Double Edged Blade

by Blake Banner

“It’s none of your goddamn business what it is. I need to keep it hidden for a few hours. Swallow it and I’ll un-cuff you and untie your ankles. Don’t and you’re no use to me, so I’ll blow your brains out.”

  He nodded. It took him a few tries, but he eventually managed. When he’d swallowed it, I went and got him another glass of milk to help him get it all the way down. He drank it and thanked me. I smiled.

  “What you just swallowed is a square inch of C4.” His face drained of all color and his arms and legs started trembling. I showed him my phone. “It has a remote detonator. If I dial the number 9 three times, it will explode with enough force to blow out all your abdominal organs and cut you in half. Do you fully comprehend that?” I showed him the phone. “This has the range of any ordinary cell. You could go to Australia and I would still reach you. Do you understand?”

  His jaw started to tremble and he began to weep. I untied his ankles and removed his cuffs.

  “Do exactly as I say, and in a few hours you’ll crap and be free. Just stay cool and try not to annoy me. C4 is very stable and very safe. Unless I dial, you’re OK.”

  He nodded. “OK, whatever you say. Just please don’t…”

  “Take it easy.” I stood. “Come on, we are going into town. By this evening this will all be over.”

  His expression was pathetic. He looked grateful.

  I led him out to the truck and we drove through the morning into El Presidio and parked at La Placita Shopping Center. I left the sheriff in the truck in the parking lot and went to buy a lever arch file, a black felt pen and a giant manila envelope. Then I sat in the sun, in the gardens on El Paso Avenue, and put the lever arch file, with its contents, into the envelope and addressed it to Professor Engels, at the University of Arizona, School of Natural Resources and the Environment.

  When I’d done all that, I returned to the truck. I climbed in and handed the Sheriff the envelope.

  “I want you to deliver this, this afternoon, at the university.”

  He nodded. “OK.” He looked kind of relieved. I guess he was thinking that if he delivered it, that meant he would still be alive. He swallowed. “What now?”

  “Now we go to the law offices of Mathersen and Gelt, to swear an affidavit.” I reached in my inside pocket for the document I had written the night before. I handed it to him. “Read it.”

  He took it and started reading. Then he stopped and stared at me. “Are you insane?”

  “Read it!”

  He coughed and read aloud.

  “I, Caleb Brown, sheriff of San Juan County, Arizona, do hereby aver and swear that I have, through diligent and thorough investigation, uncovered proof positive that certain individuals within the University of Arizona, working within the School of Natural Resources and the Environment, are engaged in illegal experiments, as part of a conspiracy conducted by an organization named Omega, forming a government within the government, to exercise mind control over the population of the United States.

  “These experiments are being conducted at the partially finished Biosphere 3 project, currently in construction at Buena Vista Lake, south of Beyerville, where sun beetles are being cultivated for the psychotropic, mind-altering chemicals contained in their exoskeletons.

  “Experiments are also being conducted as part of Project Apollo, where human brains are being grown on rats to ascertain whether certain neural functions can be hijacked and controlled. Also involved is the Social Environmentalism Project, which is linked to the departments of Social Sciences and Psychology, to study the interaction of the environment with the collective human psyche. All of these projects have the purpose of enslaving the human population of the U.S.A. to serve Omega.

  “I further aver that all three of these projects are funded with money donated by the Sinaloa drugs cartel in Mexico, through the following money laundering operations: Inversiones Sonora, based in Hermosillo, Mexico; Phoenix Investments, based in Washington DC; and R&D Funding, based in Boston, and are overseen by Rafael Montilla, a leading member of the Sinaloa cartel.

  “Documentary evidence and proof of these claims is contained in a file which I have handed to Professor Engels of the University of Arizona, to be presented by him to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have taken these unorthodox steps because I do not know whom I can trust. Signed and sworn…” His voice trailed off. “You are. You’re insane. You’re one of those whacked-out conspiracy nut jobs.”

  “Maybe, either way you’re going to sign it.”

  We pulled up on West Cushing outside a low, one-story building that looked like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie. We pushed through the door and the receptionist looked up and smiled at us. The sheriff smiled nervously back.

  “I need to see one of the attorneys, any one of them, don’t matter which, but it’s real urgent. Real urgent. You might say it’s a matter of life or death.”

  He didn’t need to lay it on. She could see by his pale skin and his perspiration that he was sincere.

  “I think Mr. Brunswick is free at the moment…” She picked up the internal phone and a couple of minutes later we were shown into Mr. Brunswick’s office. He was a distinguished man with silver hair and a pencil moustache. He shook hands with us and showed us to a couple of chairs at his desk. He smiled urbanely.

  “Sheriff, my receptionist tells me your matter is urgent.” He frowned. “You are of course out of your jurisdiction…”

  I smiled back. “Jurisdiction is not an issue here, Mr. Brunswick.”

  He glanced at me curiously. “Indeed, well, what is the issue?”

  The sheriff took a deep breath and handed over the document. “I want… I need to sign this affidavit.”

  Brunswick started to read and frowned. He glanced up at the sheriff, settled his ass and continued reading, his frown deepening as he did so. When he had finished, he sat a moment staring at the single sheet of paper. Finally, he said, “Of course, I can’t stop you from swearing this document, Sheriff…”

  I gave a small cough. “Nor would it be lawful or ethical for you to attempt to do so, Mr. Brunswick. The most you can do is to ask the sheriff, very properly, if he is truly willing to swear to the content of that affidavit.”

  His face had become hostile. “I am aware of my duties, Mr. Walker. I do not need to be reminded.” He sighed deeply and looked back at the sheriff with searching eyes and said, “Are you quite certain that this is what you want to do, having taken into account all the consequences?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Yes.”

  Brunswick read the document aloud, the sheriff signed the paper, and the attorney stamped and sealed it. I said, “We are going to need a dozen official copies.”

  Twenty minutes later, we stepped out into the October sunshine and climbed back into the Toyota. Sheriff Caleb looked bad. I started up the truck and we drove at a steady pace to Fort Lowell Road. There are not many cyber cafes in Tucson. But there is one there, and we parked outside and went in. You could tell by the sheriff’s face that he knew the whole business was coming to a head. He had the look of a man who is about to come face to face with his destiny. He wasn’t wrong. He just didn’t know yet what his destiny was.

  We scanned the document and I attached it to eight emails. Phil had given me the necessary addresses the night before. They were the addresses of national TV and newspaper journalists who he knew would jump at a story like this. It would not be enough to blow the top off the conspiracy, not by a long shot. I was not naïve enough to believe that. But it would be enough to cause Omega hurt and worry, and maybe even force them to scupper these particular research programs. It might buy time, and it might also be enough to make Marni talk to me.

  The emails named a time and a place where the sheriff swearing the attached affidavit would hand over documents probative of the conspiracy alluded to in the sworn statement, to senior academics from the School of Natural Resources and the Environment of the University of Arizona, for them to hand over in turn to the FBI. The han
dover would take place at four o’clock that afternoon, at the Biosphere 3 Project complex, at Buena Vista Lake, Beyerville, in the southern parking lot. It recommended they keep a discreet distance until the handover.

  That left just one thing to be done.

  We drove south down Campbell, toward the university. We parked outside the School of Natural Resources and the Environment and walked, through the late morning sun, toward Professor Engels’ office. His secretary looked surprised, but not in a good way, to see me, and frowned at the sheriff.

  “Can I help you?”

  I’d primed the sheriff in the truck on what I wanted him to say. He sat, uninvited, and I sat next to him. He took out his handkerchief while she watched him, and mopped his brow.

  “It’s a little delicate,” he said and managed to smile with his mouth while he frowned with his eyes. “I really need to see Professor Engels, quite urgently.”

  She gave me the dead eye and said to the sheriff, “I have already explained that he is out of town…”

  He interrupted her. “Yeah, I know that, sugar, but see, you’re gonna have to get him back here real fast, because his career is on the line and I am trying to save it for him. Now, I know you’re trying to help him, sweet cheeks, but he ain’t gonna be very grateful to you if he gets back to find he’s lost his job and his reputation because you didn’t want to call him on the phone.”

  Her face had flushed and she had gone very stiff.

  “I don’t know where he is!”

  “Then here is what you are going to do.” He held up the lever arch file for her to see. “In this file I have documents which could end Professor Engels’ career. You understand me? So you need to get onto his colleagues—you listen real careful to me now—his colleagues on the Biosphere 3 project, Project Apollo and the Social Environmentalism Project. You got that? Write it down.” She wrote it down and he went on. “You get onto them right now and tell them to get a hold of him, and bring him, urgent, to the Biosphere 3 southern parking lot, today by four PM. I’ll be in a Toyota truck. And there, I will hand over these documents to him and his colleagues.”

  He pulled a long manila envelope from his pocket. It was an envelope I had given him earlier. It contained an official copy of his affidavit. He handed it to her. “Give this to them. If I see anybody other than Engels and his colleagues in that parking lot, that shit goes public in ten minutes flat.” He nodded at her phone. “Do it, sweet cakes.”

  And we left.

  Twenty Four

  I figured it was a safe bet that Engels was in bed with Omega. It followed that his colleagues on the three Omega projects were also in bed with them. They couldn’t be sure, but they had to believe there was an even chance that the documents the sheriff was talking about handing over might be Marni’s father’s research.

  It took us slightly over an hour to get to the Biosphere, following the route I had taken with Red and his boys when we’d gone to see Romero. It seemed like a month ago, but it was only a couple of days. We headed south on the I-19 and came off at Rio Rico, going southeast along the course of the Santa Cruz river as far as Bayerville. Now, in the daylight, you could see the sprawl of the Biosphere 3 construction site, with its two vast, completed white spheres, and the third, further away in the distance, half finished.

  Connecting them was an expanse of gardens, low, flat buildings, and smaller spheres and domes. It looked like a set from a 1960s sci-fi movie, sparkling white under the perfect, desert sky, with the sun reflecting off the Bella Vista lake.

  Now, instead of following the road south toward the border, as we had that night, we turned east and wound down into the valley and the concrete expanse of parking lots that surrounded the complex. Finally, I came to a halt in the south lot, making sure the truck was clearly visible. I checked my watch. It was three PM.

  The sheriff looked depressed. He frowned at me, searching my face. Maybe he hoped to find some compassion there.

  “Tell me straight, son. Do you plan on killing me?”

  “I told you already. Do as I say, follow my instructions to the letter, and this afternoon you get to go home.”

  He nodded. Thought about it and nodded again. “OK, thank you.”

  I sat a moment looking back at him, thinking about all the young girls he had helped to kidnap and sell into the white slave trade; of all the lives he had destroyed, all the happiness he had robbed from them. I climbed out. He did the same and came around to join me.

  “You do this next bit on your own,” I said. His eyebrows twitched. I went on, “They’ll be here in about fifty minutes, maybe sooner. I want you to greet them right there…” I pointed to a spot midway between the tailgate and the hood. “It has to be exactly there, you understand?”

  He nodded and stood in the spot. He wanted to be helpful. He wanted to go home. “Right here?”

  “Right there, Sheriff. You let them come to you. You do not under any circumstances go to them. There will be three or four of them, maybe more. Whoever seems to be in charge, you hand them the package. They will leave and you will get in the truck and go home.”

  “Just like that?”

  “That simple.”

  “OK…” There was the faint ring of hope in his voice. I held out my hand to him. “I won’t be seeing you again, Sheriff. I hope you’ve learned something from this experience.”

  He took my hand and shook it. He looked confused. Maybe he was having an epiphany.

  I turned and walked away from him, across the concrete, across the sidewalk, and through the glass doors into the cool, domed atrium of the southern sphere. There was a reception desk on the right. Ahead of me there was a wide space, maybe sixty or seventy yards across, with clusters of chairs and small tables covered in magazines and leaflets. Small tropical gardens dotted the area, with tall palms and ferns reaching high up toward the dome, where water vapor was released in a fine spray, down onto the plants.

  I picked up a magazine and settled to wait. The big unknown now was whether the press would turn up. If Phil had been as good as his word, and so far he always had been, there would be a lot of curiosity among the journalists we had contacted. It would be interesting to see how many editors were willing to pursue the story, and how many got sat on by their bosses. It would be a test—an important test for the future.

  At twenty-five minutes before four, I glanced at the sheriff. He was staring away to one side and frowning. I saw him look toward the sphere, like he wanted me to see what was going on. I got up and walked over to the glass doors. A van from a local TV channel had pulled up and the cameraman and the anchor were looking around, scanning the area. They spotted the sheriff and exchanged a few words with each other. The cameraman took up a concealed position and discreetly started filming.

  I stepped out and looked around. There were a couple of cars parked nearby, and guys with cameras. Maybe they were press, maybe not. A chopper circling in the distance. Maybe.

  At three forty-five, a dark blue Audi Q5 pulled into the lot. It cruised slowly for a while, like it was looking for somewhere to park. I watched the camera crew watching the Audi. Then I glanced at the chopper. It was coming closer. Suddenly, there was a whole chorus of interested spectators carefully watching while they kept their distance. Then the Audi accelerated and pulled into a space ten or twelve yards away from the sheriff. Five people got out, three men and two women. None of them was Engels, but they had that unmistakable academic look about them—ruthless geniuses prepared to go to any lengths to see their insane dreams become reality.

  They closed in on the sheriff. He moved into position halfway down the truck. As I watched, their clothes began to flap and their hair began to whip this way and that. The trees behind the truck began to bow and dance in the powerful downdraft of a chopper moving in overhead. They looked up, shielding their ears and instinctively hunching their shoulders against the power of the helicopter. One of the men stepped toward the sheriff, shouting something. The sheriff grabbed the big
manila parcel from the back of the truck and handed it over.

  I dialed. The sheriff’s detonator went off a second before the one in the parcel. His belly and his chest expanded horribly, as though he’d been pumped up with gas. His cheeks inflated grotesquely as air and gas were expelled through his mouth and nose, spraying blood and gore over the gang of professors, who screamed and cowered back. Then, the fifteen ounces of C4 that were in the box exploded, ripping those academics apart and sending bits of them flying high into the air, scattering their limbs across the parking lot.

  I had been very particular about where I wanted the sheriff to stand. I had told him to position himself right by the gas tank, and now the blast ruptured it and the truck jumped six feet into the air, spraying the area with burning gasoline, igniting the dismembered academics where they lay, in pieces, on the concrete.

  There was a lot of screaming and people running around like headless chickens. Security guards scrambled, talking on their radios, calling emergency services to come and do too little too late. I left by the west entrance and made my way through the gardens, watching the people swarm toward the column of black smoke that was being driven away by the blast from the rotors of the chopper above.

  I chose an unremarkable car, picked the lock and hotwired it. I left the south parking lot unnoticed and headed back toward Bayerville. At Rio Rico, I crossed three patrol cars speeding toward the Biospheres with their sirens wailing and their lights flashing. On the I-19, I saw several ambulances and more cop cars all racing south through the traffic, making for the disaster area.

  As I drove I allowed myself a humorless smile. I had not lied to the sheriff. I had sent him home. Home to hell, where he belonged.

  I felt suddenly drained, burnt out and exhausted. The drive north seemed to take an eternity. I finally made it into Tucson around five, dumped the car at the Hope United Methodist Church on Santa Clara Avenue and walked twenty minutes to Viva Burrito on Valencia Road and called a cab.

  I had the driver drop me at the corner and walked the thirty yards to Marni’s house. I was telling myself everybody was dead: Red and his gang, Arana and his gang, Romero… Only Montilla had survived, and he had no idea who I was or where I was. Cissy was at home, safe, with her money.