Gabriel's Stand

by Jay B. Gaskill

  Cautiously he guided the light in the opposite direction. There was another door at the dim end of the warehouse. My best chance.

  Dr. Owen studied the distance and direction; then turned off the lamp. A wave of dizziness and nausea almost overcame him. Not now, damn it! He walked, counting his paces in total darkness, fighting the impulse to run. The fear is good, he told himself, I need the adrenaline to delay the shock.

  Twenty short paces. I should be there. Two more. One. There! He felt along the corrugated wall. A door jamb. His bloody hand slid along the metal surface. Please, God, let it be unlocked. A fire door?

  Yes! He took a deep breath and pushed the metal door open a crack. Cold air, lights, traffic noises. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust, hesitating again.

  Screw it. He stepped through the door onto an unlit parking lot, near a busy waterfront street. There was a van and a car parked at the other end of the lot. Dr. Owen ran.

  He ran as he never had run before. Reaching the curb, he ran directly into the street, staying near the center divider. He stumbled, fell, got up, and continued running.

  Running. Running.

  Chapter 24

  Max Cahoon had stayed in Seattle for the rest of the week, trying to follow up on the Unabomber angle. But it was a stonewall. He learned from a friendly source that all of the suspect’s papers had been stolen from the police station evidence room sometime during the morning after the fire. The detective and arson inspector refused to talk to him about it. No one would go on the record.

  Then the Times refused to run his terrorist angle story until further investigation. Before leaving Seattle, Cahoon had an angry phone confrontation with his editor. He was told to calm down. “We aren’t the Enquirer, Max. Besides, in light of Panama, we’re not running some eco-terrorist story. That’s final.”

  Max Cahoon flew from Seattle to Manhattan to make peace with his editor. It was another stonewall experience. After a few days, he booked a flight to DC, intending to cover the reaction to the Senate treaty vote. He needed time to decompress…and to think. In the days since Panama Canal was poisoned and Vector Pharmaceutical was torched, Max noted how the popular attention had arrived at an eerie state of horror saturation. They’re finally numbed by reality, he thought. The trivial human interest stories were beginning to push the disasters to the inside pages. And the Vector bombing is going to be spun as the act of a crazy loner. Damn.

  Cahoon stared bleakly out the window of his plane. His follow-up story on Vector had just appeared in the Times as a heavily edited single paragraph buried on page eight.

  Fools. What are they thinking?

  ——

  On April 21st, the night of the Senate vote, Cahoon went straight from his hotel to his favorite DC bar, a small pub on the edge of Georgetown. The Senate was a circus, locked in a televised session to which only electronic media and a select press pool had direct access. The Times had sent a junior reporter into the fray. Just as well for me, Max thought. He had arranged his follow up interviews for the morning after, and had tracked the entire debate on a video feed in the train. The roll call vote was to proceed within the hour.

  Better to see it right here, he thought. Cahoon had never quite gotten the general media. Ironic, he thought, for an insider. The Vector bombing was eclipsed by the Panama Canal disaster, a more compelling story driven by the videos of environmental impact. I guess dead fish are more interesting than dead Americans, he thought. Cahoon had to concede that Panama was the bigger story. But he noticed that, somehow, the two events had begun to blur in the popular mind. And the terrorist origins of Vector—now called a ‘fire disaster’ had just faded away.

  Faded, hell! To the guy on the street it amounted to the same thing. He thought. The modern world is too much: “Hey—It’s just a crazy world, you know? Panama was the result of crazy negligence and that Seattle fire was just a crazy arsonist. Things are just coming apart. So what else is new?”

  “People don’t get it,” Cahoon said out loud. It has become too hard for people to see wickedness outside the framework of mental illness. Cahoon drained his glass and the bartender poured another. “Evil has finally been medicalized.” Max said out loud.

  “What does that mean?” the bartender asked.

  “We say ‘crazy sick bastard’ when we really mean ‘evil sonofabitch’, you know what I mean?”

  “You’re so deep, Max.”

  “Screw you.” Cahoon smiled shaking his head ruefully. I’m the one about to be screwed. He knew with the dreadful certainly of defeat that he’d never be allowed to investigate the rumor that the Panama incident might have been a terrorist act, too. People just don’t want to believe that stuff…

  Then Cahoon looked up at the screen behind the bar. The President of the Senate was surrounded by a crowd of Senators. What have I just missed? He caught a glimpse of Gabriel Standing Bear Lindstrom standing with two other Senators. All three were huddling by themselves, looking very grim while scrolling headlines crawled down the screen.

  Cahoon stared in utter disbelief:

  68 TO 30! EARTH RESTORATION TREATY RATIFIED

  Washington, DC. The U. S. Senate has just ratified the most far-reaching environmental treaty ever signed, and has approved a package of enabling legislation previously enacted by the House. President Chandler will hold a Rose Garden ceremony tomorrow at 3:00 P.M. in which he will sign the enabling legislation. In a statement just released, the president has praised supporters of the historic Earth Restoration Treaty. “Finally joining ninety-three other countries, the United States is the last major power to ratify…”

  Cahoon drained his glass. “I didn’t think they had the votes,” he muttered. “Shows you what an astute observer of the political scene I am.”

  “Fooled me, too,” his bartender friend said. “Shows you what an astute bartender I am.”

  “People are scared,” Cahoon said. “Damn scared. Or just in shock. Either way, it makes them agree to foolish things.”

  Cahoon made a night of it at the bar. The next morning, he missed a possible interview with Gabriel Standing Bear. But the Idaho Senator was refusing to return calls in any case. He caught two other interviews, Thurston Smith and one of the other committee members, that guy from Texas. Then Cahoon reported to the same bar just after lunch.

  “Feeling better?” the bartender asked.

  “Nope,” Cahoon said. “Pour me a pint of that dark ale?”

  “Of course.”

  On the screen, some soccer game continued in silence. “Are you going to catch the Rose Garden signing?”

  “If you insist, Max. But you have at least an hour.”

  “Fair enough.” Cahoon tapped his new SmartPage, unrolling and spreading out the glowing, paper-thin screen next to a bowl of peanuts.

  NASDAQ Stocks Collapse…Technology Index Drops To De-list Levels…Trading Suspended Indefinitely…Treaty Ratification Blamed

  New York. “Treaty panic” drove all technology shares into the basement yesterday, as a “grizzly bear” market overtook the entire technology sector. “This is no mere correction. It is the end,” said…

  BUSINESSMAN REPORTED MISSING

  Seattle. Bio-Tech leader, Dr. John Owen, has disappeared following the Senate’s ratification of the Earth Restoration Treaty. Edge Medical Spokesperson Manny Epstein denied that Dr. Owen had any plans to leave the country.

  “Max? Earth to Max.” Cahoon looked up. “Who are these new Commissioners and how did these people get appointed so fast?” the bartender asked.

  “I see you’ve been keeping up,” Cahoon said.

  “The names were mentioned on the TV this morning.”

  “Really. Let’s see,” Cahoon said, typing on his SmartPage. “Yes. They certainly are moving fast. Hey, today is “Earth Treaty Day,” did you know? April 22.”

  “Great,” The bartender said, clunking Cahoon’s second beer down next to the SmartPage screen.

  “Careful,” Cahoon said.

>   The bartender squinted, trying to read upside down. “Aren’t they waterproof?”

  “Hmmm…one Baron Tumehausen is the European High Commissioner,” Cahoon said, reading. “And for Greater America, the High Commissioner is…” He paused as the press release scrolled. “Rex Longworthy.”

  “Did I miss something, Max? When were the hearings?”

  “You don’t get it,” Cahoon said. “They were never going to be hearings. The Treaty gave effective appointment power to the European Commissioners. All President Chandler had to do was go along. As it was explained to me, that part was wired from the beginning. The rest of the world had already picked Longworthy as our first Regional Commissioner. All we had to do was ratify the Treaty. End of story.”

  “Shouldn’t be surprised. The fix is always in.”

  Cahoon took a sip of beer. “It sure was this time.”

  “It’ll blow over, Max. Stuff like this always does.”

  “This is very different, my friend. Very fucking different. Mark this date. Nothing will be the same after this.”

  “Consider your words marked. April 22. A bartender is nothing if not attentive.”

  “What do you have for lunch in here?”

  “Nuts.”

  “How appropriate.

  “Don’t look so glum. This is just politics, Max. You watch.”

  “Like hell it is.”

  Chapter 25

  Two days later, when Snowfeather’s plane arrived at Sea-Tac from Dulles, she was feeling completely empty. As expected, the vote had gone in favor of the Treaty. Her father and his friends had been outvoted. She had left DC unable to face Gabriel in his defeat…a loss she realized she’d helped engineer. Snowfeather had avoided all calls to her DC hotel room. It was partly because she was avoiding Berker. But she had purposefully stayed out of touch with her father from the day of the demonstrations. Snowfeather felt heavy and deflated; she was ashamed of her disloyalty to the father she loved and respected, and angry with herself for reasons she refused to examine.

  Vincent? Where are you? She knew something was very, very wrong.

  As the cab from Sea-Tac International ferried her to her apartment, scarcely occupied after she had moved out of her dorm room in Bates Hall, the grim, gray Seattle day outside the taxi window mirrored her feelings. Three phone calls later, she learned that the Longworthy law firm was closed, that Vincent’s phone had been disconnected, and that her father’s number in DC wouldn’t even go to message.

  Dad must have finally stopped wearing that stupid headset everywhere. Just when I really need to reach him.

  Just after sunset, Snowfeather wandered through Pioneer Square. Keeping her nylon jacket zipped tight and her head down, she stopped near the Earth Planet Bookstore. The building was closed. The bookstore’s glass front was covered in taped newspapers. It appeared to have gone out of business overnight.

  Curious. Like a circus that has left town.

  Snowfeather kept walking until she arrived at a busy pub a block away. She stood outside momentarily staring at the warm lights, listening to the laughter, and the drone of a television set. Several patrons turned as she walked in.

  “There she is, I tell you!” one yelled.

  “It passed!” another yelled.

  “Come on, that’s not her!” Another voice.

  Snowfeather reversed course. Three minutes later she was back at the empty storefront, staring up at the Earth Planet sign painted on the glass, partly covered by a handwritten “FOR LEASE” sign. Peering behind the taped newspapers, she could see a few dusty volumes scattered on the floor, a chair overturned. She looked up and down the street and fished for her keys. She was almost disappointed when the door easily opened.

  She stepped in, and closed the door behind her. Moments later, she flipped a light switch and slowly mounted the stairs.

  “Hello!” she called. The sound traveled through the hallway and died. “Anybody?” she called out; then she broke into a sneezing fit. The stench of mold and the tang of musk were almost unbearable. The air was dead as a tomb.

  She walked to the Women’s League office and tried the lock. Again, the door opened easily. In the front wastebasket, she found a single torn invitation. It had been signed by Tan.

  All Sisters: A Victory Celebration on Shaw Island. Snowfeather noted the time and location, folded the map and slipped it into her jeans. She would need to borrow a car and drive to the Anacortes ferry, ninety minutes away. But where would I get one…?

  Snowfeather crept down the long hallway to the ceremony room. The door stood ajar. A single glance revealed a huge empty space, stripped to the studs. The room reeked with disinfectant.

  Outside, she retrieved the invitation from her jeans and consulted her watch.

  What can it hurt? Snowfeather thought. Maybe I’ll get some answers. But I’ll need to drive to Anacortes. Where can I get a car? Then she thought of Vince’s old Toyota. I do have a set of keys. You don’t think he left it in the old place?

  ——

  About the same time, in the King County Hospital, Ken Wang arrived at the doorway to a room guarded by a deputy sheriff. An unconscious man with a missing hand lay in bed, wired to a vital signs monitor. He was breathing shallowly through an oxygen mask.

  “We found him next to a phone booth,” the officer said.

  Ken recognized the pallid face immediately. John. “This is Dr. John Owen, the man whose drug factory was firebombed. He was calling me from that phone booth when we were cut off,” Ken said. “He is my employer and he’s not safe here.”

  “I’ll need to make a police report, son,” the officer said.

  “We don’t have that much time,” Ken said.

  Just then, another man arrived in the hallway—sturdy, balding, and wearing a trench coat. Colonel Bill Dornan strode into the room with the natural aura of authority, a formidable man, whose bald head, close-set eyes and amiable fierceness, was difficult to ignore.

  “Call your watch commander, Officer. That’s the boss in there. He needs to come with us now. Ken, pull the car around.”

  ——

  Thank you Vince…wherever you are.

  Snowfeather had just spotted his battered little Toyota parked on the street three blocks from its usual space near her apartment. Vince Marconi had apparently left it there for some time—the car was festooned with parking violations and a towing notice. She peeled off the tickets and towing notices, opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat, trying to compose herself. Snowfeather managed two calm breaths, until without warning, all the demons and doubts overtopped the dam that her subconscious had erected…until now. They began spilling over, first a trickle of regret then a cataract of dread and sorrow. Oh, Vince, what happened to you? Where are you? What have I done?

  The first tears stung, and great wrenching sobs followed like a seizure of the soul had taken over her body. Minutes passed, and the convulsions subsided. Her chest ached. Too much grief! I can’t bear it! I don’t have time!

  Snowfeather’s hand shook until the old-style key found the ignition. When the little engine started immediately, she blinked away her tears and re-parked the car in front of her building. By midnight, she had gathered her things into a small bag, closed the apartment, and driven the car to a small motel close to the Anacortes Ferry. She would take the earliest departure.

  Snowfeather arrived on the island of Shaw in the San Juan Island group the following afternoon, parking the car out of sight of the trailhead that Berker’s map had identified. An hour later she was trudging the damp, dirt path to her rendezvous. The clearing ahead revealed a strange compound, almost indistinguishable from its natural surroundings. A tangled fence and a lean-to shelter were nestled amongst a conifer forest. In front of these primitive structures stood a large tent made of canvas covered with branches. A faint trail of smoke leaked into the close, gray sky.

  Berker emerged from the tent, her Tan persona in full view, complete with a shaved head. “You’
ve changed since school let out.” Snowfeather said, pausing to catch her breath. “You’re not getting chemo or anything?”

  “Of course not,” Tan said. “We’re a little surprised to see you. You left DC so abruptly.” Tan held open the wicker gate and stepped aside.

  “My part was done,” Snowfeather said.

  “Who invited you? I thought you wouldn’t be interested in coming.”

  Snowfeather shrugged. “Didn’t you mention it? I forget.”

  “No matter. We’re still celebrating our victory. A gathering of our very best friends. Please join us inside.”

  “Your invitation mentioned an important guest?” Snowfeather asked. Tan smiled mysteriously.

  Somewhat self-consciously, Snowfeather brushed her black hair away from her face as she entered the dark tent. Five other women sat inside on tree stumps, staring in trancelike fixation at a small fire while the flickering light cast exaggerated, leaping shadows on the canvas. Their heads were also freshly shaved for the occasion. No one looked up when Snowfeather entered the circle.

  Next to the fire, a man in a torn business suit was tied to a vertical wooden pole, his face turned away. A single rope coiled from knees to shoulders with a large triple knot at the back. Intensely curious and horrified, Snowfeather walked slowly around the figure, whose black face was especially hard to identify in the reflected firelight.

  OH DEAR GOD. HELP ME!

  The body belonged to the late Herbert Lance McKernon, Junior Senator for the state of Washington. Oh Dad, Snowfeather thought. What have they done? What have I done? Snowfeather’s world abruptly shifted; old suppressed suspicions clicked like dominoes, lining up in a new, menacing configuration. I should NOT be seeing this.

  I must be calm. Must control myself absolutely. Must get out of here!

  “Senator McKernon is with Jee-Ah.” Tan said. At this point, Snowfeather’s head was spinning, her ears roaring. Struggling to maintain her dignity, she walked over to the body. She was barely functioning, trying to project nonchalance. Her face was an icy calm. She was a marionette with a dignified, frozen mask.