The Killing Collective

by Gary Starta

  Alison was worried about Eliza; she was a wild card - crass, criminal, and as dumb as a doorknob. It seemed to Alison that the closer she got to Clara, the more Eliza asserted her claim to leadership. No matter who the leader was, they needed to be a team right now, so Alison did as she was told.

  The finality of the fall season prompted Alison to think of what might lie ahead. Perhaps this was the end for her, but at least she’d go out knowing she tried to do something to atone for what she’d done under the influence of the serum.

  She told herself there was nothing to worry about.

  ***

  Deputy Director Fischetti ordered the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team (H.R.T.) to conduct the raid on the Collective’s meeting.

  The unit rolled out in Chevy Suburbans armed with Remington shotguns and sniper rifles. Their mission was simply to round up all the organizers and attendees of what they were told was a Manson-type of cult who called themselves the Killing Collective. Fischetti’s team would take it from there. He gave them instructions to confiscate any illegal substances if they found them. Fischetti could not officially tie Michael Santiago to the Collective or even to the drug he was allegedly dosed with, but that wasn’t going to stop him from sending in the big guns. This was his chance to prove himself worthy of the director’s chair – whenever the old man finally decided to call it quits.

  Suburbanites heading home on their rush hour commute drove side by side with the army of Chevy’s crawling along the Cross Bronx Expressway. According to Red’s tip, the meeting wouldn’t get underway for another hour at least. Unit Commander Rosenfeld reminded his men by radio to take it slow and steady…slow and steady.

  ***

  Eliza’s cell phone rang.

  Alison whispered harshly. “Don’t answer it!”

  Eliza picked it up.

  ***

  The black vans moved like a conga line on the highway. Rosenfeld patted the .45 holstered on his belt and wondered if the attendees were primed to react to the threat of violence with violence of their own. From the sparse Intel he’d been provided by the deputy director, he understood only that there was one single speaker referred to as the Silver Man, who lectured by way of video conference and resembled Senator Pressman. The Silver Man spoke at every meeting of the Collective, slightly rearranging his fanatical rhetoric each time so that it sounded new.

  Rosenfeld was familiar with the radical social science theory proposing that the only way to ensure the continuation of the species was by advocating survival of the fittest as a form of altruism – like when men went to war to protect their family and country.

  He sounds like a real nut job.

  The commander’s heart raced when the highway congestion finally opened up. It wouldn’t be long now. He swore to himself that he would have a heart-to-heart with his sixteen-year-old son on the subject of civic responsibility and right and wrong as soon as he got home.

  ***

  Eliza sounded combative. “Yeah, well not unless you identify yourself.”

  Alison whispered urgently, “Eliza, hang up. Hang up!”

  “Shit! Someone knows what we’re doing. But how could he?”

  Alison balled a shaking fist but Clara grabbed it and kissed it. “Now, everyone take a breath. Let’s all just calm down. There’s no way anyone could possibly know what we discussed in my own private place, right?”

  Alison nodded. “Cut it out, Eliza. Stop trying to scare us.”

  “Don’t you want to know what he said?”

  ***

  The cars proceeded to Webster Avenue off the Major Deegan Highway, still maneuvering at an even pace. Commander Rosenfeld felt his heart sink as they approached the target.

  This isn’t a warehouse; it’s a party hall!

  Using sonar technology, Rosenfeld could also see that the hall was full of people. He jumped out of the lead car’s side door, but his unit remained inside waiting for his signal to engage. He trod as lightly as he could on the loose gravel in the parking lot and then peered into the soft, gold light of a window.

  It’s only a bunch of teenagers!

  Above them hung a banner congratulating them on winning the junior varsity football championship.

  Rosenfeld leaned into his mike and terminated the raid.

  ***

  A different black van rolled to a stop in a space close to the building. Eliza ran to the back of the van as the trunk opened. It knocked her to the ground in stunned silence.

  It was the masked woman, Galatea, who emerged from the van with the bag they’d been waiting for. Alison leaped onto Galatea’s back from behind, hoping her weight and momentum would bring them both to the ground. Galatea jabbed her in the stomach, but she couldn’t shake Alison loose.

  Clara couldn’t let Alison be overpowered or they’d all be in for it, so she jumped over Eliza and kicked the woman‘s legs out from under her, knocking her down to the ground. Galatea hit her head on the side view mirror as she went down. She was bleeding from the ear and definitely unconscious.

  Eliza jumped up and got in behind the wheel. “Get off her, you two, and get in!”

  Alison yelled, “We have to search her!”

  “The bag fell out of the trunk when it opened. Get in!” Eliza held up a large black drawstring bag of vials and shook it. She floored the gas.

  The masked woman came around as they drove away. She called her superior for instructions.

  “Let them go. Now we’ll wait and watch.”

  ***

  Deputy Director Fischetti pounded his fist on his desk. “What do you mean it was the wrong address, Rosenfeld?”

  Fischetti didn’t wait for an answer. He slammed the phone and called Agent Carter.

  ***

  “I’ve got some news that can’t wait. We attempted a raid tonight, and it failed. It looks like Red gave us a bad lead.”

  Agent Carter listened to Fischetti with his mouth slightly open and paused before answering. “Deputy Director, why wasn’t I made aware of this raid and other developments in this case?”

  “I promise a full rundown, Agent Carter, first thing in the morning. You needed to spend some down time with your wife. How is she doing?”

  “She’s returning to normal. I think you should know that the lab results came back inconclusive. We don’t know what this drug is made of but it’s most likely synthetic, which would make it nearly undetectable.”

  Seacrest waved a hand and took the phone away from Carter. “He’s partly right, Deputy Director; it will take some time to analyze, but it can be done.”

  Fischetti’s voice boomed over the speaker. “We don’t have the time. Right now, we’ve got other leads to pursue.”

  “But…”

  “There’ll be more of the serum to study when we make the next raid, Agent Seacrest.”

  Seacrest grumbled under her breath. “If the Bureau can manage to get the right address.”

  Fischetti barked. “That will be enough, Agent Seacrest.” I want both of you in my office first thing in the morning.”

  Carter kneaded her shoulders. “Just relax; I’ll take care of this.” He tucked away his anger, took the phone from her hand, and said good night to Fischetti.

  Either Red was given a bad address by the Collective, in which case they’re on to him, or Fischetti sent the H.R.T team to the wrong place intentionally. Why would Fischetti want to do that? And why would he want to discredit Red?”

  Doubt flooded Carter’s mind.

  Fischetti needs to answer a few questions, beginning with Mr. X.

  “I’ll run you a bath, hon, with those bath salts you love so much. You’ll forget all about today.”

  Seacrest inhaled deeply before nodding. “You read me like a book, Carter. That is exactly what I need right now.”

  He kissed her on the forehead and went into the bathroom.

  “Carter! Come back here. Quick!”

  He ran back out to her and peered over his wife’s shoulder, who was watchi
ng their wedding video on YouTube at their computer desk.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I just saw a new comment.”

  Carter recognized the quatrain instantly. It was from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam; he had read lines from that poem at their wedding, but the words in this quatrain were not meant to remind them to stop and smell the roses.

  I sent my soul through the Invisible,

  Some letter of that After-life to spell:

  And by and by my Soul return’d to me,

  And answered ‘I Myself am Heav’n and Hell:’

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Seacrest was running down a long hallway. She ran, not knowing from what. It was pitch-black and went on and on. She looked for a door but saw only her reflection.

  I see myself…but, there’s no light to see by!

  Solid black walls transformed themselves outside and into a maze of tall, sturdy, bushes. A soft voice she knew whispered her name. It was Carter. His eyes were cold and they looked right through her.

  “Carter?”

  “I myself am heaven and hell.”

  He’s hunting me!! I can’t move. I can’t move!!

  In desperation, she reached up with both arms, closed her eyes, and prayed to something greater than herself. For once, Seacrest didn’t need proof God existed. Faith was just as good. Maybe even better.

  ***

  “Wake up, honey; you’re having a bad dream.”

  “Carter, are you really heaven and hell?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m home!!!”

  “That must have been some dream.”

  “It wasn’t a dream. It was real. I was back-”

  “No, Jill, it was a nightmare, and the fact is, you never have them. I wonder if your dream was the result of a residual effect - you know, like a flashback.”

  “Maybe it’s the drug and maybe it’s something else. What do those isochronal tones do, Carter?”

  “Binaural beats can cause very lucid dreaming. And in extreme cases…”

  “What? What happens in extreme cases?”

  “Sometimes it has been known to change eye color. Or cause seizures. But they also clear chakras, Jill!” He laughed.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well, I wish we had the time to stay in bed and talk, but we’re supposed to be in Fischetti’s office at nine, sharp.”

  “What time is it now?”

  Carter flashed his watch and smiled. “It’s time to get moving, that’s what time it is.”

  “I think I’ll skip the meeting. I have a lot of catching up to do in the lab.”

  “That’s fine. I can handle Fischetti alone.”

  “Are you certain? You blew your top last night, you know. I mean, for you, that is.”

  “A small show of testosterone was all that was needed, my dear; he’ll be putty in my hands from now on.”

  Seacrest tumbled into a gray dress and matching jacket and took a quick gaze at her reflection in their standup mirror. She felt herself being pulled into it.

  This is exactly how I feel when the subway leaves the station; as it races by, it pulls a rushing, sucking wind behind it that forces me, against my will, toward the edge of the platform.

  Jill gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. She told herself to stop being silly, grabbed her coat and briefcase and met Carter at the front door. His face clearly indicated that he was mystified by how much time women take to get ready in the morning.

  See? The whole idea is just silly!

  She said nothing more about the dream. Now was exactly the wrong time to get into it again. Instead, she stopped short halfway out the door, tugged on Carter’s lapels, and allowed her lips to brush against his. This was her reality.

  She hugged him tight. “I love you, Carter.”

  He raised his eyebrows and said, “I missed this.”

  She saw once again that no matter how smart he was at figuring out criminals, when it came to women, he was a dope. “Promise me you’ll use your Carter ‘calm and cool’ today.”

  “I promise I’ll handle the situation tactfully. Let’s go.”

  ***

  Deputy Director Fischetti was up before dawn hoping to get a jump on the day. He didn’t want to be interrupted by Carter before nine, so he left a post-it on Liz’s computer asking her to hold all his calls when she came in. He settled himself in his chair and reached into a drawer for a burner cell.

  Dialing the Meese Corporation’s main number in Langley, he silently rehearsed the speech he’d memorized while tossing and turning in bed all night. This was an intricate game of chess, and it called for a very daring move.

  Fischetti introduced himself to the receptionist and asked to speak to the C.E.O., Tony Berringer. “It’s an urgent matter. Put me through right away, please.”

  The call was transferred to Berringer’s assistant. “Mr. Berringer has just arrived, sir. One moment, please.”

  The man’s voice was curt. “Berringer.”

  Fischetti decided to make a strong offensive move and put a little respect into that voice. “Good morning, Mr. Berringer. I’m Deputy Director William Fischetti, with the New York City division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like a moment of your time, if you don’t mind. It’s a matter of some importance.”

  Berringer hesitated. “Of course, Mr. Fischetti. I’m happy to help you any way I can. What’s on your mind?”

  Fischetti heard a rustling noise.

  I wonder what he’s fumbling with...

  “I wanted to thank you for allowing Ms. Kerrington to share Mr. Montgomery’s personnel record with our agent. It might just give us that big break we’ve been hoping for.”

  Fischetti held his breath and waited.

  “What? Excuse me? She shared what with your agent?”

  That was the part Fischetti always liked best. “You know, the history on Clayton Artemus Montgomery. He was a former employee of yours. Now he’s using an alias and living right here in good old New York City. He’s a person of interest in an investigation going by the name of Arthur Moreland. We wanted to double-check the reports of his death after he resigned including his office records. Turns out you had him listed as officially dead, too. My agent was able to confirm everything Ms. Kerrington told her. Thanks. We owe you on this one.”

  “Why did you need to see his record, though, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “We came across his obituary photo that matched his face to our person of interest. We’ve already checked with the coroner’s office in Langley; there is no death certificate on record. Since the obituary mentioned he worked for Meese, I sent out an agent to confirm that your employee records listed him as deceased. I wanted visual confirmation, not verbal, and Ms. Kerrington was kind enough to show her his file.

  “I’m sure you understand I can’t divulge anything more than that at this time, but we’re confident that he is still somewhere in New York, and we’ll have him in custody soon enough. Have a nice day.”

  ***

  Berringer thanked Fischetti, hung up and kicked the gym bag next to his desk.

  Damn that moron in Personnel! I’ll hang her for this!!

  He launched himself out of his chair and walked as quickly and quietly as he could to the elevator.

  So, the F.B.I. is looking for a man who used to work for us. This fire has to be put out before it gets leaked to the press.

  Berringer ignored everyone in the elevator as he rode up to the tenth floor in a panic. He strode up to the big corner office on the north side of the building and barked, “Is he in?”

  Shocked at the look on his face, the administrative assistant simply nodded. Berringer walked past her. “Hold his calls.”

  The door slammed shut, startling Greg James, the S.V.P. of Human Resources. “Well, I don’t need a second cup of coffee now. Thanks.”

  Berringer’s veins were standing out on his head and neck. “Whose idea was it to allow Kerrington to speak with an F.B.I
. agent?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The deputy director of the fucking New York branch of the F.B.I. called me just now to thank me for sharing our personnel records on Clayton Artemus Montgomery. He sent an agent here to confirm that he worked for Meese and that our records list him as dead. They also know his resignation date and the reported date of death. He says the coroner has no death certificate, Greg. Then he tells me that the bastard is alive, somewhere in New York, using an alias! He thinks one of two things: either we did something to Monty and faked those records, or he faked his own death because of something that happened to him here. Which is it?”

  Berringer rapped his knuckles on Greg’s desk and began to pace. “Why is a dead man who used to work here walking around and possibly holding a grudge against us?”

  “Hold on, Tony. What’s the problem? All he wanted to do is confirm that the man’s alive and used to work here. He’s looking for Montgomery for God’s sake, not us. The man must have done something and gotten himself caught. So the guy is alive and in New York. What do we have to worry about? Besides, it’s been years since he came anywhere near here. Whatever Monty knows is old news by now.”

  “Just what does he know that’s so incriminating?”

  Berringer stopped pacing. “Jesus! No wonder you wound up in H.R.! Do you realize that this psycho might turn up here and blow the place sky high for some imagined injustice to Dr. Blake and his wife?”

  “Listen. You’re going to offer Kerrington a package today and transfer her to our office in Kansas. You will inform her that she should be fired and prosecuted for divulging the information contained in a personnel record, as she well knows, but that we will forgive and forget if she signs a nondisclosure agreement and honors it. Tell her she’s placed us in a very bad legal position with the deceased’s family, and say nothing else. I want her gone yesterday.”

  “Maybe they know Montgomery had a falling out with the approval board and want to know more about his work life, that’s all, so let them investigate! Christ, all they did was turn down a project. No one forced Blake to kill herself. No one here killed his wife, either! You’re acting like we did something wrong when we know we didn’t! Maybe he was having an affair with Blake and it went sideways. There’s your reason for his faked death.”