The Circle of Sodom

by Pat Mullan

  "You have an attitude problem," said MacDara, releasing his stranglehold, stomping hard and breaking all the fingers of the man's good left hand.

  "I'll only ask you one more time. Who sent you?"

  "The Circle found you guilty, man. That's all I know."

  As MacDara relaxed his hold his assailant got on his knees and made his escape. The wrong way. The low parapet of the balcony, shrouded in darkness, caught him sharply in mid-thigh knocking him off-balance. He staggered wildly and pitched over the parapet tumbling down the side of the mountain. The night air carried the sound of his body smashing into the rocks and trees.

  Kate was now standing near the French windows. The disturbance had stunned the few remaining diners in the restaurant. They stood huddled inside the windows but made no move to get involved. Owen hugged Kate and he could feel her legs shaking against him. She was still in shock as they headed toward the ramp leading to the cable car station. They had only five minutes to make the next one off the mountain.

  They retrieved the body from the mountain the next day. MacDara met the local pathologist, Dr. Newbury, at the morgue to identify the body.

  "You understand, Doctor, I didn't get a good look at him."

  "I do understand, Mr. MacDara. But anything may be helpful, both to you and to us."

  "OK. He was well built. Around 5 foot 10 inches and 180 pounds or thereabouts. Didn't get a good look at his face. His ski mask came off in the struggle. His head was shaven close. I could feel the stubble."

  "What does your examination reveal, Dr. Newbury?"

  "As I understand it, some of this information should be no surprise to you, Mr. MacDara."

  As he talked, Dr. Newbury removed the sheet covering the body.

  "Healthy white male. 172 pounds, 5 foot 9 inches. I'd put the age between 25 and 30. Fair hair, shaven close on head. Small scar above lip - old wound."

  "Extent of injuries : compound fracture of lower right ulna; four fractured metacarpals on left hand; several broken ribs; multiple contusions and a hairline fracture of the skull."

  "But none of these caused his death. That was the result of, in layman's terms, a broken neck. His spinal cord was severed. He was probably unconscious before that happened."

  "Who was he, Doctor?"

  "We don't know. He had no identification. No wallet, credit cards, driving license, passport - nothing. Just some money in his pockets. All tags had been removed from his clothing. Obviously, he was intent on remaining anonymous. We've sent his fingerprints to the Bureau in Washington. Just in case he's on file somewhere."

  "There's just one curious item, Mr. MacDara. He has a small tattoo on the inside of his left forearm. Let me show you."

  MacDara moved closer for a better look. A small black circle enclosing a red, serpentine 'S'. The very same tattoo, in the very same place, as the albino.

  TWENTY

  Washington, D.C.

  The package was delivered personally to General Zachary Walker by a young attorney in the Washington law firm of Katz and Bernstein acting on behalf of colleagues in Cheticamp, Nova Scotia. The covering letter informed him of the death of Charlie Pettigrew, the cause of death, and that no conclusion had been reached by the coroner. It then went on to state that they were executing the last wishes of the deceased by ensuring that the enclosed, sealed package was delivered, as instructed. The General looked at that package for a long time. He turned it over and tried to feel its contents. He didn't open it right away. He locked it up in his safe for a day while he teased his brain trying to guess what it might contain. Finally, curiosity got the better of him and he opened it. It was a ring, a very beautiful ring. Gold, fine filigree mounting and the largest, most perfect amethyst he'd ever seen. Joy-San's favorite stone. He remembered the day he had bought it for her in Seoul. The memory was as vivid as if it had occurred yesterday. That's what he had been trying to exorcise. The past. The memories. The pain. When Joy-San had died giving birth to Kate the ring had been returned to him. But, every time he looked at it, it seared the memory of his loss into his heart. Finally, after Charlie Pettigrew had entered his life again, he had thrown away the ring at the end of a night of depression. It was too painful to keep. If he could give away their baby, how could he keep their ring. But Charlie must have picked it up that night. And he's been holding on to it all these years. Zach marvelled at that. And at Charlie's sense of things. No, Charlie, you're right. Throwing away the ring didn't exorcise the memories. Or the pain. Or the joy.

  General Walker had arrived at The Colombia Cafe at precisely three p.m.; General Shields a couple of minutes later. There were few people in the coffee shop at that time : a middle aged lady sitting alone, absorbed in a Danielle Steele novel as she sipped her coffee and a young couple eating a very late breakfast. General Walker had taken the booth in the rear and had already ordered coffee when General Shields arrived. Zachary Walker got right to the point :

  "What's this all about, Bart?"

  "Let me start at the beginning, Zach."

  And while Zachary Walker sat impassively, Bart Shields commenced with that lunch with Owen MacDara at the New York Yacht Club and brought him up to date with MacDara's visit to Charlie Pettigrew .

  "Zach, Charlie Pettigrew told us what happened all those years ago. It's hard for me to understand. So, don't even try to explain."

  Zachary Walker's eyes were moist and the mug of coffee trembled in his right hand. He steadied it with his left and said:

  "Bart, you must believe me. I had nothing to do with these killings. I never heard of Murphy Armstrong until tonight. What happened, happened. It was many years ago and I've been living in its shadow ever since."

  "You must know, Zach, that if this had been made public, you would have been destroyed."

  "Yes, I know. I know. But you have to believe me. I would never have killed to prevent that. Especially not Harry Whiteside."

  "Do you know Tony Thackeray?"

  "No, I've never heard of him. And I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the Thackeray Institute. If MacDara is convinced Thackeray is involved in these killings maybe you're barking up the wrong tree."

  "We don't believe so. Either Thackeray is being used or he, himself, is the user. Are you sure you've never met him?"

  "Never! I would remember. And I only heard MacDara 's name for the first time a couple of days ago."

  Zachary Walker knew he had said too much. Bart Shields pounced on it right away.

  "Who told you? Who talked to you about Owen MacDara?"

  "Bart, it's not important who told me."

  "Well, if it's not important Zach, then you can tell me. What are you covering up?"

  "Bart, there's no cover-up. Alright, I'll tell you. It was Senator Sam. Apparently your MacDara was snooping around asking questions about Harry Whiteside and the Senator didn't take too kindly to it."

  "Senator Sam? You mean Senator Sumner Hardy?"

  "That's right. Sam and I go way back. And we believe in the same things."

  “Did you know that the senator is an alumnus of The Thackeray Institute? As a matter of fact he sits on their Advisory Council. That means he knows Tony Thackeray, the man MacDara believes is responsible for these killings.”

  The General didn’t answer. He had nothing to say.

  "Does the President know, Zach? He and the Senator aren't exactly bosom buddies, you know."

  "Listen, Bart. I'm not disloyal to the President. I don't happen to share some of his views about this country. That's all."

  "Well, some people would say that Senator Sam is a fascist. That he'd become the first American dictator if we let him. Now, I know that's scaremongering. And I know you're a conservative, Zach, but I'd never have placed you in the Senator's camp."

  "I'm not in his camp!"

  "Well, you must be important to somebody. If our guess is right, they've gone out of their way to protect you. How much does the Senator know about all of this?"

  "The Senator's been a good fri
end, that's all. I value his advice."

  "But somebody has been killing to protect you. And the attempts on MacDara's life. It's all linked together."

  "You're surely not suspecting Senator Sam. That's ludicrous. I'd never have expected you to resort to McCarthyism, Bart."

  "Hold it, Zach. I never said I suspected the Senator. But I want to get to the bottom of this. Don't you?"

  "I want it all to go away. What happened to me occurred a long time ago. To a different person."

  "Well, it won't go away, Zach. Harry Whiteside kept a journal. Did you know that?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "He had an entry in it for March of last year. Said he met with you in Washington. Did he?"

  "Yes, he did. He was doing his memoirs."

  "Didn't he bring up that surgical procedure that he did on you back in '70 in Korea?"

  "He did. But, let me explain. Harry treated that event like a priest would treat a sin that he heard in the confessional. With total confidence."

  "But something new was giving him concern, isn't that true, Zach?"

  "He was imagining things, I'm sure. Thought that he had 'turned over a rock and found something rotten under it'. He was becoming paranoid. I think retirement had affected Harry's mind."

  "But he thought you would become a victim of whatever he found under this rock. Isn't that true, Zach?"

  "Yes, it's true. I tried to dissuade him. But I could see it was no use."

  "Did you talk with anyone about this at the time?"

  "Only Senator Sam. I often sought his advice. I told you that. I thought maybe he could be more successful if he talked to Harry. I didn't want Harry to make a fool out of himself."

  "Did the Senator talk to Harry?"

  "He said he did. But he said he failed. Harry was a stubborn man. But just about then he disappeared and the matter ended."

  "Didn't you ever think his disappearance seemed convenient at the time?"

  "Just for a minute. It troubled me when I heard it. But my common sense told me there was no connection. Just another tragedy. After all, Harry didn't seem as sure and steady as he used to be. Who knows what difficulty he might have gotten himself into? At least that was how I rationalized it at the time."

  "And how do you rationalize it, now?"

  "Bart, I don't know anymore," said a very weary Zachary Walker. He was still gripping the coffee mug between his hands. To steady them. The mug had been empty for ages. Now he looked directly at Bart Shields and said simply:

  "Charlie Pettigrew is dead."

  "What? He was OK when Owen MacDara saw him!"

  "Well, he's dead. Fractured skull. Broken neck. They don't know if it was accidental or not. Got a note from his lawyer. He left me something. Oh, not money! Charlie didn't have any. Just an item of sentimental value. That's all I know."

  "Zach, can't you see. They've killed him to protect your secret. To protect you. But they were too late this time."

  "Bart, you don't know that. Maybe Charlie was tired of living."

  "You don't really believe that, do you? Stop kidding yourself."

  "Bart, I don't know. I just don't know."

  "Listen, Zach. I need your help. We've got to stop these people. I believe you are the key."

  "But, what can I do?"

  "Go and see the President. He's in your corner. I haven't told him what MacDara learned from Charlie Pettigrew . But he must be told. I'd rather you did it yourself, Zach. We have to stop this thing."

  "This is hard for me, Bart. Really hard. But you're right. I have to let the President know."

  There was nothing more to say. They both lapsed into silence for a while, finishing the last of too many coffees and left.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Washington, D.C.

  The DJ at Xanadu wore a red beehive hairdo, false eyelashes, press-on fingernails and a big, fluffy boa draped around her neck. 'She' had always fancied Larry Sanderson but he had never been interested. It was Saturday and she spotted him at the bar.

  "Larry, Honey, where have you been lately?" she gushed.

  "Working, Sydney. Just working. Nothing more exotic," said Larry.

  "You know what they say about that, Honey. All work and no play makes Larry a dull boy. Just let me know when you want to play. I can promise you a good time."

  "Sydney, love, thanks. I think I just want to be alone tonight."

  "Honey, you don't know what you're missing," said Sydney in a huff as she glided back to play some more selections before the show began.

  Xanadu was an upscale gay entertainment place with a bar, restaurant and club. Larry Sanderson seldom went there. It was a bit too yuppie for him. But he enjoyed the shows. Larry managed to keep his private and public personas apart. No-one at the NSC knew he was gay. If they thought about him at all, they'd probably conclude that he was asexual, just like his computers. That suited Sanderson. The NSC was a macho heterosexual place. Coming out of the closet could only lead to trouble. There was still lingering resentment over the President's 'gays in the military' policy.

  Most people were dancing. The floor was packed and there was a party atmosphere in the place. As Larry watched, spotlights shone on the three circular tables in the center of the floor, illuminating the table dancers, the stars of the evening. They were all good-looking, well-built young men wearing only the skimpiest of red silk underwear. The choreography was professional, their dancing excellent; always provocative but never lewd. Larry had seen the trio before but he never tired watching them. As he sipped his gin and tonic he couldn't help noticing the fair-haired young man looking at him intently from the other side of the bar. When he caught his eye the young man smiled. Larry looked away again. He wasn't out to pick up or be picked up.

  Tonight, the bartender seemed to be auditioning. Between serving his customers he was dancing on the bar and tucking his tips suggestively down his pants. On one of his gyrations around the bar he deposited another gin and tonic in front of Larry and whispered in his ear:

  "Sweetheart, this one's on Joseph," pointing to the fair-haired young man on the other side of the bar, who smiled and lifted his glass in a toast to Larry.

  It must have been the numerous gin and tonics thought Larry as he fumbled to get the key into the lock on the door of his apartment. Joseph had insisted on helping him home after he had slipped off the stool at the bar in Xanadu and dazed himself when he cracked his head against the brass footrail. Now Joseph gently took the key from him and turned it in the lock. Inside Larry groped for the light switch. Again Joseph helped and as the lights came on he guided Larry over to the couch in the living room and propped him up on it with pillows.

  It seemed ages later but Larry imagined he heard the door opening again, imagined he heard voices, and thought he must be dreaming. He was sure he wasn't asleep but he knew he wasn't awake either. He dreamed that hands were lifting him up in the air and carrying him. Funny how the mind can make dreams and imaginings seem so real, he thought.

  He wanted to scratch the tickle on his nose but his right hand wouldn't move. He tried his left hand and it wouldn't move either. He felt panic and his struggle, as well as the smelling salts he'd just been administered, awakened him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that he was lying on his back on the bed and his wrists and ankles were tied to the bedposts. He was naked.

  "Wake-up, sweetheart. Are you ready for some fun?" He knew it was Joseph. His eyes focused on the voice and he could see him standing at the foot of the bed. But there were two of him. He must be seeing double. He closed and opened his eyes but the double image didn't go away. There were two of them.

  "This is my best friend, dear Larry. He wants to join in. You don't mind, do you? Two's fun but three's an orgy. Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

  Larry's panic increased. He could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest.

  "Joseph, please stop. I'm not into bondage and pain. Don't do this. Let me up," he pleaded. But that just aroused chuckles in
Joseph and his Best Friend who had now emerged from the shadows with a lighted cigarillo between the fingers of his right hand.

  "But my Best Friend here is into bondage and pain in a big way. Especially pain. He just loves to give it, don't you, darling?"

  Best Friend said nothing. Instead he blew on the end of his cigarillo till it glowed red and then, without any warning, he stuck it into the sole of Sanderson's right foot. Sanderson's body bucked in agony on the bed but the ties held. He started to scream but Joseph stuck a face-cloth in his mouth and gagged him. Best Friend pulled away the cigarillo from Sanderson's foot and his body stopped fighting. Gradually Joseph removed the gag and Larry could smell his own burnt flesh.

  "That's just an appetizer, sweetheart. Are you ready for the main course?"

  " What do you want from me?" Larry wheezed. His throat hurt from the screams that were never heard.

  "I'll tell you what we want, sweetheart. We want you to tell us what you're working on. We want to know what programs you're running for General Shields."

  Sanderson felt as though the fire from his foot had suddenly hit his brain. They knew. Somebody had found out what he was working on. Or found out enough and had leaked it. Just as quickly he suddenly felt cold as he realized that Joseph and his Best Friend were terrorists. Maybe even the people that MacDara was looking for.

  "That's not a secret. I'm working on the next version of our simulator on anti-terrorism. Everybody knows General Shields' special job in the NSC," said Larry in as controlled a voice as he could muster, still trying to talk his way out of this.

  "Wrong answer, sweetheart! Best Friend doesn't like wrong answers, do you, darling?"

  Knowing what was about to happen didn't help. It only made it worse. Joseph gagged him again and Best Friend stuck the glowing end of his cigarillo into Sanderson's left foot. He seemed to do it twice as long this time and when Joseph removed the gag it looked as though Sanderson was semi-conscious. Joseph stuck the smelling salts under his nose and slapped him on the cheeks till he was satisfied that Sanderson was fully alert again.