The Circle of Sodom

by Pat Mullan

  EIGHTEEN

  Seoul, Korea

  Hajin Kim should not have been surprised. That's what he told himself when he took the telephone call. It was nine o'clock in the evening and he was exhorting himself to call Zachary Walker in Washington. It'll be seven in the morning there and he'd probably catch the General before he left for his office. He was right. He caught the General as he was about to walk out the door.

  "General Walker, it's Hajin Kim. I have something very important to tell you," said Kim without any greetings or preliminaries.

  "What is it?" answered Zachary Walker just as directly.

  "You called me a year ago to see if Major Whiteside had been touch with me. He hadn't. But someone else has. I had a call from a gentleman in New York who gave his name as William Edwards. He was inquiring about Charlie Pettigrew . Said there was an inheritance due him from a reclusive uncle. He was surprised when I told him that Charlie Pettigrew was no longer in Korea, that he had left here six or seven years ago. I don't feel right about this call. Somehow I feel that this gentleman is not who he said he is. Even if I knew where Charlie Pettigrew had gone I wouldn't have told him. But, of course, I have no idea where Charlie is. Do you think this might be important?"

  General Walker already knew it was important. The Pettigrews were always eking out a living when he was a boy. There were no rich aunts or uncles in the Pettigrew clan.

  "Yes, it is. You were right to call, Hajin. I believe someone is trying to finish the Major's memoirs posthumously," he replied. He thanked Hajin Kim for going to the trouble of calling. Hajin wished him well and found himself in meditation after the call had ended. But he couldn't clear his mind of Zachary Walker and Charlie Pettigrew . Try as he might to suppress it, that evening of twenty years ago kept intruding from his subconscious. Maybe if I let all return to me I can exorcise it forever, hoped Hajin Kim.

  And so that evening returned to him as he sat in deep contemplation.....

  It was the summer of 1970 and the Followers had given his life new meaning. But his soul was troubled too. Preaching the Bible daily on the streets of Seoul had added purpose to his existence. But the Bible was gradually being supplanted by the writings of Arnold Blum, the founder of the Followers. Metaphysical healing was practised in preference to contemporary medical therapy. The Followers believed that they should rely on God to heal them. But it was the sexual ethos of the Followers that had started to trouble Hajin Kim. Women Followers were expected to use sex as a means of attracting converts. Gay men were expected to do likewise. Women, even those with partners, were expected to provide sexual favors to younger members who had no partners. This sexual ethos was beginning to dominate the philosophy of the Followers. By the summer of 1970 spiritual retreats often employed orgiastic sexual rituals as some kind of sacramental rite.

  This was the world that Zachary Walker had been lured into by Charlie Pettigrew. Charlie had invited Hajin to meet his friend who was an important officer in the U.S. Army. The three of them met for dinner in a neighborhood restaurant not far from the Followers residence in Seoul. That was the very first time that Hajin Kim had laid eyes on Zachary Walker. He almost felt that he was an interloper as the evening progressed. Too much makli had been consumed and no-one was entirely coherent when they arrived back at the residence late in the evening. A retreat had commenced the day before and had now reached its spiritual zenith : the sacramental rite of the orgy. The sweet distinctive aroma of hashish perfumed the air and a number of Followers were smoking opium in the chamber known as the Grotto. The floor surrounding the altar in the central worship chamber was covered with mattresses and the smoke from incense burners clouded the air. Naked bodies in twos, threes and fours cavorted and copulated on every mattress. A Follower stood at the central altar uttering incantations and pleading for the sacramental rite of the orgy to be accepted as a humble sacrificial offering. Hajin knew that they had all joined the rite but he didn't remember when or how they had decided to do so. That was only one of the blackouts he suffered that evening. He attributed it all to too much makli. He did remember the sacrificial offering made by Charlie Pettigrew and Zachary Walker. He would never forget. It was the central rite of the sacrament. He could still see Zachary Walker prostrate on the central altar and he had watched, in a stupor, Charlie Pettigrew enter him again and again with what appeared to be a dildo that looked more like the end of a white riding crop made of styrofoam. A group of Followers stood behind the altar chanting and offering up this sacrifice. Hajin also remembered the crack, like a rifle shot, and watched the riding crop splinter into small pieces at the climax of the ritual. It must have been then that he had another of his blackouts because the next thing he remembered was waking up in one of the residency chambers about noon on the following day.

  Something changed for him that night. His troubled soul could not find peace and he left the Followers by Christmas of that same year. He only saw Zachary Walker once or twice in those months but he seemed to have changed utterly. Somber and unsociable, he never met with Charlie Pettigrew again. The U.S. Army seemed to be his only life.

  MacDara was sure that Hajin Kim hadn't bought his story about Charlie Pettigrew 's inheritance. He had found Kim's name and phone number in Major Whiteside's journal with a follow-up reminder to call about Charlie Pettigrew . MacDara suspected that the Major had not lived to make that call. Elsewhere, in the journal, Pettigrew was mentioned as having had a formative influence on Zachary Walker in his youth. He reckoned that Pettigrew must be in his sixties if he was still alive. That would mean he's receiving Social Security. If he is, those monthly payments would probably be deposited in some financial institution near where he lives. A call to General Shields provided the information he needed. Charlie Pettigrew was indeed receiving Social Security; he was sixty-five years old. The monthly payments were being deposited in his name at the Royal Bank of Canada in Cheticamp, Novia Scotia.

  MacDara settled for a Jeep Cherokee at the rental agency at Halifax International Airport. The short Air Canada flight from Boston landed at six p.m. and he was out of the airport and heading north on 102 by six thirty. MacDara had been in Canada numerous times on GMA business, mostly to Toronto. He had been to Novia Scotia only once for a business conference which had been held at Pictou Lodge. The lodge commanded a vantage point on the north coast above Pictou Harbour and Northumberland Strait which separated Nova Scotia from Prince Edward Island. Just the place to spend the night, he figured. Two hours later he had left the Trans Canada Highway and was meandering up the long approach road to the Lodge. He had reserved one of the original log cabins with its large stone fireplace. Even though he wouldn't need a fire on a May evening, it still gave him the feeling of hearth and home. MacDara detested hotel rooms.

  By ten o'clock he had showered, changed and dined and was ensconced in a comfortable wooden rocking chair by the fireplace. Time to brief himself in preparation for tomorrow. He took out the Novia Scotia map he had picked up at the airport and pulled out the briefing sheet that Shields had E-mailed to him just before he had left New York. He read the text of the message again:

  Done a little background checking on your Mr. Charles Pettigrew. Seems his mother was one Carmel Deveau, an Acadian from Cheticamp, Nova Scotia. She and his father, Charles Pettigrew Sr. were wed in New Orleans. Good luck!

  By nine thirty the next morning MacDara was two hours west of Pictou and crossing into Cape Breton over the Canso Causeway which billed itself, at 217 feet, as the deepest causeway in the world. Traffic was light on the Trans Canada Highway as he pushed deeper into Cape Breton. He reached the junction of the Cabot Trail and headed inland emerging about an hour later on the coast at Margaree Harbour. He was only a half hour away from Cheticamp but the vista that surrounded him made the trip worthwhile. Flat undulating coastline, carpeted in green, verging the blue waters of the Northumberland Strait, adorned by distinctive homes and villages, old world and French in character and construction. For a minute he considered Cha
rlie Pettigrew to be a lucky man.

  It was exactly twelve noon, four and a half hours after checking out of Pictou Lodge, when Owen MacDara swung the Jeep Cherokee into the customer parking area in front of the Royal Bank of Canada branch in Cheticamp. The sun was high in the sky but the breeze from the ocean made the day seem cool. A small branch, two teller windows but only one teller, it didn't take MacDara long to find the manager. A big friendly fellow in his mid-forties, Jean Paul Lavigne loved to talk.

  "Ah, yes. Of course, I know Monsieur Pettigrew. Private man, keeps to himself, a recluse almost. But the Deveaus. Ah, so sad. None of them left, I'm afraid. When Grandmama passed away ten years ago the line ended. Except for Monsieur Pettigrew, of course. I believe he was the only living relative. So sad, Monsieur MacNamara, did you say your name was? Oh, MacDara. So sorry. You see, and I'm supposed to be good at names. It's my business. How can I take a person's money if I don't know them. Scottish? No! Irish! Ah, cousins."

  When MacDara managed to squeeze in a word he asked Monsieur Lavigne to give him directions to Charlie Pettigrew 's house.

  "Ah, you see, mon ami, it is not so simple. Ah no, not so simple. No-one sees Monsieur Pettigrew. He has no automobile, no telephone. Never comes to town. He does not want to see anyone, Monsieur MacDara. Believe me. Certainement! He has only one contact with the outside world. Georgie Collet, Little Georgie. A bit innocent, dear Georgie. Twenty-two but a child really, a mind of a twelve year old. He's the only one that Monsieur Pettigrew trusts to see him. But, of course, no-one has really asked to see him. Before you, I mean Monsieur MacDara. Georgie takes him some milk and groceries every week. Ah, I think Monsieur Pettigrew pays Georgie well. Nobody knows. But Georgie is never short of money. He may be innocent but he knows the value of a dollar, our Little Georgie. Ah yes, he knows the value of a dollar."

  "Can you tell me where to find Georgie. I've got nothing to lose. I'll ask him to take me", blurted out MacDara as though he were playing musical chairs with the banker's voice being the music.

  "That's easy, Monsieur MacDara. It's just past twelve thirty. Georgie's always playing hopscotch or something with the schoolchildren in the playground at this time. The teachers are very tolerant of him. So are the children. You'll find him there. It's two streets up and one street over on your left. I wish you luck, Monsieur MacDara."

  True to his word, that's where Owen MacDara found Georgie Collet. He was kicking a ball with some of the six and seven year olds. Tall, gangly and a bit toothy with unkempt black hair, his movements almost mimicked the young Jerry Lewis in those movies with Dean Martin. MacDara stood watching for a while and his opportunity came when Georgie kicked the ball too hard. Owen caught it and carried it back to him while he just stood there with an innocent grin on his face.

  "Hello, Georgie. My name is Owen. I want to ask you something very important," MacDara said and paused long enough to let that sink in.

  "I'd like you to take me to see Charlie Pettigrew ."

  Georgie stopped smiling. He shuffled on one foot and answered without looking MacDara in the eye. "I don't think I can do that. Monsieur Charles would not like that."

  MacDara had already considered that response.

  "Will you take a letter to him from me?" and, when he saw Georgie hesitate, followed it with, " I'll pay you well. Twenty dollars."

  That seemed to convince Little Georgie. He agreed to take the letter. Ah yes, thought MacDara to himself, Little Georgie knows the value of a dollar.

  Little Georgie Collet returned an hour and half later and found MacDara snoozing in his jeep.

  "Monsieur Charles says yes. I can take you to see him."

  "Hop in, Georgie. Just give me the directions", said MacDara knowing that his note to Charlie Pettigrew telling him that Zachary Walker was in grave danger had had the desired effect. They left Cheticamp heading south again and then turned west on to Cheticamp Island. Twenty minutes later MacDara parked the jeep on the remotest part of the island and he and Georgie walked the last half mile over a track more suitable for bike riding until they reached a small ranch style cabin perched on an incline overlooking the ocean. As they approached, a man rose from a bench on the wooden deck that skirted the house on two sides. Owen MacDara had never seen a photograph of Charlie Pettigrew and had no fixed image in his mind. Nevertheless, he was unprepared for the person that rose to greet him. A tall angular figure, leaning precariously sideways from the hips, wearing what looked like a dark brown cloak thrown over his shoulders, tied at the waist and reaching his ankles in folds and corners. His hair was long, white and straggly, hanging in wisps around his shoulders. His right hand reached out to greet MacDara while his left supported his leaning frame on a hefty looking blackthorn stick; the fingers were long and skeletal, covered in an almost gossamer layer of skin with tributaries of large prominent veins showing the bluish red hue of the blood that coursed through them. His countenance glowed with an expression that seemed luminous. A prominent forehead, smooth skin that belied his years, eyes that were very moist and emotional and a wide soft-lipped mouth that slashed his face from ear to ear. His voice was low, cavernous, and he greeted Owen MacDara :

  "God bless. Come inside."

  Little Georgie stayed on the deck and MacDara followed Charlie Pettigrew into his cabin. It was simple, one bedroom with a large living room and kitchen combined. A lumpy couch furnished one wall and an old pine table and chairs the opposite wall. A sink and stove huddled, almost incongruously, in one corner.

  He offered MacDara a chipped mug of water from a crockery jug that sat on the table but Owen declined and decided to plunge right in :

  "Thank you for letting me come to see you."

  "Don't thank me. I'd prefer that you weren't here. But I couldn't ignore anything that might hurt Zachary."

  "You were very close, Mr. Pettigrew."

  "I loved Zach. I'm not sure he returned my love. But that was years ago when we were young. I haven't spoken to him in over twenty years. Oh yes, I know how important he is these days. I may be a recluse, as you would say Mr. MacDara, but that doesn't mean I don't know what's going on. I've been leaving what you call the civilized world for years, a world that had no space in it for me. This beach house belonged to my grandmother. My mother brought me up here once or twice when I was little. When grandmother passed away, she left this to me and I moved here about five years ago. It's my last move from your civilized world, Mr. MacDara. I'll die here."

  They were both seated at the table. Charlie Pettigrew had pushed his chair away from the table and he sat almost astride it, the blackthorn stick between his legs and both hands clasping its bulbous end for support. He had stopped talking and was breathing rapidly and deeply. MacDara sensed that his exhaustion came more from the novelty of talking to someone than from any physical frailty. He regained his composure and looked directly at MacDara :

  "What kind of danger is Zach in?"

  "We believe that he's being blackmailed over some incident that occurred in Korea years ago. It's seriously affecting him. General Walker is a very private man, a very proud man, and, I believe, a very lonely man. He doesn't know that we are aware of the blackmailing and the danger he may be in. The President is also afraid that the nation's well-being could be at risk. Zachary holds a very powerful position. We didn't approach the General on this matter because we felt that he wouldn't cooperate with us."

  "How do I know this is true, Mr. MacDara?"

  Owen had anticipated this. When he had conjured up the threat to Zachary Walker as a ploy to prize open the past, he didn't know if it would work or not. He knew that he would need some way to pass the litmus test. General Shields had procured a personal letter from the President identifying Owen MacDara as acting with his authority and requesting full co-operation. Owen took the envelope containing that letter from his inside pocket and handed it to Charlie Pettigrew . Charlie read it and read it again. After holding it for what seemed to be an interminably long time but, in reality, only a
couple of minutes, he gave it back to MacDara. He had accepted it.

  "I do not know who might be threatening Zachary but I can tell you and the President about Korea. It's so long ago and it shouldn't be something that's held over Zachary's head like a sword of Damocles. We will all be asked by God to account for our stewardship very soon."

  MacDara learned Zachary Walker's secret and solved the mystery of that strange surgical procedure Major Whiteside had conducted in the 53rd MASH. If the civilized world that Charlie Pettigrew was running away from ever learned about the General's secret he would be destroyed. Whoever eliminated Murph' and tried to get him knew that too well. MacDara was now convinced of the connection. Somebody knew about the General's past and was trying to bury it forever.

  As Owen MacDara was boarding his plane at Halifax, another man, on a different mission, was arriving in Cheticamp. He, too, had arrived to see Charlie Pettigrew. A couple of discreet inquiries was enough to give him the directions to Pettigrew's home. He spent the long afternoon and early evening becoming familiar with the terrain that surrounded Charlie Pettigrew's house on Cheticamp Island. Then he waited for nightfall.

  He moved carefully, putting his feet down gingerly before trusting the ground with his full weight. He had been here in daylight and he knew where he was going. But it was different at night. He couldn't risk using his flashlight. It was three in the morning and he must have gone a mile already. Another mile to go. Overconfident, he stepped forward firmly and there was nothing there. Unbalanced, he tumbled into empty black space, landing hard. His hands grabbed at grassy tufts but, rooted in sand, they did not hold. He tumbled further. Head over heels until he felt the hard glancing blow against the side of his head and he lapsed into unconsciousness.