by Mary Eicher
“Fuck off!”
Artemis raised an eyebrow. “I don’t do that.”
“Then I am in the presence of the last twentysomething virgin,” Lucy retaliated.
“That’s not exactly true either,” Artemis said with an amused smile.
“Whatever.” Lucy sighed as she unfolded her arms and sank into the sofa. “Okay. I apologize. I’m not angry at you. I’m just…”
“You’re just angry. It will pass.”
They retreated to their private thoughts for a while. Artemis went into the kitchen to make a pitcher of iced tea while Lucy walked over to the window and stared out at the heat waves rising off the distant asphalt. A hot spring was giving way to the furnace known as summer. She wanted to pursue the story. She wanted to know if and why something about the world appeared to have changed. She wanted a Pulitzer for breaking the most significant story ever published. She lowered her head. Most of all, she just wanted to have a good cry.
“Thanks.” Lucy accepted a frosty glass from Artemis. “Um, smells good.”
“It’s a special blend. Helps calm one down.” Artemis took a sip from her own glass. “I’ve drunk a lot of it since Cab died. Maybe too much, now I think about it. I want to thank you for letting me tag along as you worked. I’m better having something interesting to do. I even thought we might find some meaning in his death. It’s been good for me. You’ve been good for me.”
“A new friend is better than a Pulitzer any day.” Lucy cradled the tea in her hands, liking the coolness of the drink. “You know, I never asked you what you do for a living.”
“I’m an attorney. I create trusts and handle probate and whatnot for a few select clients,” Artemis said nonchalantly. “It’s more of a hobby, and I’ve been neglecting it lately. The work reminds me of death and what happened to Cab.”
“Wow! You’re a rich lawyer. People like lawyers even less than they like the press. We’re a fine pair of villains.”
Artemis laughed and drew her long legs up onto the sofa where she sat.
“I was that kind of lawyer once. I discovered the law was about winning not justice, and I was good at winning. I did more than my share of injustice to people. I can be ruthless when I want to be. But I didn’t like what that did to people’s lives.” She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Anyway, I decided to limit my practice. When things fell apart between me and Cab for a while, I decided to walk the Pacific Crest Trail. I dragged my big brother along so he could mend his broken heart.” She looked away and ran the tip of her tongue along her lips. “We know how that turned out.”
The reporter in Lucy read the conflict on Artemis’s face. “Ichabod had a broken heart? I’ve seen his picture, Temmie. It’s hard to believe any woman would turn that guy down. There has to be a story there.”
Artemis drew her mouth into a thin line. “Yes, there is.” But it was not one she was willing to share.
Chapter Four
The Keck Observatory on the Big Island of Hawaii provides a pristine view of deep space. Situated on Mauna Kea at a height of nearly fourteen thousand feet, the observatory turns the eyes of paradise upward to the heavens.
Dr. Wolfgang Strang strolled into the anteroom and felt the thrill of discovery that overtook him each time he came to Keck. He had been fascinated with the cosmos every day of his forty-two years. Currently on a leave of absence from the profession that had allowed him to study the universe but imposed unnecessary restrictions on free thought, he maintained his fascination as an emeritus visitor to the observatory. His was a quest to understand dark matter and whether it possessed the power to effect human life. He knew dark matter to be a process not an object. To him, dark matter was the hand of God stirring the universe into eddies and breathtaking spirals. It was the force that made galaxies spin and gave birth to stars.
Strang situated himself at a table he often used at the back of the complex’s small cafeteria. He opened his laptop to access the KO archives and examined the latest data concerning circumgalactic gas absorption at high redshifts in the area of the Great Rift. It was there in the murky center of our galaxy, what early man considered the navel of the world, where Strang believed he would find the answers to his most profound questions.
Taking a cursory look at the latest information from SPHEREx, he shook his head. His colleagues were still mired in tracing the history of galactic light production and the Big Bang theory they sought to validate. To Strang such a pursuit was more astrology than physics. How does knowing the moment of one’s birth improve one’s life? It was because of this very issue that he’d departed scientific dogma but not science itself. He studied the browse-quality spectra like the other scientists, but he saw things beyond NIRSpec’s high-dispersion data. He saw beauty and order and in rare moments Strang believed he could even see truth.
Paging through the compacted data, he reviewed the latest information on the physics of inflation and its influence on three-dimensional large-scale distribution of matter. Then he attempted to access the deep multi-band measurements of large-scale clustering, but no new data had as yet been compressed much less released.
He leaned back in his chair and let out a disappointed breath. Feeling his efforts thwarted for the day, Strang got up and stepped over to read the posted schedule to see when the telescopes would soon again be pointed at the Great Rift. Stymied in his primary quest, Strang wondered about the anomaly that had appeared several months before. A tiny blur not substantial enough to earn inspection or even be catalogued among the billions of objects in that remote sector of the universe. But it had puzzled him, and he had been unable to dismiss the faint image as insignificant like the other researchers had.
He fingered the lapel of his gaudy Hawaiian shirt and scanned the schedule. He hardly looked a scientist, appearing more tourist than astrophysicist. And he was a tourist of sorts, traveling the universe in search of a meaning. Disappointed that nothing pertinent to him was listed, he ran his hand through his mop of longish blond hair and headed home.
*
Private Brandon Pennymore sloshed the mop across the latrine floor and damned his luck. Theft was common at Camp Pendleton. Mostly committed by nonmilitary personnel, who felt they could help themselves to items they wanted among the easily accessible supplies. What he’d taken was inconsequential, only he got caught, and the penalty cost him in ways that stung. He would find a way to get even with the guys who set him up, and he would be smarter the next time. The mop splashed into the bucket and then back onto the floor. Brandon was not a man to toy with, at least in his own opinion.
The very guys he was stewing about came laughing into the latrine and stood in front of the urinals. They were big and muscular and reminded Brandon of animals lying in wait.
“Oops. Messy me,” one guy said as his stream landed on the just mopped floor, intentionally missing the urinal. “I made more work for you over here.” He aimed at the wall behind the urinal until his stream ran out.
Brandon thrust the mop into the bucket and turned away. He wasn’t going to react. He wasn’t going to take the mop and shove it in the guy’s face. But he smiled at the idea.
“Hey, Bran-dumb,” the second guy taunted. “How’s it going? We hear you got latrine duty for the next week. Guess that makes you Pendleton’s shit monitor.”
The two men slapped their palms together and laughed. Brandon knew they were the ones who had turned him in. They were always doing something rotten to him. He hated them and the beefy sergeant who liked to ride his ass.
“Leave me alone,” Brandon muttered. He hoped they would slip on the slick floor or something. Mostly he hoped they would zip up and leave. He swung the mop back and forth on the floor by the exit. Then what seemed to him nothing less than a miracle happened. The two men grabbed their heads and started yelling. One of them staggered against the wall. The other bent low at the waist and cursed.
“What the hell?” the bigger guy said, regaining his footing a few mo
ments later. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah,” his buddy replied, wiping moisture from his eyes. “Some bell almost burst my eardrums.”
They saw Brandon staring at them with a satisfied grin. He had no idea what had happened to the men, but he enjoyed watching them suffer.
“Hey, you okay?” the big guy asked.
“Never better,” Brandon said leaning against the mop handle. “Thanks for asking.”
Three days later, the three men were on the range looking for unexploded ordnance when one went off. Brandon watched the two men who’d bullied him disintegrate twenty yards from him. They had been horsing around as usual, and he had kept his distance. Brandon grinned a sly, cruel grin as he was questioned about the event. His attitude and the suspicion that he had been involved in the accident, added to a long list of other infractions, earned him a quick discharge from the service.
*
Rumors about the phenomenon were spreading like sparks in a forest fire. Within a few months the number of deaths reported to have been preceded by an ear-splitting headache and the sound of bells had grown exponentially. And the curious phenomenon had acquired a name. The Harbinger in stark black capital letters began appearing on billboards from San Diego to the base of the grapevine.
The mere idea that one’s death would be foretold unnerved people. It cracked the foundation of their beliefs and challenged the accepted order of things. It focused the mind on death and sent a chill up spines all the way to Santa Barbara. The Harbinger turned the laid-back culture of Southern California into an unfamiliar, apprehensive place.
The scuttlebutt about the Harbinger morphed as people glided from one theory to the next. Perhaps the harsh sound killed the victims. Perhaps the deaths occurred when the victims became distracted or suicidal. Perhaps it was the beginning of the rapture although it bore little resemblance to the instantaneous event believers were expecting. Perhaps it was due to any of a thousand explanations which rose and fell on the tides of social media splashing hard against the bulwark of organized religion.
On the south side of Los Angeles, a fellow clad in a monk’s robe marched daily through downtown with his The Harbinger of Death sign. He was doing a land office business in donations, and his mere presence was a constant reminder of the strange aberration capturing popular attention.
Deciding to take the matter on directly, the mayor arranged a ten-minute interview on the local news to quash the rumors. He failed. He had facts and statistics enough to prove the death rate was not increasing. He had an earnest manner that appealed to reason. Unfortunately, his audience was possessed of a fear that didn’t succumb to logic.
In Corona, Artemis watched the mayor’s performance and then turned off the news. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down at her computer to add new names to the list of Harbinger-linked deaths Lucy had verified. The name at the top of the list always felt like a gut punch. Ichabod Andronikos. She put her hand on the screen as if she could reach out and touch her brother and then closed the file. She had already added thousands of names to the list, and there were still thousands more. In the months since Ichabod’s death the Harbinger had been busy. Artemis had a singular purpose for keeping track of the deaths. She wanted to know why the Harbinger had selected her brother to die. But she, like everyone, was no closer to understanding what was occurring. She was in fact one of a handful of people who believed the Harbinger was even real.
Artemis picked up her cell and called Lucy. “Do you have plans for dinner?”
“Free as a bird,” her favorite reporter responded. “Angie’s off with Grandma for the weekend. Want me to pick you up?”
“I was thinking of ordering pizza and staying in,” Artemis suggested. “What do you like on your pizza?”
“As much stuff as possible,” Lucy said emphatically. “I’ll head over in a few minutes.”
*
Father Doyle worked on his sermon with mixed feelings. His congregation was questioning God’s hand in bringing the Harbinger. It was contrary to the Bible’s pronouncement that man does not know his appointed time. His homily needed to explain that God was still in control even if the Harbinger proved to be real. God must have sent it, like he sent the angel of Passover, to protect his people. Most of all he needed to convince his parishioners the written word of God was still true even if one passage no longer applied. He opened his Bible and read the passage one more time. Matthew 13:32: “But of that day and hour no one knows. No, not even the angels who are in heaven, neither the Son, but only the Father.”
“Father?” His housekeeper knocked lightly on the open rectory door. “Dinner is ready.”
“Thank you, Anne. I’ll be along directly.” He put away his book and gave her a nod. He hadn’t realized it had gotten so late. A good meal might provide the momentum he needed to finish the homily.
Anne wiped her hands on her apron. She stepped into the room and made a clumsy curtsy. “I don’t mean to bother you, Father darlin’. But I always thought God likes to keep secrets, you know. Mysteries you call them. We aren’t supposed to know when the angel of death is coming for us. God wants us to be good the whole of our lives and not steal a seat in heaven by repenting at the end. This Harbinger is the work of the devil if you ask me.”
The old priest pressed his palm against the pain in his chest. The manner in which lay people described church teachings never ceased to bemuse him. But there was a kernel of truth in what his housekeeper said. He’d heard several deathbed confessions in the last few weeks from people who weren’t ill, just terrified that they’d heard the Harbinger. He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder and motioned for her to accompany him to the dining room.
“God works in mysterious ways, as they say, Anne. If the Harbinger is real, He must have a reason for creating it. I can’t see how this would have anything to do with the devil.”
His sermon was going to be a challenge. Faith is a house of cards. Pull one card out and sometimes the whole structure collapses. His faith was not abused by the Harbinger. At seventy-two he had weathered all the storms this world could throw at him. Even the unsteady beating of his disobedient heart couldn’t shake his faith. Part of the old priest felt a visit from the Harbinger might turn out to be a blessing. He sat down to dinner and made a sign of the cross and gave thanks for the meal, adding a silent sentence at the end.
“Your Harbinger is welcome here, Lord.”
*
Artemis opened the front door and was met with a quick hug as her visitor swept in.
“Is the pizza here yet? I’m famished.” Lucy gave her friend a quick smile. “You’re a lifesaver. I was going crazy trying to finish my article. Not that it will get published. But I’m tired of following the rules. People need to know what’s happening.”
“Hello to you too,” Artemis said as she closed the door. “And yes, the pizza is here.”
Lucy grinned. “I told you I was a hugger. You were warned.”
Artemis rolled her eyes. “Yes, you did.”
They ate in the living room, seated on the cream-colored sofa, and put their feet on the polished marble coffee table once the pizza had been ravenously consumed. An empty bottle of Chianti accounted for the pleasant glow they felt. Music from a variety of country artists played softly in the background.
“Coffee?” Artemis asked.
Lucy rubbed her stomach. “Maybe later. I’m stuffed.”
“Angie’s off with her grandmother for the next few days?”
“Yeah, Disneyland Hotel. I’m supposed to be working on an article about the rumor mill that’s been overactive lately. You know Jake, my editor, actually believes I can explain to the world why all this Harbinger hysteria is crap. That’s going to be tough since I know the Harbinger is real, and Jake thinks it’s superstition.”
Artemis put her hands behind her head and leaned back into the cushions. She listened as Lucy related the latest news currently crossing the wires but no longer permitted to make it t
o print. The governor had issued a ban, all unofficial—not that such things mattered. Lucy had heard the governor had persuaded the tech companies to scrub Harbinger references from their platforms. And the press was directed to ignore the rumors altogether. While that closed the door on any mention of the Harbinger as legitimate, it did nothing to curtail the public buzz. Thus Jake had given her an impossible task.
“Maybe if you can convince him, you can convince everyone else.”
“Not likely.” Lucy settled back into the cushions and sighed. “He isn’t an easy man to deal with. And just how do I write an article on the Harbinger without even using the word?”
“My business is affected too. I decided to ease back into work. Only I have twice the normal workload and everyone wants their estate reviewed right away. I’ve tried to streamline the process.” She looked over at Lucy. “I get two or three calls a day from people who say they’ve heard the Harbinger.”
“Have they?” Lucy asked.
Artemis licked her lip. “Some of them have.”
“They die?” Lucy sat forward.
Artemis still leaning back closed her eyes. “Some of them do.”
Lucy gave Artemis’s knee a quick squeeze. “I think your job may be worse than mine.”
Seeing the pain thinking of Cab still caused her friend, Lucy regretted having brought up the Harbinger at all. Her eyes brimming with sympathy, she lifted her hand and set it gently along her friend’s cheek. “I don’t know how to make the pain go away, Temmie. I wish with all my heart that I could.”
Artemis gradually lowered her arm behind Lucy and put her hand on Lucy’s back. Pulling Lucy close, she leaned forward and touched her lips gingerly to Lucy’s forehead, then her cheek, and then found her mouth. Feeling Lucy respond, she parted her lips and let the kiss grow long and passionate.
Lucy opened her eyes in surprise. She sat back and blew out a breath. Artemis’s blue eyes were staring intently at her, and the hand on her back felt hot as it gently coaxed her closer.