by Alex Siegel
She hurried over to him. "What's wrong?"
"It's my gift, ma'am." He showed her his palms. "Loud, high-pitched sounds really bother me."
She examined his palms and discovered circular, red pads of flesh. They were about two inches across. Tiny blood vessels pulsed just beneath the skin, and when she touched the pads, they felt warm and soft.
Hanley had briefly explained his gift last night over the phone. With everything else going on, Marina had almost forgotten about it.
"You can step outside if you need to," she said, "and congratulations. Getting a gift so early in your career is a spectacular achievement. You should be extremely proud of yourself."
"Thank you, ma'am."
He ran outside.
Mahmoud quieted down and eventually, he was silent. Marina expected he was dead. The jug had contained pure sulfuric acid mixed with hydrogen peroxide, a combination known as piranha solution. It would dissolve most organic matter. Red fluid began to trickle out from the bottom of the heavy bag and onto the dirt floor of the barn.
"Now it's just you and me, Yuram," Aaron said, "and your English is adequate."
"Allah will curse you for this!" Yuram replied from inside the heavy bag.
"I doubt that. Are you going to start talking?"
"Never, filthy American!"
Aaron checked his watch. "I'm betting more like ten minutes."
He looked around the barn, obviously searching for something, but Marina didn't know what he was looking for. A little bit of loose straw was on the floor, and impressive cobwebs decorated the corners. He hurried over to a shady spot and picked up a pitchfork which had been hiding in the dust. He shook off the dust with a smile.
"Now I feel like a farmer," Aaron said.
"Just get on with it," Marina said.
He went back to the heavy bag and took a whack with the pitchfork like it was a baseball bat. He was targeting Yuram's legs. The impact sounded wet and solid, and Yuram squealed in pain.
"It's ironic," Aaron said. "The people you're protecting are probably Americans."
He struck again with enough force to break a shin bone.
"A lie!" Yuram gasped.
"Only a local would pick the Bullards Bar Dam as a target." Aaron took another mighty whack. "And why do you think you were brought in? You were obviously meant to take the blame."
Yuram sobbed.
"The police caught you because of an anonymous tip, and that was the real giveaway. Only somebody on the inside would have such good intelligence."
Aaron pounded the bag again with all his strength. At this rate, he was going to turn Yuram's legs into pulp.
"The timing of the tip was perfect," Aaron said. "Too late to stop the bomb, but early enough to catch you. A pair of Iranians known to be hostile to the United States, served to the police on a silver platter. Can't you see how you were used? Your comrades should be in that bag, not you. They're the ones we really want."
"You can't break me! I serve God!"
"Really?" Aaron smacked the bag again. "I know for a fact that God isn't looking for brainwashed morons like you." Smack. "We have hearts and brains for a reason." Smack. "We're supposed to question dogma." Smack. "We're born to seek the truth." Smack. "Religion is just a framework for our lives." Smack. "Not an end in itself." Smack. "It's certainly not an excuse for monumental idiocy and blind hatred. The Lord gave you every opportunity for enlightenment, and you spat in His face."
He struck hard enough to break the pitchfork. He threw the handle aside angrily.
Marina couldn't see Yuram in the heavy bag, but she imagined his legs were a broken mess by now. He probably had compound fractures, and the open wounds were exposed to rotting entrails, garbage, and maggots.
Ipo, Liam, and Katie were staring at Aaron with looks of astonishment. The best interrogations are more than just torture, Marina thought. They teach.
Aaron unzipped the heavy bag enough to see Yuram's face. It was twisted with anguish, and pig guts were stuck to his hair.
"Last chance for redemption," Aaron growled. "I suggest you use it. You'll have less to apologize for when you meet Allah."
"It was Golnaz," Yuram sobbed. "He talked to us in Iran. He arranged for our travel. He smuggled us through Mexico. He promised a glorious strike at the heart of America which would bring terrible fear and suffering."
"What was the plan?"
"He was going to tell us when we got here, but he didn't. We arrived at the lake only a few minutes before the police did."
Aaron nodded. "Where is this Golnaz?"
"He was at the lake, but..."
"He took off just before the police arrived? He seemed to know they were coming?"
"Yes." Yuram closed his eyes. At least, he was smart enough to appear embarrassed.
"Do you have a phone number or any other identifying information?"
Yuram grimaced. "He always called us."
"What did he look like?"
"He wore a thawb and a keffiyeh, so I only saw his face. He had a black beard."
"Fake, no doubt." Aaron smacked his lips as if he had eaten something bitter. "Tell me something helpful. How did you get to Mexico?"
"We flew using fake passports," Yuram said.
"Which Golnaz provided?"
"Yes, and he gave us plenty of cash."
"That was nice of him," Aaron said. "Did he ever explain why he was being so kind?"
"Because he hates America."
"Of course. Have you been to America before? Did you know any Americans in Iran?"
"No," Yuram replied softly.
"So, you allowed a man you barely knew to smuggle you half-way around the world for a mission that he didn't even bother to explain. All because of an ideology you have no reason to believe. And you claim you serve God. Golnaz must have looked long and hard for an idiot like you. I can imagine the thousands of files they sifted through. It's time to meet your Boss. Maybe He'll be more sympathetic because I have no use for you."
Aaron grabbed another glass jug of piranha solution and stuffed it into the bag with Yuram. Aaron zipped up the bag all the way. Then he kicked the bag, and Marina heard glass breaking. The scream that followed made her sigh.
She wondered at her own reaction. Years ago, she would've grinned with delight at the sound of so much pain, but a lot had happened to her since then. She had spent many hours thinking about her own flaws and the decisions she regretted. Her encounter with Wesley had left her changed in ways she was still trying to understand. Yuram's suffering struck her as tragic instead of fun. I'm getting old, she thought.
After a minute, he became silent.
"The FBI will be along at some point," Marina told her legionnaires. "They'll go over this barn with a magnifying glass. Make sure we don't leave anything behind that could be used to identify us. I even want to sweep the tire tracks on the way out."
Aaron looked at her. "You're going to tell the FBI where the bodies are?"
"In a few hours, yes. My friend will be very impressed with my rapid response."
"Seems a little risky."
"A risk I'm willing to take," Marina said.
* * *
Marina, Aaron, and all four legionnaires walked into the entry chamber of headquarters. The bodies had been removed, but a few stains remained on the white floor. It would have to be repainted.
Imelda was in the security booth. The assistants had been working extra shifts in the booth while everybody else was out, and Marina wasn't happy about that. She needed a security chief who was officially responsible for taking those extra shifts, so the rest of the team could do their jobs. Unfortunately, she hadn't met the right person, yet, and she didn't want to make a mistake. She glanced at Liam unconsciously.
"Good morning, ma'ams and sirs," Imelda said cheerfully.
She was wearing a pink dress with puffy sleeves. Leaves and flowers were embroidered in the fabric. The outfit surprised Marina who was used to seeing Imelda in heavy work clothe
s.
"Good morning," Marina said. "Liam, take Imelda's place in the booth."
"Yes, ma'am," Liam said.
The rest of the team proceeded into the main part of headquarters and went to the "living room." It was the location for most meetings and also where people relaxed. Soft, blue fabric covered a pair of overstuffed couches. Reclining, padded chairs were upholstered in traditional gray. There was a large television, a stereo, a coffee table, and a few video game consoles. No walls surrounded the living room which was conveniently close to the kitchen.
Marina, Aaron, Ipo, Hanley, and Katie sat for a meeting. Nobody was smiling.
"We seem to be out of leads again," Marina said.
"We have no shortage of questions though," Hanley said. "One thing bothered me in particular during the entire drive back from Sacramento. The attack on the dam was a masterpiece of planning and execution. The expense involved in building that submarine was enormous, and it was all done secretly. Smuggling in the Iranians was a nice touch, too."
"And?"
"It doesn't match the killings in the Santa Cruz Mountains, ma'am. Those were random acts of violence instead of a carefully executed plan. There was no reason for that jogger and those German tourists to die."
Aaron stared at him. "You're right." He smiled a little. "You're absolutely right."
"Sir?" Hanley appeared unsettled by that unblinking stare.
"When I was a police detective, the most sophisticated criminals would sometimes play a trick to avoid getting caught. They would commit extra crimes to create a false pattern and hide the true motive. In this case, we assumed Rat was a serial killer. The murders of the jogger and the German tourists were proof he didn't care who died. But that's not true, is it? One of these deaths is not like the others."
Marina nodded. "Dr. Midler was famous. He had real enemies. I want Ipo, Hanley, and Katie to go back to the cabin and find the clue that we should've found at the beginning."
"Yes, ma'am," the legionnaires said.
"But first," she added, "let's see a demonstration of Hanley's new gift."
Hanley nodded. "Gladly, ma'am, but I need a blindfold."
Everybody moved to the exercise area. Marina found a sash in the costume closet, and Hanley tied it around his head over his eyes. She was satisfied he couldn't see a thing.
He held out his hands with his palms forward. The red patches looked like fresh burns, but he was smiling.
"Throw things at me," he said, "but not too hard. I'm new at this."
The exercise area included barbells and free weights. She picked up a five-pound hand weight and tossed it at him. He snatched it out of the air easily. She took one of her guns from a holster and threw it, and he caught it, too.
"Aim at me," Marina said.
Hanley flipped the gun around and aimed at her chest, but he kept his finger off the trigger. His accuracy wasn't perfect, but he still could've killed her. He was holding the gun with his right hand and listening with the left.
She walked around. She thought she was doing a good job of being silent, but his gun stayed on target. His left hand wobbled back and forth like a radar dish. She tried to trick him by doubling back, but he wasn't fooled.
"How are you doing that?" Marina said.
"You have a heartbeat," Hanley said.
"Impressive."
Without warning, Marina ran at Hanley and tried to kick him in the head. It was a simple, straight attack which he could've blocked easily under normal conditions. In this case, he did even better than she expected. He twisted, ducked, and caught her supporting leg with his arm. She had to do a front flip to escape his grip.
Everybody else clapped.
"I can hear the air moving across your body," Hanley explained. "The sound paints a picture in my mind."
Marina nodded. "Very nice. You can fight in the dark."
"But there's a problem. I can't shoot a normal gun." He pulled off the blindfold. "It's too loud, and the recoil against my palm would be very painful."
"Oh." She furrowed her brow. "That is a problem. We'll work on it later. You need to be going now."
"Yes, ma'am."
Hanley, Ipo, and Katie hurried off.
* * *
Hanley was breathing hard from a vigorous hike in the Santa Cruz Mountains. There was no time to waste. He turned a corner and finally saw the home of the late Dr. Andrew Midler.
It was less impressive than Hanley expected. The walls were made of simple logs with a rough, natural finish. Posts at the corners kept the structure from collapsing. There was no glass in the small, square windows. It looked like the roof was covered with whatever Midler had found lying on the forest floor, and Hanley couldn't believe it was watertight. A stone chimney was the only feature that seemed built by professionals.
Yellow police tape was wrapped around the cabin. He wondered if anybody would ever bother to remove it.
He turned to Ipo and Katie. Everybody was wearing loose-fitting jogging suits and hiking boots in case they had to explain their presence to anybody. Ipo and Hanley also had backpacks which contained extra weapons and evidence collection equipment.
"Should we just go in?" Hanley said.
Ipo went to a window and peeked inside. "It looks safe," he rumbled.
The team entered the cabin. There was a narrow bed with a frame made of rough-hewn wood. A curtain could be pulled around a simple shower in the corner. An electric lamp and some papers were on a desk made of oak planks. Hanley turned on the lamp, and surprisingly, it worked. Buried electrical lines, he thought. Midler couldn't live without light.
The cabin mostly contained books and papers. They were packed into long shelves which went up to the roof in places.
Blood had stained the wooden floor and bed, and it was easy to see what had happened. Midler had been attacked in bed, and he had tried to escape, but he hadn't gone far.
"I'm all for living in harmony with nature," Katie said, "but this is going a step too far. It reminds me of summer camp, and I hated summer camp."
"Just find some clues," Ipo said.
Hanley was dubious they would find anything. Rat had had time to remove any dangerous evidence before he had left. The police and probably some civilians had also been through the cabin. The crime scene was hopelessly contaminated.
Hanley went to the desk first. Papers and notepads were arranged in neat stacks according to some organizational scheme. He saw titles like "High Level of Phenotypic Homoplasy amongst Eutardigrades" and "Taxonomy of Chrysotoxum festivum." Hanley shook his head in dismay.
There was an empty spot in the middle of the desk. He sat in the creaky wooden chair and stared at the spot. It was centered under the lamp exactly where he would want to read a document.
"Something was taken," Hanley said.
"You're sure?" Ipo said.
"No."
Katie was going through the shelves of books and papers. Ipo was digging through a footlocker full of clothes. Hanley had the desk to himself.
He opened the drawers. One contained a thick folder full of legal documents, and he thumbed through the paperwork. There were lawsuits, contracts, transcripts, and judgments. The name "Boulder Creek Development Project" was on most of the papers.
Hanley used the browser in his phone to look up the project, and after some searching, he found the number of the man in charge. Hanley made the call.
"Hello?" a man said.
"Is this Mr. Beeston?" Hanley said.
"Yes," Beeston replied tentatively.
"I'm Quintin Letts from the Santa Cruz Dispatch. I'm writing an article about Andrew Midler. I believe you knew him."
"He was an enormous pain in my backside. He did everything he could to stop my project. He pounded me with lawsuits. His groupies picketed my office. He even chained himself to a bulldozer."
"So you weren't sad about his death," Hanley said.
Beeston paused. "Actually, I was sad. Midler was a granola-munching, tree-hugging kook, but i
t was hard not to respect the old man. He was a tough fighter. Once he got his teeth into something, he never let go. He was also... spiritual."
"Religious?"
"Not exactly. When he talked to you, it seemed like he was on a different level. It's hard to explain, but even though we fought, I liked him. I wish we could've been friends. I attended his funeral... in disguise."
The words sounded heartfelt to Hanley. He wished he had met Dr. Midler before his death.
"There are rumors," Hanley said. "Some people say he was murdered."
"I heard he got eaten by animals," Beeston said. "That's what happens when you live by yourself in the woods."
"Are you aware of any death threats against him?"
"No," Beeston said. "Like I told you, people loved him. He made life hard for developers like me, but it was because he cared. He wasn't just scoring political points or trying to impress girls. There wasn't a dishonest bone in his body."
"You make him sound like a saint."
"Some people thought he was. If he really was murdered, I hope they catch the guy who did it."
"I'm sure they will," Hanley said. "Thanks for your time."
He put away his phone and furrowed his brow.
A wicker trash can caught his eye, and he leaned down for a closer look. It contained crumpled papers, pencil stubs, and a cardboard envelope. He picked up the latter.
The envelope was big enough for a thick legal document. Postal markings indicated it had been sent using "Priority Mail Express" delivery, and the official weight was 1.9 pounds. Heavy document, Hanley thought. None of the paperwork on the desk was that heavy. The envelope was dated one day before Midler's death. The destination address was a P.O. Box in Santa Cruz, and there was no return address. He looked inside, but the envelope was empty.
"I think I found something," Hanley said.
Ipo and Katie came over. Hanley gave the envelope to Ipo, and he examined it.
Ipo took out his phone and made a call. "I need you to check a US Postal Service tracking number." He read off a long string of digits. "Uh, huh. Interesting. Tell Marina. Thanks." He hung up.
"What?" Hanley said.
"According to Min Ho, this envelope was mailed from a post office in Watsonville. That's about twenty miles southeast of here. The sender used a bogus name and paid in cash. This P.O. box is where Dr. Midler received anonymous tips from whistleblowers."
