by David Beers
She was scared of him, even if she wouldn’t come out and say it.
She was scared of what he might do.
Are you not? he wondered.
No, strangely enough. What Luke wanted him to do was just so far beyond the realm of possibility that it didn’t matter.
Then why did you tell her? Why did you say she should tell Tommy, if the time ever became right?
He sighed and rolled over, turning his back to Veronica.
Christian wasn’t going to kill her or anyone else. No one besides Luke, and even that would be a stretch.
He felt his phone vibrating next to him on the bed. Who would be calling him this late? Waverly? Christian reached for the phone and immediately saw the number was blocked. Cold blanketed his whole body, a heavy thing—like a lead vest. Only one person would call him with a blocked number.
Christian sat up, still holding the phone.
He looked across the room at Veronica, her face toward him, her mouth slightly open.
Christian put the phone to his ear.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi, Christian,” Luke’s clear voice spoke.
“Where are you?”
“I’m not close by. I’m attending to other things right now, though I think you have Ms. Lopez with you. How is that relationship working?”
Christian swallowed, still looking at Veronica. The cold wouldn’t dissipate and goosebumps rose on his skin. “Why are you calling, Luke?”
“I wanted to see if you’ve thought anymore about what I proposed the last time we spoke. Are you willing to kill her yet?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“I suppose I do, but I wanted to give you another chance. Do you remember what I told you before I stabbed you in the face?”
Christian did. He remembered everything perfectly until the blackness swarmed him, the pain and blood loss growing too heavy for his mind to keep going.
“I said that if you wanted to kill me, this would be your only chance. That if you waited any longer, it would grow much harder to do so. You remember that, right?”
Silence from Christian.
“I’m telling you something similar now. Different as well, though. If you want to keep your sanity, kill her. Later, after tomorrow, it’s going to be much harder to find that sanity … Is she there with you?”
Christian looked away from her, somehow frightened that Luke might be able to see through his own eyes and actually view her.
“She is. Kill her, Christian. For your own sake. End her life, then go to Tommy’s room and do the same. You’ll be doing him a favor, and you know it. When you’re finished, I’ll come get you. We can leave, Christian. You and I. We’ll never be caught.”
Christian’s eyes slid back to Veronica, unable to help it.
I’ll come get you. We can leave, Christian. You and I. We’ll never be caught.
A part of him—a part he would never admit to anyone—wanted that. To go with Luke, to spend the rest of his days with the only person who’d ever understood his intellect.
Christian swallowed and closed his eyes. “No, Luke.”
“You’re sure? After tomorrow … things are going to change.”
“Where are you?” Christian said.
“I wanted to give you the option. I’m always looking out for you, even if you don’t think that’s the case.”
Christian said nothing.
“Good night, my old friend.”
The line went dead.
Christian didn’t sleep the rest of the night. He woke Waverly and Tommy, telling them both about the threat for tomorrow. Of course, he left out some of the conversation; the parts that held no bearing on the impending attack.
Alerts went out across the FBI, but in the end, neither Christian nor the FBI’s warning made any difference.
Director Alan Waverly arrived at work early, just as he had each day for the past 20 years. He took a different route than most other employees, parking in a different deck and taking an elevator that very few people had access to. In the beginning, at least, he was safe.
It was the parking decks that were the problem, the ones that Waverly didn’t visit.
More specifically, it was the cars that went into the decks. Charles Twaller’s sly genius showed itself in that move; he had realized that the most perfect delivery mechanism were the people themselves.
Sarin has a potency much higher than cyanide, and the ability to easily turn from its natural liquid form into a gas. Charles had wracked his brain for a long time, trying to understand how he could take sarin from the outside and deliver it inside.
The eureka moment came at an inopportune time, but who can truly control when genius strikes?
He had been lying in bed, the darkness of the mountains surrounding him. He was dozing when it hit him, sleep just about to wash over with its peaceful necessity.
The cars, he thought. The cars. No one checks them, not if you have a badge. The driver flashes the badge at a reader, perhaps waves at the guard on duty, and then they’re safe. It would take entirely too much time to check each car for weapons, chemical or otherwise.
He woke then, and didn’t sleep at all the rest of the night.
By the time morning arrived, everything had been worked out. He only needed to operationalize the strategy, and that wouldn’t be hard. Resources were poured into understanding who worked at the FBI’s D.C. building, and then more poured into understanding where those people lived.
The timing was what mattered. His men went out the night before to 400 employees’ homes. Even as Luke was speaking to Christian over the phone, Twaller’s people were working. No one was arrested.
Out of 400 employees, 150 vehicles were located. Not a high percentage, but then, not a high percentage was needed.
Canisters were attached beneath the cars, a small and simple technology. A timer was built into each one, set to release at 7:50 the next morning.
Cars rolled through the parking decks (there were two, one at the north entrance and one at the south). Some cars arrived early, some late, but that was the beauty of the plan. At 7:50 a.m., the canisters began releasing their poison. Sarin is odorless, tasteless, and invisible to the eye. The gas moved like oxygen, spraying throughout the parking decks. It filled level after level, and the people heading to work walked right through it, both breathing it in and attaching it to their clothes.
Sarin gas can continue releasing from strands of clothing for up to 30 minutes. So, the canisters had been the first method of delivery, but the second, and most important, were the people who entered the building. Every floor had at least one person spreading the poison.
Death occurs in one to ten minutes after inhalation.
The first person to die from it did so alone, on Level C of parking deck 6. She felt a tightening in her chest, and her nose immediately began running. She tried to walk, but lost control of her muscles quickly, falling to the ground. Her limbs began twitching and her lungs lost the ability to pull in air. She died from asphyxia within two minutes of first breathing in the gas.
Two people found her five minutes later; both of them lived another five to six minutes. They had time to call for EMTs, who wouldn’t arrive for another 15.
The first person to make it through the FBI doors hadn’t actually been touched by the gas until he was five feet from the entrance. A small patch of it landed gently on his right shoulder, sinking through the fabric and touching his skin. He was lucky not to breathe it in immediately. That meant he lasted another 16 minutes.
In that time, he passed by 23 people on the way to his desk, including standing next to four in the elevator. Three of those four felt their sinuses fill and release in a matter of seconds, one of them even commenting on it, creating odd laughter from all in the elevator.
Two died face down at their desk. The other fell at a urinal, his skull cracking on the porcelain. Blood trickled onto the floor, the urinal above still flushing.
The 150 cars that had been outfitted with the gas ended up affecting over 900 employees, 63 emergency personnel, 159 contractors, and 43 children.
The death rate was 83%, with the emergency personnel pushing that number down, given their training. The highest rate of death was in the children’s population.
Throughout the building, people lay shivering and shaking on the carpeted floors. They drooled, urinated, and defecated on themselves as they lost all control over their bodily functions. They suffocated in large spasms, their bodies jerking as if some invisible force moved them at will.
By the time medical professionals arrived with the correct gear to help, there wasn’t much they could do, other than quarantine the area.
Even Director Alan Waverly was finally affected, the poison not limited by badges or secret elevators that only he could access. The alarm system started five minutes before he was infected, but at that point, no one knew exactly what was happening. Some medical professionals suspected—but no sarin experts had yet arrived, and the etiology of the attack had not yet been identified.
Waverly’s chest tightened, just as those of the employees below him. His nose ran. He felt his arms begin twitching, and then he collapsed on the floor. His assistant rushed to him, infecting herself as well, and before too long, she was lying next to her boss, both of their bodies doing the jitterbug.
The plane flew over the midwest desert, its occupants heading for the east coast.
“Will you turn it off, please?”
Veronica did as Tommy asked, hitting the button on the remote and killing the television. It had been on the news and Tommy didn’t want to watch any more of it. Everything he needed was feeding into the computer on his lap, and listening to the talking heads go on and on about the attack did nothing for him.
“What happened to him last night?” Tommy whispered.
Christian sat across from Tommy, just as he had on the first plane ride across the desert. Now, though, his eyes were closed; he had retreated into his mansion, not offering any reason or motive. He simply sat down on the plane and closed his eyes. Even the plane’s take off hadn’t jolted him from wherever he had gone.
“Nothing. We talked a bit before bed, then I fell asleep.”
“You didn’t hear any of his conversation with Luke?”
Veronica shook her head.
No one had slept since Christian woke them, alerting them to Luke’s new threat. They had been preparing all morning, and in the end, no one ever had a chance. The death toll was rising by the minute, those that the sarin had poisoned but not killed dying in the hospital.
“Then what is this about?” Tommy said, glancing at Christian before returning his eyes back to Veronica.
“How do I know, Tommy? I’ve seen what you’ve seen. Nothing else.”
Tommy stared at her, his gaze that of old—a detective knowing he was being bullshitted.
“When we came out here,” he said, “your attitude had changed. I saw you 30 minutes before we left, and you were happy. By the time we boarded the plane, you were different. What happened in those 30 minutes, Veronica? Don’t lie to me again. You asked me to share with you, and I did. Now it’s your turn, because this is important.”
Veronica looked down at her own computer. Tears were in her eyes, but Tommy couldn’t wipe them away. He wouldn’t have, though. He would have let her cry until she spilled her guts.
“Veronica. What happened before the plane ride?”
She closed her eyes and a tear fell out. “He said I could tell you when the time was right, but it isn’t, Tommy. He isn’t going to do it.”
“Do what?”
She opened her eyes and Tommy saw fire in them. “Why? Why are you making me betray his trust?”
“Look at him. Do you think he’s okay right now? Whatever he told you, he’s kept it from Waverly, and more importantly, he’s kept it from me. No one, goddamn no one, has lost as much as I have. So for him to keep it from me is fucking nonsense. For you to keep it from me is nonsense. Whatever he’s hiding, it has material bearing on this case, doesn’t it?”
She said nothing.
“Doesn’t it?” Tommy asked with as much force as he could.
Veronica nodded.
“Exactly. Now tell me what he said.”
She stared for a few more seconds, but Tommy saw her walls crumbling. Whether it was from their conversation about black clouds and suicide, or his current plea, he didn’t know and didn’t care.
“Luke told him that if he killed us—you, me, and Waverly—that Luke would turn himself in. That all of this would stop if he killed us three.”
“Jesus Christ,” Tommy whispered, closing his own eyes. That’s why Christian went into his mansion, why he hadn’t said a word since everything happened this morning. Because he thought he could have stopped it, and all he needed to do was murder his friends. “Jesus Christ,” Tommy said again. The full weight finally hitting him.
“What are you going to do?”
Tommy was quiet for a long time.
“I don’t know yet.”
Christian watches Luke when Luke was but a boy.
A week has passed since the cathedral burnt nearly to the ground. The fire department arrived late, and their equipment wasn’t modern enough to put out the blaze.
The preacher man was admitted to the hospital, his lungs full of smoke.
Now it’s a week later, and he is standing on the cracked stoop of Luke’s house.
Luke is walking down the street. His book bag on his back, his brother walks to his left.
“Stop,” he says as he sees the preacher man. He’s pale and sickly looking, but there all the same. His brother listens to him, knowing that when Luke speaks, he’s never wrong. If Luke wants him to stop, then he best do it.
“Listen to me,” Luke says, his eyes not leaving the preacher man. “I want you to go back to school. Go and tell whoever is there that you need to study some more. I’ll come get you, but don’t come back home until I’m with you, okay?” He doesn’t look at his brother as he speaks.
“Okay, Luke … What’s wrong? Why’s Father Marquez at our house?”
“Just go, Mark,” Luke says. “I’ll come get you soon.”
His brother turns and leaves; Luke stands for a few minutes, letting Mark get further away. Whatever will happen, he doesn’t want his younger brother to see it. The preacher man doesn’t drop his gaze, but seems to understand what Luke is doing and is okay with it.
Finally, the priest nods. Luke doesn’t turn around; he knows what the preacher man is saying. It’s time.
And, so it is. Luke continues his walk up the street, turning right at the dirt driveway that contains no car.
“The wayward son,” the preacher man says as Luke approaches the stoop. “Returned home.”
Two men step out from behind Marquez. They’re large, Mexican and angry looking. They move to Luke without pausing, having obviously been waiting for him to arrive. Each grabs an arm, and although he is not resisting, they drag him up the steps. They simply want to be rough. The preacher man steps to the side, and they rush him into the house.
Christian watches Luke’s face as he sees his mother on the couch.
She’s hog-tied, her arms and legs fastened together. Blood is smeared across her cheeks. Her face is on the couch and her behind in the air.
Luke’s eyes widen at first, but he quickly gains control of himself. He knows surprise is what they want to see. Anger. Hatred. Fear. Pleading. Emotions that he will not give them, because Luke knows it won’t save his mother’s life. Even at this young age, Luke knows victims do not walk away from situations like these. Luke is certain his mother’s life is over, and his most likely, too.
“Sit him down,” the priest says.
The strong men do as they’re told.
Marquez moves between Luke and his mother, cutting off the boy’s line of sight.
“You burnt my church down, son,” the preacher man says. One
of the strong men moves away from Luke and grabs a chair from across the room. He pulls it over, placing it just behind Marquez. “Did you think there would be no consequences? Did you think you could do that and I would simply … what?” The preacher man looks around as if searching for an answer in the air. “Just go away?”
He sighs and looks back at Luke.
“No, son. No, no, no. Do you know how many years I’ve been in this town, collecting payments for people's souls? Forty-two years. I’m 64 years old, and one does not make it to this age by simply allowing any newcomer to shove them around.” He paused and looked at the strong man behind Luke, a smile on the priest’s face. “Though, I must admit, no one has tried doing it exactly as you have, nor for such foolish reasons. You burned down my church over what? A few thousand pesos each year?”
The priest spits on the ground and then looks back at Luke.
“A few thousand pesos. I piss that each morning. And now,” Marquez scoots his chair back, letting Luke see his mother. “Look at her. Look at what you’ve done. This is only the beginning, my son. Much more is to come. You’re going to watch. Then, you’re going to help build my church back up, brick by brick, and then you’re going to keep paying me the pesos, just as your mother did. Do you understand this? You’re going to make me whole, my son.”
Luke hears the words, his agile mind filing them away for later, but he cannot pull his eyes from his mother. He does not show any emotion, but it’s there, just below the surface. Finally, he looks at the priest.
“Let her go and I’ll do whatever you want.”
“No. That time has passed. A time for sowing and a time for reaping, that is what the good Lord tells us. You have sowed, and now you will reap.”
The priest stands and the strong man’s hands clamp down on Luke. He does not try to move, not until the other strong man yanks down his mother’s pants, leaving her naked bottom in the air.
