Rememberers

by C. Edward Baldwin

  That idea brought her little comfort. She kept thinking about Phillip Beamer. The late Phillip Beamer. According to Father McCarthy, Beamer had gotten himself killed by warning the government of a pending terrorist attack. But it was a charge that made little sense. Why would the government kill someone simply for warning it about a terrorist attack? Then again, why would Father McCarthy lie about the government having done so? She thought about the conversation she'd had with her grandfather when she was eight years old. Her folks had lied about the death of the family dog King because they hadn't thought Kallie would be able to handle the truth. Could Father McCarthy have his own noble reason for lying?

  She closed her eyes and tried to discern the right from the wrong. But it was a useless exercise. Someone was lying; but it was impossible to tell who or why. Ultimately, she decided that right now it didn't matter. Opening her eyes, she sat up in bed. Whether the government or A.I. had killed Beamer, or one or the other entity was lying about it, was unimportant. Lives were at stake. Lives she could possibly save. She felt bad and a little foolish for suddenly doubting the Alliance of Initiates. After all, if it hadn't been for Father McCarthy and Reverend Swag, she wouldn't know what she now knew in the first place and the very lives she wanted to save would have been lost anyway, and, in fact, in the previous life cycle, had been lost already.

  Still, she couldn't un-see what she'd seen or not-know what she now knew. Her laptop was lying next to her on the bed. She placed it on her lap and hit a key, bringing it out of sleep mode. Then, she opened a web browser and typed in a search term. She scanned the list of names and numbers before selecting one at random. She reached for her cell phone on the nightstand, feeling certain she was doing the right thing. Lives were in imminent danger. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if she didn't do all that she could in order to save them.

  * * *

  The voice was muffled, as if the caller had placed a cloth or something over the phone's mic. The cadence sounded stiff and unnatural. But the words were ominous and clear—the United Corporate Bank Center was going to be blown up. Captain Rob Granger had just retired to the bunkroom when the call came in on his department-issued cell phone. It was 11:05 p.m. When he'd initially seen RESTRICTED flash across the phone's caller ID screen, his first thought had been prank call. No one but his wife ever called his cell phone. After the city had listed individual firefighter cell phone numbers on its web page, a few of his colleagues had received the requisite bored teenager prank call. “I guess it's my turn,” he said, frowning at his phone. But after taking the call and listening to the specifics of the threat, he became increasingly certain of two things. The caller was a female of an indeterminate age and this wasn't a prank.

  * * *

  The other thirteen security officers working the third shift had responded to Lt. Conner's code-black with a shrug of their shoulders and a “yeah right.” They were already in heightened security-mode due to the presence in the building of the popular presidential candidate and his accompanying media hoard. Conner had already drilled them silly the past few weeks in anticipation of this day. The security officers had checked and rechecked every nuance of the building as well as every person entering it, making Conner's execution of the code-black, unnecessary overkill. But Principe, who'd been exiting the elevator when Conner's voice came, squeaking over his radio, shifted immediately into bomb response mode.

  Code-black was the security team's bomb response plan and essentially Conner's baby. He'd spent several weeks devising the plan designed to be executed in a matter of minutes. Unlike his colleagues, Principe had spent much time with Conner over the past two years and he knew the man was not prone to hyperbole. The lieutenant would not have issued the code without a good reason for doing so. Besides, Principe had the added benefit of knowing that there were in fact bombs in the building. After all, he'd planted them.

  “Radio check,” Conner continued over the radio. “I need everyone's ten-twenty.”

  Principe snatched the radio from his belt clip. Bringing it up to his mouth, he pressed the push-to-talk button. “This is Principe. I'm on fifty-eight.”

  The beauty of the plan, according to Conner, was that each officer's assigned duty and responsibility would be determined by that officer's location and working task at the time the code-black was issued.

  After the other officers had chimed in with their locations, Conner said, “I repeat, this is not a drill. We're in code-black. Everyone should act accordingly. Anyone unsure of what to do should report to the control room immediately. Conner out.”

  Since Principe had been on patrol near the sixtieth and top floor, his first responsibility would be to aid in the evacuation of the upper third of the building, making sure no employee straggled behind on any of the top floors. But he didn't expect anyone to be on the floors at this hour. These floors contained the executive offices. Although most of the bank's executives routinely worked twelve hour days, most were usually gone by nine o'clock.

  Pausing at the elevator to consider whether to sweep this floor first or go on to the top floor, working his way down, Principe's thoughts suddenly turned to the reason for the code in the first place. Someone had evidently called in a bomb threat. His coworkers had most likely taken Conner's 'this is not a drill' statement with a grain of salt because it was extremely unlikely that someone could get a bomb into the building. But Principe knew better. Had someone discovered the bombs? Or had someone simply phoned in a hoax?

  And then he knew. Of course, he said to himself. He moved quickly to the restrooms on this floor. Not only would a Rememberer know about the bombs, but also where he'd placed them. Running down the hallway, Principe checked his watch. It was 11:15. The gate wouldn't be in position for opening for almost another four hours. Now he was extremely thankful that he'd planted twelve bombs. He'd done so because he'd been overanxious. It wouldn't take that many to blow up the building. But he must've subconsciously known he'd need the other bombs. It would keep them busy. All he had to do now was move the bombs he'd planted on the fifty-eight and sixtieth floors to other resting places. And he knew exactly where. He burst through the restroom door, smiling devilishly. Soon, his demonic brethren would join him here on Earth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Thursday, October 29

  The Harrison Tower was a block away from the United Corporate Bank Center building. Consisting of steel, concrete and mirrored glass, the structure stretched nearly seven hundred feet into the sky. It housed commercial offices, shops, a restaurant, museum, and tonight—a perfect and safe distance from which to observe the spectacular demise of the UBC Center.

  At a quarter to one in the morning, Kallie and Swag bundled in their warmest winter wear, stood outside the side of the towering building. Though winter wasn't slated to start for almost another two months, the temperature had dropped thirty degrees from yesterday's high of fifty-nine. It was the first freeze of the fall season. She watched Swag punch numbers into a keypad, unlocking the door and shutting off the alarm system. She wondered only briefly how he'd come about obtaining the codes to do so, ultimately figuring it was related to either his remembering ability or the power and influence of A.I.

  They entered the well-lit building, making sure to angle themselves away from cameras not seen, but surely there. Quietly he led her onto the elevator where he punched the call button taking them up to the roof. They kept their heads lowered. The elevator camera was buried somewhere in the ceiling. Swag hadn't spoken in over an hour, or more specifically, not since she'd told him about her call to the fire department. By that time he'd already gone over the plan to enter the Harrison Tower, so she couldn't be sure if his silence was due to him being upset over what she'd done or simply because presently he had more pressing matters to consider. Outwardly, other than not speaking, he hadn't shown any signs of being angry or upset. In fact, he seemed rather indifferent to the news, as if her calling in the bomb threat had made no difference one way or the othe
r.

  The elevator didn't actually open onto the roof, but to the floor below it. Once on the floor, they moved quickly to the stairwell. The stairs led to a large storage area at the end of which was a door that opened to the roof. Walking through the storage area, she could tell that someone had been in here recently, evidently rummaging through the building's Christmas decorations. A mixture of green and tinsel wreaths and fake Christmas trees were lying amongst long snaky holiday signage and boxes of ornaments. She smelled hints of frankincense intermingling with the static smells of the plastic foliage.

  Outside, the thick cold was made nearly visible by a bulbous full harvest moon, which sat prominently near the western edge of the cloudless sky. The frosty air slapped furiously against Kallie's face, quickly distancing itself from the temporary warmth of the building. She followed Swag to a spot between two large rectangular air vents, and then sat down as he did, Indian-style.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “We wait.”

  She flipped up her coat collar. “On what?”

  “You'll see,” Swag said.

  She brought her knees up to her chest, scrunching her head below the top of her coat. For the longest time, neither spoke. Eventually, she lifted her head and turned toward him. “I wanted to save lives.”

  “Excuse me,” he said as if he hadn't heard her.

  She straightened up, looking at him squarely. “I called in the bomb threat because I wanted to save lives. Innocent people need not die.”

  He stared off into the distance. “What's makes you think they would have?”

  “Nothing, I guess. I just didn't want to take the chance.”

  He nodded his head indifferently.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but paused at a sound coming from somewhere near the door they'd come through. Someone else was stepping out onto the roof.

  Swag brought a single finger to his lips, silencing her. He got to his knees and crawled to the edge of the air vent. He peered around it and then turned back at her, silently mouthing, “It's time.” He motioned for her to crawl next to him. She did so, slowly and quietly.

  It was Gerald Principe. He walked to the edge of the roof facing the UCB Center and stepped onto the ledge. He held his hands up to the sky and began chanting.

  “What's he doing?” Kallie asked.

  Swag shushed her. “Wait here.” He stood up and walked to the ledge. “It is as it was before,” he said to Principe's back.

  Principe turned around. “So it is. It was only at this moment that I saw.”

  “It's the strangeness of the ability,” Swag said. “So you know who I am.”

  “I do,” Principe said. “And does she?”

  “Not fully,” Swag said.

  “What do you intend to do?” Principe asked.

  “Rule,” Swag answered. “With her.”

  “It's not possible,” Principe said. “She can't be trusted. She'll deceive you as before.”

  “Not as before,” Swag said.

  “Can I join you?”

  Swag inched closer to the ledge. “We'll see. But first open the gate.”

  Principe lowered his head compliantly and started chanting.

  Kallie approached from behind, looking from one to the other. Speechless, she suddenly felt like an outsider, having heard the faintness of a conversation that made little sense to her. Then she heard something else, a thunderous roar from the heavens. She looked up. The sky, moon-bright and cloudless a few moments ago, had darkened tremendously as a gray fog had rolled in out of nowhere, covering up the moon. “Look,” Kallie said, finding her voice and pointing toward the sky.

  Swag looked up and a wicked smile crossed his face. Principe continued chanting.

  “What's happening?” Kallie screamed.

  Swag ignored her and looked intently at Principe who was now laughing mechanically and screaming a concoction of sounds that meshed noisily with the thunderous reverberation. Then he looked up at the heavens and began shouting in an unrecognizable language. He held up a cell phone and wildly pressed a couple of keys. Within seconds, a deafening grumble came from the direction of the UCB Center, rolling heavily over them. The Harrison Tower trembled. The three of them looked toward the UCB Center. The top of it had been blown into the ethers, shooting explosive fire in all directions. Even here, Kallie could feel the intensified heat pricking her skin as the light from the explosion reflected off the glass of the Harrison Tower, bouncing gorgeous shades of red and orange all around them.

  Kallie's gaze went from the sky, which now seemed to be pulling away from itself, to the sight of Swag pushing Principe off the roof. Feeling weak-kneed, her body wavered backward and her eyes rolled to the back of her head, offering her only a glimpse of the strange creatures pouring from the sky's split.

  She fainted dead away.

  Swag stood unmoving. He was pleased.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In 1980, the FBI created the first Joint Terrorism Task Force (JTTF) in New York City. Its primary purpose was to coordinate the efforts of the various levels of law enforcement (local, state, federal) in order to respond effectively to any terrorist attack within the United States. After the events of 9/11, the program was expanded to over 100 locations throughout the country, including all FBI field offices. In addition, the Bureau made a more concerted effort to create an atmosphere of information-sharing amongst law enforcement, thus eliminating 'turf wars' and fostering 'an all hands on deck' philosophy in which to defeat terror. This is how it came to be that a week after the UCB Center bombing, FBI Special Agent Robert Newhouse was in his office briefing ICE Special Agent Dennard Bennett on the Bureau’s initial findings in its investigation of the most recent terrorist attack on American soil.

  “So, you're not convinced that this security officer Principe acted alone?” Bennett asked.

  Newhouse considered the question, as if wanting to parse his words. “We don't think he acted in conjunction with any of the other security officers. We believe that over the course of a few weeks, he smuggled in and set up twelve bombs. We haven't found any links with any terrorist organization and none of them is claiming responsibility.”

  Bennett sensed a 'but' coming and voiced it for Newhouse. “But…”

  “About four hours before the bombs exploded, a call was placed to a local fireman's cell phone. The city had placed all firemen's work cell numbers on its web page. The fireman, by the name of Rob Granger, said the caller, whom he determined to be female, told him about the impending attack and where the bombs could be located in the building.”

  “But the information was incomplete. I mean there was still an explosion,” Bennett said.

  Newhouse leaned back in his chair. “Eight of the bombs were exactly where the caller said they would be. But the four remaining bombs were not.”

  “You think it was part of the plot, maybe setting up the first responders or the bomb squad?”

  Newhouse rubbed his chin absently. “No, the four remaining bombs were on the fifty-eighth and sixtieth floors, exactly as the caller said they would be. Just not exactly where she'd said they'd be.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Principe.” Newhouse said. “He was patrolling those floors when the fire department called building security to advise them of the bomb threat.”

  Bennett nodded his head knowingly. “He moved them.”

  “It appears so,” Newhouse said.

  “But….” Bennett stopped, unsure of how to frame his words.

  “Exactly,” Newhouse said, finishing Bennett's unformed thought. “Why would Principe move the bombs? How would he know that someone had called in with the bombs' locations? Who would know besides him?”

  “He was working with someone,” Bennett said unconvincingly. The remains of Principe's body had been found a block away from the bomb site. He could have gotten away clean, yet he stayed around to commit suicide. It didn't make rational sense. Of course, terrorism wasn't rational. />
  “There's something else,” Newhouse said. He stood up and walked over to a flat screen monitor that had been rolled into his office on a cart. He flipped it on and pushed play on the accompanying DVD player. “This information has not been released. It's security video from the Harrison Tower.”

  Bennett turned around in his chair to see the video. On it, two people were seen entering the building and going directly to the elevators. A short time later, Principe, still wearing his security officer's uniform, entered the building and also went directly to the elevators. Newhouse pushed fast forward, stopping it about thirty minutes later in the video. The two initial individuals could be seen hurrying from the elevator and leaving the building. Of course, Principe's body, or what was left of it, was found later, splattered on the pavement in the back of the building.

  Newhouse turned off the monitor. “We also have video of the two in the elevator. Both times, going up and coming back down. They kept their heads low. Careful to avoid the camera, evidently knowing it was located in the ceiling.”

  Bennett was momentarily speechless. Then he asked, “So, what are the theories? An assisted suicide bombing, punishment for a botched job, what?”

  Newhouse returned to his chair. “We're exploring all possibilities. But one in particular is the reason why we've called you in. We understand that it's in your area of expertise.” Reaching down, he opened a lower desk drawer and pulled out a stack of papers bound by a large paper clip. He tossed the stack on his desk toward Bennett. “These are from one of Principe's email accounts. It looks like Principe and Phillip Beamer had grown quite chummy.”

  Bennett picked up the stack and looked closely at the header on the first sheet. The email was dated two months before Beamer's murder. It was sent by Principe to Beamer at an email address that Bennett hadn't discovered during his investigation into Beamer's terrorist activities.