"Excuse me, I was told to walk right in."
"Yes, Michael, come in." Collinsworth spun the swivel seat around, strode up the narrow carpeted stairway and met him at the door. The young man handed the Deputy Director a manila folder.
"The reports."
"Yes, thank you."
The young man descended the steps of the theater as the ministers craned their necks, two of them squinting, hoping for a clearer view. Dim, possible to ignore in the harsh light of a sunlit street, but quite obvious in the darkened room with the silent glow of the projector as the only other illumination…. James Michael Flagg had a halo.
Chapter 2
Only three days earlier, Michael awoke with his weekend hangover in full bloom. The almost audible pounding in his head had slowed a few beats but was still an uncomfortable rhythm for his consciousness to dance to. He leaned up against the stove, puffing on a cigarette, waiting to sweep the kettle from the flame before it shrieked its whistle. A watched pot never boils but an unwatched pot, even a whistler, always burns — for Michael at least. The coffee grounds already in their basket, he poured the water then slouched into the hardwood kitchen chair nearest the stove.
Ah, Sunday morning breakfast — coffee, cigarettes and aspirin. But if you want to dance, you have to pay the piper. It could be a lot worse. Look at what happened to Gregor Samsa. He poured his coffee, and in his mind's eye, slinked across the kitchen floor, envisioning the "monstrous vermin" Kafka had created.
In the bathroom, he placed his coffee cup and eyeglasses on the metal radiator cover and splashed hot water on his face. With the shaving cream piled high like a snow-capped mountain in his left hand, always much more than he needed, he stepped in front of the mirrored medicine cabinet on the opposite wall.
"Holy shit!"
The words snapped out. He slammed the can down next to the cup of coffee, snatching his glasses up and sliding them onto his face. He stood there, shaving cream still piled in his outstretched hand, staring into the mirror. He yanked quickly on the pull-chain, turning the light on, then off again. On. Off. On. Off. There was no doubt about it. This would be one hangover that would be difficult to forget.
*****
Forty-five minutes had already passed with about as many glances in the bathroom mirror. Michael was getting impatient. Maybe he should have told Cheryl it was urgent? No. It was better this way. It could be a visual distortion. Did he strike his head last night? Did someone else strike his head last night? Did that stuck-in-the-sixties, acidhead slut friend of Cheryl's spike his beer? She was capable of worse.
"Goddammit! Where is she?"
Michael leaped from the couch and paced the living room floor. The knock finally came.
"Come on in." Mike stepped aside and said a silent prayer.
"You seemed a little nervous on the…." Cheryl cocked her head, moving it back and forth, squinting her eyes. "Michael! What happened to you? Are you all right?"
"Then you see it?"
"Of course I see it! Are you all right? What happened?" For an instant, all of Michael's past practical jokes flashed before her eyes. "What's it this time, Michael? Working on a new home perm?" she teased him, with a hint of mistrust.
"This is serious, Cher." Mike was still pacing the floor. He picked up a magazine from the coffee table in front of her, rolled it into a tube and rhythmically slapped his palm.
"At least I know it's definitely there. At first, I thought your buddy Corrine might have slipped something in my drink last night."
"Michael! Shame on you, you know she doesn't do drugs anymore."
"Yeah.... I didn't mean it. Just lookin' for a reason." He walked over to a large, antique wall-mirror hanging near the front door. He ran his fingers through his thick, blond hair, fluffing it. The whitish-blue glow encircling his head was unaffected. It rose several inches above in all directions, shimmering, flickering like a living dynamo fueled from within.
"Does it really look like I think it does?"
"Well, if you think it looks like you have a halo, then it looks like you think it does. Your head is glowing, Michael!" Cheryl began a smile that turned into a laugh. "I think you look kinda cute.... Am I being punk’d here? You got your camcorder hidden somewhere?"
"I wish."
Mike forced a smile as Cheryl embraced him. She kissed him quickly on the cheek then slapped his thigh and stepped back.
"Saint Michael Flagg, Patron Saint of Doctors. No, I guess they already have one of those. Patron Saint of Mad Chemists. Yeah, that's good."
"Wise guy."
"Well, at least you're smiling now."
"Yeah, now what? My stomach's in a knot."
"Just like you always tell me, worrying won't help, it just makes things worse."
"That's what I love about you, Cher. Always ready with a pearl of wisdom."
"It doesn't hurt, does it? I mean, it's not...it doesn't burn or anything?" She ran her fingers through his hair.
"No, just the usual hangover."
"Lord knows you deserve that. You'll get no sympathy there."
Mike tapped a cigarette loose from his pack and lit it. "No sermons, please."
"What do you think it is? Are you still doing your cockeyed experiments? You promised me you wouldn't, remember?"
"I haven't. Ever since you flushed the last batch and stocked my medicine chest. That's over a month ago. Honest."
Cheryl stroked his hair again. "Well, what then?"
"You tell me.” He began to pace again. Now like a cat in a travel cage. Too few steps. Too many stares. “I was with you all last night until you dropped me off here. You did drop me off, right?"
"Yeah, I did. Besides your usual over imbibing in the amber nectar of the gods, as you so fondly call beer, it was a normal Saturday night."
"Okay, point made. I drink too much. But nothing like this ever happened before."
"I don't know.... But that's the most amazing thing I've ever seen." She stepped back for a wider perspective and stared for a moment. "You have a halo, Mike.... If it doesn't hurt, why don't you use it?"
"Use it! As what? A night light?"
"Listen. As much as you put Corrine down, you have to admit she knows a lotta people."
"Yeah. So?"
"What's that woman's name on Dateline Washington?"
"Stillwell?"
"Yeah, Barbara Stillwell."
"So?"
"Well, I'll bet Corrine can get you on the show. They're really good friends."
"On Dateline Washington! As what? Second billed to Jo-Jo the dog-faced boy? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Think, Michael. There are millions of people out there just begging for something to believe in. Look at California. They'll worship fruit trees for lack of anything better. You've got a halo. The new Messiah, Michael Flagg."
"Good Christ, Cheryl! My fuckin' head is glowing and you're givin' me another one of your get-rich-quick schemes. Look, I'm gonna be a doctor. I'll have my practice and you'll have your diamonds and —"
"Don't hand me this diamond shit, I've had plenty of offers, I could be sitting pretty right now and you know it. Now I'm just trying to help. I don't know what else to say."
Michael dropped back onto the couch, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then his temples. He led out a deep sigh.
"I don't know."
Cheryl joined him on the couch. She lifted his right hand, massaging it lightly.
"Okay, so I'm a crackpot.... Why don't you talk to some of your professors? Maybe they can give you an answer, or get you in contact with someone who can. There are some of the best scientists in the world right here in DC. Some of them are bound to have some government connections in a town like this. Maybe they can whip up a cause-effect relationship with their high-tech hardware."
“Yeah...maybe you're right. But it's Sunday."
"Do it tomorrow. If it doesn't hurt, what's the rush?"
"I guess you're right."
"Now al
l we have to do is get your mind off it till then."
"Any ideas?"
"Well, I could run down to Fat Mike's and pick you up a six pack, a bit of the hair of the dog that bit ya. But I have something better in mind."
"And what might that be?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I've never made love to a saint before."
"I doubt if I can."
"I'll help. I've never failed you before, have I?"
She stood with Mike's hand still in hers.
"Really think I look cute?" he asked.
Chapter 3
Twelve noon exactly, nearly two full hours since the conversation commenced, and the momentum had not lagged an instant.
For most of the two hours the rabbi and Michael took turns playing straight man. The others enjoyed the show, with the exception of Collinsworth who had taken a seat in the rear of the theater, not out of earshot, but far enough to silently voice his disapproval of the situation. The questions ran the gamut from Michael's favorite foods to his choice in the next presidential election, but most centered on his past two days under observation.
"How thorough would you say the testing has been?" Rabbi Gross asked.
"Well, to tell you the truth, my major was chemistry. I'm really not up on all this mechanical hardware — probes, electrodes, that sort of thing. Last night at supper I thought they were gonna have me try to change some water into wine, but fortunately they supplied a bottle. I don't know.... Oh, yesterday they had me try to walk on water. I got wet. Yeah, I guess they've been pretty thorough."
Father DeVries stood and stretched. He slapped the smoky air, fanning it into swirls and cleared his throat.
"No offense, but I thought they outlawed smoking in government buildings," he said.
"None taken. Rank has its privileges," Collinsworth said.
The priest turned back to Michael. "Tell us, do you think you're a holy man? A saint?" DeVries asked.
"I'm pretty good at card tricks. But a saint? You need a couple of miracles, don't ya?"
"That's correct," the cardinal said.
"No, sir, no miracles," Mike said.
The others took Father DeVries' lead and stood too, realizing that they had been seated for hours. Collinsworth took this as heaven-sent and walked back down the aisle to join them.
With a broad smile, Father DeVries turned to Cardinal Bonifazio. "Well, I guess we can rule out the Second Coming."
As the others mingled, Father Davies managed to maneuver Michael away from the rest. He removed a business card from his breast pocket and scribbled on the back. Collinsworth looked on suspiciously as Davies whispered to Michael: "I must speak to you alone. It's important. Come to my hotel room this afternoon. Here's the address and room number."
"The Mid —"
The priest put a finger to his lips and Mike shrugged, tucking the card into his shirt pocket.
"Gentleman," Collinsworth said. "I think this is an excellent time to break for lunch. It's all been laid out in Building Four. If the rain has stopped we can cut across the compound. A walk and some fresh air should be good for the appetite."
Everyone seemed in agreement as they moved toward the exit except Michael. "It's been a pleasure meeting all of you but I'd really like to be getting home. The testing's done and it's been a couple of days now, as you know. I'd like to see if the old apartment's still standing."
Collinsworth sucked in some air and exhaled slowly. "Michael, the invitation includes you. I hope you realize that."
"Yes, and I appreciate it, but I'd really like to get on home."
"I really must insist, Michael. I don't think it would be wise for you to be roaming around considering the situation."
The room fell silent as the clergymen looked at Michael, waiting for his reply.
"Are you placing me under house arrest?" Mike asked.
"No, no. Of course not."
"I don't mean to be rude, sir, but I've been poked and probed for two days now and I'd like to get home for a while. If you need me for anything, you know where to reach me."
"Very well…. Now if the rest of you will step into the hallway, I'll be with you in a moment. I need something from my office."
As the men walked into the hall and Miss Vilmar headed back to her station for her usual brown bag lunch, Collinsworth moved slowly down the three carpeted steps to the first platform were Michael stood.
He was doing his best to conceal his contempt for the situation and, indeed, for Michael himself. Forty-four years with the Agency, the better part of it spent in the field — in dark, dingy holes. In even darker corners of the globe, with microphones pinching his ears like Vise-Grips and field glasses pinned to his eyes. Sharing his sleep — when he could afford the luxury — with rodents and filth. Killing, often without question, without thought or feeling.
He could clearly see the figure of a man strapped to a chair beneath the skeletal remains of a Greek winery. He could hear the screams and rasping sound of gnashing teeth as he slowly and deliberately extinguished the cigarette butt on the cheek of his enemy. Not pleasurable — not even for him — but necessary. The goal was set too long ago. The goal, now so close that he could practically touch it. But so much is lost in time. It was a world of diplomacy now. Shaking hands and sipping cocktails with men, who a few short years ago were the enemy. Socializing with men who know nothing of honor. And now, catering to the whims of this child before him. Next, he was sure, would be tea socials for the woman's auxiliary.
"Michael, I would really prefer that you come along with us. I think, at least until a statement is released to the press, it would be best for all parties concerned that you remained with us here," he said, firmly.
"I apologize again, but I really wanna get back home. Obviously, I'm more curious about this thing than anyone else. I'd like to know when the reports are finalized. I promise, I'll be in touch." Michael's address was just as firm.
The Deputy Director looked down and bit hard on the stem of his pipe. "Okay.... You win." He forced a smile and they shook hands.
Michael left through the rear door into the hallway as Collinsworth reentered his office. At his desk he punched in extension 22 and leaned back in his chair.
"Pirnie here."
"Tom, it's me. Listen, Flagg's taking off. I want you to keep an eye on him."
"Right," the man answered.
"And I don't trust that son-of-a-bitch Davies either, better put somebody on him too when he leaves. I'm taking him and the other altar boys to lunch at B4. I'll talk to you later."
*****
The rain had stopped and Mike felt exhilarated as he swung open the door of the government building and stepped onto the pavement. The last few days had taken their toll. The sleeping quarters provided for him were more than adequate, comfortable, in fact, but strange surroundings always led to fitful sleep regardless of additional creature comforts. It would be good to have things back to normal — well, almost normal.
Mike had refused a government escort but only a fool would turn down a reserved parking space. Authorized Vehicle--U S Government Business read the card resting on the dashboard. Mike snatched it and jammed it into the glove compartment.
*****
Stacks of newspapers, magazines and textbooks lay strewn across the floor. Michael smiled, noting that the room was exactly as he had left it a few days earlier. What a slob. He tossed his jacket across the back of the large, cushioned captain's chair near the front door. A welcome relief from the sterile, hospital-like conditions of the government offices. He started a kettle of water on the stove, lit a cigarette, and dug his cell phone out of his pocket.
"’Bout time. Two days and no call. Thought you forgot about me."
"They confiscated my cell on the way in. Caught me off guard."
"Security, huh?"
"Tight."
“So how’d it go?”
“Not sure.”
"Find out anything?"
"Well, I guess it's gon
na take a while before they can assimilate all of the data, but at least all the tests are done."
"That's good news."
"So did ya miss me?" Mike asked.
"But of course, cried myself to sleep every night."
"Wisenheimer."
"You know I missed you."
"Yeah, but it's nice to hear. Listen, I'll let you get back to work. Just wanted to let ya know I'm home."
"I appreciate the call, better you than someone upset with one of my not-so-literal translations, n'est-ce pas?"
"Oh, I was cross-examined by a few priests today. Well actually, one of them was a cardinal."
"A cardinal. My, my, getting up in the world, aren't we? Did they take you seriously?"
"Of course, everyone takes me seriously. I'm a serious kinda guy."
"Yes, I know."
"Well, anyway, one of them, not the cardinal, a Father Davies wants me to meet him at his hotel later this afternoon — very hush-hush — I don't know what it's about but I'll give you a call when I get back."
"Okay, I can't wait to see you tonight."
"Me too," Mike said.
"I love you."
"Me too."
"Bye, babe."
With coffee in hand, he sank into the couch and stared intensely at the pattern on the opposite wall, as if it would reveal mysteries to him.
*****
Several of the onlookers in the hotel lobby stared at Michael in disbelief. A few snapped photos with their cell phones then looked around expecting a hidden video camera to be revealed. At least one uploaded a clip to YouTube. Rubbing their eyes and shrugging their shoulders, they forgot what they saw and fortunately for Mike no scene was made.
*****
The door to room number 270 was ajar so he rapped sharply on the door jamb.
Then again.
Still no answer.
Michael removed the business card, which the priest had given him, from his shirt pocket. He checked the scribbled room number. It was correct and he eased the door open, calling the priest's name. There was still no response, and Mike continued into the room.
A Reluctant Messiah Page 2
