Rememberers

by C. Edward Baldwin

  Veronica turned and faced her, folding one leg under her other. “You remember the vision you had at Piedmont Imaging?”

  “Yeah,” Kallie said uneasily. “What about it?”

  “Homeland Security has subpoenaed Josh and my notes on that vision.”

  Kallie's eyes widened. “What?”

  “And they believe that the vision was of the UCB Center bombing.”

  “That's ridiculous,” Kallie said.

  “Maybe,” Veronica said. “But, on the night of the bombing, a girl called in to the fire department to warn them about it.”

  Kallie stood up.

  Veronica said, “They've traced that call to your cell phone. They also have video of a person matching your physical dimensions walking with a man in the building where that terrorist guy supposedly jumped to his death.”

  Kallie backed slowly toward the entrance to the living room. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “They want you to answer some questions, Kallie. They want you to go with them.”

  “You're saying I'm under arrest?”

  Veronica stood up and walked toward Kallie. “No, you're not under arrest. I'm not law enforcement. It's like I said, they just want you to go with them and answer some questions. No scene, no big deal. But it's going to take a few days. So you should probably pack a change of clothes.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Immigration and Customs Enforcement, they're a division of Homeland Security.”

  “But, I'm in school. I have classes.”

  Veronica reached her, softly touching her shoulder. “They'll take care of that. They'll work it out with your professors. And I'll tell your housemates that you're participating in another phrase of our memory project and will be back in a couple of days. No one has to know anything about this. And when it's over, you'll come back here and it'll be just like before.”

  Kallie heard someone stepping up behind her. She turned around and saw Veronica's uncle flanked by three or four other black-suited men. She turned back and faced Veronica. Veronica slowly nodded her head, and indicated upstairs. Then, she escorted Kallie upstairs and to her bedroom.

  Kallie pulled her suitcase from beneath the bed and absently pulled things from her closet and drawers, throwing them into it. She had no idea what to pack. She had no idea where she was going or how long she would be there. All kinds of thoughts flooded her mind. Was she being kidnapped? Was this even legal? Did she need a lawyer? Then her thoughts turned to her family and friends, the living and the dead. She thought about her grandmother, Seth, her grandfather, her mother, and finally, for some reason, Professor Sampson. She would make this as painless as possible. She'd answer their questions and then she'd come back here. And things would be like they were before. She'd remember all the things that happened in a previous lifetime and in between classes and dates; she'd kill demons. She looked weakly at Veronica who stood in the doorway. “I should tell Maggie. She'll worry.”

  “No, write her a note,” Veronica said. “Tell her to call me and that I'll explain everything.”

  A note, Kallie thought. Yeah, that was probably best. Tonight Maggie would have questions that Kallie wouldn't have answers to. She walked over to her desk and took out a sheet of paper from the middle drawer. The note was simple: I'm participating in an onsite memory project for a few days, call Veronica if questions, 919-555-5555. Talk to you soon, Kallie. She placed the note on her pillow. She entered the hallway, closed her bedroom door, and then followed Veronica to the stairs. She looked at Maggie's closed bedroom door and heard her friend's cackling voice, “Boy, you so crazy!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Swag equated what fulminated within him to joy although a part buried deep within his core knew that true joy was forever beyond his reach. But it was that deep-rooted knowledge that fueled his rage as it had his former self many eons ago. But the times, he thought with bitter-sweetness, were changing. He'd climbed down from the precipice of defeat and now stood on the cusp of complete victory. News of the dark one's demise had been greatly exaggerated and the revelations completely erroneous, utter falsehoods. Finally, man would see, angels would see, all God's creatures would see, that ‘so sayeth the Lord’ had been complete bull-crap. And all along, Lucifer, the wronged angel, had been right. And now Lucifer would reclaim his rightful place. It was all coming to pass. He'd sacrificed years for the coming victory. He'd uttered his own falsehoods, publically giving praise to one so undeserving. He’d walked amongst the true heathens. But in the end, his self-sacrifice would be worth it all. In the end, he would rule.

  He stepped onto the altar, glaring at the choir stand. How his ears still burned from hearing the songs of praise and worship to the false deity, the real charlatan. How his skin now crawled at the thought of him having stood among them. How he himself had preached the Word of lies at this very pulpit. And all who had heard him had known that they were lies. In their hearts, they knew. Guest preachers had also stood in this very spot, echoing his fallacies as he had at their churches. Blaspheming preachers, who like him, had known the real truth, and in their actions had reiterated that they knew. They'd collected tons of tithes, not to give to the false deity who they’d known to be a fraud, but instead to spend lavishly on themselves. The glorification of self was his one true message. Swag picked up a potted plant and hurled it into the choir stand where it crashed against a middle pew, shattering its ceramic container, and splashing its black dirt on the pew and floor like dung. He laughed harshly and then kicked over the pulpit, sending the Bible atop it tumbling to the floor. He picked it up and ruthlessly tore out pages. “So sayeth the Lord! So sayeth the Lord!” he cried out furiously, letting the sacred pages flutter helplessly to the floor where he kicked them into a pile. He tossed the last of the Bible on top of its innards lying at his feet. Then he whipped out his member and peed where he stood.

  For the next two hours, with his fermented rage violently swirling within him, he trashed God's house, oblivious to the fact, or simply not caring, that his very presence at New Vibe's helm the last year had already defiled the church. This was not holy ground. But in the end, it didn't matter. His desecration was symbolic. It was his spiritual cleansing. In the end, this was for him. And when it was completed, he dropped to his knees amidst the rubble. “I was falsely accused and wrongly removed from my rightful place of high honor. I was the most glorious and beautiful of all the angels, and You made promises to me that weren't kept. They've called me the great deceiver, but it's You who deceives. My time has come. So sayeth the Lord? No, so sayeth, me, Lucifer!”

  Slowly, he rose to his feet, clearly aware that the job wasn't quite completed. He was at the finish line, but had yet to cross it. Again, the woman was the key. They'd taken her into custody. But she would be released soon, and he'd be there to receive her. Isabel, the late priestess, had said that Kali would stop him as she'd done before. But Kali would not rise up against him. She would not rise up against her husband. She would join him. She trusted him more than she trusted herself. The good Father McCarthy had helped to see to that. And now McCarthy's reward would be the opportunity to live and then ultimately to serve his new, true master.

  In Swag's body, he felt himself growing aroused in anticipation of the consummation of his pending marriage. Soon, Kali would be his, and afterwards, she would take her rightful place beside him.

  * * *

  Kallie was being held at Fort Bragg. The base was only thirty minutes from her hometown of Lumberton. But no one from Lumberton knew she was there, not even her grandmother. Which made item number five on the list of her non-rights (You can have no visitors) seem like a waste of paper and ink and the breath of the intake processor who'd read the list to her in his uncaring, dronish baritone.

  Her rights as a US citizen had been trumped in the name of national security. Miranda didn't exist. There was no one phone call. There was no right to an attorney. There would be no jury of her peers. There was no right to rema
in silent, and anything and everything, whether she'd said it or not, could and would be held against her. They could hold her indefinitely, and as if to prove that point, she'd been there for eight days before anyone had said an authoritative word to her.

  Her accommodations, however, were fairly pleasant, three-starish. Her room contained twin beds, which she figured was mostly just designed psychological warfare. It was fairly obvious that she wasn't getting a roommate anytime soon. She would have no human contact. It hadn't been listed, but it most certainly had been implied and subsequently implemented. Most days she didn't even see the guards though she knew they were out there somewhere. A very noticeable camera had been positioned on the wall above the television. She suspected there were others. She knew they watched her every move.

  For the first three days of her captivity, she'd cried nonstop. She hadn't signed up for this. She'd been a nineteen year old college student, bravely picking up the pieces after the unexpected sickness and death of her mother. She'd moved forward with her life. She hadn't blamed anyone for her situation, not even her absentee father who should have been there to take up the parental slack left by her mother's death. But she hadn't harbored any ill feelings toward him or anyone else. She didn't reside in the land of regrets, or hatred, or what-ifs. She'd moved on. And even after her mind had played its version of the rerun game and she thus found out that she was to be some kind of real life Buffy the Vampire Slayer, she hadn't wallowed in self-pity or doubt. She'd moved on. She simply accepted her destiny, mostly without question, and moved on.

  She'd cried because her mother had died and wasn't there for her. She'd cried because she and Seth had broken up. She'd cried for her part in the breakup. She'd cried because she'd kissed a reverend. She cried at what that could possibly mean for her soul. She'd cried for the loss of Kallie, her carefree past self. She'd cried at not being able to tell her grandmother any of it. And finally, she'd cried for crying, for allowing sadness to build so much as to compel tears. But then suddenly, on the fourth day, it was over. The tears stopped. She'd cried out. Her heart hardened to acceptance. She sat on one of the twin beds, the one closest to the barred window, feeling numb, feeling as if nothing really mattered anymore. There was no need to move forward. Moving forward would eventually only circle back to here, how she felt right now. Her locale may change, but her emotions would be as they were now. It was pointless trying to control the outcome. Inevitability was in the driver's seat, the inevitable of the inevitable. Ultimately, what would be would be.

  At the end of that fourth day, armed with her new outlook on life, her appetite returned. The food was somewhere between her grandmother's cooking and typical school cafeteria (though most days it lingered closer to the latter). She was allowed to watch television and listen to the radio. And for up to two hours a day, she was allowed outside. The recreation area was a closed, fenced-in area where a bevy of security cameras were hidden in plain sight, a constant reminder of the seizure of the one thing that truly mattered to her. The one thing they alone had the power to control or give back. Her freedom.

  On day nine, she was taken to a small interrogation room where Veronica's uncle, Special Agent Dennard Bennett, was waiting for her. She hadn't seen him since the night she'd first arrived. The room was windowless and contained only a small card table and two chairs. The walls were a dull pastel. Bennett was sitting in one of the chairs at the table. A single bulb-light hung overhead.

  “How have you been?” he asked after the accompanying guard had removed her handcuffs, seated her in the other chair, and then left them alone. He sounded like a cheerful psychiatrist from one of those late night psychotic movies. The one who would swear in the middle of the movie that he'd miraculously cured his patient of all mental ills, only to have said patient cut off the psychiatrist's head with a hacksaw and placed it in a shoe box before mailing it to the psychiatrist's wife who would get it at their home, opening it just as the movie’s credits rolled.

  “Fine,” she said, rubbing her wrists. The handcuffs were also psychological-warfare. What threat did an unarmed college student pose? Her ability to kill demons notwithstanding, of course.

  “I'm sorry about that,” Bennett said, looking at her wrists. “It's just standard procedure.”

  “It's okay,” she lied meekly.

  “Otherwise, is your room all right? Are you comfortable?”

  “Yes, thank you. Everything's fine. When can I go home?”

  “Soon,” he said in the same cheery voice. He smiled warmly. “I guess this will be our first full conversation since….”

  “The science building at Bengate,” she said anxiously. “It was six weeks and two days ago.”

  Bennett tilted his head slightly and grinned. “Impressive.”

  “I remember dates. It helps pass the time.”

  “I see.”

  “When will I be able to go home?”

  Bennett leaned back in the chair. “Well, of course, that all depends on you.”

  He casually picked up the large manila folder that had been lying on the table in front of him. He opened it, taking out three photographs, and laid them right side up in front of her. “Take a look at these.”

  She studied the photographs. The first was of a pretty woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. The second picture was of two young girls, no more than four years old and looking remarkably similar to the woman in the first picture. The third picture was of an older lady, perhaps in her mid-to-late fifties. After viewing all three pictures, Kallie looked up and slightly shrugged her shoulders.

  He tapped the picture of the younger woman. “My wife, Elise.” Slowly he moved to the next picture, tapping it lightly as well. “My daughters, Kelsey and Melanie.” He paused a moment. “The three of them were killed in a plane crash.”

  “I'm sorry,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said, and then they were both mutually silent for a moment, in honor of the dead. “It's been three years,” he said suddenly. “Sometimes I can still feel it, raw and fresh as if it'd only happened yesterday and I can still stop them from getting on that plane.” His voice was tense and Kallie could see one of his hands tighten into a fist, but after a moment, it loosened again and he laid it flat upon the table. “Most times, though,” he continued, “I see it as it is. The plane goes down. Pilot error. My wife, our babies, snuggled and seat belted to their ultimate doom.” He chuckled sickly and looked remorsefully at Kallie. She quickly averted her eyes, looking down at the third picture. Bennett followed her gaze, “Brenna Jackson,” he said as if suddenly recalling a name that had been dangling anonymously for a while at the tip of his tongue.

  “Who's she?” Kallie asked. She felt captivated by the picture. It was a color photograph; but it carried the haunting richness of an Andy Warhol black and white.

  “Just a plain, everyday woman who'd had a ticket to the very plane that carried my family to their deaths. Ms. Jackson, however, had had a premonition, telling her not to board that plane. And she didn't. Today, Ms. Brenna Jackson lives in Camden, New Jersey, with a loving husband and three cats. She has three grandchildren living down south in Georgia. She sees them on a regular basis. She flies all the time and hadn't had a premonition warning her about planes before or since.”

  Kallie continued staring at the photograph. She didn't say anything.

  Bennett reached into the envelope and pulled out two more photographs, which he laid to the right of the Brenna Jackson photograph.

  Kallie looked at the two additions and for a brief moment, time stopped. The photographs were of her and Swag inside and exiting the elevator on the night of the UCB Center bombing.

  “Is that you?” Bennett asked.

  Kallie slowly nodded her head affirmatively.

  “Who's the man?”

  Kallie looked up, slowly shaking her head.

  Bennett leaned toward her from across the table. She could smell hints of a breath mint. “Listen, Kallie. I know you di
dn't bomb the building. I doubt the person with you in the photograph bombed the building. I don't know what you're able to do. And even if I did know, I wouldn't likely understand it. Maybe you have the gift of premonition like Brenna Jackson. And maybe somebody's taken advantage of this gift. Maybe they believe that their cause is a noble one. And maybe you believe the same thing. They're terrorists, right? Gerald Principe, he was a terrorist and deserved to die. And maybe he's right. Maybe you're right. But neither of you can take the law into your own hands. Principe had to be tried in a court of law. Tell me who is in the photograph.”

  Kallie stared at him and then closed her eyes briefly. When she reopened them, she again shook her head. “What would you do? Would he get a trial? Or would you bring him here? Or take him to Guantanamo Bay?”

  Bennett ignored all that. “This is your opportunity to go home, Kallie. Tell me who's in the photograph. Is it Father McCarthy?”

  Kallie was silent.

  “Your grandmother's probably worried sick about you. Or maybe there's a boyfriend back at college who's getting anxious. Your family and friends need for you to do the right thing. Who's in the photograph?”

  Kallie felt nauseous. They'd taken her cell phone and hadn't allowed her to make any phone calls. Veronica had told her that she'd call her grandmother and explain things. But that was a week and a half ago. Kallie usually talked to her grandmother at least once a week. If Kallie didn't get a chance to talk to her this week, her grandmother would indeed worry herself sick. But Kallie wasn't going to talk about the other person in the photograph. There were greater concerns. She remained perfectly still, her steely eyes reiterating her resolve.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Officer Neil Noll could say one thing about the young college kid who was sitting in the metal-back client chair in front of his desk. He was persistent. Likely didn't have much commonsense—most of those egghead-types didn't, you know. But he was persistent. A persistent kid he could deal with, for Officer Noll had the patience of Job. He had to in this job. What the town of Bengate lacked by way of the career criminal, it made up for in droves with the stupid one. Although stupid had taken a nasty turn recently, he thought sourly, recalling the recent vandalism of the church over on Elm Street. Some ignorant fools had completely trashed the place, smashing out windows, tearing up and pissing on the Bibles and hymnals. It was no doubt some bored college or high school kids behind it. It was those types of kids he didn't like dealing with, the malicious ones who had no regard for life or limb. Kids with that kind of disrespect were difficult to get a handle on. They were too close to the evil side of things.