The Harvest

by John David Krygelski

  Stacy Walker was standing on the front steps of the Hoover Building. “Thank you, Lou. As you know, I’ve been covering the FBI for several years now. While covering the Starlight serial murders, I became well acquainted with Craig McWilliams, the head of the profiling unit at the agency. During that case, McWilliams held several press briefings. I’d like to show you a video from one of those briefings.” A video of McWilliams, navigating his wheelchair into position behind a bank of microphones, appeared on the screen. Stacy Walker’s voice continued over the video. “As you can see, Agent McWilliams is in a wheelchair. Twenty years ago he was shot during a drug raid, and his spinal cord was completely severed just above the waist.” The video stopped, and the shot of Walker returned to the screen. “As a result of the Christopher Reeve accident, most of us have learned that there is still no treatment for a severed spine. Some doctors believe that stem cell research may eventually provide one, but there is nothing that can be done today, especially for a spinal injury that is twenty years old. Here is another video, shot today, right on these steps.” The same area where she now stood flashed on the screen, showing McWilliams, Reynolds, and Lynn Sheffield talking hours ago. McWilliams’ face was clearly visible before he turned and walked up the steps with Reynolds. Walker, for full effect, allowed the clip to run with no sound and no voice-over, waiting until McWilliams entered the building doors and could no longer be seen.

  “Our videographer recognized Agent McWilliams, as he stopped to speak with someone on the steps earlier today, and shot this footage. When I saw it, I called Craig McWilliams for an explanation. I did reach him, but all he would say was ‘No comment.’ I have also attempted to get more information on this from several members of the FBI. They have all refused to comment or appear on television. We have also been unsuccessful in obtaining an interview with Dorothy McWilliams, his wife. Lou, that is all I know about this right now.”

  The TV was again filled with the face of the anchorman. After a moment’s pause, he said, “That is, well, astounding, I guess would be the word.” Remembering the Rabbi sitting to his left, the anchor asked, “Rabbi Schmidt…a miracle?”

  “Lou, I wouldn’t for a moment question the facts that your reporter has just shown us, but before I comment, I think that perhaps I should…hold off. There is much here…to be explored.” The Rabbi looked as if he could not wait to get off the set.

  “That’s quite understandable, Rabbi.” Turning to face the camera, the anchorman said, “We’re going to take a brief break. We’ll be right back.”

  א

  Stavros punched the channel back into the quiet mode and swiveled around to his keyboard. Selecting the distribution list “A” from his e-mail program, he began to type.

  Minutes later, Shelby Gentry’s laptop, wirelessly connected to the hotel Internet, emitted an audible alert tone. Still in the shower, she did not hear the message arrive.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Reverend Ralph Potter was just sitting down to dinner with his wife, Bea, when there was a knock at the door. “Who could that be?” he said. The knocking came from the kitchen door, and he went to let in the visitor. Opening the door, he found Simon Treadle, one of his parishioners, standing at the bottom of the steps. “Simon, good evening. What brings you here tonight?”

  “Uh, Reverend. We just wanted to talk, you know, with all that stuff on TV. Just wanted to talk.”

  “We? Who else is with you?”

  “Well, Reverend, you should come see.”

  The living quarters for the minister were built onto the back of the small church. Reverend Potter went down the steps and followed Simon around the corner. Bea was close behind. Standing on the grass in front of the church, in the dark, were about thirty people. The minister could see more coming down the road toward the church. Turning to Bea, he said, “Honey, you’d better put dinner up for a while and get my coat. I need to open the church.”

  א

  Marvin Gross leaned back in his cubicle and whistled, not believing his eyes. Marvin worked for the hottest search engine company in the world. Millions of PCS, laptops, and cell phones used their services every hour. Marvin was one of an army of technicians who kept it all running, solving routing problems, fixing denial of service attacks, and the like. “Hey, Pete! C’mere. You gotta see this,” he called to the tech in the next cube. As Pete came around the corner, Marvin put one tennis shoe on the edge of his desk and sent himself rolling backward so his buddy could see the screen.

  “Holy shit!”

  “Yeah. Literally.”

  They were watching a tracking module that, when called up, gave them a running total of requests for a specific search. The search request at the top of the screen was “elohim,” and the total was mounting so quickly that the last six digits were a flicker.

  “It’s gonna break the record,” said Pete.

  “Think so?”

  “Hell, yeah!”

  “Bet you a Starbucks.”

  “You’re on.”

  א

  Brad Dillon sat at his desk, exhausted. He usually got up early enough to work the Euro market, handle the New York Exchange and NASDAQ during the middle of his day, and stick around late enough to at least place a few trades on the Japanese board. It made for a long day, but he figured he was young and making a killing, so why not? There would be plenty of time to rest on some beach when he hit thirty-five.

  Right now, all five of his lines were blinking, and he ignored them all. Everyone wanted to sell. Everyone wanted to get liquid, today, now. Clients were closing out their margin accounts to free up their cash. Nothing he said to any of them did any good. Almost none of them would say why; they were ashamed to say why. But he knew. It was this Judgment Day thing. What good would stocks do you if the world was ending?

  Dillon opened his desk drawer and pulled out a pack of Winstons that had been there for the two years since he quit. ‘They should be pretty ripe by now,’ he thought, lighting one up. He took a deep drag, trying hard not to cough, closed his eyes, and let it out slowly. ‘Damn, it still helps!’ With a few keystrokes, he checked his own account, jotting down his balance on a lined notepad. Taking one more hit of nicotine, he reached over and punched one of the blinking lines, hanging up immediately. With the line cleared, he punched it again, dialing. By the end of the call he had cleaned out his cash reserve and acquired as much gold as it would buy.

  Feeling that he had finally done something productive today, he selected another line and said, “Dillon.”

  א

  Angie Hoffman glanced over at the triage area. It was empty. The fifty-plus seats in the waiting room, which were normally all filled, were occupied by a total of three people, two parents with a small child who was running a fever. “Lucinda, why don’t you and Thomas take off?”

  Lucinda was one of the RNs assigned to the Emergency Room, and was sitting at the admissions desk, reading an old issue of People. Slapping the magazine down on the counter, she said, “You don’t have to tell me twice. Man, this is quiet.”

  “It’s weird,” Angie agreed. “What do you think is going on?”

  Thomas, an LPN sitting in one of the patient chairs across from Lucinda, said, “Everybody’s staying home. It’s like they’re all waiting for a meteor or something.”

  Lucinda asked, “Do you believe this guy?”

  “Man, I don’t know. If he’s not God, after what he did with that Fed in the wheelchair, he’ll put us out of business.”

  “I’m not joking, Thomas.”

  “I know. It’s just…I mean, archbishops don’t just freak out, you know?”

  Lucinda stood up. “Well, whatever it is…I get an evening off, and I’m going for it. Angie, if it does get crazy, call me on my cell. I’ll be sober.”

  “All right. Have a good night, guys.”

  א

  Danny Cho gently swung the patrol car around another corner. “This is strange, Tommy.”

  His partner, Tom Harney, agreed,
“No kidding. I’ve never seen it this quiet.”

  Their assigned district was in one of the tougher areas of Cleveland, normally bustling with hookers, dealers, and their ilk. Tonight, it was not exactly deserted; there were plenty of people on the streets, but it was different.

  “Look,” said Harney, “there’s Mendy. Check it out, man.”

  “I didn’t know she owned a regular outfit!”

  Mendy, a seventeen-year-old prostitute whom they had busted more than once and who was usually attired in a leather micro-mini skirt and halter top, was walking briskly, eyes straight ahead, wearing a flowered-print dress that extended down to mid-calf. Even the neckline was high. Danny pulled over to the curb and slowed down to pace her.

  “Mendy,” called Harney.

  She stopped, noticing them for the first time. Even that was bizarre, thought Danny, as she normally scrutinized the traffic constantly for johns and cops.

  “Hi, guys!” she responded, sounding genuinely glad to see them.

  Danny braked the car so they could talk to her.

  “New look for you. What’s the deal? You have a customer who’s into librarians?”

  Laughing, she said, “Nooooo! I’m going over to Saint Mark’s,” referring to the church five blocks away.

  “You? Church? Right. Besides, it’s not Sunday.”

  Still smiling, she answered, “They opened up tonight. A bunch of people from the neighborhood are going there. You guys oughta come.”

  “Love to, but we’re working.”

  Twisting her head around to survey the block, she said, “Like that’s needed!”

  Danny leaned over to comment, “You’re right, Mendy, it is quiet. Want a ride?”

  Laughing again, she joked, “It’s not like I’ve never been in there before.”

  “It’s true. Come on. We’ll drive you there.”

  “Sure.”

  Harney jumped out and let her in the back seat. He noticed as she climbed in that there was no suggestive flash of leg, as would normally be the case. She sat first, then gathering her dress around her knees, swung both legs in. ‘Just like my wife,’ Tom thought. For some reason, this tiny act buoyed his heart.

  א

  Scott Branson was working overtime, on his twelfth hour so far. ‘What the heck,’ he thought, ‘it’s time-and-a-half.’ Branson, an electrician, was working late to finish a new supermarket that was supposed to open by the weekend. The city inspector was scheduled for tomorrow, and Branson still had three panels to put together.

  Sliding the feeder into the socket, he tightened the lug. Maybe it was because he was tired or his mind was elsewhere, but he kept torquing the lug until he felt it suddenly slip. “Shit! I stripped it,” he admitted to no one. He knew that the only way to correct the problem was to pull out everything he had done and replace the buss. “Screw it,” he decided aloud, thinking to himself that he would just leave it in. It would be a few months or even a couple of years before it became a problem. He would be long gone. What did he care?

  As he grabbed the next feeder and started to slide it into position, he thought about the stripped lug gradually loosening until it would arc, possibly starting a fire. The building would be occupied by then – employees, the public. Lots of people.

  “I don’t know what has gotten into you, buddy boy. Next thing, you’ll be helping old ladies across the street,” he said to himself, starting to undo all of the connections. Punching the speed dial on his cell phone, he called his boss at home to tell him he was going to need another buss first thing in the morning when the parts house opened.

  א

  Jeanne Langly used her key to get into the Crisis Hot Line office. She was a volunteer for the evening shift on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She saw that all of the others were already at their desks, but no one was yet on the phone. “Lettie, how goes it tonight?” she asked her desk mate of the last two years.

  “Quiet, so far. How are you, girlfriend?”

  “Good. What do you think of this Elohim thing?”

  “It’s Him, sister. I know it!”

  Lettie was always animated. It was part of what made her so good on the phone with the suicides who called. She would get people on the phone who were at rock bottom, and within half an hour, they would be laughing. Jeanne asked, “How do you know it?”

  “Did you see that bishop’s face? That was all I needed to see.”

  Jeanne started to respond, when her phone rang. She snatched it up on the first ring, saying, “Crisis Hot Line, this is Jeanne. Can I help you?”

  The voice was male and faint. Jeanne pressed the phone hard against her ear, plugging her other ear with her finger so she could hear. “I need to talk.” She glanced at the caller ID box next to her phone, to make sure that she could get a good address just in case.

  “That’s what I’m here for. What’s your name?”

  “Carl.”

  “Hi, Carl. What do you want to talk about?”

  “God’s here.”

  “I heard about that. Do you think it really is God?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Staining to hear his soft voice, Jeanne cranked the volume up on her phone to the max setting.

  “Why do you think so, Carl?”

  “I jus’ do.”

  She noticed that he was slurring his words. “Carl, Have you been drinking tonight?”

  “Yeah. Uhmm…yeah, I have.”

  “Anything else? Have you taken anything else?”

  “Uh, yeah, I have.”

  “What have you taken, Carl?”

  “Se…Se…Seconal.”

  “How many, Carl?”

  “A bunch. Uh…whatever was in the bottle.”

  Jeanne punched the “alert” button next to her phone. Lettie looked over immediately. Jeanne typed “Seconal and booze” on her computer and tapped the caller ID box. Lettie got on the phone with the police and paramedics right away.

  “Carl, why did you take the pills?”

  “I don’t want to meet Him.”

  “Meet him…you mean God?”

  “Yeah.” His voice was getting even more faint. “I’ve been real screwed up…my whole life. I don’t want Him to see me.”

  “Carl, you’re going to see Him if you die. I don’t understand. What good does taking the pills do?”

  “Oh, ’cause…’cause He’s here now.”

  Realization dawned on her. “You mean, Carl, that if you go now while He’s here….”

  “I can slip by…you know.”

  “Carl, it’s not going to work like that. I mean, He’s God. He can be here and do His job there at the same time.”

  “Shit, really?”

  “I think so, Carl. I really do.”

  Jeanne kept this up with Carl until she heard the door break open. One of the police officers took the phone and said, “Is this the Crisis Center?”

  “Yes. This is Jeanne Langly.”

  “The paramedics are going to pump him. He’s still conscious. Probably be okay.”

  “You’ll let me know.”

  “Sure will, and thanks.”

  “Thank you for getting there so quickly.”

  They disconnected, and Jeanne turned to Lettie. “He wanted to go now, while God was down here.”

  Lettie shook her head and sighed.

  א

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Dan Barton!”

  The theme music blared from the orchestra as America’s most popular late night talk show host came out from behind the curtains. “Good evening, thank you,” he repeated until the applause died down.

  “Great to be here tonight. What an amazing day it has been.

  “I walked into my office here this afternoon, and one of my interns told me that it was Judgment Day. I didn’t even realize this was ‘sweeps week.’

  “Actually, I watched the tape of the Archbishop’s announcement. It looked pretty sincere. I was starting to get worried until I saw that we had Paris Hilton and Madonna
booked on the show tonight. I mean, if they’re still around, what do I have to worry about?

  “Everybody’s wondering why this guy is at the FBI. I’ve got it figured out. No, I really do. They’re vetting him for a Cabinet post. The President wants him to run the Defense Department. FBI has to check him out. I mean, we don’t want anything embarrassing during the confirmation hearings. Can you see it? ‘The chair recognizes the distinguished Senator from the great state of Nevada.’ ‘Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Elohim, are you now or have you even been responsible for the destruction of entire cities because they pissed you off?’”