The Snow Swept Trilogy

by Derrick Hibbard

  Mae said the picture was her masterpiece, and it was the only one she'd ever requested be taped to the refrigerator.

  It was those rare moments each day when she would fully immerse herself in the world she was creating on paper, that she would slow down long enough to internalize everything she'd seen and done. Those moments never lasted though, and Mae was off to discover her next big adventure.

  And even though they joked that their daughter was a one-girl-three-ring-circus, Mae's mom and dad loved their little girl very much. Most of the time, they would run and laugh and play with Mae in each new experience in the world. Together, they were happy, and there never seemed to be an end to that happiness. They were on a long and joyful journey, the three of them, and it seemed as though that journey would never end.

  Until one night, when their world changed forever.

  It was because of her boundless energy that Mae was unable to calm down for long enough to fall asleep at night. Even while lying in her bed, she would fidget and toss and turn. Often, her bed became just another channel for her imagination. Sometimes it was a boat riding the churning ocean waves, and other times her covers would be a cave to explore.

  Mae's parents tried telling her bedtime stories, but it only made her ask questions and want to create stories of her own. They tried closing the door and letting her fall asleep on her own in the dark, but then they would wake up in the middle of the night and she would still be awake, playing or drawing in the middle of her floor. A warm glass of milk with a touch of honey didn't work, and neither did blankets or stuffed animals.

  Out of desperation, Mae's dad created a playlist of soft classical music, mostly on the piano or string instruments. He set up a little music player in her room on top of her dresser, and he told Mae that the music was magic, and that if she listened closely, she could travel to faraway lands filled with magic and adventure. He told her that she would have to lie still in bed with her eyes closed and let the music fill her mind and take her away.

  "But how do I know where to go?"

  Her dad thought about this for a few seconds and then pointed to one of the pictures that Mae had drawn a few days before. It was tacked to the wall near her bookcase with several other drawings. The picture showed a castle floating amongst the clouds, its high stone walls and towers framed by rainbow. On a nearby cloud, a princess in a flowing pink gown was riding a unicorn with colorful wings. Mae had drawn the wings with a glitter pen, so the outline sparkled.

  "How about here?"

  "But Dad, that's just on a piece of paper."

  "Well," he touched her forehead and smiled, "what if you imagined a piece of paper in here. Then you draw the place you want to be."

  She thought about this for a few moments and then nodded. She smiled and closed her eyes, snuggling beneath her bed covers. He stood up and turned on the music. Floating strains of string instruments filled the room. He flicked the light switch and the room fell dark, except for the blue nightlight that illuminated one corner of the room.

  "Daddy?" She looked up at him with her big blue eyes, her short blond hair a puffy mess on the pillow.

  "Yes, babyluv?"

  "What if I get lost over there?"

  He sat down on her bed and took hold of her tiny feet beneath the covers. He smiled as he felt the little shapes of her wiggling toes.

  "Get lost over where?"

  "In the magical lands," she said, in all seriousness.

  "Oh, I don't think you'll get lost," he said and patted her knee.

  "But what if I do?" She paused, mulling the situation over in her mind, then said, "If I get lost, will you come find me?"

  He nodded and then kissed her on her forehead.

  "Of course, babyluv. I'll come find you."

  She smiled, that crisis averted, and settled into her pillow as he started the music. Soft music began playing as he dimmed the lights and pulled her door shut. Mae's eyes were shut, a look of dreamy concentration on her face as she listened.

  Mae's dad had no idea how this new plan would work, and if their past efforts were any indication, he was sure it would fail. But after twenty minutes on that first night, he and his wife poked their heads into her room to see how she was doing and were both pleasantly surprised to see that she was fast asleep.

  Her mom and dad opened a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and celebrated.

  The next morning, neither of them paid any attention to the pile of books on the floor beneath Mae's shelf, or the scattered stuffed animals around the room.

  A few nights later, while the little girl slept, Mae's mom was reading in the rocking chair that sat in the corner of Mae's room. The music had been playing for nearly 30 minutes and her daughter had been sleeping for most of that time.

  She felt a slight change in temperature in the room; but thought nothing of it. If she hadn't been so engrossed in her book, she may have noticed a gentle breeze, and would have seen that the door and windows were tightly closed. Not until the fuchsia fountain pen on Mae's desk began to vibrate did she note anything different in the room. Then all at once, she felt the warm air and the breeze that was now more of a whirlwind. Her hair floated up from her shoulders and there was a faint electric smell in the air.

  She closed the book and placed it in her lap, confused at what was happening, but alert. The music still played, and her daughter still slept soundly in the bed. The fuchsia pen vibrated violently, and then began to roll along the smooth wooden surface of the desk. Mae's mom watched it roll toward the edge, holding her breath. When the pen reached the edge, it dropped several inches and then just hung there in the air, slowly rotating.

  A book on Mae's nightstand suddenly lifted into the air, and then the little stuffed lion in Mae's bed followed, each hanging several feet above the ground, swirling as if pushed by an invisible wind. Mae's mother stood, her heart thudding in her chest and butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

  It's got to be the wind, she thought, but didn't bother looking toward the windows. It was cold outside and she knew they were closed.

  Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The music switched to the next track in the playlist, and the pen, book and lion fell to the ground. Mae kept on sleeping, the hint of a smile on her lips.

  Chapter Two

  "What was in Room 101?" Morales whispered. His footsteps thudded against the concrete as he walked across the empty warehouse to the small offices in the rear of the building.

  "Did you know what was in Room 101?" Morales asked no one in particular, and then laughed very loudly. The sound echoed in the open room.

  He stepped over a pile of trash and wrinkled his nose at the smell.

  "But of course you did," Morales replied to himself. "Of course you knew what was in Room 101, and it was the worst thing in the world, wasn't it?"

  The floors were covered with tattered rolls of carpet, empty bottles and crumpled aluminum cans. In one corner, someone had stacked yellowed newspapers and magazines to fashion a crude wall. The wall blocked off the entire corner, and bits of old canvas and strips of plastic stretched across the wall of newspapers to the wall of the warehouse, creating a makeshift shanty just big enough for someone to sleep. Morales wondered if someone was sleeping back there, even now. The thought brought on a brief moment of anxiety, and he changed course to investigate the shanty. He'd left the reporter alone in the warehouse for the last few hours, and he hadn't considered it a possibility that anyone would answer his screams for help. And oh yes, there had been screams. He hadn't wanted to leave the reporter alone, but Harrison had needed some assistance with orchestrating the retrieval of Mae Edwards. He still hadn't heard if the operation had been a success, but he'd been calling the shots over the radio and hadn't wanted to be distracted by the reporter. Besides, there hadn't really been any possibility that he could have escaped. The reporter had been duct-taped to the chair, and the cage was fashioned securely to the reporter’s face. So no, Morales didn't think it was possible for the guy
to have escaped. At least not without help. He'd thought the warehouse to be empty, but apparently there was at least one person who'd been squatting amidst the trash.

  Not good, he thought as he reached the shanty. He pulled his Desert Eagle from within his coat and turned off the safety switch. Morales dropped to one knee near the opening of the shanty and pointed his gun inside. It was like looking into a cave, and it smelled of mold and urine. He saw a crusted sleeping bag and some old tin cans of food, but there wasn't anyone inside.

  Morales began to feel the purple throbs of rage building up as he walked quickly to the abandoned office where he'd left the reporter. The rage came in spurts, sweeping over him like the gentle surf on a sandy beach. But this rage was not gentle. He was angry with himself for not checking the warehouse more thoroughly. It was freezing outside, and of course homeless people would find some refuge from the winter inside the warehouse. He was angry at Paul for causing this distraction. As much as he'd enjoyed strapping that cage of rats to the man's face and hearing the screams of panic and pain when the rats started biting, he was annoyed that he'd been forced to deal with the reporter. And now, there was a possibility someone had heard the reporter's screams and come running.

  He came to the door and shoved it open. The room was dark, just as he'd left it, and the light from the open doorway spilled inside. Morales peered, and he could see the legs of the overturned chair, but no body. He listened for the squeaks and skittering of the rats, but the room was silent.

  "Paul?" Morales asked tentatively from the darkened doorway. He stepped into the darkness, and the floor was sticky. The blood hadn't dried in the cold air and was tacky and thick. His shoes made smacking sounds as he walked, feeling his way along the wall until he came to the makeshift table. Morales felt around on the table until his fingers brushed against the power cord to the flood lamp.

  His heart thudded as his mind raced through different scenarios. If Paul had escaped, it could be bad. The reporter now knew enough to cause some serious waves in the media if he got to a place where he could tell his story. Not to mention, the reporter had seen Morales and knew his name. Even if he was able to put a lid on the reporter, it would only be a matter of time before Il Contionum got rid of him. He knew this because he'd “taken care of” many individuals who'd been loyal to The Cause, but sloppy in taking care to keep their involvement and the existence of Il Contionum unknown. There was no middle ground. Either you benefited the organization or you were a threat. Much like the reporter, threats had to be removed.

  Morales strung the power cord through his fingers until he came to a switch. He flipped it, and the room flooded with bright light. It took a second for his squinting eyes to adjust, and for that second he fully expected to find the overturned chair on the floor of the room but no reporter, and the rat mask he'd fashioned flung to one corner, the furry vermin long since escaped.

  But instead, he saw the reporter on the cement, lying in a pool of tacky blood. Morales studied the body, searching for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, but he saw no movement. The reporter was dead, and his death had been appropriately awful. The reporter's face was turned away from Morales, so he couldn't see the full extent of the rats' work, but he did see a gap between one side of the cage and the head.

  And that was why he hadn't heard the rats. They'd chewed and chewed and escaped from the mask. But the reporter hadn't been so lucky or resourceful. His arms and legs were still bound to the chair, and even though he'd managed to knock the chair to the ground, he hadn't been able to move it more than a few feet from where it had originally been. If someone else had been in the warehouse to hear his screams, they had not come running. More than likely, whoever had been sleeping in the little shanty had heard the cries for help and high-tailed it out of the warehouse to avoid any involvement.

  Morales slid his phone from his pocket and dialed Harrison. While it rang, he studied the gore and tried to imagine just how awful the reporter's demise had been.

  "The worst thing in the world, wasn't it?" he whispered and smiled.

  "Morales?" Harrison said when he picked up. His voice was clear and alert, and Morales imagined the man standing behind his mahogany desk, a snifter of cognac in hand and his expressionless face staring forward as he listened.

  “Yeah,” Morales noticed a few splotches of blood on the toe of his shoe.

  “Is it done?”

  “The reporter?” Morales asked, removing a white handkerchief from an inside pocket of his coat and wiping away the splotch. The blood was a bright red contrast on the white cloth and reminded him of a Rorschach ink blot. He saw the reporter’s face in the pattern of crimson, twisted with pain.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yeah he’s dead.”

  “Good,” Harrison said, his voice low and smooth. “Assuming the operation in New England is a success, I will need you with the subject as soon as possible, especially as she is transported to Colorado. Whaler is too excited for his own good. I wouldn’t want another… episode like Miami.”

  "Any problems so far with Mae?" Morales asked, using her name because he knew it bothered Harrison, especially over the telephone. It likewise upset Morales when Mae was referred to as "the subject," not because it was demeaning to treat her like some lab rat—which she was—but because thinking of her as only as the subject of experiments and control lowered their inhibitions. Mae was clever and her power was real, and all it took was for their guard to be lowered for only a moment, and the girl would turn the tables.

  "The recovery of the subject is moving forward, with only a few perceived setbacks," Harrison said.

  "Civilians?"

  "The original plan was to recover the subject in a rural area, with minimal chance of exposure. She is currently in a residential neighborhood, so the plan had to be adjusted. Civilian interference is expected, but will be kept to a minimum."

  "And the sleeper?" Morales asked, referring to their contact who had gained a more personal relationship with Mae. He'd been a sleeper agent for several years until Morales had called him that night in Chicago.

  "He is playing his role well," Harrison said, and Morales noted a touch of sadness in his voice. "He has gained her trust and affection much more quickly than we could have expected. He is delivering her right into our hands."

  Morales noticed something on the ground that had fallen from the reporter's jacket. He bent down and picked up a piece of cinnamon candy, smiling as he examined it for any sign that it been contaminated with the reporter's blood. It looked clean, so he pulled off the wrapper and popped it into his mouth.

  "I'll need a team in here to clean up the mess before I leave," Morales said.

  "A crew has already been dispatched to your location."

  “And the hackers?”

  “Being taken care of as we speak.”

  “Good,” Morales said. A loud crash sounded from somewhere in the warehouse and Morales straightened, listening hard.

  “Clean up whatever mess is left of the reporter, ensure his records are destroyed and any known associates who may pose a threat are disposed of. Then return and report.”

  Morales heard the sound of shuffling footsteps on concrete, retreating. Had someone been listening to his conversation? He mumbled a response to Harrison and ended the call.

  The retreating footsteps continued for several seconds and then stopped. The warehouse was again quiet, and Morales held his breath while he listened.

  Nothing.

  But someone else was there, in the warehouse.

  Morales gripped the butt of his Desert Eagle, massaging the metal with his fingers, and stepped around the pool of the reporter’s blood, returning to the main room of the warehouse. He scanned the area and studied the piles of trash and debris.

  He spotted several cardboard boxes on their sides, the junk that had been inside the boxes now spilling out onto the floor.

  Someone had been hiding back there when he’d come into the warehouse. He ch
ided himself yet again for his carelessness and shook his head with frustration. Where had the person gone?

  His eyes fell again on the shanty in the corner of the room and saw that a moldy bed sheet had been draped across the opening. Morales seethed with low rage as he started toward the shanty.

  Someone had been watching.

  Listening.

  Interrupting his work.

  Morales came to the shanty, threw open the bed sheet curtain and peered inside. He saw an old woman huddled in the corner, her hair greasy and matted to her skull. Her cheeks and eyes were sunken, her skin dry and cracked.

  “Please,” the woman whispered. “I ain’t seen nothin’.”

  She held out her hands for mercy, showing him that she was unarmed and certainly not a threat.

  Morales pulled the trigger three times, the retort echoing in the cold. He watched the woman's body fall backward into her piles of trash, enjoying the wafts of smoke bleed from the barrel of his gun. Morales took a deep breath and sighed, sorry the moment was over. He picked up the spent casings from the ground, dropped them into his pocket, and whistled a tune that he'd learned as a boy.

  Chapter Three

  "I'll be right back," Mae said. She kissed him briefly on the cheek, but immediately shied away, looking embarrassed.

  They were parked in the driveway of a mansion, and Adam stared up at the seemingly endless windows and doors and felt a little sick. The home apparently belonged to the other guy that Mae had been talking to. Or, belonged to the parents of the guy, and he just lived there.