Grave Intent

by G. K. Lund

  Peter sat back on the couch. “Not unless we can figure this out.” Oddly enough, the look Ben gave him reminded Peter of Rose only a few hours earlier. Walter’s words came back to him, but he pushed them away. They had to try at least.

  “What do you need to know?” Ben asked. Not what he had to know. Peter looked past him at the laptop screen. Under a headline, he saw a photo taken some distance away from the crash of the WGI chopper. That had happened a couple of months ago, he thought. There hadn’t really been much media coverage of it – mostly to spare the families of the deceased. A horrible and unfortunate accident. And now Ben was saying the opposite. He hadn’t even been there. Best to start with the simplest things.

  “What exactly did Param tell you after drugging me?” They joked about Peter getting drunk after two beers, but that hadn’t been the case. Peter could hold his liquor to a certain extent, and two beers were far below that limit. No, Param had slipped something into his beer. Probably because Peter had not believed the few crazy things he had said in front of him. What an absolute criminal way to react.

  Ben looked at him with blank eyes that revealed little as he thought this through. A flash brought Peter back to Cury Square and the sight he had seen there. Or had he?

  “Well?” he prompted to avoid thinking about it. White nothingness…

  “Param is a severely damaged person,” Ben began, and Peter noted that he didn’t deny the drugging part. “He is ill, obviously. He remembered me, but not more than that. He knows who I am… but has a certain gap when it comes to this knowledge.”

  Peter groaned. “Don’t say he’s got amnesia too?”

  Ben actually smiled at that. “Not exactly. But he doesn’t remember where he’s seen me.”

  “You do realize this comes from a man who claimed to be a dead priest?”

  “How do you know he’s not?”

  “I… what?”

  “It doesn’t matter as far as this discussion goes. He alerted me to the fact that Winter might help. It is, after all, a fact they know each other.”

  The Clement Moreau Foundation and the photos of different people and Winter’s ancestors did strengthen that claim. Peter had to concede to that one. “But why Winter?”

  “He knows me. I saw him recognize me.”

  “So did Param.”

  “Param was scared, but he’s not actively keeping me away. Especially after—” Ben broke off, unsure of how much to reveal.

  “See?” Peter got up from the couch and began pacing back and forth across the floor as he wrenched his satchel and jacket off. “It’s that kind of secrecy that makes me question all this. Do you know how easy it is for the CEO of an international company to get a restraining order out on us?”

  “Uh—”

  “Because that’s what we’re becoming, you know. Stalkers.” He almost spat the last word out, but it had little effect on Ben. He sat back properly on the couch now, laptop forgotten at Peter’s outburst. “What were you going to say?”

  Ben eyed him at that, assessing something.

  “You need my help and you know it, Ben. For God’s sake, what are you up to now? Five words per minute?”

  Ben’s eyes searched out the laptop. He had been learning these last few weeks, but he was not effective. It was like trying to teach a caveman to use electronic equipment.

  “Well, I suppose you don’t have the authority to throw me into a mental hospital.”

  Peter stopped pacing. He was by the balcony door and barely noticed the clouds moving in on the city, threatening rain that night. He turned and stared at his old friend.

  “I don’t have time to be confined,” Ben added.

  “Of course you don’t,” Peter growled, just as confused as before. “If you need help, you need to be truthful.”

  Ben’s left hand shot up and scratched his head, making the blond hair stand on end on that side. As this happened though, Peter saw Ben’s eyes looking at his arm almost like you do when something unforeseen happens.

  “Alright. It happened when Olivia and I went to Winter Fortress. What happened there doesn’t really matter. No it doesn’t,” he added as Peter was about to protest. “When Winter came he recognized me, and then made sure I was sent away. Even Param talked to me when he had no other choice.”

  Because you attacked him. Peter blinked and rubbed his temples. “And?”

  “And what? I have to get him to talk to me.”

  “What if you threatened him before?” Both Param and Winter seemed scared of Ben.

  “Out of the two of us, you’re the one who remembers what I was capable of. Does that seem likely to you?”

  A reluctant “no,” escaped Peter. Reluctant because he didn’t know if it applied anymore. “So what about the helicopter crash?”

  Ben pressed his lips together and glanced at the laptop again. “Well, that’s the part you won’t believe, I’m afraid.”

  “Try me.”

  “Something happened after the… accident. Something that has no part in this world.”

  “Dude, enough with the crypticism. Come on.”

  “I saw how that helicopter went down, and there was nothing accidental about it. The rotors had been tampered with.”

  “No, come on.”

  “They fell off. Imagine what happens after that.”

  Peter didn’t want to. He did have a little fear of flying. Not much, but the thought of a free fall like that, the surge of the ground rising to meet you, to be aware of it happening. He shuddered at the thought. “Do you have proof?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How did you find out then? Visions?”

  Ben shrugged slightly. “I guess that’s one word for it.”

  “Oh my God. Do you hear how insane you sound?” Peter pushed his jacket and satchel, taking care to put the last one carefully on the floor before sitting down in the chair they had occupied.

  “Yes,” Ben simply said, and then seemed to realize he needed to add something to clarify. “It feels more like memories though. How they imprint on me? I don’t know.”

  “This is just…”

  “Yes.”

  Peter looked at his friend since childhood. Ben had lost some weight since the accident. His light-colored hair was still short, though not the number three buzz cut anymore. He’d also stopped shaving regularly and usually walked around with some stubble. The old Ben would not have done that. It was like he didn’t care all that much that he had a public profile to keep up. Not that he had been doing anything about his online presence at all. Peter thought he’d known everything – as much as one could know about someone else – about Ben, Rose and Walter, but Ben had now broken away from that. The amnesia had seen to it.

  “I need to know who I am, Peter. This hole in my memory is killing me. Like an itch I can’t scratch or a sound in the ear that won’t let go. I need to fix it. Some memories went away during the accident, and others are appearing now. That’s all I know.”

  The migraine threatened to appear again. Food had helped, but with this? It was like inviting the thing by waving red wine and cheese at it. What was he going to do about this? Did he believe Ben? He wasn’t exactly opposed to there being more in the universe than man knew, but there were so many frauds out there. So much trickery and greed. One thing was the advanced technology or magic in the games he tested in his job. That was fun, an appealing dream. That didn’t make it real though. What he did know now was that he couldn’t let Ben out of his sight. He didn’t know if he believed him, but maybe that was the kick he needed to keep helping. Ben had told him what he thought was the truth. Maybe Peter’s job would have to be to prove or disprove it. How was he going to explain this to Rose and Walter though? He couldn’t, could he?

  A knock at the door saved him from having to make that decision. Then a jolly “juhuuu,” erased it from his mind as he saw the always theatrical display of Bullfinch Sophie as she let herself halfway in.

  “I come to borrow sugar lik
e cliché neighbor, but then I thought that perhaps you would like some tea as well?”

  Her fake Russian accent was as thick as could be, her smile wide and genuine. Around her flowed the red garments she donned in her business as a psychic. Peter didn’t know what to think of Ben’s visions… or memories. Whatever they were. But he didn’t for a second believe in Sophie’s claims.

  “Sure, Sophie. Come on in,” Ben said and for a moment Peter wasn’t sure he believed that either. Ben had always been on friendly terms with her, but only confined to meetings by the mailbox or in the downstairs hallway.

  “Just sit. I fix,” she said as she walked into the kitchen carrying a box which made Peter wonder, despite himself, if there was something good in there.

  He turned back to see Ben’s smiling face. “Turns out she’s like twenty-five percent legit.”

  “Turns out you’re seventy-five percent crazy,” Peter replied, though he couldn’t keep back a smile himself. Best to roll with it for a while. To help return things to normal.

  Chapter 7

  The tall and narrow building that came off as a massive old-fashioned factory chimney on the outside, gave a sleek and sterile impression once inside. Ashdale City Hall was teeming with elegantly dressed people walking to and from their various appointments. There was a continuing buzz of voices melded together in the lobby where Peter and I entered after what we had considered a long enough head start for Winter. With Peter using social media it had been no problem figuring out where he would be, especially since the mayor had announced it himself on the news. Okay, so maybe Peter was a little right about the stalker part, but they honestly made it too easy. At least this time. Winter himself was notoriously difficult to find, but not now. They were planning a charity event together, and in this case, that was not left to assistants only.

  “Now what do we do?” Peter asked as he glanced casually at WGI’s CEO as he and his group stood on the other side of the lobby, waiting for something. Winter might as well have been on the other side of the world for all the help he would give me now. A security check and several front desks separated us.

  “Not sure,” I said, as Peter grabbed a magazine from a nearby table that he began leafing through. “Maybe try getting his attention on his way out?”

  “Think he’ll change his mind?”

  “No.” I really didn’t. Why would he? He was impossible to get a hold of. He answered no means of communication. Didn’t refer me to anyone else either. No – he had recognized me and then decided to stay far away. I hadn’t been lying to Peter when I said not knowing why was killing me. I had learned to feed and take care of the ever-demanding body that now contained me, but it was a chore. Something I had to do to find my answer. Not because I felt any true connection to the thing. I wanted out of it. To return to my true self, and try as I might, I could never leave the prison of flesh. If I couldn’t get this man to talk to me, let me know what he knew, I might never be able to leave in a proper manner. To die could surely cause all kinds of unforeseen results. Best not to gamble.

  And there he stood. Looking like he had few cares in the world. He was talking to a couple of his colleagues I guessed as I scanned the little group of people. All dressed in suits, the women as well, though with a different cut. Talking with ease, laughing a little. I remembered the accident with his helicopter. Had the dead been friends with these people? Had they laughed and chatted together like this as well? I knew there had been some time, but Winter himself looked fine. Not a scratch it seemed. He didn’t move like someone wounded either. I knew that of course. I had seen him after Olivia had to shoot Saphia to prevent her from killing us. Saphia – Winter’s friend. Was she not? Had she also been part of this social and collegial fellowship? Did they talk about her? I don’t know why I wanted to know that. The woman had tried to kill both me and Olivia, and yet I felt a kind of… pity for her. She had only tried to protect what little she had left in this life after her husband had died. What little she had left… I felt the face frown at the thought. What little she had left was checking his phone at the moment, tapping the screen a few times before putting it back into his pocket. So many people had died around him in a short time, yet he seemed happy enough. Looking closer I got the distinct feeling he was good at hiding things from those around him. What was he hiding though? Param had said Winter was the one to talk to. That this was the place to seek help for those who needed it. Like Param had – over and over again. Life after life. For some reason the Winter ancestors had believed him, and they had passed the information on, always leaving Param – or whichever name he went by – with someone he could trust. There was kindness in that, not fear. It all made a small part of me worry about what I might turn out to be. Param hadn’t right out called me a monster, but he instinctively knew I was someone to avoid at all cost. Only after being forced to talk to me had he realized I was no danger to him, yet that hadn’t quite squashed his fear. It was more that it made him able to control it. Somehow, I was certain Winter was more in control of himself than poor Param who drowned his overflowing memories in alcohol. Yet here we were. Me, reduced to a stalker, as Peter put it, and Winter surrounded by employees who hadn’t yet perished in his presence. Okay, so that might have been a little harsh, but despite feeling like patience should be something I could handle, it was getting to me.

  An elevator door opened a few feet away from Winter’s group and a flustered woman exited, walking toward him at a brisk pace.

  “So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Winter. We’ve had issues with the elevators all day.”

  “Not at all,” he said as he shook hands with her. “We’re just happy to be doing this with City Hall.”

  “So is the mayor,” the woman said and looked around. “Welcome to all of you. If you’ll follow me? Nothing wrong with the elevators now. Thirty floors are too far via the stairs anyway.”

  The group laughed in agreement as they followed her into the elevator. I watched as the door closed and then wondered if it was going to fall, taking more of Winter’s employees with it, before jolting out of that thought. No, that would of course not happen.

  “Hey. How did you get here?”

  A hand clamped down on the shoulder, and I turned to see who was intruding.

  “Who are you here to see? Did you go past security?” An old mustachioed man in a security uniform was staring up at me as the body had a couple of inches on him. His question made me aware that I was in fact not standing with Peter on the other side of the checkpoint and metal detector. I was standing by a wall, no more than thirty feet from where Winter and his employees had been waiting.

  “What the hell?” I blurted. Stupid, impulsive body. Couldn’t the brain just stop spilling words out through the mouth?

  “Keep that language to yourself, son,” the security guard said.

  “Yeah, uh, sorry,” I managed and produced Old Ben’s press credentials. They had turned out to be handy to keep with me.

  “And you’re here to see…?” the man pressed as he handed them back to me.

  I was at a loss there. Why was I even there? I’d been so absorbed in my own thoughts I hadn’t even noticed I had gotten that close.

  “Ben, there you are,” I heard Peter shouting. I turned to see him still where we’d been standing together. He was waving the magazine as he got our attention. “There was a mix-up. The interview’s gonna be outside.”

  I forced a smile and shrugged for good effect. “Turns out I didn’t get the message,” I said and headed back to Peter before the old man could say anything else.

  “That was some quick thinking. Thanks,” I said.

  “What was that?” Peter hissed as we walked out of the building, the sun’s heat forcing its way through the thin layer of clouds. “One minute I’m reading, the next you’re sneaking into City Hall?”

  “Um…” Always so eloquent in this form.

  “Anyway,” he said and ignored my failed attempt at an answer. “We don’t need to mak
e contact with Winter here. It’s obvious where we can find him the next few days.” Peter strode down the steps in front of the building, not waiting for me. Given what he’d said, I did of course follow, two steps at the time until I caught up with him.

  “It is?” I asked, noticing he wasn’t watching where he was going as he kept looking for something on his phone.

  “Duh. It’s all over the news.”

  “The Grenade-man?”

  “Close, but no. The charity event.”

  Chapter 8

  “This is the place for the charity event?” I asked, not bothering to attempt concealing my doubts.

  “Why not?” Peter countered as we took in the double building of the Ashdale Archives and Library. It was a massive domed building, divided into two identical parts, at least on the outside. Inside, each institution had their purposes portrayed in the interior; the Archives sleek and light workspaces, the Library open, inviting and filled with books.

  “Not really a place for a party.”

  “It won’t be a party. It’s to help support the wounded remember?”

  I nodded at this. Poor choice of words. “A gathering then.”

  “Yeah. I guess that’s what it’ll be.”

  There would be plenty of room, I had to admit that. And perhaps it was fitting. The institutions were always open to people. Everyone was welcome here.

  There was a crowd gathered at the entrances, and we had to pause a little while waiting to pass. I saw then that people were putting down candles and flowers between the two wide steps that led up to the entrances. Rumors must have started to spread. From what I had seen on TV, the central part of Cury Square was covered with such memorials at the moment.

  “I guess you’re right,” I told Peter who hitched the strap of his laptop satchel higher on his shoulder.

  “Nope. Edgar Painsworth is right. If that guy reports something on his blog, odds are it’s right.”

  I shrugged at this. Local reporters were of no interest to me, and that included Old Ben as well. Still, it was where Peter got his information about the charity event from, and we had little else to go on.