The Immortal Harvest

by L. J. Wallace

  The Doctor pocketed the slip of paper and frowned at Crystal.

  “I can call you when Ms Peters is awake and responsive but I’m afraid it will be quite some time before she will be strong enough to leave.”

  “Don’t bullshit me Doc. I know how this works. Sylvan’s not exactly cashed up ok.

  “You let me worry about her. I’m sure your bosses would much rather have empty beds for some rich pricks than a charity case stinkin up the joint.”

  “Well Ms Meth, as eloquent as your assessment may be, I think it would be better if Ms Peters stays here with us. We’ll worry about the financial arrangements later.

  Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to attend to my rounds.”

  Crystal waited for the Doctor to leave the room before she bent down next to Sylvan’s ear.

  “You’ll be ok sweetie; I’ll come back a bit later.

  I’m gonna take ya home with me just as soon as I can and I’m gonna leave ya now so I can find your little boy.”

  Crystal kissed Sylvan lightly on the forehead and then quietly left the room.

  Eight

  It was dark, darker than usual.

  At only fifty three, Joseph Smith’s African-American eyes were beginning to fail him.

  Vitamin deficiency, malnutrition, alcoholism and drug addiction had begun to kill him slowly.

  He peered into the darkness of the alleyway and spied the pile of tattered cardboard and corrugated iron and staggered towards his home.

  Everything ached these days. His only relief from his misery was found in the bottles of cheap booze and the cheap and dirty drugs that he managed to acquire.

  He fumbled with the rusty can opener that he used to pry the lid off a bloated can of baked beans that he had retrieved from an industrial bin behind the supermarket.

  After several minutes of struggle he finally succeeded in opening the can sufficiently to dip a couple of fingers into the congealed mess.

  The smell of the concoction within the can indicated that the contents had long passed the expiry date. He didn’t care. He was starving.

  Every day was a battle for survival for Joseph or Joe as his friends called him. He had lost everything ten years previously, his home, his family, and his pride and eventually he realised, his life.

  All he had left was his memories and these days even those were beginning to fade. He recalled snippets through the drug and alcohol haze.

  He had been a Green Beret who became a victim of post traumatic stress disorder. He had seen too much horror.

  After his discharge, he couldn’t adjust to society. He drank heavily every night and occasionally dabbled in recreational drugs to cope with the flashbacks. He convinced himself that he could stop anytime.

  After countless arguments with his first, second and eventually third wife, he realised that he had begun a downward spiral of self destruction. Of course by the time he realised, it was too late.

  This was his life now. He had his freedom. He was free to starve, free to suffer the misery, free to suffer the cold indifference of a society that either looked down with disdain upon the homeless or worst still didn’t look at them at all. Such was the price of freedom.

  He grabbed a bunch of old newspapers and began stuffing them down inside his jacket. The paper insulated him against the cold. He looked with disinterest at the headline of the local rag. He spread the page on the ground in front of him.

  Prominent Senator and philanthropist assassinated – Police have no leads!

  He squinted at the photo of the deceased. He looked familiar. Then it dawned on him, the photo triggered a flashback.

  He recognised him as the man who had been talking to the homeless and making promises to them and according to the gossip around the bin fires, this man was going to help them.

  Well, so much for that, he thought as once again he realised that there was no one to help them.

  This Senator had been silenced, along with some of the homeless. Joseph was not a fool; he knew that others like him were disappearing.

  He finished reading the article to see if the disappearing homeless were mentioned. There was nothing, not a single line about the invisible victims, the silent minority as he liked to call them.

  He was not surprised.

  He recognised the kill method, the Senator had been assassinated. The article mentioned the type of ballistics that had been used. It was definitely a sniper round. He was a bit surprised that ballistics had not been able to match the striation marks with any existing firearms.

  That just don’t make no sense he thought as he scrunched up the paper and shoved it inside his coat.

  He leaned back on the pile of cardboard, closed his eyes and tried to ignore the persistent screech of feral tomcats as they postured over territories.

  He was about to fall into a deep sleep when he heard an almost imperceptible voice filter into his consciousness.

  “Excuse me mister. Are there any taxis around here?”

  Joseph slowly opened one eye and saw the image of a young boy standing in front of him clutching a small backpack. He opened his eyes and leant forward quickly in a threatening gesture.

  “Get out of here boy. This is no place for a young’un. Now go on, get outta here!”

  He made a sweeping gesture with his arm as if he was trying to swat a fly.

  “Go home to ya Mama – go on, SCAT!!”

  He was about to stand up when he noticed the boy’s shoulders slouch and heard him whimpering.

  “Now go on, don’t you start blubbering. Just go home to your Mama before you end up gettin’ hurt or sumfin,” he said as he grabbed a piece of cardboard and pulled it over himself as he lay back down.

  He rolled onto his side away from the boy and closed his eyes and pretended he wasn’t there.

  After a minute or so he decided he couldn’t ignore the blubbering anymore and rolled back over to face him.

  “Look kid, you’re interruptin me beauty sleep. What do you want?”

  He watched as the boy raised his head and took a deep breath between sobs.

  “I have to catch a taxi to see Mummy; she’s been hurt really bad.”

  “Is that so? Do you know where your Mummy is?” asked Joseph as he fumbled for his treasured brown paper bag.

  He saw the boy slowly shaking his head, tears running down reddened cheeks.

  It was then that he remembered that he had hidden his prize securely beneath a couple of discarded burger wrappers in the bottom of his shopping trolley.

  He stood then and lumbered towards the trolley. He noticed the young boy recoil from the act and he stretched his arm out towards him.

  “Relax kid, I’m just a might thirsty you see,” he said as he held the brown paper clad booze out towards the frightened kid as an offering.

  He thought better of it and took a long swig for himself. He swiped his filthy sleeve across his mouth, and raising one eyebrow, peered at the boy through bleary eyes.

  “What’s ya name kid?”

  He watched as the boy wiped his sleeve across his snot filled nose. The boy sniffed and replied in a very quiet voice.

  “My name is Justen Peters, what’s your name?”

  Joseph was surprised at the question. It had been such a long time that anyone had taken the time to find out his name.

  He wiped his free hand on his filthy pants and thrust it towards Justen as he clutched the bottle to his chest.

  “The name is Joseph, Justen but you can call me Joe. That’s what me friends call me. Tell me more about ya Mama,” he said through gapped and brown stained teeth as he patted a cardboard box next to him and signalled for the boy to sit down.

  Joseph listened intently for several minutes as the young boy related his story. He took several more swigs of his booze as he pondered Justen’s situation. After about his fourth swig he let out a large belch and then scratched his head. It always itched.

  He carefully placed his treasured bottle of booze in his trolley and s
tarted picking up his cardboard pieces and threw them into the trolley as well. He was interrupted by the boy.

  “Whatchya doin?” asked Justen as he bent down to help pick up the cardboard.

  “I’m gonna help ya find ya Mama kid,” said Joseph as he took the cardboard off the kid and threw it on top of the other pieces.

  “What we need to do is find a pohlease man for ya. He’ll help ya find her.”

  He was surprised to see Justen backing away from him as he reached out his hand.

  He stepped towards the boy and immediately noticed that the boy was looking around nervously and slowly moving away from him as if he was contemplating running away. Joe felt a slight sense of rage towards the boy.

  “What’s the matter kid, do you want my help or not?” he said angrily.

  He was losing patience. He would have preferred to be slowly poisoning himself with his stale booze than helping some snotty nosed kid.

  “Are you comin or not?”

  He could see the indecision on the kid’s face.

  “Mummy said that I wasn’t to trust strangers,” Justen said quietly as he continued to look around clutching his backpack tightly to his chest.

  “What’s my name kid?” Joseph said impatiently.

  “J J Joe,” Justen said nervously.

  “Well kid, if you know my name is Joe and I know your name is Justen, I’m not really a stranger am I?”

  “No, I guess not,” Justen said as he shook his head and looked down at his shoes.

  “Do ya wanna go and see your Mama or not?” Joseph repeated, noticing that the boy was slowly nodding his head as he continued to stare at his shoes.

  “Well then, get your arse over here. I’ll get your scrawny arse in front of a cop.

  This is a really bad neighbourhood, so we’ll have to walk for awhile to find one.

  There aint no working phone boxes round here to call 911 either and I aint got one of them fancy smart phones, so you’re gonna have to trust me kid.

  “Besides if I was gonna hurt ya, you’d be dead by now.” Joseph said as he smiled and winked at Justen.

  He held out his hand again and felt the tiny cold hand of the boy clasp his as he moved off slowly pushing his trolley in front of him.

  He lifted up a flap of cardboard and checked that his bottle was safe.

  He grasped Justen’s hand firmly and as they walked slowly out of the alleyway Justen looked up at him and said quietly.

  “I saw a bad man Joe.”

  Joseph looked toward the streetlight that flickered at the end of the alleyway. He looked down into the frightened eyes of the little boy and gently squeezed his hand as he spoke to him in a gentle voice.

  “So have I kid – I’ve seen lots of em.”

  He smiled and then started walking a little faster.

  “Come on; let’s go find your Mama.”

  As the old soldier and the young boy walked together down the darkened alleyway, they failed to notice that they were being watched.

  Nine

  The Laboratory was huge. It needed to be. The Bureau had to process an average of over five thousand criminal acts each year.

  It was located on the fourth floor of the Forensic Science Research and Training Centre in Quantico that is located in the Washington Metropolitan Area.

  The facility was a shared facility divided into Training and Live cases. The Laboratory was a modern design recently refurbished to have glass panels around the entire perimeter of the Lab and hence was jokingly referred to as ‘the fish bowl.’

  Today the Laboratory heaved with the usual turmoil, as students were given specimens to analyse, whilst those already trained pored over reams of paperwork and reports as they painstakingly performed their own analysis of their evidence.

  These were the hi-tech detectives, busily annotating and studying their reports.

  They spent countless hours sifting through the minutia or crap to find the nuggets of data gold to provide the Agents out in the field with the best and latest information enabling them to apprehend the criminals or suspects.

  In the field the suspects were labelled as ‘unsub’s or the ‘unknown subjects of an investigation’.

  Entering through the double glass automatic sliding doors after passing through several security checkpoints, Derek Baxter breathed in the atmosphere of the Forensics Laboratory.

  He strolled purposefully towards one of his team members, Buck Lewiston. Buck was a weapon specialist.

  Baxter as usual referred to him by his last name whereas the rest of the team liked to use his nick name, ‘Bang-Bang’, because of his love of weaponry of any kind. His knowledge of munitions and ballistics was unsurpassed.

  Despite this, Baxter still considered him to be a nerd, just like the rest of his team that consisted of Jason Durning; the team’s Material Forensics specialist and Intelligence Analyst, Arnold Thompson who was the team’s Forensic Communications Specialist, Alicia Cambridge who was a Specialist Forensic Profiler, Drew Webster an Advanced Technology Specialist and Lisa Roberts, Specialist Crypto-Linguist.

  Baxter carried the latest case allocated to his team, held securely and tucked up under his left armpit. The security warning of Top Secret emblazoned at the top of the folder which bulged with reports.

  He tried not to look impressed at the dazzling array of technologically advanced pieces of machinery that were scattered throughout the lab.

  He considered himself to be a bit of technophobe. He still owned a Bakelite round dial phone.

  According to Baxter’s philosophy, “surfing the Web” was something spiders did in their spare time.

  Quantico had certainly changed since he had last trod the hallways during his gruelling twenty one week rookie’s course back in Eighty Three. Of course, he had also changed.

  His once strong and virile physique had atrophied over the years due to alcohol abuse and his general apathetic lifestyle. His last medical examination was far from favourable, his diagnosis weighed heavily on his mind.

  He nodded his head and smiled at one of the Laboratory assistants, the young girl giving him a polite cursory glance as she continued her work.

  He scowled as he caught his reflection in one of the panes of glass that surrounded the Lab. He noted that his once crystal clear storm-grey eyes were now continually bloodshot from excessive drinking.

  He stopped walking, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic pill bottle. He opened the cap and poured four small pink and white capsules into his hand. He pushed the pills into his mouth, swallowed, suppressed a cough and then continued walking.

  His mood darkened as he consciously pushed the thought of his imminent demise away. It was his closely kept secret that only the Doctors were privy to and they were bound by that Doctor-Patient confidentiality crap.

  He caught his reflection again and frowned.

  His once roguish good looks had given way to the ever encroaching years of middle age. His forehead creased with lines, the dark brown hair now peppered with silver. His best years were behind him.

  He felt sullen when he realised that the girl he had given his attention to was probably not even born when he had last been in Quantico.

  The realisation that he had fewer days left on this world than he had already lived through was definitely a sobering thought. It was a thought that depressed him.

  Fuck it, he thought. At least I’ve made it to middle age. Lots of people had not made it, and he immediately thought of those who had died in the line of duty.

  He had survived; he survived his training and had survived countless cases. Some of which had enabled him to finally rise through the ranks to Senior Special Agent Baxter. Of course now he knew that he was literally on a deadline. At least he knew his ‘use by’ date.

  He frowned as he grappled with the thought that he now had the unenviable position of leading a team of agents.

  He smiled when he remembered the barbed comments from his old nemesis the DD, Deputy Director
Howard Elliott.

  “You’ve finally stuffed up enough to be promoted Baxter. God help those poor bastards that will be relying on your leadership skills. The good news is you’re finally out of my face.”

  The DD had always been a constant source of angst for Baxter. Especially since they had gone through Quantico together and Elliott had been always been promoted well ahead of him. This had always made the DD a smug son of a bitch who never failed to belittle Baxter at every opportunity.

  Baxter was thankful that he was back in Quantico and the DD had been left behind in HQ.

  I’m not going to miss that condescending S. O. B. Baxter thought as he started leafing through his report.

  However, his reminiscing came to an abrupt end when he was caught off guard by a high pitched voice.

  He turned around and immediately recognised the tall, skinny features of Lewiston who had entered the Laboratory after returning from the Ballistics portion of the Lab.

  The Ballistics Testing Facility was a special bullet and sound proof enclosure. It was Lewiston’s domain.

  From within that tiny booth he wove his special magic and showed off his unique expertise. Today was an exception. His usual boyish features portrayed a rather confused demeanour.

  Lewiston was a head taller than Baxter. He loped towards Baxter with the vigour of a young man in his twenties. He had unusually scruffy hair for an FBI agent and a strand of it slung across his right eye which, when nervous, he would continually flick away.

  His face was pock marked from acne scars. Baxter often wondered whether he was still a virgin. Lewiston never spoke about girls and he didn’t exactly exude testosterone.

  Baxter immediately noticed his expression and had to comment.

  “What’s rattled your Jimmies, Lewiston?”

  Baxter observed the awkwardness of the young agent as he moved towards him and then fumbled in his lab coat pocket. He retrieved a plastic bag which contained a long thin shell casing. He pulled the casing out of the bag and placed it onto the receiving platform of the Ballistics microscope.

  “Take a look at this,” he said as he steadied the shell casing, and after adjusting the microscope to what he considered a good image, he then punched in a few commands into the attached input device and an enlarged image of the shell casing suddenly appeared on the attached monitor.