Sanctuary Creek

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  “Like on me?”

  “Like on both of us.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “About the video.”

  “What is it with this damn video?” Samson hissed, slamming back the caffeine.

  “Ter? If somebody was shopping a loop with me starring in it, I’d have a couple questions.”

  Samson gave a nod. Motioned for Carter to continue.

  “Let’s examine a few hypotheticals. Let’s say that Jeffie got a pink slip courtesy of the Founding Father. Nothing rough, nothing messy. The usual package. Couple years with pay, bennies, outplace if he needed it, which I doubt he would, finding a new place in the sun then…”

  “JG wouldn’t need that. He’d have a job in 24 hours. Half-dozen places would be happy to… “

  “May I continue with my raging hypotheticalness?”

  “Please proceed.”

  “So he gets to keep the car, gets a low interest loan on a little cottage in the enchanted forest, seein’ as how I don’t think they’ll let him take the crib with. So we wake up one fine day and old Jefferino is no longer amongst us.” Carter leaned in, folding his hands then nudging his coffee aside. “The Founding Father enlists the mammoth computers of Transponder Electronic Data to conduct a nationwide search for the appropriate replacement part but alas, they discover after the wasteful spending of millions upon millions of dollars, that the gems were sitting in Pete’s backyard.”

  “Me?”

  Carter howled.

  “Continue,” Samson replied, motioning to himself, picking up his cup and taking a quick sip. “I like this part.”

  “Me too, my man. I’d like it for myself but I just haven’t made the proper connections. If you follow my meaning. Have you really cranked her?”

  “Who?”

  “Either one of ’em.”

  “Show me the video.”

  “Ain’t got it.” Carter paused. “Like to see it. Twice.”

  “Back to the coalition.”

  “Right. Quasi-Cardinal Terence P. Samson is made head honcho of the sacredest of all parties within the sacredest of all Churches. What’s the first thing you’d do?”

  “Fire your ass,” Samson laughed.

  “Then what?”

  “Hire you back,” he laughed again.

  “Then what?”

  “Clean house on the third floor.”

  “Now, Cardinal? Is this before you pick out a new ride and the furniture for that very palatial, two-story house Mr. Gayle has had to leave behind in the wake of his well-padded flight from the Creek?”

  Samson considered the attractive options. “First the car. Then when the furniture was being delivered I’d mull over who was getting the boot.”

  Carter glanced through a few pages then placed it in the center of the table. “Now Cardinal? I’m sorry. Mr. Executive Director. You are, if I may suggest, gonna have a lot of pressing issues on your mind, the size of that of a multitude of formicidae who also reside here at the big SC.”

  “Forma… what?”

  “Formicidae. Ants.”

  “Oh. I’d have matters other than that but it would sure be one of the best parts. And should this come to pass, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t refer to me as Anthead anymore.”

  “Okay. Director Anthead.”

  “What happens next in your… how Chell puts up with you is a mystery.”

  “Let me ask you a critical question for which I already possess the probable answer. Should such a hypothetical transpire into fruition, what would be the fate of a Mr. Steede?”

  “Jimmy? He was one of the first who comes to mind.”

  Steede was the Personnel Manager for the Party.

  “So you’d off him?”

  “Top of the list,” Samson agreed.

  “But you’d have to replace him with somebody, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “I got the perfect candidate,” Carter said, running a finger down an elaborate chart.

  “Who?”

  “You’re lookin’ at him.”

  “You’d want Personnel? He can’t be making what you make.”

  “He makes 70 percent of what they pay me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Same way I know I make a 120 percent of what you do.”

  “You do?”

  “And I also only make about 45 percent of what Jeff makes.”

  Samson did some quick figuring, amazed that Carter was paid more than him and that Gayle earned so much. “But why Personnel?”

  “That’s only a piece. More formality to my other duties. Something like Senior Assistant Executive Director.”

  “There’s not a grade for that.”

  “If you were the Ex, you could create it. Like Primo wouldn’t sign off?”

  Samson thought about it. Not a bad idea. He could delegate the day-to-day functions of leading the Party apparatus to Carter and then spend his time looking at the big picture, working the philosophy end of the business. That was where Gayle’s greatest weakness resided: too caught up in the details while ignoring broader strokes. He’d spend days studying the budget projections of Headquarters but only devote a few minutes examining FR and Camp strategies. The heavier cargoes.

  “Guess I could,” Samson agreed, leaning away and glancing about Prince’s. “For which you get what?”

  “Maybe 75 of what you’ll be pulling down plus a single family house plus a car and an expense account I can do whatever I want with.”

  “Gee? That’s all?”

  “If you could arrange for that little dish of angel hair pasta that’s working for you up on nine to drop down and work for me, I’d appreciate it.”

  “But this is all hypothetical.”

  “Look. I got a score I’d like to settle with JG. He’s bleeding right now and if it meant putting you in, I could see playing the card.”

  Samson considered the offer. He’d engaged in countless What If conversations in the past with his friend but this was the first time Carter was actually serious. Assuming the whole SSF thing was kept underground, Peter would never let him be harmed. But for Carter it was a different story. He didn’t have a safety net. Always seemed to get by on a mixture of talent, guile and luck. So if his friend felt the time was ripe, maybe it was.

  “I think you might be onto something, Mr. Senior Assistant Whatever.”

  “And Personnel Manager with a very sharp axe.” Carter studied his chart. “Only brought to bear, of course, with the permission and approval of the Ex.”

  They talked another ten minutes on what the new Sanctuarian Party structure would look like, in total agreement on every major position. It was the middle managers—the jockeys who didn’t have the horses to make the feature race - who would require second looks.

  Carter finished his second cup and said he had to get back to Tray to put “some long-festering thoughts” into action.

  “This is all still hypothetical.”

  “Sure it is, Eminence. Just looking into the vague, attenuated snippets of knowledge that I’m charged with noodling through.” He hesitated. “Ever heard of something called Silver Piece?”

  “Not that I could say,” Samson replied nonchalantly. “What’s the logline?”

  “Somethin’ the Outsiders have been pickin’ up on.”

  The Outsiders were a loose-knit group of stragglers, informants, spies, loners, conspiracy buffs and petty criminals who provided, for a fee or a favor, information of interest to the Party when asked or volunteered it on their own. Samson had no idea how the group originated, how they were rewarded nor how connections were made. Depending on who was talking, it was Internal Affairs, External Affairs, Security or State. Sometimes the intelligence was good, sometimes not. But the involvement of the Church with this band of desperados and stool pigeons was kept at arms’ distance from official channels on the off-chance they were working in tandem with other entities.

  “The log must’a come from a Redwood.
Dirty fingers have been pointed at everything from Analog Mach to… most of the Outs are thinkin’ the Cult’s cookin’ Pearl Harbor Parto Duo.”

  “Attacking the Creek with bombs?”

  “More subtle. Not its body. It’s heart and soul.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  There were five messages waiting when Samson arrived back at his office.

  Cardinal Valenti, Jeff Gayle, Bishop Guarini, Charlie Brewster, Shamrock.

  He decided to return them in the order received.

  The Secretary of Security wasn’t available but his BA said the business operations of Sanctuary Creek would be closed down at 2:00 PM so those wishing to attend the wake or memorial service for Cardinal Castro would have plenty of time to make their way to Holy Name Cathedral. Each Secretary could let his staff leave at noon.

  “My staff?” Samson asked. “I don’t even know who they are.”

  “I’m sure Bishop Barton can assist you on that, Secretary,” came the reply.

  Hanging up, he called to Esposito. She stepped to the doorway.

  “Is Bishop Barton around?”

  “He’s in the city attending to the arrangements for the services.”

  “Tell the staff they can leave at noon so they go to them.”

  “Juan would have appreciated that. Thank you. I’ll start the chain immediately.”

  The next call found the Executive Director sounding preoccupied but not the way Samson was expecting. Instead of an interrogation, Gayle led with a compliment on the promotion, followed with the observation that he was looking forward to Samson’s return to the third floor. Every time Samson tried to broach the subject of possible changes within the Party structure, finally stating he’d heard he might be being considered for Gayle’s position, the man brushed it off as nothing more than confusion inside the Church over recent events and the active imaginations of “certain operatives and cynics.” They talked another few minutes, no hint of anger or challenge in Gayle’s voice.

  “You going into the city, Jeff?”

  “Me and a few others have been asked to attend the private at the Mansion.”

  “Party guys? Who else got the nod?”

  “Me and a few others. See you there.”

  The call to Guarini found the Bishop Assistant to Cardinal Pelosi at the headquarters of the Party of the Faithful in Rome. He wanted to communicate that both he and the Cardinal expressed their congratulations on his promotion and would cooperate with or assist him any way they could. Samson said thanks with the same amount of obvious insincerity that was coming through the line.

  The call to Brewster found the Acers top fundraiser unavailable but that he also wanted to convey congrats and was very keen about talking later.

  He thought about returning the fifth call, then thought otherwise. First, he didn’t have the number handy: it sitting in a book he kept in his den. And even if he did, he wouldn’t from this particular office or floor. He was due for lunch at the Mansion in 90 minutes so decided to take a crack at Silver Piece again. Forty-five later he hadn’t made an inch of headway, the computer still refusing to yield any secrets. So he switched it off then steepled his fingers beneath his chin and closed his eyes.

  I don’t know if you’re listening, Sir. Right at this particular moment in space and time I’m in need of a major assist. I’ve got to make a little progress on this ’cause it’s turning… Look. I’ll take it on any terms you direct.

  When he blinked them open he saw Esposito in the doorway again, one hand high near the jamb and the other—holding her sizeable key ring—at her hip.

  “I’d thought you’d left with everyone.”

  She shook her head, closed the double doors then after inserting a key, locked both in a single motion. “Protocol says that on a GBF… or on this GB Tuesday… Secretary plus one aide stays behind.”

  “But you, of anyone, ought to be down at the…”

  “Rosalita phoned while you were returning your calls and told me I was on the I-List for the private in the Chapel tomorrow. Did you submit me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry,” she continued. “How else could I have been invited? Thank you,” she added, dropping the ring then approaching and stopping, hands clasped behind her back.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with the invitation. Must have been the call of His Holiness.” He paused. “He’s pretty… he always picks who he wants at the Commands and seeing Juan thought so highly of you… I’d take it as a compliment.”

  “Did you look in his… there’s a leather notebook he kept for ages. Did you look in there for it?”

  “For what?”

  “Silver Piece.”

  His ears buzzed.

  “Why would he have anything about a pop group in it?”

  She met his eyes, tongue moistening her lips.

  “I was on the SN and happened upon the KINTV site,” she said, letting the observation hang there.

  “Oh. I must have been mistaken about the name. Maybe it was something like… “

  “Like saying I could trust you?”

  “I really apologize but… “

  “I don’t accept apologies with conditions attached.”

  He took a measured breath. “I sincerely apologize, Beetsee. It’s just… “

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s just I’m not good at saying I’m sorry. Please. Forgive me.”

  “Hmmmmm,” she murmured, framing her chin and flushing cheek with the L formed with her left thumb and forefinger. “What shall we come up with as a penance for your deceit? What contrition shall we exact to get you the correct key to the correct lock in the correct place?”

  Stop. Hold on. Stay in control. Don’t say it.

  “Anything you say, Beetsee.”

  The expression on her face went peaceful. Satisfied peaceful.

  “Sit on the couch,” she suggested without looking or pointing to the one of the three he knew she meant. He obeyed, stationing himself tightly on the closest cushion as she stepped to the media rig. She inserted a CD and a light percussive intro oozed from the speakers. She faced him, easing a hand across her chest then absently scratching her neck.

  “May I ask a question, please?”

  “Anything.”

  “The… situations I described earlier? What appealed to you most?”

  Touching a hot, bare 220 volt line would have provided a similar jolt, especially just below the belt. This time he didn’t lie. “All of them.”

  She weighed his reply then moved to a cabinet and opened it, removing a bottle and two glasses. Not looking back she said, “Well, seeing the stereo is on… “

  “No.”

  “You said anything you say, Beetsee.”

  I don’t know if you’re listening, Sir. I appreciate the offer but…

  “Not until Juan… just wouldn’t be right. And you should be down at HN.”

  She measured the refusal. “Fair enough. I’ll postpone your penance until another time of my choosing. I’ll give you what you need now and you’ll give me what I want later. Agreed?”

  “Thank you. Agreed.”

  As soon as she was gone, he eagerly began paging through the journal she’d delivered from behind the false front of a deco-style red radio. The worn cover indicated it had been around the block a few times and the date on the first page confirmed it—Castro had begun the entries three decades earlier. It wasn’t a diary; more a depository for random thoughts that didn’t fit anywhere else. There were poems, drawings, scribbles about people or events, proposed vacation itineraries, recipes, lists touching on topics from The 50 Movies I Want on a Desert Island to Ten Worst Ways to Die!

  He flipped ahead to the most recent entries and there it was on the third-to-last inscribed page. The heading read: Dr. Strangelove—the Sequel. Below it and stretching to the opposite page was an extended Scrabble-like compendium. The six interlocking lines repeated themselves in different sizes, different inks an
d variations of Castro’s script ranging from his usual flowing cursive to bordering on illegible.

  SILVERPIECE

  PROTECTPETER

  WATCHAK

  STOPISCARIOT

  COSTBENANAL

  PURLOINEDLETTER

  The final page, dated the day before he died, read:

  Forgive me, Father, 4 I know not what to do

  Your servant,

  JCC

  * * *

  The package Zen promised had arrived when Samson returned home. He reached for it as he unlocked the door, then tossed it on the couch to answer the phone.

  “Cardinal Formidicae? How’d you get banker’s hours?”

  “Admin’s closed until tomorrow. How’d you like to spend an afternoon in the office of somebody who’s being waked?”

  “Don’t start gettin’ superstitious with me, man. I got enough weirdness going on in my life.”

  Samson sighed. “Now what?”

  “How about death threats?”

  “Who’d bother killing you?”

  “Same people who might be interested in affording the same ticket to eternity for yourself. Call we got a few minutes ago. Probably just some goofy… came through the switchboard. Some woman sounding, according to the operator, like she’d spent the morning with her good friends Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker. She said that the… lemme read it word for word… that the infidel leaders of the Satan-directed Sanctuarian Party would die before the illustrious and moral Cardinal Castro was buried.”

  “Did you tell Security about it?”

  “I told Jeff and we gave them a courtesy call.” He paused. “But we’ve been getting a lot of those types of calls lately. Besides, you’re not one of the infidel leaders, anyway. You’re Admin now.”

  “Still…”

  “But with this other piece of cake, Security is in a tither about, I’m startin’ to think about hiring on my own Clarence.”

  “So what’s bothering them now?”

  “The helicopter. Appears the pilot might not have died in the crash. Maybe a gunshot wound. They found a spent nine mil shell in the wreck.”