The Unification Chronicles: Between Heaven and Hell

by Jeff Kirvin

  "Mom?"

  "You have a very serious problem, son,” his mother said, all levity gone from her voice.

  Duh, Mom, Daniel thought.

  "Daniel, I know you don't go very often anymore, but this is too big for you to solve all by yourself. You need to put your faith in the Lord."

  Daniel winced. He'd been afraid of this. Although he had lost the faith to the point of being borderline agnostic, his mother remained a devout Christian. He'd thought she might pass the buck on this one to God. On the other hand, he could think of no scientific explanation for what he'd seen.

  "Mom—"

  "Don't ‘Mom’ me, son. You asked my advice and this is it. Go to church right now and pray for guidance. The Lord will help you if you let Him. I know you prefer to fight your own battles, son. You always did. Just don't be afraid to accept help when it's offered. God helps those who help themselves, but that doesn't mean you have to do it alone."

  "Thanks, Mom."

  "You're welcome, son. Now get your butt to church. We'll be here if you need us. I love you."

  "I love you, too.” Daniel hung up the phone and headed out the door.

  Susan

  "We've been through this before, Susan,” Harold Preston sighed, wishing he could crawl under his desk.

  "And you keep giving me these useless, Sunday fluff pieces,” Susan Richardson replied. She sat in her editor's office at the Washington Post and stared intently at him. Her stare made people uncomfortable. It wasn't that she was unattractive; she was pretty enough in a plain sort of way—five foot five, pale skin, brown hair and eyes, medium build. What made her stare uncomfortable was its intensity. There was fire behind her eyes, and Harold Preston increasingly found that fire aimed at him.

  He removed his round, wire-rimmed glasses and ran his fingers across his head where his hair used to be. “Susan,” he said for what seemed the billionth time, “this is the best I can give you. We've been over this—"

  "And you know I deserve better assignments. I'm an investigative journalist. I didn't work hard my whole life to write Sunday supplement filler."

  "Your whole life? You're twenty-four! You're lucky you're not working in the mail room!"

  "I'm too good for that and you know it. In college—"

  "A college newspaper is not the Washington Post, Susan. I don't care what you did in college. That may have got you this job, but now that you're here, you pay your dues just like everyone else. If that means covering supplement fluff, then you'll do it, and smile the whole way through. There's no shortcut to the top. This discussion is over."

  Fuming, Susan left the office.

  Susan stormed through the newsroom, chiding herself far worse than her boss did. Tact, dammit, she reminded herself.

  Susan was often her own worst enemy. Her blunt, straightforward style, while useful investigating a story, didn't earn her points in the diplomatic game of landing good assignments. It was the one aspect of journalism she never learned in college, or in the two years since.

  She vowed to master it, though. She really had no choice. For as far back as she could remember, Susan wanted to be a reporter. As a kid, she used to wear a crayon-written “Press” card in her father's hat while interviewing her dog. When other kids were reading the Hardy Boys, she was reading the newspaper; when other kids were watching the Brady Bunch, she was watching the evening news.

  As she got older, she began to idolize newsmen like Walter Cronkite and Edward R. Murrow. She single handedly revitalized her high school newspaper, and used her college paper to force the administration to change key policies regarding the treatment of students. Reporting was what she did; it was in her blood, and if it meant she'd have to learn a little diplomacy to do it right, then that's what she'd do.

  Her current assignment was to find out the effect of a church renovation on the local community. Hardly a Pulitzer opportunity, but she had dues to pay. She stopped at her desk for her notebook.

  "Hey, Suzie Q!"

  She looked up and saw Steve Dunbar walking her way. She'd gone to college with Steve and he'd been the thorn in her side the entire time. Now was no different.

  "Love to chat, Steve, but I've got to go."

  "Yeah, I heard. Church renovation, right? Slice of life, man on the street piece, right?"

  Susan looked at her bare wrist as if she were looking at a watch. Steve didn't get the message.

  "Well, good luck. I'm off to my assignment, too."

  "And that would be?"

  "I have a one on one with Congressman Fitzhume. You know, Chairman of the House Armed Services Committee? I'm going to grill him on the shrinking military budget, and whether we're spending enough to maintain our national security.” Steve gave her a toothy grin that let her know he knew exactly how much she wanted his story.

  Summoning depths of composure she didn't know she had, Susan smiled politely, grabbed her notebook and started to leave. “Good luck,” she said, “I've got a church to visit."

  Dues, my ass, she thought as she walked out the door.

  What a dump, Susan thought. If the Second Baptist Church had recently been renovated, she didn't want to see the “before” pictures. It wasn't that the place needed to be condemned or anything, but the whole building held an air of shabbiness not unlike the surrounding neighborhood. The stained glass was dull and cloudy; the wooden pews were chipped and dented. The only hint at renovation was a relentless odor of cleaning products.

  The place was also deserted, as far as she could tell, save one Asian guy in the second row. So much for its effect on the community, she thought. May as well get this over with.

  She waited patiently until the guy got up to leave. “Excuse me,” she called out. “Got a minute?"

  The guy looked at Susan, noticing her for the first time. Susan didn't have to guess too hard about why he was here; the guy looked like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Susan could tell from his tone of voice that he must have been praying for something important. Happy people did not sound like that. Her reporter's mental alarm bell went off. Human suffering always made good copy.

  "I'm Susan Richardson, from the Post,” she said, extending her hand. The man just looked blankly for a moment, then shook it. His grip was strong.

  "Daniel Cho."

  He'd be cute if he smiled, Susan decided. Back to business.

  "I'm doing a story on this church, and how its renovation affected the community. I'd like to interview you, if you have a few minutes."

  Daniel shook his head. “I'm sorry, I can't help you. I've never even been here until today. I'm only here because ... I'm sorry. There's nothing I can tell you.” He started to leave.

  Susan wasn't about to give up that easily. If she couldn't bring in simple fluff pieces, she'd never be able to get any hard news. “Please, wait!” she called. Daniel stopped at the door and faced her. “If you're only coming here now, that just supports my premise,” she said, catching up with him.

  "I'm here because it's the closest church to my building,” he said. “Nothing more. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  "Wait!” He was already starting down the steps outside. She ran after him.

  Geez, she just doesn't quit, Daniel thought. “What, Ms. Richardson?"

  "Susan."

  "Fine. Susan. What do you want?"

  "For you to tell me why you're here. Please. You're the only one here and I can't go back empty handed."

  Daniel had a crazy thought, then dismissed it. The last thing I need is someone else telling me I'm nuts, he thought.

  "Please?” Susan continued. “You look really upset. Maybe I can help."

  Daniel remembered his mother's advice and suppressed a smirk. She'd always told him that God worked in mysterious ways, but sending a reporter?

  "Okay,” he said. “If you want to hear my story, I'll tell it to you. Be warned, though, it's a long story and it doesn't make a lot of sense."

 
Susan smiled. “My favorite kind."

  Susan sat in the booth of a Pizza Hut across from Daniel and stared. She had to admit—he didn't disappoint. After a block's walk to sit and eat while they talked, Daniel had calmly and deliberately recounted the events of his last week. It was a long story, and it didn't make a lot of sense.

  "Well?” he asked.

  "So let me get this straight. You think some immortal, supernatural guy is trying to ruin your life."

  "I know, I know, it sounds ridiculous when you put it that way, but—"

  "No, no! This is great!” She caught herself and put a hand on his arm. “Well, no, not great, I mean it's terrible for you, but it's a great story just the same. I'm sorry, do I sound like a ghoul?"

  "Can you help me?” he asked.

  "What do you need?"

  "To find out who's doing this. Who they are, what they're up to, why they want to destroy me. Can you do this?"

  Susan loved a challenge, and this was a doozy. Granted, she doubted his fantastic story was true, and he was probably a ranting lunatic (although he looked and sounded rational enough when he wasn't telling his story), but she felt a connection to him. He was obviously sincere, which was more than she could say for most of the people she dealt with. Sincere, in need, and with an incredible story.

  News.

  Or at least more interesting than the assignments she'd been landing recently.

  "I can try. Where do you think we should start?"

  Research

  "So what sorts of things were in this checkbook?” Susan asked as they walked back to Daniel's apartment to fetch the only hard evidence he had of Rockport's existence.

  "Pretty much like I said. Same things over and over again. Cable, phone, internet, rent. I don't remember anything special."

  "Well, a lot of times it's not what you see that's important, but what you don't see. I remember this one time I—"

  Susan thrust her arm out and grabbed Daniel as they turned the corner onto his block.

  "What is it?” he asked.

  "Do you normally have undercover cops hanging out in front of your building?"

  As Susan pulled him back around the corner, Daniel saw a brown sedan parked directly in front of his building. He could see on it the tell-tale large radio antenna and extra lights common to D.C. unmarked police cars.

  "What's he doing here?"

  "I don't know,” Susan replied, “but given your luck recently I'll bet it involves you. Stay here and stay out of sight."

  Susan walked over to the cop car, notebook in hand. The plainclothes officer in the car was manhandling a huge sandwich into his mouth.

  "Evening, officer,” Susan said, flashing her press card. “Susan Richardson, Washington Post. What's the scoop?"

  "Bug off."

  "Come now, that's no way to treat the press. How are we supposed to tell people what a great job you guys are doing if you won't talk to us?"

  "Fer Chrissakes, I'm on a stakeout! You're gonna blow my cover!"

  "I just want to know what's going on. If there's a threat to this community, the people have a right to know.” A few people wandering by were starting to listen in on their conversation, and the cop was getting nervous.

  "If I tell you, will you go away?"

  "Happily."

  "Fine. You know I can't give you names, but we have word that a paramedic that lives in the building here has been stealing morphine from the hospital and selling it on the street. Now go away."

  "Thank you, officer.” Susan tipped an imaginary hat, then walked back to Daniel.

  "You're a drug dealer."

  "What?"

  "According to our porcine friend over there, you've been selling stolen morphine on the street."

  "Why that dirty—” Daniel started to lunge around the corner.

  "Whoa there, big fella!” Susan said, pushing him back. “You lose your cool here and you draw attention to yourself. You don't want that, I assure you. You can vent all you want when we get to my place."

  "Your place."

  "Well, you certainly can't stay here. You can crash on my couch until we come up with a better solution. You've got me convinced there's a story here, and I'm not letting you out of my sight until I figure out what it is. Let's go."

  Following Susan's lead, Daniel walked away from his apartment.

  Susan's apartment was a disaster area. The sink was piled high with unwashed dishes and the trashcan overflowed with Chinese takeout boxes. Papers, magazines and books of all kinds nearly hid her tasteful couch. Similarly obscured was a large coffee table that Daniel thought was made of wood, but he couldn't get a good enough look to be sure. Every seat in the apartment was covered with paper save one, the chair behind the computer hutch in the corner. Papers covered every square inch of the desk not taken up by the keyboard or mouse pad. The monitor appeared to be constructed entirely of yellow sticky notes. At first Daniel wasn't sure where the computer itself was, but then he saw Susan take a laptop out of her bag and connect it to the external monitor and keyboard.

  "Trees must hate you,” Daniel said.

  "It's the maid's decade off.” Susan swept an armful of papers from the couch to the floor. “Make yourself comfortable."

  Daniel took a seat on the couch as Susan swung the computer chair around to face him.

  "Well, Mister Cho,” Susan began. “You are in quite a little bit of trouble. You've nearly been killed—"

  "With the evidence destroyed."

  "—you've had your livelihood taken away, and now you're wanted by the law.

  "Our goal is to clear your name and in the process expose who has done this to you. To do that, we need witnesses. Do you know the names of any of the people that might have contributed to your predicament? The paramedics that heard you say you wrecked your car?"

  Daniel sat back and thought. He didn't know the names of the paramedics because he was never awake in the ambulance, contrary to popular belief. Herb might, though. The question was, could he trust Herb?

  "No, I don't think we can go that route. But what about Rockport himself? I know he's still out there somewhere. Why did he fake his own death? Who ransacked his apartment? Why did he try to run me off the road?"

  "Okay, here's the deal,” Susan said. “You're going to stay here and watch TV or something. Don't answer the phone or the door and don't leave. I doubt the cops can find you here since no one knows we know each other. I'll be back when I have some answers."

  Susan walked out the door, leaving Daniel in silence amidst stacks of paper.

  Floyd Rockport never existed. Sitting in the county courthouse archives, Susan mulled over that bit of information.

  She'd learned a lot for an afternoon's work, most of it contradictory. Rockport had a Social Security number, but no birth certificate on record. He had college transcripts, but no record of actually attending high school anywhere. On paper, the guy just appeared out of nowhere, fully grown and educated. She still had no idea who he was or why he'd attacked Daniel. Aside from the official documents of his existence as an average taxpaying citizen, he was tabula rasa, a complete blank slate.

  Susan started packing up her things. Like she told Daniel, sometimes it wasn't what you saw that was important, but what you didn't. Rockport had enough holes in his background to make a whole other person, and concealed in one of those holes was her answer.

  Daniel was going nuts. After switching away from one insipid sitcom after another, he'd finally thrown the remote down in disgust. In the three hours Susan had been gone he'd watched television, listened to the radio, flipped through most of the magazines in the apartment, practiced judo, and was currently busy pacing a hole in her carpet.

  He hated feeling powerless, doing nothing while others worked in his behalf. He'd already picked up the phone half a dozen times, intending to wring some information out of Herb. The only thing that stopped him was the realization that Herb was just about his only friend, thus a prime candidate for a police w
iretap.

  This is ridiculous, he thought. Squaring his shoulders, he stormed towards the door just as Susan opened it and stepped inside.

  "Curiouser and curiouser,” she said. “It's starting to look like you had a run-in with the Witness Protection Program."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because until a few years ago, Floyd Rockport didn't exist. No birth certificate, no high school transcripts, nothing.” Susan walked over to the fridge, popped open a diet soda, then plopped down on the couch. Daniel sat down next to the computer.

  "Until he graduated from college,” Susan continued, “he was a non-person. There's no record of immigration, either. It's as if a native born American citizen, complete with Social Security number, just magically appeared at the age of twenty-five."

  They both sat in silence for a moment.

  "That's it?” Daniel asked. “That's all you found out?"

  "Back up there, buckaroo. Research is hard work. You think getting access to personal data like that is easy?"

  "Teach me."

  "What?"

  "Take me along. We're not likely to run into anyone that knows me, and I'm going insane sitting here without anything to do."

  Susan thought it over. It was a dumb idea, on the surface. Daniel didn't know anything about investigative journalism and would probably just get in the way. She also didn't want to take the risk of him being spotted by the police.

  But he just sat there, staring at her with eyes holding a resolve she'd only seen in the mirror. She knew she'd never be able to keep him confined to the apartment, and if he was determined to venture out it was better if she could keep an eye on him.

  "Okay,” she began. “The first thing you need to know about reporting is never take no for an answer."

  The Post

  As Susan scanned the library microfiche looking for references to the Witness Protection Program, Daniel perused the local paper. Sure enough, he was in the news. “Paramedic gone bad” read the three-inch blurb in the Metro section of the Post. It detailed the charges against him and described him as a fugitive still at large.