by D. F. Bailey
Her hand rose to the pendant at her throat and she caressed it between her thumb and forefinger.
“The notion of man-made climate change.”
“You think it is?”
“Worse than that.” She sipped her coffee. “It’s a conspiracy taken up by the leftists who lost their cause after the failure of communism in Russia and China.”
He scratched a word on his pad. Conspiracy. He knew she had more to say. It was simply a question of how to open the breach.
“And?”
She stared into the distance to think. “And to fill their secular void. They embrace every word from the mouths of people like Al Gore and Martin Fast.”
“What about the science? The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change claims that climate change is real and it’s man-made.”
“But is it really man-made? If you think that our natural destiny is to thrive and grow, then climate change can only be seen as natural destiny, too. Rest assured, Mr. Finch, there’s a plan for all of this”—she waved a hand across the patio, as if to indicate the entire world and the universe surrounding it—“and for each and every one of us, too.”
“So, let me see if I understand this.” Finch tilted his chin to one side. “Man-made climate change is in fact a natural phenomenon. Simply because humans are a force of nature.”
“Essentially. Yes.” She smiled again, with a look that revealed her famous charisma. “And to interfere with climate, food production, gender”—she swept a hand above the table to indicate an unmitigated disaster—“everything that Martin Fast championed is deviant. To use your word, it’s man-made depravity.”
“Depravity,” he said, echoing her tone. He decided to prod her a little more. “At the risk of getting too arcane for our readers, let me ask this. How do you define nature?”
She smiled as if she were preparing a clever trap. “Nature, Mr. Finch, is God’s custodian of the universe.”
As he listened, Finch discerned the depth of Kali Rood’s beliefs. Here was a true believer, someone who had constructed a system governed by her own convictions and theories.
“But what about the science?” he asked again. “The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change.”
She shrugged as if she was about to dismiss the question as an irrelevancy. Then she decided to respond.
“As I’ve said before—and you heard me at the debate with Martin Fast—the IPCC is the epitome of political climatocracy. Martin Fast is in the same boat as those who support genetically modified food and transgender surgery. Just because it’s technically possible to alter our God-given world, doesn’t make it right. And just because scientists take a vote on a change in the weather, doesn’t make it true. If that were the case, they could simply vote God out of existence, couldn’t they?”
He chuckled at that. So many transgressions rolled into one. She acknowledged climate change and all the challenges it presented—but because it was man-made, it was fundamentally a force of nature. And any attempt to change “the change” was itself perverse. Climate science was a sort of voodoo—and climate engineers like Martin Fast, the devil incarnate. When he wrote a profile of her, it would take some finesse to clarify all this.
“Some of them already have,” she continued.
“Have what?”
“Voted God out of existence.” Then she leaned forward and continued.
“You know Mr. Finch, our situation is much more serious than most people think. I know I sound alarmist to people like you. And to some of your readers I may seem like a joke. But I do embrace science. Credible science. The fact that our planet, Earth, can adequately sustain only two billion people. That freshwater resources are diminishing. The oceans are acidifying. The forests are vanishing. All that and more.”
She paused to sip her Americano.
“As a result, in our lifetime five billion people will be displaced. Five billion, dead. Think of it. The process is already underway in the Middle East, Africa and Asia.”
“And you plan to save the survivors?” An odd turn of phrase, he realized, but the words fit. “And who gets to select them? Who gets to herd them onto the ark?”
“Well, someone has to.”
“You?”
She narrowed her eyes and glanced away as if these questions were offensive.
“Sounds like Armageddon,” he added, dangling this word before her.
“Ah, yes. The prophecies of John. The thing about Armageddon is that everyone has to prepare for his own reckoning, Mr. Finch. It’s not as though we’ll be collectively vaporized. Armageddon is a very personal thing. The pain is real.” She turned her head slightly as if she were granting him an insight into his own fate. “You need to ask yourself, are you—William Finch—prepared?”
Finch put his pen down and finished his coffee. He scanned the gardens behind their table. Lush, verdant, clipped and pruned. A man-made paradise, the genesis of climate change.
“I’ll tell you what I am prepared for. I’m prepared to write this story as I understand it. I’m prepared to research the facts. I’m prepared to profile the people involved. People like you. And your followers.”
She adjusted her hat slightly. “And just what do you think of me?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
He leaned forward in his chair and picked up his pen again. “There’s something false about you.”
“False?” Her voice lifted with a note of disbelief, as if no one had suggested this to her before. “In what way?”
“Your pendant, for example. It’s not a cross, it’s an ankh. Some Christians would see it as offensive. An object of heresy.”
“I’m surprised you don’t already know this, Mr. Finch. I’ve publicly declared that I’m not a Christian. Like all people, I am a child of God. Christ is our brother, not our lord,” she explained wearily, as if she’d had to make this distinction far too often.
Of course Finch did know about her public declarations and the fine distinctions that she’d made to her followers and those who derided her as an apostate. But the probe was simply a lead in, a jab to warm her up.
“I see. So you’re a plain vanilla theist.”
She didn’t respond.
“And what else about me do you find so false?”
He knew he was at the heart of the interview now. Her inner world. Just how far could he take this? He pressed on.
“Your name.” He studied her face for signs of hesitation or anxiety.
She held his eyes, but took a shallow breath. “To those who know me, the facts are known well enough. When I was sixteen and living in Pennsylvania, my guardians”—her hand rose an inch or two above the table—“were … called.” She arched an eyebrow to suggest a not-so-easy departure from Earth. “Then when I was twenty-one, when I was in my final year at university, I had a conversion experience. That’s when I took the name Kali Rood.”
“Who provided the name?”
“I did.” The self-assured look returned to her face. “Rood is an old English term that means living near the cross. In Greek, Kali means good woman. It may sound a little self-serving, but my name gives me something to live up to.”
Finch considered this. “Isn’t Kali also a Hindu goddess? The goddess of destruction, as I remember it.”
Her head turned to one side. “You’re half right. But you got the wrong half. She was the destroyer of demons and evil forces. That would put her on the side of the good, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.”
On his pad Finch made a note to check the name derivations. “What about the Virgin Queen? Do you embrace that name, too?”
She let out a gasp of surprise that suggested she was both shocked and delighted. “That came from Jayne Waterston’s profile of me in The Village Voice last fall.”
“I understand you filed a lawsuit against her and then dropped it.”
“It’s just one more problem in America, Mr. Finch. Once the media discover they can u
se you to sell their papers, magazines and broadcasts, then people like me become little more than a news commodity. My lawyers advised me once that happens my legal protections against slander and liable vanish.”
Although he’d never spoken to Jayne Waterston, Finch knew the story. He made another note—call Waterston—to see if she’d experienced any fallout from her article and the retracted lawsuit.
She picked up her purse and set it in her lap.
“Acknowledge the facts, Mr. Finch. Get over your righteous journalistic idealism. The only reason we’re talking right now is so the eXpress can sell more ads.”
He tipped his head to one side with a look of doubt. “Then why did you accept the interview? Any interview?” He paused to let her respond. When she looked away, he pressed her. “I think it’s because you know the publicity draws people to you. A beautiful, articulate woman who holds out the promise of personal salvation. Who wouldn’t be curious, at the very least? Let alone pay millions of dollars each year to attach themselves to you.”
“Good questions. I urge you to speak to members of the foundation to get their answers. But what about you, Mr. Finch. There’s something false about you, too, is there not?”
A look of surprise crossed his face. “Me?”
“No, not false,” she corrected herself, “but you are hiding something. A pain you refuse to acknowledge.”
“Am I?” He tried to laugh off the accusation but when her gaze would not release him, he had to look away.
“Yes. A loss of some kind. Something has been stolen from you and the pain of loss continues to rob your life.” She paused as if she wanted him to absorb this insight. “If you’re not careful, it will destroy your ability to love again.”
He felt a rush of confusion, as if she’d been able to see inside him. The feeling was both frightening and thrilling. In that instant, he understood how she’d been able to recruit the thousands of followers who subscribed to her foundation. Kali Rood felt the pain, the fear that haunted so many people. She could lift the veil and touch the festering wounds of human suffering. Was it really possible?
“I don’t think so,” he said. He felt an urge to push away the danger that she might be right. “That might work on others, but not me.”
“Well. Then I think that ends our conversation.”
She glanced away, then opened her purse and took a moment to search for something. Apparently unable to find whatever she needed, she let out a sigh of exasperation. She stood and waved at Jacob Bell who waited patiently under an awning near the cashier. Then she turned back to Will.
“Mr. Finch, I urge you, before it’s too late. Look into your heart, listen to the unanswered questions. Not about me. Not about Martin Fast or climate change. Ask about yourself. Then answer the questions in your soul.”
※ — SIX — ※
EVE CLICKED OFF her phone and wandered from her office into the living room. She sat down on the love seat and gazed out the window to think a moment.
That was a strange conversation, she concluded. She studied the call list on her phone as if she needed to verify the last call. Yes, there it was. Sam Parson, one of the Parson brothers, owners of Parson Media—and more important, Will’s employer at the eXpress. He’d called to set up a meeting for one o’clock that afternoon. Said he couldn’t tell her anything beyond the fact that he had a business opportunity to discuss.
He wasn't the first. Over the past six months, as word leaked out about her recent windfall, at least fifty people had invited her to consider various options and schemes. Everything from international finance investments to pizza franchises. She’d declined them all. Not that she wasn't interested in starting a new business life. Quite the contrary. She’d grown weary of running her PI agency on her own as a sole proprietor. She wanted to work with new talent on something bigger. Something that she could nurture and grow. But none of the previous suitors offered anything of substance.
When she asked Sam Parson if Will knew about the proposal, Sam had said, “No, but after our meeting I’d be happy if you bring him up to speed.” That made her suspect something, but she didn't know what. Nonetheless, she agreed to meet Sam at Scala’s Bistro for lunch.
Gazing out the window, she heard a few drops of rain tap against the glass. Three or four winter storms had provided some relief to the ongoing drought and once every few weeks a summer shower would surprise her. As she prepared for the lunch meeting with Sam she decided to dig through the storage room for her umbrella. She pulled aside the still unpacked boxes from the recent move and in the back corner she found the umbrella standing next to her leather boots. As her hand brushed against her raincoat she saw Toby Squire’s Armani jacket.
"Oh my God.” She took a step backward. She hadn’t forgotten the coat, but she’d managed to reduce it to a vague shadow state in the back of her mind. She touched the sleeve with her fingers, then stepped forward and lifted the jacket off the hook.
“So. Definitely time for you to go.”
She carried the jacket into the kitchen with the intention of tossing it into the cardboard box of old clothing that she planned to give to the Salvation Army. But before she threw it into the box, she ran her fingers over the pockets and along one sleeve. She studied the fabric a moment, pressing the material between her thumb and fingers. Very high-end. Cashmere, she guessed. She opened the jacket flap and studied the rectangular black label with “Giorgio Armani” written in white letters. She knew enough about men’s fashion to know that of the three Armani lines, black label was the top brand, designed by Giorgio himself. The complete suit probably sold for three grand, she figured.
She sat at the kitchen table and draped the jacket over her knees. “So strange,” she whispered. Why did Toby Squire have a jacket that didn’t fit him? One that he certainly could never afford. Ah well, just throw it away and be done with it, she told herself and as she folded the jacket over her arm, she felt something pucker under the left breast pocket. She rubbed her hand against the cashmere. Her head turned to one side as her fingers traced a subtle pattern in the lining. What’s this?
She opened the jacket flap again and began a careful search of the inner pocket. Nothing there—yet she was certain now that something lay between the inner lining and the inside pocket. Then a fingernail caught the edge of a tiny plastic zipper that ran about four inches along a seam. She pulled the zip tab down and opened a secret pocket. How clever, she thought. Giorgi Armani, master of deception.
Her fingers probed the pocket and she drew a narrow strip of paper from the jacket. It reminded her of a Chinese fortune telling that had been folded in half and tucked into a cookie. It contained a one-word message: @r3v3lationnow.
She studied it a moment, unsure what it could mean. Then she recalled that all Twitter handles began with an atmark: @. She walked back to the kitchen, opened her laptop and clicked on her Twitter feed. In the search bar she entered @r3v3lationnow and was taken to a Twitter page containing only one sentence: “@r3v3lationnow hasn't tweeted yet.”
The name attached to the account was I.M. Unknown. Strange, she thought. Was this a teen prank to ensnare Twitter in an identity scam? Then she noticed one more bit of text, an unpronounceable combination of letters and numbers that formed an internet link.
She clicked the link and was taken from Twitter to a single web page. There, typed in a sans serif font was a list of names and addresses. She counted them. Twenty-three. As she read through the list she recognized a name, the scientist Will had interviewed and written about in the eXpress last week. Martin Fast, who’d been murdered two or three hours before Toby Squire had shot himself.
※
When she heard Finch close the front door, Eve wandered from the kitchen into the hall. She wasn’t quite sure how to break the news and decided to test his mood before she began.
“So. How was your day?”
“Good.” He slung his courier bag onto the love seat in the living room. “Best thing about this job
is that every day’s different. Today I got an irate email from Kali Rood claiming I’d misrepresented her in the interview. Wally loved it, of course, so he posted her reply just below my feature on her.”
He studied her a moment, tried to decoded the drawn expression on her face. “How ‘bout you? Anything new with dungeons and dragons?”
Dungeons and dragons: his term for her PI agency business. Which in the last six months had deteriorated into little more than inquiries into the illicit affairs of rich husbands by scorned wives. More than once he’d suggested that she move on to something more aspirational, a business where she could make a dent in the world. She knew it was a vote of confidence in her, not a dismissal of the livelihood she’d eked out since her departure from the SFPD three years ago.
“Nope. Neither dungeon nor dragon today, I’m afraid.” She leaned against his chest and they kissed. “But I do have some news.”
“News? Tell all.”
They walked back into the kitchen. Finch got busy brewing two expressos while Eve sat at the table overlooking the garden in their small but private back yard.
“All right. Two pieces of news, actually. You choose. The good news or the bad?”
“Good.” He set two espresso cups under the machine drip spouts and pressed the BREW button.
“So. I had lunch today with Sam Parson.”
“Parson?” He turned his attention away from the machine while it hissed. “That is news. What’s he want?”
“Money.” She shrugged. “He wants me as a partner to help finance new growth at the eXpress.”
“Really?” He paused to consider this. “Wally told me they’re having cash flow problems. I don’t know how bad, but….” Finch gave her a look that said such matters ranked above his pay grade. He finished the coffee preparations, set the two cups on the table and sat opposite her. “And your role would be what?”
She hitched her shoulders and let out a slight sigh. “To be determined. It’s just preliminary. I have to give it some thought. Get my accountant and lawyer involved. You know, the idea appeals to me, but the fact that you work there—”
