Kiss of the Sun (21 page)

“You mean murder,” Jarrell said. “Like the sociology professor you killed in Atlanta. And you create a video of the act, so you retain control of your recruit.”

“Yes, in many cases the final exam is a murder. But not always. Sometimes it can be a scam to bilk the innocent and stupid. To simply ruin a life or a reputation. To graduate, what matters most is that the candidate must demonstrate absolute coldness and remorselessness to a fellow human being. A will to dominate. They must display indifference to the victim's appeal to mercy or compassion. For a long time, our final exams attracted little notice—just the usual random acts of atrocity and violence you see on the evening news. But we've gone more high-profile. With the UNICON murders, we're starting to send a message. There was the economist in Little Rock, the professor of political science at the University of Pennsylvania, the sociologist at Emory University. The last was carried out by Eduardo, standing over there.” Eduardo, standing near a wall, gave a slight nod of his head. Martha hadn't noticed him enter.

“Why prey on academics?” Martha asked.

“Excellent question. We choose our targets carefully. I think of it as a kind of cleansing. We take out those with outmoded ideas. Those misguided pseudo-intellectuals who are mired in the past, extolling economic or sociological philosophies that depend on a faulty presumption of humanity's innate goodness. Each, in a small way, hampered our agenda. They were polluting the intellectual environment with their sentimental concepts. By removing them, we bring the world closer to purity, clarity, and truth.”

Erringer went to the chess set, picked up the glass king, and turned it slowly between his fingers. “I love clarity. I surround myself with it. I relish purity and perfection.” He put the chess piece down and walked toward them. “But weakness…for weakness we have nothing but contempt. And I see it everywhere in the human race—the bovine stupidity and irrationality of humanitarian organizations and charities. Programs that exact resources from the strong to assist the weak and the poor. I am driven to undermine them, to poison from within. It causes me pain to belong to a species that continues to subscribe to such delusions.”

Erringer began to pace with a subtle limp, supporting a right leg that appeared slightly shorter than the left. “You perceive us as demonic, but our type is more common than you might guess. We are everywhere, in all walks of life. Anywhere there are movers and shakers, leaders, and troublemakers. We are agents of change.” He turned toward them. “Now, imagine if we joined together, combined our cunning powers into one concentrated force. Such an organization could transform the world.”

“It won't work,” Jarrell said. “If you're only four percent of the population, there are a lot more good guys.”

“For now, that may be true. But the future will be different. The world is already changing. There are more of us every day. The wealth of the world is becoming concentrated in our hands.”

Erringer walked back to the globe and turned it lightly. “It may be hard for you to accept, but I am a savior as well. Think of the dinosaurs, who ruled this spinning planet for sixty-five million years. Was kindness ever part of their winning formula? Did a T. rex ever show mercy or compassion to an apatosaurus? No. And already our frail species, gifted with the power of intellect, is approaching a cliff, a point of social and environmental collapse. Our course is unalterable. Global climate change has begun. The world is overpopulated. Sea levels will rise. Vast populations will be displaced. The global economy will be destabilized. Nations will become locked in warfare over dwindling resources. But in the midst of such chaos, our kind will rise. We will achieve control. Like Kibo, we will not only survive, we will thrive. There will be a great reckoning, a great adjustment, and from that collapse a new species of human will emerge. A
Homo novus.
Those who are not part of our ruling tribe will be our servants, because we will own the future. Lean and powerful, we will have dominion over all. The weak, the stupid, and the compassionate do not stand a chance.”

“History has shown otherwise,” Jarrell said. “Your kind have been around since the dawn of civilization, but you've never won. Because you are a minority. People are not reptiles.”

Erringer's eyes narrowed in a flash of contempt. “You haven't looked at the chessboard carefully enough, Jarrell. It's a global match of values, we're approaching the end game, and one can look at the condition of the board and see that the game has already been won. The Organization has already put its thumb on the scale of democracy. The Erringer Corporation alone has grown into a global empire that touches almost every facet of modern life. Our portfolio includes energy, media, agriculture, and weapons. The Organization's membership includes major players in the news media, and we've gained key strategic footholds in the major sectors of the military-industrial complex. We've shown that the old saying is true: Money really
can
buy anything. We own members of Congress, police forces, and branches of the military. The future is much closer than you think.” He tapped his cane on the Persian rug thoughtfully. “And you, my young colleagues…I believe you are among the fittest. You have shown that. I've watched you, other members of my Organization have watched you, over these many days.”

“Why us? How did we get on your radar screen?”

“You first came to my attention more than a year ago. I had invested heavily in a project, the development of an untouched island off the coast of Georgia. It was a diamond in the rough. But somehow you thwarted me and our corporate partners. You—an underprivileged youth, the son of a maid, a woman who worked at the Days Inn and wove baskets by night, and a father who fought the development of a similar island for decades but lost, and subsequently drowned himself in Jack Daniel's.” He looked at Martha, his eyes bright, fanatical. “And you, a woman diagnosed with mental illness. A pair with such motley origins. Yet somehow you stopped us. The island wasn't crucial to our overall goals. The money lost was only a drop in the bucket of our global portfolio. But still, that coastal island was a gem, something I wanted to possess, and I was obstructed, at least temporarily.

“Well, you can bet that got my attention. I was angered, yes. But at the same time I was intrigued. Fascinated, even. How could this be? Who were these Davids who caused such a Goliath as the Organization to stumble? In the process, you even caused the death of one of my operatives. Who could do this? I had to find out. I just had to know who you were and what you were made of.

“And so we sent you on a mission. We threw rocks at you, we chased you. We framed you. We rattled your chains. We added chemicals to the mix to see what would happen.”

Jarrell shook his head. “So this was all about vengeance.”

“Vengeance, yes, in the form of a game. But also a test, an experiment.”

Martha felt a knot of rage roiling in the pit of her stomach. “You tampered with my drugs. You made me sick again.”

Erringer pulled a hassock up in front of them, sat, and stared at them levelly. His fingers were laced over the crystal head of his cane. His eyes sparkled like cold stars. “And you know what? I've thoroughly enjoyed every minute. One of the biggest challenges faced by people like me is boredom. We crave novelty. Our game has been a most entertaining distraction.”

“Well, you've had your fun. We've suffered. Let's call it a draw.”

Erringer smiled and gestured to the chess table. “Notice anything unusual about this chess set, Jarrell? There are no black or white pieces. All the pieces are clear. Which side are you on? It really doesn't matter. Morality is relative. I don't give a damn about race, color, or moral judgment.” He turned back toward Jarrell. “One chess piece we can use is you, Jarrell. You have the inner fire, drive, anger. Charisma. The power to lead. You have the makings of greatness. You aspire to a political career. With the Organization behind you, your success is ensured. I can picture your meteoric rise, from Georgia assemblyman to the national legislature. Who knows…someday, perhaps, even the highest office in the land.”

“What if I say I'm not interested?”

“Then, I'm sorry to say, your journey will end here. As you know, the police received an anonymous tip to search your apartment in connection with the UNICON murders.”

“Yeah, that's why I came here.”

“I can tell you that being off the grid at that particular moment doesn't look good for you. Especially considering what they found in your apartment: a pair of Fiskars meat shears with traces of DNA matching that of Roy McCaffrey, professor of sociology at Emory University.”

Jarrell shook his head. “Maybe I had an alibi.”

“You could try your luck with that, but I don't think it would go well.” Erringer rose. “There's a neater solution. I can make one phone call, and that evidence can be suppressed or rendered inadmissible. Perhaps contamination will be discovered in the lab procedure.”

“If I say yes to this, then I become your puppet. A slave, like everyone who graduates from your program. You own them, don't you? Everyone in this room is a slave to your manipulations.”

“Think of the possibilities,” Erringer said. “Both of you have been bullied all your life. Become strong with us, and fight back. Fight for what you care about. Racial equality. You will be in a position to help those who have been oppressed in the past. Generate opportunities for those who deserve them, those who earned them. Change the welfare state into an equal playing field. Let the brightest and the strongest, the toughest, the most cunning, rise to the top. That is as it should be, isn't it?

“And you, Martha Covington.” He walked around her. “You fascinate me. I've always been intrigued by the potential of the human mind, and you illuminate another fork in the path of humankind's evolutionary development. Along with your schizophrenia—or perhaps because of it—you seem to manifest a form of precognition, access to a sixth sense. A gift that warrants further study. Perhaps it can be replicated in others. Another clue about the untapped potential of the human mind. A power that could be used by the Organization.”

Erringer leaned his cane against a coffee table, sat down in a wing-back chair, and held his hands spaced apart. He touched his fingertips together to form a steeple. “The game ends here. Your brief, extraordinary lives have tapered to this one sharp point. It's as clear as glass. As clean and pure as a mountain stream. A decisive moment. You've already been living on borrowed time. We could have easily destroyed you a year ago, after you interfered with my island project. But you won a second chance.

“Now, however, the situation has reached a decisive moment. In a sense, the people you were before—the journalist, the idealistic law student—are no more; those lives have already ended. Those identities are like dead skins. Now you stand before me, purified, ready to be reborn. You can never go back, only forward. You have only one choice remaining. You can be reborn.”

Jarrell leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Reborn…to help you usher in another age of reptiles. A world without love.”

“You are both very intelligent. You are different. You are exceptional. You know that everything I've told you here is the truth. So make your choice.” He leaned toward them, his eyebrows raised above his crystalline eyes. “Choose the future, or choose oblivion. What will it be?”

“How much time do we have to consider this proposition?” Jarrell asked.

“None. You have to decide now.”

Jarrell folded his arms, tilted his head slightly. “What if we give you a raincheck? What if we decide to just walk out of here?”

“Life in prison, if you're lucky,” Erringer said. “But for you, probably the electric chair. Georgia is a death penalty state, as you are well aware.”

“I'll take my chances.” He took Martha's hand and rose from the seat. “Thanks for the party, but it's late. We'd better be going.”

Martha stood with him and they turned their backs toward Erringer. They began to walk, unhurried, toward the rear of the gallery. Goosebumps rising on her skin, Martha felt a sense of terror that ordinarily would have caused her knees to buckle, but Jarrell's fearlessness steadied her.

They were halfway across the gallery when Erringer said, “Stop.”

Jarrell paused, then slowly turned around. Martha turned with him. Borchard was there, standing in the center of the aisle, a semi-automatic weapon cradled in his arms. Martha wasn't sure from where he'd produced the firearm. Apparently there were some exceptions to the ban on weapons in Erringer's meetings.

The albino had taken his aviator sunglasses off, exposing eyes that were the tint of raw hamburger. His eyebrows were the color of wheat.

“I admit I'm disappointed,” Erringer said, still seated in the high-back chair near the hearth. “But I'm not at all surprised. Not everyone is fit for our Organization.”

The albino took another step toward them, his lips slightly curled. A rueful smirk. Martha caught a glimpse of a movement in the background, then heard a pop. Borchard's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. A trickle of dark blood spilled over his bottom lip and down his pallid chin. He took one more step forward, pivoted, and dropped like a marionette whose strings had been cut. His automatic weapon clattered to the floor. Behind him, Eduardo stood, pistol drawn. He hopped over Borchard's body and scooped up the rifle.

The room was suddenly astir, the attendees beginning to scatter, most of them heading toward the vestibule and the cache of guns beyond, some making for the pocket door. Jarrell grabbed Martha by the arm and pulled her behind the granite base of the glass eagle.

There was another burst of gunfire. Jarrell dragged Martha to the floor.

“Freeze, everybody!” Eduardo shouted. Martha could see him standing before the hearth. “I'll take out the next person who moves so much as an inch. Everybody over there, stand against the wall.”

Eduardo pointed to a love seat near the pocket door. “That includes you, Erringer. Get the fuck up.”

Martha saw a white shock of hair emerge from behind the love seat. “What are you doing, Eduardo?” Erringer said. “Let's discuss this.”

“Shut up. I'm not discussing nothing except what you did to my family.”

“Rush him,” Erringer said to the other attendees. “He can't take all of us.”

“Nobody move,” Eduardo said, “or I'll take you out. I don't give a fuck.”

Eduardo reached into his pants pocket with one hand while holding the gun with the other. He pulled out the USB stick and held it up.

“You want to discuss something?” he said. “Let's talk about this.” He stood next to the marble chess table and put the flash drive on it. He turned to look at Erringer.

“The Organization is your family,” Erringer said. “Think about how we've helped you.”

“Family? I once had one of those,” Eduardo said. “A real flesh-and-blood mother and father. A brother, too. We came from the town of El Puente in Mexico. We came north to find a better life. Migrant farmers. The last time I saw my father, he was vomiting blood inside the metal trailer we lived in. One of the shanties provided by Cabrillo Farms. He was the first to go. Then my mother, and then my brother. They died, along with who knows how many others that season. But those who survived, what could we do? We had nothing.”

Erringer moved toward him, caning his way slowly across the Persian carpet. The laser sight painted a ruby dot on the breast of his shirt. “You were an orphan then, too young to work yet, so you got put into youth homes.”

“I bounced from one institution to the next.”

“Yes, until finally you were resourceful enough to run away. You joined the Sangres gang. That was your new family for a while. You were admired for your ruthlessness. But after that, things got worse. When you were eighteen, you got in a fight and killed someone from another gang with an iron pipe.”

“It was manslaughter, not murder.”

“Nonetheless, a serious crime. Your next stop was Reidsville State Prison. Everything could have ended for you there.” Erringer took another step across the Persian rug.

“I might have gotten twenty years. But manslaughter wasn't enough for the Organization. I had to show you I was capable of a cold-blooded killing.”

“And you accomplished your assignment brilliantly. You graduated, you passed the exam. Now you are one of us. From that there is no turning back.”

“Your fucking Organization killed my family.” Eduardo's face was taut with rage, and Martha could see a sheen of moisture on his skin.

“That was just a side business. A satellite venture. It wasn't anything personal. With us, it's never personal. You know that.”

“You made me. You turned me into what I became.”

Martha saw that a lanky man with curly hair was working his way forward in a crouch, creeping along behind the hors d'oeuvres table, behind Eduardo.

“You were at the end of your rope, and we turned your life around. Now look at you. You get to be part of the ruling elite. You get to live like a king.”

Eduardo tapped the USB drive. “You've got such detailed records on all of us, don't you? You find out every single detail, even the fact that one of your companies made the insecticide that was sprayed on the spinach crops where my family worked. Even the fact that you knew it could kill. But you shipped that shit out anyway.”

Erringer jabbed the tip of his cane into the carpet. “It was a business decision. We didn't know how bad it would be.” He took another step toward the young Latino, tapped his own forehead. “Think, Eduardo. Think like one of us. Think the way we trained you. You are one of us. Your family is gone. Nothing can be done about that. If I go down, you'll go down. All of us. You know that. That's how the system works.”

“How many people died on that farm, puking their guts out in broken-down trailers? Sent back over the border in buses, red-eyed and delirious? We'll never know. No one will ever know, because none of us had the resources.”

Erringer took another step toward him. “Eduardo…”

The man with curly hair crept closer.

“Behind you!” Jarrell shouted. The curly-haired man rose and lunged. Eduardo swung around, fired twice. Blood spritzed in the air around the man as he fell back and grabbed at the table holding the hors d'oeuvres. He pulled at the tablecloth as he went down, sending silver platters and wine bottles crashing to the floor.

Erringer bolted for the pocket door. Eduardo spun around and unloaded several rounds into his back. Erringer staggered into the Komodo dragon statue and grabbed on to it briefly, then slid to the floor, leaving a bloody smear across the lizard's back.

“C'mon—now!” Jarrell said, and he pulled Martha along in a crouching jog behind the French furniture, toward the pocket door. Martha glanced back at the room and saw that it was emptying fast, with most of the attendees charging for the vestibule. Briggs came in from the other direction, gun drawn. As they bolted toward the door, she heard another hail of gunfire. Next to them, the glass spider statue shattered, the legs falling away like icicles.

They dove through the opening, and Jarrell slammed the heavy panel shut and latched it. They were inside a study—leather chairs, tall bookcases, a mahogany secretary.

Martha looked Jarrell over, touched him with her hands, felt his chest and arms. “Jarrell—you're okay? You didn't get hurt?”

“I'm fine. You're all right?”

“Yes.”

“All right, let's get the hell out of here.”

Jarrell pulled Martha by the hand across the room toward another doorway that opened onto the upstairs hallway. Martha could hear the crack of gunfire in the adjoining room, a cry of pain. Another rapid series of pops, a sound of glass breaking.

They peeked through the door. No one in sight. “This way,” Jarrell said, and they ran toward the top of the grand staircase, following the red carpet down into the foyer. They sprinted across the shining marble floor and reached the elevator lobby.

“Wait!” It was Briggs's voice, above and behind them. From the landing he called, “Jarrell, wait. Everything's okay now. We just want to talk.”

Jarrell pulled Martha behind a pillar next to the elevator lobby.

“There's no need to run now. Everything's settled up.” Martha could hear his light footsteps on the marble stairs. Jarrell pointed to a door across the lobby marked
STAIRS
.

They dashed for it, pushed through the door, and entered a cement stairwell. They bounded down two flights and at the bottom found another metal door, this one marked
BASEMENT
. They went through it and entered a long corridor illuminated with fluorescent lights.

“This way,” Jarrell said. They followed the corridor and came to a side door with a small square window, dark on the inside. Jarrell tried the doorknob. It opened. As they stepped into the room beyond, a sensor detected their presence and fluorescent lights came on overhead. They stood in a long, narrow room with steel shelves, metal toolboxes, vises. A room that smelled of sawdust and oil. A workshop.

Jarrell pointed toward another door at the far end of the room, and they made their way toward it. Halfway across the room, Jarrell paused beside a tall red steel toolbox.

“Wait,” he said, and began opening and closing the sliding drawers, looking inside them.

“Jarrell, what is it? We've got to run, we—”

“Wait, I just need…here.” He pulled out a pair of wire cutters and slid them into the waistband of his pants. As he did so, Martha looked up and spotted a smoke-colored blister on the ceiling with a winking LED light. She nudged Jarrell and pointed.

“Shit,” Jarrell said. “They've got cameras everywhere in this place. Come on.”

They reached the door at the far end of the workroom and opened it. The space beyond was dark but felt open, cavernous. Martha could smell a faint whiff of gasoline.

Jarrell pulled the dry bag from his pants pocket and fished out a box of waterproof matches. He struck a match, and Martha saw its flare doubled in the lens of a nearby headlight. They were in the garage. At the far end, near the corner, the pale green letters of a sign glowed:
EXIT.

“Come on,” Jarrell said, and they made their way across the floor in a dim pool of yellow light.

They were alongside the Bentley, its black paint reflecting the tiny amber match flame, when Martha heard a mechanical noise—an echoing snap, the hum of a ballast. The sodium-vapor fixtures overhead came on, lighting up the warehouse like a stadium.

Jarrell yanked Martha down behind the Bentley. He blew out the match.

“Okay, kids, there's nothing to be afraid of anymore.” Briggs was somewhere above them, his voice resonating in the open space. “The wicked witch is dead.”

Martha scanned the walls and balconies, trying to discern the voice's point of origin.

“The Organization has new leadership now,” Briggs went on. “Ain't that great? Things are going to be different from now on.”

Jarrell nudged Martha and indicated the far end of the catwalk that crossed the center of the warehouse. Briggs stood there, his pistol drawn. Next to him was a tall, wiry man who held what appeared to be an automatic weapon.

Jarrell pointed toward the next vehicle, a gray Hummer. Beyond it was the Cessna Citation, then the exit door. There was a wheeled metal diagnostic cart between the two vehicles. Jarrell touched Martha's shoulder, then used an index finger to point out a path to the Hummer behind the diagnostic cart. He nodded to her.

“I know you're in here,” Briggs said. He took a few steps farther onto the catwalk, scanned the floor. He turned the other way. “There's no reason to hide. I just want to thank you.”

Jarrell nudged Martha, gripped her hand tightly. They made a dash. They'd cleared the corner of the cart when Martha heard a voice shout, “There they are!” A sound like a jackhammer filled the air. They dove behind the Hummer amid sounds of pinging metal and ricochets. A window on the far side of the Bentley turned frost white, with a dime-sized hole near the center. The gunfire stopped.

“You okay?” Jarrell whispered.

“Yes,” Martha said, crouched. She put her hand on Jarrell's shoulder. She could smell something in the air, a sharp chemical tincture. She glanced toward the exit. It was less than twenty-five feet away now, but there was no further coverage for them between the vehicle and the exit.

Dear God,
she thought,
so close, but trapped.

“You're making us louse up the fine collection here,” Briggs said.

There was a metallic clank as the men turned and went back toward the end of the catwalk, then began to descend a metal stairway to the floor of the warehouse.

“We know exactly where you are,” Briggs continued. “So you may as well come on out. I really don't want to have to take out talent like you, and I sure don't want to ruin any more of the late Mr. Erringer's fine collection. These are some primo rides, and I, for one, intend to utilize them in the future.”

As he spoke, Martha noticed the chemical odor was getting stronger, and she could hear a soft trickle nearby. She craned her head in the direction of the sound and saw its source. Jarrell was already looking at the same thing—a stream of clear liquid flowing from a bullet hole in the wing of the Cessna.