by G. O. Grason
“What’s that mean?” asked Christine.
“The beginning and the end of evil.”
“So, what do I have to do?”
“You will free climb the mountain,” Apollo said.
Chapter 2
A few days before they were to head home, they stood at the foot of the mountain. The rivers rapids crashed and thundered behind Apollo and Christine. She could feel the cold biting mist on her bare feet and neck. The sun was just beginning to take the sky. Inside, she felt fear, she felt doubt, but when she looked into Apollo’s eyes, seeing nothing but strength, she became overwhelmed by a surge of will. There are some moments in life where someone does not have the option to turn back. To retreat would mean death. This was one of those moments for Christine.
Christine clenched her hands tight. She felt the soft beat of her heart in her chest. Overhead, ravens screamed as they fought with vultures. Were they circling her? Christine wondered. Apollo, facing the mountain wall, arched his neck back and gazed at the near ninety-degree climb. He was barefoot, dressed in nothing but his cargo shorts. Christine stared at the bulging muscles of his back and immediately felt like a tiny bunny rabbit. Doubt plagued her will.
“Snap out of it,” Apollo ordered.
Christine had not heard him turn around.
“Doubt, be it on a mountain, on a battlefield, or on the meanest streets of the meanest city, will get you killed. Trust in yourself is what separates the ones that live and the ones that die.”
“Yes father,” said Christine.
“Let’s go.”
The warmth of the rock surprised Christine as she pressed her fingers and toes into them. As they climbed, Apollo taking the lead, Christine began to notice how small the hand holds were getting. Soon, they were being replaced with tiny shrubs that made it almost impossible to grip. She paused to catch her breath as Apollo rested on a ledge five feet above her. The drop, if she struck the ground, would kill her instantly. The only way she would survive if she fell was making it to the river. That was a big if. Overhead, the ravens had gone. All that were left were the vultures.
“There is no catching your breath in battle Christine!” shouted Apollo. “As soon as you let up, the enemy strikes!”
Christine continued to climb. Her feet and fingers were bleeding. Red covered the smooth gray stone of the mountain face. As they climbed, tiny rocks and dust flew into Christine’s eyes. She tried to brush them away but as soon as she did her fingers slipped forcing her to slap her body hard against the mountain. Her short life flashed before her eyes: she saw her mother cooking her fluffy eggs; screaming fights in the living room with a muted TV; bedtime stories with Apollo about past cases; Apollo showing Christine how to disassemble a firearm in less than ten seconds; the absence of music. A screeching sounded overhead, bringing Christine back.
“You still with me Christine!” Apollo shouted down at her.
“Yes!” Christine replied as strongly as she could. Her voice carried over the barrier of stones; it traveled through the prickly bushes covered in her blood; and snaked up Apollo’s sweating aching back and into his ears.
When he heard the pain in Christine’s affirmation, he knew.
Christine thrust her body forward and suddenly felt her foot slip. One of her hands reached out for something in the mountain to hold, but all Christine felt was the cold, smooth surface of the indifferent face. She felt herself forfeited of weight, forgiven of pain, allowed her due release. Christine felt comfort in that moment before her fall. She felt the ease of a life without responsibility, honor, or decree. Like a leaf shed from its tree, for once, she was who she was void of label or a detail of identity. Christine’s arm jerked toward the sky.
“I got you,” Apollo shouted.
Christine’s eyes focused on Apollo’s horrified face. They gazed into one another’s eyes, both of them seeking their minds about what the other was thinking. Apollo saw right through her where Christine saw only a brick wall.
“You gave up,” Apollo murmured to her. He had his grip firm around her forearm. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I - “
“You can’t rely on anyone but yourself.”
“No!” Christine shouted. Before she could utter another word, Apollo whipped her back into the air to plunge into the river below.
Christine choked on river water and fresh fish muck until finally getting herself to shore five miles from the cabin. Freezing cold, in an advancing Fall, Christine made her way through the forest back to camp. She had no map; she had no compass. All Christine had was the sun and the smell of smoke in Apollo’s direction. When Christine finally saw the wooden deck, she did not feel thankful; her mind shifted into the assassin mode that killed the coyote nights before.
Christine never went back.
Chapter 3
Lieutenant Baggins shakily dumped three Splenda sugars into his black coffee wishing it was a shot of Baileys he was pouring. The buzz of his cheap desktop computer reverberated off the walls like a pesky mosquito. The clock ticked and ticked while Thompson scanned the series of photographs from the Wild Center scene. Haloway scoffed watching his face as it winced and oo’d. Had he never seen a mutilated body before? She wondered. What a softy. Through the blinds of Baggins center window, the sun finally broke through. Thompson, disgusted, whipped the pictures in front of Halloway like he was demanding something.
“Just like a man,” Halloway muttered.
“What was that?” asked Thompson sharply.
“You heard me.” Halloway shot Baggins a look. “Are you the only one who gets coffee when we’re in your office?”
Baggins, his eyes wide, skin pale - obviously still shook - punched his phone.
“Coffee goddamn it,” he said. “Lots.”
Halloway pushed herself off the wall and grabbed photographs of Eric’s body. She analyzed the etchings in his skin, observed the ground around his body, and then the words that obviously had Baggins so shook.
“There will be more…” Halloway murmured. “Well, that’s obvious, but who?”
“The Eye of Providence is all seeing and all knowing,” Thompson began to say, “But…” He stopped himself and let his head fall back.
“But what? don’t tell me my two start detectives are already stumped on this one! I don’t pay you to be fuckin’ stumped” Baggins shouted
“I’m not stumped,” Halloway barked. “But we do have next to nothing.”
“We have something,” Thompson said. “It’s just hidden. Whoever did that to Eric isn’t going to put their hand up to let us know who they are.
“Who sees everything, knows everyone and can pull all of these strings without being seen or known to us?” Baggins asked the group.
“That could be anybody from Amazon to Comcast to Apple,” Halloway said sarcastically, obviously getting annoyed.
“Whoever is orchestrating all of this, is someone with serious connections and deep cover, and not to shopping websites or data surveillance.” Thompson said with a sideways glance at Christine. “They are linked to the military…FBI…CIA…maybe even?”
Baggins leered at Thompson. “Don’t you fuckin’ say it Thompson.”
“They could be connected to the NYPD,” Halloway said, unafraid of Baggins wrath.
“Now you wait a minute!” Baggins started to shout. His telephone rang cutting him short. “Goddammit!”
Baggins ripped the phone from the receiver and stared barking into it then suddenly stopped.
“What? How?” Baggins asked. His face was white as a ghost.
Thompson felt his body go rigid. He watched Christine’s do the same. They both had recently seen that face of terror on Baggins. They hoped they’d never see it again. Baggins, hand shaking, put the phone down and cleared his throat.
“Mayor Cuomo’s wife is…” Baggins voice caught as his eyes began to water. “Has been murdered at their home. We have to get over there right now.”
Everyone in the
room was too shocked for words. Silently, they gathered their things and drove to the scene. All three had never been more scared in all of their lives.
“Look at this shit show,” Baggins moaned as they pulled up the mayor’s house.
“It’s like the media knew this was going to happen,” Halloway said.
“They’re better at their jobs than us,” Thompson sighed. “Racing towards that next tragedy for that next headline.”
“Quiet you two,” Baggins snapped. “Let’s get inside and get to work.”
Mayor Cuomo, usually a stout, strong man, sat slumped in his office chair behind a great wide desk. His dark gray hair seemed whiter and thinner in the light of the afternoon coming through the window. Both of his hands were spread out with their fingers curled. A soft whispering came from his mouth. There were papers scattered everywhere with photos of his late wife. There was a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass next to him. Baggins nodded at Cuomo’s assistant who looked away. There wasn’t anything they could say to make the situation better.
“How do you want to do this?” Baggins asked Cuomo.
They were friends, friends for a long time: softball leagues; attended each other’s weddings; spoken at their loved one’s funerals; cut each other’s cakes and made speeches at their childrens graduation ceremonies. Cuomo’s wife was Baggins sister and the other way around. They knew how to speak to one another. They lived each other’s pain.
“I will give you whatever you need,” Cuomo said in a pained hushed tone. “So, you can find who took her away from me and my family. No more, no less.”
Baggins inhaled and motioned for Thompson and Halloway to fan out. He needed them to take the space and authority. Then, Baggins moved around to sit next to the mayor.
“I’m sorry,” Baggins whispered.
Cuomo stood straight and focused his gaze. “Mourning will be done when the son of a bitch is brought to justice.”
Cuomo pushed all of the papers to the floor and began to scream at the top of his lungs. Baggins pulled him in close and squeezed, trying his hardest to quell the pain. Everyone stood back and waded in agony. The pain was viscous in infinite echo. When Cuomo finished, he pushed Baggins back and inhaled sharply as he stared at the ground.
“Let me show you” … he hesitated, “the body.”
The air in the bedroom was cold. The blinds were drawn. Halloway and Thompson didn’t hear a sound. All they heard was each other’s breath. They stood close, finding a weird kind of comfort in each other’s strength.
“Are you ready?” Mayor Cuomo asked the room.
Everyone nodded.
He revealed his wives’ body.
“There she is,” he said. “There she was.”
On her stomach below her breasts were six words carved into her skin. POWER CANNOT RULE WITHOUT THE HEART Everyone stood speechless, save Christine.
“May I speak sir?” she asked Cuomo.
“Of course detective,” the mayor said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Christine ran her gloved fingers over the wounds, remembering every cut she experienced from her father, every battering, every punch and kick.
“Whoever they are, they are trying to scare us,” Halloway began to say. “They want authority to decay and crumble. They think they can take our heart out of it.”
“They have,” Cuomo shouted on the verge of tears.
Three officers came rushing into the room. Baggins and Thompson pulled the blanket over the body, they could hear yelling and chaos coming from outside.
“What the fuck is going on out there!” Baggins shouted.
“Looting and demonstrations sir,” an officer informed them. “They know.”
“Know what?” Cuomo shouted.
The three officers glanced at one another, terrified to speak.
“About your wife,” one blurted.
Cuomo couldn’t help but reflect.
“Whoever they are, they were right.”
Thompson and Halloway followed the officers outside. People were running amok, breaking windows, tipping over cars, and throwing Molotov’s in the street. There was a frenzy of existential despair. Mayor Cuomo is a leader to the people of his city but now that they know he’s weak, that his heart has been stripped of him, that someone can get to someone as powerful as him, the community suddenly saw no point in following law and order. It was their turn to rule and it wasn’t pretty.
“Get on the ground!” Halloway shouted at a man about to throw a newspaper stand through the window of a bank.
“Screw off pig!” the man screamed as he charged her.
Thompson clotheslined the charging man subduing him instantly.
“You have the right to remain…” Thompson started to say when he noticed someone in a black mask and hoodie in the crowd.
They were taking pictures of him and Christine.
“Halloway!” Thompson shouted. “Over…” Before he could get out his words, a surge of people came rushing up the sidewalk, sweeping Thompson away.
Christine ducked into an alleyway but was able to see who he was pointing at.
“You have my tracker!” she yelled after Thompson. “Follow it.”
There was no way to tell whether he heard her or not. All they could do was trust they would find each other again. Halloway, shouldering her way through the mob, started to follow the masked photographer.
Chapter 4
Christine could smell the evil in the air. It tasted like sulfur and mercury. She knew it. It reminded her of her father. It made her think of all the pain she always endured with him.
“Back!” Halloway barked at a couple of kids stealing jeans from a GAP. “Get out of here now!”
The masked man weaved in and out of the crowd, finally cutting across the street and into another alley. Halloway kept close, but tried not to let her presence known. When you’re tailing someone, the element of surprise is always the most important thing. She jogged across the street, ignoring a gang of people trying to tip over a parked car. Her priority was this lead. Thompson had seen something in whoever they were. He was rarely wrong.
Halloway moved into the alleyway. The masked photographer was gone. Slowly, she crept deeper down the street. Then, she heard a flurry of clicks from a camera. She drew her gun and spun around, trying to get a sense of where the sound was coming from. Nothing. Only empty windows and brick walls covered in graffiti.
Something that sounded like an explosion thundered out on the street.
“All this chaos,” a voice echoed around Christine. “All for a little old mayor’s wife. How fragile society is, don’t you think?”
“Show yourself!” Christine screamed.
“Now, now,” the voice snickered. “That’s no way to talk, show some respect, you were taught better than that.”
Christine’s heart skipped a beat. She felt her breath drop just as it had when her father let her fall into the river below. The air suddenly became electric and evil. Something felt so familiar yet so wrong. Could it be?
“Show yourself!” Christine screamed again. “Enough games.”
Above, far up the fire escape, the masked photographer revealed themselves. A military grade M-16 was pointed directly at Christine’s head. Seeing they had the drop on her, Christine knew how to do only one thing - draw first.
Quickly, she aimed her weapon followed by a rain of gun fire around her feet.
“Now drop your weapon!” the masked photographer bellowed “and let’s talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about but the blood on your hands!” Christine said as she dropped her gun to her feet
“You were always one to have an itchy trigger finger,” the masked photographer said, the M-16 still steady on Christine’s head “and quick with accusations.”
Out on the streets, the rioters were getting louder and more intense. They would take the alleyway soon. Christine saw the photographer looking at all those looters. She couldn’t see it behind the mask, bu
t she sensed he was smiling.
“Who are you then?” Christine asked. “My partner sniffed you out in a second. He knows evil when he sees it.”
“Oh did he?” they chuckled. “Well, I guess I scared him off. Where is he now?”
Christine had no way to defend herself. He was right. Thompson, even though it wasn’t his fault, had left her.
“I wish he were here to see your end,” the photographer sighed. “It’s so hard to go through this life alone and sad to see it end.”
He readied his M-16.
“Aren’t we always alone when we die?” Christine stated.
“I suppose,” he replied. “But still, it’s sad.”
“Down!” Christine hit the ground as a barrage of bullets fired from behind her.
She scrambled for her pistol as bullet casings scattered on the ground. The photographer, startled but unphased returned fire. Christine got behind a dumpster and saw who was saving her - it was Thompson.
“Get down! Get down!” Thompson screamed. “There are more officers coming!”
After another round of shots, the shooting died down. The only thing that Thompson and Halloway heard was the sound of the masked shooters voice.
“Ansel Adams once said, “You don't take a photograph, you make it. I think the same thing could be said of revolution, don’t you think?”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Halloway shouted back. “A revolution?”
Thompson tried to peak out from his hiding spot to calm her down but gunman fired off a round to hold him back.
“That’s exactly what we are doing…Christine.” The masked shooter snickered watching the horror overwhelm Christine’s face. “And don’t think the mayor’s wife is the last heart string we plan on pulling. There will be more.”
“Wait!” Christine shouted.
“I’ll give you a clue who we’re going for next, but just a tiny one…”
“A clue! This isn’t a game!”
“It is whatever we say it is sweeties. Now quiet, let me tell you before our little friends storm your little hideaway. At the age of 18 in 1972, they were the youngest person in New York State history elected to public office. Did you get that?”
