Second Horseman Out of Eden

by George C. Chesbro

  My brother glanced quickly at me, grunted slightly. “And who would that be, Samuel?”

  “Craig Valley; Dr. Craig Valley.”

  “Does Valley work here?”

  “Craig used to, but I’m afraid he was fired about three months ago. He was our curator of orchids. As I mentioned, many staff members here have done consulting work for Nuvironment at one time or another, but Craig was the primary liaison between the company and the Botanical Garden. Indeed, more than a few of us suspected that Craig considered his efforts on behalf of Nuvironment more important than his regular duties. All requests from Nuvironment came through him, and he doled out the consulting assignments—which could be quite lucrative. It was Craig who received the initial request from Nuvironment for the rain forest soil; indeed, he’d already made preliminary shipping arrangements when the Customs Service intervened and stopped him. He took it personally; he was quite upset. I’m thinking that it’s possible Craig may have continued to work for Nuvironment after he left here, and that he may have finally persuaded the Customs Service to give him the required permits. In any case, he may have information that could prove useful to you.” Zelaskowich paused, looked down at the floor, continued quietly, “Craig is a rather … uh, strange man. He can be very difficult to talk to, but I don’t see how he could refuse to cooperate with you on a matter of this importance, something that concerns the well-being of a child.”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “The personnel department may have his address and phone number, and I’d be happy to check it out for you. I seem to recall that he lives in a town house on the East Side of Manhattan, somewhere in the sixties or seventies.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  Garth asked, “Why did Valley get fired?”

  Again, the botanist lowered his gaze. “I don’t like to gossip, Garth. Do you really need to know that?”

  “At the moment it’s difficult for us to be certain just what it is we’ll need to know in order to find the girl,” I answered. “Knowing something about Craig Valley before we go to talk to him might be helpful to us in ways we can’t anticipate now. You described him as a ‘strange man.’ Why? In what way is he ‘strange’?”

  Zelaskowich sighed, then shoved his large hands into the pockets of his lab coat. “Well, in my opinion it was his religious zealotry that got him fired—although that wasn’t the official reason given; after all, the city and the Botanical Garden wouldn’t want to be charged with religious discrimination.”

  “He was fired for religious reasons?”

  “He was fired for incompetence and inattention to his duties.”

  “But you said that the real reason may have been his religious zealotry.”

  Zelaskowich shrugged. “I think it was a factor that, in the end, weighed against him. It wasn’t so much his religious beliefs in themselves so much as the way he tried to foist them on others. His behavior could make Craig … well, obnoxious on occasion. I believe he was one of those … what do you call them? Charismatics? Pentecostals? Whatever he is, I believe it’s much more fanatic than simple Christian Fundamentalism; that’s just my opinion, though, and I don’t claim to know that much about any religion. Craig was always warning us that we were going to be sent to hell very soon if we didn’t accept Jesus Christ as our savior and if we weren’t, as he put it, ‘born again.’ It seemed to me very odd behavior for an educated man. There are a number of Jews on the staff here, and a few Muslims. I’m a humanist, myself. At first, we used to dismiss Craig—condescend to him, and laugh among ourselves behind his back. I’m afraid that didn’t stop him from trying to ‘save us,’ if you will. I really believe that the man thinks the world is going to end soon, within our lifetimes, and that all sorts of demons are going to pop up out of the ground to make mischief. Then, it seems, Jesus Christ is going to descend from heaven to defeat the demons and start a new world in which only people who believe like Craig will be allowed to live. I know it sounds absolutely lunatic, but I think the man actually believes these things.”

  “Did Dr. Valley ever mention somebody named William Kenecky to you?” I asked, catching Garth’s curt nod of approval out of the corner of my eye.

  “Kenecky? You mean the crazy television preacher who’s on the run from the tax people?”

  “That’s him.”

  Zelaskowich thought about it, shook his head. “No, Craig never mentioned him to me. But now that you bring it up, it occurs to me that a lot of the nonsense Craig used to spout sounds like the nonsense Kenecky spouted. Maybe that’s where Craig got his silly notions from. I still can’t understand how somebody who’s been to college—and earned a doctorate, no less—could believe such ignorant, vicious stuff. It’s very sad.”

  But not nearly as sad as what somebody—maybe William Kenecky—was doing to a little girl named Vicky Brown. “Was Valley really incompetent as well as obnoxious?”

  “He became so, yes. I think his belief that the world was going to end about the day after tomorrow finally sort of infected his brain. Obviously, he’s one of the world’s leading experts on orchids; if he weren’t, he wouldn’t have been our curator. However, in the last few months he simply let his work go. In fact, he was warned about it; and he was so bold—or stupid—as to say that it didn’t matter if all his orchids died because Jesus was on His way. Can you imagine?”

  “Religious zealotry can do strange things to people,” I said as I glanced at Garth, who smiled thinly and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

  Zelaskowich nodded. “Indeed. In any case, Craig had been steadily neglecting his work for some time, but in somewhat subtle ways. However, after the Customs Service interfered with the importation of the rain forest soil, he became positively unhinged. Then the administration had to let him go. You’d have expected him to be upset, but he really wasn’t. In fact, he told me that it was almost a relief not to be distracted by work while he was waiting for Jesus to come, and that now we’d see he was right about the imminent end of the world and the rising of demons.” The botanist paused, shook his head sadly. “Poor Craig. On his last day I came across him in one of the gardens. He was down on his hands and knees, rocking back and forth, babbling absolute nonsense in a very loud voice. He seemed almost hysterical. In fact, I think there’s a name for that sort of thing.”

  “There is,” I said. “It’s called glossolalia—‘speaking in tongues.’”

  3.

  Dr. Craig Valley’s three-story town house was on East Sixty-third Street, half a block away from one of the shifting, ephemeral boundaries so common to New York City, where architecture, patterns of street activity, planted things, and commercial activity abruptly changed to become an entirely different “neighborhood.” The neighborhood in the next block was considerably seedier, with dirtier buildings plastered with advertisements for rock concerts, no trees, and dirtier sidewalks. Judging from the condition of Valley’s town house, with the flaking paint on its window frames and its facade of crumbling brick, it looked as if this onetime curator of orchids at the New York Botanical Garden was existing on the borderline in more ways than one.

  The man who answered the door was five feet five or six and overweight—except for his face, which had a pinched look about it, with a narrow nose flanked by watery, pale gray eyes that glinted with suspicion, and thin, pursed lips. His red hair was thinning, and there was a rash on his chin and cheeks, as if he might recently have shaved off a beard.

  “What is it?” he asked in a high-pitched voice laced with equal parts of hostility and suspicion.

  Made slightly uneasy by my brother’s stony expression, which would certainly have made me hostile and suspicious, I flashed my most disarming, winning smile. “Dr. Valley?”

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Our names are Frederickson, Dr. Valley. We’re private investigators working on a matter of considerable urgency, and we’d very much appreciate a few moments of your time.”

  Valley exercis
ed his neck muscles by first looking down at me, then up at Garth, then down to me again. “I’ve heard of you two,” he said in a voice that was close to a hiss. Back up to Garth. “You were the false messiah—the leader of that pitiable cult who called themselves Garth’s People.”

  “I wasn’t any messiah, Dr. Valley, false or otherwise,” my brother said in a flat voice that betrayed no emotion. “Like my brother said, we’d like to ask you a few questions, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  “What is it you want to know? I can’t imagine how anything I know could be of any use to private investigators.”

  The lack of emotion in my brother’s expression and tone told me that he was, in fact, feeling more than a tad impatient, and was in no mood for small talk; naturally, that would have to be my department. Still smiling, I said: “We’d like to ask you a few questions about a company called Nuvironment. We understand that you used to do some consulting work for them.”

  Valley frowned, and his thin lips pinched together even more. “Who told you that?”

  “May we come in?”

  “Certainly not, Frederickson. My time is very valuable, and even if I wished to give you some of it, I wouldn’t speak to you about my professional contacts or activities.”

  “Then we’ll get right to the point,” I said curtly, dispensing with my smile, which had been starting to hurt me anyway. “Did you arrange to import one hundred tons of Amazon rain forest soil for Nuvironment?”

  The pale gray eyes went wide with shock, and the thin lips parted as his jaw dropped slightly to reveal uneven, gray teeth that looked as if they might have been color coordinated with his eyes. He recovered, quickly stepped back and started to close the door—only to find his effort frustrated by Garth’s very large right foot. Garth casually put his hand on the door and pushed, effortlessly forcing Craig Valley back into what turned out to be a wood-paneled vestibule decorated with what I considered to be rather tacky religious art. I stepped in first and Garth followed, closing the door behind him.

  “You have no right to come in here!” Valley squeaked, continuing to back away until he banged up against the side of the archway that framed the entrance to his living room. His face was deeply flushed, making the rash on his chin and cheeks stand out like chalk dust. “I’ll call the police!”

  “A good idea,” Garth said brusquely as he brushed past the cringing Craig Valley and entered the living room.

  I walked up to stand in the archway beside Valley, watched as Garth picked up the receiver of a telephone on a small desk across the room, held it out.

  “You want me to dial them for you, Valley?” Garth continued casually.

  “What is wrong with you people?!” Valley shouted near my left ear. His voice was growing even higher pitched, and was now close to soprano range.

  “You mentioned something about calling the police,” I said, stepping away and rubbing my left ear. “Garth is just trying to oblige you. When they arrive, we can all sit down and chat about a possibly illegal shipment of an agricultural commodity that you arranged for Nuvironment. I certainly hope you acquired the necessary permits, Valley. I also hope you have whatever money was promised to you, because my bet is that your bosses are going to be very unhappy to be caught with dirty hands, if you will. Now, Garth and I really don’t give a damn about all that dirt, or the bugs in it, so you might be better off just answering our questions. What do you think, Dr. Valley?”

  The blood slowly drained from the botanist’s face, leaving his flesh with a pasty, grayish hue. His mouth kept opening and closing, but no sound came out, and his head kept swiveling back and forth between Garth and me, his watery eyes wide with shock—and, I was certain, fear.

  “How could you know?” he finally managed to say in a small voice that cracked. “How on earth could you possibly know?”

  I motioned for Garth to put down the phone, and he did; then I motioned for Valley to sit down on the sagging couch in his living room, and he did. His movements were stiff and awkward, as if he were drunk.

  “We’re really not interested in getting you into trouble, Dr. Valley,” I said as I went into the living room and sat down on a footstool in front of the couch. I glanced over my shoulder at Garth, who had moved to the fireplace and was leaning on the mantel. His face was impassive, but he was gazing intently into the red-haired botanist’s face. “All we want is some information, and we have a very good and important reason for wanting it. Nobody will be told that we got the information from you.” I paused as Valley suddenly leaned forward, clasped his hands together, and bowed his head. At first I thought he might be sick, and it was a few moments before I realized that he was praying. “Are you all right, Dr. Valley?”

  There was no reply. I again glanced at Garth, who simply nodded as an indication that I should go on.

  “We already know that Nuvironment’s sole business is conducting research into the feasibility of constructing self-contained environments called biospheres,” I continued quietly, speaking to the top of the man’s head. “Bringing in that soil means that they’re ready to construct at least an experimental prototype, most probably on a site somewhere around here. I repeat: we’re not interested in getting you into trouble. But we already know that you tried to get the soil for them while you were working at the Botanical Garden; we know all about how the Customs Service stopped the plan, and about the personal and professional difficulties you suffered soon afterward; we know that the soil is now in this country. Before, Garth and I weren’t sure that you’d been involved in importing it; after your little outburst in the foyer, we are sure. Now, sir, we need to know where that soil was dumped, and we need to know right now—this minute. The truth of the matter is—”

  Suddenly Craig Valley’s head snapped up and his right arm shot out so that his trembling index finger was only inches from my chest. The veins and cords in his neck stood out and writhed like worms beneath his skin, and his watery gray eyes gleamed with rage, hatred—and madness.

  “You’ll know the truth before long, nonbeliever!” he shrieked at the top of his lungs, thoroughly startling me so that I almost fell backward off the footstool. “‘And there went out another horse that was red!’ Soon you and your brother will see the second beast!”

  I braced myself on the stool and waited for more, but Valley had apparently finished saying his piece. He glared at me for a few moments with his madness-glazed eyes, then abruptly slumped into a corner of the sofa, covered his face with his hands, and began to tremble violently. And then he began to pray again—or chant, or something; his voice was steadily rising in pitch and volume, but I couldn’t make out anything he was saying.

  Garth abruptly strode across the room, grabbed a handful of Valley’s shirt, and pulled him up into a sitting position. End of prayer. Valley gasped, then made a mewling sound deep in his throat, like the cry of a startled animal.

  “Pull yourself together and do your praying later,” my brother said in a low, even voice. “The reason we need to know where the soil was dumped is because there’s a little girl somewhere around there who’s being sexually abused. Considering the fact that some guy could be giving her a bad time at this very moment, Mongo and I really don’t have any time for you and your bullshit.” Garth paused, and smiled thinly without any warmth whatsoever. “It’s almost Christmas, pal, so how about getting into the spirit of the season and giving a little kid a break? I’ll take it as a nice gesture if you do, and then I’ll refrain from breaking your arm. If you don’t want to be opening presents with one hand, the next words out of your mouth had better be in a language Mongo and I can understand. Now where the fuck is Nuvironment storing that dirt?”

  Garth had certainly gotten Valley’s attention; the man’s pale gray eyes were wide—but they now mirrored as much shock as alarm or madness. “What you say is impossible,” he said to Garth in a hoarse, croaking voice. “It’s impossible.”

  “What’s impossible?” I asked. “Are you saying Nuvironment d
oesn’t have the dirt, or are you denying that you helped them bring it into this country?”

  Valley’s response was to wag his head repeatedly. His mouth with its thin lips opened and closed, but the only sound he managed to produce was a kind of whimper. He resembled nothing so much as a very ugly beached fish that had been brought up from some very deep, lightless layer of a poisonous ocean.

  “No, I don’t think that’s what he means,” Garth said, his voice soft and oddly distant. My brother’s matter-of-fact tone and lack of visible expression were beginning to make me feel decidedly uneasy. I’d learned that with Garth, since his poisoning with nitrophenylpentadienal and his eventual recovery, it was best to read his emotional and behavioral traffic signals in reverse from the way they would be read with most other people. “I do think he means that what I said was happening to the girl is impossible.” He paused, tightened his grip on the botanist’s shirt ever so slightly. “If you don’t want to talk about one kind of dirt, pal, then we’ll talk about another. Tell us where the good Reverend William Kenecky is holed up.”

  Craig Valley finally found his voice—and it sounded haunted. “It’s impossible. The reverend is a man of God; he would never do such a thing.”

  Garth yanked Valley to his feet, ripping the man’s shirt. My brother let go of the tattered fabric, wrapped his fingers around the other man’s throat. “He’s repeatedly raping a girl by the name of Vicky Brown, Valley—and I assume you know who she is too. Jesus Christ, man, if you care anything about children, or even just this child, tell us where to find Kenecky and the girl. Where is Nuvironment storing the dirt?”

  “God, I’m going to be sick,” the botanist groaned, and put a hand over his mouth as he retched dryly. “Please let me go to the bathroom.”

  Garth released his grip as I rose from the footstool and stepped away. Valley staggered across the living room and through another archway into the dining room. Garth and I followed, watched as he entered a bathroom adjacent to the kitchen at the rear of the town house, slammed the door shut behind him. A few seconds later there was the sound of water running.