There was a pause, and she kind of cocked her head at an angle. "Around 1976?" she asked.
"Wellllll, yes. How did you know?"
"Do you have a minute, Mr. Biazzi? I'd like to tell you a quick story. She looked down at documents in her hand. "Oh, here's your license and papers. Hang on to those. Anyway, my grandfather lives here, uh, lived here in Roscoe. He was killed in this storm we just had. He used to talk about it."
"I'm very sorry for your loss." He paused, then continued. "Really? He was actually there? He told you that?"
"He swears, uh, swore it actually happened. Most people didn't believe him, though. There weren't a lot of people here back then, and of those, very few are still here or able to talk about it.
"Actually, he was kind of obsessed by it. He kind of went off the deep end on that kind of thing - he used to look up newspapers and read about all that supernatural stuff. He thought it was due to some kind of demon or something. Supernatural, anyway. He didn't bring it up much to others, not after all the hassles he got, but-".
Her eyes began to tear up. She quickly turned her head away, wiped her eyes, and looked him in the eye. "Sorry, we were pretty close, and this just happened. There have been so many deaths, it will take another day or so for the coroner to release him to the funeral home." She looked away again. "Pretty bazaar that this same kind of thing ended up killing him. Almost like the storm didn't like him keeping record, or tattling on it.
"A lot of people thought he was kind of crazy, butB anyway, I thought it was interesting. Sorry to keep you. Drive safely!"
He stared at her a moment longer.
"Miss, or Officer---?"
"Whatever..."
"Miss, I know it sounds kind of weird, but I'd be very interested in what your grandfather had on the subject. I'm a, uh, I'm a kind of a collector of that type of thing."
"Seriously? From the Vatican, interested in supernatural storms?" She looked at him, assuming he might just be being polite, but he seemed genuinely interested.
"If you want, I think I can still get it. He kept all that stuff in a box in his den. His house is just a couple blocks over. It was pretty badly damaged by the tree falling on it - that's what killed him - but I think I know where it is. I'm sure he wouldn't mind - I think he'd be happy someone was actually interested."
"What about you? Were you interested?"
"Me? I'm not sure what to think. I found some of it kind of fascinating, and I believed my grandfather, but well, it got kind of far-fetched at times." She looked a little embarrassed. "Sure you want to see it?"
The man nodded,
"Wanna follow me?"
"Absolutely." He climbed back into his car and waited for her to pull around him. He followed her around the corner. As she said, it only about two blocks, and as she had said, a huge tree lay across the porch and corner of the house. Branches had been cut away near the porch, probably to free her grandfather's body, he supposed. Police tape surrounding the front of the house.
They pulled to the back of the driveway, past the tree, almost to the rear of the house. They walked to the back, and in the unlocked door. She saw the surprised look on his face. "It's still a small town."
He noticed the tiny, neat kitchen as he walked through. The only thing out of place were some leaves that had blown in from the front and made their way back. Going through the kitchen entrance, the gaping hole in the living room ceiling near the front entrance was clearly visible. More branches and leaves were spread throughout the room. It was obvious water had come in. The carpet in the front half of the room was much darker, as was half the sofa. Like their owner, numerous knick-knacks lay broken on the floor where they had been tossed as the tree made its unwelcome entrance.
"In here, Mr. Biazzi."
The tiny den was originally intended to be second bedroom, although it would have functioned far better as a closet. The desk, although not large, was placed perpendicular to the far wall, and reached most of the way across the room. He had little room to step around and behind it. She was struggling with a covered plastic bin up on the shelf. Heavy and awkward, she struggled. He reached over her and grabbed it. Together, they carefully set it on the desk. She then grabbed a second, smaller container and set it beside the first.
"That's it."
"Tim."
She looked up. "Excuse me?"
"It's Tim. Mr. Biazzi was my father."
"Okay, Tim. Jenna."
"Jenna it is. You're right. He had quite a, this is quite a collection."
He looked at the bins she had set on the desk, then opened the first, larger one. Inside he saw page after page of notes, newspaper clippings, maps, and more. She was right, this guy was obsessed.
"Would you like to go through them? I have to get back, but you're welcome to stay as long as you like. I think I can trust you here alone, can't I? I'd tell you to close up before you leave, but, as you see...
"If you don't mind, I'd love to look through these. This is truly fascinating. May I?"
"Knock yourself out. Stay as long as you like. If I see your car here later, I'll stop in. Just close up the lids when you're done - rain coming in and all. It's gonna be a day or two before we can get a tarp over it. Not sure if we should even bother, except for this stuff we haven't moved out."
"Of course, of course. I'll be sure it's all kept dry and secure, and thank you again. This looks fascinating." As does she. He sat down in the old leather chair. Looking inside, he never even heard her leave, his concentration immediately focused.
* * *
And he began to read.
Chapter 21
Not quite stalemate
Yes, there had been defections. Since the beginning. Since even before the beginning. They knew about the group, the Protectors. They knew of the Chosen One, and of the Coming. They were spoken of in their own writings, though they used their own naming convention to literally demonize the order. They used terms like Antichrist, or The Beast to describe the coming leaders. In fact, not only were they known, but expected; not only expected, but anticipated, for the end could not occur before this, and they looked forward to the end as much as the Protectors, perhaps even more. The difference was, in fact, the only real difference was, who would be in charge? Who would have the power? Who would rule?
Of course, there were more differences than that.
As it had been written by another, "The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing man that he didn't exist."
Following this line of thought, numerous trusted members of the order, far enough from the center organization to not risk association, began to ridicule the idea of a Chosen One in public. The idea that there could even be a Chosen One, or an Antichrist was made out to be ridiculous, old fashioned, simply a straw man for the Others, the Church, to focus dissent. In fact, they went on, the whole idea of a Chosen One, The Beast, or whatever name they chose was instituted by the Others themselves to create a demon, someone to target, someone to make themselves be the good guys, the ones to protect the common man. Using these techniques, the order strove to make the Others, the Church, look like superstitious, religious extremists, trying to scare the world with their talk about the Antichrist, or the Devil.
And in great part, they were successful. They had formed a huge organization. Publicly. Serving the good of the public. Looked upon by almost all as the source of salvation for mankind. The Order was non-denominational, non-sectarian, unattached to any specific country or ideology. It had carefully been designed to offend no one, yet be part of no one. To provide technical and financial support throughout the world to other organizations, guided, of course, by themselves. Oh yes, the campaign had been successful.
There had been no direct attacks on the Order by the Others, by the Church, in years, many years. The Others, the Church, knew that any direct attack on the Order, any attack targeted to preventing the future rise of an Antichrist would be met with ridicule, and so conceded the public battle.
&
nbsp; Behind the scenes, however, the battle went on, a few soldiers at a time. In fact, to most on both sides, there wasn't even a battle going on. They, the Others, the Church, as they called themselves, stayed public; the Protectors, private. As long as no bodies were left in the streets, figuratively speaking, the public saw no battle, and no war.
So very little was documented. And what was documented was almost always by mistake. Normally, little mistakes simply went away. With their connections in the media, significant stories simply didn't appear, unless they were so blatant as to be obvious by their absence. And even then, records were soon quietly purged. Once again, the Order, the Protectors, those waiting for the Chosen One, simply didn't exist.
Both sides developed a frustration of purpose. The Protectors, like army ants, knew that they were there to help and protect the Chosen One, but had no idea who or how. This made it difficult to keep the lineage focused, and their supporters engaged. Fortunately, their secular pursuits occupied them day to day, and due to their discipline, focus, and broad contacts, at least of those at the top, they became very successful, providing enough money to maintain support, even if their followers stayed more for financial than philosophic reasons.
On the other side, purposes and goals had shifted towards public relations and social issues. Talk of 'the other side' and the coming 'Protector', and even talk of the Antichrist himself faded from comment, and the few who spoke of it, and few churches that supported it tended to be marginalized to prevent the embarrassment they caused the rank and file members. People were embarrassed by the medieval concepts of a Devil, or an Antichrist. Neither was normally mentioned from the podium any more. The Others, the Church, had managed to silence themselves.
And so the battle stalled. Stalemate. Virtual non-existence, in both public and private, for both sides.
* * *
Except for a very few. On both sides.
Chapter 22
More Mushrooms
"Mushrooms on your bagels. Mushrooms on your bagels," he sang as a little ditty, kind of dancing from one foot to the other. He seemed happy. Or so it seemed to the man at the breakfast bar. Looking around, the place seemed different. He remembered having been here before, but something was different. Something had changed.
Oh, there were more people. Was that it? Was that all? Looking slowly around, something struck him as he looked at the girl sitting at the booth behind him. She looked familiar. Next booth over, an old man also looked at him. Should I know these people? Two booths over a family with two young children sat, and next to them, a blind man sat alone, with his service dog. (That dog looks familiar...) All were looking directly at him. Looking the other direction, a Hispanic family sat, all eyes on him. Down the bar from him sat a black man and woman, obviously not from around here, with brightly colored outfits that belied the sad eyes directed toward him.
The eyes! Looking around, sad eyes. No one talking, no one laughing - nothing but sad eyes, all focused on him. What had he done?
"Mushrooms on your bagels, mushrooms on your tacos, mushrooms on your burgers, mushrooms on your rice", he continued, almost gleefully, now.
Who were these people? Next to the black couple, two seats over, was a young Asian man, sitting alone. Looked like the United Nations in here.
"Mushrooms, mushrooms, see them in the air....Mushrooms, mushrooms, see them everywhere."
The hooded (hooded - something seems familiar) cook began to fill plates from the grill. Everything was burned, not just a little, but charcoal black. Crumbling on the plate. With an awful odor emanating from, was it him? Was it the food?
He served the black couple at the end of the bar first. "Mushrooms, mushrooms, see them in the air...."
The couple screamed, turned to a black powder, and dropped to the floor. A small conical pile of ash. Looking around, no one but he had noticed - all eyes stayed on him - no one looked at the black, crumbled powder on the floor.
"....mushrooms, mushrooms, see them everywhere."
The cook walked past carrying the plate of blackened....blackened....whatever it was supposed to be, and stopped at the table with the blind man. This man screamed as well, and turned to dust. The dog didn't, not right away, anyway. It just continued looking at him. Then, he also turned to dust, but in slow motion, from the ground up, until nothing but his sad eyes were left. Then these, too, turned to dust.
He awoke.
* * *
Half awake, he raised his head off the desk. He couldn't believe he had dozed off. He had knocked a few papers onto the floor when he dozed, and he bent to pick them up. This guy had really been obsessed. There were references to UFO's, the Bermuda triangle, and he though he hadn't seen it yet, he wouldn't have been surprised to find references to the Loch Ness Monster in here somewhere, but on the other hand, he did have Hans Richter's name, and few people outside the circle, very few, .knew that name.
He tried to thumb quickly through the papers, looking for additional references to him.
He found a stack of papers, stapled together. Only a few sheets, but Hans Richter's name was the title of the top page, hand written in large, bold print. Flipping to the next page, he found several photos that had been copied and reduced to fit on a single page. It seemed to be a timed sequence, over several seasons, looking at the trees and snow on the ground. In the first frame, only an empty field with what might have been heavy equipment starting to install roads. (He was guessing at this - the equipment was way too small to identify). In the second shot, an intersecting series of ditches had been dug, though he couldn't tell why or where. In the third, houses were being constructed, but the ditches were gone. Finally, it looked like a normal neighborhood. He stared, over and over, at each photo.
This was it. This must be the compound where Richter stayed when in the U.S., and where his local security was set up. Although Hans was staying in Madison like a typical student, if you consider living in an expensive condo across from the campus typical, his support, his protection, the more secret organization behind the elder Richter's organization must be here. How he had gotten those photos, he would probably never know, but on that one page, there was certainly enough to raise a lot of questions.
He flipped the page. Part of a family tree was being filled out - looked like he started with a stock blank from some web page, and had just started filling it out. Some spaces were filled, especially the Richter paternal line, but there were still a lot of blank spots. Nothing new here; in fact, he could have filled a number of those blank spaces in for him.
Another sheet behind was a photocopy or fax, some kind of copy of some old document. Both sides were shown. One side showed part of what had been a wax seal, long gone, though part of the imprint could be seen. No name was on what would have been the front of the folded document.
The content was odd. Apparently the document wasn't so old after all. It had numerous icons and symbols of various companies and technologies. Some dates, possibly an IP address. Nothing else. Pretty odd. He wondered what it had to do with Hans Richter. No names, no explanation - just included with the papers.
He flipped it over. Nothing on the back side. The last page had a copy - fairly recent, of his driver's license, issued three years ago. The address was Han's condo up at UW Madison. He flipped back to the second page, the page with the time-lapse buildings. That wasn't Madison. Looking around, he saw a copier/fax combination. He could have his staff do some searches on both of these - they were better on the computer than he was, by far. He was too old - missed out on that computer generation. Seemed they were born with the knowledge - he had to fight to learn how to use the word processor.
He positioned the papers, and hit the "Fax" then "Send" keys. Nothing happened. Looking behind the machine, the power was turned on. But no lights.
"Duh."
The power was out. Of course. He was glad no one else was there. But, there were other ways. He ran out to his car, opened the trunk, and pulled out his suitcase. Opening it,
he reached to the back by the hinges and pulled out his camera. At least in this area, he was current with the modern man. Photography was a pastime he enjoyed, and a nice camera, with attachments, constituted his one true vice. There could be worse ones, he justified to himself, and now, well, now he would be able to justify it, (and maybe even get the cost reimbursed, he thought). He brought the camera into the house, and took a series of pictures of the pages, from several angles, with varying exposures. After he was sure he had good shots, and reviewed them on screen, he decided to photograph as much of everything else he could. He shot the house, pictures of people on the walls, and documents. Then, more documents. And there were a lot of documents, more beyond what he had seen. He couldn't tell if they were relevant, but at least he would have them later to check.
The shadows were getting long, and the light from the windows was fading. He had already had to change the batteries of his flash, but he had pretty well covered the material. He was checking the desk for anything else, when he was startled...
"Mr. Biazzi! Tim? You still in here?" She walked in, looking very different. "I'd almost forgotten about you. I got busy, and when I got off duty, headed back to my place. Kind of on autopilot. I was already home when I thought about it, so I went ahead and changed. I checked on my grandfather and," she slapped her forehead, "remembered you were here." She looked at the items on the table.
"Find anything?"
"Wow. There is a LOT of stuff here, and, as you say, he was certainly obsessed. But I have to tell you, there were a few things that were actually quite interesting, and I would like to check them out. I took some pictures of them. I hope you don't mind."
"Of course not. Like I said, I'm sure he'd be excited that someone was interested.
SUMMATION Page 13