by Siegel, Alex
He quickly lost track of which direction they were going. He caught glimpses of a river off to his left, but that didn't tell him much. There were several rivers in Chicago.
Aaron turned into an awkward little parking area behind a rusty fence. A handwritten sign read, "NO PARKING. VIOLATORS WILL BE VIOLATED." The noise from a ventilation fan was irritating, even inside the car. Aaron walked over to a grimy garage door, twisted the handle back and forth in an odd way, and lifted the door. The small room beyond had oil stains on the concrete floor, cob webs, and little else. He got back into the car and drove into the room.
"What are we doing?" Smythe asked.
"We're here," Aaron said. He had to get out a second time to close the garage door.
"Where?"
The floor began to descend, startling Smythe. He realized they were on a lift platform. They dropped into a secret garage, where a number of vehicles were parked. He got out of the car.
"These are ours." Aaron gestured towards the cars and trucks. "Take one if you need it. The keys are in the ignition."
"No requisition forms? I can just drive off?"
"We trust you."
Smythe followed Aaron through a door and into a white room. A middle-aged man with a bald head and blue eyes sat behind a thick sheet of security glass.
"This is Jack," Aaron said. "He's head of security and our resident gunsmith. If you need a special weapon, he's your man. He also keeps the spare cash under his desk."
Jack nodded. "Glad to meet you, sir." He pressed a button on his control console and a side door buzzed. "Ethel is waiting for you in the lab."
Aaron quickly pushed the door open and went through. Smythe followed him into a hallway with a white tiled floor. The walls were dull gray and the ceiling was unpainted concrete. Exposed conduit and water pipes ran overhead. The air smelled a little damp and musty.
"How deep are we?" Smythe said.
"About thirty feet below the river," Aaron said, "in a sub-basement that doesn't officially exist."
"Is this place watertight?"
Aaron pointed to black tar patches on the ceiling. "Not quite, but we keep trying."
"Nobody knows you're down here?"
"Nobody, and we go to a lot of trouble to keep it that way. This is our secret fortress."
They walked through corridors, making a few turns along the way. Smythe was impressed by the size of the place. For a bunch of religious nuts, they certainly had a nice headquarters.
"How many people live here?"
"Only Ethel," Aaron said. "Everybody else has an apartment in the city under a fake name. We'll find a place nearby for you. The Society will pay all your bills, of course."
They passed through an open area with free weights, treadmills, and foam mats. The odor of sweat was pungent.
After another couple of turns, they entered a laboratory. Smythe's eyes opened wide when he saw the state-of-the-art equipment. He identified an electron microscope, an X-ray spectrometer, cryogenic storage equipment, a gas chromatograph, and even a nuclear magnetic resonance machine. All of it looked new.
He was forced to accept the fact that he had made some incorrect assumptions about the Gray Spear Society. He had presumed they were just a fringe cult with a lot of money. However, fringe cults didn't have underground installations in the middle of downtown Chicago, and they didn't fill laboratories with premium quality equipment. This was a serious operation.
There was also the nagging question of supernatural abilities. He still didn't have a scientific explanation for Ethel's speed, Marina's venom, or Aaron's acidic saliva. Smythe refused to believe that God had actually granted the abilities, but he was running out of alternative explanations.
"There you are," Ethel said. "We've been waiting."
She wore soft, gray robes that looked elegant on her small frame. Elaborate hems gave the robes a ceremonial appearance. Her intense expression made him wonder if he were in trouble.
Smythe still had painful bruises from the beating she had given him. His memories of that night seemed surreal, as if he had dreamt the entire experience. Seeing her in the flesh again convinced him that all of it had really happened. Even her casual movements, such as turning her body or tilting her head, were quicker than his eyes could follow. Her black skin absorbed light in an eerie way, and the darkness in her eyes was just as disturbing as before.
Aaron put the evidence kit on a table. "The poison is in here, ma'am. Be careful when you open it."
"Smythe," Ethel said, "we have a lot to talk about. First, I'd like you to meet two men who you will be spending a lot of time with. Kamal is our in-house science expert. His background is experimental physics."
She nodded to a tall, thin man with dark skin. Smythe guessed Kamal was from India. He wore a tailored brown suit and a black bow tie, and he was certainly the most sharply dressed person in the room.
"The other gentleman is Filipe Ramirez," Ethel said. "He's on loan to us from another cell for the duration of this mission. His expertise is exotic diseases. He's a medical doctor like you."
Ramirez wore a white lab coat, which contrasted against his light brown face. He stood at attention like a soldier.
"Oh?" Smythe said. "What's your background?"
"I interned at the Texas Medical Center in Houston. Then I worked as a researcher at the Skovic Institute until I eventually became head of the immunology department."
"Wait! I remember now. There was a scandal involving unauthorized treatments. The Skovic Institute had to call an international press conference to apologize."
Ramirez swallowed. "You have a good memory. I was fired that day."
"And here you are. Interesting."
"I don't regret what I did. I saved a woman's life, which was more important than my job."
"Well," Smythe said, "I can't argue with your credentials at least. The Skovic Institute is a very nice name to have on a resume." Smythe was genuinely impressed.
"Now follow me," Ethel said sharply.
She led him back out of the laboratory, leaving the others behind. They walked through the gray corridors until they came to a large door made of oak. An intricate pattern of crossing swords and spears was carved into the wood. She unlocked the door with an antique key.
They walked into a large, private office. Portraits hung on all the walls. Each oil painting showed a man or woman in gray robes similar to Ethel's, and Smythe guessed they were her predecessors. There were also several display cases containing odd items.
"What is this stuff, ma'am?" He pointed at the cases.
"Trophies."
He walked along the cases until one item caught his interest. It was a face mask made of leather straps and iron. "What is this from?"
"It's about two hundred years old, I think. The man who wore it believed jealousy was the worst of all sins. That's what a 'ghost' told him. His creative solution was blinding people because you can't be jealous of what you can't see. He snuck into houses and stabbed people in the eyes with a hot knife. Later, he cut out the eyes and ate them."
"Yuck."
Ethel nodded. "The Society determined the ghost was actually an enemy of God. It was difficult but we caught him."
"Was he killed?" Smythe said.
"Eventually. We like to study our enemies, so he had to be thoroughly interrogated first. The records are a little vague, but he was forced to eat his own eyeballs, and of course, hot knives were used."
"God told you to do this?"
"Take a seat."
She sat behind her desk, which was made from thick slabs of black granite. He sat in an antique wooden chair. Its purple velvet cushions were softer than he expected.
"The first thing you must understand is that God owns this universe," she said.
He shrugged. "Sure."
"I'm not speaking figuratively. I mean it's His property. He has plans for it."
"So?"
"So, He isn't alone. He has enemies who don't want to see those plan
s fulfilled."
"Are you talking about the Devil?" Smythe raised his eyebrows.
"I'm talking about other entities," Ethel said, "not created by God. They exist outside His universe."
"Then where are they?"
"Elsewhere. They send messengers to work mischief. For example, the ghost I mentioned."
He was running out of patience with this pseudo-religious nonsense. It sounded like a weird variant of medieval Catholicism.
"Our mission is simple," she said. "We identify cases of supernatural interference and stop it. Then we attempt to fix the damage, or at least eliminate any evidence."
"I see." Smythe nodded politely.
"You think I'm full of shit."
"Well, I..."
"It's fine," she said. "You're entitled to your own ignorant opinion."
"Your explanation is... unscientific, ma'am."
"Your inability to comprehend the truth isn't my problem. Here are some rules. First, God requires that we remain covert. Don't discuss any aspect of our business with outsiders. Got it?"
"Yes," he said. "I know how to keep a secret."
"Good. Second, Timothy Smythe is dead. Your identity is destroyed. When you go out, always use a cover story. There are no exceptions."
He raised his eyebrows. "But I have a house in Virginia. I have a mortgage and other obligations."
"Your mortgage was paid off this morning. Your house will be sold. Your possessions will be stored."
"What!" He stood up. "You have no right!"
She stared at him. "We're also closing your bank accounts, cancelling your credit cards, and destroying all records of your existence. By the time we're done, even the police will stop looking for you. You'll just be a legend."
"I don't believe it. You're not that powerful."
She shrugged.
He was furious and his inability to do anything about it made him even angrier. These people had taken control of his life without even asking for permission. Now they were wiping out his identity.
"Your silence is eloquent," Ethel said. "The third rule concerns our jurisdiction. Our mandate is to stop supernatural interference, and that's as far as it goes. We're not the police. God created good and evil, and both have a place in the world."
"That's convenient."
"So, before we act, we investigate and collect evidence."
"Evidence of what?" Smythe clenched his fists. "Ghosts and devils? This has gone far enough! One minute you seem sophisticated and rational, and the next I feel like I'm in a bad horror movie."
"Your confusion is normal. For the first time in your life, you're stepping outside the natural world. You're seeing past the comforting illusion of normalcy that protects ordinary people from the frightening truth."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I'm still not buying it. I'm a scientist."
"You need science?" she said. "Then let's go back to the lab."
She stood up and walked out. Grudgingly, he followed.
When he got back to the lab, he found Aaron, Kamal, and Ramirez standing in front of a fume hood. The evidence kit containing the poisoned materials was under the hood, and Ramirez was examining its contents. He used long forceps so he didn't have to touch anything with his hands.
"Anything to report?" Ethel asked.
"I see the powder, ma'am," Ramirez said. "I'm trying to collect a sample for analysis."
"Kamal, Smythe wants a scientific explanation for what we do."
Kamal walked over with a serious expression. "My pleasure." He adjusted his bow tie.
Smythe crossed his arms. This should be good.
"The fabric of space is in a constant state of extreme tension," Kamal said. "The forces are truly enormous, but since they are perfectly balanced, the net effect on ordinary matter is zero."
"Huh? What are you talking about?"
"Spatial intrusions, sir."
Smythe shook his head. "I'm completely lost."
Ethel put a hand on his shoulder. "Be patient. He'll get to the point, eventually."
"When there is an intrusion," Kamal said, "the forces become unbalanced and a burst of residual energy is released as radiation."
"What is intruding, exactly?" Smythe said.
"Constructs that originate in the..." He furrowed his brow. "The place where God lives."
Smythe rolled his eyes. "I thought this was supposed to be scientific."
Kamal walked over to a shelf and picked up two small, white crystals. He gave them to Smythe, who held them up to the light. The crystals were similar in size and appeared to be made of quartz.
"What's this?" Smythe said.
"I have an X-ray diffraction machine here. If we mounted those crystals and studied their atomic structure, you would discover something very interesting. One is ordinary quartz, a rhombohedral crystal made of silicon dioxide. The other started as ordinary quartz but it was exposed to a special kind of radiation. The resulting defects form a pattern that can only be produced by a genuine intrusion. That is the proof we look for."
Smythe took a long look at the crystals. They both appeared normal enough.
"You see?" Ethel said. "Scientific evidence, just like you wanted."
He frowned.
"I'm bored with this conversation," she said. "Help Ramirez analyze the poison. Answer any questions he has about PRooFS."
"Umm, that's classified information, ma'am."
"So?"
"As an officer of the United States Army," he said, "I swore an oath. I can't betray my country. Not for any reason."
Her eyes narrowed. "I gave you a direct order."
"But..."
"Choose your next words very carefully."
Smythe looked around the room and saw everybody watching him. He couldn't argue his way out of this situation. He had only two choices: comply with the order or fight for his life. He didn't think he could beat Ethel, and if by some miracle he did, he would still have to contend with Aaron and the rest. Realistically, he had zero chance of survival.
This was not the first time he had faced a life or death decision over his beliefs. It was an occupational hazard for a soldier. The idea of dying didn't bother him too much, but he had to decide whether it was worth it. What was the benefit?
He was protecting his medical knowledge of PRooFS. Technically, the information was classified, but secrets came in many shades and this one was at the pale end of the spectrum. If the illness spread, civilian doctors would need to learn the truth anyway.
"I'll answer his questions, ma'am," Smythe said at last.
Ethel nodded. "Despite your stubborn ignorance, you can make good decisions. That is very encouraging. I'm glad you're part of the team." She walked out of the laboratory.
Chapter Twelve
Marina checked the address of the apartment building to confirm she was in the right place. It was made of brown bricks and had a rectangular shape that was remarkable for its lack of architectural interest. Clearly, the developer had wanted to build a simple box to hold people and nothing more. Each apartment unit had a rusty air conditioner sticking out of a window, and the rain gutters were falling apart.
I'm looking for apartment six, Marina thought.
She went to the front door. There were eight names listed, each with a call button. The name for apartment six was "Jones." After a moment of thought, she pressed the button for apartment seven, which had the name "Walters."
The voice of an old woman came out of a speaker below. "Yes? Who is it?"
Marina immediately knew how to proceed. "Mrs. Walters?" she said. "This is Deborah Page from the Social Security Administration."
"Social Security?" the woman croaked.
"Yes. There's a problem with your monthly payment. May I come up? It's important that we talk. If the matter can't be resolved, the administration will have to stop your checks."
"What?" Mrs. Walters said in a fearful tone. "Yes, come up!" The door buzzed.
Marina pushed the door op
en and went through. The narrow hallway inside smelled like a garbage dumpster. She didn't trust the dented elevator so she climbed a flight of stairs. The second floor had four doors, numbered "5," "6," "7," and "8." Everything was painted a flat, pale green, the color of dying grass. She went to apartment seven and knocked politely.
The door opened, revealing a withered, ancient woman in a purple nightgown. She needed a walker, and an oxygen tube ran from her nose to a green tank on a rolling stand.
"I hope this won't take long, Mrs. Walters," Marina said with a smile.
"What's the problem, dear?"
"We received a change of address notice the administration thought was suspicious. I came here to verify it."
"What notice?" Mrs. Walters said.
"A letter requested that we send your checks to apartment six instead of apartment seven. We checked the address and found a Mr. Jones is living there. Do you know him?"
"No." She shook her head. "I only met him once when he moved in. That was five or six years ago. I can't even remember what he looks like. Do you think he's trying to steal my checks?"
"That's possible. Can you tell me anything about him?"
"No. Sorry."
"I don't understand," Marina said. "This man is your neighbor, isn't he? You never see him?"
She shrugged. "It's always quiet next door. Very quiet."
"But he must pay his rent."
"Yes, the landlord is very particular about rent. Ten days late and you get an eviction notice as your first warning. A real bastard."
"I'm guessing this landlord doesn't have a close, personal relationship with his tenants."
"You're right about that," Mrs. Walters said. "He's just a name that I write on checks. He never comes here. This shitty place is falling apart and he doesn't care. The only reason I stay is because it's cheap and I'm too old to move."
An absentee landlord and an absentee tenant, Marina thought. A perfect match. "So, talking to the landlord about Mr. Jones wouldn't do much good."
"Probably not."
"We may prosecute Mr. Jones for attempting to defraud the United States Government," Marina said. "Any information we can get will be helpful. Can you think of anything else?"
