by Ed Markham
“And you believe him?” she had asked. “You believe a kid who killed people the way he did?”
“Yes.”
When she had questioned him about his resignation, he had been less forthcoming. “I did what I had to do,” he’d told her. “I don’t know what happens next, but I know what had to happen when I was in that room with Hemingway and the rest of them.”
The news broke the following day. Both the Times and the Post reported that WikiLeaks had published documents—documents it claimed had come from the late Derek Gould—that outlined a clandestine government propaganda program involving Ketchy, Pithy, their founders, and several other prominent Internet entities and CEOs.
Within a week, as the press coverage of the leak broadened and intensified, more than a dozen men and women in senior leadership roles within the FBI, the NSA, and the National Security Council had resigned. Both Jonathan Hemingway and Andrea Dean had been implicated in the leaked documents, and both had stepped down.
It had taken David almost forty-eight hours to read through all the WikiLeaks material. To his great relief, he had found no evidence that Carl Wainbridge had knowledge of the program, which appeared to be confined to a special Bureau unit based in San Francisco and partly under Dean’s supervision.
Now he watched as Carl reached forward, picked his Guinness up from the bar, and took a drink.
“Of course I understand now why you couldn’t say very much when you got back from California,” Carl said as he returned his glass to the bar. “I also understand why you resigned. I’ve considered it myself these last few days. Many of us have.” He regarded his beer quietly for a moment, and then he turned to look at David. “But you know the work we do is good. It’s right and it’s necessary. What we’ve learned this last week changes how we see our organization and our government, but it doesn’t change what we know about ourselves or the job we do.” He paused to search David’s face. “What’s that expression your father likes—we chase people who hurt people. That’s what we do, David. That hasn’t changed.”
Carl took another thoughtful sip of his beer. He said, “After the news broke, I was hoping I’d get a call from you. It took all my restraint to wait as long as I did before requesting this meeting.” He turned to look at his agent. “Come back, David. You’re needed.”
David looked at his former boss. He wanted very badly to tell Carl yes—to tell him that he would come back and that everything would be just like it was before.
But he couldn’t. Things had changed for him.
The two men sat side by side, drinking their beers and watching the bar fill up as afternoon stretched into early evening.
Hours later, long after Carl had gone, David remained. He sat quietly, sipping his beer and considering what would come next.
.
Author’s Note
Thanks for reading Ghosts in the Machine. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.
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All my thanks,
Ed Markham
Preview of the unnamed, in-progress fourth book in the David and Martin Yerxa series.
The man stepped forward onto the stippled rim of the station platform and peered down the dark tunnel.
Though he could not yet see the oncoming train, he could feel its vibrations—its powerful, swiftly moving bulk—in his knees and calves and the soles of his feet, and he could hear the scream of its brakes as it approached the final curve before his stop.
It was early—not yet six-thirty in the morning. The train stop was mostly deserted, and the man stood at the end of the platform farthest from the station’s entrance and next to a blue-tiled pillar he knew would conceal him from commuters.
He felt the air around him shift and then condense as the oncoming train approached. Thoughts flashed through his head. He remembered the girl—blonde and green-eyed and maybe twenty-two years old—and the way she’d looked with his hands around her throat.
He hadn’t expected her tongue to stick out the way it had—like the tongue of some cartoon character being choked. The sight of it, wet and red and tapered, had distracted him from the look in her eyes, and so had nearly ruined the whole experience. Nearly. In the end, the pleasure he felt overwhelmed everything else.
Afterward, sitting beside the dead girl and staring at his hands, the man could hardly believe it had happened, and that it had managed to surpass his expectations. The things we look forward to most and longest so often disappoint us. But after years of daydreaming—daydreams that sprang from a kind of abstract desire, and that had eventually coalesced into a profound and specific yearning—the act itself had eclipsed any sense of pleasure or release the man had thought possible. It wasn’t sexual or emotional. It was a perfect ecstasy of the soul.
And to think, the girl was a nobody. Not even his type. Certainly not one of the four. His four, or so he thought of them. His girls. What would happen if he repeated the act with one of his beloved four was incomprehensible. He thought the very universe might break apart.
But he would never find out, because he was ending things. Here and now, on this platform. He had experienced something no Earthly man was entitled to feel.
This kind of thinking appealed to him very much—that he was somehow not of the Earth, and that he was above other mortal men. Not a god exactly. Certainly not THE God. But possessing god-like power—a greater capacity for feeling and awareness, and a god’s ability to take or give life. He’d demonstrated that ability once already, and now he would demonstrate it again. Only this time, he would take his own life to spare the lives of his four—his girls.
The sound of the oncoming train was loud in his ears. He eased forward, away from the tiled pillar, and saw that the light of the train was bright against the curving wall of the tunnel. The light tightened and concentrated, and then the train was around the corner and screeching toward him. It was time.
He stepped fully onto the yellow warning strip that ran along the edge of the platform. He closed his eyes and let his hands drop to his sides. He let out a long breath, and then he began to fall forward. Again, he felt the surge of pleasure—the perfect harmony in his soul.
Everything faded, even the sound of the train. This was right.
And then the hands were on him. Strong hands, on his arm and on his collar, pulling him backward.
The man’s eyes sprang open, and the world rushed back into focus. He saw the train sliding past, big and heavy and loud as its brakes screeched and drowned out all other sound.
The man realized the person who had pulled him from death was still yanking him backwards—hauling him away from the train tracks and the edge of the platform. He felt himself pinned hard against the wall of the station, and then he saw the person who had rescued him.
It was a man roughly his own age, but one several inches taller and with dark hair and pale blue eyes that were wide with alarm.
The two looked at each other, and neither seemed to know what to say. Finally, the rescuer said, “Are you alright?”
The man considered this. Different replies came to mind. So many ideas were running through his head that he felt disoriented—suspended somewhere between this life and what comes afterward. Eventually he answered with a question of his own. “What’s your name?”
His rescuer looked confu
sed. “My name?”
“Please,” the man said. “You just saved my life. Tell me your name.”
After a long pause, the rescuer loosened his grip but did not let go. He said, “My name is David Yerxa. I’m a Philadelphia Police Detective. I think we should go together to a place where you can talk with someone.”
“David Yerxa,” the man repeated. “Thank you, David Yerxa.” His fist shot forward, and he delivered a hard punch to his rescuer’s midsection. The strong hands that had saved him lost their grip, and the man ran down the platform.
Outside the station, he felt the morning sunlight on his face and felt reborn.
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