Seven Unholy Days (8 page)

12

8:39 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

YELLOW CREEK

              I looked up from my station and saw Skinny doing battle with a laptop at a corner desk.

“I haven’t had the pleasure. I’m Matt Decker.”

Unlike Stocky, she did shake my hand. “Julie Reynolds. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Decker.”

“Having trouble with your machine?”

“I can’t get it to connect to the Internet, which means I can’t file my reports.” She blew an exasperated sigh.

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Be my guest.”

Her Dell was running the latest incarnation of Windows and I had her online through the Yellow Creek network in two minutes. “There you go.” I slid the machine back over to her.

“Wow, that was quick. Thanks.”

“No problem. How long have you been with the Bureau?”

“I’m six months out of the academy. This is my first serious case.”

“Well, I’m sorry we’re all in this mess, but congratulations on the big assignment.”

“Thanks. I was excited at first.”

“And now?”

She drew a breath as if to answer, then froze for a moment and said, “I better get back to work.” She ran her fingers through her hair. Other than being the size of a toothpick, she was attractive enough. And something was wrong.

“You seem frustrated. Anything other than the computer problem?”

“I enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Decker.” She smiled politely, spun her chair back around, and started pecking on the laptop. I said goodbye and went back to my station.

By eleven o’clock nine of Central’s sixteen states were back online and I had a rough draft of the manual override instru
ctions. I started editing them into something distributable and Abdul kept working our remaining states. Rowe and Stocky, whose name I had learned to be Walter Potella, conferred a lot and said little to anyone else. Julie Reynolds pecked. The crackers were working on the email routes and making little progress. Far too little.

I laid my head down at my station to rest my eyes, but it ended quickly when my phone vibrated in my pocket and si
multaneously my laptop said, “You have new mail.” After a quick check to be sure no one was nearby I brought up my mailbox. It was from him.

Return-Path:

Delivered-To: x7ijljAweRRv -deckerdigital:[email protected]

X-Envelope-To: [email protected]

X-Originating-IP: [66.156.171.40]

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Spam?

I have had a wonderful evening, Mr. Decker. For that reason I will overlook your snide, childish, and insulting little email. But you will learn to treat me with respect. I guarantee it.

By the way, your performance thus far has been most disappointing. I expected better of you. Shall I claim tomorrow’s victory with equal ease?

Tark tapped me on the shoulder and I lowered the lid on the computer. “Can we talk?” I followed him outside.

“We have to stop this nut,” he said, staring at the stars that bloomed in the waning twilight. “This country’s in a world of hurt, and believe it or not, we’re the front line, you and me.”

I was having a tough time paying attention to what he was saying. The new email, with its clear warning of another attack, put me in a quandary with regard to keeping it to myself.

“The government’s spinning its wheels,” Tark continued. “It runs on bureaucrats and computers. Computers run on electricity. Bureaucrats run on rules and that approach isn’t working. The FBI’s investigation is running at ten percent of what it should be.”

That yanked me back into the conversation. “Where did you get that figure?”

“I heard Rowe and Potella talking in the lounge after Rowe got off the phone with Washington or Quantico or wherever. They can’t communicate. They can’t research. Everybody’s waiting for someone higher up to tell them what to do, and as a result nothing’s getting done.”

“What did you think of the email to the White House?”

“Had a biblical flavor to it. I still think the guy’s some kind of religious nut.”

“Most terrorists are.”

“No, this one’s different. Like I said, it had a biblical feel to it, not the Islamic stuff about infidels we normally hear. ‘Transgression’ and ‘iniquity’ are both used heavily in the Bible.”

“What does the Bible have to say about power grids?”

“Just telling you what my hunch is, Matthew.”

“I appreciate it. Didn’t mean to be a smart-ass.”

He tried for a smile but didn’t quite make it.

“We’re going to win this thing, Tark.”

“I hope you’re right, Matthew.”

So did I. “I am.”

             
Tark stood up when Sheriff Johnny Litman unexpectedly walked into the control room with a grim look on his face. “Tark, I’m afraid I’ve got some more bad news.”

“It’s not Peggy, is it?”

“No, no, calm down.”

Tark exhaled. “What’s the news?”

“Brett Fulton was killed in a car wreck last night out on 25.”

“Sweet Jesus, that’s three of my men in two days, Johnny. How come you’re just now telling me?”

“I’ve been trying to call you all day, but you can’t get through to anybody on the dang phone, and we’ve had our hands full trying to keep things calm.”

“Anything fishy about the wreck?”

“Nope, the wreck itself looks like what happens when somebody’s driving like a bat out of hell. They said he must’ve been doing near a hundred when he lost it.”

Tark cocked his head. “If the wreck ‘itself’ doesn’t look fishy, what does?”

“Well first, he had a forty-five auto on him. Not in the glove box or under the seat, but tucked in his pants like he might have been expecting trouble. We went to run the numbers on the gun and there weren’t any. Serial number filed off smoother than a baby’s butt.”

“You talked to Jana to see if she knew anything about the gun?”

“I’m getting to that. Say, ya’ll got anything to drink around here?”

“Good grief, Johnny. Finish the story.” Tark roared for someone to fetch the sheriff a Coke. Abdul volunteered.

“Simmer down, there’s a lot to tell. The hospital said Jana got off early last night, and I know she’s been staying over at Brett’s house a lot so I went on over. Jana’s car is there, right? I moseyed on up to the door, knocked on it, and it came open. I hollered for her several times, but the place was quiet as an Indian tiptoeing on snow. Finally I went on in.”

I saw Bob Rowe in his corner and it occurred to me he should probably be hearing what Litman had to say. I walked over and told him that he might want to join the conversation.

“I’ve heard every word. Local sheriffs usually don’t like for the Bureau to invade their turf and I’ve had enough head-butting for one day, so I’ll just sit here and take notes,” he said with a wink.

Coke in hand, Litman continued. “The house was a mess. Stuff busted all to hell and back. There was one humdinger of a fight in there. Lot of blood. No body, though.”

Rowe had spun his chair around to face us and was listening intently while he took notes on a legal pad. Tark asked the obvious. “I’m almost scared to ask, Johnny, but where’s Jana? I sure hope to heavens that’s not her blood. That’s one sweet gal.”

“I don’t know whose blood it is, Tark, and I don’t know where Jana is. We’ve sealed off the house as a crime scene, and we’re treating it as a homicide even though we don’t have a body yet.”

Rowe finally approached, hand out to shake with the sheriff. “Bob Rowe, FBI.”

“How do.” Litman took his hand, and the brief but crucial ritual of males sizing each other up took place. Eye contact. Strong-but-not-too-strong gripping. A contest that wasn’t really a contest. “You’re welcome to look around the crime scene, Rowe. If you think of something we’ve missed, let me know.”

“Will do, Sheriff. I have a bunch of agents around here busting butt looking for clues and hitting brick walls. If you like, I’ll be glad to put a couple of them on this for you. We can get some testing done on the blood pretty quickly.”

“Thank you, Rowe. Offer accepted. I’ll pass the word along to my people to cooperate with you. For now, I better get back out there on the streets and keep the peace.”

I re-joined Abdul and went back to work pounding the keyboard. At five minutes after three, the last grid in Central went hot. We managed to do it without any system damage that we could detect. Fifteen minutes later I emailed the override instructions to headquarters and the other three centers. After a glance to be sure no one was around, I printed both of 69’s emails to me and quickly retrieved them from the laser printer.

Tark was in the lounge, napping on a sofa, Rowe likewise in a recliner. I shook Tark and when he stirred I motioned for him to come with me. He unfolded from the couch with a mighty yawn and followed me down the hall, through the control room, and out into the starlit night.

“I need to show you something,” I said.

“Go ahead.” He yawned again.

“In confidence.”

“Go ahead.” He rubbed his eyes.

I pulled the printouts from my pocket and unfolded them. “Here. The first one came Monday night, the second a few hours ago.”

He read them in the light of a tiny LED flashlight from my keychain, and was suddenly wide awake. “I take it you haven’t mentioned this to anyone?”

“Correct.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t see that I have a choice. They need to know he’s planning another attack tomorrow.”

“What did you say to insult him?”

“I just told him to keep his spam out of my mailbox.”

“Sounds like he’s making this some kind of game between you two.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You can’t think of who this might be?”

“No clue. Like I said yesterday, I have my share of rivals but this—”

“You know, part of the first one sounds familiar but I can’t place it.”

“Which part?”

“This.” He pointed to the first line in the first email: Never more horror, nor worse of days.

“That’s not from the Bible, is it?”

“No, I can’t place it right now but it’s not that.”

“If it’s from a well-known source we should be able to find it. The Internet’s still crippled but with all the Central states back up, it’s hobbling along enough for basic research.”                                          “Dare I ask what the filthy secrets are?”

“I’ll explain later.”

He didn’t argue. We walked inside, turned on the light in the lounge, and roused Rowe. “What?” he said.

“You need to see these,” I said, laying the emails on the t
able.

He got up, stretched, and walked to the table. After reading them he looked up. “When did these come?”

I pointed to the first and said, “Last night, Monday evening,” then to the second and said, “tonight.”

“Did you reply to these?”

“Only the first one.”

“Probably best not to antagonize him any further.”

“Agreed.”

“It’s pretty obvious why you withheld these, Decker, but if you’ve compromised this investigation I’ll have your ass.”

“It compromised nothing. Let’s worry about finding this guy.”

“I’ll go along with that,” Rowe said. “For now.”

13

8:40 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

HART COMPLEX, PRIVATE CHAMBERS

             
“This is incredible,” Jana said, with complete sincerity. It was as if they had walked into a normal family home. A small foyer opened up into a living room complete with sofa, chairs, pictures on the wall, a television, magazines on the coffee table. The curtained windows appeared to be lit by twilight, though that was impossible since they were deep underground. A door in the back of the room led to a kitchen.

Hart smiled with pride. “Do you like it, my dear?”

Jana nodded and walked around the room, taking in more detail now. A few of the magazines were American, but most bore covers in a foreign language. Hebrew? She spotted a copy of Time and picked it up. June 1977. She laid it down and looked for more dates. They were all late seventies, most of them 1977. Even the style of the furnishings projected a retro atmosphere. It was a room frozen in time.

“Was this like the home you grew up in?” she said, hoping to draw him into a conversation where a useful weakness might be found.

“Identical.”

“Why did you build it?”

“To memorialize the impact of two pivotal moments in my life ... ” His voice faded as he looked around the room, a wistful look on his face, but also the most sane look she had seen yet. “On July fourteenth, nineteen seventy-seven, I came home from school, walked into this room, sat down at this desk, and did my home assignments. It was a day like any other day.” He had moved to a corner desk and was gently stroking its surface.

“I was ten years old,” he continued. “My father arrived home just as I was finishing my work. He seemed happy, buo
yant. As I stood up from the desk to greet him, I accidentally knocked over this cup of writing instruments.”

Jana looked at the desk and saw an overturned cup, with five or six assorted pens and pencils strewn around it. Hart stared at them. She said nothing.

“I always held out hope that such a violation might one day be overlooked, but that was a fanciful wish at best, one of many baseless dreams of a naïve child. Such an egregious act could not, of course, go unpunished.”

Hart looked toward Jana, and for a moment she saw the eyes of a terrified child. The look faded. He walked to a waist-high table behind the sofa, gazed down at the table, then placed his hands on it. “This is where phase one of my pu
nishment was administered. Father had a razor strap to which he had fitted a two-handed grip for more efficient delivery. I received fifty-three lashes that day.”

“For knocking over a cup? Good Lord!”

“’Actions have consequences,’ dear Father would say. “After the lashes had been meted out ... ” Hart paused and walked across the room to a vertical wardrobe chest about five feet tall. “I would spend from one to five days inside the chest, reflecting on what I had done. This was a seventy-two-hour transgression.”

Jana shook her head slowly in disbelief, mouth agape. What kind of monster treated a child in such a way?

“Did this happen often?” she said.

“Certainly.”

“What about all the school you missed?”

“Father was one of the community’s—in fact, the state’s—most generous benefactors. Many knew. None interceded. Whatever academic work I missed, I made up to perfection or I was punished for that, as well.”

“That’s horrible.” Jana’s compassion was sincere. Hart was sick, but who wouldn’t be. Sick or not, this was not a place in which she wanted to stay. She brought her mind back on track. “Since this happened all the time, what was special about July-whatever?”

“July fourteenth, nineteen seventy-seven, was the day that everything began to change.”

“In what way?”

“Mother would often turn the volume up on the television during the lashing phase, especially if an interesting program was playing. I never cried, for that doubled the number of lashes, but the sound of leather on flesh could be rather distracting, you see. Anyway, pardon my rambling.

“The salient point is that I learned to escape into the world of the television. I believe psychologists would call that a coping mechanism. This day, the evening news broadcast was on, and they told a most fascinating story.”

“What was it?”

“The night before, a rogue electrical storm near New York produced a number of lightning strikes that eventually caused a blackout across the city. It was really a quite extraordinary chain of events, a domino effect of breakers tripping and distribution components failing.”

Hart’s melancholy mood was gone now. His eyes shone with excitement. “ITV was broadcasting an American account of the story, including a remarkable clip that showed this ma
ssive swath of the city going dark in an instant. I thrust myself into that world and roamed those dark streets in my mind. I embraced the darkness, even looked forward to my time alone in here after that day.” He had moved to the wardrobe cabinet and stood caressing its wooden surface.

“Darkness became my friend, my protector, my safe haven. That day also marked the end of my wasting time uttering prayers that were never answered.”

“You stopped believing in God?”

Hart chortled. “Ah, my poor precious,” he said, clucking his tongue the way a kindergarten teacher might do with a student. “Of course I did not stop believing in God. I simply saw the old man for what he was: obsolete.”

“I see.”

“No, I sincerely doubt that you do, because you have not yet heard the entire sequence of events. Shall I continue?”

“By all means.”

“Life went on as normal until I finished my studies in Israel, after which I went away for my time of service in Zahal, what you would call being drafted into the army. It was there that I became enlightened on a few other matters. For example, I learned that my father did not really have remote eyes that could see me no matter where I was. I also came to believe that it was my responsibility to rescue my mother.

“After months of careful planning, I returned home for the first time and told her of my plan; once my time of service was complete, we could both move to another country, perhaps England, where I planned to attend university. Unfortunately, she did not share my enthusiasm. She slapped me for daring to impugn Father. At that moment I realized I was not only sired by a monster, but born of one, as well.” Hart sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Jana said.

“Thank you, but I dealt with the situation quite well.”

“Oh?”

He started toward the facsimile kitchen that lay through the door at the back of the living room. “Come.”

Hart continued to talk but as soon as Jana stepped into the room his voice faded to a distant chatter. She looked around in disbelief at another room locked in the jaws of time. While the living room had held its own horror stories, they were co
ncealed behind a veneer of normalcy. Nothing was concealed here.

What looked like blood was smeared everywhere. Grisly chunks of meat and bone littered the floor and the counters, and on an island bar in the center of the room was the most macabre sight Jana had ever seen. The eyes in a woman’s severed head stared at her, so very real-looking. Beside that was a man’s head, but it did not stare. The eyes were missing.

She felt faint and backed up against the wall to steady herself. Hart kept talking but she didn’t understand what he was saying. Finally he shook her. “There’s nothing to be frightened of, dear. They can’t hurt you. Just like they can’t hurt me anymore. And this is, after all, a re-creation.”

Jana willed herself back into a lucid state. She had to remain in control if she ever hoped to leave this hell alive. She looked at Hart. He was smiling.

“This,” he said as he gestured to the room with a grandiose flourish, “represents the happiest moment of my life, for it was then that I realized that I was the master of my fate. Not only did I not need God. I
was
God.”