Project Antichrist

by Pavel Kravchenko

  “I think I am in love,” I said aloud to sum it up, goose bumps advancing up my spine.

  Thus upbeat, mind full of Iris, I drove several blocks to the FBI headquarters. A couple of News Vans started after me as I emerged from the parking garage, but the Winger made short work of those.

  At the FBI building, as pristine and hectic as a psychiatric ward, I was led into a small room with comfortable leather armchairs resembling those we had on the show. There, three polite agents and I spoke at length about my adventures. Actually, they spoke at length, and I did little more than nod affirmatively to their questions, which were supposed to confirm the line of events the Bureau’s brilliant minds had reconstructed from clues. They didn’t seem to (and obviously neither did I, given the circumstances) care for any version of events other than their own, so it wasn’t surprising when we all came to the conclusion that their story hadn’t had a single incorrect assumption in it. We exchanged pleasantries — they congratulated me and I complimented them on the job well-done — and I got up to leave.

  That’s when one of them, a man I would not recognize if I ran him over with my Winger twenty minutes later, extracted from somewhere a black briefcase, which slid open to reveal my shiny semi-automatic. Very nearly made my jaw pop out of joint.

  I got suspicious. “Never seen a murder weapon returned in any of the police dramas,” I said.

  They got a good chuckle out of that one.

  “We would certainly understand if you preferred for us to keep it, Mr. Whales,” the tall fed, Agent Bright One or something, said finally when the smiles were turned off.

  “Can’t possessing a murder weapon implicate me somehow?” Their merriment was renewed.

  Bright One shook his head. “Not unless it’s used again. The case is also yours, Mr. Whales. It has a good lock. Compliments of the Bureau. To add to that official apology.”

  So I took the gun and the briefcase and, instead of stopping by the network, drove straight home, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

  At the garage check point I was halted by Jeffrey’s face.

  “Mr. Whales.”

  “How is it going, Jeffrey?”

  “Very good, sir. I have a package for you. Would you like me to bring it upstairs?”

  “A package?” I asked, and for some reason glanced at the briefcase on the passenger seat.

  “Yes, sir. I believe it’s a telephone.”

  “A cell phone! Of course. It’s all right, Jeffrey. I’ll pick it up on my way.”

  “Very good, sir. But…” Here he brought his face closer to the cam, spilling it beyond the borders of the screen on my side. Anxiety, so recently banished, sprung up inside me again. What could it be this time? I held my breath, waiting. “But there are reporters here,” he finished gravely.

  I exhaled and even laughed. I must really be rattled, I thought. A gun that I myself chose and bought had me driving with both hands on the steering wheel. Now a pair of reporters almost spooked me into cold sweat. What’s next? A shoe squeak will cause a heart failure? I guess one day isn’t quite enough to heal my nervous system, even it if is, possibly, the happiest day of my life.

  “Thanks for warning me, Jeffrey,” I said cheerfully. “I’ll be right there.”

  I should have had Jeffrey deliver it. That was the wrong heroism opportunity to take advantage of. Instead of a pair, there were a couple dozen reporters with cameras on their heads swarming out of every corner of the vestibule as soon as I set my foot out of the elevator.

  Taken aback, but only for the moment it took the professional instincts to kick in, I smiled and nodded and answered the same questions they’d asked me at the FBI, the only difference being the phrasing. FBI: “Upon entering your dwelling on the early afternoon of October the 28th, was your life directly threatened by a weapon held in Mr. Freud’s hand?” Media: “It must have been a horrific experience to open the door of you home and find a corpse and a gun brandished by a deranged man pointed at your head? What were his first words?” Uh-huh.

  I don’t know why I did what I did as my closing act, but it seemed like a cute idea at the time. I opened the briefcase and showed them the gun, preceding its appearance with a nasal, Chase-like “Murder Weapon” announcement.

  Let me tell you, when the Russian President had gone public with the “Vodka Tax” a couple of months earlier, the Red Square might have witnesses more raw emotion than the lobby of my building was presently enduring, but it wouldn’t win by too large a margin. You wouldn’t believe that much noise could be produced by twenty pneumatic drills, much less twenty reporters. I couldn’t make out a word they were saying, but at that point no one cared. They were oblivious to me. Their eyes stared unblinkingly at the gun as they continued to scream their questions. It was the gun the questions were directed at. Which was ultimately to my advantage. I was able to close the briefcase and, disregarding their collective groan, slip quietly out to the elevator, while they remained in orgasmic shock.

  In blissful silence I entered my home, just in time to see myself — and the Silver Killer — “live” on TV.

  I opened the package and caught my fingers punching in Iris’s digits. Shaking my head happily, I dialed Paul instead. This time he picked up.

  “Luke?” he gasped. “What the hell, man? I’m watching you live on TV.”

  “That was about five minutes ago.”

  “How is it ‘live’ then?”

  “Everything within thirty minutes is ‘live.’”

  “Shit, well, that suddenly seems like a freaking rip-off.”

  “I thought you worked for a network.”

  “Yeah, but I was in sound. You know: lower the volume for entertainment, crank it up for commercial breaks.”

  “That was you!” I exclaimed. “I always hated that.”

  “I’m sure you did. Your mug was in half of those commercials. Speaking of your mug. How come you’re not on my display? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “I am ‘live’ on your TV.”

  “That doesn’t count.”

  “Just unpacked the cell.”

  “Ah.” I heard the noise in the background stop. “So tell me what the hell really happened to you.”

  “Come visit, and I will. And bring a bottle of something strong with you. All I have here is wine and I don’t want to go back out there.”

  He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll show up. Got any food?”

  “No, but I could order Chinese.”

  He ordered beef and hung up.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Special Agent Brome read the transcript of Whales’s deposition at his desk, while everyone stopped by to express their congratulations, surprise at his being in the office and concerns regarding his health. To be sure, he was feeling not a little sick. Only some of it was caused by the lingering aftertaste of the greenish vomit he’d splashed all over the toilet back at his house.

  Maybe it was good he hadn’t been present during Whales’s visit. Brighton, who was now gazing down at him from his perch on the corner of the desk, had said as much.

  But Brome was in a bad mood. He was well past his usual, diplomatic indifference.

  He closed the digital file, got up from his chair, bent down towards his partner and, having still retained enough control not to raise his voice, hissed, “This is bullshit.”

  Brighton grimaced. “You see? That’s why you shouldn’t have come back today—”

  “Listen,” Brome cut him off, deepening the grimace. “I was there. I don’t know what it was I shot, but it sure as hell wasn’t a fat mustached guy in a leather jacket.”

  “Three bullets fired from your gun are still in his chest.”

  “I was knocked out. Someone could—”

  “Who? Whales? The old man? The chick? Why?”

  “I don’t know why. And I don’t know who—” Brome did raise his voice now. Several heads turned and it was Brighton’s turn to hiss.

  “Calm down. You aren’t thinking clearly.
You should go back home—”

  Brome inhaled deeply. “What about the holes?”

  Brighton didn’t answer. For a moment he seemed thoughtful. Brome pointed down at the desk.

  “There’s not a word about the holes in the walls in there. Did anyone bother to ask for an explanation of that? Or did you think this Dr. Young simply had a strange interior design taste?”

  “Yes, the holes are bizarre,” Brighton admitted. “But we found an extremely high caliber weapon inside, which presumably belonged to Dr. Young. I tell you, that thing could make holes.”

  “Why did Whales forget to mention it in his statement? And we forgot to ask him about it.” Some of that diplomacy was returning. Otherwise, Brome would have said, “You forgot to ask him.” Brighton caught the meaning nonetheless.

  “It’s not that important. The important thing is he confirmed there was an altercation between Freud and the rest of them, which escalated. He confirmed the before and the after, and he didn’t get hit by a car.”

  “I saw a black shape,” Brome said slowly. “What I shot at was a black shape over seven feet tall. I don’t know who or what it was, but I am guessing that same shape knocked me out and killed—”

  Evidently, Brighton had had enough. He got off the desk and became taller than Brome once again.

  “You got hit on the head,” he said.

  “I remember it clearly—”

  “Enough,” Brighton cut him off, raising his hand and lowering his voice. “It might seem clear to you, but you put that in the report, and I guarantee you’ll be chasing Internet movie pirates for the rest of your career. The case is closed, as far as The Bureau is concerned. Whales is innocent; the psycho is dead. Cops are searching for the hit-and-run driver and they probably will not find him. I don’t care. Go home, take a pill and think about it. Better yet, don’t think about it. Your vacation has already been approved.”

  With that and a slap on the shoulder, Brighton retired to his own desk.

  He was right, Brome knew. Brighton was right about the report, and Brome had just been threatened. He doubted the mention of medication had been Brighton’s own idea. Most likely his partner had been specifically instructed on how to deal with Brome’s predictable stubbornness regarding his vacation. Someone must have overlooked the doctor-patient confidentiality clause.

  What are they going to do, Brome thought as he looked about his desk in search of personal items to take home, give me over to the prescription cops? There had never been anything personal on his desk, he remembered. The thought about the Rexes renewed the bitter taste in his mouth, because it was when he had turned on the news, having just won the mute insult contest against his reflection and having manly consumed the pill without water, that Special Agent Brome lurched to the bathroom to regurgitate his future as a normal citizen and Super Agent Gumpy.

  He didn’t bother with customary elevator theatrics on the way to the garage.

  * * *

  A bench made of two logs and a wide untreated plank had no back, so it faced both east and west. Around it, like giant hooded druids arranged in a Stonehenge-like circle, stood six gnarled elms. Their stooping sinewy limbs were bare. On this Caribbean island they were the only subjects of the flora kingdom that remembered autumn.

  The elms also remembered Britain, from where their new landlord had them moved. They were the last survivors of the ancient British breed consumed by the Dutch disease.

  Their savior presently sat on the bench wrapped in his customary black wool coat, which caused him no discomfort in the eighty-degree heat. He faced east, staring at the lightening horizon. His attention, however, was directed northwards. It was from the north the beam came, causing the man’s form to blur briefly.

  —You killed a Sobak.

  —Lower caste. A Seeker.

  —You broke the rule.

  —I believed you.

  —Do you know when the last Sobak was killed?

  —Wasn’t that a couple of years back?

  The man’s lips stretched into a smile.

  —They think it was me.

  —Or one of your friends.

  —Same thing.

  —If I am you, I do not want to be in Chicago right now.

  —But you are in Chicago.

  —I am very inconspicuous.

  —You came closer to being discovered than you know. A stupid prank, or mistake, almost led them to you.

  —Someone played a prank on a Sobak? One of yours?

  —No. But one of mine reports the prankster is still alive because they think he is mine.

  —Feeling sorry for him?

  —Just telling you to be careful.

  —Noted. What now?

  —Now Whales is in trouble.

  —Now he’s in trouble?

  —Before they thought he was just a pawn in my game of messing up their plans.

  —Before a Seeker was killed to protect Whales’s life.

  —Right.

  —So why is he still whole?

  —I don’t know. Maybe they don’t know what to make of it yet. After all, I haven’t acted overtly in… a couple of years? Maybe they will try and find use for him to contest my efforts. Maybe they want to bait me. Or think they already have. They do know that I don’t have many friends left who can kill a seeker. And they are watching Chicago.

  —I know, but they cannot detect my transmissions.

  —That fact could lead them to you as well.

  —I did not think of that. That’s why I am just an errand boy.

  —We will have to wait for their next move. It will not be long.

  —What if their next move kills Whales?

  —It will be an elaborate death. We should be able to react.

  —I’ll pass that along to reassure him.

  —Where did you pick that up?

  —What? The humor?

  —Yes.

  —Same place you did.

  The beam wavered and was gone. The dark-haired man rose from the bench, glanced northwards and grinned.

  “From humans,” he said to the elms.

  * * *

  There weren’t any holes, not even the variety known as “windows,” in the faded façade of a one-story edifice that housed the “Temple of God,” but the place looked even more uninhabited than the ruined house Special Agent Brome had just revisited. After a brief inspection and a futile rap on the door, Brome drove around the block and parked the car in the building’s parking lot.

  Three feet away from the grill of his “Chrysler,” the back door hung half-open.

  Immediately, Brome experienced the distinct feeling of being baited. Like the majority of other bait targets who become aware of being baited, he decided that the target’s awareness of being baited equals the baiter’s failure and removed the safety from his gun. Leaving the car door ajar, he stepped inside.

  Even though it was early afternoon, it was early November afternoon, and on top of that clouds sucked into the city from the lake seemed to have gathered purposely in the southwestern corner of the sky, casting a kind of macabre twilight over the land. Inside the narrow hallway darkness was almost pitch black.

  As Brome navigated the first silent passage sideways, to let the thin light from the open door illuminate the way, his grip on the weapon tightened. He wasn’t really scared, although a thought had occurred to him that it would be very hard to quickly notice a dark shape in some corner, even it was seven feet tall. His tension was of another, frustrating kind, the kind he owed to years not of work in the field, but of watching “thrillers” and police dramas on TV.

  He expected some stupid cat, or a rodent, or a random hollow object to fall off a shelf suddenly and scare the bee-gees out of him. The feeling of anticipation was almost unbearable. Brome found it very hard to keep himself from making a loud noise just to break the silence before something else had the chance to. He stopped, took a deep breath, loosened his hold on the handle and continued. Then he remembered th
at usually, when the goof who freaks out at some mundane mammal turns around sighing with relief and embarrassment, he finds some ugly, huge, but ninja-like stealthy brute holding a melee weapon of choice two inches away from his nose.

  In short, Special Agent Brome was aching all over and trying to keep sharp.

  He turned the corner and found himself in now complete darkness. After a brief hesitation he flicked on the gun-mounted flashlight. Its blue cone revealed a shorter corridor ending in a doorway. The door that was supposed to shield that doorway stood leaning neatly on the wall to the left.

  Here comes the cat, Brome thought, as he stepped through into an office left in state of extensive disarray. A desk lay on its side, two chairs lay on their sides and piles of paper had been thrown around the room, with some visibly torn to pieces. It seemed impossible to keep silent there, and he listened for a while before taking another step. He heard nothing. Stepping lightly, he passed through the room and the door on its other end. He entered the auditorium, with many folding chairs placed in rows and a single broken window in the middle of the ceiling. The gray rectangle on the floor directly under it shone with bits of glass and was dotted with first drops of rain. Despite the abundance of easily moveable furniture here, only the pulpit had been toppled.

  Halfway up the left wall, at the end of an aisle, he saw what must have been the front door. To his right there was another, smaller door, and he swung the beam of his flashlight towards it, moving cautiously, ears straining.

  There was nothing to hear aside from whispers of the wind in the window above. The sign on the door read “Meditation and Maintenance.” It opened into something like a large panty, with cabinets on every wall and an overturned cot in the middle. An unbroken window looked out on the parking lot. All of the cabinets were left ajar and empty. White powder on the floor suggested flour, or medicine crushed under a boot. A blanket and a pillow had been tossed into a corner.