Extreme Liquidation: Caitlin Diggs Series #2

by Gary Starta

  Diggs found the latter conclusion more credible and consequently, more disturbing. Time was of the essence. She felt it in her gut. She had no doubt another attack would follow and this one would be elevated. Diggs believed the perps would now be obligated to intensify their attack, to bring down more men, to inflict more damage, to solidify their claim that they could attack whoever, whatever and whenever they wanted without repercussion. If they failed to meet any of these criteria, it would signify a weakness on their part.

  So who were the suspects thus far? Diggs could only name two, FBI Director Connah Hainsworth and possibly, the reincarnation of black magician Aleister Crowley. They weren’t the kind of suspects she could list on a report. Her third suspect troubled her most. He was the man who abducted her—the man in black she could not make out in her visions. He was the one who probably helped carry out the physical manifestations of the attacks, and she didn’t have a name for him yet.

  As Diggs pondered this dilemma, a call came in from Dudek. The assistant director sounded enthusiastic over Rivers’s cellphone. Rivers had put Dudek on speaker so Diggs could hear. Washington PD had found a dead body alongside a roadway. The man’s neck had been snapped. Police found him stripped of all clothing save for underwear.

  Dudek believed the dead man would finally reveal who the true killers were. She requested Dudek employ an FBI forensics team to determine his time of death as soon as possible. That detail would confirm whether this man had been murdered before the water had been delivered to Sweizer. Dudek agreed. It was obvious, but Diggs wanted to cover all bases with the aid of empirical data. For once, Agent Rivers concurred with Caitlin wholeheartedly.

  The assistant director recognized the timbre in Caitlin’s voice. It smacked of desperation. Caitlin Diggs lived to solve cases via unconventional methods. He had hoped Diggs was interrupting his phone conversation with Rivers to provide a fresh spin on the murders. Diggs’s compulsion to reiterate Bureau protocol worried him. He too felt the pressure of time, the invisible cloud of desperation. It told him that conventional methods must be abandoned if they were to prevent more murders, and equally important, the decay of American leadership. He pondered the notion of breaking protocol as snow flurries began to dance in unison outside his office window.

  Rivers joined an FBI forensics team at the crime scene located just off Interstate 66. The crew worked to photograph the scene and remove the body as snowflakes began to fall there as well. Rivers had phoned the water company on the way to the scene, confirming that a delivery truck had been reported stolen. Her GPS navigator told her the driver would have driven along I-66 on his way to Fort Belvoir.

  One of the crime scene investigators informed Rivers there was a slight possibility of lifting a latent print off the dead man’s skin, depending on how frozen the man’s body was. The investigator was a middle-aged man with silver hair: a nametag on his jacket identified him as J. Flynn.

  Rivers eyed him for several moments. He squinted at the frozen body for what seemed like three full minutes. Deondra pondered if Flynn was squinting because of the snow. More likely, Flynn was squinting because he really didn’t believe there was a snowball’s chance in hell he could lift a print off the frozen stiff—at least not here, on a snowy roadside. Rivers began to refocus her attention, hoping prints might be available on the delivery truck—if it could be located and the killer hadn’t thought to wear gloves.

  Rivers’s cloud of desperation began to hover over the crime scene as workers struggled to place the dead body into a gray van.

  ***

  Back at Fort Belvoir, Diggs listened to a flight recorder retrieved from the downed Black Hawk. It was the only forensic evidence remaining that could prove the decimated helicopter had ever existed. Fortunately, Pilot George Aims had engaged the black box to record nearly every word Lt. Col. Sweizer had spoken. Investigators surmised it might take weeks before all the tiny fragments of the chopper could be retrieved.

  Diggs surveyed some photos. The complete obliteration of the Black Hawk sickened her because she realized hundreds, or possibly even thousands of fragments of Lt. Colonel Sweizer’s remains might now be intermingled with the various chunks of steel scattered over the base’s training camp. The audio accompaniment to the visuals confirmed the impossibility of what had taken place at Fort Belvoir: how someone had managed to transform a full bloodied American patriot into a murderous traitor.

  Diggs listened to the recording in a small booth via headphones. She positioned her right hand over the rewind button. She studied each and every sentence for over an hour in an attempt to determine if Sweizer’s behavior was consistent with that of Greg Salinger and Senator Ralston. What surprised Diggs most was inconsistency. Lt. Col. Sweizer had behaved quite rationally despite his actions. It was as if he had suddenly been brainwashed to believe his demonstration might serve a purpose, to end the war.

  What held the power to change a man’s mind so quickly? Sweizer was military through and through. His father was a colonel as well. He would have no reason to question the merits of war. He devoted his entire life to following orders. The tape told Diggs someone had taken Sweizer’s conviction from him in mere hours. It also told her the drug had other applications. If it could turn men into raging lunatics and hypnotic zombies, what else could it do?

  She did not doubt Jason scientist Ian Fromme knew. It explained why he was so eager to steer her away from the military. If the drug could be used to brainwash, nearly every American citizen was now at risk. Its application could extend far beyond the battlefield. It made Diggs expand her list of suspects. She had to hold those proficient enough to design such a drug responsible for its effects as well. She listened to the tape for another half an hour, until fatigue and frustration compelled her to stop. The voices concluded one sure thing: No matter how many times she listened to this tape, it wouldn’t give her a single name. She had no tangible suspects.

  As she left the base, Caitlin experienced pangs of withdrawal. She realized the robe had become a drug for her. She needed a fix to ease the transition. Her laptop informed her the Wicca shop, MagiKAT, might have that fix. It was located on her route back to her Manassas apartment. She arrived at the store fifteen minutes later, her G6 nearly skidding against the curbside in response to the slippery driving conditions. She exited her car, hands shaking, and sweat formed upon her brow despite the thirty-two-degree weather. It wasn’t the cold that shook Diggs to the core. Inside, she summoned her courage. She asked the red haired proprietor to sell her what must surely be the devil’s tool—a pack of Aleister Crowley tarot cards.

  Chapter 22

  She had fooled Tara. Caitlin cleverly kept her purchase concealed underneath her bed covers each time her sister popped her head into her room. Tara, along with Celeste, Mrs. Petersen and her cat Christopher would leave the next morning for the New Jersey Cat Fancier’s show. And fortunately for Caitlin, Tara was too occupied with borrowing a few of her sister’s beauty products to suspect anything. Caitlin guiltily produced some small talk, noting that the storm should subside in time for the morning commute. Tara shuffled in and out of Caitlin’s room, oblivious to her sister’s attempt at communication.

  In fact, her younger sibling had entered the bedroom three times without bothering to glance at Caitlin or wonder why she was in bed at such an early hour. Diggs wondered if her sister’s aloofness might somehow be connected to the power of tarot cards she had stowed away underneath her bed sheets. She waited to produce them from her hiding place until she was sure Tara would not be returning.

  The proprietor had described them as beautifully dangerous. He wore a maniacal grin throughout the purchase, informing Caitlin that the Aleister Crowley tarot deck was formally known as the Book of Thoth.

  Diggs had to admit that the cards were exquisitely designed. The shop owner’s enthusiasm haunted Diggs on her ride home. He mentioned several times that Diggs was the first person to purchase the deck this year. She shuddered at the man’s ju
bilance. It made her wonder what kind of sordid behavior went on behind the red curtain at the back of the shop, but it didn’t deter her from taking the cards.

  Like an addict, she knew her actions were wrong, yet she couldn’t deny a primal urge to reconnect with the men who abducted her. She didn’t want to admit her lust for this connection was motivated more by a need to discover herself than to expose the men underneath the magical robes.

  She attempted to block her conscience and thoughts of the overly exuberant proprietor as she dug into the box of cards. She gazed upon the Fortune card. It reminded her of the gold colored gate she had seen in her vision. She held the card in her left hand, and without looking, drew another from the box. It represented the Priestess.

  Diggs gasped. The woman portrayed on the card bore a striking resemblance to her. She had piercing dark blue eyes, chestnut brown hair and high cheekbones. She stood on air. A white robe danced about her as if wind was blowing.

  Celeste remained perched on the dresser, eyeing Caitlin with great concern.

  Diggs remained oblivious to outside distraction. The sound of a snowplow, her sister’s noisy packing and even the wary stare of her beloved feline all went unnoticed. She refused rest until she had studied all seventy-eight cards.

  Hours later, after tucking the cards into the drawer of her nightstand, she drifted into a dream . She felt cold. Her feet had become wet and sticky. She glanced down to find herself perched upon a giant slab of crystal clear ice. A white robe billowed in the wind about her. Intermittent sprinkles of snowflakes stung her eyes.

  She did not associate this experience with premonition until a large falcon began circling her and the slab of ice on which she stood. He had a black and white face; it reminded her of the two discs on the tarot card box. The rest of the bird appeared robotic, reflecting a dull haze of light off its golden body. He graced the air, lofting lazily above her as a metallic falcon, a few meters from arm’s reach. When the falcon spoke, she knew the voice belonged to the deceased magician Aleister Crowley. She had never heard a tape of this man’s voice, yet she knew it was his. He spoke in a flat metallic tone, slightly accentuated by a British accent.

  “The card you admired so much, the one you believed to be you. It’s a representation of the Priestess. She is the Goddess Isis. She is not you, at least not yet....”

  “I don’t understand.” Caitlin shielded her eyes to gaze heavenward toward the bird.

  “You couldn’t possibly, not as long as you cling to that frozen stubbornness of yours.” The falcon bellowed. It resembled the squawk of a parrot. “You’re trapped in a consciousness incapable of understanding a simple paradox.”

  “And that is....”

  “The fact that Isis is you and you are Isis.”

  Diggs chose not to respond, twisting her body about haphazardly as if she were attempting to initiate a waking state.

  “Don’t be so hasty to leave. You bought the cards because you want to learn about yourself. Well, I can help you. Now, if you studied the Priestess card closely, you may have noticed a golden beam of light is at work. Isis’s robe is not being lifted by the wind, but by a great charge of electromagnetic light, a pure golden white light capable of unlocking the fourth dimension of consciousness. It exists within her. You also have this light contained within you, but it will never come to much use as long as you live your life stagnated, much like you are now, clinging to that frozen block of ice beneath your feet.”

  “I want to know one thing first.” Diggs paused to push back a strand of errant hair that had flown into her eyes. “Tell me your name and tell me how you’re connected to the crimes being waged upon America’s leaders.”

  “I’ll be glad to tell you. My name is Lord Crowley—at least it will be in due time. I have been feeding you clues all along, Caitlin. I don’t need to keep my identity secret from you. And about those crimes, well I am connected in a way. It is sort of like that Kabbalah string your sister wears. It’s as if I am a soul mate.”

  “A soul mate of whom?”

  “I admire how open minded you are, Caitlin. You did not dismiss the idea of reincarnation when I implanted it in your mind shortly after your abduction. Nevertheless, I feel you need more time.”

  “If you believe I am truly open minded then tell me whose body you possess.”

  “I may inhabit a body that is very close to you.”

  “Very close? What does that mean?”

  “Think about it.”

  Images of Tara, Ross Fisher, Deondra and Dudek flashed before her. Did he mean close as in a close personal bond or was Crowley insinuating a more literal interpretation—someone who worked in very close approximation to her?

  “Yes, approximation is a great word for you to ponder, Caitlin.”

  “So you can read my thoughts, even here in this dream?”

  “Why not consider this a vision? Have you ever had such an interactive dream before?”

  “Tell me who is responsible for the crimes, and then maybe I’ll listen to your fantastical inferences.”

  “I am the higher power here, my Priestess. I choose to enlighten you first. How about I explain that golden gateway to you? It’s really called the Golden Mean Spiral. It’s a mathematical equation, so to speak, a geometric marvel. Remember the word approximation? In mathematics, the approximation theory is concerned with how functions can best be approximated with simpler functions. You might one day come to understand that the Golden Mean Spiral is not a fantastical representation but a geometrical one. The Golden Mean theory encompasses a doubling sequence. And that doubling sequence gives credence to the possible reality that you and the Goddess Isis are one and the same.

  “The sequence I refer to is known as the Fibonacci Sequence. The Fibonacci numbers, and their relative ratios are sometimes far removed from mathematics—they are in nature and in art, in classical theories of beauty and proportion. If we compare you and Isis to an amoeba, you are now both the result of a split—a doubling, so to speak.”

  “I hear your double talk, Crowley. You’re a magician. You spent your life tricking others. You’ll find I won’t be so easy to convince, despite my reputation for considering extreme possibilities. Your explanation has raised as many questions as it answers. Assuming this isn’t a dream, that it’s a waking reality—a space in time you have manipulated for my benefit, I still can’t begin to understand your paradoxes. If this Isis exists in this spiral—this kingdom of gods—how could we have ever been joined? I have never been to this kingdom.”

  “True, but Isis is free to roam the universe. When you’re part of the fourth dimension—a part of the Golden Mean Spiral—you can be anywhere or anyone.”

  “I still want names, Crowley. So why don’t you tell me how I fit into all this?”

  “The light inside you can open this kingdom. With it, you can find what humans cherish most—love. Put simply, the Golden Mean Spiral can be experienced as a profound feeling of love.”

  Caitlin fell into reflection, considering the truth of Crowley’s words.

  “I believe you used love as a means to enter my waking world. When I saw Ross and me making love in that wine glass, I realized we were opening up another kind of door for you, one that you might use to let your consciousness seep into my world.”

  “Yes, my Priestess. I see your perceptive powers have fashioned you into a formidable investigator, but now the winds of change blow. Stop thinking about me and focus on yourself. You must dare to take a leap off that frozen block of ice and abandon that tiresome pursuit of crime. Grab the golden ring. You’ll find a world devoid of murder, war and hate. All you need do is shine your light from within and liquidate that cumbersome block of ice, my Priestess!”

  “You sound like the devil, Crowley. A madman, an evil madman at that. You don’t care about me. You care only about you. You used your will to jump into another’s body and then you manipulated them. Now, tell me who it is.”

  “Madman is so mundane a term. I p
refer misunderstood, if you will.”

  Diggs’s blue eyes reflected the white light from the ice. She used them to bore into the falcon, confirming that her will was still her own.

  In response, Crowley fashioned a setting more comfortable for Caitlin.

  ***

  She is seated in a wooden chair across a table from Crowley himself. He leers at her under the bright strobe of white interrogation lights.

  “Is this more to your liking, Caitlin? I’m coming to you in a vision now. I sensed you don’t trust dreams.” He sighs. “I can’t fathom why you don’t want to let go of all this.” He raps his knuckles on the table. “Why continue to exist as a wooden table when you can become a brilliant beacon of light?”

  Crowley’s human appearance intimidates her. He is a large man with wild eyes and unkempt hair. He wears a steady grin. He uses this grin to belittle her, to confirm his otherworldly arrogance.

  Diggs peruses her attire. She is wearing a mint green suit with a white collared shirt. As she looks at it, she senses how rigid this apparel choice is. Because she has never worn a similar outfit, she reasons Crowley has dressed her. She feels the weight of his mocking stare, he is making light of the importance she holds for her job. She also assesses the drab settings about her, the wooden table and chairs, the lamp, the gray walls. They speak volumes about what she has sacrificed. She might very well be happily married; instead she has chosen the life of a crime fighter. The relentless pursuit of justice leaves her little reward but wooden furniture and gray walls. The man seated across from her promises light and love. She has come to understand the devil’s philosophy, that temptation is quite real, and that it may have actually taken root in a garden thousands of years ago.