by Cosca, Paul
She smiles again, draining the last of the bottle into her glass.
Don’t worry too much. Actually, you’d be stupid not to worry. Grant is dead, my life expectancy isn’t great, and now you’ve got the information. Decent reason to be worried, all things considered. But I’ve set up a plan. Always have to have a plan, right?
As I’ve been travelling, I’ve been laying little traps. When you spend
ten years dealing with classified materials, you gather a bit of damaging knowledge along the way. So every place I landed since leaving Alaska, I left a bit of information. Nothing too damaging all on its own. But put it all together and it’s a different story. Tomorrow they’ll come find me. And then they’ll learn that if anything happens to you, all that information is going to come spilling out. National security could be crippled. A lot of lives would be in serious danger. In short, the largest classified intelligence dump in history would take place. It may be enough to protect me, but I doubt it. It’s certainly enough to protect you. They’ll do anything to keep their secrets hidden. And since the info you have doesn’t directly hurt them...they’ll happily throw others under the bus to save themselves.
Now you...you go out there and spread the word. Shout it from the goddamn rooftops, you got it? Good people have given their lives for this information. Good people on both sides. This isn’t a black and white kind of deal. Nothing is black and white. I think Teddy Freeman might have been an evil son of a bitch, but everyone else resides in shades of grey. Those men who’ll walk through the door tomorrow to find me...they’re not bad. I’m not good. We all just are.
She stands, sipping her wine.
I thought when I got to this point that I’d be really upset. Thought I’d be going over all kinds of regrets. Never married. Never had children. I had a fiancée in college, but it didn’t take long for me to drift away from him. I’ve enjoyed work more than I’ve ever enjoyed life. So I figured I’d have all this emotional shit stirring around inside me but...really, it’ll feel good to relax. I’m going to finish this wine. Have a long bath. I’m going to enjoy myself tonight.
She looks out the window. The very first light of dawn creeps across her face.
I’ve got just one more bit of info for you. There’s one name that came up in the files that I was never able to track down. I was a little
distracted, so you can forgive me, but maybe you’ll have more luck. The name is Commander Alonso Magaña. He was supposed to be in charge of an American operation down in Guatemala. If you think what happened in Tuskegee was fucked up...you’re just scratching the surface.
A NEW WAY TO WAR
June 11th, 1995.
Two days after I left Mel, there was a small story in the paper about a woman who’d drowned in the pool of the same hotel where she’d been saying. All the story said was that alcohol was involved, and it was ruled an accident. The day after that, I began my search for Alonso Magaña. I interviewed others as the opportunity arose, but for more than six months the bulk of my investigative work went into finding this one man. Mel wanted to be found. Alonso Magaña did not. He had burned every bridge that could lead to him, but I couldn’t stop looking. Mel had said that this man’s story was important, and linked to information she had given me. The files I had were...disturbing, to say the least. But I’m still an American, and I love the nation I live in. I didn’t want to believe a thing like that until I had heard from someone who was there.
It wasn’t until February of 1995 that I found a solid lead for Alonso Magaña’s whereabouts, and I wasn’t able to actually get down there until June. My best lead was to a small village outside of Cusco, in Peru. An incredibly peaceful place. Remote. Serene. Backwards, by our standards. Certainly the kind of place where you could easily get away from it all.
My first conversation with him was on the phone. I arrived in South America severely jet lagged, and located my contact in Cusco. I was able to get in touch with Commander Magaña, and I told him I was writing about the virus and its impact on America. He told me “I have no been to America. What do you want?” I let him know I’d read the file. “I was told you know the virus,” I said. “I was told you have a story, and I need to hear it.” There was a long silence, and then he gave me directions to his house.
After a bumpy ride in an old pickup, we find ourselves stepping down into the humble dwelling of Alonso Magaña. He is very old (looking, I think, even older than his years must be). It’s easy to see the framing of his bones beneath his skin. His cheekbones are eerily prominent. His knuckles are large and swollen. It is a far cry from the young man who stands proudly in the black and white pictures on the walls.
ALONSO: You...excuse me. My English is no good. I learned...long time ago. But many years since then. I try.
He leans back in his chair and sighs deeply.
I was young man. Proud. Youngest to be commander. Lead other men. Help people. The other men...they look up at me. They knew I would help. This was...ah...’35. Everything was bad. Money was no good. Nobody had it. Everybody poor. I was poor, but not so bad as others. They would do anything for money...food. Then, Americans came. I did not talk to them at first. General Tomas, he talked with them. They were...cientificos? Yes? Science. Men who do science. They say they were government. They say they want to pay our people. Give them food. And the people live in a base made with American money. Dollars. Our job just to keep them safe. Easy.
Easy, easy job. No worry. They put me in charge. Easy. Americans pay good money; our people build the base. American...ah...stuff. Equipment. Made in USA. Ship to Guatemala. Lots of jobs. Lots of food. Easy. Then, the base is done. Government men move in. Science men. Americans. Everything government. Thousands of our people come to want to live in the base. The government men pick 500. Old, young, men, women, children. All kinds. Everybody have food. Children have school. Everybody get shot. Shot...ah...aguja? Ah...needle. In arm. Everyone. But no me. No me and my men. We have thirty men. Thirty to protect 500. But protect from what? Easy easy. We make sure people have food. They are happy.
The test...it goes for a year. Some of the people on the base, they die. Government men go find more. Always keep up to 500. Always. We bury many. Not so many at first. But after a year...many. When they come to us, the bodies are in bags. We do not know why they die, but more and more die all the time. We are told, bury them outside the walls so the people inside do no get scared. We do no tell the people how many die. Government men say the people cannot know. They say if we tell the people, they would close it,
and the people would have to leave. No more money. No more food. But...I no feel good about it. My job is to protect the people. I do no feel like I am protecting. All these people are dying. I go to government men. I say “What are you doing? What is happening to the people? They die...I want to know why.” They had no answers. Maybe they didn’t know? Maybe?
Then, someone new comes to the base. He is...the wild women, the ones with darkness...we call them bruja. This man, he is like them. He is brujo. Evil. So dark. He smiles, but only with his mouth, like a wolf. All teeth. He tells me “Call me Teddy.” But I do not. He says he heard my questions. He says I will have answers. Then I get a call from General Tomas. He needs me at Guatemala de la Asunción, the capitol. I take my man Emmañuel. Emmañuel was young. No father. He is good boy. I try to be like father for him. He likes to drive, so he drives us to the capitol. We are gone half a week, and General Tomas sends us back. I had such a black heart. Such bad feeling. We drove back fast. I had left this...brujo. Teddy. Left him with my people. The man who smiles like the wolf. I should no have gone. I know he sent me away.
We made it back to base. I made Emmañuel stop. It was wrong. Quiet. Like death. Like everything was holding its breath. The birds were high above us, big circles. I pulled out my gun. Emmañuel drove inside.
The gate was broke. Someone had tried to go. A man of the 500. He’d taken a jeep and tried to go through the fence. Almost made it. But the w
indows were all gone. His head was gone, too. We drove around to the buildings. We didn’t get out, but we looked. I did no want Emmañuel to know how scared I was, but he knew. This was a dead place. This was Hell. And the living...they can no be in Hell.
Doors were on the ground. Windows gone. Blood. Glass everywhere. Bodies. Some...they looked eaten. Wolves? Something else? I could not see. But the bodies of my 500 people...my thirty men...the government men...but
not Teddy the brujo. No. Just my people.
Emmañuel honked the horn. He yelled “¡Salid! tu Vamos a ahorrar!” “Come out! We will save you!” Someone came. Not one of my people. The...the other. We saw him then.
The men had told stories. Like..ghost stories, yes? They say that somewhere in the base, with the government men, there is a boy like a devil. Teeth like a shark. They say he eats blood and flesh. The men, they used it to scare the women and children. Laughing. They say “The devil boy will get you!” “El chico demonio le conseguirá!” And then they chase the children. Everyone laugh when you talked about the devil boy. But no one was laughing no more. If he was a boy, he was young. Thirteen, maybe? But he was no boy. No. He was naked. Covered in blood. Blood...everywhere. Dripping out of his mouth. He watched us. He...smiled. His teeth were like...colmillos. Like a monster.
Emmañuel...he was gone before I could stop him. My gun was in my hand but I could no move. He was out there...his rifle was on the boy. He said “no voy a hacerte daño!” “I won’t hurt you!”. And the boy...the thing...it laughed. It moved so fast. Faster than I could see. Emmañuel fired his gun, but his arm was gone. The gun was on the ground. The thing put its teeth into Emmañuel. Into his face. His chest. His neck. I still could no move. The thing was done...blood all over. He looked at me, and then I could move.
I moved into the other seat and went as fast as I could go. I thought I hit the thing, but I did no care. I just drove. Hundreds and hundreds of miles. I drove till there was no more fuel. And when the morning came, I got out and started to walk. But before I walk, I look at the jeep. On the top...the roof...there were ten marks. Claws. I do not know when he left, but I know in my heart I did no kill the thing. He moved on. And that...that is my fault.
I did no learn much after. General Tomas wanted to see me, but I did not see him. I know what I know. Saw what I saw. I know America sent
the government men. They sent the brujo Teddy. They sent...something...that they put in the people. And they made a monster. What the Americans did...it was so horrible. Did they want the monster? Did they want the blood? It is on their hands. On mine. My hands...there is so much blood. I can no wash them clean. Never. I am damned. We...we are all damned.
March 16th, 1997
Jillian is an undoubtedly gorgeous woman. Her light brown hair flows over her shoulders and catches the sunlight that filters through the posh, Soho apartment we sit in. Her fashion sense is chic, but not overly fussy. In short, her beauty is effortless. Not even the long scar that travels down the length of her arm does anything to detract from her looks. In fact, she wears the mark proudly, leaving that sleeve short to accentuate it.
JILLIAN: I was the last in my line. The youngest to get started, and now the last. I was only sixteen when I got started, you know.
I ask if she can elaborate a little.
Oh, I’m sorry. You’re probably trying to get this in my words as much as possible. Duh. I get it. I’m talking about The Woman in White. Do you have anyone else talking about this?
I let her know she is the only one.
Oh. Oh boy, well then I guess I should talk a little about the history of it, yeah? Oh boy. History was never really one of my subjects. But, um...So. So. So, the first woman to take the name was an Israeli immigrant named Valerie Zahavi. I can use her full name because it’s been more than forty years since her death. It’s a finicky rule, I know. I don’t know who thought of it, but it’s what I was taught.
Anyway, Valerie came to America somewhere in the 30s. I want to say...1937? I’m not entirely sure about that. She was just barely twenty years old in 1953, that much I do know. She lived in a house full of boys. Brothers. Brothers who loved her but...boys are boys, you know? When you’re the only girl in a house full of boys, you’re going to get picked on. And then you learn to fight back. And then when she was old enough, one of her brothers taught her how to really fight.
I can’t say what exactly happened in 1953. That part of it...the motivation, that’s always a secret. It’s something that The Woman keeps with
her. The fuel for her engine. But it tends to fall along the same lines. Something happened. Something horrible and scarring. The Woman takes that hurt and turns it into a powerful force of vengeance. Something terrible happened, and she created something amazing out of it.
Valerie built a costume to hide her features and protect her. She draped herself head to toe in white. White leather. White boots. White gloves and a mask to hide her face. She even dyed her hair white. She was a ghost. A specter, focused on revenge on the man who hurt her and the society that let it happen. The society that promoted that kind of behavior. She craved that vengeance.
In 1953, the first Woman in White stalked the streets. She preyed on those who would prey on others. She cleaned up her city and became the first female superhero. At least the first outside of the fake ones in the movies.
There came a time when Valerie knew she would have to pass the torch. No matter what anyone says, being a hero is incredibly difficult. It hurts. Your joints ache. You break ribs. You get concussions. That costume doesn’t come with a helmet, you know. You go through a window, you’re going to feel it. You get hit with a baseball bat, you’re going to feel it. Every Woman in White added to the costume. Modified it to suit her needs. But you can’t just make it into riot armor. Well...you can. But that kind of gear is way less effective than you’d think it would be. Have you seen the costume from the early 80s? Pictures or anything? White gas mask. White body armor. Nun chucks. Sure, it was effective. She could have damn near stopped bullets with that outfit. But that doesn’t do a damn bit of good if you can’t see. It just doesn’t do to have an iconic superhero get hit by a car when crossing the street.
I’m sorry, I’m getting off track here. A few years had passed and Valerie knew she couldn’t keep it up much longer. But she didn’t want all the
good work she’d done to just die, so she found her little ghost. Every Woman has to find her little ghost. Those are the rules. It happens differently every time. Some have been found in shelters. Jails. Sometimes they are found when they’re saved by the Woman in White. When you find your ghost, you know it. Everything clicks. Valerie found a girl named Martina. Martina found Sylvie. Sylvie found Elizabeth. That’s Elizabeth the first, I should say. Elizabeth found Tabby. Tabby found Carrie. Now, Carrie is the one we call the 1980s Woman, the one with the gas mask. The whole thing almost ended right there. Carrie had only just found Elizabeth the second when she was hit by the car. But Elizabeth was strong. She was untrained, but she was viciously angry.
Elizabeth changed the costume pretty dramatically. Dropped the cape. Added blades. A lot of blades. Her weapons of choice were a steel pipe and a machete. The late 80s became a pretty violent period in the city. She was brutal, but she was effective. And she was my teacher. She found me one night on patrol. I...I can’t tell you what happened to me any more than I can tell you what inspired the other Women. That’s my own fuel. But I can say that Elizabeth found me, and she tested me. And she found me worthy.
Jillian raises her arm up a little so I can get a better look at her scar. It’s nearly six inches in length and almost a perfect straight line.
He didn’t do that to me. The scars he left are the kind you can’t see with your eyes. Elizabeth gave me that. Elizabeth the second. She was not kind. The kindness had been squeezed from her like...how does that expression go...blood from a stone? She was not kind. But she was effective. I knew from the start that her ways were not what I wa
nted for myself. And she knew that, too. But she wanted to give me the very best training she could. So we were Spartans. We lived by the sword. And she died by it.
We were out on patrol. I was shadowing her, as always, and we were
watching from the rooftops. Have you ever leapt from one rooftop to another? Or seen it done outside of the movies? It’s breathtaking. You know without a doubt that one missed step means death. And that’s what makes every jump so amazing. You feel most alive when you can see death in your shadow.
Anyway, we kept to the rooftops and saw our target. He was high. Watching from four stories up, I had to guess it was crack he was smoking. His hands shook. See, sometimes on patrol you see a girl that needs your protection. Sometimes you find the man and wait for him to do what you know he’ll do. You can be the vengeful spirit or the guardian angel. We weren’t angels that night.
He stumbled down the street and we followed, watching from rooftop to rooftop as he made his way down to K street. K street, where the girls stood on sidewalks and waited on corners. We found ourselves there often. The girls that wait often need our help most. And the men that come calling are often the worst. That doesn’t mean that every man who goes to see a prostitute is going to be violent. But some men take these women so they can unleash the urges they can’t satisfy otherwise.
He came up to a group of girls and talked to them. They laughed at him. He must not have had any money. He went to grab one of them and they pushed him in the gutter. They were strong. He was weak. We watched him brood in an alley for a few minutes and take another hit. Gathering his courage, maybe. One of the girls must have just gotten done for the night, because she separated herself from the group. He fell in behind her and we made our way down the fire escape.
He took her. I’ve seen that over and over. Always different. Always the same. The man’s hand reaches out, grabs the woman’s arm. She’ll have bruises the next day. Maybe she’ll laugh it off or even wear it proudly, but she’ll remember what they look like forever. And she’ll be terrified.
