by Ren Hamilton
He awoke with a start, and a headache that felt like it was splitting his skull in two. The headaches he’d found went hand in hand with the dreams about Joey. He’d gone through a half a bottle of pain reliever in a week. He toddled to the bathroom, hunched over from the pain in his head. He dug the bottle of pills out of the cabinet, tossing back three of them, then splashed water on his face and studied his pale reflection.
“What’s happening to me?” he asked the mirror. “I can’t get him out of my head.”
Chapter Twelve
The bartender gave Agent Litner a foul look when he ordered a club soda, like his decision to drink a nonalcoholic beverage was a direct insult. Litner didn’t drink, and wouldn’t even be in the bar if not for his boss’s insistence. Michaels always demanded they meet at some shadowy, rank-smelling pub like this.
“Do you want to start a tab?” the bartender asked as he plunked down the drink.
Litner handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “No, just some privacy please. Keep the change.”
Eyebrows raised, the bartender nodded and moved off.
Michaels had soundlessly taken the stool next to him, probably the only six-foot five black man that could slip into a room unnoticed. Litner found it unnerving, but didn’t let on. He had a few tricks of his own, one of which was to maintain a deadpan stare in the face of any situation.
Michaels plucked an olive from the garnish display and popped it in his mouth. “You called this meeting, Litner. Are you going to talk or are you going to stare at my bald head?”
Litner caught himself and dropped his eyes. He wasn’t a vain man, but was pleased that his own head had a full crop of hair at age forty-four. Granted, it was prematurely white, had been since his twenties. Some suggested that Litner dye his hair, but he couldn’t imagine taking vanity to such an extreme.
“You know why we’re here,” Litner muttered, taking a sip of his drink. “Did you look at it?”
“I did.”
“Then you understand why I think an investigation of this Forest Bluffs thing is warranted.”
Michaels slid a flash drive over, and Litner recognized it as his own. “You can have this back. It’s weak. We’re not touching it.”
“Weak? No, surely you can see—”
“Litner!” Michaels interrupted. “Joey Duvaine is clean. Murder was ruled out in all three deaths. He didn’t kill his family. You and Agent Rourke need to let it go.”
“This isn’t about the deaths of the Duvaine family anymore. I found some serious red flags during the investigation.” He held up the flash drive. “Did you even read this?”
“Watch your tone.”
“It’s right there in black and white.”
“It’s a half-assed chart someone made in a spreadsheet. It could be fantasy fiction for all we know. Or just plain bullshit. I think you need a vacation. You’re chasing phantoms.”
Litner’s cheeks flamed, and it was a struggle to maintain his deadpan stare. “My gut tells me it’s not fiction. I believe there’s evidence of a threat. If you’d read my report—”
“I read your report, Litner. You want me to deepen this inquiry because some ninny made a spreadsheet.”
“That ninny is Joey Duvaine’s closest friend, Melvin Shepherd, and the email we intercepted was encrypted. An excessive amount of protection for a file that means nothing.”
Michaels finally turned and met Litner’s eyes directly. “That beach house is private property, and those people are private citizens with no criminal history. If this rich little Duvaine bastard wants to sit out there on his dead daddy’s land and play God, then he’s perfectly entitled to do so. We’ve got our hands full with terrorist threats. We don’t have time to fuck with benign religious cults, if that’s what this is.”
“Did you see Joey Duvaine’s latest purchase? He bought Arcania Foods. And they’ve begun growing some sort of crop in the fields behind that beach house.”
Michaels leaned in close and cracked a wide-mouthed grin. “Maybe it’s a vegetable garden.”
“Must I spell this out for you?”
“I get what you’re insinuating here, your report was about as subtle as a brick to the head. And I didn’t just dismiss it out of hand. I profiled him myself.”
“And?”
Michaels shrugged. “Troubled men try things like this. Men that want. Angry men. Joey Duvaine is a wealthy young man with above average intelligence and no history of mental illness or criminal behavior. No political leanings or protests, no questionable writings in his work or educational history. He’s never even voted. Not because he’s raging against the machine, but because he’s lazy and apathetic. Joey Duvaine doesn’t care about the status quo enough to want to screw with it.”
“Have I ever been wrong?”
Michaels avoided Litner’s eyes. “You have my answer. Let it go.”
“Answer the question, Michaels. Have I ever been wrong?” He glared at the side of Michaels’ head until he was sure he’d bore a hole into it.
Finally, Michaels looked at him. “No. You’ve never been wrong. But there’s always a first time.”
“And if I’m right? A lot of people could die.”
“We don’t know that to be true.”
“We don’t know it’s not true.”
Michaels met his eyes, and Litner saw a flicker of doubt in them. “You basing this all on that spreadsheet or is this one of your feelings?”
Litner smiled on the inside. He knew Michaels wouldn’t brush his theory off so completely. He’d earned the right to have his opinion valued. “Feelings and logic. You know that spreadsheet correlates to other details regarding Duvaine’s behavior as of late. I’m not grasping at straws here. This isn’t just a bad feeling, although you’re right, I do have a bad feeling about it.”
Michaels gave him a resigned wave of his hand. “Okay, let’s hear it. Give me the sales pitch.”
Litner shifted on his stool so he faced his boss, and lowered his voice. “Just for a moment, forget about the email and forget about the purchase Duvaine made. Putting that aside, look at the situation they’ve put themselves in. There’s no motive for what they’ve done.”
Michaels frowned. “Are you referring to that ridiculous apparition business?”
Litner nodded. “Think about it. Joey Duvaine suddenly has hundreds of sites dedicated to him and his so-called miracle. Yet he claims he wants nothing. He’s refused donations. He pays his taxes. He isn’t asking people to give up their possessions. He’s declined further interviews, but he made sure he got his face out there with the one he did. Beyond his call for ‘open minded people to help him find the truth’, he hasn’t asked for anything.”
“What are you getting at?”
“It’s all so…subtle. Careful and calculated. But for what? I can’t find a reason.”
Michaels rolled his eyes. “Nothing. That’s why you can’t find a reason. It’s all for nothing.”
“I don’t believe that. We all know he’s not stupid. His IQ is off the charts. On the surface, the only explanation for his actions is that this guy had a genuine otherworldly experience and wants help figuring out what it meant.”
Michaels’s forehead wrinkled. “You’re not suggesting that something paranormal actually happened to this clown.”
“Of course not. I’m certain the apparition was a hoax. A damn good hoax. But there’s a circus quality to the entire thing. It’s like…he wants anyone in authority who might have taken notice to think he’s a fake. Like he’s purposely trying to get us to laugh and turn away. Pay him no mind whatsoever. But why?”
Michaels moved his stool closer. “Maybe to divert attention from something else. That’s what you’re saying. That this whole apparition, divine truth-seeking bullshit could be a smokescreen.”
“This hoax wasn’t done cheaply. It was a lot of money and trouble for someone to go through for nothing.”
“You’ve failed to consider one motivation, Litner. Sheer,
simple, boredom.” Agent Michaels turned away. “The rich are different than us. They’ll go to great lengths to amuse themselves, and to feed their egos.”
“It could mean nothing. But it could be a domestic terrorist plot.”
Michaels huffed and ate another olive. “Domestic terrorism. Such a trendy phrase right now.”
“Because it’s a problem.”
“Duvaine is not political! There’s literally no evidence he gives a fuck about anything enough to want to terrorize it.”
“Do you want to take that chance?”
Chewing, Michaels glanced at him, expression uncertain. “You’re really convinced of this. Aren’t you?”
“Let me do the investigation. Let me be sure. I’ll be discreet.”
Michaels studied Litner. “I’ll need something better than a stolen spreadsheet.”
Litner breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll get it.”
“From where?”
“The Forest Bluffs property.”
Michaels shook his head. “Duvaine’s smart. He’ll know you don’t have the authority without evidence of a crime. And he can afford an army of lawyers.”
“I have a plan. Duvaine stated in his television interview that he’s auditioning to take on a group of consultants.”
Michaels snorted. “Followers, more likely. Like I said. Egos.”
“We can try to slip someone in, but we have no way of guaranteeing that our plant will even be chosen.”
Michaels scratched his chin. “So if they’re not ‘chosen’ what then?”
“I have a plan B. His name is Patrick Obrien.”
“The big redhead from the roof? You barely mention him in your report. How can he help?”
“He’s had a falling out with his friends. We may be able to close in on him and get him to talk.”
“And if he doesn’t know anything?”
“That’s doubtful. He’s an old college buddy of Duvaine’s, and he was there the night of the apparition. But if he doesn’t know anything, he can find out.”
“How?”
“By infiltrating their little beach camp. I want a sample of whatever they’re growing out in those fields. Patrick Obrien can get it. If it’s nothing but a bunch of vegetables, I leave them alone. If it’s something else, then we move forward from there, with solid evidence in hand.”
Michaels stared at him, still looking skeptical. “What if Obrien refuses?”
“He won’t. Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.”
Michaels stared at him, eyes narrowed. Litner had never revealed his persuasion tactics, but his record evidenced they were effective. He suspected Michaels thought him a closet tough guy, making threats against home and hearth to get what he wanted. His tactics were much subtler. For persuasion, he referenced his psychology training, exercising his mind instead of his muscle. Once he got inside someone’s head, he could crack it like a safe. This Obrien character should be a breeze.
“Okay, Litner,” Michaels said. “Here’s my offer, and it is not up for debate. You use your own team on this, no one else. Keep them muzzled, not a word to anyone. You get the crop samples, and get out. If you fuck this up, you’ll be the fall guy. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
Outside the bar, Litner started his car and Michaels leaned into the driver’s side window. “I know you have a history with that priest down at Saint Mary’s church. I hope he hasn’t pushed you to take this on for personal reasons. I understand he was pretty pissed off about that phony miracle happening at his church. Can’t say I blame him. The place is like a damned tourist attraction now.”
Litner looked at his boss, his face an expressionless mask. “Father Carbone and I went to school together, and we are friendly, but I haven’t spoken to him about this.”
It was the truth. He hadn’t spoken to Luigi Carbone. Yet.
“Good. The fewer people involved the better. Goodnight.”
Litner drove off, heading toward St. Mary’s church for his meeting with Father Carbone. He respected his boss’s opinions, but ultimately, he always did things his own way. He bent the rules sometimes, but only for a good cause. His instincts had never failed him, so he’d grown to rely on them, and was confident this would not be, as Michaels’ suggested, the first time Litner was wrong. But if it was? He’d be relieved to be wrong. Welcome it, actually.
Some of the bizarre evidence he’d uncovered seemed almost religious in nature, though unfamiliar to anything Litner had knowledge of. Father Carbone was a theologian by degree, so could perhaps help decipher things—if it meant anything at all, that is. It could be mere fantasy fiction, just as Agent Michaels suggested regarding the spreadsheet. But it could be a tragedy in the making, and Litner wasn’t taking any chances.
Chapter Thirteen
Cars lined the lush winding road that led up to the beach house. Benign clouds clung to the stretching blue sky like caps of foam on a calm sea. The sun was still new, casting a dance of early morning shadows around the flowering shrubs and blueberry bushes, like a thousand tiny hands waving. Beyond the locked gates at the end of the driveway, the crowd grew. Perched in clusters at the edge of the road, some with portable lawn chairs, they could have been waiting for a parade to come by. But they were not waiting for a parade.
They were awaiting their chance to be accepted into the gates and to share in the secrets of Joey Duvaine’s miracle. He had, after all, invited them.
“Look at them all.” From a front window, Joey peered through a pair of binoculars. Shep stood at his side, gazing at the crowd with a thoughtful scowl. “How will we choose?”
“We’re going to interview them,” Shep said.
Joey uttered a small laugh. “All of them?”
Shep shrugged. “I guess that would take a while.”
“Well yeah! Look at all of them. Didn’t you think this through, Mr. Plan of The Century?”
Shep chewed his thumbnail. “Not a problem. We let in a hundred and fifty. We choose sixty from that group. That should be enough people to tend to things around here.”
“Who has to interview them?” Joey asked, looking uneasy.
“You do, of course.”
Joey shook his head and drifted over to a nearby chair, sitting stiffly. “I’m not a good judge of character, Shep.”
Shep followed him over. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right there with you. I’ve even made up a set list of questions for you to ask. I’ll stand by and judge their reactions, read their auras, that sort of thing. The ideal candidate should be mesmerized by your presence, but not so much that they couldn’t function. I’ll be able to weed out the bad seeds.” Joey sat with his hands wedged between his knees. Shep moved closer, studying him with a tilt of his head. “Are you okay?”
“I’m not sure I’m up for this. I’m feeling a little unsteady. Not myself, you know?”
Shep stiffened. “Did you have more dreams last night?”
Joey barked a laugh. “Dreams? That’s cute. Try nightmares. I have them every night. They’re getting worse. I feel afraid all the time, and I don’t even know what I’m afraid of.”
Shep sat down beside him. “If the dreams are getting worse for you, they’re getting worse for Obrien too. He can’t stay away forever. I’m sorry you have to go through this, but in order to bond Obrien to you, I had to bond you to him as well.”
“Well it really sucks, if you don’t mind my saying so. You didn’t tell me it was going to affect me like this.”
“Yes, well I didn’t think Obrien was going to be this stubborn.”
Joey met his eyes. “You mean you didn’t think he was going to be this strong.”
Shep’s teeth clenched. “He’ll be here.”
“What if it didn’t take? I mean, what if it didn’t work? Maybe we should—”
“Maybe we should what?” Shep yelled and Joey jumped.
“I just think it might not have worked.”
“So what are you suggesting, Joey? Huh? Another b
lood pact? Give me a break! We barely talked him into the first one!”
Shep stormed over to a nearby desk and dug through a drawer. He tossed a plastic cylinder of pills over to Joey, who caught them. “Those are Valium. They’ll keep you calm, and they’ll help you sleep. Once Obrien gets here, you won’t have to feel any more fear. And he will get here, Joey. I don’t want to hear any more crap about the blood pact not working. You saw him climb the side of that church like he had plutonium in his veins.”
The interviews went on all day and into the night. Juris would bring each of the candidates in and seat them in a chair across the big oak desk from Joey. Shep stood to the side, a silent observer. Some candidates were discarded immediately, like the women who tried to dive over the desk to get at Joey. Shep even uncovered a would-be spy.
The young man in question had stringy, shoulder length red hair with a face full of boyish freckles, and introduced himself as Ronny Slade. Shep was immediately suspicious. The man claimed to be twenty years old, but Shep was sure he was closer to thirty. His strategic dress was a raggedy tie-dyed tee shirt with denim shorts, and a strand of plastic beads around his neck. The beads had the smell and shine of something newly purchased. Shep guessed they were supposed to look like the beads Joey had worn on his television interview.
Shep examined the man’s clean, manicured fingernails as he shook the redhead’s hand. Relying on his extraordinary senses, Shep discreetly sniffed his own hand after seating him. Ronny Slade’s hand had the vague odor lead, with a hint of sulfur. He’d handled a gun recently.
While Joey questioned him, Ronny Slade acted overwhelmed at the opportunity to join Joey in his spiritual quest. His aura, however, remained stable, with just a slight undertone of hostility. Joey’s charm did not affect him at all. Only a person trained in discipline could so coldly resist Joey’s chemical lure.
When the interview was over, Shep walked him to the door. “Juris will show you off the premises, Mr. Slade. You will not be accepted into our group. I’m sorry.”