The Resurrectionist

by Jackson, Gil

  ‘Well, can you keep to that point and purely out of curiosity what is your date of birth, Mr. O’Hare, or is that an impertinent question?’

  ‘Not at all. I was born in 1890, I’m 107.’

  ‘A hundred and seven, I don’t believe it! What crap are you expecting me to believe here?’

  ‘Your grandmother’s 90, what’s the problem?’

  He shook his head in disbelief and stood up. Yes, she is. But with respect to her, you look 60.’

  ‘It’s called blarney where I come from, Mr. Fitch, and I can see that as equally as you. But you can sniff all you like in this case you’ll find neither a set-up or blarney at work here, believe me. Sometimes I wish it was, but I’ve to live with it, and what is more so do others that were in that place. We have become immortal.’

  ‘My grandfather?’

  ‘As I said it.’

  ‘So how come my grandfather died?’

  ‘Ah. You can be killed, as he was with a bullet from a government rifle, and that is my only salvation and way out when the time comes and I’ve had enough — and that day is fast approaching — I’ve a need to pass on what I know, unfortunately, that person is you. Whether you like it or not, Hamilton Fitch, it’s become your legacy. You are, of course, free to leave anytime you like. Go about your business, as if nothing has happened. But it has, whether you do or don’t. It might not be your past, but it’s your families. A past that others will not recognise as being any different from your forebears — sooner or later, unless they can be stopped they’ll come for you and yours. About me. That part is true, the other is your grandfather’s account, and like I said, it’s his — but as sure as God made little apples, if Frank Weinberg said something happened it did. And current events are proving the case. As you are familiar with the story, and abused children have been recovered, there’s a cover-up. You’re a newspaper man and no matter how incredible all this may seem you can’t walk away from this story.’

  ‘And Annie Carter, what is she to this?’

  ‘Ah. The lovely Sister. You do know she’s a Carmelite nun?’

  ‘Looked her up, yes.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘The woman you saw, the Angel; when Annie introduced you to Father Milligan, is not dead. Departed her body, that’s all. She’ll be back. She has a partner known to us as, The Entity; also, the Resurrectionist. Meticulous records have been kept, logging the comings and goings of these two since me and your grandfather first laid eyes on them. That woman is known to me, or her earthly presence was, hence my involvement and indirectly your own. There are records that have been taken from all religious organisations down the years and logged for the purposes of safety at the Vatican’s Secret Archives and Library. Being probably the safest place on the planet. Much was the left-over writings of bibles, all bibles including Christian, Jewish and Islamic. In fact, there is so much it would fill those books a hundred-fold. When the Angel turned up along with an Entity some 70-odd years ago; witnessed by me and your grandfather, people or someone began to show more than a passing interest in what was happening. That’s been going on with my life ever since.’

  ‘So who are these people that are doing this?’

  ‘We don’t know, yet. But the catalyst is head of Ocean International, Frederik Spannocs, better known to me as Marco Giuseppi, abusing children in an attempt to bring this Entity to earth. And it keeps working. They are trying to capture it. They’ve done it twice without much success. A third time and they might swing it.... Sister Annie Carter and Father Milligan, her assistant ... apart from being the archivist and keeper of those records to the Holy See, is also a seconded agent of the FBI and current favourite of the President of the United States of America.’

  ‘God’s Record keeper, eh? Phwww — and FBI.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘If it is the same person, Mihalyvich. I call her Lucy. Her real name was Oonna. And she was severely traumatised by Spannocs when she was three, which set the balls in motion, Entity-wise.’ He waited. There was a lot for him to take in. He had thrown his last die; there was not much time. Hamilton Fitch was pondering a reply that would not make him look a fool, he could see that, for he wasn’t.

  After what he had been told he felt that in all good conscience he could not bring any more sorrow to his grandmother. She had suffered enough. If people were bent on murdering him, they would have to do at their own inconvenience. And by which time, he figured, she could well have passed on. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. O’Hare, you’ve the right man, in the wrong time. I’ll take my chances if you don’t mind. If there is criminal activity in all that you’ve told me the police can deal with it in their own way. You’ve the FBI and as many other law enforcement agencies at your disposal, I’m sure ... I’m sorry.’

  Charlie nodded. Took his hand. ‘I’ll trouble you no further, Hamilton Fitch. Please express my wishes by way of shalom to your grandmother, as I do you. Goodbye and good luck.’

  Hamilton left Charlie’s house shrouded in doubt and the uncertainty that he had made the right decision.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 23 – 1997

  As if Hamilton, to have not covered the goodwill visit of the President of France on a visit to America wasn’t bad enough; and go missing for three days; and ask Max what he thought of the story, was an act of folly in the extreme and to Max Stenna: Monumental proportions of bullshit are you trying to take me for a complete idiot?; was to put him at a serious risk of losing his job. His one redeeming salvation was that he did look like shit, and for that Max would give him the benefit of his considerable doubt and hoped for his temporary insanity to subside, that he was any longer capable of doing his job properly ever again, because that is what he felt and what it looked like, however:

  ‘Let us assume that what has happened to you is kosher, if you’ll excuse my misplaced vernacular. Putting to one side the existence of rationality being merely a word and not something contained within the neurons of a human brain. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’d cracked, but I do, you probably haven’t ... but having said that ... my first inclination, assuming I’m stupid enough to have any are to run with what you’ve said ... I will stick with you, Fitch, until that is, one or the other of us comes to our senses. I pray it will be you.... For we have two schools of thought here: One you’ve seen something you can’t account for; and the other, why they picked on you for their revelations? It is my opinion that in all probability you have been duped. And from the point of view of somebody else also being duped — to wit: our readers, I am duty bound as the editor of this esteemed rag to allow you to look into this, and I use the word guardedly, story. Apart from which I must admit to a degree of curiosity myself. This Charlie O’Hare you met, you said that he’d worked with your father?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Wasn’t your father an FBI agent when Kennedy was assassinated?’

  ‘Apparently. Put like that though it doesn’t sound as if he was much good at his job?’

  ‘Well ...’

  ‘It was a bomb in the restaurant they were dining. Charlie O’Hare and my grandmother survived it. My mother and father, didn’t....’

  ‘I’m sorry ... How do you know he was speaking the truth?’

  ‘I spoke to my grandmother, yesterday. She rather reluctantly confirmed what he had said. Went on to say that I should have nothing more to do with him. And, Was he well?’

  ‘In all seriousness, Hamilton, please ... treat it all with the scepticism it deserves.... I can only go so far to the door with you.’

  ***

  Max had put him in charge of the night desk, to give him a chance to think things through and give him a break from the days clatter. Although it wasn’t usually this quiet, he was glad of the change. The day subs had gone home, and had left some news to sub before he had to go down to the pressroom to oversee the Borough changes to the front, pages three and five. He was feeling in control and beginning to feel better about thing
s. More able in himself to start questioning what he was being asked to witness and take on board. Who had abducted him and murdered his driver? That was real enough. He hoped that Charlie O’Hare was on the side of Superman and not Lex Luther’s? What did he call them — on Luther’s side: The Cromwell’s? Perhaps my grandmother was wrong. The phone rang.

  It was Johnny Bingham. ‘That you, Ham?’

  ‘Do you have to keep calling me, Ham? I’m busy. What’d you want?’

  ‘You’d better get down here, African Queens. It’s not pleasant. In fact, it’s not nice at all. They’re working down the river on that new dock and a dredger dragged up a whole heap of kids, all bound in chicken wire and weighted down. They couldn’t have been there long, someone’s panicked and dumped them, I mean, you don’t use chicken wire unless you want the crabs in to do away with the evidence. Christ, What am I saying here, I mean.... Can you get down here, Ham, for God’s sake, I can’t handle this alone?’

  His voice was cracking. Hamilton felt a chill. The Johnny Bingham’s of this world do not usually overreact but he was sounding like it.

  ‘Fucksake, Johnny, calm yourself down, what are you rambling on about?’

  ‘You deaf, Ham, fucking children, hundreds of them, murdered, dumped. The media world and his wife are surrounding the area, grab Mike and get down here, now!’

  The phone was banged down. Hamilton, ignored his suit jacket, grabbed his leather one from the hook on the wall, and slung it over his shoulder. He ran down the office. ‘Somebody get hold of Max Stenna.’ He screamed to the night-subs. ‘And get me a cameraman quick — Mike’s on isn’t he? Get him, where is he?’ Sports sub Dave answered and nodded from his screen half up sending copy sprawling across the floor. ‘In the car-park, two minutes, and let Max know, I’ll be on me mobile—?’

  Sports writer Jude Johnson was on the floor picking up Dave’s copy while Dave was screaming through the office door into the next section for Mike Crawford who was casually strolling up the corridor with a tray of coffees in paper cups.

  ‘Camera Mike, quick,’ Dave said. ‘It’s Ham. You need to follow him, he’s gone, quick. Now!’

  Mike dumped the tray on political and foreign Walter Oakey’s desk spilling the top level of coffees over copy extinguishing a smoking cigarette hanging from an ashtray before chasing in the direction of Hamilton’s voice. ‘What’s the fucking rush?’

  ‘Where’s Mike, I’m gone?’ Hamilton called from beyond the corridor.

  Mike went running through reaching out for camera and sound from Dave chasing Hamilton towards the lift. ‘What’s on, Ham?’ Mike shouted running towards him holding the lift door open.

  ‘Stop calling me fucking Ham, and get a fucking move on.’

  * * *

  Hamilton and Mike arrived at what was once called Blindman’s Bay, but now called African Queens. It was a bend in the river that had been industrial; but was being given over to up-market waterfront dwellings and a marina for those good at sums on Wall Street. Sections of the river had been claimed with half still to do. It was — Hamilton was to discover later from the dredger operator — a pure fluke. If service pipes, and the need for them to be laid on an obstacle free base in the river were to have gone anywhere else ... But they had been, and they had.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Mac; you always wonder what you’ll drag up next when your grab goes in. Mostly cars and the odd sacks of cats and dogs, but this, this is bizarre. I feel sick to the guts.’

  ‘So does my colleague.’ Hamilton said pointing.

  They looked into a corner where Johnny Bingham was throwing up for the city.

  ‘See if he’s alright, Mike?’

  ‘O.K. Ham.’

  Hamilton winced and closed his eyes momentarily before turning back to the drag operator again.

  ‘So what were you doing?’

  ‘We gotta get these cables in see, right there. Ten thousand tonnes of shale and stone to be dropped in. If I hadn’t put the drag in there, another day, and they wouldn’t have been found for hundreds of years, if ever.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘Yeh, got go and see to me colleague, here’s me card, call me tomorrow.’

  Hamilton went over to where Dave and Johnny Bingham were sitting.

  ‘Sorry, Ham, I’ll be alright in a minute, it was the shock of seeing all those children. They didn’t look any older than eight or so.’

  ‘Get some pictures, Dave, the chief-of-police is holding a press con, I’ll be over there when you’re ready.’

  ‘Done, Ham.’

  * * *

  The area resembled a circus coming to town. Barriers were being brought in to cordon the site off. Police caravans and forensics were being brought in. Overhead an NYPD helicopter was buzzing. Its powerful floodlights dancing over the river. Police launches on the river were loud-hailing over-enthusiastic boat owners from coming too close. Hamilton cursed that he hadn’t got here sooner.

  The Press were gathered into a contained crowd as chief-of-police Edwin Gojke stood in the side door of the incident van. The Press ensemble went instantly quiet and hung on his first words before they bombarded him with questions.

  ‘Look. We’re looking into it, let’s not over-exaggerate the situation, a couple skeletons have been recovered, that’s all you need to know at the moment, Goddamn it, I don’t know anymore myself yet, give us a break.’

  ‘We’ve got pictures showing thirty or so children laid out on the pier over there before the ambulances took them away, Ed, what have you to say about that?’

  The rest of them shouted at him that they had similar pictures as well as witness reports of what had been seen. It was clear that Edwin Gojke was not going to contain this. He put both the palms of his hands in the air to quieten them.

  ‘Please, please, gentlemen. Let me get my work done first and I’ll give a report of the findings as soon as possible....’

  ‘Chief Goyje, there’s rumour that this is to be a covered up are you aware or involved in such action?’

  ‘I resent that, Mr. Fellowes, and I’ll be complaining to your editor tomorrow of you insinuations.’

  Like he’ll be interested, Hamilton thought to himself, before shouting a question.

  ‘Chief. That right it looks like a ritual that’s gone horribly wrong. There’s been a lot of talk of children that have been going missing, immigrants, Mexican’s and other minority classes that perhaps shouldn’t be in the country. Is the NYPD operating a policy of ignoring human rights against these people?’

  ‘Mr. Fitch. Your views are well known in political circles, and are to be commended; however, I can assure you my own opinion as to the rights of others has always been paramount in the execution of my duty as chief-of-police. I can assure you that, these though, ahem, are merely the remains of some ancient people, probably Stone Age.’

  A roar of laughter went up from a cynical Press that were well used to Edwin Gojke’s views on illegal immigrants while his wife was employing Mexican women for her nursing home.

  ‘That’s all, gentlemen, we’ll keep you informed of further developments.’

  He smiled and went inside the van. His Press Secretary took over. ‘O.K. fellows, that’s it, you heard the chief, break it up now, when we know anymore, we’ll let you know.’

  The Press started to break up amidst a chatter of disbelief that they were not being told anymore. Hamilton turned to Dave.

  ‘Did you say that Johnny Bingham had been interviewing the guy that dragged up the net when he started throwing up?’

  ‘That’s right, why.’

  ‘Let’s find him.’

  ‘Not without me, you won’t.’

  It was Johnny Bingham back from the dead.

  ‘Thought we’d seen the last of you,’ Dave said.

  ‘Yeh, well, when there’s nothing more to come up you might as well as give up.’

  * * *

  They didn’t find the drag operator but they f
ound his overseer who had the good sense to have kept his mouth shut over what he had seen.

  ‘Not for any other reason than I don’t like the police and I don’t want to stay around after work longer than necessary. And that includes you lot, so goodnight as soon as you like.’

  Hamilton caught the man by the arm. ‘Hang-on a minute.’ The overseer stared at him menacingly enough for Hamilton to release his arm. ‘We’re pay you for your time.’

  ‘How much?’

  Hamilton only had a ten dollar bill on him, but said a hundred. The overseer put his hand out.

  ‘After you’ve told us.’

  ‘I don’t trust no-one, money up front.’

  ‘I’ll pay you tomorrow, that’s a promise.’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha. You must take me for a sucker.’

  ‘Have you got children? I said I’ll pay you tomorrow and I will. Think about those children. Do you want to sleep nights with them on your conscious and the fact that you did nothing to help them?’

  ‘Okay, okay, we can’t talk here, I’ll tell you what I saw, but I need a drink at least, there’s a bar over there.’ He pointed to a waterfront bar that was a quarter mile away.

  Hamilton nodded.

  The three of them sat down while Larry King told his story. ‘I was on the floating barge controlling operations when the grab went in and got caught. I got the operator to drop the grab again and winch up quickly. That usually frees it.’

  ‘And did it?’ Hamilton said.

  ‘You betcha’. The grab comes up in a burst of water and black stinking mud. That was when we see them. Bodies of children all mutilated and pulped together like they’d been in a mincer.’

  ‘How many?’ Johnny Bingham asked.

  ‘A dozen.’

  ‘Hamilton turned to Johnny Bingham. ‘I thought you said there were more than that.’

  ‘There was,’ Larry King interrupted. ‘There was ten bales of them. All bound in chicken wire. Wearing little wedding dresses.’

  ‘Wedding dresses?’ Hamilton said.

  ‘A yeh, this was a ritual killing if you ask me, and the police are covering up.’