Saboteur: A Novel

by J. Travis Phelps

  Downy laid down pulling his arm across his forehead. There was nothing to do in this place but sleep, so he started to doze. His imagination ran wild. He found himself in complete darkness, but then someone spoke in a low voice. An answer came back in the form of a chant. He found himself in a room which looked like an ancient temple of some kind, but strangely reminded him of the church services he’d gone to as a boy with his mother, where the pastor offered a prayer, which the parishioners answered back to in unison. The smell of ambrosia, just like his wife’s perfume in fact, wafted in the darkness. But there was another subtler smell, like something metallic and burnt. In front of him a tall, muscular man stood at the head of an altar, where a bull’s body lay, moving sluggishly on a ledge just above the floor in front of him. The beast snorted uneasily, it’s hooves clacking against the floor in agitation, sensing some danger. The man, whose face was smeared with blue paint, suddenly held something glimmering in the air and swung it to a slicing blow. Blood poured from the decapitated animal’s quivering body into a chalice being held by a woman at its feet. She was down on her knees, in silhouette, and bent to catch it, but as the cup filled it overran the edges and the blood poured down onto her arms instead, then her neck and her chest. Her white gown was now soaked in it. Downy started to sweat. Rhythmic chants came from the darkness and the woman began to sway in a seeming trance. The muscular man raised his right hand, lowering his head near a fiery pit at the altar, suddenly casting blood into the fire, which erupted into a drowsy blue flame. In its reflection he could see the man’s face, which was painted blue, but somehow he looked familiar. His black, piercing eyes raged in the reflection from the fire; he too swayed to the chanting. The girl reached across her chest lurching back on her knees and tore her gown away from her body, seeming to surrender to the trance. She moved her hands, covered in the animal’s sacrifice, to her face smearing it into her cheeks. The pace of the chanting became frantic now and the girl was suddenly surrounded by figures in dark hoods. They appeared from the darkness on all sides, pulling at her body, lifting her into the air. They seemed to consume her, tearing away the final vestiges of her gown, but suddenly the chanting stopped and they scurried away in fear. The girl lay silently on the ground. He could see her chest rise and fall from the attack, her breasts reflecting in the fire. Across her shoulder was a tattoo with the one recognizable word, VERITAS, etched into the blade of her back. As she lay on the ground writhing, her head turned suddenly back to Downy as if she’d always known he was there, her eyes locking seductively with his in the low light of the flames.

  “Samara!” he screamed.

  He awoke on the bed with a start, his face covered in sweat, heart pounding in his throat. He looked all around the cell and without a word began removing his clothing, folding it into a neat pile on the floor next to the cot. His decision was made. Whoever had done this to her must pay.

  Chapter XI

  Sullivan paced back and forth looking at the clock in the corner. There was much activity in the usually quiet corridors of the precinct. Tierney had apparently gotten his wish and Homeland Security was now involved in the operation. It was going to mean more resources, but unfortunately more complications as well. If he had it his way, he would have kept it in house. He was finished with the case files anyway, so turning them over was no problem, but bringing everyone up to speed was going to be a nightmare. Bureaucracy on a massive scale, wasted time when they had none to spare, men in dark, clearly starched suits stood in the corner with Tierney pointing all around the room, staring in Sullivan’s direction. Feds were the worst and they always traveled in packs. There had been a joke back in Richmond at the station that went: ‘what’s the difference between a federal agent and serial killer?’ The answer, according to his old boss Carl Dickson was, ‘Feds have to get permission to randomly kill innocent people in large numbers.’ He figured the only real reason Carl had agreed to his transfer in the first place instead of firing him was that he’d secretly been proud of him for cracking the case of the Redneck killer before the FBI could.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Tina:

  Is the Joker behind bars yet Batman?

  He grinned. Was he falling for this girl? She was a clever one, but he had always managed to go cold, even when things started out white hot with a girl. Work. The job was a huge problem. It was the reason why a one-night stand always seemed the sensible thing to do. He sure wouldn’t want to be married to him. How could anybody else he figured? And so younger, less demanding girls always seemed the most attractive option. They weren’t thinking about marriage yet were they? That was it. They simply couldn’t imagine how hellish a life it would be, married to a man who came and went at all hours and really couldn’t be counted on to do anything but chase fiends, the low-life’s of the world. He thought of the professor now, down in his cell, so far away from his wife--his fault. He’d taken a long look at Naomi Downy in the interrogation video room. She was incredibly beautiful herself and he sensed sophisticated as well. What was she probably thirty, thirty-two? It was a helluva difference in age and he had to admit that a more mature woman was probably what he should be thinking about at this point in his life. My god, he would turn forty-one in less than six months he realized. He’d been playing around for a long time. At some point it was going to start looking awfully tacky and how long could he continue to expect girls in their twenties to find him worthwhile and attractive?

  He typed back on his keypad:

  Joker is still wild, maybe the Penguin and the Riddler too.

  I miss you.

  Let’s go on another date. A less interrupted one. Soon.

  As he was about to hit send he realized Tina would want to know about Tackett. It was a bad time to tell her though, or maybe he just didn’t want to. He would tell her all about it when he had him back safely.

  Sullivan started for his things. He needed to get the hell out of dodge before one of the suits laid into him. Tierney seemed distracted for the moment, so he made a run for the door. He decided to swing by the detention block to check in on the professor instead. His Spidey sense was tingling a bit and this would of course be a helluva moment for the whole operation to unravel. It made sense to be extra cautious.

  As Sullivan walked into the cell block he could see Mark, his old pal, sitting silently at the front desk.

  “Hey, my man. How is the good professor?”

  “Detective.”

  Mark seemed solemn, glum. Perhaps the rumor he had spread about Tierney’s cross-dressing had already come back on him. Sullivan almost felt bad. It was a lesson worth learning in any case, so he said nothing.

  “He skipped his meal and threatened one of the guards, but we got him safe and sound down there.”

  “Really, I didn’t have him pegged as the type to make threats. Somebody push his buttons by chance?”

  “Well, it was Mitchell over there who’s on duty. You’d have to ask him.”

  He peered over his shoulder to see Mitchell looking back at them. His uniform’s sophistication and his overly-upright carriage suggested he might enjoy his job a little more than was necessary. His hardened expression seemed an open invitation to leave him alone.

  “It’s ok,” he said smiling at Mark, “as long as he’s well protected.”

  “We’re expecting additional agents at the seven o’clock shift change,” Mark said pointing to the clock with his pen. “Right now we got two patrolmen at the front just watching the gate. Cameras are clear.”

  “Sounds good, man. Have a good night.”

  “Hey, detective?”

  “Yeah man,” he said on his way out.

  “That was a good one; you got me, Tierney being a cross dresser. I deserved that, ok? Sorry, you win.”

  Sullivan smiled. “Loose lips sink ships, Mark. Remember that,” he said walking out the front door, but then paused. He rubbed a hand through his hair, then drug his hand along his jaw line, grinding against the two-day stubble.
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  “Hey Mark, I thought they had you at the desk over in evidence? You get a demotion or promotion or something?”

  “Nah, man. I always work this desk.”

  “Are you sure about that? Didn’t I see you the other night over in evidence, that’s where we talked about Tierney, the club, right?”

  “I’m right here five outta seven a week, never worked evidence yet. Though the boss says maybe next year or the year after.”

  He rubbed his face as if he were trying to scrub off a momentary confusion.

  “You alright, detective?”

  “Yeah,” he said recovering suddenly, “call me Nick, man.”

  “Ok thanks,” Mark said smiling with some of his enthusiasm seeming to return.

  He made his way slowly down the hall detouring into the men’s restroom before leaving the building. He turned on the faucet splashing cold water onto his face. He reached for a paper towel out of the box to wipe away the water, but it was empty. He looked at himself in the mirror under the fluorescent lighting. He looked tired, damned tired; he was, but he had seen Mark at the evidence desk, he was sure of it. Kid must have forgotten somehow; he was working too much probably. He suddenly realized he wasn’t alone. He could hear a scratching noise in the stall behind him. It sounded like someone writing on the wall. God, people were weird ass idiots everywhere you went. He lowered his head to see if it was a cop or just some ratty kid. He could see no feet though, but suddenly a pencil rolled out from under the stall. He pushed slowly at the door not sure what to expect.

  “Hey man, we’ll only arrest you if you’re writing your phone number, ok?”

  The door creaked open, but the stall was completely empty, except for the smell; probably a homeless sleeper. He surveyed the whole room, backing up to look for whoever it was. All was silent and empty. He looked back inside yet again and on the wall inside the stall he could see the writing:

  You aren’t where you think you are detective. Bring the waitress. It’s the only way to save her. Don’t be late.

  47 58 87: 5:55 10/22/14

  He grabbed his phone and snapped a picture, then reached for some paper towels to wipe his face and then threw them into the wastebasket, walking back into the hall. Oh well, the musings on bathroom walls on the west coast were a little more highbrow at least.

  “Hey Mark!” he yelled again.

  “Yeah, Detective Sullivan?”

  “You see anybody else come out of the bathroom?”

  Mark looked up at the cameras and then back to him. “No, just you and me and Mitchell here now. Everything ok?”

  “Guess so,” he said shaking his head.

  Then Sullivan walked out the door into the night.

  Chapter XII

  Downy was awake for a few strange seconds before he was aware of someone else’s presence. A smell of body odor, pungent, which he had managed to incorporate into his dreams, permeated the tiny cell. A man sat opposite him in the corner, one of his legs pulled to his chest.

  “How the fuck did you get in here?” Downy said in a tense whisper

  Guy Taro leaned slowly forward before speaking. “You’re already breaking your first promise to me.”

  “Ok, how do we get out?”

  “We walk. Come on then.” Taro said jumping to his feet suddenly.

  He raised himself from the bed forgetting he was naked, covering himself again in embarrassment.

  “Here throw this on.”

  Downy looked at what appeared to be a very large white sheet.

  “Just drape it over yourself, maybe someday I’ll show you how to put one on properly.”

  He realized the cell door was ajar and his eyes opened wide in amazement. “We are seriously just going to walk out of here?”

  “Absolutely, we are all alone in fact so you can stop whispering.”

  The two men walked back through the hall together, but amazingly the giant cell block door was no longer there, in fact the entire station looked as if it were under renovation; whole pieces of rooms were missing and there were no longer phones at the end of the hall.

  “Keep walking, ok?”

  Downy suddenly felt uneven, his stomach turned without warning and the saliva rushed up from his throat into his mouth. He bent over to throw up, but since he had had no food, he only dry heaved instead.

  “What’s happening to me?” he said between gasps.

  “You have the sickness. I will give you a pill as soon as we’re out of here. It will help, but until the heaving stops you just have to keep moving.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t have time to explain really, but I do believe Woody’s makes sense, since you have passed so much pleasant time there in the past.”

  “Are you crazy? We’ll be seen for sure.”

  “You are absolutely safe with me tonight, Professor Downy. Everything about your circumstances has changed in fact.”

  The two descended a long corridor and out of an unfinished door frame he could see a low moon on the horizon and countless stars, but the night was too big, the stars too bright. In the huge parking lot out front was a grassy, open field where there had been asphalt for as far as the eye could see. The city, off in the distance, looked dark.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know you don’t. I was you once myself, some time ago.”

  He suddenly felt his knees buckle and he fell on the grass, taking in deep, panicky breaths. He was sure he was going to lose consciousness.

  “Professor, you must not go to sleep on me. Take this,” he said handing him what appeared to be a sugar cube, “and do not let it come up. We have but one chance at this and after I have no idea what happens to either of us if we don’t get it right.”

  He looked at the cube and back at Taro. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Oh goodness, no. Please, it will help.”

  He put it in his mouth and felt it dissolving, but it stuck in his throat as he tried to swallow. He looked around in every direction, but the city was dark and the skyline too. He bit down hard on his tongue to get more saliva and swallowed again. Taro kneeled next to him and put his hands on his shoulders, starting to slowly massage them.

  “Your heart is in a panic at the moment and your muscles are getting no blood. Try to relax; it will take only a few minutes to ease.”

  He felt something in his chest like a quivering and then warmth radiated out spreading to his limbs. He breathed out suddenly realizing that for many seconds he had forgotten to do so.

  “Look at those pupils.” Taro said laughing. “Now we’re ready for a night on the town.”

  “Why are you taking me to Woody’s?” he asked, but his words seemed to be on delay and he could almost hear himself after the fact, his voice in a long tunnel, quite separate from his body.

  “A certain acquaintance of yours is going to meet us there. I have had a difficult time getting him to sit down with me, but your presence seems to have made him a bit more reasonable on this point.”

  He stood up on a knee now feeling his balance return slightly. “Jesus, Taro! Where are we, what’s happening?”

  “You my friend are intoxicated with a very pure form of a certain tincture. I believe it’s called acid.”

  “Oh shit, you fucking drugged me.”

  “Yes, but without out it you would end up in a most lamentable state, I’m afraid. I took the same thing only hours ago and it is a very mild dose, only meant to smooth out the edges, very pure.”

  “The edges of what?”

  “Realitatem. Reality as you say, it’s a slippery business, more than I ever imagined. Look, our chariot has arrived,” Taro said pointing.

  A car’s headlights bounced over the edge of the grass and he could see a taxi sign illuminating a very large cab.

  “Come on get in and let me do the talking, ok?”

  The two men slid silently into the back seat.

  “Could you take us to Woody’s on Second Street, plea
se?”

  The cabbie turned to them, looking them over suspiciously. “Halloween ain’t till next week boys. What gives?”

  “Yes,” Taro said laughing, “My friend and I are actors you see. We practice just over there in the evenings.”

  “Whatever floats your boat buddy, no business of mine,” he said driving back toward the highway.

  In the darkness he was sure they were lost, but the white ocean surf was on their right and the highway looked familiar still somehow. They couldn’t be far from the jail. He must have been knocked out and brought somewhere different while he slept. It was a trick. His mind twitched at the details of how Taro had pulled it off. Taro leaned forward toward the cabbie.

  “My friend is shipping off to fight tomorrow, would you mind if we share a drink?”

  “God bless, go ahead,” the cabbie shouted over the roar of the engine. “It’s good goddamn luck headin’ over now if you ask me, I heard on the radio the fighting is almost over, but that’s not the first time I hear ‘em say so. Wars and rumors of wars the bible says.”

  “Thank you,” Taro said nodding his head and then holding up a flask. “It’s a sweet wine from the country, hand pressed by some of the loveliest girls you might ever meet.”