Search For Reason (State Of Reason Mystery, Book 2)

by Miles A. Maxwell

  “He’ll be fine. I’ve seen this before. He’s a little sensitive is all. We’ll have to take it slower.”

  Cardinal Bruce O’Shaughnessy was wakened by the sound of distant waterfalls. The first thing he thought upon opening his eyes was: Too much whiskey!

  The first thing he saw was a vision of silver flowing liquid, water dropping through the air into a silver river. Sweet birds were singing in the trees. A heavenly aura surrounded a beautiful wondrous city! Streets of gold. And in the center, something like the Vatican — only better. Golden rays pouring down on a St. John’s Cathedral of pure sunlight.

  “Blimey!” he said, soft wonder in his voice. “Has the Good Lord taken me home? Didn’ know fer sure I’d rise to the occasion.”

  Yet underneath it all, one unpleasant thing crept into his awareness. A droning voice that pounded ceaselessly onward. Suggesting things that were very hard for even a Cardinal to believe.

  The technicians had been busy adjusting the Catholics — they’d only been expecting one — now they had two. The Cardinal’s bulging gut covered by a hospital gown, tubes running to his arms. They’d dialed up his meds carefully as his liver slowly metabolized away the alcohol in his blood. They watched the digital display respond.

  When everything was in balance, they removed his hood. Got his headset in place. The electrodes attached to his scalp and chest. Eye cups fastened. And began Processing.

  “Maybe edge up the Suculomine?” asked one tech.

  “No, I think it’s right on the money,” said a second. “We want to —”

  “YEAAAAAA!” a scream shot out behind them. “YEAAAAAA!”

  The two techs turned abruptly, shocked to see a tall thin wild-eyed man with ginger hair, bony ass hanging half out of his white hospital gown, tubes and wires trailing behind him on the floor in the open hall where the short cubical walls ended.

  “YEAAAA!” the man screamed again. He turned and ran.

  “It’s the Lutheran again! Get him!”

  But before they’d halfway caught up with the minister, the guards were on him. Two grabbed his arms; a third, dropping to the ground to lift his feet.

  “Don’t injure him!” the first tech cautioned.

  The tall man was surprisingly agile, and much stronger than his reedy frame suggested. He shook the guards on his arms away like a dog shedding water. They went flying, one slamming into the white cubical wall, the other into the opposite side of the common hallway. In seconds their patient was high-stepping away from the man scrabbling at his ankles on the floor . . . and was free!

  Making a break at high speed past the other cubicles.

  “Something must be wrong with the dosage!” the first tech screamed.

  Lutheran Bishop Rudolph Gartenbuerger was losing his mind. He ran past what appeared to be some sort of hospital setup, short white walls jutting out from some sort of industrial building.

  A balding man in a hospital gown lifted a head covered with spaghetti-like gear as Rudolph ran by his cubicle. The bald man grinned and laughed at him. The next two cubicles were occupied as well: a woman strapped down in the first, a black man in the second.

  High overhead was an open steel-truss framework. This is some kind of nightmare, that’s what it is! He couldn’t take a chance though. He had to get out!

  Far down the narrow white hallway he saw an open door. That’s where I have to go!

  The bishop ran for it.

  He was almost there when, like an angel silhouetted in the door’s bright light, someone appeared in the vertical opening. Rudolph ran straight at the heavenly being that had come to help.

  The unearthly specter raised its arm. There was something in its hand. It flashed — Boomed! Knocked the bishop backward off his feet.

  The angel came toward him. Bent over him. Then — blackness.

  It was the last thing on Earth Bishop Rudolph Gartenbuerger ever saw.

  Mouths open, the techs and guards surrounded the fallen cleric where he lay on the tile floor.

  “What did you do that for?” one of the techs asked.

  “Obviously unsuited to the program,” replied the short bulldog-necked man who fired the shot.

  “Shit. The guy was popular too. How do we handle his disappearance?”

  “He was just in New York, wasn’t he?” asked the short man.

  The first tech nodded.

  “Another one lost in the wreckage?”

  “That’ll work.”

  “But what will we do for a Lutheran?” the second tech asked. “Where do we find a replacement?”

  The short man thought a moment. “I know of someone. A very popular Congregationalist minister in the northwest part of the state.”

  “That should work, I guess. We’ll have to check with — ”

  “What’s more important to discuss,” the short man interrupted with deadly calm, pulling a large silver coin from his pocket, flipping it into the air, “is I hear you had to chase someone off the property — through the woods?”

  Ralph’s Torture — The Thomases

  “Let us turn to Daniel 12,” Ralph said, closing his office door. By the time Franklin closed his own, he heard the first long sob. Mrs. Thomas.

  “Oh my God, no!” a deeper voice cut through his wall. Mr. Thomas.

  It sounded like Ralph was killing them. He knew well the verse in Daniel, Ralph was using:

  “ . . . and there shall be a time of trouble,

  such as never was since nations here began.

  What the hell is Ralph doing? Why isn’t he trying to help them? All three of the Thomas children, two boys and a girl, Franklin knew, had been living at NYU in Lower Manhattan when the first bomb went off. He could hear Ralph’s voice, a bit louder now. He could just make out the words:

  “ . . . and many of those that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake,

  some to everlasting life,

  and some to shame and perpetual contempt.”

  “Oh, oh, oh!” Sobbing now. But Ralph’s assuming, he’s implying their children are already dead! He wants us to leave Mrs. Astor and Kitty Tavitt and Patricia Marshal and her twins beside themselves with grief and worry and pain?

  “No, Reverend —” Mr. Thomas’s pain and hurt echoed violently through Franklin’s door. Mrs. Thomas’s cries grew more strident. It was horrible.

  “How did I get here?” Franklin whispered, fingers massaging his temples. He rose from his chair and stepped to his office door. Put a hand on the doorknob.

  Suddenly, the voices were quiet.

  He hesitated. It isn’t any of my business, really, is it?

  Ralph’s voice rising, clear, now on John 5:

  “Verily, verily, I say unto you,

  the hour shall come and now is!

  When the dead shall hear the voice

  of the Son of God:

  and they that hear it shall live!”

  A scream! And then Ralph’s voice building, ringing out into John 12!

  “He that loveth his life shall lose it,

  and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it

  unto life eternal.”

  “Oh no, no, no! There’s got to be . . .” Mrs. Thomas’s sobbing was unbearable. Franklin went through his door. From the other end of the hall, Marj glanced at him, eyes rimmed with red. She turned away, hunched over her keyboard. She’s trying not to listen!

  Hand outstretched at Ralph’s door, Franklin hesitated, soft whimpering inside, Ralph speaking in low tones — Ralph’s favorite to place in that white wood and glass marquee on the church’s front lawn. John 14:

  “I go away, and am returning to you . . .

  that you may believe!”

  You MAY believe? Franklin’s mind shouted. He saw it now: Thanks for the PERMISSION, RALPH — that most basic of hypnotic suggestions:

  BELIEVE!

  Believe WHAT — everything I say? Buy in, accept the church’s guidance? Obey US? But why? Because
of some vague prediction in the Bible? Secular writers sell their books. We churches GIVE you the book for free and then you pay. With what? The rest of your life?

  “Oh please, isn’t there a chance?” he heard Mr. Thomas gasp.

  SLAVERY! DEPENDENCY!

  The words Franklin’s mind screamed were echoed by a long sobbing moan from Mrs. Thomas. He’s killing them! His fingertips froze on Ralph’s doorknob. He would be in such great trouble if he interrupted. His jaw bulged. He ground his teeth. He wanted desperately to interfere. Marj was huddled around her screen. He hated what Ralph was putting these kind, decent people through.

  What’s happening to me? he asked, shaking his head. Am I overwrought? Just overtired? What’s happening to my faith?

  He could hear Ralph reading Second Corinthians 12 now, Verse Nine:

  “My grace is sufficient for thee,

  for my power is made perfect through weakness.”

  The anguished cries of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas rose through Ralph’s door. Like they’re being tortured! He gripped the knob with increasing pressure. He could almost imagine someone like Ralph pushing the button that set off the bomb. A big tortuous control freak. And then came Ralph’s words from Isaiah 41:

  “Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not afraid,

  for I AM thy god; I will strengthen thee,

  I will help thee,

  I will sustain thee with the right hand of my justice . . .”

  As if RALPH were GOD! As if fully aware of what he was saying, the Senior Minister jumped right into Verse Thirteen to knock it home:

  “For I, the LORD thy god, will hold thy right hand;

  saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.”

  Creating these feelings and pictures in the Thomases’ minds, surely Ralph knows what he’s doing, knows how much of life is hypnosis. Discussions with friends. Favorite books, movies, Ralph’s passages in the Bible? All an altered state of consciousness. How many times have I watched the visions of John 9:40 magically induce that glassy-eyed stare into the patient listeners of one of Ralph’s Sunday sermons . . . or one of mine?

  Ralph knows!

  And then Franklin wondered, How much is left of the old programming my old girlfriend left me? Such strong emotion, those mental pictures of our last night together in Nevada. Reading the missionary parables. The end-of-the-world eschatologicals. Sermon on the Mount. She never came back, but the things we studied together sure do. How much of that old fundamental programming still festers deep inside? And he wondered a thing he’d never thought before: Is it permanent?

  The voices through Ralph’s door went quiet. Steps across the carpet! They’re coming!

  Franklin walked rapidly back to his own office, Ralph’s door opening behind him. Closing his own. Just in time.

  Franklin leaned his back up against the door. He could hear them in the hall now leaving. Mrs. Thomas sobbing quietly.

  I should have done something! What I do is hypnosis?

  What Ralph had warned Franklin against wasn’t some mind-over-mind-bending power. Some Obi-Wan Kenobi — ‘Luke, use The Force’ kind of thing.

  It’s not like that at all! It’s a helping thing. A permission thing. To allow Mrs Astor to generate ideas, to find her own strength. Make the internal connections one needs oneself, right here, right now. Helping somebody restore their OWN power.

  And then the answer hit him: He doesn’t want people to help themselves. Showing people how to fix themselves scares Ralph! Ralph seeks to destroy hope and replace it with himself. He wants control!

  He wants everyone dependent on him!

  And as the Thomases’ voices faded, Franklin had one overriding thought. And it wasn’t very Christian: Screw Ralph Maples.

  Verses in this chapter are actually non-KJV translations based on texts older than Ralph’s Bible.

  The Burn

  Everon ran right past the helicopter and wiped a finger at something warm on his left cheek. Red? Blood? They hit me? Who are those guys?

  At the diesel tank the fuel gauge showed less than 5,000 gallons. He took the gantryway up to the control room. He wanted to call the police. Report what happened. But even more he wanted to save Enya. There was no time to waste giving statements, answering repeated questions, waiting while forms were typed up. He was alive. He’d get into it later. Right now he needed to find Turban. See if there were any more phase problems.

  But the Sikh was not in the control room. Gib was keeping an eye on the big board.

  He found Turban one floor down with his right hand holding open a silvery foot-thick hatch, slightly-taller-than-wide, half the size of a microwave oven door. The fire’s force pounded from the hole in the wall, into Everon’s chest down into the balls of his feet like a waterfall into a pooling river.

  “Ah! Mr. E!” the lavender head-wrapped engineer shouted. “You have not left yet! Please hold here! Stand here, to one side.

  At that very moment a long horizontal shaft of flame shot out into the air. Everon could feel the heat across his face.

  And just as suddenly, POP!, the flame sucked itself back in.

  “Momentary back pressure between the fans!” Turban shouted. “Very dangerous in front! He can reach out! No warning!”

  Everon ran a hand across his sweating hot forehead. It felt like he’d singed his eyebrows. Pressure and the three T’s. Time, Turbulence and Temperature affect all things. He held the small door open, keeping well back on an angle while Turban inserted a long thin probe. The engineer made no mention of the blood on Everon’s face.

  The gauge in Turban’s hand climbed. 1,200 degrees . . .

  1,300 . . .

  In the days when fire management was passed on generation to generation, everyone had a wood-burning fireplace. How to make the wispy tongues of flame slip through spaces between logs. Placement of each log for the perfect draft. Secrets known to make a fire burn longer or faster or more evenly for cooking.

  Slowly, across the country, the wood fireplaces were replaced by newer glass-front models with fake logs. Turn on the gas. Light a match. Instant beautiful flame.

  But no gas could be pumped without power. And now, down the Mid-Atlantic states people were breaking out the glass.

  They were cutting down the forest only to be surprised by how difficult it was to burn wet unseasoned wood. They were burning legs and backs of old chairs. Chopping up tabletops. Pulling siding off garages. People struggled with matches and paper bags trying to relearn the old skills.

  The only place where this understanding of fire had always remained a value was on Mercer’s fifth floor — where the fireball roared. That blazing sun contained within this terrifyingly hot metal box. Finally the needle on Turban’s gauge held steady: 2,000 degrees.

  Turban backed the probe out. “Control room reads him . . . Big Mombo . . . 35 degrees low,” he yelled.

  Everon slammed the hatch. The roar dropped by 90 percent.

  “How long?”

  “Six hours more — before he will bring his steam hot enough to turn Big Mombo. I must return to the control room.”

  Turban went up the stairs.

  Everon checked his watch. Six hours. And double fuel usage the last two. Less than 5,000 gallons left. Come on, Scrounge!

  But Everon couldn’t sit here and worry. He had to get to Thomas — where he’d been unable to leave any of his trusted people in charge and couldn’t reach anyone by radio. It wasn’t going to do Enya any good to have power at Mercer if they couldn’t get it to the hospital. He wiped a hand across his cheek. More blood. Hell, I guess I can trust Turban here without me. The man’s so focused, he doesn’t even notice blood on someone’s face!

  Everon put the walkie-talkie to his lips. “Scrounge?”

  “Almost there, E,” a voice came back immediately. “Got another 2,000 gallons.”

  Cutting it awfully fine, Everon thought.

  Everon triggered his mic. “You know you’re going to need
another tanker here within the next three hours.”

  “Don’t worry, E. Forty-five minutes, and I’ll be back.”

  “Rani? Holmes?” Everon transmitted, running for the helicopter.

  “You coming, boss?” Holmes radioed back. “Pretty chilly up here.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “It all looks good,” Rani called.

  As Everon climbed into the MD-900, he felt warm blood drip onto his neck. Wiped at it with the back of his hand. His vision shot out across the yard. One more glance at Mercer’s mystery switch. And the woods beyond.

  Everon Comes Around

  As Everon lifted off, Scrounge’s fuel truck appeared in the entry of Mercer’s drive. The truck accelerated, swerving wildly as it gained speed.

  Suddenly, halfway up the drive, it skidded on an angle. Everon waited for the inevitable crash into the side fence, the probable explosion. But at the last second Scrounge turned into the skid, the truck straightened and continued on.

  Everon banked for Nicola. In a minute, Scrounge will be pumping what’s in that truck into Mercer’s tank, then back here forty minutes later. And another 2,000 gallons? Flagler has to be empty. Where’s he going to get it?

  Slowly and smoothly he sidled up to Rani so the linesman could step from high-tension lines onto the MD-900’s service platform. Then Holmes. As soon as Holmes was solidly aboard, Everon climbed, dropped the nose and hauled for Juniata.

  “Brrr,” said Holmes over the intercom. “Glad to be back. I was freezing my butt off up there.”

  “Did you know you’re bleeding, E?” Rani asked as he slid into the left front seat.

  Everon touched a finger to his left cheek. It came away red. “It’s just a scratch.”

  In his side vision he caught Rani looking at the torn left knee of his jeans, which were streaked with dirt. This wasn’t the time to get into telling the guys about crazy people shooting at him in the woods. He’d figure out what to do about it later. Hopefully before the men who tried to kill him figured out who and where he was.