The Harvest

by John David Krygelski

  Chapter Six

  Bennett did not have to sit long in the waiting area outside the boss’s office. Within two minutes of his arrival, the aide ushered him in. The Secretary of State, Clayton Dean, was seated behind his desk, not embellishing his importance by shuffling through papers as Bennett was seated; instead, he was sitting on the front edge of his seat, hands clasped and resting on the desk, clearly anxious.

  “Bennett, how is the interview going?”

  Bennett took a moment before answering, trying to organize his thoughts. “I’m not sure how to answer that, Clay. Reese Johnson has only spoken with our stranger once. By the way, we have a name for him.”

  “We got a ‘hit’ on CODIS?” he asked, referring to the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System.

  “No. Not yet. I meant, he gave us a name. He gave it to Johnson. According to the professor, it has quite a bit of significance. I’ve put it all in a report to you.”

  “Very well. So, it appears our professor is buying this guy?”

  “He says it’s a little early for a decision, but he surely seems to be.”

  “After only one chat?”

  “Yes. Quite a chat from what I understand.”

  “Damn shame I can’t see a video of this stuff.”

  “I know. The techs are still working on it, but I think they’re stumped. We’re even watching an image that’s fed through the recorder; but when we try to play it back, it’s blank, as though it has been erased. Same thing with audio recordings. We’ve got a court stenographer taking it all down now, but it’s not the same.”

  “No, it isn’t. What about McWilliams? Any additional word from the doctors on that?”

  “Nothing new. They’re using the word miracle. No one has ever seen anything like it.”

  “I have something to tell you. We received a call from the Bureau after you left this afternoon. It seems that the professor and his wife huddled up alone for a while, then asked Special Agent Reynolds to get a technician to perform a paternity test for him and his children.”

  “Paternity test? You want me to check this out?”

  Dean stared at the ceiling for a minute, then answered, “No. Not at this point. Let’s let the guy and his wife have some privacy.”

  Bennett looked at his boss quizzically. Some of Dean’s predecessors would not have taken the high road, no matter how sensitive the issue. He asked, “Clay, where do you see this going?”

  “It’s hard to say, Preston. All I know is that our friend at the FBI, Bill Burke, called the Chief after his little meeting with this guy, and I’m not sure what was said, but it was enough. We’ve been asked to get involved, using whatever resources we need, and figure out if he is for real.”

  “And if he is?”

  “I haven’t been briefed on that. I did have a quick chat with Bill this morning. Apparently, no matter what we decide, we need to have our ducks in a row because we’ll be going public.”

  “Public, why?”

  “I believe our guest is planning on doing that himself. He’s just giving us a courtesy look beforehand. The President wants us to have a position on him before that happens.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Bill said that isn’t a problem. Our guest has no firm timetable in mind.”

  “Clay, how did State end up with this?”

  At that, Clayton laughed. “I think the Chief looked around and noticed that we didn’t have a Department of Faith.”

  “With him as President, I’m surprised we don’t.”

  Now they both laughed at their leader’s expense. The Secretary continued, “You’re right, you know. He is the most religious President we’ve had since Lincoln.”

  “At least, the most visible about it.”

  “And God knows he’s taken enough flack about it.”

  “From what I’ve seen the last couple of days,” Bennett said wryly, “I’m sure He does know.”

  It took Clayton a moment to catch on. “Preston, is our guest getting to you, too?”

  Bennett looked away from his friend for a moment, hoping to gaze out the window. Unfortunately, the drapes were pulled closed – one of the realities of Homeland Security.

  “I guess he is. I haven’t met with him yet and I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Why?”

  “Clay, supposedly this guy knows every word you’ve ever said, every thing you’ve ever done, even every thought you’ve ever had.”

  Teasing, Dean said, “Something to hide?”

  “We all have something to hide. I’m not talking about an affair or some past crime. I’ve kept my nose clean my whole life. It’s the little stuff…the times that I wasn’t as honest or fair or noble, I guess, as I should have been. We go through our lives building this construct of who we are, almost as if we’re playing a role. We only present that person to the world, to our friends, our wife, our kids. Sitting down face to face with someone who knows it all scares me to death.”

  “You’re a Lutheran, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Haven’t you been taught that type of judgment is coming?”

  “Yes, I have. But that’s someday. And then I would be dead without much choice in the matter. I don’t know, Clay, I guess it was always a little abstract. I haven’t really lived every minute of my life as if judgment was a certainty.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Dean clasped his hands behind his head. “Preston, I picked you for this because you’re a friend, and I trust you. I also picked you because you have a faith. I think one of the reasons that the President chose State for this process is that I don’t. He’s always bending over backward, trying to address his critics before they’ve even spoken.”

  “I know. That’s what I like about him.”

  “Same here. But, as I said, I don’t have a faith, or if I do, it’s pretty vague. I’m not quite comfortable calling myself an atheist because I’ve always suspected there is something. But that something could just be an energy, kind of a field to which we all contribute. And when I say all, I don’t just mean men and women; I mean dogs and lions and birds and plants and bacteria, all life. Sometimes I visualize it as a larger being, as though all of us are just components, and each of our brains is like one brain cell in our own skull. We’d have no more of an idea what that brain is thinking than one of my brain cells could know what I am thinking right now.”

  “You’re not the first to come up with that. There are a lot of New Age proponents who believe that. The problem I have with that theory is – what’s the point? What’s the point of our lives?”

  “Each of our individual lives has no more point than each of our brain cells. The brain itself, the being – whoever that is – continues. We are born and live and contribute to the task until we die, just like an individual cell. We may be gone, but the ‘mind’ continues, and somewhere, incorporated into that mind’s consciousness, are our minute contributions. Our contributions live on.”

  “Clay, doesn’t that theory just kick all of the questions up one level? I mean, if what you say is true, then what is the purpose of the ‘mind’? Are there other ‘minds’? Where did they come from? What is their purpose? Do they die, and, if so, do they have an afterlife?”

  “Whoa, Preston. All I said was that sometimes I visualize things that way. I never said I have taken the time to put together a whole theory. I don’t know the answers to any of those questions, and I’m not sure that they can be known.”

  “Or should be?”

  “No, maybe they shouldn’t. Getting back to you…you have nothing to fear from meeting with him. All of those impure thoughts, all of the minor lapses in judgment, the momentary lapses of nobility are all a part of being human. I don’t believe, if there is a God, that His expectations would be that great. I believe that He would judge us, not on our failures, but on our actions after the failures, our ability to correct our flaws and rise above them.”

  “You sound like my minister.”

 
“Let’s put it this way…if He isn’t that kind of God, I’m not interested in His Heaven.”

  “Careful, Clay, this may not be an abstract discussion anymore.”

  Smiling, Dean answered, “I’d say the same thing if He were sitting in this room.”

  For a moment, Bennett was tempted to turn around and look. After recent events, it wouldn’t surprise him to see the old man suddenly materialize in the corner.

  Noticing, Clayton said, “He’s got you spooked, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Bennett said without hesitation. “He has made a man walk who had a severed spinal cord, produced a manuscript that was destroyed years ago, fluently spoken with every linguist that Fort Detrick could throw at him. Good grief, Clay, in a closed interrogation room with Johnson – observed from the control room by McWilliams, Professor Johnson’s wife, and me, plus all of the techs – he made a table appear and then disappear. Yes, I’m spooked.”

  “Not to mention the killers and rapists that Justice has picked up.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, what’s the plan from here on out?”

  “Johnson is bright. He’s a good man for this job. By the way, whose idea was he?”

  “Came from the White House. They wanted someone who was an expert, not a church figure, and not someone with an agenda.”

  “I don’t think that you can say Johnson doesn’t have an agenda. Have you read any of his books? He’s basically pro-religion.”

  “I haven’t read any of them until now. I’ve just started Morality and Religion. He makes a strong case. That’s not what I meant. The Chief wanted someone who wouldn’t set out to do a hatchet job, had some credibility, and was fairly well known.”

  “Professor Johnson fits all of that to a tee. I don’t think he actually has a plan at present. As I said, he’s back in with him and, I guess, just, sort of, playing it by ear.”

  “All right.” Clayton tilted forward in his chair, sliding back up to the desk. “You’ll keep me posted?”

  “Of course.”

  א

  Lynn Sheffield was punching his remote, switching from one newscast to another, becoming angrier by the minute. The local affiliate station that Kate Ryan worked for had started out favorably on the five o’clock newscast, recapping Johnson’s termination at Harvard, showing the chanting protesters, and ending with Lynn’s own comments. Satisfied with her coverage, he then turned to the local Fox station and, to his horror, saw that they were showing the discussion between Mills and Ryan! Apparently using a directional microphone and a long lens, they had the entire exchange, culminating in her comment exposing her own feelings about Johnson, as well as Mills’ chastisement of her. They went on to show his performance on the porch, with a close-up of the beer-swilling idiot that Lynn had recruited from the bar, high-fiving his friends and grinning at the camera.

  By the six o’clock news, Ryan’s coverage had been completely re-edited, showing the protesters briefly, the entire “game show” put on by Dexter Mills, and then ending with the crowd dispersing as Lynn and Shelby and the other organizers desperately tried to reignite the demonstration. The other stations covered it much the same way, and Sheffield was about to turn off the TV, when his phone rang. Thinking it was Shelby, he snatched it up. “Hello.”

  A male voice asked, “Is this Lynn Sheffield?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “Mr. Sheffield, this is Dave Bacon from KXXI Radio. I’m the host of a local talk show in town, and you are on the air. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “YES, I DO!” Lynn shouted, hanging up. Bacon was another one of those conservative talk show guys, spewing hate all over the airwaves.

  Deciding he had better tune in to the show, just to find out exactly what those people were up to, he ran to his radio, turned it on, and switched to AM. It only took a moment to find the station: “...a few questions?...YES, I DO!” Sheffield realized the station was on a time delay and he was hearing his own answer. Bacon went on, “Well, there you go. We tried. Another wacko liberal totally afraid to engage in a dialogue. Do these people ever talk to anyone who doesn’t agree with them? Well, I think the coverage was clear enough on TV. The only real protesters were out-of-town pros. We had one of our interns on campus today, and he told us that they were hitting the bars on Fourth, paying ONE HUNDRED BUCKS to anyone who would join the demonstration. A hundred dollars. Unbelievable. That just shows you there really isn’t an honest, deep-rooted liberal group out there. It’s a small bunch of fanatics, well financed by billionaire William Stavros and….” Sheffield punched the power button so hard that he knocked the radio off the shelf.

  Unsure what to do with himself, Lynn paced his living room until the phone rang again. Snatching it up, he shouted, “Listen, you moron. I don’t want to….”

  “LYNN! Lynn, it’s Shelby.”

  “Oh, Christ, Shelby, I’m sorry. I thought it was that talk-show fool again.”

  “It’s all right. Listen, I wanted to call you and thank you for your help.”

  “What help? It looks like I screwed it up. The fact that I paid those people is splashed all over the news.”

  “I know. It’s okay, really. Anyway, we’re out of here.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. This didn’t get off to a good start. We can still fix it, though.” He sounded almost desperate.

  “No, we gotta go. It’s not about this thing. We’ve been called to Washington, D.C. Something is going on there.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t know yet. We got a tip that it might be kinda big, so we decided to set up there. Some others are meeting us, pretty much the whole group.”

  “Can I come?” Sheffield sounded like a little brother asking his big sister if he could go with her to the movies.

  Shelby hesitated. “Let me check. I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. When are you leaving?”

  “Right now. I’m on my cell; we’re heading for the airport.”

  Lynn realized that they did not even ask him for a ride. He must have really screwed up with them. “All right. Well, you’ll let me know?”

  “Sure will, Lynn. And thanks for all of your help here.”

  Before he could answer, she had pressed the end button.

  Sheffield stood staring at the phone in his hand. It all started to well up inside: the interrupted confrontation in the parking lot with Johnson, the aborted demonstration, the horrible media coverage, and now this. He wanted to be a part of this group, this movement, so badly, and they were scooting out of town without even giving him a chance. Screaming, Sheffield turned and threw the cordless against the TV, exploding the screen. Tiny shards of glass pelted him, giving him minor cuts on his face and arms, but he did not care.

  ‘Something big in Washington, D.C.,’ he thought. ‘I’ll go there. It won’t be hard to figure out. They will pop up in a big way, high-profile, lots of media.’ When they did, he would be there, ready to join in and help. He could prove himself to them yet. No matter what it took.

  Chapter Seven

  Elohim noticed that Reese was fidgeting, toying with a paper clip, bending and reshaping it, without saying anything. “Reese, the air hangs heavy with the question you want to ask. Why do you not?”

  Reese continued to stare at the paper clip, preparing his response. “I suppose I am afraid.”

  “Fear is your enemy. There are some among you who believe that the ultimate dichotomy is not love and hate, but rather love and fear. There may be some truth to that.”

  “Doesn’t fear protect you at times?”

  “Does it? The rabbit fears the coyote, and yet, it is not his fear which helps him escape. It is his fear which causes him to become immobile, an easy prey.”

  “Does not fear of punishment cause us to be better people? You said yourself that judgment is critical; so, should we not live our lives in fear of that judgment?”

 
“My son, does fear of imprisonment prevent you from killing a fellow human being?”

  “No.”

  “Does your fear of my judgment prevent it?”

  “No.”

  “Then, why do you not kill?”

  “Because it is wrong. Because it is immoral to do. Because killing another person is not who I am.”

  “And you would not kill if there existed no prohibition against it?”

  “No, I would not.”