by Gavin Reese
“Burnin’ daylight, shithead.” Michael smirked at the irony of reciting his boss’ phrase. I wonder how many secret agents have to call their boss by some bullshit pseudonym. No way his name’s John. Probably something like ‘Ned’ that used to get his ass kicked in school. He rolled his neck to ease the stiffness that hours on a worn mattress and flat pillows had cultivated. Good thing Isadore woke me up early. I’m running out of time to spy on John and his new crop of recruits. Gotta be in and out before sunrise, at least if I wanna bring my skin back out with me.
Michael sat in the room’s stillness for a moment, and he recalled the recent investigative news reports spurred by public revelations from one of their own. Father Shawn Moore. I knew him as Thomas then. Now he’s become Thomas the Traitor. John told us there would be a Judas among our training group. I didn’t believe him then, but it turns out the old man was right. Michael stared at the narrow beam of light that emanated from his motel room door. The concrete walkway and parking lot outside remained lit all night, but he doubted much crime existed in the area. He took in a deliberate breath and considered his objective for that morning. If John and his superiors are working to protect us from the outside investigations, they should have new security measures in place at the training compound. That’s gotta be part of any reasonable response. If not, the only possible conclusion is that Thomas won’t live long enough to testify against us. If John weren’t so dedicated to compartmentalizing every aspect of the organization, we could just have a conversation, and I wouldn’t have to sneak back onto the property to get some sense of what’s going to happen next. Instead, I’m out here risking my life to save an asshole priest who should never have been admitted to the clergy to begin with.
Rising from the bed, Michael stretched his back and shoulders as he waddled across the barren room toward his suitcase. Even though Thomas is a piece of shit, he doesn’t need to be absolved. Yes, he’s engaged in scandal against us and our efforts to combat evil, which supports and harbors our spiritual and physical enemies. His betrayal might even be the direct work of the devil, but no one can say that with enough confidence to justify ending the man’s life. At this point, whatever’s going on with Thomas, however he’s being treated, his fate is a cautionary tale for the rest of us. I have to know what that is. Michael sighed and retrieved this morning’s clothing from his suitcase. As Thomas’ condition goes today, so might ours tomorrow if John’s minders decide we’ve stepped too far astray. I have to know how far the scared old men running this show will go to control us and protect themselves. If they ever send killers my way, I’d like to know they’re coming.
February 11. 04:45am
Niobrara County, Wyoming.
Surrounded by harsh, gusting winds and pre-dawn darkness, Michael eased his rented Chevy pickup northeast on County Road 15 with all the exterior lights turned off. Its heater struggled to keep the bone-chilling cold outside the four-door cab, so Michael wore a heavy, straw-colored barn coat and flannel-lined pants. His clerical garments offered no protection this morning, so Michael had reverently folded and stowed them away in his suitcase. As the truck crawled toward his objective, he shifted its transmission into Neutral and idled to a stop without touching the brake pedal. Having chugged along in complete darkness since turning north off Bruch Road more than a mile ago, Michael had now taken the truck and its lukewarm interior as far as he dared. This is close enough to walk in, but far enough to keep any sentries from seeing my approach. He slipped the transmission into Park, shut off the ignition, and set the parking brake. Everything fell silent but the howling winds, which gusted and swayed the Chevy four-door. Lucky to be here between storms, so I just have to deal with old snow blowing sideways. Only place in the world I’ve ever been that folks keep bald tires and kerosene in their trunks to make sure they don’t freeze to death on the side of the road.
Keeping his gaze toward the black void to his northwest, Michael subconsciously nudged the inside of his right elbow against the back of his Glock 19. Still secure and in its holster. He crossed himself and kept watch where he knew John’s training compound to be. Michael planted his feet against the floorboard and away from the truck’s brake pedal and the unwanted consequence of its telltale, bright-red LED brake lights.
“God,” he offered over the howling winds outside the truck, “please don’t make me need Roscoe today. I’d appreciate the chance to keep him holstered right where he is.” With the cabin’s interior temperature already dropping, Michael grabbed his hiker’s sling bag from the passenger seat and ensured its combat medical gear was in place. Tourniquet, quick-clot, and super-max tampons, just in case I get into real trouble. While he donned a pair of mid-weight gloves stashed in his coat pockets, Michael reminded himself that they were the best available compromise between the warmth he needed and the trigger dexterity he prayed he didn’t. He inhaled a deep, calming breath, exhaled a portion of his stress, and covered his face and neck in a thick white-and-gray shemagh. Fuck it. We’re doin’ it live.
Having already shut off the interior door-light switch, Michael stepped out into the moonlit darkness and the ever-present eastern Wyoming wind. He zipped up his heavy barn coat until its collar covered the bottom of the shemagh and fell just below his nose. This bullshit might help the ranchers by keeping the snow off their cattle’s grass and feed, but I’d hoped to never feel this constant goddamned wind again. He pushed the door closed and smirked at his own cautiousness. Wouldn’t matter if I slammed it shut and set the alarm off, no one’s close enough to hear it. Not in this wind, and not even if they were standing next to me.
Michael strode across the dirt road, and his heavy boot treads crunched over the frozen surface. He trekked into a tall, dry grass field and, even though he wouldn’t see it until he walked most of a mile, he hustled toward the familiar training complex. Sporadic snow had fallen in the area for the last three months, but the low humidity and constant wind had sent most of it on to Nebraska and South Dakota. Only a thin layer of snow-crusted ice broke beneath Michael’s boots.
Gotta keep the low hills between me and the structures. Keep an eye on the running trails. Oughta see the flashlights and runners long before they see me. If they’re even out in this shit. Depends on whether they pissed John off yesterday. That masochist might have ‘em out here doing wind-sprints in banana hammocks if they messed up bad enough. Michael didn’t know how John would react to his presence there, but he didn’t want to find out. I’m not sure the potential benefits of being here are worth the risk. Even if I get the answers I’m after, that still won’t amount to objective proof that John and his minders won’t kill Thomas. Hell, he might already be dead, for all I know or can prove. Nothing out here will ever convince me that I can trust everything John tells me. I’d like to know they’re working to protect us without killing Thomas, despite his public betrayal. I’m long on questions and awfully damned short on answers. If things go far enough sideways, maybe me and John can figure this out together. I got the better of him last time, but he’ll never underestimate me again.
As he approached a short hilltop just south of the Mother Mary trail he’d spent so much time on, Michael crouched down in what remained of the windswept grass and crawled forward to the low summit to get the best view of the target. Retrieving his binoculars from the sling bag, he lifted them up to his eyes and apprehension filled his insides. What the hell happened out here? Michael blinked hard several times to clear his vision, but the structures before him and their condition didn’t change. They look abandoned! Spending the next half-hour on the windswept hilltop, he repeatedly scanned each visible building, window, doorway, and crawlspace for any sign of human occupancy. No movement. No lights. No new trash. No fresh tracks anywhere, not even tire tracks across the driveway. No one’s been here since the last snowfall, maybe even longer.
After deciding his gloves wouldn’t allow him to stay outside much longer, Michael risked a closer look. He dropped the binos back in his bag, zipped
it closed, and navigated down the hill toward a back, blind corner of the main house. It’s got the least number of windows for anyone to see me. Hearing nothing but the wind and the slight crunching beneath his feet, Michael pressed onward to the structure. John should’ve been up drinking coffee a half-hour ago, and his new crop of shitheads oughta be out suffering a distance run on Mother Mary by now. Not a light on in the whole place. They could be out on a field exercise, but even John wouldn’t take them into the mountains this time of year. Nothing to learn up there but hypothermia survival.
By the time Michael reached the corner, he realized the two windows closest to him were broken. Even the pale moonlight cast enough reflection to reveal the damage. That can’t be right, John never would’ve let that stand. Working his way counterclockwise around the house, Michael kept the structure on his left side, which allowed his right hand a better chance of staying free to access his concealed Glock. Each window he passed was shattered at best and missing at worst. Stopping just short of the next corner, Michael peeked at the large, converted stable that had served as their classroom and chapel during the eight months he’d lived at the compound. Dismay overcame him when he realized the now-dilapidated structure barely stood on its own. It listed about twenty degrees to the east, as though it had given in to the ever-present Jetstream years ago. It’s gonna collapse under its own weight! How did all this happen in four months?!
Michael grew bolder and more confident he’d find no one at the property. He hustled down the long side of the main house as wind gusts propelled hard snow-pebbles up into his face. Squinting his eyes against the assault, he tried not to lose his situational awareness. Just before reaching the front corner and stepping onto the once-revered porch, Michael retrieved a small tactical flashlight from his pants pocket and kept it in his left hand. Just in case I need to draw or punch on something hidden inside.
Without slowing more than a step, Michael reached the front door, turned the knob, and stepped inside his onetime residence. He shifted left toward the kitchen to get out of the doorway and cast the flashlight’s bright, focused beam around the house’s interior. All the furniture’s gone, flooring’s gone, no appliances. It’s been stripped. Gobsmacked, Michael stood and worked to reconcile what he knew had been with what he saw now was.
The ceiling’s drywall panels had been pulled down, and most of the electrical copper wire was gone. The scene reminded Michael of a few abandoned homes he’d seen methamphetamine addicts demolish in his former life as a cop. It’s like I’m back in 2007 Silver City again, taking patrol calls about tweekers scrapping wire from construction houses to pay for their next fix. Shining his light downstairs, Michael looked into the basement, which had been partially finished when he last saw it. It was now demoed down to the studs and dirt subfloor. The toilets and massive, six-head shower stall was gone. Wind-drifted snow had piled up in the one corner he could see from upstairs. Had to have blown in through the windows up here, there’s not a window downstairs to break. Michael crept about the rest of the ground level, but it was clear the house hadn’t been occupied since he left. The floor creaks a lot worse than it did before, kinda like somebody loosened the boards on the way out.
Michael grimaced when he realized all the interior doors had been removed. They’d be the second-best sources of fingerprints and DNA evidence if a forensics team ever got a warrant to examine the place. He paused in the front bedroom where he’d spent so much time with “Father Harry” discussing his psychological state and parrying questions about his efforts to best John’s training staff. There’s a lot more to that guy than he presented. Still convinced John’s taking orders from him, not the other way around.
Curious about the forensics angle, Michael checked the bathrooms and found all the toilets had been taken out, as well. He stopped near the middle of the structure and heard only the increasing winds blowing through broken windowpanes. Hell, the house looks like it was abandoned long before I ever lived here. Even the light switches are missing. Only thing left to do here rhymes with ‘match and kerosene.’ He considered the Herculean efforts required to have erased the compound’s recent history. Wouldn’t surprise me if they got somebody just waiting for that one windless day to torch the place. The typical gusts up here would blow the flames all the way to Nebraska, and that might be the only reason she’s not a charred shell yet. Michael shook his head in disbelief as he looked around the interior again. It’s like we were never here.
“Somebody went to a lot of trouble in a real short timeframe…” Michael whispered the words in case he wasn’t alone. John’s people are either operating from an abundance of caution, or they’re concerned something’s gonna come from all the news reports. Even if they’ve taken these kinda precautions to keep the journalists and investigators from corroborating Thomas’ assertions, his name and face still need to disappear from the news cycle. If he hadn’t first contacted that activist organization, his story would’ve already lost traction and disappeared. Every time the group demands the Church release Thomas from its psychiatric facility, it just starts the headlines up all over again. They think they’re protecting him, but, the longer they keep his name and face in the public’s conscience, the more likely John’s minders are to take decisive measures. If the ‘Powerful 99’ don’t give up, Thomas might not live to see the summer. He again looked around and marveled at how well decimated the residence was.
Although he expected to gain nothing from it, Michael moved back toward the stairs. He wanted a closer look inside the basement where he and his fellow Absolvers had lived, if only to confirm their presence had been erased. As he cautiously put weight on the top step, a low warning growl rose from beneath the stairs and halted his descent. Michael reached under his coat and drew his Glock from its holster. His flashlight revealed a few piles of canine feces in the basement. Coyote, probably, and hopefully, not plural. Realizing he’d been focused only on threats from the apex predator, Michael swore at himself for being so reckless. Always look for dogshit in the yard! That’s a rookie mistake! A quick scan of the ground floor confirmed he hadn’t yet been surrounded, so Michael carefully stepped backward and kept his light and gun sights focused on the top of the stairs. Time to go.
Now grateful that he’d elected to bring those specific gloves along, Michael cleared the areas ahead of him and kept a frequent watch on his six. I hate having the only known-threat area behind me. He stood just inside the main house’s doorway for a long moment, and the coyote downstairs didn’t hurry to follow him up. Sensing it shared his desire to be left alone, Michael decided to inspect what remained of the property. I can’t leave here without knowing if they left the door, and there’s no chance I’m ever coming out here again.
He shut off the flashlight and gave his eyes a few moments to adjust back to the darkness, all the while listening intently for the stairs to reveal the animal’s ascent toward him. Once Michael’s sight had improved, he struck out toward the collapsing stable. During John’s course on eyewitness testimony, which had taken place about five months ago in the last few weeks of the covert training program, the instructors had splintered the stable’s doorframe. The trainers didn’t adequately repair the door or its frame before Michael graduated, and he hoped to find the same evidence still in place now. Crossing the open area between the house and the condemnable stable, Michael shifted his gaze and the Glock’s sights around him and made sure nothing followed him out of the house. No other tracks out here but mine. Incredible…
When he reached the doorway, Michael cast light into the stable to make sure he was alone this time. Can’t check all the interior, but it looks like I’ve got the only heartbeat out here. This building had sustained more damage than the main house. Its broken door had finally been removed, and the interior condition convinced Michael he wouldn’t find anything to corroborate his presence and purpose there.
Frustrated and confused, Michael stood just inside the doorway and looked back to the west, where the
Grinder had once been. Flagpoles are gone, obstacle course is gone. I can hardly recognize this as the same place. He shone his flashlight on the doorframe, and his heart leapt, if only for a moment. The shattered wood frame showed a substantial difference in the visible age of the exposed wood. It was obviously locked and busted open. The interior wood’s been exposed to the elements more recently than the rest of the frame, but what the hell does that prove? Nothing. It proves, absolutely, nothing. It doesn’t even corroborate my memory of two men in ski masks breaking down the door and fake-murdering John that day. All so he could have us, his students, prove firsthand that eyewitness testimony is unreliable without direct corroboration. He considered the irony of his visit and ran a gloved hand over the broken frame. Powerful lesson I’ll never forget, and a memory it now seems that no one can ever prove happened. At least I know I’m not insane, though. Without this small proof that I’d lived through John’s training program here, I might have to question that I came back to the right place. Michael pulled his cell phone from an interior coat pocket and snapped a quick photo of the frame damage. It won’t do anything for anyone else, but it does a helluva lot for me.
Part of Michael appreciated the effort that John’s team must have gone through to demo the property and its structures. In only a few months, it appeared that years, maybe decades, had passed without anyone having set foot on the site. There’s nothing here that anyone investigating Thomas’ allegations could use as proof. I’m sure that’s the point: ‘Go ahead and try to say something. Take your little, maniacal shreds of evidence public. We’ll destroy you anyway, just like we’re doing to Thomas.’
Michael considered how little he knew about his boss and his chain of command. Pretty damned eerie to see they have this much power and ability to manufacture an effective, immediate outcome. I have to keep this place in mind if I ever decide to spill my guts to the New York Post.