Should he call the authorities? Battling indecisiveness, his sense of duty conflicted with his desire to avoid involvement. Finally, the guard sighed and lifted the phone off the hook, unaware that the door to the cubicle had quietly begun to open. When Bud the security guard turned, Temir stood over him with a maniacal look on his face and a knife raised high.
The attendant reacted quickly, backing up against a desk that contained a can of mace for emergency protection. Temir jumped at him, slashing at the man’s chest and arms. The attendant hardly noticed the fresh wounds as he instinctively knew he was in a fight for his life. He opened the desk drawer, and his fingers grasped the spray can just as another slash came across his neck and shoulder. Blood splattered on the north and west windows of the booth.
The guard gathered himself, turned, and released a torrent spray of caustic mace that hit Temir directly in the face. The terrorist grabbed his eyes and stumbled, swinging the knife wildly with his other hand. The battle in the small booth grew fierce as Temir desperately cut into the guard’s flesh while shouting insulting phrases in Kazakh. The attendant screamed and emptied the mace canister into Temir’s swollen face, but without a real weapon, he was left to fend off the knife assault with only his hands and arms.
When the frenzy-finally finished, the attendant lay in a thick pool of blood. His body was covered with slice and stab wounds, and raw flesh lay open in several places, peeled back away from the muscle and bone. Temir was covered in blood as well. Though his vision was blurred and distorted, the terrorist found a plastic bottle of water and poured the contents directly into his eyes.
This helped a bit, but his corneas still continued to burn and blister. He stumbled out of the booth and grabbed at the wall until he found a service door that led to a maintenance area. There was a sink just inside the entrance, and Temir stuck his head under the faucet. Even after several minutes, his eyes were still horribly swollen, and the pain was almost unbearable.
Temir knew that someone would soon enter the garage and see the blood smeared on the glass walls. He needed to clean the booth and hide the body, but his eyesight remained blurry and compromised. A sense of panic began to envelop him as he heard a siren in the distance. Temir was unaware that the guard successfully activated a silent alarm during the attack.
Burikhan and Kabanbai walked through the entrance of the John Howard Student Center without incident. They received an occasional quizzical glance from a few passing students, but they made their way uneventfully to the elevator and rode it up to the third floor. The layout of the Howard Center was burned indelibly into Burikhan’s brain, and he could have found his way to the drop zone in his sleep. Kabanbai took a place just outside the door of the room to discourage anyone from entering while Burikhan carried the suitcase inside. He flipped the latch and opened it carefully. Kabanbai began chanting in a whisper and soon Burikhan joined in. Indeed, this was a holy moment; an inspiration and tool sent by God to cleanse the world of the vermin that infiltrated every corner of the globe.
As Kabanbai continued to pray, Burikhan found a package left earlier by someone else at a different time. It was exactly where it should have been, and he extracted the detonator and effortlessly connected it to the bomb. A small green light flickered and then illuminated, indicating the device was now armed. Burikhan slid the suitcase into the shroud with an eighth-inch clearance on either side and replaced the false front so the bomb would remain hidden from view.
Burikhan said a short prayer before he and Kabanbai walked to the front of the room and exited quietly. They retraced their path back to the lobby of the Howard Center. Burikhan praised God for the success of the mission, but he stopped short and grabbed Kabanbai’s arm just as they turned the corner. Several police vehicles blocked the entrance to the parking garage. Instantly, Burikhan knew that something had happened to Temir.
***
Munoz stepped into the unmarked squad and fired up the engine, squealing the tires as he left Harold Moss’s private estate. The light from his radio blinked intermittently, and he grabbed the mic and signed in. “Dispatch, three David eight back in service.”
“Jose, we have a problem, drop down to one niner.” It was Yolanda at the other end.
Munoz tried to compose himself as he turned the dial on the radio to the private, encoded channel. “Go ahead, what is it Yolanda, Captain didn’t sell enough tickets to the charity ball?”
“No, this is serious.”
“Ok, what’s up?”
“That suicide call you didn’t go on? The one the Feds showed up and took jurisdiction?”
“Yeah?”
“Other Feds are crawling around here, and they want to talk to you. Where have you been?”
“I just left the house for Christ sake. Look, tell them I’m just finishing an interview, and I’ll be coming in directly… Someone whacked the Fed’s, great.”
“I don’t think they want to wait, Jose. You better get your ass back here.”
“Yolanda—I need some time. I’m working on something big. You’ve got to stall them for a couple hours. I need that time.”
“Were you involved in these FBI deaths, Jose?”
“Of course not. This has nothing to do with that. Jesus Christ, you really think I’ve started killing Feds? Lord knows I’m frustrated every time they get involved, but I’m not a murderer.”
An audible sigh followed a deep breath. “Ok Munoz, two hours. You better be back by then.”
“Yolanda, I carry a prepaid phone. From now on, contact me on this number: 206-555-3728. I’m going to turn my personal cell off, so you’ll only be able to get me on this number.”
“You don’t want to be tracked. Jose, what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll be in touch when I know more.”
The detective put the radio in its holder and moved the vehicle onto the highway. His first priority was to deal with the encrypted data on Moss’s computer. He knew a regular informant in Rainier Valley who was convicted of several counts of hacking into the database of a large local bank. The con was currently involved in a small-time money laundering scheme for a few petty thieves, and Munoz planned to use this leverage to get the information he needed off the computer.
Twenty minutes later, the squad pulled up in front of a run down two-flat on the Far East side. Munoz walked from the car, reflexively looking in all directions to see if any threats were lurking.
He knocked on the warped front door, eventually pounding on it with a sense of urgency. Finally, it opened a crack and the detective pulled back as the strong smell of cooked meth wafted through the slit. He saw a single bloodshot eye staring at him, and there was pressure on the door as the person inside tried to close it.
However, Munoz positioned his foot in such a way that the bolt would not engage with the strike plate. With a sudden shove, he leaned his shoulder into it and pushed hard. The wood snapped and the door disengaged from its hinges.
Munoz walked through the gaping hole and looked over to the cowering occupant. “Well, Walter, I see things haven’t changed much since the last time I saw you.”
“Who is it, Ziggy?” a slurred female voice came from the other room. “Bring another rock, will you baby?”
“Ziggy? I haven’t heard that name since I busted you the last time, Walter.”
Ziggy looked down at the floor and nervously ran his hand through his dirty hair. “What is it, Munoz? I’m clean, so what do you want?”
“Sure Walter, it smells like nothing’s going on. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
The cretin Ziggy sniffed and wiped his sleeve across his dipping nose. “I don’t think so. What do you want? Do you have a warrant?”
Munoz took a step back and laughed; then his face hardened. “Walter, you should know me well enough by now to realize that I don’t need a stinking warrant. I’ll tear you up if you don’t give me exactly what I want. You think five years in Florence was hard? So help me God, I’ll
figure out a way to get you transferred to Ricers for the next 20 years. Now, invite me in.”
Ziggy looked up into the detective’s eyes, and the icy gray stare told him Munoz meant business. “Ok, come in.”
“Thank you, Walter. I need you to do something for me. There’s a computer in my car, and I think the data is encrypted. You need to decode it and give me the information off the hard drive.”
For the first time, Ziggy cracked his own smile. “Ok, Detective, you’re talking my language. Go get the unit and we’ll see what’s up.
A few moments later, Harold Moss’s computer was set up and communicating with Ziggy’s black market software. He typed furiously while a lit cigarette dangled from his chaffed lips. “What the hell is on here, Munoz? They jumbled this stuff with CypherDisk. That’s the most heavy duty encryption out there. This is the same code used by the government.”
“Can you decipher it, Walter?”
Ziggy cracked his knuckles. “I ran into it before. Maybe I can figure it out, but the work is slow, and I can’t afford any mistakes, or I’ll crash the whole thing. It’ll take time.
“I don’t have the luxury of time, Walter. Figure it out quickly.”
***
“There is something very wrong, Xavier. Something is very wrong indeed.”
“I understand sir. What do you think it is?”
“I’m not sure. But the purity of the flow is being disrupted. Small at first, it is growing. Exposure to it feels vile and disgusting, and it threatens the success of my masterpiece.”
“Tell me what we can do to stop the invader, Benefactor.”
Mr. Cox picked at his teeth, pulling something out that looked like a raw piece of meat. “I can’t say for certain. But there was an extreme tear in the fabric recently. A delicious suicide; I was basking in the despair. But then this sickening force or… person arrived and stole the spoils away from me. The death was complete, but I derived no pleasure, and there were complications.
“Level two followers were killed. I want you to go there and talk directly to the FBI bureau chief and bring back names. I need to know who is responsible, Xavier. ”
“Certainly, Benefactor. I will make arrangements immediately.”
“We need to include Alan on this. I want to find the connection between this event and the disruption in the flow.”
“Yes sir.”
Cox lifted his glass and swirled the contents, releasing the bouquet of the 1927 Alvear Pedro Ximenez Solera. “The progress on the devices? Are we on schedule for the liberation?”
“Indeed. Everything is exactly on schedule. The cleansing fire shall commence in 48 hours.”
“Excellent. At least something is moving ahead as we had planned.”
“There is something else Benefactor…”
“What is it, Xavier?”
“Alan called me earlier. They lost contact with Sarah Johansen somewhere around Bakersfield. The agent trailing her is dead, and our district man has two other agents combing the area along with our plants in the California Highway Patrol.”
Cox flashed a look that Watts recognized. The Benefactor’s eyes sometimes glowed with a ghastly black tinged with red when he was angered. Lately, no subject seemed to upset him more than the escape of Sarah Johansen.
The moment passed, and the calm exterior of Mr. Cox returned. “It is… disappointing that we have so many incompetent individuals in positions of high authority. When it comes to catching an uneducated girl without resources, we are impotent? Certainly there must be adjustments made to the structure in that area.”
“Of course, Benefactor. Delgado is ultimately responsible for security. Once we have found the girl, I will make the necessary changes.”
“Good. Now leave me, Xavier. I have much business to attend to.”
The connection with Sarah grew stronger in the intervening moments since Mr. Cox left Kathy Rodgers. He anticipated her despair would become so overwhelming she would decide to take her own life. This was the precondition for his intervention, the opportunity he needed to connect with his most promising disciples. A suicide attempt extended an open invitation for a visit from Mr. Cox and laid out the welcome mat.
The victims always separated themselves from the flow, peeling away the impurity until only hopelessness remained. For Sarah Johansen, the strand was even more profound because of their prior intimate relationship. Really, how long could she hope to hide from the Benefactor?
He closed his eyes and projected outward, knowing the general area of the suicide would help him find her more quickly. Cox followed the tendril as it wove through the mists of his infinite mind. Finally, as it slowed, he found himself looking down at a ramshackle abandoned barn in the middle of a secluded field. He dropped down, projecting himself through the slatted roof, and landed directly behind the girl, who sat on a dirt floor with a rifle barrel resting in her mouth.
Tsk Tsk. Is that any way to repay my kindness, Sarah?
The gun fell to the ground and her head swiveled as she looked around the barn while rising to her feet. He appeared out of nowhere, and she turned to face him, shoving her balled fist into her mouth at first sight.
Cox held out his arms. Come to me Sarah. You know how much you want to be with me.
“No—please—no, I can’t do it anymore. I can’t stand it.” While Mr. Cox communicated through thought, Sarah spoke out loud. “I—please kill me or at least let me kill myself.”
Cox wagged a finger and scolded, How can you say that to me after all the wonderful nights we spent together? You know you can’t fight me. I need you to come back home.
Fleeting flashbacks ran through the Benefactor’s mind as he recalled the time he spent with Sarah. The countless years of abuse and humiliation that left her mother’s psyche permanently damaged. The debauchery, filth and shame he cast on her while she was compelled to perform unspeakable lurid acts over and over. They were fond memories he found exhilarating even now.
Cox looked at her, and his eyes began to darken. Sarah struggled and stumbled back towards the shotgun, but it skidded across the floor and out of her reach. The strength of his thoughts enveloped her, and their minds began the familiar dance she knew so well. He opened himself and revealed the essence of his darkened soul. Sarah wanted to scream out, but she knew she mustn’t do so. The loneliness he shared was so overwhelming that she sensed her own spirit evaporating. With little resistance, Sarah simply did what he wanted.
Chapter Eighteen
They sat in silence as the shadows from the afternoon sun grew long and spread unevenly across the sparsely furnished living room. Ever since they arrived at the non-distinct safe house on Portland’s near north side, the conversation was forced and awkward.
“Look Zach, if we’re just going to sit here, I’m leaving. You can keep the car, and I’ll start walking. I’ll get to a bus and somehow find my way back to New Mexico. We both probably need a lawyer. You want to trust some guy who goes and kills two FBI agents and then sends us two hours away to Portland? We have no idea who he even is, but he tells us to wait here, so we do it. It just doesn’t make much sense.”
“Ok, Jarad, I understand why you want to leave, but just remember, I didn’t want you to come in the first place. Go ahead and take the car, I’ll wait here for Munoz… I’m sorry I got you into all of this.”
Anston started to speak, but when he looked up, he noticed something was wrong with his friend. Zach’s face reddened, and his head moved rapidly from side to side while his eyes glazed and rolled backward. He dropped to the floor and flopped around, doing a contortionist’s dance as the neurons in his brain fired down unintended pathways. It was clear; Zach was in the opening phase of a seizure.
The vision slammed into him with a ferocity that hurt physically. He lurched forward and bit down hard on his tongue while thrashing about the room, knocking over the TV stand and crushing a leg on the coffee table. Anston jumped up from the sofa and tried to hold him down to limit the ch
ance of self-inflicted injury.
Zach felt himself being pulled into the vision. The thick mists obscured his sight and closed in around him, sucking the air from his lungs and replacing it with wisps of rank vapor that burned his throat. Just as panic reached a plateau, the fog began to subside. When he regained his composure and a semblance of consciousness, he found himself overlooking a straw and dirt floor surrounded by decaying slatted walls full of rot. He smelled dust, mold and wet hay mixed with traces of dung and urine. Moving within the vision, he realized he was looking at the interior of a barn.
In a far corner of the structure, a girl sat on the floor cross legged violently rocking her upper body back and forth. A shotgun lay near her, but it wasn’t within her immediate reach. Zach recognized the circumstances and knew it never turned out well. However, his control over the visions continued to grow with every new episode, so he exerted force against the apparition and placed his projected image behind an old grain elevator. From that position, he slowly moved forward, hoping his presence wouldn’t startle the woman.
Zach stopped within 20 feet of her slumping body as he became aware of someone or something that occupied space just behind her left shoulder. The entity was small, gaseous, and continued to morph into a variety of shapes. It changed hues from dark black to washed-out gray, and it radiated a palpable misery. The gas began to coalesce and took the unmistakable shape of a man. Features filled in, and an illusion of skin began to form, revealing an unsettling appearance that bordered on gruesome. Mr. Cox smiled, running his hand through his wiry black hair with an exaggerated motion.
The man-ghost either ignored Zach or wasn’t aware of his presence as it moved in front of the girl. She recoiled as her back stiffened and eyes widened. Mr. Cox extended a bony finger and pointed directly at her face. She robotically rose to her feet as if in a trance. Seemingly against her will, she began to move her hips in a circular motion, placing one hand to her lips while the other crept toward her genitals.
The Suicide Society Page 18
