The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  "Well, this is a crisis. Our lease term expires in ten months. Lease 9870. To make the deadline I signed a contract with Blackgold Drilling to start work in 60 days. I'm lucky to get ‘em. Most rig operators are booked through this year into next.”

  "Yes, there is more production in the district now.”

  "Right." Ed continued with more urgency. "I'll have to cut twenty miles of road to get to the site before I can start drilling, which means clearing fences and putting in cattle guards–the whole nine yards. It'll take about six months to explore the lower Permian formation with horizontal drilling techniques. Maybe longer.

  "Always a risky business, Mr. Nailer, but you know that better than I do."

  Of course he knew it better than this agency speed bump, but he let it pass. "If you add it all up, I'm at eight months. If everything works out, I only have two months to file for a Found Lease. Not much time."

  "A Found Lease application does take a while to process since it runs the life of production."

  "Right. So you see I can't wait for a land clearance survey to happen in a couple of month."

  "Did Halverson give you a date?"

  "No. That's the problem. Said he was busy with prairie chickens and stuff."

  "Hold the line, Mr. Nailer, I'll check with him."

  Ed's frustration level climbed as his thoughts raced. Why all these regulation? Damn it, I'm exploring for oil. What’s more important than that? This guy acts friendly, but he's still a goddamn bureaucrat.

  "Mr. Nailer."

  "Yes."

  "I've checked with Halverson on your land clearance survey. Considering your timeline, I've asked him to move your survey up. He will get his team together and schedule you for next Monday morning. Joe will call this afternoon for any information he may need to speed this job along."

  Ed blinked, and for a moment couldn't speak. Son of a bitch, this guy must have worked in the private sector. "That will be just fine, Mr. McKruger. Yep, just fine."

  "Feel free to call anytime, Ed. We're here to help."

  McKruger hung up leaving Ed staring at his phone. Both elated and confused, a feeling of satisfaction crept into his being as if a locked door suddenly popped open, allowing him passage into the future. Bureaucrats, he thought, were like tug boats. Most of the time they pulled your barge forward barely faster than the speed of the current. Not this time. This time he might make his deadline.

  FIVE

  BITTY SMITH FELT EXCITEMENT as he prepared for a new and wonderful life. This would be the most important Saturday night of his twenty-one years. His expectations swelled like a flower bursting into full bloom in a stop-action video.

  Standing before a cracked bathroom mirror, Bitty stretched on his toes to get a better view at himself. He parted his hair with care and adjusted the rolled collar of his polyester sweater. Cheap aftershave lotion stung his face, and a swish of mouthwash left his breath fresh.

  Ready for the ninety minute drive, he grabbed a duffle bag with all of his possessions stuffed inside, and snapped up a bundle of papers crammed into a file folder. Slinging his jeans jacket over his shoulder, he headed for the front door of his shabby two-room apartment. He shut the door behind him for the last time.

  As long as he could remember, loneliness shadowed his daily existence. Though a woman bore him, one of twins, he had no mother, only a wretch who couldn’t afford an abortion or so he imagined. The State of New Mexico became his, and his brother's, protector, and foster care their extended family. He hoped to put all of that behind him as he began a new and promising future.

  His five foot three inch frame slipped into the ancient 1969 VW Bug. After miles of deserted county roads, he grew bored and let his mind wander. His memories of childhood were vague–a kind of day care existence among strangers. At age six, separated from his brother, he was placed with foster parents who argued often, drank too much, and mostly ignored him. The State paid them five hundred dollars a month for his upkeep until the man ran over an elderly woman on the street, got arrested for DUI, and went to jail for vehicular homicide.

  The second family to accept him consisted of a stern father, an overly affectionate mother and six other foster kids ranging in age from two months to sixteen years. The seven dependents netted the family a monthly income of $3,500. In this environment he got the name Bitty because of his less than magnificent size. He learned about child abuse when the woman bathed him daily for hours at a time. He didn't know the name for what she did to him, but he knew he didn't like it.

  An oncoming car flashed its bright lights and dashed by with horn blaring. He must pay attention to his driving. This was no time to change his luck, which had turned good two weeks ago when he met beautiful Allen Lee. So handsome with dark consoling eyes, jet-black hair, skin with a constant tan, strong hands and shoulders–oh my, those shoulders!

  Allen Lee became his friend and he hoped tonight more than a friend, and why not? eH

  Didn’t he pay attention to him? Wasn’t he fascinated by his life and loves, ordinary as they might be? For hours they talked, and Allen asked all kinds of questions while taking notes on his laptop computer and sometimes speaking into a recorder in a strange language he promised would protect Bitty’s privacy. Allen wanted to know everything about his years in foster care, his two former boyfriends (one brutish, the other slovenly), where he had worked, and on and on. No detail was too trivial or ordinary.

  Allen Lee had explained that his interviews with Bitty supported his research into the success or weakness of foster care. As a writer his work had to be grounded in true-life experiences. But Bitty knew this relationship had become more than a writing assignment. This was something wonderful. Something Bitty had dreamed of all his life. He sensed the warm glow of affection that grew each time they met. Sometimes Allen Lee would express sympathy for the hardships of his youth, and touch his hand, holding it for a longtime. Those were moments of splendor. When Allen urged him to vacate his apartment and move in with him, he knew he would never be lonely again. He knew the companionship, support, and yes, love, he had yearned for all of his life would finally be his.

  As Bitty entered the driveway, he noticed the glow of light from the living room window and imagined Allen eagerly waiting by the door.

  EVERYTHING WAS READY for Smith. Much time, thought and careful planning had been put into this romantic liaison. It was now time to harvest the benefits of this charade.

  When the headlights of the little car flashed by the front window of his rented ranch house, Allen knew Bitty had arrived five minutes early. If Bitty Smith was anything, he was punctual. Within seconds, a knock sounded at the door. He waited until the third knock before greeting his visitor. Pretending a warm greeting, he turned the doorknob.

  “Bitty, I’ve been waiting for you. Come in.”

  Bitty looked both nervous and elated as he entered carrying the dog-eared bundle of papers he dropped on the first chair in the living room. Allen fingered the paper file, purposely ignoring his guest. As the minutes passed, he saw Bitty glancing at him, his face flushed with growing excitement.

  “How was the traffic?”

  “Okay. Not a lot this time of night.” He turned to see Allen sorting through the paper files. “Everything you asked for is there.” In the yellow light of the table lamp Allen's sexy muscles flexed under a tight T-shirt.

  “Good. Did you stop the newspaper, cancel phone and mail service?”

  “Sure, I did everything just like you said. I paid the rent with the money you gave me and quit my job. It felt good to put all that behind me.” He moved tentatively forward. “I want you to know how happy I am to be here with you.” Closer now. “Being with you is all I can think about.” Making body contact, Bitty reached up and encircling his lover’s neck. “Oh Allen, I’ve come home.”

  Allen’s powerful arms reached around him and they kissed, softly at first, and then Allen Lee consumed Bitty’s lips clamping down hard with his teeth, while shoving a six-inc
h blade of Damascus steel into his back. At that instant Allen felt shock waves of what he knew was agonizing pain flood through Bitty. Held tight by Allen’s arms, the little man's feet lifted off the floor and his scream choked back against his tongue. His body trembled as if it were a rag doll shaken by a vicious dog. Allen Lee's cold eyes stared into Bitty's face, as he watched life dim, then fade away.

  HE HAD LIBERATED Russell (Bitty) Smith’s soul for the greater good of Allah, Praised Be His Holly Name, but he was stuck with the body. Given the advances in forensic science, disposal had to be carefully thought out. Cremation would need specialized containment facilities not available, and decomposition in acid posed liquid disposal problems. Given his geographic location in a semi-arid land, his plan was simple: remote burial in the vast Chihuahua Desert.

  He carried the small limp body, facedown, into the bedroom and laid it on the tile floor. The handle of the stiletto remained upright, serving as a cork in Bitty's back. Cutting the shirt from the body he removed the stiletto, then slapped the wound with a piece of moleskin effectively sealing off escaping blood. He put the knife aside for cleaning later. A small purple mole on the right shoulder, a birthmark that might serve as identification, attracted his attention. He burned it off with a butane lighter. Removing the teeth needed a greater effort. Using a pair of pliers and a screwdriver, he ripped out the teeth, piling them in the bathroom sink. Facial features are the most common way to identify a body. A few dozen swipes of his knife resulted in an unrecognizable corpse. Then, Allen carefully placed each hand of the body in a bowl of acid long enough to dissolve the fingerprints. When done, he removed all clothing with gloved hands, and starting at the head, cleaned Bitty with household bleach. As he worked, he solemnly bowed his head and repeated a prayer for the spirit of his sacrificial offering–an American infidel.

  “For Bitty Smith, I bear witness there is no God but Allah the Magnificent and Muhammad his messenger.”

  Between each repetition he bowed and touched his forehead on the floor facing east toward Mecca. When finished with the ceremonial washing, he rolled Mr. Smith in a white linen sheet, neatly aligning the arms and legs. He then turned the ends of the cloth over and tucked them inside the folds of the cloth, as required by tradition.

  “For Bitty Smith, may the peace, mercy and blessings of Allah the All Worthy be upon you.”

  He rose from the floor no longer Allen Lee, but, as Russell Smith: Social Security Number 333-45-9942, Birth date: August 1, 1995, a registered voter in Lea County, New Mexico.

  SIX

  LATE SUNDAY MORNING, Abdullah al Jamal loaded the linen wrapped body of Russell "Bitty" Smith into the back of his old four-wheel drive pickup in preparation for informal interment. The truck, provided to him by his handler in El Paso, blended into the drab desert earth tones as if camouflaged intentionally.

  In the truck he unfolded a BLM map of southeastern New Mexico. He spread it out on the seat beside him, and searched it to determine the locations of public and privately owned desert lands. The rugged jeep trails, that appeared to end with no clear destination, were of greatest interest to him. With a highlighter he marked the route he would take through thousands of undulating uninhabited acres. Since he would stay on public land he had no fear of trespass law, but would watch for ranchers.

  As roads went from gravel to dirt and finally no road at all, his progress slowed. On sparsely vegetated rangeland, devoid of anything but scattered clumps of brittle grass and thirsty desert shrubs, he bumped along on uneven land noting a distant cow or two and an occasional galvanized metal water tank fed by a spinning windmill. After five miles from the nearest trail, he stopped at a desolate patch of ground. A visual search revealed the location to be surrounded by higher elevations. He reasoned high ground would be the best burial site, since it would be less subject to water erosion. With shovel in hand, and the little body of Bitty Smith flopping over his shoulder, he trudged uphill until he found what looked like a perfect spot. Dumping the body on the ground, he began to dig.

  He encountered hard packed soil, not unlike the deserts around his home on the Arabian Peninsula near Dhahran. Each shovel of dirt required tremendous effort and no little pounding with his foot. His sweat evaporated almost as soon as it appeared on his skin. A half hour later, his muscles sore, he had chiseled through the top twelve inches of the sun baked soil. He drank from a dented canteen and sprinkled a little water on his head.

  Work progressed as the temperature edged up. He paused to catch his breath. It was hot, but not as hot as the last time he dug a grave in desert heat. Abdullah jammed the shovel into the hard ground, rested on the handle and remembered his family’s disgrace.

  Ten years before he bury his sister Nadia, one of three siblings. The labor performed that summer day restored his family’s honor. As one of six thousand members of the Royal Family, Abdullah’s father, Prince Abeer Jamal, enjoyed the wealth and privileges that went with the title, and the requirement that honor be preserved in the name of Allah, the Lord of the World.

  On a hot day in August the Brotherhood of the Defiant kidnapped Nadia, and held her for twenty days before accepting a fraction of the original ransom demanded for her release. At the hospital, the doctors found that her hymen had been ruptured which brought dishonor to the family. The loss of her virginity, even against her will, meant she was a disgraced woman and could never be married. She became a liability to the family and, therefore expendable.

  Family prayers preceded the taking of her life. In deference to her membership in a royal family, she experienced a peaceful death by lethal injection administered by her father. This spared her the agony of stoning, strangulation or a slashed throat. Prince Jamal ordered that Abdullah, his oldest male child, hide their shame in the scorched sand dunes of the Persian Gulf south of Dhahran. Abdullah's brothers, little more than babies, remained at home.

  Abdullah regretted the loss of Nadia. If his younger brother had been kidnapped, none of this would have happened. Every member of the Brotherhood of the Defiant would have been hunted down and hung from light poles in the city streets. But, she was a woman, and the Will of Allah the Majestic must be served. In a strange way, this experience strengthened Abdullah’s determination to serve his God.

  "I must not think of that time," he muttered, still standing before the future grave of Bitty Smith. "I have work to do."

  By mid-afternoon he had created a hole in the ground one meter deep, two meters long and one wide. Good enough for the likes of Bitty Smith. He rolled the wrapped body into the hole. As he filled the grave with rock-like soil Bitty disappeared. After each shovelful he tamped the ground using a booted foot to pack it down. When finished he scattered the excess soil, in an effort to restore a natural look to the surface.

  Satisfied, Abdullah stepped back to admire the results of his landscaping. Bitty is now a seed in the earth. Given his sexual perversion this may be his only opportunity to nourish new life. This idea caused him to chuckle.

  He returned to his truck, tossed the shovel in the back, sucked down a long satisfying drink of water, and prepared for the drive back to his remote desert home.

  As the truck bumped from one uneven surface to another he contemplated his next move. Tomorrow, in the name of Russel Smith, he’d open an account at the Bank of America, and, of course apply to the U. S. State Department for a passport.

  SEVEN

  AT 5:00 A.M. OF HER first day on the job, Ashley Kohen's alarm clock erupted in the silence of her bedroom. To turn it off she must get out of bed, and walk across the cold tile floor. She reasoned once on her feet, guilt would prevent her from returning to bed. It always worked.

  Her routine seldom varied. In her tiny bathroom she splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth, and swept her hair into a ponytail. Then she dressed in a black sweat suit that covered her trim figure, jammed her feet into running shoes, and headed out for a five-mile jog. This morning her run would feel more like ten miles, since Albuquerque
’s 5,000-foot elevation would put greater demands on her than the sea level air of Quantico. Ashley's body would adjust. In fact she knew many adjustments, lay ahead for her in this new physical and social environment.

  She drove to the University of New Mexico campus, only a mile south and west of her small rented apartment. She found college campuses a safe place to run in the early morning. After leg and back stretches, she started slow at first, then faster as her body adjusted. Her gait assumed a steady rhythm that allowed her mind to consider the hours ahead.

  This would be her first day as a special agent in a field office of the FBI. Rigorous and demanding instruction at the Academy had prepared her. She knew she could meet the high standards of the Bureau. She also knew being a woman may reduce opportunities, and the nature of future assignments–even in this age of gender equality. She had dealt with all of that in Chicago, and before as a flight instructor working to supplement college expenses.

  At the Chicago PD, Ashley had proven herself more than competent. She fought her way up the ranks to become a detective sergeant. She earned the respect of her peers and most of her supervisors. Rough, often crude, and at times an undisciplined work environment taught her how to protect her mental stability and physical being, both on and off the job. She had survived a corrupt system that compromised her duty to reveal political decay within the department leadership; a compromise that saved her life. The dichotomy between her moral duty to expose crime and her need to avoid execution by a corrupt chief of police, festered in her mind.

  Midway through her run she recalled how for two months she had remained on paid administrative leave while the Saviano case played out in the newspapers and on television. Chief Danforth promised a full investigation of the shooting and after a time cleared her and publicly awarded her commendations, claiming she represented the high standards held by his department. She remembered her resignation went unnoticed by everyone except Captain Flynn, one of the many good cops serving the Windy City. When Flynn contacted her the first time, she suspected Danforth had recruited him, but discovered Flynn represented a coalition of officers ready to take down the old bastard. They reasoned, correctly, she survived only because she had something on the chief that might help them clean up the department. They asked for her help. She gave them the details of how Danforth had Officers Morris and O’Neil killed two years earlier. Staying in the background, Flynn had already prompted inquiries that made headlines daily. Ashley figured it may take months or years, but Danforth would fall.