The Last Monument

by Michael C. Grumley

  Angela had no answer.

  “Those are just a few examples, but the bottom line is that when it comes to energy, all bets are off. Energy is hugely strange and unpredictable. Especially in very large or intense concentrations, where it can actually affect time and space, making it as close to mystical as anything we’ve observed in the known universe. And the closest thing to magic as the laws of physics will allow.”

  70

  “Waiting for the tour?”

  Outside, sitting on a circular concrete bench, Joe Rickards looked up at the voice to see a figure standing over him, silhouetted by the morning sun.

  “Excuse me?”

  The figure stepped forward and closer to the bench, where he became more visible. He was tall and slender, with a lean jawline and full head of neatly combed gray hair.

  “Are you waiting for the tour? Of the church?”

  Rickards studied the man. His long black cassock descended just a few inches from the ground. “Uh, no. I’m not.”

  “I’m sorry,” apologized the priest with a slight accent. “I do recommend it if you have time. It’s quite good.”

  Rickards looked back to the church. “Thanks. But I’m just waiting for someone.”

  “I see.” After looking about the plaza, he peered down again. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Rickards gave him a sidelong glance and shrugged.

  The man sat and smiled. “You’re American?”

  “I am.” Rickards nodded. “But don’t hold it against me.”

  The man laughed. “I take it you’re here visiting.”

  “Briefly.”

  “And how are you enjoying La Paz?”

  “Hurriedly, I’m afraid.”

  The man laughed again.

  Both men watched people mingle about the church’s entrance, where after a few moments, a child was seen staring up and pointing, prompting two other children to do the same. Then several adults.

  Both Rickards and the priest followed the boy’s raised hand up the face of the church tower, where they spotted a figure standing above them looking down from a small iron walkway.

  It was Anku. His arms were raised above his head and he was calling out in Quechuan.

  “That’s not good.”

  “Probably not,” nodded the priest beside him. “But then again, the Quechua live by a different set of rules.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Rickards squinted, trying to make out Anku’s face. “Can you tell what he’s saying?”

  The priest paused, listening. “Something about his ancestors and their spirits. That they speak to us and…” He paused again. “I’m afraid the rest I don’t understand.”

  “Pay attention to your elders.” Rickards shrugged. “Not the worst message, I guess.”

  “Certainly not.” The man extended his hand to Rickards. “I’m Father Pataki.”

  “Joe Rickards,” he answered, shaking the priest’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Joe. I was just out on my morning stroll around the grounds and noticed you sitting here alone. Thought something might be troubling you.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Well, I’m fine. But thanks.”

  “Did your friends go inside?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago?”

  Rickards glanced at his watch. “Half hour.”

  Pataki nodded thoughtfully. “You chose not to join them?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I see,” the father acknowledged. Then after another short pause, he asked, “What line of work are you in, Joe?”

  “Law enforcement.”

  “Ah. A police officer.”

  “Not quite. An investigator.”

  “A detective, then.”

  Rickards didn’t bother correcting him. “Yes. A detective.”

  “A very noble profession.”

  Internally, he smirked. Rickards was probably as far from noble as one could be.

  “And where in America are you from?”

  “Colorado.”

  “The Rocky Mountain State.”

  Rickards turned. “You know where Colorado is?”

  “Indeed. I’ve been to your country twice. Once when I was a young man and once as an old man. I appreciated it more as an old man.”

  “Understandable,” Rickards said, turning back to the church.

  “It’s funny,” Pataki said, “to think of all the things I failed to appreciate as a young man. Traveling. Health. Wisdom.” The priest grinned. “Being able to go up and down stairs.”

  “Don’t feel bad. It’s universal.”

  “I suppose it is. The excitement of youth eventually gives way to the patience and wisdom of age. It’s the natural cycle of things, but sometimes difficult to accept. Both then and now.”

  Anku had stopped yelling and was now silently standing atop the tower, eyes closed with the wind on his face.

  “You sound more like a philosopher than a priest.”

  Pataki chuckled. “I wasn’t always a priest. But it is a job that requires different skills. And different outlooks.”

  “Like helping people who sit by themselves looking troubled?”

  The father chuckled. “That is one, yes.”

  “Well, prepare to be disappointed.”

  “Why would I be disappointed?”

  “Because I’m not that interesting.”

  “I disagree.”

  Rickards gave him another look.

  “You’re obviously intelligent, a visitor from Colorado who appears to be making a very rapid appearance to our city and who doesn’t like churches. There’s more than enough intrigue there.”

  Rickards couldn’t help but grin.

  “Why don’t you like churches, Joe?”

  The grin disappeared, and he turned away. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “No?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not a religious man.”

  “A lot of atheists still enjoy seeing churches, if for nothing more than appreciating our rich history. Even if you think we’re wrong, the stories are quite interesting.”

  “I’m not an atheist.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “You implied that I was.”

  Pataki smiled playfully. “And you inferred.”

  Rickards didn’t respond.

  The father looked up at a group of birds passing overhead. “Do you know why I became a priest, Joe?”

  “No idea.”

  “Because I was troubled. I was a troubled young man who, as I became older, struggled to make sense out of this world.”

  Rickards turned back again to look at him.

  “After we become adults, I’m afraid we begin to see the world for what it really is. A constant struggle. Not just to survive or prosper, but to actually find meaning in all of it. To find reason.”

  “I thought that’s what the Bible was for.”

  Pataki nodded. “To many, it is. But for others, it’s more explanation than meaning. Some people are content with explanations, but others need reason. To know that we’re not all just wasting our time. That what we do actually matters.”

  Rickards stared at him, a hardness returning to his face. “I have news for them. Sometimes it really doesn’t matter.”

  “No?”

  “No,” said Rickards coldly. “Maybe, just maybe, life is simply the pain we have to endure to finally realize in the long run, that nothing really matters.”

  Father Pataki thought about his words, surprising him when he said, “It’s possible.”

  “What?”

  “It’s possible,” he repeated. “I’m open enough to know I don’t have all the answers. But what I do know is that we are not the first. Regardless of my own beliefs, I think it’s safe to say that virtually every human being who has lived and died before us on this planet has suffered.”

  Rickards remained silent.

  “Yes, our suffering is real.
But our minds also want to convince ourselves that our own suffering is somehow special. Or unique. But it’s not. Because every person who has lived and died has also suffered. Often in much worse ways than we have. Billions. Billions have lived before us. Many of them struggled just to survive. Struggled to feed themselves or their children. Fought wars, fought oppression, torture, genocide, plagues. And often far less able to do anything about it.”

  “Not exactly a rosy picture you’re painting.”

  “I’m not trying to paint a picture, Joe. I’m merely applying context. Rationalization that helped me through my own struggles for meaning. I finally realized that regardless of knowing why or how, being here is still worthwhile. Even important.”

  “And why is that, to help another generation be thankful when we’re gone?”

  “No. Because being here provides meaning…for others who are not.”

  Rickards stared at him before shaking his head. “No, it doesn’t. It provides nothing but an empty sense of hope. Until eventually, you realize that not even hope is real. And as for suffering, have other people suffered? Yes. Have they suffered more? Probably. But another person’s pain doesn’t do anything to lessen your own. No matter how much easier we may have it.”

  Father Pataki nodded thoughtfully. “That may be true. But if we cannot see tomorrow as a little better, as a little brighter, even by a small amount, what point is there?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. At a certain point, there is no hope. When you realize the fruitlessness of it all. And there is nothing left to face…but your own blame.”

  Neither man spoke for several minutes, instead sitting next to each other, silently contemplating one another’s words. Finally, Father Pataki looked and saw that Joe’s eyes were closed and his chin was trembling.

  “What happened, Joe?”

  Rickards merely shook his head.

  Pataki put a hand on his shoulder and could feel the trembling there, too.

  “Let it out,” he said. “Let it out before it eats you.”

  Rickards’ lips barely moved. “It’s too late. For me.”

  “Why?”

  He sniffed. “Because they’re already gone.”

  “Who is gone?”

  Rickards suddenly turned to him, eyes open and filled with tears. “How many, Father?”

  “How many what?”

  “Of all those billions,” Rickards said, “who have suffered. How many did it to themselves? How many committed the worst crime possible and were left alive as punishment? How many of those people do you think killed their own families?”

  Pataki’s eyes froze just as Rickards began to weep.

  71

  Father Pataki gripped Rickards’ hand with both of his, clamping them firmly as the weeping turned to sobbing. Deep gut-wrenching sobs from a man convinced he had no place in this world. No worth. And no reason even to be remembered, let alone forgiven.

  He was the lowest of all humans. The lowest among all the billions who had ever lived. Someone who contributed nothing. Allowed to live by sheer circumstance and nothing more.

  But Father Pataki never let go. And when the sobs became uncontrollable, he immediately wrapped both of his arms around Rickards, holding him to his chest as if he would never let go.

  Letting him know that even in his deepest grief…he was not alone.

  72

  It would take several long minutes before Rickards could speak. Eventually, he wiped the tears away with his hands, speaking through a voice still wavering.

  It was his fault. It was all his fault. An accident he could have prevented, resulting in the death of his wife and daughter. Something that never should have happened, if it was not for him. If not for his own stupidity.

  He was the one who’d known the brakes on the car were failing. He was the one who could have done something about it that night. He was the one who should have been awake to stop his wife from taking his car the next morning instead of hers.

  One single horrific decision. One she had no way of knowing she was even making. Taking their daughter, Shannon, to school, sitting happily in the back seat. Innocent. Until the accident. An accident she could have avoided, or at least survived, if only he had done something about the brakes.

  Only made worse with Joe not knowing. Having no idea, while following behind in her car. First filling the gas tank and then getting onto the freeway to see the stopped traffic. Inching forward for forty-five minutes before finally spotting his own car. Crumpled and destroyed.

  It was a picture he would never forget, the horrific image of him finally reaching the vehicle.

  He had killed his own family through nothing but stupidity. Utter stupidity had taken the lives of his wife and daughter forever. Something that no amount of grief, no amount of pain and no amount of consolation would ever change.

  And no amount of rationalization would ever convince him that he deserved to be alive while they were gone.

  Father Pataki had no words. After thirty years as a priest, he thought he had seen it all. Strife. Misery. Torment. Enough to last a lifetime.

  But guilt. Guilt was worst of all. Especially when it came to a child. There were simply no words that could ever make a difference. No words to help heal those permanent wounds in a parent’s heart.

  All he could do was keep his arm around Joe.

  When it was over, there were no words spoken, just silence as the heaving subsided and tears began to dry.

  Nothing to be said.

  But one thing.

  “Joe,” Pataki finally whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t begin to know what you’re going through,” he said. “No one can. And even if they could, it wouldn’t matter. Not now. But I want you to try to remember something.”

  “What?”

  “If you remember only one thing from our encounter, I want it to be this. That with everything I’ve been through, and everything I’ve seen, all of the darkness and all of the hopelessness. All the questions over meaning and purpose in this world. There is one thing that I believe to be emphatically and categorically true, regardless of your spiritual beliefs.

  And that is…that responsibility is purpose.”

  He grinned gently at Joe. “I know it doesn’t sound like much. But in time, when you can finally see through the darkness, look for it. Look for something. Some level of responsibility that you can commit to. Because it is purpose. And purpose alone will eventually pull you out.”

  73

  Rickards had only minutes to digest the priest’s words before he heard it.

  Shouting from above.

  He looked up and spotted Anku, gripping the railing with one hand and pointing with the other. Shouting unintelligibly in Quechuan.

  Rickards followed Anku’s arm and slowly turned around to see a small black dot in the sky.

  When he looked back, Anku was gone—just before he heard the beating sound of helicopter rotors.

  ***

  Inside the church, Anku’s yelling continued, echoing downward as he scrambled down a long, sealed-off set of stairs. His shouts reverberated through the stone hallways and all the way to the church’s sanctuary and altar, where Angela and Mike Morton suddenly turned around.

  “Is that Anku?”

  Morton nodded, trying to listen, taking only a second before frowning. “It’s the Quechuan word for trouble!”

  The two jumped from their seats and raced out of the sanctuary. Running down the hallway, back to the main entrance and then outside, where they stopped and looked up.

  Above them, just a few hundred feet from the ground, was a large military helicopter.

  “Mi-17,” breathed Morton. “Russian made.”

  Angela spotted the single white stripe sandwiched between two red, painted on the aircraft’s fuselage, before it arched and disappeared over to the top of the church. Reemerging several seconds later, it continued a tight circle over the Plaza.

  “Is th
at Peruvian?”

  “Yep.” Morton grabbed her hand and looked around, noticing just as the helicopter swept around, a reflection within the dark interior of its open doorway. A telescopic lens.

  Morton spun to find Deacon Velez standing in the wide entrance behind them, yelling above the noise and urgently motioning them back inside.

  74

  Pressing the small earphone further into his ear, Fischer turned to Karl Ottman inside the lead Humvee.

  “They’ve spotted Reed.”

  “Where?”

  “At the entrance to the church. They’ve just gone inside.”

  Ottman leaned quickly toward the driver. “How much longer?”

  “We’re here,” the man said, suddenly veering around several cars. He then cut sharply back across the lane and accelerated up and over the sidewalk.

  “Hold on!” he yelled and roared up the sharp incline of two dozen steps, briefly leaving the ground before bouncing down again on the paved northeast corner of Plaza San Francisco.

  ***

  Angela and Morton followed Velez through the church, running at full speed, quickly winding in and out of rooms while dozens of visitors turned to watch.

  Halfway down the hall, Velez turned to the left and headed down a short, tight hallway that ended at a heavy wooden door. He quickly unlatched it and threw it open with the weight of his body.

  “This way!”

  They exited, reentering the bright sunlight, making for a large garden in one corner of the church’s courtyard.

  Darting beneath several trees, they loosely followed a winding path until they reached a wide double set of descending concrete stairs leading down a level toward one of the giant plaza’s two underground parking garages.