by Bill Evans
A half mile from the cabin, yellow police tape cut off their access. Flowers, unlit candles, Egyptian crosses, pentagrams, and a large framed photograph of the murdered woman already rested against the trunk of a dying tree just off the trail. In the photo, the witch’s hands were raised, as if imploring the faithful. Forensia looked away, finding it all too easy to imagine the same gesture as a desperate, dying plea in the blood-spattered cabin.
She and Sang-mi added their offerings, leaving their candles unlit, as well; despite the recent rains, not a drop of moisture clung to the desiccated forest.
According to Sheriff Walker, what little evidence they’d found indicated that “a methodical killer murdered that woman. The person who did this had no conscience. None.”
Jason, Forensia thought. She didn’t buy any of the speculation about Lilton being involved. That’s what a lot of cable channels were claiming as they reran clips of Lilton on The Morning Show, calling his old girlfriend a “wacko” and saying “I’m addressing that issue head-on.”
No, some jerk like Jason had killed her. No, not like Jason, she corrected herself, it was Jason. She wondered if he would have the nerve to show his face at the memorial service. It was planned for sundown in the same clearing where he and his teammates had caused so much trouble at the initiation. The prospect of seeing him frightened her: After she’d told the CBS newsman that Jason was always taking money to lead guys to the naked gatherings, the quarterback had sneered at her and said, “You’re not gettin’ away with this, you fucking bitch.”
As soon as she’d heard about GreenSpirit’s murder, Forensia left a message for Sheriff Walker, describing the confrontation that had taken place the night of the initiation.
She lifted her eyes and looked around the forest. Where is Jason, anyway? She consoled herself with the knowledge that the woods were teeming with detectives and forensics experts, even if she couldn’t see them. Then she and Sang-mi kneeled and began to pray silently. But Forensia couldn’t stop thinking about the killer.
This is no way to honor GreenSpirit, she chided herself.
* * *
“Mr. Vice President, what did you just say?” A female scientist spoke with no attempt to hide her disgust.
Three more members of the task force jumped in, asking Vice President Andrew Percy to repeat himself. Others were groaning in open protest. Jenna cupped her earphone to try to block out any external noise, scarcely believing what she had just heard. A bombshell indeed.
“President Reynolds and I are simply asking you to consider, just consider, getting on board with USEI’s iron oxide pilot project in the Indian Ocean.”
“I thought we were supposed to review geoengineering options, not become a rubber stamp for the energy industry’s unilateral actions,” Jenna said.
The vice president paused before he replied: “We are, in fact, supposed to review those options, but USEI has taken the initiative to launch a very limited experiment in the Indian Ocean in conjunction with the government of the Maldives. What is so wrong with that?”
“Andrew, you’ve got to be kidding,” said Ben Norris, the balding, freckled, irascible NASA meteorologist. “What’s ‘wrong with that’ is that all kinds of things can go haywire with even a ‘very limited experiment’ that is targeting the Earth’s incredibly sensitive thermostat. The best scientific minds we have should review the protocols—that’s science 101. We don’t even know if the energy industry conducted any review before shipping half a million tons of iron oxide halfway around the world. Talk about putting random elements into play! Furthermore, Senator Higgens sat here with us just last week and never said word one about this ‘pilot project.’ Did you know about it then?”
“No, I did not.”
Vice President Percy spoke so directly that Jenna suspected that he’d been ill at ease with everything else he’d said up till now.
Norris asked, “When you called us together, did you intend us to rubber-stamp this sort of irresponsible energy industry nonsense?”
“You may not have known what the energy lobby was up to,” said Dr. Susan Ornstein, a marine microbiologist at Scripps Institution of Oceanography, “but I’ll bet your boss knew. This lets him look decisive on a key issue right before the election. Talk about an October surprise.”
“I don’t think you’re being fair to the president,” Percy said.
“And I think that you have no choice but to say that,” Norris fired back.
“Five hundred thousand tons of iron oxide doesn’t spell ‘pilot project’ to me,” Ornstein interjected irritably.
“No, it certainly does not,” Jenna agreed. “It suggests they’ve already decided what results they’re going to get from their ‘test.’”
“You watch,” Norris said, “a measured cooling of the atmosphere will be announced in a massive ad campaign that’s going to tell the world that climate change has been solved. Thanks to the intrepid energy industry, everyone can turn down their air-conditioning and drive all they want. No worries.” Norris’s voice was venomous. “They’re using that supertanker to save the enormous costs of shipping when they start seeding the ocean on a large scale. And to show gullible consumers how ‘serious’ they are.”
“And if we don’t ‘get on board,’ as you put it, Mr. Vice President, we’ll look like namby-pamby scientists who are too nervous and scared to ever make such a bold move,” said the woman whom Jenna still couldn’t identify, but whose contempt she shared.
“But they don’t know that this is going to work,” the environmentalist with the white goatee remonstrated.
“No, they don’t. And we don’t, either,” the vice president said. “But they’re being very careful, I think we have to grant them that, and I think we have to take them at their word.”
“Them? Their word?” Norris snorted. Jenna felt that Norris’s thoughts probably mirrored her own memories of the Exxon Valdez and Deepwater Horizon disasters. “You do know, Andrew,” Norris went on, “that there’s not one law on the books, here or abroad, that can stop them.”
Percy did not respond, but Ornstein plunged back in: “That’s absolutely correct. There’s nothing to stop them from doing this. This is beyond outrageous.”
“I can only relay the president’s request that you offer support to this unique—”
“My apologies for interrupting, Andrew,” Norris said, “but I can’t believe those are your words.”
“Well, you’re wrong, Ben,” the vice president said sharply. “And I think you should consider what this project has to offer. And if you can’t lend your support, that’s fine. The White House feels that it’s on firm scientific footing here, and that the American people will support this bold initiative. There’s no need for anyone on this task force to demonize the energy industry over this.”
“In other words,” the goateed environmentalist said, “the White House already ran focus groups and found that this would look like a splashy move right before election day.”
“I know of no such focus group,” Percy said.
“Of course not,” Norris snapped. “Because then you wouldn’t have deniability. Reynolds has got to know that most of us are not going to back this. He’s first and foremost a political realist.”
“The president and I both trust that you’ll consider this a worthy project.”
Or, at the very least, keep quiet about it. But even as Jenna thought this, she realized that she wouldn’t make any public statements against the “very limited experiment.” While she felt professionally insulted by the energy industry’s maneuvering, she could not see any harm in the proposed test. It could have real benefits.
But the next instant, Jenna remembered the ominous words of the highly regarded oceanographer, John Martin: “Give me half a tanker of iron oxide and I’ll give you an ice age.”
They don’t have half a tanker, Jenna said pointedly to herself. They have a full supertanker—five hundred thousand tons.
The vice president
asked the task force to stay on the line for his chief of staff, Evan Stubb. Then Percy bid them good-bye.
What’s Stubb here for? Jenna wondered. She didn’t have to wait long for the answer: to do the president and vice president’s dirty work.
“I want to remind all of you of the confidentiality pledge that you’ve signed,” Stubb spoke slowly and clearly, “and advise you to keep in mind that we expect you to abide by its legally enforceable provisions.”
* * *
Half an hour before sunset, the forest clearing grew crowded with Pagans and witches from all over the Eastern seaboard, plus network camera crews and curious onlookers.
Forensia held Sang-mi’s hand as they walked toward the gathering. The young Korean had been shaking almost continually since she’d discovered GreenSpirit’s mutilated body. Twice she’d said the killing reminded her of the terrible butchery that she’d seen in North Korea.
“What they did to GreenSpirit was so terrible.” Sang-mi sounded shattered by fear. “They can do it to anybody.”
“No, that won’t happen. See, the police are here,” Forensia assured her.
“In North”—she meant North Korea—“police do the killing.”
“But not here. I promise.” Forensia nodded at the New York State Police officers whom Sheriff Walker had requested to protect his villagers. “There’s no reason to worry.”
Her friend’s hand tightened on hers as they wove through the crowd toward Richtor; Forensia’s tall, dreadlocked boyfriend stood with other Pagans near a tree-stump podium.
Sheriff Walker was dressed in a jacket and tie. His tiny wife stood by his side, along with their two daughters. The older girl, Suze, looked away when Forensia smiled at her. Two nights ago, Suze had been naked in the moonlight with the rest of the Pagans, only feet away from where she and her fundamentalist Christian family now waited for the service to begin.
Forensia didn’t have any more regard for Sheriff Walker’s religious beliefs than he probably had for hers, but she greatly appreciated his presence as an officer of the law and as a member of the local community gravely concerned about a horrific killing.
That’s how it should be, Forensia thought as daylight dimmed. She was grateful for Sheriff Walker’s attendance because it sent a reassuring message to the Pagans and witches that law enforcement would protect them.
Forensia also figured that Sheriff Walker was there to study the crowd. Sometimes a killer really does return to the scene of his crime; that wasn’t simply a Hollywood cliché. She scanned the gathering, but didn’t see Jason. Maybe they’ve already arrested him.
The witch who’d driven down from Ithaca for Forensia and Sang-mi’s initiation stood before the large group of Pagans. A black robe draped her short, fragile-looking frame. Her eyes looked bright, alive—indomitable. Richtor took Forensia’s hand as the gray-haired older woman began to read a statement:
“We gather under the most trying and grievous circumstances. We are here to honor the memory of a great witch and a great woman, and to decry the violence that took her from this earthly plane—the hatred and prejudice that murdered our beloved leader to render her message mute. This same ignorance would slay all wisdom, if it could.” She paused and looked at the crowd, holding Forensia’s gaze for a fraction of a second.
The young woman began to weep as she recalled the details of the crime. According to the sheriff’s account, reported in the local newspaper, the murder was committed—slowly—by someone close to her. “This kind of violence,” the sheriff added, “is almost always personal.”
Sang-mi also cried quietly. She squeezed Forensia’s hand harder and pulled her close, whispering urgently, “I have to tell you something. It’s very dangerous.” Her fear made the words sound like they’d been slashed with the same blade that had tortured and claimed GreenSpirit.
“We’ll talk later, okay?” Forensia whispered back.
After the older witch paid homage to GreenSpirit, she said that anyone who wanted to speak in honor of their leader was encouraged to address the crowd. Forensia listened as many of the older witches offered thoughts and remembrances.
When Forensia herself walked forward, she gently patted Dafoe and Jasper Fricke on the arm as she eased past them. Seconds later, Forensia felt the hot camera lights on her back. She turned toward them and squinted, but her words flowed easily:
“I was here with so many of you forty-eight hours ago, when we held a sacred ceremony.” When her gaze landed on Suze Walker, the sheriff’s daughter again looked away. “We were so honored that GreenSpirit came to conduct our initiation. I will never forget that night. Right there,” Forensia pointed to the ground about twenty feet away, “was the circle of power that we shared with her, and with many of you.”
Forensia’s voice gained force. “She instilled in all of us a powerful sense of possibilities. I can feel that right now, and that’s why I know she’s with us. But on that night, which should have been wholly and beautifully sacred, she had to stand up to anger and hatred and bullying. And she did stand up to it. She did not back down, and she never would have backed down from her killer. We can take great heart in knowing that we die as we live, and for GreenSpirit that meant she passed with grace and dignity.”
Forensia hoped and prayed that she spoke the truth, but the newspaper article once again filled her mind. GreenSpirit’s death had been terrible. Who could have faced such torture with grace and dignity?
* * *
Dignity? That old witch? He could have spit. She died like everyone else—crying, screaming, begging me to stop. “Please—please, oh, God, don’t do that. Don’t.” Dignity? A run-over dog has more dignity than her. She didn’t have one ounce of it left. I took it all away. It’s the first thing that goes, once you get them down.
He watches Forensia’s friends—Sang-mi; that creep, Richtor; the rest of them—listening to everything she says like they’re getting paid by the word. If Forensia keeps this up, there’s going to be another memorial service real soon. He’ll see to that. Just have to wait for the rain to come again. Need it to wash away his tracks. A drought can’t last forever.
Rain and blood. You get the two of them together … and you can hardly tell them apart.
* * *
“Possibilities, that’s what GreenSpirit gave us.” Forensia took a breath, tried to smile as the last of the light leaked from the sky. “That’s what she gave the world. We must let belief in the highest possibilities fill our souls. We have to do everything that we can to make those possibilities real. The best way to honor GreenSpirit is to use everything she taught us to bring out the best that’s inside each of us. That’s how we creatures of flesh and blood can give GreenSpirit immortality.”
After Forensia slipped back to her place beside Sang-mi and Richtor, the first witch to speak stepped up once again and this time asked for a minute of silence. The crowd bowed their heads, then slowly began to disperse.
Sheriff Walker moved over to Forensia, who eased away from her friends. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you,” he said. “We’ve been very busy, but I want to assure you that we’re looking into every lead. Now, all of you,” Sheriff Walker’s eyes included his daughters, “should know that we can’t realistically protect everyone. The person who killed your friend might be living right here in town. He could have been here tonight.” Suze shuddered. “I know, it’s real creepy, but we just don’t know. Or he might be linked to another killing a few months ago far away from here.”
“What other killing? Where?” Forensia asked quickly.
“I can’t tell you that. It’s under investigation. But don’t make yourself a target. That’s what I’m saying.”
Forensia nodded.
“We have a church service in about half an hour,” Sheriff Walker said, “so we have to get going, but please, everybody, please be careful.”
Forensia watched him gather up his family, turn on a flashlight, and leave. She looked at Sang-mi, took her hand, and
glanced around for Richtor. Hard to see in the dark, but she guessed he must have left. Richtor disliked police on principle, and she figured he’d scooted away earlier to avoid Sheriff Walker. She and Sang-mi headed back.
“I can tell you now,” the Korean witch said softly.
“Not a good idea,” Forensia replied. People were crowding close as they funneled onto the trail. Familiar faces appeared in the light of candles and headlamps, but not many whom Forensia knew well. She wondered if any of the younger guys had been here with Jason two nights earlier, urging him on. Maybe they would report back to him now, or maybe Jason had been skulking somewhere near the back of the crowd. “When we get home,” she said to Sang-mi, “we can talk.”
* * *
The more she talked, the more he loathed her. Before, he’d noticed her tits and those awful witch tattoos, but he could have lived with that. She could have lived with that. But every word told him that he can’t live with her. Even when she stopped speaking, his ears were stuffed with her nonsense.
Look at them, crawling back to their holes like they’re filled with “inspiration.” That tall one, she could talk the stink out of a skunk. She talks too damn much for her own damn good.
He knows they live together, her and the Korean. Not many secrets in a town this size. He wonders what they do to each other, the sex they get up to once they lock up. As if that could keep him out.
If there’s one thing he knows, it’s how to go through a door.
CHAPTER 13
Adnan and the other jihadists slept in the fisherman’s house in Malé. Maybe their last night on Earth. Paradise beckoned.
The fisherman told his wife to feed them breakfast. The attractive, dark-haired woman never smiled, and seemed nervous, as she had when he returned early from his trip—even before she’d seen the heavily armed men. She certainly never questioned that he’d brought home no fish.
