The LieDeck Revolution: Book 1

by Jim Stark

  The previous afternoon, Louis had received a phone call from “up-over,” as some of the “down-under” crowd called it, from Commissioner Joly. It seemed the RCMP had used a LieDeck to find out that Louis had warned Randall Whiteside of the government's intention to classify the device top secret. “And that's why Randall gave LieDecks to all the ambassadors at the UN,” Bertrand Joly had screamed in his ear. “And that's why the LieDeck was rushed to market, and that's why you bought a three hundred and forty-six thousand-dollar block of stock in Whiteside Tech on margin before Randall announced the LieDeck, which you sold for six hundred and twenty-two thousand, nine hundred and sixty-one dollars two days later. There will be a public inquiry, and there will be criminal charges!"

  So, last night, having realized he would be disgraced, that he was totally finished as a public figure, Louis had done something honorable. Best to make a clean breast of it, he had decided. Better that she learn it from me than from some God damned reporter.

  The former Canadian prime minister and current ambassador-designate to Australia told his wife Monique the whole truth about his resignation. He had already told her all about the stock deal when they were still in Canada, and she had assumed that that was the only reason he had been forced to resign. She had not only forgiven him for this tiny indiscretion, she had even hinted at what a clever chap he was, financially speaking, since the matter had been covered up and they apparently got to keep the money.

  Over a late-evening glass of wine, Louis had sat in the rather opulent living room of the ambassador's residence and told her the other part, the part about his mad obsession with Darlene Trahan, the real reason Commissioner Joly had forced him out of office. Monique had stood there in front of him, hands planted on her hips, and dredged every last detail out of him. She had demanded to know if there were any other dalliances, any full-blown affairs involving actual copulation. He had assured her that there weren't, and had gotten beeped by his own LieDeck. He had wept contritely, and he had apologized, repeatedly, and profusely. He had begged forgiveness and promised to mend his ways. It hadn't worked. Hell has no fury like a woman scorned, he remembered.

  In the morning, when he had awakened, she was gone, with their son, and there were two letters sitting on the kitchen table. He had read them, then calmly showered, dressed in his best suit, and asked his chauffeur to drive him over to Ralph's apartment.

  Now he was there, on Ralph's balcony, drinking and peering out at the peaceful city of Canberra as it hummed into gear for another uneventful day. His mind's eye squinted, but he knew he would never see the invisible freight train that was headed his way.

  He threw back another slug of scotch and a last look at the long handwritten letter. “A Mafia don,” his wife had called him; “a scum-sucking pissant; a wanker; a fraction of a man not fit to be recording secretary of a high school camera club; a spiritual Ferengi; a puss-oozing sore on the body politic of Canada; an embarrassment to humanity; a God damned juvenile delinquent.” She had signed the letter “Love, Monique."

  "That gal really knows how to hurt a guy,” he mused aloud through the alcohol and the waves of depression. “But she's right. I guess I'm Canada's Richard Nixon. How did an asshole like me become prime minister of such a great nation? And why the fuck did I throw it all away over a brown-eyed nymphette and a bag of money?"

  Along with the “Dear Louis” note was a photocopy of a typed letter Monique had sent to the Canberra Times, telling all the juicy, sordid details of the Darlene Trahan business at Ralph's Ottawa condo, as well as the full skinny on the illicit stock deal. Is death the proper penalty for masturbation? he wondered. Bad enough that she destroys me, but did she have to ruin Ralph too?

  Questions—so many questions—so little point to them all. If there were answers, it might be worth his sticking around. But there wasn't an answer anywhere in the known universe, none that he could see—only the prospect of permanent humiliation and public ridicule ... and of course prison.

  "Dear Ralph,” he penned on the back of his wife's letter to the editor. “Sorry to add to your grief by jumping off your balcony. Don't follow my lead. I tried to be a good friend to you. You were the best friend I ever had. I guess I'll see you in hell."

  He finished his drink, threw the two ice cubes over the railing, and watched as they grew smaller and smaller, finally bursting into two clusters of temporary diamonds. Then he wiped the bottom of the glass on his pants and placed it on top of Monique's letters, so they wouldn't blow away.

  He wanted to write a note to Nick Godfrey, the new PM, his political replacement, the man he used to call “the goof” and “the Honourable Mr. Goofy,” but there was no point in that. He wanted to write letters to the legion of loyal friends who had helped him with his political career, and to his two sisters, and to his young son, but again, there was no real point in his doing that. These were just delaying tactics, reflections of fear, and fear was all that stood between himself and the blond, Australian concrete, seventeen stories below.

  "Fuck the fear,” he said. “Survival isn't all it's cracked up to be. I have a much more important priority ... avoiding ... major-league avoiding."

  As he hauled his legs over the railing, he determined that he would do this last thing well. This would be a perfect swan dive—arms out, toes pointed, body arched backwards, eyes open ... and he would not scream. He would fall with dignity and meet his death in silence.

  He pushed off mightily, shrieked in terror, grasped idiotically at a thin wind ... and smashed most unwillingly into a cruel planet.

  Chapter 52

  WHAT A RIOT

  Patriot Command knew that O'Connor was at the Ottawa General, in Annette's room, and had beeped him on his pager. He had left the room to call in, talked to his operatives on his cell phone, and then waited for Randall outside the door, chatting with two police officers who were keeping the reporters at bay. No point in rushing the boss, he figured. When Randall and the others finally emerged, Cam took him aside and told him the news, and after a few more minutes had passed, the nurse was sent in to get Steve.

  When Steve came out, he wanted to sit for a minute, to contemplate the relief he felt at having been rescued from Annette's stunning proposal of marriage, but the looks on the faces of Cam O'Connor and Randall Whiteside told him that something terrible must have happened. He wasn't in the best of shape to start with, and the news of Bill Doyle's suicide blew the rudder off completely.

  He blacked out momentarily. The next thing he knew, he was halfway to his knees, being held up by hands under his arms, and stared in the face by a worried nurse. The two police officers were staring over the nurse's shoulder.

  "I'm ... okay,” he said as he flexed his way back up, physically and otherwise. “We'd better go out there."

  Grant Eamer was waiting in Whitebird III on the roof of the General Hospital. They flew straight to Norway Bay, intending to land on the sandy shore beside the government wharf.

  * * *

  Michael and Rebecca heard the helicopter thumping its way up the Ottawa River, and they saw it slow down for a landing on the nearby beach, but they got in the jeep and just left. They found they had nothing to say to each other during the drive back to the estate. They were supposed to be going back to school in two days, and they had planned a grand weekend together—minigolf, some horseback riding, maybe a movie on DVD. But after the police officers had finished taking their statements, a one-hour marathon, all they wanted was to get back to Michael's cabin and be alone for a while, alone with each other.

  They arrived at the manor in early afternoon. The first thing they did was give Mrs. Whiteside a hug, together, a quiet, three-way consolation. Patriot agents had already told Doreen what had happened in Norway Bay, and she was concerned for her son, and for Becky. Such a terrible thing could stay with them forever.

  "Dad and Steve are out there,” said Michael as they released their hold on each other and touched away latent tears. “Steve spent most of Th
ursday night talking with Bishop Doyle, so the cops want to ask him about the Bishop's state of mind, and of course about the LieDeck ... like if he had one or not, and if he used it. Look—uh—I'll be back in a couple of minutes, okay?"

  He walked out the back door and over to the Patriot compound, to report what he knew of the incident ... and to make sure he didn't make a fool of himself by crying in front of his girlfriend and his mother. “They know I'm hurting,” he said lightly as he strode heavily. “Let the record show that when I hurt, I hurt like a man."

  Becky called her own mother from the telephone in the kitchen, to tell her what had happened and to assure her that she was okay. “I'd really rather discuss this with you and Dad together, tomorrow night, when I get home,” she tried.

  "I just knew something awful like this was going to happen,” her mother said.

  "Mom, you didn't know that something terrible would happen,” said Becky with her eyes closed and her impatience barely concealed. “You feared it ... and you were right, as it happens. But you could just as easily have been wrong. Please ... can we talk about it tomorrow?"

  There was a long period of time during which Becky was reduced to mere listening, alternately showing concern and frustration on her young face. “Honest, I'm fine,” she interjected several times. After a tense goodbye, she hung up, walked to the table, and sat, looking glum and drained. Doreen Whiteside took her hand gently. “Are you sure you're okay, honey?” she asked.

  "Oh, yeah,” said Becky, fairly convincingly. “My mom has been expecting something terrible to happen in my life ever since I was born. She was bound to be right sooner or later, I suppose. Really, I'm fine. Maybe ... a glass of water."

  "Now Becky,” said Doreen as she went to the fridge to get ice water, “don't be too hard on her. She's your mother, and she can't help but worry. Come the day when you have children of your own, you'll see. It isn't easy."

  Michael came back into the manor and embraced his mother again. Becky had to look out the window, into the back yard and beyond, to the woods. She wished things were that comfortable in her family.

  "Was it ... awful?” Doreen asked her son as he joined Becky at the table.

  "Yeah,” he said. “Pretty gruesome. Look, I'm sure you'd like me to stay, but Becky and me just want to be alone for a bit, okay? Patriot said Dad should be here any minute. I'll call him later from the cabin. We'll have supper together tomorrow. The police said they'd keep my name out of the papers if they could, but you'd better talk to Sarah and Julia, in case they hear from somebody else about me and Becky being there in Norway Bay ... finding the body and all. You'll be okay until Dad gets here, eh?"

  "Yes, of course, dear,” said Doreen. “Go ahead. I'll talk to you in a while—when you call Daddy."

  On their way out to the cabin, Michael and Becky stopped briefly at the lodge to talk to Victor. He had a right to know what had happened to Bill Doyle before he heard about it on television, and he had to be told that Steve wouldn't be coming to help him with the written report he was supposed to present tomorrow.

  It turned out to be an odd conversation, disquieting to both Michael and Becky. When they told Victor about Bishop Doyle, he didn't seem particularly moved, one way or the other. Perhaps he'd been told already, by Patriot, but if that were the case, he didn't say so. He seemed to drift off momentarily, and then he told the two teens there had been a news bulletin earlier, saying that former prime minister St. Aubin had also taken his life. “Jumped off a high-rise apartment building in Australia,” was his complete description of the event, said in a monotone.

  Michael and Becky felt compelled to rehash that conversation when they got to the small cabin on the other side of the lake. “He didn't seem to feel any remorse about all this,” said Michael as he reached into his battery-operated fridge and pulled out a can of Pepsi. “You want one?"

  "He did too,” said Becky, nodding “yes” for Pepsi. “I think it's just that he was able to get by the thing more quickly than we did. We need more time to let our feelings run their course than he does, that's all."

  "I ... guess,” conceded Michael as he looked out the kitchen window across the lake, towards the lodge. “But all these awful things that have been happening, they don't seem to surprise him, you know?” He turned, put a can of Pepsi in front of Becky, and then sat down beside her. “It was like he expected a certain amount of this craziness because of the LieDeck. And he seemed to be sorry about Bishop Doyle mostly because it struck so close to home ... at least that's the way it seemed to me."

  Rebecca let her emotions run silent, like a submarine settling on the ocean floor or a powerless space shuttle gliding back to the safety of Earth. She knew that her pain and confusion would pass. She knew that there was nothing more she could have done for Sister Beth, that Steve and the doctors had what the poor woman needed. And she was glad she hadn't yielded to the temptation to go down to the basement and look at Bishop Doyle's body. The memory of this day was going to be horrid enough without a visual image to haunt her sleep. She also knew that her parents were going to give her a tough time when she got home on Sunday night, and she was anxious to clarify her thoughts before that happened.

  "My dad is going to say I should have nothing to do with Victor,” she said absently. “He's going to point to all the bad things that are happening in the world and say they're all Victor's fault, and your dad's fault. God, I wish I didn't live at home."

  "You don't mean that,” said Michael reassuringly. He wanted to ask Becky to live with him when he went to university in September, to go to Toronto with him, but this obviously wasn't the right moment. He resolved to talk to her about that soon, and for the first time, he felt that she might agree, in spite of her parents.

  "You'll work it out with them,” he said softly as he got up and stared out the window. “I don't know why they always give you such a hard time before they come around. The truth is, we're both pretty young to be dealing with this sort of ... with a suicide. So, let's look at this as something we're coping with as a family ... I mean, not a real family, but as ... as partners. I support you and you support me, okay?"

  Michael walked behind Becky's chair, wrapped his thin arms around her neck, and pressed his cheek onto hers to relieve the ache. She reached up and put her hand into his hair.

  "I really love you, Michael,” she said as her vision went cloudy again.

  Michael waited until he felt that Becky had recovered a little. “I have to call Dad,” he said. “Why don't you change into a nice dress and splash your face before we head back to the lodge. Or take a hot bath. We've got tons of time."

  He found his new cell phone under a jacket and rang his father. He told him exactly what had happened in Norway Bay, and how they had handled it. “We're okay now,” he said.

  Randall had already heard the details from the police. He was proud of his son, and of Becky, and he made a point of saying so. “You sure you're okay, Mikey?” he asked.

  "Oh yeah, I'm fine, Dad,” said Michael. “Becky and I can deal with our feelings. You take care of Mom though, eh? And the girls?"

  He chucked the cell phone on the couch and went into the bedroom. Becky was lying on the bed with her shoes off and her eyes closed, curled up in a fetal position, wishing things weren't as they were. Michael kicked off his shoes, lay beside her, and pulled the comforter up over them both. Normally, he would reach around her, pull her hair back, kiss her on the neck, and one thing would lead to another. But this was surely not a time for making love. It was a time for ... well, he didn't know for what. He lay on his back, breathing quietly, and began reviewing his role in this dreadful day.

  When he was at Steve's cottage in Norway Bay, he had ended up standing at the screen door for several minutes, waiting for the police, while Becky consoled Sister Beth. Two squirrels had chased each other up and down trees and across the lawn in some kind of spring mating ritual. Michael had felt a strange procession of conflicting emotions chase each other up
and down his spine as he listened to Sister Beth communing in Latin with the Mother of God against the manic, incomprehensible chattering of the squirrels. He still had the suicide note in his hip pocket at the time, and he'd remembered that it was unsealed. He would give it to the cops when they arrived, of course ... but a peek won't change anything, he had assured himself. So he'd peeked.

  "The LieDeck is the work of the DEVIL!” it read, in big, shaky script. “May God have mercy on my soul, and yours, Bishop Sutherland."

  When Sister Beth went to the bathroom, he'd shown the note to Becky. Neither of them was sure what to make of the words, but they certainly didn't want Sister Beth to see it, so Michael had stuffed it back in his pocket until the police came.

  Bishop Doyle had abandoned Christianity, like so many millions had done recently, because of the LieDeck, because it confirmed the fact that he didn't believe in God. Now he was dead, by his own hand, and for no sensible or worthy reason. Reality, it seemed, was no substitute for myth.

  * * *

  "Not like that!” Michael screamed as he sat bolt upright.

  "Michael, what's wrong?” said Becky with a start. “You're scaring me."

  "Jeeze ... sorry ... I was dreaming,” said Michael as he grabbed his head with both hands. “I was just thinking about Bishop Doyle. I must have dozed off."

  Becky looked at her watch. They'd been asleep almost two hours. “We'd better get going or we'll be late,” she said quietly. “What were you dreaming about?"

  "It was—uh—nothing,” said Michael as he collected himself and reached for his shoes. It wasn't nothing, of course, but he saw no purpose in frightening Becky. He'd dreamt he was a floating, ghostly presence in the dank basement of Steve Sutherland's cottage. He remembered screaming, trying to get Bill Doyle to ... to do what? Funny how a dream can be so vivid and yet slip away so quickly, he thought.

  "No, really,” said Becky as she brushed out her hair. “What did you dream?"