Authors: Andrew Mayne
I
FURIOUSLY TAKE PHOTOS
of the drop cloth, afraid the paint will somehow fade away like a print in a darkroom, and almost trip on a lawn sprinkler while running back to my car to shoot an email off to Ailes with the images. The mere suggestion that Deland might have been working on something that could be used by a drug cartel, particularly one with terror links, should be enough to justify a thorough search of the premises along with an extensive investigation into his activities.
There's a voicemail on my phone from a West Virginia number.
“Miss Blackwood, I'm callin' you so you can set the folks straight on what occurred.” This is a voice I remember vividly, Black Nick. By the roaring of the cars in the background, he called from a pay phone by a highway. “Ole' Jessup came by my cabin, I reckon you know that cause uh the fire and all. He had the idea old Black Nick had somethin' to do wit his troubles. He's all out of sorts.
“I prayed for him. I tried to get him to do the Lord's Prayer too. He'd have none of it. Kept talking 'bout how the troublemaker had his soul no matter what. Said he was an avenging angel, doing right by God's hands.
“He chased me all the ways up to Lightnin' Peak. That's where you gonna find him if you bother looking. Not that there much to look at no more. He got what was due.
“Now I suppose folks wanna talk to me. I ain't having none of that. I done what I done and no man can say I didn' try saving his soul. It wasn't having no saving.
“I'm going backwoods, back with the other folk who live in the deep parts. I said my piece. I hope you still got the bolt I gave you. There's more dark out there. The troublemaker ain't done with you.”
I've had many strange phone calls in my life, but I'm pretty certain this will never be topped. Nick's warning unsettles me.
It takes me a moment to process everything before I call Knoll and tell him he should have the team handling the manhunt go to Lightning Peak.
An hour later I'm back at Deland's, persuading the local cops to seal his property as a crime scene, when Knoll calls me back. “They sent the chopper. The pilot spotted something.” His voice is matter-of-fact. He'd probably narrate a boxing match like an autopsy.
“Jessup?”
“We don't know yet. Definitely a body, charred though. There was a storm last night and multiple flashes on the mountain.”
“Jesus.” The image is . . . biblical.
“How'd you know where to find him?”
“I'll send you the voicemail message. Our sheriff had an âaltercation' with our crazy Swede witch doctor.”
“An altercation that involves lightning? Christ. I'll let you know when we get a preliminary report. He called you?”
“Yup.”
“The crazy ones sure love you.”
“Story of my life. Takes one to know one, I guess.” I say it with a half smile. “I think I got a lead on our sixth man.” I tell him what I've found at Deland's house.
“So the circle is complete?” replies a hopeful Knoll.
“Hardly. We don't have a motive nor any idea who the Tixato connection is.”
“They'll come up with one.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“If this briquette is the sheriff and Deland is the man who put the bodies in the trees and created the explosion, then I think they're going to say the case is closed.”
“But it isn't. We don't have proof Deland did it or know who killed him. We don't know who is behind all this. This keeps getting bigger, not smaller. I mean, who wanted me dead in Tixato?”
“You know they're going to pin this on Deland if they can make a connection. You check his shoes for mud from Hawkton or Tixato?”
I'd gone back and checked after getting off the phone with Ailes. “His shoe collection was small, intentionally sparse. I used a roll of tape to grab some carpet samples from the truck and closet. I left enough for a proper forensic exam.”
“Gut feeling?”
“He was in both places at one time or another.”
“They're going to pin this on him.”
“Who? Agent Mitchum?”
“Her, everyone. It's easier to close the books when everyone is dead.”
My blood is beginning to rise. “What about X-20? How do they figure in on this?”
“What will Mitchum go for? She'll admit he worked for them, maybe. When you came snooping around someone made the connection. Even if we find out Deland was killed, it'll be just another gang-on-gang crime. Drug-related murders don't count like real ones, as far as the public is concerned.”
“That's bullshit. I can't believe you're saying this.”
“It's not my case. Mitchum and the Bureau want closure on this. The longer it's open, the more expensive it gets and other things don't get done. Despite their obstruction, you brought them all the pieces they need to make a circular case.”
“There's no motive for Deland!” I protest.
“He's a bad guy. They do bad things. I'm just preparing you for what I see coming. This whole case is totally out there. It's too much to wrap our heads around. They're going to go with Occam's razor and apply the simplest explanation.”
“Occam's razor doesn't say anything about excluding facts! They can't really be going this way?” I know Knoll is trying to just be straight with me, but I can't help taking it out on him.
“I'm afraid so. That's my gut. Ailes will tell you the same.”
My elation over finding Deland is crushed by the prospect that all Mitchum wants is a person to pin this on. I may hate her after all.
To her, the question of who put the transmitter in Groom's studio, who wanted me dead in Tixato, of what really happened the night Marty Rodriguez died, are details she's going to ignore because the facts are too weird.
M
AX CALLS ME
on my drive back to Quantico. “I've got a list for you,” he says eagerly.
“How long?” I try not to let my sour mood show.
“Sixty names.”
“That's not bad.” Thank God someone is taking this seriously. God bless Max.
“I've also pulled up a list of events and conferences going on in that area at the same time.”
“How'd you do that?” I ask, impressed.
“Internet.”
“In 1985?”
“The Internet, not the web. The Internet is the thing that connects it all. That was around a long time before.”
“Yeah, of course. Was it a Listserv?” I dig up a term from a college class on computing.
He lets out a small laugh. “Yeah. Old message boards for swingers.”
“Pardon me?” I take my eyes off the road for a second to stare at my phone on the dashboard.
“People back then, before Tinder, Grindr and Craigslist, would put announcements on online message boards about where to hook up. Got an insurance convention at the Hilton in Raleigh? Somewhere, someone is going to post something to a board suggesting a rendezvous. I found a bulletin board system that still had listings in that area. Maybe there's something helpful.”
“Thank you, Max.”
“You sound down. Everything okay? You don't have to do the dinner thing. I was just . . .”
“Max, that's still on. I need some sense of normalcy.” Just the thought of passing an hour talking to someone who doesn't spend their time staring at dead bodies, or carry around a pair of handcuffs professionally comes as a relief.
“Normal? Me? Your world must be something strange.”
“You have no idea.”
T
HERE'S A STORY
one of my favorite high school teachers loved to tell about selective blindness. I don't know if it's true or not, but it makes an interesting point. When Spanish ships first appeared off the shores of the Americas, some of the Indians couldn't see them. The ships were anchored right there in the bay, but the tall-masted vessels were so utterly foreign that they simply couldn't acknowledge them.
In a modern culture, where every commercial break is filled with visual computer animations of alien attacks and mythical creatures that assume you already understand a dozen bizarre concepts, the notion of pretending something isn't there because it defies explanation seems almost laughable.
Yet, every day, science reveals things that were right in front of us: bacteria actually cause ulcers, animals can indeed sense earthquakes, your house cat may be infecting you with a virus that makes you hoard things, including more cats.
The events in Hawkton are like this in some way. Because we couldn't see what was there, because we had to fit it into what we understood. At first it was an accident. A little bit of investigation revealed it was a murder with someone else possibly involved. Maybe there was a tinge of conspiracy, but nothing that went beyond small-town politics.
This is the explanation that conveniently fits the facts. It's the
explanation investigators cling to because they prefer it over others being put forth by people who see the fantastical in every dark corner, who believe Satan walks among us. But their prejudice has forced them to choose an explanation that's also at odds with reality.
The middle ground isn't clearly marked. There's no map for me. I know there's something more here than what my colleagues want to acknowledge. I also know the supernatural explanation just isn't rational. To accept that would be to give up on the very notion of intelligent query. I can't fault someone who chooses to believe the dinosaurs lived alongside the Egyptians. But I can't tell them with a straight face that they're thinking like an adult. It's a childish worldview to choose what to believe and what not to in the face of the evidence. Playing peekaboo with the facts doesn't make them disappear.
However, being too quick to rule out a hypothesis is just as misguided. Although dinosaurs died out millions of years before the first primate walked upright, the early Egyptians were putting capstones on their pyramids while wooly mammoths were alive and well on a tiny island near Siberia untouched by man.
In trying to tell people there's something more here, they think I'm pointing at dinosaurs. I'm simply saying mammoths might be involved.
I've also drunk half a bottle of wine while flipping between the science channel and the news. Back in my apartment lying on the couch in my pajamas, I'm trying hard not to be a cop for a moment.
The investigation isn't going the way it should. Ailes just called to tell me it's unfolding the way he feared. To his credit, Knoll saw this coming. Mitchum is giving a press conference announcing the case has for all intents and purposes been effectively solved.
Solved.
Right
.
Mitchum is standing at a podium outside the Hawkton sheriff's department. There's a crowd of news trucks and crews that's easily bigger than the single-story brick building. She thanks the laundry list of agencies involved in the case. Flanked behind her, symbolically representing the unified face of law enforcement, are the remaining Hawkton deputies.
“We have concluded that the body we found is indeed that of Sheriff Jessup. This brings the manhunt to a close,” she says. She smiles with pride, but she looks tired. Real tired.
“Are there any other people involved?” asks a reporter from CNN.
“We have a person of interest who we think may have been an accomplice.” She means Deland.
“Is this person in custody?” presses the reporter.
If you count a mortuary table, sure.
She hesitates, not wanting to say he's dead. That would make the case a little bit thinner. “This person is not at large.”
I'll say.
“What about the connection to Reverend Groom?” another reporter interrupts.
“We believe this person is connected. That's all I can say.”
Yeah, that fits, except that the phone call to Groom came from outside the country when Deland was in Virginia.
“What about allegations of involvement with Mexican drug cartels?” asks an NBC correspondent.
“We have no evidence the sheriff or any of the victims were involved in anything like that.” Mitchum gives the journalist a sharp look, frustrated with the line of questioning. She keeps trying to form a bubble around the case and the reporters keeping poking holes.
“Was the shootout in Mexico, between Jessica Blackwood and alleged cartel-aligned military, related?”
“There's no evidence for that. She got caught in the crossfire
with a rival gang. Wrong place, wrong time. We're just glad she's safe.”
Oh, that's what happened. Thanks for clarifying.
Her words are too clipped to be sincere. I'd swear she flinched when my name was mentioned.
“What about the satanic connection and the mention of demons?”
Mitchum rolls her eyes. “Likely planted by the perpetrator to instill fear.”
In dead people? I want to shoot my television. Not her, just the TV. I think.
“Is the sheriff a suspect or a victim?”
“We have reason to believe that he may have unwillingly been under the influence of a substance that caused erratic behavior.”
And that substance came from where? My bruises from the cave are still a nice shade of purple, but hey, you're welcome.
“Of course, there are more details to come. But we confidently feel that, with an end to the manhunt and the hard work of my colleagues in locating the other person of interest, we can bring this matter to a close.”
Thanks for the name check, sister.
Mitchum prays for the back and forth to end. She just wants to go home with a pat on her back and no loose ends.
“What was Jessica Blackwood's involvement?” asks another reporter.
Oh. As much as I hate my name being mentioned, it's worth it to see Mitchum cringe a little.
She definitely flinches that time. “There are hundreds of people who've worked hard on this case. Singling them all out would take too much time.”
She sounds colder than she means to, I think. Oddly, I almost feel bad for her. Almost.
“Will there be an investigation into the audiotape that was leaked?”
“I can't comment directly on evidence that may or may not be relevant to the case.”
Relevant. As in, throw it in a drawer and forget about it.
The press conference ends and the news camera cuts away as she retreats back into the sheriff's office. I go back to my pile of printouts containing the information Max sent. I should probably be looking at them with a clearer head, but that's not going to happen for a few hours.
Flipping through the list of events in the Hawkton area, I try to find something that might bring an outsider into the world of the Alsops and their troubled foster kid. There are no psychology or medical conferences, but the Star Trek convention held at the War Memorial auditorium twenty miles away certainly opens up the possibility of intergalactic operatives.
The bulletin board system (BBS) announcements are somewhat cryptic. People want to hook up with others, but also don't want to expose themselves too much. I have to look up a few acronyms to understand what's going on. Even modern online dating is a mystery to me. I go back over the first list and find events that stand out and compare them against the BBS records. This catches my attention after my third drunken pass of the BBS logs:
Purple Collar looking for similar attending the Interfaith Rituale Romanum Series at Gregory College
A
PPARENTLY, “
P
URPLE
C
OLLAR”
appears to be a code name for a gay priest. The Rituale Romanum sounds boring, but the window is open. I do a Google search anyway.
Holy crap.
Of course.
Here I am, getting wasted while I bemoan my colleague's ignorance, and I can't even acknowledge the mammoth.
The
Rituale Romanum
is the religious text that Catholic priests use for exorcism rites. It's for dealing with the possessed.
Confronted with a possible case of juvenile possession, Reverend Curtis could have gone to the interfaith conference in search of guidance.
The unidentified man on the audiotape is a Catholic priest.
I go through Max's reduced list of twenty names from the SABRE records. Three of them departed from the airport in Rome.
One name looks familiar, but I'm not sure why.
I don't know too many priests. Was he on a list of witnesses we already went through?
I do a system search of the files on my laptop. No . . .
The middle and last names throw me off at first. At a loss, I type the full name into Google.
There we go. The first result is a priest identified by the European spelling of his first name and a truncated surname.
But that's not his name anymore.
Holy shit . . .
I knock my wineglass over and ignore the pooling red liquid as I pull my laptop onto my knees.
My hands almost don't want to type as I pull up a YouTube clip of him speaking.
I'm getting that buzzing feeling in my head.
Same voice.
He's the man on the audiotape.
Fuck.
Holy fuck.
It's got to be the wine.
It can't be.
I'm drunk.
I'm dreaming.
This is insane.
Jesus. H. Christ.
Reverend Curtis didn't just find himself an expert on the
Rituale Romanum
at the conference; he talked the man into coming to the Alsops' house and delivering the rite himself.
And not just any man. The expert at the time.
A man who would keep going up the Vatican ladder.
Thirty years later, that man is now the pope.
The pope.
No. This is insane.
I take a deep breath and try to clear my head.
I find another YouTube clip of him speaking. I recheck Max's records.
I sober up fast.
My head isn't spinning so much. I have focus now.
This all points to the same thing.
The current pope was there that night in Hawkton when they tried to exorcize Marty Rodriguez.
The pope helped kill Marty Rodriguez.
Maybe not kill, but Marty is dead and he was there.
And now someone is killing everyone who was responsible.
There's only one survivor left.
The pope.
The goddamn pope.
Christ.
I need another drink before I tell Ailes.