Search For Reason (State Of Reason Mystery, Book 2)

by Miles A. Maxwell

  “Cynthia and Steven left us a daughter we’ll raise as our own. I just can’t — who could have done this terrible —” He broke, bent over, brushed the back of a hand across his eyes. Realized his cheeks were wet. It was like being pulled down into the hole himself. He felt Del put a weathered hand on his back. “Take it easy, boy,” she whispered. He shook his head, struggled to pull in air. Everon, Del, Mano, Jack — all of them were crying.

  He took a steadying breath. “The markers of our ancestors, the things we’ve learned from the people we leave behind. It’s horrible — I guess, though, maybe I feel grateful too. I’ve got to pay attention now to whatever it was Cynthia left behind. Sometimes we’ll ask ourselves: What would Cynthia say? What would Cynthia do?”

  Everon’s eyes met his, and Franklin added: “And I have to recognize — I have my older brother still beside me. Like me in some ways, different in others. For in all the world, only the two of us still have certain things in common.” He turned back to the open grave. “I’ll miss you so much, Cyn . . . we will always remember you. I will always remember you . . .”

  Everon was looking at him, shocked. By what, Franklin wasn’t sure. But Franklin began, slowly, the old family words, those cut into Alma’s and Hurricane’s tombstones:

  “Reveal what lies beneath . . .”

  And he felt Everon, Mano, Jack, Del joining, adding their voices:

  “ . . . and you will know what is above.”

  A red-tailed hawk’s screee somewhere distant cut the eerie silence. No stone marker had been cut, not yet. Franklin had no idea what they should put on it. One of them would think of something — Mano, he assumed, had put a white cross made of wood at the grave’s head.

  He would regret seeing a stone there when he came back next. He couldn’t help feeling Cyn would only be truly gone when her name was carved. Like the others before her.

  Mano’s and Jack’s shovels began moving earth into the ground. Franklin put a hand on Mano’s shoulder, took the shovel gently away. Everon did the same — from Jack.

  When they were finished, a mound of dirt piled before the white cross, they walked back down to the truck.

  Everon laid a hand on Franklin’s shoulder. “You’ve never called her anything but Cynthia. That’s the first time you ever called her Cyn — the way I do. Why, all of a sudden?”

  “Did I?” He stared at Everon. “I — I don’t know.”

  So many people in agony right now all over the country. The same tears he saw in Everon’s eyes. A million Cynthias, a million Steves, a million orphaned Melissas. A million people out there, grieving, just like I am. Who’s behind this God-damned thing? Who’s responsible for these bombs? Who’s doing this to us? And we know they aren’t done! It’s going to happen again!

  As they got back in the old Chevy, Del surprised him. And he knew it wasn’t very Christian to agree with her when wiping at her eyes she said it for all of them:

  “All I want to know is when they’re going to find these motherfuckers! ’Cause — when — they — do, we’re going to find out why the hell they did this to us. And what we can do to them!”

  The Evil

  The short man with the bulldog neck leaned over one of the conveyor belts to see into the roar of twin side-by-side commercial ovens. Where the hell is he? Has me travel all this way. For what? By the name on the front of the building he could guess who owned the factory.

  He felt uncomfortable even being here. His fingertips felt around the edge of the large silver coin in his right pocket. For a moment he almost enjoyed his own discomfort.

  He was interrupted when the man he’d come to meet stepped far enough into the glow to expose the shape of his large body. His face remained in shadow.

  “Good flight?” the big man asked.

  “Not ba —”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass in hell what kind of flight you had —”

  “It wasn’t supposed to go this way,” Short protested, raising a hand.

  “No kidding!” the large man responded. Eighteen inches taller, one-and-a-half times the short man’s girth, he leaned in close enough for Short to taste his wine-laced breath. For a moment it overpowered the sickly sweet smell that filled the air. “It was a disaster of the first magnitude, I’d say.”

  “It wasn’t a complete failure,” Short replied. “Quite a few of our objectives were realized.”

  “What the fuck! Do you understand what sort of losses we’ve incurred!”

  The Short Man eyed the flaming red ovens warily. It was damn hot in here, especially in the thick winter parka he was wearing. He ignored his body’s increasing temperature. He wasn’t about to tie up his arms, removing his jacket now. I should have done it when I got here.

  “It was a bit more than expected,” he admitted.

  “A bit?” The big man’s response was packed with anger.

  Short’s eyes swept the room in a continuous scan. Despite the disparity in their relative masses, he thought if he needed to he could take the big man out — unless Large had some of his goons around. But it wasn’t what Short wanted. Not with such a prize nearly within reach. He stroked the heavy coin in his pocket and hoped Large could be persuaded to feel the same.

  “Still, it took care of our main problem,” Short responded. “And it killed the seven people you had the most trouble with. Our two main programs are already making progress. The second bomb has met our objectives perfectly.”

  Large seemed to relax. “How did this happen? Tell me.”

  “Uh — that’s where I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Bad news? What could be worse than what’s already happened?”

  “I spoke to our contact.”

  “How? He’s reachable?”

  “Just before the second bomb.”

  What did he say?”

  “For one, he wants his money.”

  “What! For killing four million people? That wasn’t part of any goddamned deal. You should have had him processed first.”

  “Him?”

  “He’s too goddamned independent. I want that Shaman motherfucker found — and ended!”

  “He says that size package was all he could get from our friends. Apparently the smaller units are extremely difficult to come by right now. He’s got two more.”

  “WHAT!” Large momentarily drowning out the roar of the fire. “The same size?”

  “They were actually having a — a kind of sale on the big obsolete 450 kiloton units. He got kind of a package deal apparently, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  “Package deal? That fucker’s totally out of control. What the hell is he thinking?”

  “Thinking, I couldn’t say, but he’s planning to carry out the contract.”

  “Shit.” Blood drained from the large man’s face. “Where?”

  “Seems like something went wrong with the second device. Hit that island instead of D.C. But as far as I know it’ll be: next target as planned.”

  “Shit! You’ve got to find him and get him to go back to the original plan — the original size, for Christ’s sake!”

  “He’s got what he’s got. You know, maybe it’s a good thing,” Short said reasonably. “We just pay him.”

  “Good? What! How many millions more —”

  Short frowned. “It never bothered you before. Just let certain people know. Warn them about the next target. Besides, a trail that cold — all documents destroyed — only a few data files to be gotten rid of. Nobody can link anything back to anybody once those few steps have been taken. You’ve got what you wanted. Are you really so disappointed? Frankly, it looks like we end up in an even better position than expected. The U.S. Congress, well . . .”

  Short shut up and let the large man think.

  The place was empty. A loud blast from the ovens momentarily overwhelmed his ears. He looked warily at the belt. Large was not known for his understanding, or his generosity when failure and fuck-ups were the result.

  “I
don’t know why we had to meet here,” Short muttered, “uh — by the way, why are the ovens still on — when there’s nobody around?”

  Two feet from Short’s arm, thin one-inch ovals of dry dough sat frozen in place where they’d been squirted onto the metal conveyor belt, ready to sail into the open door of the roasting oven. Since eight o’clock two nights ago? They were strange-looking cookies. Small in diameter and wafer thin. Short knew them well. The belts, still frozen, seemed to be waiting.

  “So our other channels are closed?” Large asked stiffly.

  “After this week. If we can run that much through the new one.”

  “Let us worry about that. But the answer is, yes, that won’t be a problem.”

  The Short Man watched uncomfortably as a series of expressions played over Large’s face, finally resolving into a kind of acceptance. A decision.

  “I’ll take care of payment today,” Large said. “You get in touch with that Shaman bastard and tell him.”

  Short exhaled quietly. “Consider it done.”

  “I’ll consider it done when it’s done.

  Papers And Prayers

  Franklin carried Harry’s soup carton out the front door, along the weeping willows and whispering eucalyptus that lined the drive. Generations of Reveals before, the trees’ roots had tapped way down into the aquifer, overcoming the desert’s dry seasons. They didn’t require outside water anymore.

  The box wasn’t heavy but he couldn’t move any farther. He knelt down on the grass between two of the thick trunks and closed his eyes. Grandma Del and Melissa, he thought. The only links left between Everon and me. He felt like praying. But for what? Cynthia’s gone!

  There were only four things you could pray for, he knew. Three of them, something you wanted:

  Protection — for yourself or others;

  Some thing — success, a person, an object;

  Or, to get out of something.

  The fourth was a Thank You. For one of the other three.

  What have I got to pray for? It’s too late to protect Cynthia! Unlikely God is going to give Cyn back! The only thing to get out of is Cyn’s death! And he sure as hell didn’t feel thankful. Dear God, please tell me who killed my sister! Please kill them. Do I ask for that? Del already is.

  Finding Cynthia and Steve rolled in that damned Aztec blanket, burned and crusty on the outside, sealed around them like a cocoon. He could still picture the first time he’d ever seen that blanket, hanging in the ocean breeze at the roadside stand down in Baja California. Buying it for them as a present.

  Flash to New York.

  Top of Cyn’s building. Peeling it open. Staked together naked inside the blanket, a metal rod through the middle of their abdomens. Holding each other, face-to-face. Were they making love when the bomb hit? And that one word bouncing around his brain: Why? Why destroy New York? What kind of person would do something like that? It was beginning to drive him mad.

  Franklin looked over at the red cliffs across the valley, his lips pressed tight together. Usually climbing let him think and relax, especially here at home. The way he felt this morning? A dangerous idea.

  There isn’t time anyway. I have to get back to the church. They need me.

  But he really didn’t want to go back — back to the criticisms, the interference of Reverend Ralph Maples.

  He dragged the soup box over and looked inside. Pages had shifted into random piles, sliding every-which-way out of manila folders. All Melissa has left. At least Harry hasn’t crapped on them.

  He lifted out the whole misshapen mess and elbowed the box out of the way. He flipped the first folder open.

  Income tax returns. One . . . two . . . three years with Steve.

  Mmmm. And four years before that — Cynthia . . . and Steve, by themselves.

  He threw the folder back in the box.

  In the next folder was the title to their New York condo. Franklin shuddered, pulled in a deep breath, watching the building collapse beneath his feet all over again.

  He let the air flow out of him. Nothing left of that.

  He tossed it back in with the tax returns.

  He pawed through the other stuff: Car Title . . . a folder marked House Ideas . . . glossy color pictures torn from magazines . . . Bathrooms . . . Kitchens . . . One photo with a sticky note on it written in thick marker: What do you think of this one, Stevie?

  Cynthia’s writing!

  Tears grew in the corners of his eyes. At the bottom, a sketch of a very nice-looking custom two-story colonial-style home.

  That will never be built.

  He shoved it all back in the folder. Pushed it back into the soup box.

  The next one . . .

  Ah, bank accounts. Melissa will need these!

  He smeared away a bit of dirt or something that had crept into his right eye. The bank might not be functional, not for a while yet, but the money should still be government insured, shouldn’t it?

  The first page had letters printed at the bottom: Fed B of NY. The Federal Reserve Bank of New York? The bank Cynthia worked for. Wholesale . . . Account Marketing Department or something she headed up down there. Wall Street. Nothing left of that place. Still, the money — ?

  It looked like a statement. There was no real logo or address, just an untitled sheaf of white pages stapled together. Each dated February 7. The night of the first bomb. And that Fed B of NY at the bottom.

  The first spreadsheet had four columns. Franklin frowned, rubbing his forehead. A note scribbled into the right margin. Another note from Cynthia!

  GC? Shares in some company? How can whatever it is be negative? Where did the shares or money or whatever it is go?

  Numbers just weren’t Franklin’s thing.

  He flipped to page two.

  More numbers. Another note?

  The letters in the second column: SI? He’d have to look up the company — or talk to a broker. Each preceded by a different month. Negative again? And her note: Saudi? What?

  Then the third page. This definitely has something to do with money.

  The bottom line looked just as bad for Melissa. The amounts rose . . . and then —

  Ending balance zero! Every cent gone? Nothing for Melissa? Cynthia was broke? He didn’t believe it. And why had she penciled in his name along the right?

  Wait! Forty-eight thousand?

  He fished out the folder with the pictures of the custom home. A down payment maybe? Maybe they bought a house somewhere.

  More numbers followed on page four. The amounts were ridiculous. Astronomical figures that could have nothing to do with Cyn. Could they?

  And the numbers got even huger from there. It made no sense.

  He flipped back.

  But only page three had his name on it.

  Tequila

  Of course Melissa will be welcome at Del’s forever, Franklin was certain. Whether there’s money or not. As long as Del is here to take care of her.

  But for how long? Del isn’t exactly young. If something happens to her, who will take Melissa then? Not Everon. Me?

  Cynthia! He put his forehead down in the dry grass overwhelmed by grief. The Old Testament verse said: Above all your possessions, value understanding. But why this, God? To what end? For what reason? A minister’s supposed to know these things, right? I don’t. Tell me. Give me faith. Please, allow me to understand.

  The grassy smell filled his nostrils. He waited, breathing roughly.

  There was only the willows’ rustle, the whoosh of eucalyptus leaves in the cool desert breeze. And all the empty words: “It’ll be okay . . . Everything happens for a reason.” Platitudes he’d used to soothe other people. So empty. For what? God, won’t you please give me some kind of understanding?

  He heard a voice. Growing louder.

  Then a second voice.

  He looked up. Del’s ranch hands, Mano and Jack, walking along the driveway toward him. Passing a bottle between them.

&nbs
p; He stood, surprising them from behind a tree.

  “Señor Franklin!” Mano said.

  “Ah! You have a drink to Miss Cynthía?” Jack asked.

  “We save this bottle a long, long time.” Mano held out an expensive Mexican tequila, the bottle’s lower half covered by embossed silver metal. Don Julio Real. Real — Royal, Franklin translated. He could see the liquid’s gold color through the glass. “A drink with us?” Mano urged. “Para tu hermana — for your sister?”

  Franklin sighed, took the bottle and tilted it to his lips . . .

  “Ah Mees Ceenthía!” Mano cried out.

  “Cynthia!” Jack echoed.

  Franklin took a deep swallow. The liquid burned his tongue, his nostrils. The fire flowed down his throat, a flamethrower in his chest; shaking his head, breathing jaw down, mouth open. “Is this God? This is God’s answer?”

  The pain faded.

  When he looked up, Jack and Mano were staring at him. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken.

  He handed the bottle back to Jack. “Gracias,” he nodded deferentially, “Thank you.” He scooped up the soup box and carried it back toward the house.

  There’s your understanding.

  In a bottle.

  Follow The Money

  Franklin tried to come in to breakfast quietly but the front screen door slammed behind him.

  Bright rays of sunlight highlighted yellow cedar frames around the kitchen windows, warmed the ancient polished cabinetry, glinted off the modern stainless steel refrigerator, stove, oven, a warming drawer, the deep sinks. Del was dividing her attention between cooking and Melissa cradled in her left arm, sucking away on a white bottle. Apparently Harry wasn’t all that necessary to keep Melissa quiet.