The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security

by Andrew Tisbert

  And that's how it worked.

  In fact, Tom's own boss wasn't aware of the girl's existence for a good four months. Four months of simply watching Everett abuse the girl. If Everett punished her by locking her in the closet, Tom would sneak her out or bring her a snack. He became her ‘imaginary’ friend, and she seemed to look forward to their brief meetings. She called him ‘The Shadow’ and sometimes insisted even to him that he didn't really exist. Four months, and then Tom's conscience could take no more and he told his boss about her.

  "Under no circumstances will you do anything for this girl,” Carmen Fairbrite, Chief of Staff at the time, told him. “You've managed to keep your presence unknown up to this point. And that's exactly what you will continue to do."

  "Maybe you don't understand the situation, sir..."

  "No, I believe I do. People have been watching you on this assignment, Russell. You've handled the issues here with great sensitivity and discretion. They're talking promotion in Washington."

  "But this poor girl is—"

  "You will not interfere! There are larger issues at stake than the welfare of one little nigger girl."

  "Sir, with all due respect—"

  "Tread carefully here, Russell. You're in the middle of a highly charged situation. If that tyrant bitch's clone becomes pressured by Security, he might start asking questions that could lead to a very dark time for The Party. Her real son is going to be the next President. How would it look if anyone found out he had an illegal monster for a brother, a man who has been involved in terrorist activities over the last decade?"

  Tyrant bitch? For the first time, Russell realized the future Father Washington's mother, who had passed away several years ago, wasn't remembered by everyone as the near-saint vision had made her out to be. It was an important lesson—if you were part of a winning team, things were not always what they appeared to be.

  "We aren't in the domestic squabble game, Russell. I understand your concern for this girl—you're a good man. But as a good man, you must judge the more important issues."

  Four months became four years. Four years of discreetly helping the girl against the express orders of his superior. It wasn't enough. When he finally convinced her to run away, and he and his men quietly helped her succeed, it still wasn't enough. He owed Leslie a debt he knew it was impossible to repay. It would never be enough.

  Tom never understood how two men who were so different could come from the same genes. Father Washington represented all that was fair and honorable and patriotic. His brother Everett had embraced a rogue state, a member of the always and ever growing Evil Axis. Tom knew from experience he was a monster.

  Tom tried, but never learned the identity of the black woman in the little girl's photograph. And the day of his promotion had been the most bittersweet day of his life.

  * * * *

  There was a sharp knock at the door. Frowning at the setting sun, Tom said, “Open it.” Soft footsteps crossed the carpet and then stopped as Tom turned. Andrew Jefferson, Chief of Staff, stood before his desk, fingers stretching out to tap the fake oak, his head tilted forward and brows raised in an attempt to make his dull gray eyes somehow piercing. The failed glare didn't bother Tom. It was the halitosis that made him flinch. He smelled it as he sat behind his desk.

  "Hello, Andy."

  Something shifted in Jefferson's eyes as if a second, transparent, set of eyelids blinked at Tom's greeting.

  "You're a lucky man, Tom."

  Instead of asking why, Tom watched Jefferson's dull, soft face. He made his own face relax.

  "Do you know why?” Jefferson's voice rose, just a little.

  Because I belong to the ninety-ninth percentile of America's population more intelligent than you. “What brings you to my office, Andy?"

  Jefferson pulled the chair beside the desk out to the front and sat down. “Because you don't have to deal directly with the President. Ever. Just me. I'm the one who has to take the shit from Him, no matter whose fault it is."

  Tom tried to ignore Jefferson's breath. Meyer's roaring voice cracked in the background: “You fucking Godless—” Tom almost laughed as Meyer started choking. There were times, he thought, when it was very difficult to take these young men seriously. Jefferson wasn't even in his thirties and he was Tom's superior, answerable only to Father Washington Himself. Tom had been in security for almost twenty-five years, working up from the bottom. Jefferson entered the scene four years ago with university degrees in The Religion, in Patriotic Studies, and in Holy Security. What did those degrees really mean? Tom imagined the man had always been a zealous misfit, the humorless boy in prayer school who took the catechisms far too seriously. This position of power was the first opportunity in his life to fit in, gain respect, to make friends. Granted, someone like Meyer wasn't ever really your friend. At least he had to kiss Jefferson's ass. Maybe that was enough for Jefferson.

  "I didn't want to discuss this over our communications link. You never know who's listening, and believe it or not, Tom, I want to give you the benefit of the doubt here."

  Tom stared at him.

  Holy Spirit of Revolution—get to the point.

  "What was Saint Leslie doing out on the field today?"

  Tom looked into those dull eyes, and wondered why Jefferson bothered to ask. The man's response was obviously already prepared, and wouldn't change no matter how Tom explained the decision.

  "You gave a saint a position on Holy Security, Tom. I'm sure even you can tell me how many regulations contra-indicate that move. Not only can't saints work, but you put her image and her life in jeopardy. Not to mention the life of Father Washington."

  Tom snorted. “Father Washington? Andy, you know as well as I do that Leslie has always been a conscientious guard."

  "And you know better than anyone how precarious the state of her mind might be. Tom, she's nothing more than a pet experiment of yours. Don't forget it. There are a thousand priorities higher than her. Now things are even more complicated, what with all the publicity around her damned promotion. Do you realize how much I wish I could just pull the plug on that? But for the moment, with everybody chanting her name and writing her letters and making little action figures, we have to follow through with the sainthood. There's really nothing we can do except maintain damage control. Of course the public has a short memory. Things will return to normal."

  Tom rubbed his balding head. Jefferson didn't need to tell him who would take the blame for everything if Leslie embarrassed Washington. And he didn't wish to lose his pension, his job, or worse.

  "How much does He know?” he asked.

  "Very little,” Jefferson replied.

  As Tom watched the young man's face, it suddenly occurred to him Jefferson was afraid. After all, he'd withheld information from The President. Tom knew that, rather than making them allies, it merely made Jefferson more dangerous to him, for Tom would be blamed with the total force of his superior's desperation if anything went wrong.

  "I think The President suspects there's something strange about Leslie, especially after his little interview with her today. I don't think it'll take too long for him to figure things out if he starts asking the right people the right questions. His Advisors have been at me nonstop ever since the assassination attempt. You know; ‘Where does Freeman come from, where does she receive her programming, why does Russell take such an interest in her?’”

  "I suppose we had this coming. After all this time, with all of Everett's connections to Washington buried for so long, I'd thought we were pretty free and clear."

  "Nothing is ever free and clear, Russell. Especially when a grandstander like you hides a key figure like Leslie right under everyone's noses."

  "We've been down that road, Andy. I still stand by my decision. We needed to keep her close and we needed to modify her memory. And it worked."

  "It worked when she was buried in the ranks of security and not in the public eye. What if her identity comes out now?"

>   Sighing, Tom shrugged. “So what are we going to do?"

  Jefferson smirked. “We? No, Tom. You. You're going to make sure Leslie gets through this sainthood thing without any problems. You will ensure that proper procedures are followed, that her programming operates according to plan, and that Washington can rest assured she'll act like the little Cinderella she is, and then settle back into anonymity as quickly and as fully as possible. Crystal?"

  Tom pushed his jaw forward and sighed again. “You know as well as I do that Leslie's responses to programming have not always been utterly predictable."

  "This is no longer my problem, Tom.” Jefferson stood and rapped his fingers on Tom's desk a final time. Then he started for the door, but before he reached it, he turned again. “One more thing. Why hasn't our Security Saint turned in her gun?"

  "Give her a break, Andy. We've talked about Gun before. She's totally attached to it. It's her only friend, the only personality she feels she can rely on. I didn't want to push it too hard and have her fall apart. That would risk your precious image, wouldn't it?"

  "You're the expert.” He smirked again. “For now. But it's time to start weaning your little girl, Tom. She'll have to give up Gun soon. There's a limit, you know."

  Tom found himself consciously keeping his growing anger behind his unmoving face. “Yes sir."

  As he watched Jefferson retreat from the room, he pictured Leslie alone in her apartment, hiding from the world and holding Gun against her hard little breasts.

  She'll probably never understand just how far out on a limb I continue to crawl for her.

  He rose from his chair and returned to the window. How in Kennedy's Camelot had they ever allowed Leslie to get promoted to sainthood? He rolled his eyes. His stomach had begun to burn. And how the Desert Storm had he let her get pregnant!

  And this new obsession with the Sons of Man. Leslie was playing with a fire she didn't understand. Not just because of political appearances. She didn't know Everett had become affiliated with the Sons of Man, that he was somewhat of an important figure within the organization. If she dug deep enough, it was likely she'd find him. What would happen if they were to meet? She seemed to survive meeting Father Washington all right, but Tom didn't know if the head mem could shield her from her past if she found herself literally faced with her father.

  I don't know if she could bear such a meeting, such a revelation.

  Then he snorted as another thought occurred to him; if she regained her memory, it would expose him as the man who watched Everett's abuses and did nothing. That was something he wasn't sure he could bear.

  Below, the first Atheist was sprawled face down and unmoving on the asphalt, the heel of Meyer's black boot ground into his neck. And Meyer was screaming at the second in line, his voice rising up in a maddened screech of righteousness: “You! You now, Mother fucker. I—say it!—I pledge allegiance to the—What's the matter, you some kind of retard!"

  Tom blanched at that. Some kind of retard. He could see what looked like a great crimson worm lengthening beside the first Atheist's head. Meyer's men had circled the Atheists, their guns raised to their various Godless temples. Beyond them the eyes of vision glowed, recording the glory of the recanting. Tom turned to the desk and rubbed his fists in his eyes.

  5

  On the local news, crowds clot the streets of Washington, chanting and shaking posters of Leslie. Banners cry ‘Save us Saint Leslie!’ and, ‘Kill them all in the name of Leslie'. The bronze-skinned anchorman introduces the nation's premiere Policies Etymologist, Al D. Bankley, Ph.D. The vision eye focuses on the top of his cotton-covered head, his sagging chin, a shaggy white eyebrow, as he talks.

  "Let me begin with a definition of my area of study,” he squeaks. “Etymology is the study of the history of how words and their meanings change over time. We call investigation into the history of government policy etymology because policies and their rationales change in much the same fashion, so that meanings completely flip-flop for the same words and phrases. Without etymological scrutiny, policy often bears no apparent relation to the values or philosophies from which it is supposed to grow. This is why my work, and that of my colleagues, is so important to Washington. Popular understanding of policy and the values from which it grows is of the utmost importance in a democratic system. Now take for example the issue of abortion. Washington's anti-abortion stance is, of course, a given. But you may hear an ignorant or ill-informed critic from some rogue state or another say that the Blessing of the Unborn is pro-abortion and unpatriotic."

  The expert shakes his head, grinning at the thought.

  "Policy history informs us that the Pilgrimage ritual is the natural result of an anti-abortion stance as it became complicated by the War on Cloning, the War on Poverty, and necessary compromises on the War on Stem Cell Technologies. Welfare recipients cannot be allowed to reproduce at the expense of hard-working citizens. Washington's solution has allowed advancements in health and longevity for our citizens through agreements with the Stem Cell companies, so that good can come from the Godless mistakes of these poor women. And the ceremony itself is valuable because it provides the poor mother a chance at redemption. We're not barbarians, and that's the socially responsible thing to do."

  The vision eye has turned to the chuckling anchorman.

  "Terror readiness advanced today to code Melancholy Apprehension,” he announces, as New York City Police are shown dragging a dark-skinned man to the pavement in Times Square. “Officials in New York, preparing for the upcoming Rebel Day Parade, began a crackdown on potential threats in the area."

  A related story shows an increase of public belief in the existence of the Antichrist. “Of course he's real,” a pot-bellied man eating an ice cream cone says. “You can't have a force of good like Father Washington and expect there to be no opposite. That's just called the law of conservatism. And I know a guy who's seen him, too...."

  A consumer report follows, discussing the broad success of McDonald's Restaurant's new advertising campaign for their Christian Karma Drive-Thrus. “You collect Penance Points on your free Repentance Card with each purchase of the American Family Meal, and you also get credit on special sale coupons when you magni-size your freedom fries.” The anchorman winks. “Sounds like good family fun."

  * * * *

  The first time she punched in his number he answered the second buzz. She was afraid to let him see her and had turned off her visuals with the remote. But she could still see him, larger than life across her vision wall. He had black, kinky hair, but his skin was pale beneath it. His soft chin was concealed in black stubble.

  "Is this Roger Calvin?"

  "You've got him."

  His voice was high pitched and a little weak. Still, her nerve faltered and she felt her face blush. “I—I'd like to meet with you somewhere. I'd like to talk with you."

  After a long, baffled pause, the man spoke again. “Oh yeah? Who are you?"

  "It's—” She was afraid to tell him. But lying would defeat her purpose. She wanted to break the connection. “It's Leslie Freeman."

  "No, really. Who is this? June? Not a funny joke, June—"

  "This is no joke."

  "Saint Leslie, that Leslie, the Security Guard Leslie? The great hero of the day Leslie, the...” His words sprayed out at an even higher pitch. Then, before she could answer, he reached for his control. There was a click, a bright afterimage and then he was gone. In spite of her embarrassment and something that felt suspiciously like shame, the lonely click only made her more determined. She poked in the number again and let the remote buzz for seven minutes. When he finally answered, he was hollering.

  "Look! What in Red Hell do you want with me?"

  "I want to meet with you and talk."

  "What is your problem? I don't fear Washington enough? I haven't done anything."

  "I know that. I just want to ask you a few questions about your brother and the Sons of Man."

  "Is that all?” He la
ughed before he said, “This is a setup, isn't it?” His voice calmed suddenly, became almost unconcerned. “On the other hand—” his voice changed yet again, “—maybe that's a moot point.” This time his tone was odd to Leslie. What it signified, she was not sure. But it sounded like a stirring curiosity—a morbid, spiteful desire to meet his brother's killer? Perhaps he noticed his own shifting tone, too, for he was suddenly roaring through the wall: “Why am I even talking with you?” And again the click.

  She made the connection a third time and let it buzz while she made herself lunch. She listened to the buzz as she ate a sandwich. She refused to feel any futility. There had been this tone in his voice; she knew he would answer again eventually.

  And he did.

  Still, she was startled when his face brightened her wall, displacing an ad about erectile dysfunction. This time his voice was calm. Even though she knew he could not see her, his wide, unblinking eyes seemed to stare through her head. “I think you should just leave me alone."

  "Roger—"

  "Just hang up and forget about this conversation, and I'll forget about it too, and we'll both pretend that this never happened."

  "I can't. Please just listen. I've never ... killed anyone before. I never knew your brother. I feel lost without knowing something about him. Don't you understand? Look, I'm not even a Guard anymore. My career is over."

  "You want me to tell you something about him so you can feel better about murdering him? You have got to be mis-wired. My brother may have been a desperate man, but he wasn't a monster. And I have nothing to explain to you."

  "Please."

  "Ah, shit, you're pleading. Why are you pleading with me? What do you have to be desperate about?” He laughed a flash of dull yellow and silver. “Saint Leslie of Security is pleading. With me. This is really too ... too. And you know something? Damn me to Red Hell, I can't resist. I don't pretend to understand the game we're playing, but I just can't resist. Sure, I'll meet with you. And, believe me, I take no responsibility for what happens if this is a setup. I'm not entirely without ... resources, you know."