Whack Job

by Mike Baron

  “You all know why he calls himself Black Widow, right?” Otto looked around. Blank faces.

  “In 2006 his girlfriend, Patty Ivan,” Hornbuckle recited, “boarded a Southwest flight from Denver to Austin. TSA searched her but did not search four Muslim clerics traveling in traditional garb. The plane blew up on landing…”

  Billups nodded solemnly. “I remember. It might give us some insight as to his motives, and maybe we can use that to get close to him.” Billups lifted his coffee mug with his pinkie extended. The mug bore a glowering picture of Billups above the slogan, “It’s your mug!” and was undoubtedly given to him by one of his two daughters. He sipped and set the cup down with a minute clink.

  “As you all know Agent White’s in charge of the investigation into Senator Darling’s death, as well as other instances of spontaneous human combustion. Hornbuckle’s in charge of the investigation into Black Widow. Is it possible, gentlemen, that whoever is perpetrating these attacks is using the internet?”

  “Do you mean as in transmitting enormous amounts of energy through the net?” Alvarez said.

  “For starters,” Billups said.

  “I don’t see how that’s possible. It would fry the system.”

  “How would the internet come into play in a parking garage?” Otto said.

  “Didn’t he have a laptop with him?” Billups said. “A smart phone?”

  Otto took out a spiral pad and made a note silently kicking himself for not having thought of it in the first place. The idea of working with Hornbuckle again made him ill.

  “What about Albrecht?” Alvarez said. “He was seated at a blackjack table. He didn’t have a laptop with him.”

  “No,” Billups said, “but he was surrounded with computers. At the bar behind him. At the chip-cashing booth. And surveillance up the yib-yob. You could enter a tracking program and follow him from room to room.”

  “He would have had a phone,” Hornbuckle said.

  Barnett leaned forward. Since he seldom spoke, everyone stopped talking. “Is it possible Black Widow is receiving Iranian support?”

  Billups turned toward Hornbuckle. “Ryan?”

  Hornbuckle shrugged. “It’s possible but Widow’s mission statement condemns all organized government. Maybe he got tired of running credit card scams for a living.”

  Billups was placid as a Buddha. “And?”

  You could see Hornbuckle’s face working, chewing a rubbery idea. “I’ll alert State and Intelligence.”

  Billups nodded imperceptibly and shifted his gaze to Otto. “Otto?”

  Otto brought them up to speed re: the Pawnee Grove connection. “I’ll be going up Monday. You’re all aware of the accelerating pace of these incidents. My fear is that we’re approaching a point where they’ll become obvious and there will be a general panic.”

  “It may be,” Billups said, “that people with no connection to Pawnee Grove have nothing to fear.”

  Otto scratched Steve’s head. “Possibly.”

  “Boys,” Billups said, “what about a Firestarter scenario?”

  “Sir,” Otto said, “I’m familiar with that program and they haven’t been able to ignite a match.”

  “We know,” Barnett said, “that the Russians are far more along in this than the West. They claim they have telepaths, but nothing about telekinetics.”

  Two sharp raps and the door opened, admitting Billups’ cute blond secretary.

  “What is it, Rose?”

  Rose walked across the thick carpet around the back of the sofa, leaned down and whispered in Billups’ ear. Everyone waited in tense expectation.

  “Thank you, Rose.”

  The secretary left quietly shutting the door behind her.

  “Undersecretary of Foreign Intelligence Angelo Rio shot two Agency employees, barricaded himself in his office and either set a fire or combusted. They’re battling the fire right now.”

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “Up In Flames”

  Saturday morning.

  Otto rose at dawn, put on his sweats and Nikes, opened the safe, put his pistol and his phone in his kangaroo pouch, looped Steve’s leash around his neck and headed out. They ran down the creek side path, Steve trotting unerringly at Otto’s right side. Other runners passed going the other way, some with dogs. Steve paid no attention to other dogs. They passed bicyclists and bicyclists passed them.

  At three klicks they turned around and ran back.

  Just outside the patio entrance to the motel, Otto pointed to a patch of lawn.

  “Sit,” he commanded.

  Steve sat.

  “Stay.”

  Otto went to the lobby for his complimentary breakfast: a bowl of oatmeal, two bananas, two apples, a platter of scrambled eggs and sausage, orange juice and coffee arranged on a plastic tray he’d commandeered from the bar,

  Balancing the tray expertly on one palm, Otto let himself out, and into his own room, holding the door for Steve. Steve sat dutifully while Otto divvied up the goods. He sliced an apple and a banana for Steve and gave him half the scrambled eggs and two sausages.

  They slurped for five minutes. Otto took a shower, wrapped the towel around his waist, sat on the bed and opened his laptop.

  UP IN FLAMES! read the 36-point flashing red and blue type on Drudge and linked to an AP story that Secretary Rio was the third prominent American to burn to death inside a week and hinted at terrorist involvement.

  Rio’s name had not come up in a search of Pawnee guests, but Rio had worked with several men who had attended including CIA Director Brubaker.

  The President planned to address the nation at two.

  At seven minutes of noon, Otto’s Ocelot buzzed.

  “White.”

  “Mr. White, please hold for the National Security Director.”

  Seconds later Yee came on the line. “How are you, Mr. White?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your report was a real eye opener. I’m afraid to guess how many government officials and important people have visited Pawnee Grove. I’m sure it has occurred to you that the victims might have had something implanted in their bodies like a homing device.”

  “It occurred to me, Miss Yee, but it seems unlikely. Operating on a bunch of big shots without their knowledge? Like they wouldn’t notice? There are problems. We’ve requested a manifest from their quarter master. They said they’d take it under consideration. I also queried all the regional medical supply companies and FedEx. No special orders for Pawnee Grove. Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ll know more after my visit.”

  “Will you stay the entire week?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “The President knows what you’re doing and is deeply appreciative.”

  “It’s an honor to serve my country, ma’am.”

  “All right. Good luck and God speed.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Otto phoned Time Warp in Boulder and left a message for Randy.

  Kleiser phoned back fifteen minutes later. “What?”

  “We gotta meet. How’s your afternoon shaping up?”

  “Man I got shit to do.”

  “This isn’t optional, Kleiser. Meet me at four. You choose a place.”

  Silence while Kleiser mulled it over. “Casa Bonita on Colfax. You know it?”

  “See you then.”

  ***

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “Casa Bonita”

  Saturday afternoon.

  Casa Bonita was a four-story Mexican restaurant with an open atrium, a pool at the bottom, and a fake rock cliff from which waiters dove. The parking lot was almost full when Otto pulled in. He took Steve for a walk and left him in the car with the windows cracked. He went into the foyer and sat on a bench. The interior was decorated with garish colors, fake fruit and toucans, Spanish tile and wrought iron balconies.

  Kleiser ambled in at ten after four wearing a Tapout hoodie with the hood up and carrying a backpack. A wa
iter led them to a booth in an alcove on the second floor. Otto ordered a beer. Kleiser ordered a margarita. The waiter left.

  “Did you attack our system today?” Otto said.

  “Not me. I warned those guys not to fuck with the Fed, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  Otto stared hard at Kleiser. Kleiser looked away. “Come on, man. I’d have to be three kinds of stupid to pull that shit right after I meet you. And forget about me naming names. That ain’t part of our deal.”

  Otto wondered how long Kleiser would hold his tongue if Otto stuck him in a cell. But that was cop think. Otto never wanted to be a cop. He only wanted to serve his country.

  The ambient noise in the restaurant was that of a boiler factory. Kleiser had chosen this venue because it was virtually impossible to bug and there were no clear sightlines to their lips.

  The waiter brought their drinks. Kleiser sucked half down. “What do you want?”

  “Are you aware of these fires that keep burning people up?”

  Kleiser leaned forward and his eyes glittered. “Apocalyptic shit, dude! Some motherfucker has figured out how to throw fire.”

  “Do you know that?”

  “Nah. I’m guessing.”

  “Could someone use the internet to cause these fires?”

  Kleiser leaned back with a bemused expression. He finished his margarita and looked around for the waiter. He ordered another drink.

  “You got this, right?”

  Otto nodded.

  “Wireless energy transmission. Nikola Tesla was said to have developed it not far from where we’re sitting. I’ve been thinking about this. There are basically two ways: microwave and laser. The problem with microwave is you need a huge transmitting surface and a huge reception surface. We’re talking giant arrays here. Laser is more likely since both transmitter and receiver are tightly focused. But you lose about 50% in transmission and conversion. Both methods require line of sight. I’m not aware of any desktop or personal computers that could handle that kind of energy without burning out. The other problem with a tightly-focused laser beam is you’re not gonna get the body burning up evenly like they seem to do. It’s gonna focus on one tight little spot. You’d have to train it on every part of the body in turn to burn it all up.”

  “See what you can find out about this shit, wouldja?” Otto said.

  “Whoa dude. You want me to help the FBI?”

  “Randall. I know about Patty. Deepest condolences. But this is still a good country.”

  The waiter brought Kleiser’s margarita. He drained half, rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward with feverish intensity. “The federal government is a grotesque cancer crushing the life out of this country. Look at the national debt. Every person in America, legal or illegal, owes the government $55,000 just to pay it off! Your kids, my kids…”

  Kleiser ran out of steam. He looked down. “Patty was pregnant. No one knows that. She was going to tell her parents. I was gonna follow in a couple days--I was in the middle of a project.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “There’s a lot of guys in government I wouldn’t mind if they burst into flames.”

  “Believe me,” Otto said, “I understand how you feel.”

  Kleiser looked up. “Do you? Ever lost someone close to you?”

  “Not in that way.”

  “So screw the fuckin’ FBI, no offense.”

  “Randall. The FBI is not the USA. The country faces a frightening new weapon. This goes beyond politics. Right now you’re facing federal charges. Do you know what the inside of a federal pen is like? Help me and I can make those charges go away.”

  Kleiser drummed his fingers on the table top. He opened his backpack and took out his laptop. It was covered with band stickers: Nautical Mile, Blind Strike, Dead Kennedys, Rage Against the Machine. He opened her up and cruised using a wireless mouse he pulled from his pocket. Otto waited patiently. He could sit motionless for hours.

  “Sixty five stories on Google about spontaneous human combustion,” Kleiser said.

  “Fuck.”

  “This other shit I can’t do that here. Ahmina have to go deep into my spider hole.”

  “I need it as soon as possible,” Otto said.

  “Dude, you are fuckin’ up my weekend.”

  “This is a matter of national security. You’ll be a hero.”

  Kleiser shut down the laptop and put it away. “If you say so.”

  ***

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “Confession”

  Sunday morning.

  Otto went to mass at our Lady of the Redeemer on Felton Avenue, a gray stone gothic monster with a sharply steepled tower and gargoyles. Otto told Steve to stay on a grassy patch just outside the door. Steve settled down to people watch.

  The congregation only filled a third of the benches and most of the parishioners were elderly. Where were the young? Were they raising a generation of feckless seculars who never thought about the nature of life, the hereafter and their place in the cosmos? How was that even possible?

  Otto knew how it was possible. Look at his old man. If the family failed to instill spiritual values, the state cannot impose them.

  He took communion and waited for other parishioners to confess. He brought Steve a paper cup of water. An old man with flaxen hair shot him a dirty look over the dog.

  “Bless the beasts and children, sir,” Otto said.

  The last elderly woman left the confession booth. Otto waited a minute to allow the priest to compose himself and slipped inside. The dark booth contained a hint of human warmth, the smell of lilacs, leather and dust. Through the slats Otto saw that the priest was an old man and he wondered whether the Church was dying, whether they had enough acolytes lined up to man the confession booths.

  And when all faith had disappeared, then what? Would man finally declare himself the god he’d been waiting for?

  Everywhere Otto looked faith was on the rout.

  “How are you, my son?” the priest said in a wheezy voice.

  “Forgive me Father for I have sinned.”

  “How long since your last confession?”

  “Five years.”

  A raspy intake of breath. “Why so long?”

  “I took an oath. I was duty bound. Confession wasn’t on the table.”

  “You harm no one but yourself by not confessing.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “So you are,” the elderly priest said and cleared his throat with a moist gurgling sound. “Proceed.”

  Otto was out of practice. His natural reticence had always been at odds with his faith. He didn’t need the Church to feel contrition. He needed the Church to forgive him. He went blotto, blinked several times and it snapped back into place.

  “I, uh, lust after my ex-girlfriend and wish she’d dump the guy she’s dating.”

  “Pretty venal, my son.”

  “I fantasize about getting him out of the picture. I don’t know--sometimes in a car wreck, sometimes throwing him off a cliff.”

  “But you would never act on these fantasies, would you?”

  “Of course not. When I have them I feel ashamed.”

  “That’s how you should feel until such time as you are able to rise above. What else?”

  “I killed four men.”

  Silence.

  “Did you murder them?” the priest said at last.

  “That’s a gray area, Father. I was working for my country.”

  “Were you in the military?”

  “Not exactly. Two of them were bad men. Their crimes would gag a dog off a gut wagon. The others were self-defense.”

  “How do you feel about it now?”

  “I have nightmares. I see those guys…sometimes I’m stalking them. Sometimes they’re stalking me. Always, always overwhelming anxiety. I can’t find my unit. I can’t find my gun. I see a blazing man. He leaves an after-image on my retina, even when I wake. When I wake I’m so relieved it’s just a d
ream, but then I remember it was all real and it makes me feel like--it makes me angry. I have the stink of burning flesh in my nostrils…”

  I have these fantasies. These fantasies of mowing everybody down.

  “My son, all your sins can be washed away in the blood of our Savior. Do you feel remorse?”

  “Of course I do. Some of them had families. Sometimes I dream about their kids-- naked and starving, their little ribs showing and distended bellies--and huge eyes, holding out their hands…”

  “Have you made any effort to reach out to those children?”

  “That’s against the rules, Father.”

  “Mmm. What about this blazing man?”

  “He was real, Father. Ghaddafi’s son Malik. I saw him burn. That’s why I’m on the job now.”

  “It’s just that…the image of the burning man is also biblical. Some scholars say that the reference to God’s burning bush could also be interpreted as a burning man, or an angel.”

  “This guy was no angel.”

  “My son, if you truly seek forgiveness it is yours.”

  Otto’s throat was bone-dry. He swallowed. His voice cracked. “I dream sometimes about shooting people.”

  “Did you shoot those men you killed?”

  “All but one.”

  “Do you fear you’re in danger of acting on this impulse?”

  “No! Never. But I have these dreams. What bothers me is that evil is real and good isn’t. I’ve seen so much evil, Father. I’ve tried to understand it but sometimes…”

  “Evil exists because God exists. Evil exists because good exists. If you believe in Satan you must believe in God.”

  “I don’t know what to believe, Father.”

  “I shall pray for you, my son.”

  ***

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “The Stanley”

  Sunday morning and afternoon.

  Alvarez lived near the Botanical Gardens in an old Victorian with a fenced-in back yard. Steve and Alvarez’ two English pointers raced around the yard.

  “I really appreciate this, Gus,” Otto said.

  “No problem. We love dogs. And Steve’s a sweetheart. Wish I could go with you.”