The Cosega Sequence: A Techno Thriller

by Brandt Legg

  Nanski could see the highway easily, but if Barbeau came in from Chimayó, he’d be coming from the other direction. He didn’t want to kill a federal agent, but he would if need be. Never once did it occur to Nanski that he might be killed, not because he felt invincible, but rather because he believed that God’s Will would be done.

  Chapter 27

  Exhausted, Rip readied himself for sleep. A second night in the same bed seemed an outrageous luxury. As he lie in the dark under a single sheet his thoughts were crowded. What was happening in the states? What had Booker done when Rip hadn’t shown up? Where was Gale? Did Barbeau regret letting him go? Were they still watching his father? After thirty minutes of chasing problems through his head, he got up and pulled out the Eysen.

  It was a marvel to see the Eysen, set on the Odeon Chip, as it came to life and lit the room. That it worked at night was still new to him. This time, he just watched the Cosega Sequence without trying to record or remember any details. Among all the zeros and dashes flowing around the evolving Earth, he detected a pulse he’d never before noticed. Its hypnotic rhythm continued even before the Sequence had ended; subtly, in the background, as if the Eysen had a heartbeat. Without thinking, Rip picked it up off the chip and rolled it around in his hands, inspecting it closely.

  Unsure what he was looking for, Rip looked for buttons, slots, or anything that might be concealed on the physical exterior. It occurred to him that he’d been so concerned with the images inside, that he may have missed something on the outside. After a thorough inspection, which lasted at least thirty minutes, he saw that the pulse was still there. But something far more exciting was coming from within the Eysen, sound.

  Rip could distinctly, if not faintly, hear the sound of wind. Even though there were trees blowing inside the Eysen, he went to check the window, even opened it. The San Miguel night was warm, a bit muggy, but very still. He shut the window and returned to the glowing Eysen. It showed millions of trees, a planet-full, moving in the breeze. The wind swept gently through the trees like waves on the ocean. Currents of air swayed in all directions. It was a sea of trees and Rip, still sensing the Eysen’s pulse, wanted to dive through the crystal. Of everything he’d seen inside the Eysen, this was the most desperate he’d been to get inside of it, and he wasn’t even sure why.

  “What is below those trees?” he whispered alone in the green and blue glow. He recalled the sessions with Gale, when the Eysen had seemed to respond to their questions. Did that really happen?, he wondered. “Please, show me what is there.” He watched the trees ripple and turn in the swirling air, even imagining they were about to part several times, but nothing happened. Trees. Trees.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been awake; shadows danced on the wall, the wind noise grew, until lost, and the room became an endless forest. It wasn’t a bad feeling, not hopelessness, but he wanted to see what it was. He needed to know. The pulse that had begun as the slightest dimming, and brightening of the Eysen’s glow; now had sound, too. Between the winds, he could hear the softest heartbeat- matching the rhythm of the pulse.

  Then . . . words. He wasn’t sure at first. The wind, the pulse’s beat, his exhaustion, a billion trees, the glow, they all confused his senses. But, he heard something; at least he thought he did. Rip strained to hear. “My God,” he thought, “if this thing can talk.” Then, he heard it again. “What did you say?” he said out loud.

  At that very moment in Phoenix, Arizona, Jaeger adjusted the audio on his control panel. He was already puzzled by the events of the past couple of hours. “Who the hell is he talking to?” Jaeger shouted to a subordinate.

  “No one else is in that house beside Elpate and Dyce. And look, they’re still in another room.” The man pointed to another monitor in the bank above them. It showed heat signatures of two bodies in one room, and Rip in his room. The Eysen, in spite of its bright display; gave off no heat, and was invisible to their monitoring, a fact that fascinated them even more.

  “He’s talking to himself,” the man said.

  “Really? You think Ripley Gaines is asking himself to explain what he just said . . . to himself?”

  “It’s odd behavior, but there is no one in that room with him, and he is not on a phone. We’ve got everything monitored.”

  “He’s talking to the Eysen,” Jaeger said.

  “Why not? But, asking it questions?”

  Jaeger needed answers, too. He already had an analyst working on Gaines’ earlier statements, “What is below those trees?”, and “Please, show me what is there.” But now, Gaines wasn’t just asking babbling questions, he had said, “What did you say?”

  “Damn it, we should have had video in that room by now,” Jaeger was more worried than he should have been, but he sensed that something important was happening, and he felt blind.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “But, tonight won’t be happening then,” Jaeger said. The man he’d been talking to;, then, looked to a female colleague. She returned a serious look, and shrugged with her eyes.

  “Do we have any more from our people down there? Why did he open and close his bedroom window? Was it a signal to someone?” she asked.

  “Nothing yet,” the man said.

  “Please, show me what is there,” Jaeger repeated Rip’s question.

  Chapter 28

  Father Jak led them to a poorly lit room, near the back of the church, that appeared to be a small, windowless office. Gale was surprised at his apparent eagerness to assist them. It was obvious that he knew of Clastier; but, like the historian, was afraid to discuss him. Yet, at the same time, it seemed as if he wanted to help.

  The priest knelt and opened a small safe concealed low in the adobe wall. He pulled several aged, folded sheets of paper out, and then studied them for a moment. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Father Jak said, looking hard at Gale again, before handing her all of the papers.

  Her hands trembled, as she recognized Clastier’s handwriting on the pages. “They’re his letters to Padre Romero,” she told Larsen.

  “Incredible.”

  Gale looked up from the letters, and into Father Jak’s eyes. “I don’t understand why you agreed to show us these letters, if it is forbidden by the Pope?”

  “Many things are forbidden by the Pope,” Father Jak said, “but good folks still do them.” He smiled. “Anyway, you’ll understand when you read them.”

  “Thank you,” Gale said.

  “There were apparently more, but these are all that survived. Read this one first,” he said, touching the middle letter.

  While she perused the pages, Larsen and Father Jak made small talk, mostly about the history of the church, and the area in general. The first letter was the longest. Its words so stunning, she gasped and stopped several times, meeting the priest’s eyes. He simply nodded, and gave her a knowing smile. Larsen felt a bit left out, and when Gale moved onto the second letter; he hoped to read the first, but she clutched them tightly.

  Larsen asked about the Santos they’d seen as they came through the church. “Yes, as you must know, they are wooden carvings of our saints. Several in our collection date to the 1700s, and many are from the early 1800s, as are the altar screens.”

  “They’re beautiful. I’ve been on archaeological digs where we were excited to find relics younger than what you have here,” Larsen said to the beaming priest.

  “No one move!” Nanski said, entering quietly, and pointing the gun in a slow, waving, motion at each of them.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Father Jak asked.

  “Quiet,” Nanski snapped. “You, down on the floor.” He motioned to Larsen.

  Larsen backed slowly toward the corner, looking for a weapon, but he did not get on the floor.

  “I’ll take those,” Nanski snatched the letters from Gale’s hands.

  She looked at Father Jak; horrified to have lost the letters.

  “You get down!” He demanded, looking back at Larsen.


  “Please, take what you want, then leave us,” Father Jak pleaded.

  “Empty your pack!”

  Gale reached to take off the pack, and thought of swinging it into his face; but the only thing in there heavy enough to hurt him was the Odeon. If it didn’t hit . . .

  “Hurry!”

  Gale dumped her pack out on the desk. Nanski looked at the Odeon, and then at her. She thought she detected a smile. He shoved the artifact in his pocket; grabbed the Clastier Papers, and the letters to Flora. Luckily, her small journal remained zipped in another of the pack’s pockets. Larsen took advantage of Nanski’s brief distraction, and charged, wielding an onyx bookend.

  Larsen was inches from connecting a blow, when three bullets ripped into his chest. The pain was searing and intense, but ended quickly. He was dead before his body hit the floor.

  Nanski, eyes wide, turned his semiautomatic pistol to Gale, who was already screaming.

  Gale couldn’t even hear her own cries, with the gun’s report still ringing in her ears. Just as she was about to jump toward Nanski, Father Jak shoved her onto the floor. Nanski squeezed the trigger releasing four shots in rapid succession.

  Father Jak had purposely placed his body on top of Gale’s. Two bullets hit the adobe wall; Father Jak took the other two.

  Chapter 29

  Harmer and Kruse heard the first shots and bolted into the church. They were already in the nave for the second burst. Kruse took a chance, and fired down the hall. Nanski, who was standing in the doorway, spun around and got off three shots, as he ran toward the back door. Fleeing the building, he tried to shoot again, but the gun just clicked, empty. He shoved the papers and letters into the waist of his pants, and switched magazines, while darting around a neighboring house.

  Harmer went into the room. Kruse continued to pursue Nanski.

  “Gale?” Harmer whispered, pulling the priest’s bloody body off of her. “Are you hit?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know!” Gale screamed, not knowing that all the blood on her chest belonged to Father Jak.

  Harmer swiftly lifted Gale’s shirt and did quick inspection. “You’re fine,” she said, pulling Gale up to her feet.

  Gale saw Larsen lying in a pool of blood and went to him.

  Harmer took one look and shook her head, “He’s dead honey. You might check on the preacher.”

  Gale numbly turned toward the man who had saved her.

  “Don’t leave this room; I’m going after him,” Harmer said, running into the hall.

  “Father Jak,” she whispered, kneeling next to him, slowly turning his head.

  He tried to smile.

  “My God, you’re alive?”

  “Nine. One. One,” he moaned.

  Gale found the phone on the desk and called, then returned to him. “Help is on the way,” she said, holding his hand. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  He didn’t respond, his eyes closed. She checked, he was still breathing, but was now unconscious.

  Gale heard more gunfire behind the church. The 911 dispatch operator would be alerting the police, who might even arrive before the ambulance. She had to get out of there.

  “Forgive me,” Gale said to Father Jak’s unresponsive body. She took one last look at Larsen and fled the room. The front door of the church remained open from when Harmer and Kruse had made their entrance. She peered out, and then sprinted to the SUV.

  Gale was shaking so badly, it took her several tries to get the key into the ignition. Finally, she sped away. The first mile or two were difficult; her teary eyes trying to focus on the dark roads. Larsen was dead;, Father Jak would probably die also. The Clastier Papers, his letters to Flora and Padre Romero, his Odeon . . . all lost! She was hysterical. But the thought of the letters to Padre Romero helped her regain composure. She had to remember what she’d just read. Gale repeated them over and over in her head, while she tried to drive at a normal speed.

  San Cristobal, Gale repeated to herself. She knew from her last visit, that it was north of Taos. A brochure in the motel where she’d stayed with Rip, had advertised that the famous writer, D. H. Lawrence, had owned a ranch in San Cristobal that was open for tours. And now she knew, from reading Clastier’s letters to Padre Romero, that San Cristobal was also the site of his original church. She could make it there.

  Kruse lost Nanski in the twilight. He heard Harmer; yelling his name, and called to her.

  “How many?” she asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s just one.”

  “Vatican?”

  “Yeah, we’ve seen him before.”

  Both AX agents held their weapons pointed in front of them. Two Hispanic men with rifles came around a corner. “Freeze,” one of them shouted, as they all pointed guns at each other.

  Kruse looked at Harmer.

  “Might have to kill them,” she said.

  “FBI,” Kruse said. “We’re in pursuit of an armed suspect; go back to your homes.”

  “Like hell you are,” one of them said, aiming his rifle.

  Without the slightest hesitation, Harmer fired four shots. The bullets hit inches from their feet, as the two men dove behind the building.

  “Next time, I won’t miss,” Harmer yelled. She and Kruse took off toward their car.

  They hopped over the low wall surrounding the church, and ran out through the front archway.

  “Gale’s SUV is gone!” Kruse yelled.

  “On it,” Harmer said running back to the church building.

  A car, coming from the opposite direction, squealed around the corner of a long dirt driveway. Kruse dived out of the way to avoid being hit.

  It was Nanski, who slowed on the other side of Kruse and Harmer’s car; and in a burst of semi-automatic fire, shot out two of the tires. He then fishtailed his car onto the two-lane highway.

  Harmer came back out. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Inside?”

  “No Gale.”

  “Damn. Our car is toast. Let’s find another one, before the cops get here.”

  They jogged up the dirt driveway that Nanski had come down. They had made it only about a hundred yards, when headlights fanned over them. Thinking it might be a vehicle they could take, they snuck back down the drive.

  Once close enough, they saw Barbeau and another FBI agent get out of the car, their guns drawn.

  The agent driving Barbeau had made a wrong turn near the little town of Truchas. His phone had lost signal, and with it; the map guidance system. He thought it was a simple route, but the mistake cost them a precious twenty extra minutes. As they pulled up to the Las Trampas Church, they saw the shot-up car and jumped out, weapons drawn.

  It didn’t take long to find the bloody bodies of Father Jak and Larsen. The priest still had a pulse. Barbeau called it in; while the other agent double-checked the area looking for witnesses. Barbeau walked out into the nave and cursed his luck. “Damn it,” he yelled, kicking a pew.

  Soon, the New Mexico State Police arrived. EMTs were just behind them. They got Father Jak stabilized, and then called in a chopper to airlift him to Albuquerque.

  “Is he going to make it?” Barbeau asked a paramedic.

  “If he does, it’ll be a miracle.”

  Barbeau told the state police that he wanted a guard with the priest every second; ordering that two officers be put on his hospital room, if he survived long enough to get to one. “Alert me if he wakes.”

  The agent who’d been driving returned to Barbeau. “Turns out we missed the action by only a few minutes.”

  Barbeau shook his head. He should have done a million things differently.

  Chapter 30

  Kruse and Harmer hid in a stand of trees about a half-mile up the road. For a few minutes after Barbeau had arrived, they debated whether or not to engage the feds and take their vehicle, but common sense prevailed. Figuring the cops, FBI, even Nanski, would all be heading north, toward Taos, they’d been making their way south. Once they felt safe enough, Kru
se phoned Booker.

  “There was an incident,” Kruse told his boss.

  “Tell me.”

  “Larsen is dead, Gale is uninjured, but gone and alone.” He paused. “She is quite possibly being pursued by a Vatican agent. Our vehicle is shot.”

  Booker was silent.

  “We need a pick-up,” Kruse said, tentatively.

  “I should leave you there.”

  “Ojo Sarco is our closest town,” Kruse said, ignoring Booker’s anger.

  “Is this beyond you?”

  “You know it’s impossible to control every situation. You told us not to smother her.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Booker said before hanging up.

  “That didn’t go very well,” Kruse said to Harmer.

  “We screwed up,” Harmer said. “We should have had the back of the church covered.”

  “You should have stayed with her in the church.”

  “She was safe. Protocol said back up my partner.”

  “Gale is the mission!” Kruse barked. “And I didn’t need back-up.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “Good. Let’s keep moving.”

  “How did they know we were here? The Vatican and the FBI?” Harmer asked after a few minutes.

  “They must be getting their info from the same source. Everyone is after the same thing.”

  “So where are they all going next?”

  “We need to follow Barbeau.”

  By the time Booker phoned back, they were at Ojo Sarco; a tiny farming community about two miles west of Las Trampas. Booker, even angrier than when they last spoke, told them that his helicopter would be there in twenty minutes.

  Barbeau got a call from one of the Director’s DIRT agents, who told him what he had already surmised; Gale Asher was in New Mexico.

  “Turns out that Booker had a team snatch her from an NSA surveillance team outside Flagstaff.”