Rememberers

by C. Edward Baldwin

  REMEMBERERS

  C. EDWARD BALDWIN

  Copyright © 2014 by C. Edward Baldwin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in review.

  Other than occasional references to historical or otherwise newsworthy figures, all characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead was truly coincidental and not the intentions of the author.

  Ink & Stone Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-0692356760

  ISBN-10: 0692356752

  Cover Design by Clarissa Yeo

  Yocla Designs

  www.yocladesigns.com

  The Carolinas * Georgia * Virginia

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  OTHER WORKS BY C. EDWARD BALDWIN

  FIND C. EDWARD BALDWIN

  THANK YOU

  This is for Matheral & Natasha

  Rememberers

  “Ignorance is not bliss; it's dangerous.” - Josh Levy

  By C. Edward Baldwin

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thursday, August 20

  A shadow of a person’s head stretched across the length of the basketball court, ending just north of the free throw line at Father Frank McCarthy's feet. McCarthy dribbled the ball on the edge of the shadow head two times before shooting and ultimately swishing the free throw. It was his tenth make in a row—his own version of being in the zone. He retrieved the ball and this time went to the near side corner of the court. He didn't look back at the gate. If shadow head wanted to talk, McCarthy thought, he'd only to open the door to the half gate and come on in. Eying the goal, he launched a high arching shot toward the basket. It found its mark perfectly.

  The basketball court was half the size of a regulation one and was squeezed into the back parking lot of Our Lady of Faith Catholic Church. A few dozen parking spaces had been sacrificed for its creation, but none of the parishioners, at least not publicly, begrudged their six-foot-eight priest a little recreation area to partake in his favorite sport. Rumor was that McCarthy, a former center on his college basketball team, had had a decent shot at playing professionally somewhere in the world if not for his higher calling.

  Swish! Shot number twelve, this one from the top of the key, dropped effortlessly through the basket.

  “Looks like you're pretty good,” a deep baritone said from behind him.

  Without looking in the direction of the shadow head, the obvious owner of the deep voice, McCarthy went back to the free throw line, dribbling the ball. “I'm fair, I suppose. Care for a little one on one?”

  The door gate creaked open, and McCarthy heard dress shoes clack across the cement. “I'm afraid I'm not properly attired.”

  Shot number thirteen also found its mark. “Maybe next time then,” McCarthy said. After retrieving the ball, he turned to face his visitor. Though not as tall as the priest, the stranger had above average height nonetheless. McCarthy guessed his height to be around six-three. He wore a dark brown suit with a blue tie loosened at the collar. He was young, thirtyish perhaps, with a good mop of brown hair. Judging by his dress, demeanor, and the briefcase clutched in his left hand, McCarthy guessed a government man.

  Confirming the priest's mental assessment, the stranger extended his right hand. “Special Agent Dennard Bennett.”

  The agent’s grip was strong. “Special Agent? What's with the briefcase? I don't see many of those.”

  “I carry one on occasion,” Bennett said.

  “You're FBI?” McCarthy asked.

  “Immigration and Customs Enforcement,” Bennett said.

  “ICE,” McCarthy said. “Well, what brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “Phillip Beamer.”

  McCarthy's eyebrows furrowed as if trying to place the name. “Phillip Beamer? Is he an illegal immigrant?”

  “No, he was a US citizen.”

  “Should I know him?”

  “I don't know,” Bennett said. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Why don't you just ask him?”

  “I can't. He's dead.”

  McCarthy put the basketball down and nodded toward a bench near the gate. A small tree stretched over the gate, partially covering the bench, and offered a welcome respite from the late summer sun. The two men walked over to the bench. Bennett sat down at one end of it while McCarthy reached into a cooler that had been placed at its other end. He pulled out two plastic bottles of water, handed one to Bennett, and sat down beside him. “Dead? I don't understand.”

  Bennett put the briefcase down by his feet. He twisted the cap off the bottle of water, and took a long swig. “Man, that's good and cold.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Beamer was murdered.”

  “Murdered? Well, he couldn't have been a member of my parish,” McCarthy said. “I would've heard about a murder.”

  “The murder wasn't committed here in Philadelphia. It happened in South Carolina.”

  “South Carolina? Then what brings you here?”

  Bennett placed the water bottle at his feet and then picked up the briefcase, laying it across his lap. He opened it, producing a sandwich-sized plastic bag. He opened the bag carefully and pulled out a slip of paper, handing it to McCarthy.

  Taking the piece of paper, McCarthy placed his water bottle down on the ground. He read the words out loud. “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.” He looked at Bennett as if to say, “And?”

  “Do you know anything about it?” Bennett asked.

  “It's Revelation 22:13.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “What does it mean?”

  McCarthy looked at him curiously. “What does my take on this passage have to do with the death in South Carolina?”

  “There wasn't just the death in South Carolina. There were two others. One in London, and another in Cairo. The verse was found near each victim.”

  “You're saying the three murders are connected?” McCarthy asked.

  “It appears so.”

  “That'
s a rather large geographical area for a serial killer, don't you think?”

  “I don't think we're dealing with a serial killer.”

  McCarthy's eyebrows pinched upward. “Oh, then what are you dealing with?”

  “I don't know. But that's why I'm here.”

  “Here? Why here? What could I possibly know about this?”

  Bennett reached back into the plastic bag and this time pulled out a business card. He handed the card to McCarthy. “Look at this.”

  McCarthy took the card from him and handed back the slip of paper. He looked at the card; a corner of his mouth lifted slightly. It was one of his.

  Father Frank McCarthy

  Our Lady of Faith Catholic Church

  19 S. 14th Street, Philadelphia, PA 19107

  215 555 2332

  FatherMcC@ymail.com

  McCarthy shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “I pass these out all over.”

  “Flip it over,” Bennett said.

  McCarthy turned the card over. In red scribbly penmanship were the words:

  McCarthy Knows.

  Bennett watched McCarthy carefully as the priest read the words without emotion. “The card was found among Beamer's belongings. You have any idea how he would have gotten it?”

  McCarthy handed the card back to Bennett. “I don't know. It's like I said before. I pass these out all over the place. It's just another way to spread the gospel.” He smiled uneasily.

  Bennett put the card back into the plastic bag alongside the slip of paper, and then put the plastic bag back into the briefcase. Next, he took out a picture and held it up for McCarthy to see. “Do you recognize him?”

  McCarthy studied the picture levitating in front of him and then slowly shook his head. “I'm afraid I don't. Is that Beamer?”

  “It is.”

  McCarthy cleared a little phlegm from his throat and looked away from the picture. “Does he have any family in the area?”

  “We haven't been able to locate any next of kin. So far, you're the only lead.”

  “Lead? Well, that's quite unfortunate. It makes me sorry that I can't be of more help.”

  “What is it that you know, Father?” Bennett asked. He placed the picture back inside the briefcase.

  McCarthy bit his lower lip, shaking his head negatively. “Nothing of this, I'm afraid.”

  “Have you received any phone calls or emails from Phillip Beamer?”

  “Doubtful. I get a ton of email. But the name doesn't ring a bell. I'll certainly go through my email this evening and let you know if the name shows up.”

  “Mind if I check your computer?”

  McCarthy chuckled reflexively before realizing that the agent's request had been a serious one. McCarthy shook his head slowly. “I'm sorry, but I do. You must understand that many of my emails are from members of my congregation. Most of the emails are of very personal and private natures. I don't think the authors would like any eyes outside of mine viewing them.” He retrieved his water bottle from near his foot and drained it. Afterwards, he tossed the empty bottle into the open-top metal trash barrel a couple of feet from the bench. “I wish I could be of more help. I really do. But I have no idea why a Phillip Beamer would have my business card with those words written on the back. And I certainly have no idea how three people a world apart from each other would reference the same biblical quote. I suspect it's probably all mere coincidence.”

  “That's a helluva coincidence, wouldn't you say?”

  “Maybe. But then again, maybe this sort of thing isn't so unusual after all.”

  “Meaning?” Bennett said.

  “We're a lot more connected due to the internet these days. It's possible that the individuals were linked in that way and were no closer than so called Facebook friends.”

  Bennett took another swallow of water. “I guess anything's possible. But there's something else you should know, Father.”

  McCarthy tilted his head. “And that's…”

  “All three victims had been suspected in the plotting of terrorist acts. Plots in Cairo and London were thwarted last year. A plot in South Carolina was averted just last week. Three foiled plots, three dead terrorism suspects.”

  “You're certain these victims were involved in the planned attacks?” McCarthy asked.

  “Investigations are still ongoing,” Bennett said. “But I will say in relation to Beamer that evidence of a planned attack on a federal building was found on his computer hard drive. He was killed before the attack could be carried out.”

  “Maybe that too was a coincidence. Maybe his death didn't have anything to do with terrorist intentions.”

  Bennett chuckled this time. “You're a big fan of coincidences. Humor me for a moment and assume, for argument's sake, that all three deaths were related and all three murders were committed by the same individual or group. Why quote that Biblical verse? Why place your business card with the cryptic message 'McCarthy Knows' on the body of the last victim?”

  “I don't know,” McCarthy said with an air of irritation. “I suppose it's another mystery of life. Forgive me if this sounds somewhat callous, but if three people are dead who were planning to murder hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent people, then would that not be a good thing?”

  “Killing someone is not necessarily a good thing, Father.”

  “I believe some capital punishment advocates would disagree,” McCarthy said solemnly.

  Bennett placed his briefcase back down onto the bench and then stood up, carrying the water bottle to the trash barrel. He stared down into it for a second before dropping the bottle inside it. He turned back toward McCarthy. “We can't have people conducting their own terrorist investigations, certainly not to the extent of sentencing people and then ultimately executing them. We need to find out who's behind these killings and how they're getting their information. Now personally, I don't really care how these vigilantes are finding out about terrorists, be it psychics, fortune cookies, or freaking images found in a jar of mayonnaise. What I do care about is people taking the law into their own hands. They should hand over whatever information they have to the authorities.”

  “And once this information is in the hand of the authorities?”

  Bennett returned to his spot on the bench. “We'll analyze it for relevance and proceed accordingly.”

  McCarthy stood up. The sun had shifted positions and now his shadow was cast over Bennett, engulfing the agent in a blanket of darkness. “It seems Mr. Bennett that someone has elected to cut out the middle man. But I will be of little to no use in helping you find this someone. I don't know anything about any terror attacks or dead terrorists. I'm a Catholic priest. I know about the Trinity. If you come to Mass on Sunday, I'll be more than willing to share with you all that I know on that particular subject.”

  Bennett peered up at the priest. “You sure there's nothing else you wish to tell me, Father?”

  “I'm afraid not,” McCarthy said. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few more minutes of recreation time.”

  Bennett looked casually over at the court. “Sure, Father. But there's one other thing.” He reopened the briefcase and this time pulled out a couple of 5X7 photos, handing them to McCarthy.

  The priest took the pictures, looking at them reluctantly. They were crime scene photos. His mouth opened immediately.

  “Beamer's head was nearly decapitated,” Bennett said. “A sick bastard did that. Most of those stab wounds you see there were done postmortem. And the words, ‘McCarthy Knows,’ on the back of your business card were written in the victim's blood.” He paused as if intending to drive the ominous point home. “If you know something, Father…”

  McCarthy cut the detective off, pushing the photos back into his hands. “I don't,” he said simply, and turned, walking quickly back onto the court.

  Bennett called after him. “If you don't mind, I'd like to sit here a while. My flight doesn't leave for a couple of hours.”

  “Stay as l
ong as you want,” McCarthy said. He retrieved his basketball and went back to the free throw line. Looking mournfully back at Bennett, he opened his mouth to say something, but then smacked his lips shut without saying another word.

  At 10:05 p.m. that same evening, McCarthy finally received a return call from Bishop Richard Boland. Boland was the Catholic Church's ranking stateside representative in the Alliance of Initiates (A.I.). A.I. was a subgroup of the United Religions Organization (URO), which had been modeled after the United Nations and had a single goal of uniting all the world's religions into one global organization. When the call came in, McCarthy was sitting alone in his office with his feet propped up on his desk, his gaze rotating from his desktop phone to the framed, vintage Larry Bird poster displayed prominently in the center of his office wall. He'd placed the call over five hours ago, getting Boland's voicemail. Unsurprisingly to McCarthy, his initial concern after the ICE agent's visit had not been about whether he himself was being deemed a suspect in a capital murder case, but rather what his negligible connection to Beamer's murder would mean for URO and its offspring, A.I. Was this but the first shoe to drop in the possible unraveling of one of history's longest held and best kept secrets? As he'd waited for Boland's return call, he'd realized that his initial concern may have been a bit superfluous.

  For 99.5 percent of mankind's present and past, A.I. wasn't even a figment of the imagination. It simply did not exist. Even amongst the initiated, the organization's history and origin was shrouded in as much mystery as the combined histories and origins of the Bible, Koran, Torah, and the tenets of Buddhism and Hinduism. Although its mother group, the URO, had its coming out party in the year 2000 (five years after announcing its intent to form a religions organization patterned after the United Nations), there would be no such coming out party for A.I. The organization still believed, as the URO had for many years, that the world was still not yet ready for certain truths. It was the very reason for URO's self-concealment throughout its history. The organization, despite its fairly recent announcement, had actually been in existence well before the birth of the United Nations. In fact, some of the senior members of URO routinely bragged amongst themselves that the UN was actually based off of it rather than the other way around.