, “I'm certain within every fiber of my being.”

  The phone conversation ended with Swag's assurances that every demon released on harvest night would be rounded up and destroyed. The how of his bold commitment wasn't shared, but McCarthy didn't figure to understand it anyway. He was going to have to trust Swag, a difficult endeavor considering the young preacher was extremely reckless and a stick in McCarthy's craw. Swag had killed Beamer and now Principe with little concern about any potential blowback eventually flowing back to A.I. But the Alliance was blinded by Swag's remembering ability and acted as if he walked on water. To McCarthy, such blind loyalty to Swag was a dangerous scenario for someone with such a monstrous ego, and one he was increasingly beginning to suspect had all the traditional earmarks of a snake in the grass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The weather was cold, gray, and wet. Conditions were typical for the current November in the city of Brotherly Love. For the first twelve days of the month, the sun avoided the city as if it was a crab-infested whore. McCarthy spent the better part of two hours in a drizzling rain, clanking a damp basketball off the back part of the rim. Though he missed a lot more than he made, he dutifully kept tossing the ball up at the goal. It was painfully obvious that today, with the weather and his off-shooting, wasn't a good one for basketball. Back in late summer, he'd had a day where he couldn't miss. That had obviously been an anomaly. He regretted not having video of it. Now, he wasn't exactly sure it had even happened, his memory of it quickly fading like today's sunset. After clanking another shot, he spit a glob of frustration onto the wet court. He couldn't make two jump shots in a row even if his life depended upon it. Luckily no life, especially his, depended on a bouncy round ball falling successfully through a netted round metal cylinder. The fate of the world wasn't dependent on his basketball prowess. But basketball, whether he was making shots or not, helped him to think. So despite the weather and the misses, he continued dribble-splashing the ball off the wet concrete court and eying a goal that now seemed as small as the eye of a needle. As he did so, he thought of the fate of the world and the many lives that were indeed in danger, all due to the situation created by Swag's misguided blunder.

  Swag had been indignant in defense of his plan to let the Hunt girl glimpse the demonic forces that now threatened the lives of countless others. “She wouldn't have believed me otherwise,” Swag had said. And to that, McCarthy had thought, what had it mattered if she believed or not. It wouldn't have changed what was. Surely, Swag was smart enough to conceive that concept. If necessary, reality would have forced her to believe him sooner or later, but you didn't set a child on fire to convince her that fire burns. Sure, such a lesson when learned the hard way could be quickly grasped and w
ould likely never be forgotten. But was burning off fingers and toes the smartest way to teach such a lesson? McCarthy thought not. In any event, the demonic portal should never have been allowed to open. Despite what Swag had claimed, McCarthy believed the young minister had been irresponsibly and needlessly careless.

  But what was even more troubling to McCarthy was that neither Swag nor the Alliance seemed the least bit concerned about the ramifications of Swag's blunder. A demonic army had been unleashed upon the earth. It was an army that was undetected by the average human eye and hell-bent on the annihilation of mankind. Annihilation that no one would see coming. Throughout man's history, a sacred few had kept knowledge hidden from the masses. And as a result, an apocalyptic battle now loomed in which man was ill-prepared to fight because precious few souls knew anything about it.

  McCarthy had petitioned unsuccessfully to the Alliance for some kind of education program, at least for the true-believers. But his request had been quickly denied. Although he agreed with their reasoning that such a program, however limited in scope, would be hard to implement effectively and could potentially only lead to widespread panic, he didn't agree that nothing but prayer should be done. He believed in prayer and had quadrupled his efforts in the days following the gate-opening, but he was extremely uncomfortable leaving the fate of mankind in the hands of an egotistical man-boy and a potentially naive teenaged girl.

  Standing at the free throw line, he gripped the wet ball between his fingertips and looked pensively at the goal. Raindrops streamed down his face like tears. He looked towards the heavens. It was early evening and the sun had just about snatched up the last of its light and heat. He felt cold and alone. “Oh God, help us,” he whispered into the showery air.

  “How about that game of one-on-one?” a deep voice called from behind him.

  McCarthy turned around and saw Special Agent Bennett standing at the gate. McCarthy remembered the ICE agent from his visit in late summer. This time Bennett was wearing dark sneakers and a light blue sweat suit, appropriate wear for playing basketball, if not cold, rainy weather. “I'm afraid I won't be able to provide you with much competition today,” McCarthy said as the street light hovering over the court blinked on, eager to replace the sun's retreating light.

  Bennett unlatched the gate and walked onto the court. “Oh, I don't know about that. As I understand it, you had a decent shot at playing pro ball.”

  “That was many moons ago,” McCarthy said.

  “Remember, I saw you here a couple of months ago. You still looked pretty good to me.”

  McCarthy tossed the ball to Bennett. “I couldn't miss that day.”

  Bennett took two dribbles before putting up a high-arching shot that swished cleanly through the net. “How about it, first to eleven?”

  McCarthy retrieved the ball, shrugging his shoulders. “Sure, why not.”

  They played in silence. Even the rain stopped temporarily, as if God himself was interested in the game's outcome. McCarthy played a lot better than he thought he would, eventually finding the range with his jumper. However, Bennett played consistently well throughout the contest and eventually won it, 11 to 8. Afterwards, Bennett bent at the waist and, sucking in long gulps of hydrated air, said, “You're not going to ask why I came to see you on such a cold, rainy November day?”

  McCarthy, also breathing heavily, wiped a mixture of rain and sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “I figured you'd get around to telling me eventually.” He nodded toward the back of the church. “Let's go inside.” He led Bennett into the church and back to his office where he offered the agent a dry towel and a bottle of water.

  Bennett took the offered items, using the towel to dry his face and head. After draping the towel on the back of one of the chairs in front of McCarthy's desk, he took a long swig from the water bottle. Then, he looked squarely at McCarthy who'd already settled into his chair behind the desk. “Gerald Principe.”

  McCarthy showed no emotion. “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

  Bennett sat down in the other chair in front of McCarthy's desk. “What do you know about him?”

  “I suppose as much as the average American does, which is whatever the media has told us about him since the bombing.”

  “I think you know more, Father. I think you know a lot more.”

  “Now, why would you think that?”

  Bennett stared intently at the priest, not even blinking. “For the same reason I thought you knew more about Phillip Beamer, because they both seemed to know so much more about you.”

  “I see,” McCarthy said. He leaned back in his chair. “You know, Agent Bennett, as a priest, it's not uncommon that people would know me or things about me. Admittedly, I'm not George Clooney or some other Hollywood star. But I suppose I could be considered a public figure on some levels. In any event, I do regret that time and circumstances often prevent me from knowing intimately the many people that have taken the time and effort to know me.”

  “Father, I'm going to lay my cards on the table. This is what I know. Phillip Beamer was planning to bomb a federal building in Columbia, South Carolina. Gerald Principe bombed the UCB Center in Charlotte. Principe and Beamer were email buddies who seemed to think you were a threat to their terrorist activities. Both are now dead.”

  “I don't know what to tell you. I knew neither of them.”

  Bennett leaned in closer. “And then there's Kallie Hunt.”

  McCarthy didn't even flinch. “I'm sorry. Is she also a terrorist?”

  “No, Father. She's not, at least not as far as I know. Who she is, is the young college student you were seen visiting a few weeks back in Bengate, North Carolina. She's the same Kallie Hunt who a few weeks back had a vision of a commercial building explosion, eerily similar to the actual bombing of the UCB Center.”

  “You're not saying…”

  “Let me finish,” Bennett interjected. “A young lady that I suspect was Kallie Hunt not only called in a bomb threat on the day of the UCB Center bombing, but also was seen entering the Harrison Tower with a gentleman who I believe was you. The same Harrison Tower from which Gerald Principe supposedly jumped to his death shortly after the UCB Center bombing. Are you going to tell me that these were mere coincidences, Father? Before you answer, understand, my one mission in life now is to get the truth.”

  McCarthy shifted in his chair. “And a noble mission it is. But there's something I need for you to understand, as well. When I first heard the voice of God calling me to the church, my initial emotion was fear. It wasn't the fear of God himself. I'd already had a healthy dose of that for as far back as I could remember. It was the fear of the responsibility of what he was calling me to do. He was bestowing upon me the role of shepherd to his sheep. If I were to fail in that role, I would be ultimately responsible for the damnation of the souls of many. It's an awesome responsibility, one which I dare not take lightly. I wish I could say that I've been perfect in my role. But alas, I'm only a man, born into a world of sin. I'm fallible. But what I can say is that every decision I've ever made has been made with the weight of many souls upon me. Suffice it to say, you will leave here today with only the knowledge you came here with. I understand you will do what you deem necessary in order to find your truth. And whatever that may be or wherever it leads you, I want you to know that I understand that you're only doing what you feel you have to do.”

  Bennett slumped back in his chair, seeming at a loss for what to say. For several moments they sat in silence, regarding each other with suspicion and respect. Then Bennett got up slowly, cast a long meditative look back at the priest, and then left his office.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  To Charlotte’s mayor, Bill Washington, the beheading of the city's largest building could actually be considered a blessing in disguise. Yes, he understood that four brave souls lost their lives, and yes, the UCB Center building might not be saved. And yes, three other buildings had also sustained life-threaten
ing damages of their own. And finally, yes, the public's confidence had been severely shaken and fear had taken a strong root within the city. But God help him, he was a glass half-full type of guy. He was a maker of lemonade out of lemons. He was someone who never tossed away an apple because of advanced brownness or the occasional residential worm. There was always enough whiteness left in the apple to enjoy. You simply ate around the ugliness.

  And that's what Charlotte was facing now, a little ugliness. Some misguided wannabe terrorist had decided to try to rattle the fabric of humanity. But the late Gerald Principe had failed miserably in whatever quest he'd been on. Charlotteans, like their three-term mayor, were survivors, bouncers-back. We may bend, but we shall not break, Mayor Washington thought proudly before mentally harping back to 9/11 and the Big Apple's leader at that time. New York's mayor had shown fortitude in the midst of great upheaval. And whether purposefully or not, he'd also been able to parlay that tragic situation into unrivaled popularity, significant financial gain, and an even run at the White House. As he gazed out the window of his office, looking upon his wounded city, Washington felt a strong admiration for the man. The man hadn't let a horrific act of terrorism solely define him or his city. He'd taken that terrorist bull by the horns and whipped it into something useful.

  Sure, Charlotte’s mental foundation had been shaken, Washington thought. But physically, except for a four block area at its center, the city was virtually unchanged. The sun, as did the moon, still rose and set at its appointed time. A wise man once said, or maybe it was a verse somewhere in the Bible, that this too shall pass. Wherever it was written or whoever had said it, to Mayor Washington, no truer words could have been strung together. He believed wholeheartedly that this too shall pass. And he believed something else too—this particular event had marked the arrival of his ship. He'd made several national television appearances in the days and weeks following the attack. He'd said all the right things and displayed just the right kind of temperament. He was being called the quintessential crisis-manager. He'd shown himself to be foxhole worthy. The kind of man you'd want by your side at times of extreme danger. The people loved and trusted him. More than that, they needed him. They believed in him as their leader. Yes, this was indeed a blessing. Who knows, he thought as an insane laugh escaped his lips, maybe there was a White House in his future. President Washington. President William “Bill” Washington.