Triskellion 3: The Gathering

by Will Peterson

Adam was pale. He shook his head.

  “What?” Rachel asked.

  “I called his cell phone,” Adam replied. “It’s been disconnected.”

  “OK, well—”

  “Then I called the university… I got through to Dad’s head of department.” Adam stopped, opening his mouth and then closing it again. After a second or two he found the words: “They’ve never heard of him. I thought it was just a stupid mistake, you know. Made sure they were spelling ‘Newman’ right, whatever…”

  “So…?”

  “No mistake.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rachel said.

  “They told me Ralph Newman’s never worked there,” Adam said. “It’s like Dad never existed…”

  “There’s probably a perfectly simple explanation,” Gabriel said.

  Rachel nodded. “Right.”

  “Or a perfectly terrifying one,” Adam said. “What if they’ve got him? Those freaks from the Hope Project. What if they’re using Dad to try and get to us?”

  Rachel looked at Gabriel. She could tell straight away he was thinking that it was a possibility.

  “Let’s not panic,” she said. “Let’s just get on a bus and get ourselves into Manhattan.”

  Adam half smiled. It sounded like a good plan. “OK,” he said. “Let’s go check out the old apartment.”

  A few states away, Pastor Ezekiel Crane sat in his Winnebago picking out a tune on his guitar. He had spent the morning addressing a crowd at an out-of-town shopping mall: a vast temple to TJ Maxx, Starbucks and Timberland. It had been mainly his usual crowd – straight, law-abiding families with 2.4 children. Although, recently he had noticed a new element creeping in. On the fringes of the crowd at his rallies, he had begun to see blue-collar workers: truck drivers in baseball caps and plaid shirts who took their hats off out of respect when he spoke. There were also shop girls, mall-workers, security guards and people of diverse origin who kept the pavements swept and washed.

  “Beginning to see some new faces, Jed,” he said. He tipped a white-filtered cigarette from a paper pack and put it into his mouth before dropping the pack on to the counter top, next to his ever-present can of Dr Pepper.

  “Yes, sir, Pastor Crane. New faces. The good news is spreading and the people are listening. Hallelujah.” Brother Jedediah fumbled in the deep pockets of his black slacks and found a lighter. He lit Crane’s cigarette with a flourish as if he were trying to impress a lady.

  Crane took a long drag and blew the smoke from his smooth nostrils.

  Brother Jed looked pleased with himself and hitched his trousers up over his big stomach. “They’re all preparing for the Gathering,” he said. “Yes, sir, and amen!”

  A bee crawled over the counter top to feast on the sticky drops of Dr Pepper that had spilled from the can. Ezekiel Crane watched the insect drink, then, gently picking it up between finger and thumb, he enclosed it, without crushing it, in his fist. He shook his hand a little to make the bee defensive, then appeared to enjoy the little jolt of pain as it plunged its sting into the palm of his hand.

  His eyes began to widen and glaze over. In his mind, he saw a plane touching down and watched as three figures he knew all too well disembarked and moved towards the city.

  Crane looked up at his sweaty assistant through narrowed eyes. He stared at the TRIPLE WHEEL badge pinned to the man’s lapel and took another deep drag on his cigarette. “Brother Jedediah,” he said, “I have a stirring in my bones; I sense it in my waters … I can feel it in my soul.” Crane opened his hand and let the dead bee fall to the floor.

  “You can, Pastor?” Brother Jedediah was hanging on his master’s every word, panting like an eager dog.

  “Yes, I can. Shall I tell you what I’m feeling, Jed? I’m feeling that the drones are getting ready to swarm. I’m feeling that the Gathering may have already begun.”

  The subway thundered along past names that were old friends to Rachel and Adam: Canal Street, Spring, Bleecker. The train rattled and screeched through stations almost completely tattooed with graffiti, while the yellow light in the carriage made everyone look pale and ill. Gabriel looked as much a fish out of water as he had on the plane.

  Although she felt better being on her home turf, Rachel was unnerved by the lack of confidence Gabriel was showing. Before, he had been so much more in charge.

  In control.

  In the ancient English countryside, on the prehistoric coast of Morocco, in Europe even, Gabriel had seemed more grounded. Even as Levi in Australia, he had seemed completely at home in the barren desert. But somehow the hustle and bustle of New York seemed to diminish him.

  They got out at Astor Place and Gabriel flinched at the four lanes of yellow taxis and assorted vehicles that honked and jostled their way down the wide street outside. Rachel took his arm and Adam slapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the Big Apple,” he said.

  They walked across the square and down into the smaller leafier streets that led to the East Village, where they had lived until two years before. Gabriel relaxed a little as the streets became smaller, the buildings lower, the cars fewer and the trees greener.

  Rachel began to feel happy and in doing so, realized how little happiness she had felt since she was last here.

  “You don’t seem too impressed by the city,” Adam said. He watched Gabriel looking across the street at an old homeless white man, apparently drunk, shouting at an equally drunk and equally old homeless black man.

  “I think it’s hell,” Gabriel said.

  “A little harsh.” Rachel almost laughed. “You’ve only been here five minutes.”

  “Sorry.” Gabriel smiled. “Maybe I used the wrong word – but I’m usually right.”

  Rachel felt a little prickly in defence of her own town. Gabriel had only been on the bus and the subway and two blocks later he was an authority on the place. To be fair, she hadn’t seen too much of the rough side of the city herself. She had come from a reasonably prosperous family and had kept to the safer parts of town. Their father had – at least she’d thought he’d had – a good research position at the university. They’d owned a large apartment. Her mom had … well, she didn’t want to think about where her mother was or what her mother was doing. As soon as they found their dad, they could start looking for their mom. Try to get her home.

  “I think you’re jumping to conclusions,” Rachel said.

  “OK,” Gabriel said. “All I’m saying is that living in a city this size means people lose a lot of what makes the world worth living in. The ground under our feet was once as wild as the outback of Australia.”

  Rachel had forgotten that the city had once been a wilderness, but now she had a sudden image of a series of islands, lush and fertile, connected by waterways, with the ocean beyond. Natives as old as the Aboriginals had populated and cultivated the area; had given the central part of the city its name: Manhattan.

  “Get outta the goddam way!” A harsh Brooklyn accent jolted Rachel from her thoughts. A taxi driver had almost clipped her with his wing mirror as she’d stepped dreamily off the kerb.

  Adam grabbed her by the arm and shouted his own choice words at the driver, who raised a single finger at them out of the window of his battered yellow cab.

  Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Welcome home,” he said.

  They walked on a few blocks further, past shops, galleries and restaurants – all of them new since Rachel had last been here.

  “It’s all changed,” she said.

  “Neighbourhood’s coming up,” Adam said, grinning.

  Rachel felt that the changes to the familiar streets were an imposition. She had wanted everything to be exactly the same as she remembered. She was pleased to see that her favourite vintage store was still there: a pretty seventies print dress displayed on a mannequin in the window. Rachel stopped and looked at it, then glanced down at her worn jeans, scuffed sneakers and baggy T-shirt. She was a mess. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had new clothes. Adam an
d Gabriel looked back to see what she was doing. They looked pretty scruffy, too. Neither of them would have looked out of place in a skate-park. But it was different for boys…

  Five minutes later Rachel re-emerged on to the street with the dress and a brand-new pair of white Converse in a bag.

  “C’mon, Rach,” Adam said, shrugging at Gabriel.

  They turned into East 11th Street, and Rachel’s heart lurched as they neared their old home. She could tell Adam felt the same because he looked at her and crossed his fingers.

  The brownstone building looked as if it might have been cleaned and repainted. The familiar steel fire escape zig-zagged up the apartment block and the arched windows on the third floor looked homely, like benign eyes looking out across the street.

  Rachel stopped Gabriel. “This is where we live,” she said.

  In all her travels Rachel had managed to hold on to one thing from her past: her key ring. She made a nervous check in her pocket to make sure it was there. It was, and she put the front-door key in the lock.

  They went inside. Rachel had not realized how strong the feeling in her gut would be as she walked down the familiar hallway. The building was not just a building; it was a repository for nearly all their childhood memories.

  “Do you feel it too?” she asked Adam.

  He nodded. “Hmm.”

  It was in everything: the light in the entrance hall, the thick layers of paint around the doorframe. The worn front steps reminded them of coming and going, first to kindergarten, then to middle school. Their Christmases had been here, as had all their birthdays until the age of fourteen.

  Home.

  They went up the stairs to the third floor. The corridor was brighter than when they had last been here and the smell of fresh paint was stronger than the floor polish and disinfectant that the twins remembered. With their sensory memory thrown off a little, they realized that although they knew every nook and cranny of the building, the old patina was gone. It was as if their layer had been erased.

  In her heart of hearts, Rachel knew that her dad would not be in the apartment. Not hearing from your father for two years was unusual even after the most acrimonious of divorces, and she hoped that the apartment might at least yield some clue as to his whereabouts.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled the key ring out of her pocket again. The key would not go in the lock. She tried again, but it was too big for the slot.

  “Must’ve changed it,” Adam said.

  The rattling of Rachel’s key had clearly alerted someone inside; they could hear steps coming towards the door. “Who is it?” A woman’s voice came from inside.

  A security chain rattled and a bolt was thrown. The apartment door opened a crack.

  “Rachel and Adam Newman,” Rachel said.

  The door opened a bit wider, and a woman’s face poked through. She was youngish, about thirty, with streaked blonde hair and a pleasant freckled face. They could hear a child in the background.

  “Yeah?” she said.

  “Hi,” Rachel said, smiling her friendliest smile.

  “Hi,” Adam said.

  “We … er … used to live here,” Rachel stammered. “We thought our dad might still be here. Do you know him? He’s called Ralph Newman.”

  The woman looked from Rachel to Adam and then at Gabriel. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of a Ralph Newman.”

  “Oh, but … don’t you rent this place from him?” Rachel asked. She peered past the woman, trying to see into the apartment. It certainly looked different. The hallway had been painted a pale yellow.

  “No. Me and my husband bought the apartment from the co-operative who own the building nearly two years ago.” She was starting to look a little suspicious. “I’ve never heard of anyone with that name living here.”

  “We used to live here!” Adam insisted.

  “I don’t think so,” the woman said.

  The idea that their father had sold their home was a blow that Rachel and Adam felt simultaneously. They couldn’t believe he would have done anything so heartless. They heard the child call out in the room beyond.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” the woman said, closing the door on them.

  Many blocks downtown, the director of the Hope Project looked as if he was about to murder someone. His assistant, Meredith, was sheepish as he read the printout she had just handed him.

  “Send Crow in,” he snapped. “Now.”

  Meredith, relieved that his temper was going to be vented on someone else, turned to leave. “Coffee, sir?” she asked on her way out.

  The director made no answer.

  Moments later a compact muscular man with a broken nose entered the office. He was nervous and was trying to disguise it with a grimly set jaw.

  “Sit down, Crow.”

  The man tugged at the creases in his trousers and sat down opposite the director. He rubbed a hand over his blond buzz-cut and cleared his throat.

  “How do you explain this?” The director waved the piece of paper at Crow and read the bullet points aloud: the body of a Hope operative had been found in a burnt-out house in Western Australia. He had been shot before being burned.

  “I don’t know, sir, is the truth. We picked up the message from the Australian police yesterday.”

  “Let me get this right, Crow,” the director said; “we’re one of the world’s most secretive and powerful intelligence services and now we’re letting hick Australian policemen from Woola-Woola do our investigating for us?”

  “No, sir,” Crow protested. “I thought our agent had it under control. He’d found the house and had it watched by the local operative there.”

  The director stared at the map of Australia on his desk, then he took a pen and drew a line through the circle around Perth up to the area where the dead man had been found.

  “Our agent assured me it would be easy once they’d found the house,” Crow continued. “He didn’t expect any resistance; it was just two women and two kids.”

  “Are you out of your mind, Crow? Have you forgotten what the Hope Project is about? Have you forgotten where these kids are from and what they are capable of?”

  Crow looked at the desk and ground his teeth. “No, sir.”

  “At best you are irresponsible, letting our agent go there alone. At worst, you are incompetent.”

  Crow went to speak; the director held up his hand to silence him. “I don’t want to hear any more. It was you who persuaded me that Van der Zee’s idea to let those kids loose in the first place was the right thing to do. If I’d taken my own advice, we’d have them sliced up and bottled in specimen jars – where they belong – by now. And Van der Zee would still be alive, and so would one of our best agents. And we might have some conclusive research results!”

  “I think the agent wanted the glory of bringing them in alone,” Crow said, attempting to defend himself.

  “This isn’t about glory. He was your responsibility, Crow.”

  As the director tidied the papers on his desk, Crow felt that his dressing-down was coming to an end. “I’m going to recommend you for a transfer,” the director said, looking up at Crow, who appeared to be holding his breath. “To Alamogordo.”

  Crow was horrified. There were some postings that might have suited him, but being sent to the most secretive Hope Project centre of all, in the middle of the New Mexico desert, was like a death sentence. Once you went to Alamogordo, you never came back from the wilderness. Crow couldn’t speak. He rose from his chair.

  “With immediate effect, Crow,” the director added. “Clear your desk.”

  Crow slunk out of the office, his head hung low.

  “Hey, Crow,” the director called after him. Crow turned back, a look on his face that said he expected his boss to reveal it was all a big joke and that he still had his job in New York.

  “Yes, sir?” he said.

  “Alamogordo’s not so bad.” The director smiled. “I sort of grew up there. So long…”
/>   Rachel was not satisfied. She could not believe that the apartment was no longer theirs. “I’m going in,” she said.

  “You sure?” Adam asked. But Rachel was already rapping on the door.

  The young woman opened it again, looking exasperated. “What?” she said. “I told you I couldn’t help you.”

  Rachel held the door open and fixed the woman with her eyes, holding her gaze, waiting until she had control. “I know. I’m really sorry,” she said, “but I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if we just looked around.”

  The expression on the woman’s face softened and she began to smile. “Sure,” she said, as if they were old friends. “Come in.” She opened the door wider and the three of them walked in.

  “I’m Rachel, and this is Adam … and Gabriel,” Rachel said.

  “I’m Holly,” the woman said, shaking hands. “And this is Ben.” She pointed to a toddler, who was sitting on the floor, surrounded by toys and building bricks, watching Sesame Street– just as Rachel and Adam had in this room ten years or so before.

  “Hi, Ben,” Rachel said.

  “Say hello, Ben,” his mother said. “Sorry, he doesn’t really speak much yet. He’s only just turned two.”

  Ben looked at them, but said nothing.

  Holly led them through the living room and into the kitchen. Rachel’s eyes flicked around, taking in the differ-ences and the similarities. They were certainly the same rooms, but now they were filled with someone else’s taste and furniture. Everything looked so different. The kitchen was the only thing that had remained the same; the industrial cooker and the steel worktops on which they had last eaten their breakfast more than two years before had not changed.

  “Love your kitchen,” Rachel said.

  “Thanks,” Holly said, wiping the surface with her hand. “We left it just as it was when we moved in. We decorated everywhere else.”

  “You don’t have any old letters or bills and stuff from the previous owners, do you?” Adam asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Holly said. “I’ll have a look, though.”

  She went to a cupboard and pulled out a few letters and handed them to Adam. He flicked through the pile; it was mostly free offers for people whose names meant nothing to him.