Harold Gross, Harbinger for the Giver.
In the past he had been only one or the other, Harold or Harbinger. But now? His feelings clearly spelled out an intermingling of the two personalities, a partial retention of each of the two people, a perfect combination of the two perhaps. Even now, in his swoon, the ability to comprehend this newfound state of being seemed easy, clear and precise.
However, although his mind had seemed to keep up its execution, the complication of his incapacitated body had him puzzled. Although he tried and tried for what seemed like hours, he could not coerce movement into his limbs, his mind straining at its unsuccessful effort. So he lay dormant, for now at least, waiting in the dark of this strange room, concentrating solely on his mind and the growing wealth of lucidity seeping through. It seemed his only viable alternative.
Suddenly something else broke through to his working cognitive mind, and he immediately cleared his psyche of all inner activity in effort to concentrate solely on the distant sound.
Oh yes...it was here.
The pulse. The Giver. It was coming for him.
Jaimie awoke, unsure of the time that had passed. She lay in darkness, unbound, yet mysteriously paralyzed. In the distance she heard the incessant beat of music, heavy bass drums, deep droning tones. Techno music. The sensation of it reverberated through the floor directly into her muscles and bones, tingling them. It brought the sensation of feeling back into her skin and she tried to move. Pain darted through her body in tiny bolts, each joint, every muscle discomforted in its effort to find itself once again.
She remembered her crude passage through the strange nightclub, the sleek jet walls, the humid air and blue neon lights. And then the giant dance floor, its workers so intensely involved in their project that her presence had gone unnoticed.
Those workers. The bald men, black clothing, sunglasses, all a part their facade. These individuals could not simply be nightclub employees, could they? No. They possessed other motives; she had witnessed terrifying aspects of their mission. The hypnotic-like exchanges with other men for instance, men unlike themselves, seemingly willing to be captured and taken away into their alien grasp. Was this perhaps a method toward recruitment? And what of the one from her class who later emerged from the hedges, entrenched in blood? The one that had been so intent on killing her when she bore witness to his aftermath?
Jaimie shuddered, realizing that her glimpses of these bald men were most likely small pieces to the puzzle of their true purpose. How many of them had there been in that room? A hundred? Maybe more. How many had had blood on their hands at one time? All of them of course. Like Bobby Lindsay—he was here.
Jaimie suddenly realized that her eyes had been closed, seeking light within her inner lids. She opened them, but nothing in her sights changed. Darkness prevailed, and amidst it her thoughts sought solace but found only anguish with the realization that she was a prisoner, here in the realm of some crazed cult of death.
The pulse grew louder, and with each passing beat, Harold's strength grew as well. He squirmed in his binds, wrists and ankles tethered to the bed cart he lay on. Thrum...thrum...thrum..., each three second interval forcing energy into his muscles, erotic images of power and strength into his mind. He tugged and tugged at his binds, more forcefully, his muscles screaming, lactic acid veining within, adrenaline flowing, blood pumping.
And the pulse grew even louder. Now he could hear it from rising below, from deep within the earth but growing closer with each beat, thrum...thrum...thrum. Now, he felt it just beneath him. The bed cart shook, and he pulled and pulled on the leather belts, images of failure in the eyes of the Giver threatening him with abandonment should he not escape the Outsiders. Layers of skin ripped away from his wrists against the edges of the hardened leather restraints. Finally, one hand broke free. He unfettered himself from the belt hampering his other wrist, then from those at his ankles.
And the pulse grew louder and louder and louder...
He sat up, an all-consuming blanket of blue light ensconcing his mind's-eye, and within his thoughts he could see the same images the Giver saw, images of the earth chipping away from a variety of dark locations, a multitude of limbs guided solely from one unified embodiment, searching for waves of modified life, for all those beyond the confines of the body to return to the all-empowering Giver, and take place in the greatest event of all time.
Indeed, the time had come. Tonight all those who had taken part in the glories of the Giver would unite to share in a mass prayer of sorts, to combine forces and become part of the unified body. Too bad then that those who had had the honor to supply would then miss out on this great occasion. Perhaps it had been beneficial that he never found a way to supply, despite all his strenuous efforts. Now he could take part in the event!
The bed cart shook turbulently, as if an earthquake approached. He leaped off and tossed it aside, his one good eye peeking out through the bandages masking his face. At first it aimed towards the security camera in the upper corner, then to the crashing bed cart, then to the buckling tiles in the floor. They rose up and down and up and down, finally shattering into pieces, cement and vinyl flooring flying up in a shower of pebbles and shards, dirt spraying the room behind it. He shielded himself with his arms, peeking through as the appendage ripped through the floor of the hospital basement, twisting wildly like an angry snake, drilling away at the edges of the hole it had created just for Harold.
The door flung open behind him and he turned to see a number of Outsiders gathered, their stares glazed with shock at the daunting scene before them.
Unthreatened, he turned back and jumped into the small hole. The appendage wrapped itself around him, guiding him down the tight squeeze. He reached the bottom and crawled away through the tunnels the Giver had also created just for him. The appendage led the way, then released its grip on him and stayed behind to close up the trail behind.
Again, Harold was free.
Jaimie stood up, grasping the darkness, pacing in circles but finding nothing, the flooring warm beneath her bare feet. Unguided, she moved and moved, crying, nearly wishing death upon herself, as it seemed her only viable alternative at the moment.
She leaned against the wall. Within, the beat went on, music vibrating in the walls, pulsing, thrum...thrum...thrum, synthesized drones seeping from the wall into her body, like the beads of sweat escaping the skin on her very own face.
Harold crawled and crawled, feverishly, dirt beneath his tattered nails, bloodied bandages dangling crazily from his face, on and on, forward, pressing, muscles screaming, bones aching. Suddenly, Harold no longer wanted to die. He wanted, needed to live, to experience the event within the domain of the Giver, to help assist those others recruited to arrange for the perfect environment, to help establish the field for the ultimate harvest.
And in his fury, Harold saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Out of control, he crawled to it, squeezing through the small entrance, falling into one of the blue rooms. Behind him, the hole immediately closed up. He stood, stretching his muscles, dirt falling from his body.
He glanced about the dark room and saw something odd.
A girl, in the room with him, standing just a few feet ahead, face, hands, and body pressed against the wall. Crying.
Chapter Thirty
The afternoon lasted an eternity, and it seemed to Frank and Hector that all had been lost.
They had had a great deal of explaining to do. The two cops, out of jurisdiction, had found themselves in the middle a suicide where a father had nearly taken his infant child with him. This of course didn't include the multitude of other circumstances they had been involved with over the last thirty-six hours. Now, to their great misfortune, it had to come out into the open.
It took the rest of the day explaining to officials from both the 13th and 57th precincts what they had found, how they got involved, and where it all led to. From the incident in the alley to the discovery of Gross and the other baldies in the
sketches. The interview with the Racines and the confrontation with Gross. The receipt in Gross' apartment and how it led them to Village clothing. Judas and the surveillance tape with Bobby Lindsay. They painstakingly detailed how they figured it all tied in, the murders, the prior kidnappings and the speculation of an FBI cover-up. Then finally, the cult theory, how Harold Gross, Bobby Lindsay and the others on file—James Hilton and Edward Farrell—may have all been involved.
Their story ended at the trail of blood leading to the apartment of the Latino.
However, conveniently, they left some things out.
The day had been long enough, so to start delving into all the truly unexplainable issues would carry their interrogation well into the night. For one, the tunnels. Their existence had been common knowledge, yet no details other than some passing commentary had been voiced, their purpose seemingly shrugged off; good thing, as Frank could offer no revelation, either logical or far-fetched. As well, it seemed none of the other cops could either.
They revealed no word of their discovery on the internet, leaving only their musings of cult practice on the table—a theorization founded purely on intuitive instinct, of course. To reveal the alienistic babblings of Sanskrit as a lead to potential answers other than cultish reverence would only embarrass the cops, and possibly condemn them in the eyes of their peers.
And then the strange black object. The biggest enigma of all. At first its presence intrigued Frank, then consumed him, driving him to seek out its function in this entire mess. At first Hector had written it off to remote speculation on Frank's part, then labeled it as an icon of religious fervor.
Now?
It had shown up at two of the crime scenes. In the alley early yesterday morning, and now, retrieved by Frank in the apartment of the Latino who nearly took his baby out the window.
With one in their possession, new theories would surely rise.
By the time Frank and Hector finally escaped the 57th precinct in the Bronx, the sun had begun its descent behind the city's skyscrapers. They rode in silence back into the city to a parking garage on 56th and Park. They located a diner a half block away and entered, helping themselves to a booth in the rear by the kitchen. The smallish, brightly lit restaurant housed mostly men, who probably, like Frank, had no one special at home to prepare a warm meal for them at the end of the day. He rubbed his tired eyes—which had seen their share of tragedy today—and listened to the Latin chatter of the cooks and waitresses behind the two swinging doors that led into the kitchen.
A young waitress with long brown hair emerged. She took their orders—grilled cheese and tomato soup for Frank, a burger and fries for Hector. When she left, Frank fished the object from his jacket pocket and placed it down on the table between them.
"I can't believe it," Hector said, shaking his head at the sight of the object. "You really had that thing in your pocket this whole time?"
Frank nodded. Believe it or not, now was the first time he had had the chance to get a good long look at it since pocketing it eight hours ago, waiting for the perfect moment to bring it out into the light and examine it, wanting, feeling the need for privacy before showing Hector his find. He stared and stared at it, unbelieving that he, Frank Ballaro, had finally taken possession of the biggest most mysterious object that had ever stimulated his consciousness.
"So what in God's name is it?" Hector asked.
Frank shrugged. He felt a sudden sweeping feeling, as if he were being hypnotized. In the trance he saw a strange wondrous place, a place of brilliant sunshine, laughs and smiles, a place that catered solely to lonely and desperate people, that brought joy to the despondent. Frank considered accepting its offer, to comply to the chance to relieve the loneliness tormenting his life since Diane had left him five years back. Yes, he thought, perhaps all his answers lay right here on the table before him...
"Sir?" The waitress returned with his dinner. Through waves of confusion, Frank let his eyes wander over her. Young, in her late teens, her name-tag was scribbled in black pen: Sam.
"Oh, cool. Atmosphere."
A shock flooded Frank at her mention of the ominous word. What was complete darkness in his life at the moment instantly exploded with a fire as big and as bright as the sun. He thought briefly of the Latino in the apartment, his child swathed in blood; the harsh whisper that had leaked from his mouth.
Atmosphere...
"What did you say?"
"That thing—Atmosphere. It looks like the new nightclub that opens tonight. It's on all the signs. See?" Sam pointed through the dampened window to a telephone pole outside. Frank could see a small poster stapled there.
"Pardon us." Frank nudged passed Sam and rushed outside, Hector not far behind. He hunched his shoulder against the drizzle coming down, facing the small poster.
There it was, the object, a sketch of a building with six cylindrical columns on its roof. Above, words printed in ink as black as coal made an offer: Experience Atmosphere, Saturday Night, October 23rd. West Side Train Yard.
"What do you think, Smoky?"
Unanimously, the answer was clear. "All three of me thinks we should go check out Atmosphere."
Hector grimaced in confusion, but asked no questions. He agreed too.
Chapter Thirty-One
She spent the afternoon sleeping in blue-tinged darkness, music filtering into her dreamless slumber, its vibrations keeping her aware of the fact that she was still alive.
Even asleep, Jaimie knew that she wasn't alone.
Harold spent the afternoon waiting in the blue-tinged darkness, listening to the music, feeling its pulse in the walls and floor.
He spent the whole time watching the sleeping girl, waiting for her to move.
Jaimie awoke, her sense of timing long lost. She slowly stood, knowing she would have to find a way out.
Her movement signaled his mind. He stretched his arms out towards her...
Chapter Thirty-Two
Frank and Hector sped back to Hector's home, lights and siren in full array. Hector quickly changed into plainclothes while Frank placed a call home. He figured there would be a chance to catch Jaimie; usually around this time on Saturdays she would be getting ready to go out for the evening. But she did not answer. He left a message, then hung up to find Hector had donned a pair of khakis, a sport shirt and long trench coat, giving Gloria an 'I have to work late' story, and to not wait up. The frown on her face clearly stated that she would be up anyway regardless of how late he returned. This scenario was probably routine in the Rodriguez household, just as it had been during Frank's marriage to Diane.
They left just after ten, taking the cruiser through the streets at a moderate pace, giving themselves enough time to think about their options, and what they could do when they eventually arrived at Atmosphere.
"We'll have to let the events unfold themselves," Frank muttered, staring at the poster he ripped from the telephone pole advertising the nightclub. "Its all worked out that way so far."
Hector glanced at the sheet in Frank's hand. "If it weren't for the picture, I'd have to chalk up the name of the club to coincidence."
"But it is there. So what do you think?"
"I have no fucking idea."
"You know, it ties in to the whole music thing. The club, Sanskrit's essay on binaural beats, the missing kids' interest in music, Village clothing."
"I know, I know. I'm just having trouble swallowing it all."
"Also, there's something else we failed to discuss. Something obvious." He looked over at Hector.
"The girl?"
Frank nodded. "Her murder. It now ties in. She was actually a boy. A young adolescent male. Just like the rest."
Hector said nothing. Frank's all knowing detective personality could tell that his former Captain was now as obsessed with this great mystery just as much as he was. And his weaker rational third—well, it could tell that Hector was also scared. Just like himself.
He led the car down 11th Avenue, parki
ng at the curb in front of a strip of closed shops. A miserable drizzle sheeted from the muddy sky, coating them in a frigid chill. This section of town didn't just sleep at this time of night. It died, and not a soul or even a rat or pigeon seemed to venture into these desolate parts after sundown. There may have been some form of life here, but it stayed shuttered behind the strip of wretched doors. Frank shuddered at the thought of those unfortunates cowering beyond the stained walls of these dark buildings.
"Train yard's that way.
They paced through the pounding night rain across 11th Avenue into the perimeter of the train yard. Frank felt for his gun, hoping to remain anonymous once inside the club, keeping his fingers crossed that there wouldn't be a metal detector, or that he wouldn't frisked.
"Lots of open land here," Hector said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Perfect place for the Yanks to build a stadium."
Frank saw something ahead. He put a hand on Hector's arm, commanding him to stand still.
Two obscure forms crossed the yard about a hundred yards ahead. They stepped over at least five sets of tracks, climbing through the connected cabs of those occupied by trains.
Frank and Hector moved forward, picking up the pace, careful not to trip over any rails. Reaching a lone passenger car, they stopped and leaned upon it, eyes glued to the pair of bodies, the cold wetness soaking from the surface of the tempered steel through his jacket. The bodies they eyed shifted in and out of the shadows, over the last set of rails to a loading dock where they climbed four steps to a landing bay door. One of the two people gave the door a few hard raps. The metal grate flew up and a large silhouette appeared. After a short exchange, they were admitted.
"Let's go," Frank said, stepping away from the train.
Atmosphere Page 23