Proof Through the Night

by Lt. Colonel Toby Quirk

  Henry looked at his wife. Like her grandmother, Sandy barely showed any signs of aging, except for her hair, still thick and lustrous, worn in the same style as when he met her, in a short bob like Paul McCartney’s in the Beatles’ early years. It had turned from pure black to pure white in less than a year. Somehow the snowy moptop made her look even more startlingly attractive than when she was younger. Henry was aware of the looks she got from just about every man—and some women. Despite the constant undercurrent of discontent in Henry’s gut, he was still wildly attracted to Sandy’s physical beauty.

  She was a marvelous swimmer. Henry and Sandy would walk down to the little cove below Gabriella’s rock nearly every day when the weather was nice. Sandy would modestly let her robe drop to the pebbly beach, revealing her striking figure in a black competition swimsuit, and she’d charge headlong into the surf. She would swim long elliptical laps for over an hour. While she was swimming, Henry climbed up and down the natural stairway created by the stones that have been tumbling from the cliff over the millennia. When Sandy was done, she would stride to the beach through the breaking waves and into her robe and Henry’s arms. Each of them, in that state of intoxicating exhaustion, would climb back to their room arm-in-arm.

  Henry’s mind came back to Sandy’s question. Okay, the storm in my gut has passed. But I’m still terrified. Sandy and I are entering a new paradigm. We are becoming partners in a deadly battle. We are becoming comrades-in-arms.

  “Reasonable?” he asked. “Well, I suppose if you accept the entirely insane bubble we all live in here, I would have to say yes, your explanation is totally reasonable. It is also reasonable that all this adoration I am feeling for you and your newfound supernatural powers is causing an uncontrollable lust in my innermost being, if you get my drift. So if I may be so bold as to ask your loveliness, wanna make out?”

  “You got it, buster.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Andrew swiveled his chair and rolled it across the cave floor to get a closer view of monitor number four and the meeting between Randal Sanford and Firdos Gaffardi in the Boston sector.

  “Let’s see your journal there, Firdos,” said Randal Sanford after wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Geeze, you’ve had your share of bad luck since you’ve been here in Witch City, haven’t you? You’ve totaled four automobiles! What the heck?”

  “Not exactly,” Firdos corrected. “None of these accidents were my fault. I have the police reports in my file, and the insurance claims.”

  “Okay, swell, but you also have run into all these road blocks and detours.”

  “Yep,” Firdos replied. Despite his revulsion at the gross habits of this ogre of a man, Firdos, for the first time in his life, was experiencing something that he observed others had—a relationship. Even though the interest that Sanford showed in him was all wrapped up in his position with the Directorate, still it was interest. In him.

  Randal grunted up from his seat behind the table with some difficulty and squeezed his girth out of the booth. “Get me another cup of coffee, would you, son? I’ve got to get something from my car.”

  Firdos went to the counter and ordered a coffee for Randal and a hot tea for himself. Randal came back from his car with a roadmap and he squeezed back into his seat. Firdos sat down and placed Randal’s coffee on the table. He studied what Randal was doing—comparing Firdos’ journal and the map laid out on the table. Randal plotted the locations of all the incidents in the journal on the road map of North Shore Boston. The car accidents, the road blocks, the detours, and the breakdowns:

  A fender-bender on Route 128 near the exit to the North Shore Mall.

  A mail truck sideswiped Firdos’ car on Route 1A in Beverly.

  Getting rear-ended on Route 133 in Hamilton.

  Getting a speeding ticket on Topsfield Road in Ipswich.

  The clutch going out on Arbor Street in Wenham.

  Bridge Street in Salem getting flooded out in a violent rainstorm, blocking Firdos’ route.

  “Hey, that last item happened just down the street here. Does this street get flooded often?”

  “How should I know,” replied Firdos, “I just moved here a few months ago.”

  “Ask a native. That girl over there. She looks like she was born here.”

  “How can you tell that?” asked Firdos.

  “Just ask her. She won’t bite,” ordered Randal.

  Firdos never approached a female unless he was buying something across a counter. He turned in his seat in the booth and leaned toward the young lady at the next table. Awkward, eyes downcast, he asked, “Excuse me. Do you know if this street gets flooded often?”

  The woman sporting a Salem State tee shirt knit her eyebrows together and peered over the top of her Wayfarer sunglasses. She said, “This street is raised up from the tideline by over fifty feet. It’s called Bridge Street because it’s a natural bridge between Salem and Beverly. It never gets flooded, except for one time a few weeks ago, and that was strange. I think it was a water main break during a downpour.”

  “Uh, thanks. Miss. Thanks,” Firdos kept his gaze focused on the floor and he spun back to Randal. “You got that?”

  “Yeah. You’re a regular Romeo, ain’t ya?” said Randal. “The flood here on Bridge Street was a fluke—a water main break just coincidently occurred the same time as a major rainfall. So, Firdos, all these incidents, see them on the map? What do you think is going on here?”

  “I know exactly what’s going on here, and I have known it for several weeks now. Something weird is messing me up.”

  “Right, son, but there’s a pattern. See what I see with all these dots on my map?” Randal asked.

  Firdos felt a faint positive buzz in his gut at the word “son.” “Umm, it looks like, if you connect the dots, they’re forming sort of an L shape around Cape Ann.”

  “Bingo. You’re not as dumb as you look. Someone or something is trying to keep you from getting close to that area.”

  “Right,” said Firdos, “but why is the operations center sending me to Maine?”

  “The only logical explanation is that our geniuses at DHQ have determined that our enemy, FITO, has moved because they have figured out that you are getting too close.”

  “FITO?” asked Firdos. “What’ that?”

  “Our bosses call our enemy the fly in the ointment, FITO, get it?”

  “Okay,” said Firdos. “Either the geniuses at DHQ have access to some information that we don’t have, or the geniuses at DHQ are stupid fools.”

  “Well, there’s that.” Pastry crumbs decorated Randal’s vest and face.

  Andrew concentrated on the two men—one a fifty-ish Caucasian old-school executive, and one a young Persian immigrant. They looked out the window next to their booth. The colonial Salem Street, first paved in the 1600s, was busy with moderate commuter traffic. Firdos’ rental car, a compact black Toyota, was parked right behind Randal’s super luxury Mercedes Maybach S600. Andrew’s computer calculated the price difference of these vehicles was well over $100,000. The men in the cafe sipped their drinks in silence, apparently ruminating on the conflicting sets of intelligence before them.

  Andrew watched as a roll-off dumpster truck backed out of the driveway directly across the street, where a building demolition was in progress. The truck’s forty-foot container was full of construction waste from the work site. The truck backed up beeping that annoying warning signal. The driver inserted the truck’s rear end into traffic, blocking the flow of cars in both directions. The loaded dumpster astonishingly slipped its moorings and gently rolled off the truck onto the hood of the $17,000 Toyota and the trunk of the $195,000 Mercedes-Maybach and crushed them. Andrew studied Randal’s reaction. The portly billionaire calmly took out his pen and marked yet another dot on his map. Firdos nodded.

  Andrew entered Randal Sanford’s map of Boston’s North Shore into his database. He and his best friends, the computers in his operations center, were busy developin
g courses of action for Operation FITO.

  Computer number sixteen spoke first, “All the interruptions of Firdos’ activities were deliberate. The chances of one man having that many accidents—not-his-fault—and that many other incidents, including a flooded road that never flooded, were one in three-hundred-thousand. When the dumpster crushed both Randal’s and Firdos’ cars, my calculation spiked. The line connecting their locations indicates that they are related to a specific location on the Atlantic coast near Gloucester, Massachusetts.”

  “Now what about these indicators that plot FITO’s location in Neddick, Maine?” Andrew said. “These are unambiguous signals from Neddick sent from FITO’s operations center to Anna Stone through Frances O’Donnelly and by satellite to my receiver here in Missouri.”

  From the speaker on computer number eleven, “The energy emitting from Director Randal Sanford and Operator Firdos Gaffardi during their conversation in the Coffee Time Bakery reaffirms the theory that there is an unresolved conflict between our two sources of intelligence. Our analysis shows a high degree of confidence in Sanford and Gifardi. They both displayed confusion over FITO’s new location in Neddick. We give that factor a high rating.”

  Andrew said, “I see three possible conclusions: one, FITO now operates out of two locations; two, FITO moved its base of operations in Massachusetts to Neddick, Maine; or three, FITO devised a way to set up a decoy location in Neddick to divert our attention away from Massachusetts.”

  Andrew decided to call Randal—as repulsive as that conversation would be.

  Randal Sanford was heading west in the backseat of one of his company’s Cadillac Escalades. He always enjoyed the way the scenery on the Massachusetts Turnpike evolved from urban to suburban, and by the time they crossed I-495 it was all trees, hills, and country. He puffed on a high-quality reefer and zoned out as the big, comfortable vehicle sailed westward.

  Randal’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and the phone’s screen told him it was a secure call from the Directorate’s Operations Center.

  “What, Andrew?” Randal didn’t hate the guy, he just liked to make him think he did.

  “Too bad about your Mercedes, Randal. I am so sorry your lovely car was wounded,” Andrew said.

  “Okay, meathead, what are you calling about?”

  “Well, Randal, believe it or not you and I may agree on something, and it’s going to make us waste some time.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You and your little buddy there in the Northeast, that Firdos Gaffardi thug we hypnotized and hired—you both think my new intelligence on FITO’s location is faulty. Right?”

  Randal sat back in his seat and watched the landscape of central Massachusetts flow by in the windshield. “Firdos isn’t quite the thug you may think he is,” Randal said. “I realize you consider yourself as omniscient as God there in your sanctuary command post, but you don’t know jack. But, yeah, we think you’re out-to-lunch with that idea that FITO moved to Maine. Where’d you get that, anyway?”

  “Too complicated to explain to you, Randal, but that’s where we agree. I have some doubts about FITO’s setting up a new location. I think they may be still in the Gloucester area, or they may be up there in Maine, maybe both.

  “Now we have Firdos headed up there to conduct seer operations,” Andrew continued. “And you know he will continue to keep an eye on the Gloucester area, even though we have ordered him not to, right?”

  “Yeah. That’s what his profile tells us. He doesn’t trust anything coming out of higher headquarters. I could have programmed his brain to concentrate on Neddick and forget the Massachusetts location, but I saw the value of letting him think he’s disobeying orders by watching both,” Randal said.

  “Right,” agreed Andrew. “I’m dispatching Golf Squad to New England to support Firdos’ seer activities. You think we should tell him or keep him unaware?”

  “You can afford to send a squad here? With all the pruning we have lined up this month, how can you justify that?” Randal said.

  “Locating our enemy has taken a higher priority since your little pow-wow on Akebe’s yacht. You directors have figured out that this FITO is more than just a fly in the ointment. They disrupt our pruning efforts with increasing effectiveness. If we are going to reduce the number of freethinkers in America at the rate we need to prune them, we have to wipe out FITO. Now my question: tell Firdos or not?”

  “Keep him in the dark about Golf Squad,” Randal said. “But I want to know every move that squad makes, you got it? I took leave from my day job and I’m setting up my command post here in New England. I’ll be calling Akebe this afternoon.”

  “Okay. I want to settle this FITO location question in less than three weeks.”

  “We’ll see,” said Randal. “And I’m sending the bill for the damages on my car to Akebe.” Randal punched the “end call” button on his cell phone.

  To Beatrice in the driver’s seat he said, “Hey, girl, pull over here at the Palmer exit. There’s a great barbecue place a few miles down Route 20. We’ll stop for lunch. Then we turn around, head back east to my summer house in Salem. You’re coming with me.”

  “Mind if I make a few calls?” Beatrice asked.

  Randal grunted his approval and closed his eyes.

  The grey mood of the overcast sky sped into the dining room at the cottage at Cielavista. The rain had stopped, but the quilt of clouds outside the tall bay window behind Gabriella’s chair at the head of the table darkened the atmosphere at the table. Henry slouched in his chair.

  On most nights the order of their supper meal gave Henry a glimmer of sanity—in Henry’s mind dinner was the only consistent routine that the trio observed in this moment-by-moment existence. Sandy always finished up the preparation of the meal in the kitchen. Gabriella stood in the bay window prayerfully meditating on the horizon. Henry always selected a bottle of wine and poured three glasses—after he took a couple extra sips from his glass and refilled it. Tonight, though, even the dinner routine would not console Henry’s dolefulness.

  Sandy entered the dining room with a baking pan of lasagna in her oven mitts. “Henry, would you get a couple trivets from the kitchen so I can put this down on the table? It’s hot.”

  Henry thought, No problem. Minor blip in tonight’s routine. No problem.

  “Okay, hon. What’s a trivet?”

  “Hanging on the wall there above the toaster. Black metal thingies with handles. We need two of them,” she said, holding the pan by the dining room table.

  Henry rose from his seat, stepped into the kitchen, and spied the four black cast iron fish-shaped figures on the wall. “I thought these were decorations,” he said.

  “Knucklehead,” teased Sandy. “Bring them in here. Set them on the table.

  “No, not there; put them down in the center. Not like that, Henry, I have to set this pan down on them. Okay, that’s good.”

  Control, control, control, Henry told himself. You can do this. Just let it go, do what the bossy wife says and sit down. Do. Not. React. Sit. Down.

  “There you go—thanks,” said Sandy, her irritation to creep into her tone as she set the baking pan down on the trivets. “Didn’t realize that was going to be so complicated. Oh, well, no problem.”

  Gabriella turned from her stance by the window and took her seat. Henry and Sandy both knew that nothing got by the old lady. Nothing said or even felt escaped her radar. She put her arm out in front of her, palm down, and lowered it slowly toward the tabletop, looking once at Henry, then Sandy and back. Henry felt his rage gradually subside like a whistling teapot lifted from its burner. On one hand Henry did not like being controlled like that; on the other hand, he knew Gabriella saved him again from another unnecessary painful episode that he would regret. Over the twenty-eight years of marriage to Sandy, his unbridled anger had been the source of so much acrimony between them that he was amazed his wife could still live with him.

  “My dear so
n,” Gabriella began, “I know you have been so patient with us and the way we conduct our lives. I would be annoyed, too, being married into this nuthouse.”

  Henry was surprised at her admission and, in a strange way, comforted.

  “But since I have been involved with these spiritual forces for over ninety years, I have become accustomed to submitting to them and letting my own desires slip away. It is my life, dear son, and by God’s intentions, it is Sandy’s life and yours, too.

  “We don’t get to choose our futures, make plans, and execute our plans. We are slaves to His plans and you must admit it’s been rather adventuresome, no?”

  Henry was thinking, That’s one way to put it. Not knowing what’s going to come your way from one minute to the next, yeah, that could be an adventure. Or a pain in the butt.

  “I suppose you have a point, Gabriella,” he lied.

  “Well, later tonight I have a strong premonition we will be getting instructions for our future that will require some changes. Meanwhile, let’s eat and drink, shall we? The lasagna looks delightful, Sandy, and the wine is just right.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Henry’s anger simmered during supper—deepened by the sunless sky, triggered by the change in routine, then exacerbated by the prospect of some unknown major “changes” in the future. He left the table agitated.

  Henry filled his wineglass and walked out into the semidarkness of the evening. He went straight to the barn, entered the stall where the heavy bag awaited its punishment. Henry set his wineglass on the shelf, removed his shirt, shoes and socks. He laced up his punching gloves and stepped up to the bag. His feet found the indentations he had worn in the hard dirt floor over the last quarter century. Here in this one spot on Cielavista, Henry was in complete control.

  He leaned his forehead against the leather, placed his gloves on each side of the bag, and repeated his mantra: “Blessed be the Lord my rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle.”