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

by Miles A. Maxwell

  When he first came to the church two years ago, Don Marshal had given him a framed print. He gazed up at it now, there on his wall — a mountain goat caught suspended in time, frozen in mid air, black hooves extended out front, white fur streaming back. Jumping between two snowy cliffs, the sides of a narrow bottomless chasm.

  An impossibly dangerous decision the goat had made. If its jump ended up being an inch short, the goat would tumble to its death. But the goat knew he would make it. Atop the far cliff, a small patch of grass was exposed by some missing snow.

  Franklin found the number in his wallet. The phones were strangely quiet. He dialed.

  Seven rings later there was no answer.

  He stared at his desk, the beginning creep of depression. He watched the fourth line begin flashing for several moments before it occurred to him there was no one out front to answer anymore. No one had volunteered to get the phones. Some unknown force moved his right hand to pick up the line, the one he’d just called out on.

  “Hello?”

  “Franklin?” It was her. “I didn’t realize it was your number.”

  “I was trying to call you,” he said. “I’m at the church.”

  “I was calling your cellphone but it didn’t go through. I just heard it on the news in the car. Oh, Franklin! What happened? I’m on the Ohio Turnpike. I’m on my way home. I can’t believe it! Your secretary! She was so nice! And those nice people —” her voice dropped out for a second “ — Aviary. Dean and Sally. And the radio played a tape of you, an interview. Something about a fight! Somehow connected with the bombs? Are you okay?”

  So he told her. He told her everything.

  “Maybe you need to take a break.”

  “Maybe it’s more than that.”

  She paused. “You know I meant it when I said you could come visit me in Chicago.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You could stay as long as you like.”

  He said nothing.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You know, you don’t have to stay there. You could do anything. People think highly of you. You’re famous and trusted.”

  “Not everybody thinks so.”

  “But a lot do. My parents do. My girlfriend does. You could write a book and do the talk shows. You could go into politics. You could do anything.”

  “I’m thinking of coming to see you,” he said finally.

  “Oh, that would be great!”

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “Absolutely. Hey, did you hear the Mormon Prophet just died?”

  “When? I just met him, when I was out there looking at those crazy Plates.”

  “Last night. It’s all over the news. And there’s this rumor the Mormon church may do something they’ve never done before. That they’re going outside their ruling council to elect a new president.”

  Minutes later he put down the phone knowing what his sermon would have to say. A lot of things he didn’t want to say at all. He leaned forward in his chair and began a series of notes, pulling in the things he needed: Charlie Regal and Mrs. Astor and Kitty Tavitt and Patricia Marshal and her daughters . . .

  He thought of a book at home, a Michigan doctor who delivered a thousand babies using only hypno-anesthesia. No chemicals, only hypnosis. His female patients sang pop songs and Christmas carols while in pleasure, not pain, their babies came. Franklin smiled grimly. Is it better to deaden the brain? Push reason out of the way? Or to enlist its help? Can drugs do that? Can prayer . . ?

  He thought about the Mormon Plates. Barb and Mattie and a thick tablet of gold found in the desert sands near Mecca . . .

  And he thought about the dead. Zhou and Ting, the Adlans and Marjorie . . .

  He thought about Cyn.

  And the answer was before him. There was terrible pain in it. Abandonment and worry and terrible hurt. More frightening than a jarring plane ride to Cleveland. Worse than a fight to the death with a crazed sumo trying to kill him. A tremendous sense of loss. Angry frustration still growing, gnawing, tearing him inside — more than anything in his life ever had.

  He wrote faster . . .

  And then, his pen asked the question he’d been avoiding across the whole of his spiritual life: All my studies in seminary, all my prayers begging God’s help to solve my problems: How much is simply annihilation of my self? Of me?

  A meaning bore down on him. Roared at him. Wouldn’t let him twist away. Punched his guts out.

  His pen moved.

  A single word.

  The word expanded into three. Ink on paper. Not a trinity, an acronym.

  He would need to use it later.

  An Urgent Message

  “Hey! We’re coming on,” Holmes said.

  The crew were standing around the big screen above the console’s right side that Lama had hooked into a satellite feed.

  “Hey! Turn it up!” Ortega shouted. “There’s that chica was here yesterday, E.”

  “The power’s on in east Pennsylvania!” Sheila Koontz said up on the big screen. “Thanks to the hardworking power crew of this man!”

  The video switched to a picture of the reporter with a microphone interviewing Everon.

  Their discussion about Mercer and the attack on Everon, however, had been replaced by Sheila’s voiceover: “Everon Student is the brother of Dr. Franklin Reveal — who as you may know is pictured this week on the cover of Time magazine — we also have a taped interview with Dr. Reveal for you after this segment.”

  The picture switched to what was clearly a cellphone video of Franklin connecting a massive hook on the end of a cable to the back of an 18-wheeler. A blue-gray bridge tower was in the background. “While it’s certainly true Reverend Reveal helped save thousands of people by opening the George Washington Bridge, none of it could have been possible without the man who flew the helicopter.”

  Everon grimaced as the cellphone picture panned up the cable to an old Coast Guard helicopter — then switched to him in the left seat of the MD-900 amid swirling snow in N-J’s yard. Unseen on the helicopter’s other side, Everon knew was Nan, who’d actually been flying.

  The picture switched back to Everon and Sheila talking silently outside. “Tonight thousands of east Pennsylvanians have power because of Mr. Student and his excellent team of power technicians.”

  And that was it.

  None of the stuff about Mercer being shut down before the bomb or Everon being shot at was in the report.

  “Well that’s disappointing,” Everon said.

  “Who cares about all the great stuff we’ve been doing?” said Holmes.

  “Maybe they do you a favor, mang,” Ortega said.

  “We’ll be back in a moment with more on Everon Student’s brother, Dr. Franklin Reveal, and the mystery of his murdered secretary.”

  Nan said, “Murder!”

  Everon sat down quickly at Lama’s laptop and checked his email.

  He scrolled through dozens of messages. Big solar panel orders from casinos . . . power line repair jobs . . . women wondering if he was okay . . .

  Finally! A message from Franklin! What?

  Everon’s eyebrows pulled together as he read . . . Mormon Plates? . . . Doesn’t know what his church finances mean? . . . His secretary and two more people dead? . . . Thinks he knows who . . . What?

  When the program resumed, Everon saw the tears and anger in his brother’s eyes. Listened stunned by what had been happening to Franklin over the last several days. His secretary murdered . . . almost killed him? . . . according to sources . . . sustained a neck wound . . . New York and Virginia Beach bombs?

  This is crazy!

  He pulled Hunt aside. “Let me borrow your satphone again.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He tried eight times but there was no answer. Not at Franklin’s cellphone. The church office line was busy.

  He couldn’t reach him.

  Frustrated, extreme concern welling up,
Everon went back to the control room and read the email again. Stared at the last few lines.

  Then turned and left on a run!

  In The Upstate New York Woods

  This better not be a waste of time, thought FBI Senior Agent Lance Bolini as he crawled through cold snowy forest floor on his belly. The evidence — banking records and recorded conversations — told him it wasn’t. Russ Bezier barely escaped. At least we brought a team of twelve this time.

  Bolini knew where the other agents were all supposed to be. He couldn’t see any of them among the trees.

  They were that good.

  To Lance’s right, a hand gloved in white went up in warning — not to proceed any closer in. Lance watched the agent extend a shotgun mic through the narrow gap between two fat black bark maples. Another agent appeared on Lance’s left, aiming one of the Bureau’s long-zoom-lens video cameras.

  Far across the ranch-style home’s snowy lawn, a group of men said their goodbyes. Climbed up into the driver’s seats of the eight blue garbage trucks. And one by one their engines started.

  A broad smile creased Erik Sorensen’s Nordic face as he stood in the metal barn’s wide doorway, legs apart, arms folded across his massive chest. Watching the drivers start up the big blue trucks.

  The tents were down. The garbage all cleaned up and loaded into the decoys.

  Words from the meeting came back to him. Despite the first-night’s posturing, and that scum-ball agent they’d disposed of, the points agreed on were many; disagreements few:

  “ . . . delivering each of the packages to these exact locations —”

  “How much in each?”

  “Who’s going to take which load?”

  “Is it enough to really do the job?”

  Laughter. “That won’t be a problem!”

  As debates waned, decisions were reached. Calculations made. Assignments assigned. So damned exciting! Almost too exciting! Erik sighed and grinned. They were just too enthused to argue.

  And then the coalition’s new president spoke to them. Matt Toller, the man who said it best: “This will be the perfect follow-up to the New York and Virginia bombs!”

  Applause!

  “It’s a damn fine plan!” he continued.

  Hoots of agreement! Cheers!

  “Perhaps the second bomb failed, but now we take action in the city with the financial center most closely resembling Wall Street. This is the place where getting rid of all those fucking mudblood kikes and dirty niggers will do the most good!”

  Cheers!

  “Our goals for New York City have already been achieved, we move on . . .”

  “Philadelphia!”

  And the voices of The People echoed Matt’s: “This will be even bigger than New York!”

  “Damn right!”

  “Then we start taking over!”

  Matt closed it out: “Those who have shown loyalty to our race — deliver them from darkness!”

  Overthrowing the damn U.S. government, Erik thought. It won’t be long now!

  Four big semitrailers of the new material had been opened. “Perhaps a little outdated,” one of the guys said.

  “But they’ll do the trick!” answered another.

  And then the contents were distributed according to the calculations.

  Things have gone so beautifully, Erik thought, standing there watching. Except for that one scummy little agent who tried to sneak in. And Billy Bob sure took care of him!

  A tiny frown creased Erik’s forehead. He hadn’t seen Billy around lately. Now where’d that boy go off to?

  The drivers of the eight blue garbage trucks had their engines warmed up. At Matt Toller’s signal, one after another, single file, they left the Sorensen property and headed south.

  While the last of the The People shook hands, said their goodbyes, Mary Beth stepped up next to Erik and snuggled into his right armpit. As his hand went automatically around her shoulder, there was one thought Erik couldn’t get rid of. That little mole-of-an-agent had led Erik to think of something important.

  Yeah, the CSA would never touch meat. But a whole bunch of these guys would sure never tolerate alcohol! As soon as those fanatics are out of here, Erik thought, I could really use a brewski!

  Ralph Attacks

  One. That’s all, he thought. Mrs. Lyle Spooner — Nevis’s body found in the rubble of West 74th. A single phone call. Out of how many, Lyles’s the only one with any sort of closure. Through the screen perforations Franklin could see the empty choir seat across the altar where Nevis usually sang.

  Hidden in the hallway, behind the invisible door to the altar’s left, Franklin stood dressed in his maroon robes. A few feet away, toward the altar’s center, tall shapes of brass organ pipes filled the room with melodic triplets: Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.

  JOY — Franklin spread the acronym: Jesus first. Yourself last. Others in between. Was Bach ever really happy?

  There was terrible pain in the face of Lyle Spooner, he and Nevis married two years. His forty-two-year-old wife showing their family-built sprinkler systems at the New York Lawn Convention while Lyle stayed home to run production. Lyle had asked to see Ralph — when Franklin and Victoria took Harry down to Pittsburgh.

  And now he wants me to handle Nevis’s funeral when he gets her back here? If he ever gets her body back here.

  There were a lot of hurt, miserable faces out there. People who needed him. Voices struggling to begin each verse. Tears hidden behind glasses. Dark bangs falling into eyes.

  Misery in the eyes of Sally Jeffers, who talked with Ralph yesterday afternoon. Probably a widow in her twenties — after her husband, Franklin’s good friend Alan, had flown to London for just one night to meet a client. Alan’s connecting flight had been returning through New York Monday night. Apparently hit by the EMP spike, his plane disappeared twenty minutes out.

  He could see them waiting, a mirror of his own confusion. One more hymn.

  But Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Tavitt look amazingly stable. Charlie Regal, the Stobert boys, the Ingersall girls, Ben Espy and his daughter — all my people seem to be doing pretty well.

  Sad maybe. But functioning.

  With one exception. In the very center of the room, Patty and Robin, Don Marshal’s daughters, alongside their mother Patricia. Twelve-year-old tear-filled eyes waiting for an answer.

  He looked across the other faces. All of them waiting too.

  Usually one could know their loved ones were gone, see them buried, put one’s own mind at rest. At least find their names on a list. Not one of them is ever going to realize that luxury — the truth buried somewhere in that frozen nuclear waste. HAZMAT workers already burning bodies to reduce disease.

  Shock and grief and anger and confusion.

  His eyes lost focus on the screen . . . New York rats running in the streets. Bodies covered with flies, or consumed by flame. Marjorie, the Adlans, their throats cut. Barb and Mattie at the airport searching for their husbands. The Mormon Plates. The Arab Tablet. Fraud in First Congregational’s own bank accounts?

  It’s too damn much!

  How could anyone make sense of a God who would let all this happen? It’s like Hell on Earth! In the Bible, Job lost his wife. His sons, daughters, farm, livestock, crops and his house. And Job never gave up on God. Is this what Job felt like?

  He heard the rustle of fabric behind him. Ralph Maples leaned in close to whisper, “I know what you did Thursday night!”

  Franklin turned and looked at him.

  “I heard you!” Ralph hissed. “Here — in the church! You and that WOMAN! And then a DRUG COUNSELING session with that fourteen-year-old KID? That hypnosis stuff, again! Charlie’s parents have lodged a complaint with the deacons!” Ralph squinted angrily. “Remember our discussion? The warning I gave you? They’re having a meeting! Tonight!”

  Franklin looked through the screen at Roger Stemple, Marjorie’s husband, crying in the second pew. Does Ralph really want me
to feel regret for my way of seeing people? To regard as evil the things I’ve done to help them? Is Ralph being honest? Franklin turned and took in the portly shape of Ralph’s maroon robes. The Senior Minister’s swollen cheeks above his closely cropped beard.

  Faith’s empty face stared back.

  For a long, long time Franklin had known what was really true, hadn’t he? Just before the bomb, hanging there on that rappelling rope in a dark Ohio night. Why else had he felt so depressed, so uncomfortable in his own skin?

  Yet now he felt more alone than ever — a part of his mind so alienated by everything around him. With as much empathy as he had for others, he’d never really applied it to himself. Like a parent who desperately loves his child but can’t understand why the child mistrusts him — “I give him everything. Food, a warm house and love, Santa Claus and God. Why does he go out and use drugs to his self-destruction? Why won’t he just respect my rules?”

  Only when he thought about Victoria did Franklin feel something else. A strange, honest acceptance of himself.

  Yet, as the organist moved into the final playful notes of Bach’s chorus, Franklin resisted. Part of him still wanted to conform — a part that didn’t have to reprogram anyone. Didn’t want to change his own life.

  He looked up, into Ralph’s face.

  Ralph whispered, “We’ll talk after service!”

  Their long robes rustled as they stepped through the hidden white door opposite the choir. The Communion ushers took their places in the aisles alongside the pews.

  Screw Ralph. Screw Job.

  Resistance Is Futile

  Ralph went directly to the lectern microphone.

  “Take, eat, this my body. Drink of it, for this is my blood,” he said above the music.

  He stepped back and took his seat next to Franklin as the ushers passed Communion plates across the pews.

  Franklin was glad to have a few minutes more. To push off what he had to do. They were wiping their eyes, trying to eat their wafers, to drink from the tiny cups.