Blood Web: Caitlin Diggs Series #1

by Gary Starta

  “Why yes, Jim. I concur wholeheartedly. How can anybody in his right mind believe premonitions are a viable news source?”

  But not all the media was up in arms about Cheng’s broadcast. Some broadcasters like satirist Jeremy Jacobsen lived for such television moments. Wearing a ridiculously huge pendant around his neck, Jacobsen swung the device back and forth like a hypnotist to the delight of his television studio audience.

  The crowd howled with laughter as Jacobsen pretended to put them in a trance.

  “You are getting very sleepy. You will be fully awake and under my power when I snap my fingers. You will watch every one of my broadcasts with bated breath and patronize each and every one of my sponsors. Yes, that’s right ladies and gentlemen—no more free will for you.”

  A poll conducted in New York City found only 37 percent of the respondents actually believed the crystal truly possessed powers. But whether they believed in the crystal or not, some chose to take advantage of the situation. On one crowded Manhattan Street, a peddler urged streetwalkers to buy his Arrowhead replicas. A NYPD beat cop was not amused. He strongly urged the vendor to cease and desist as a matter of good taste. Once the cop was out of sight, the peddler sold the rest of his pendant replicas at half price. After all, he didn’t buy a peddler’s license to promote good taste.

  Journalist Ross Fisher wondered why he was in the minority. Why didn’t people believe in Jake Campbell’s story? Was he the only reporter alive still capable of keeping an open mind? He had watched the Suzie Cheng interview repeatedly on tape, attempting to get a handle on the latest lead in the Arrowhead murders, but it only generated more questions. Just what the hell is military man up to? Why didn’t Eugene tell me about his father? How could a crystal possess the power to bring a nation to its knees?

  Fisher’s editor woke him up with a phone call, demanding he find the elder Campbell and put a fresh spin on the Cheng interview. Fisher dared not tell the angry editor about his meeting with the military man. He wanted to do what was right for America.

  Fisher had written about the worst of humanity during his tenure as a reporter. Even a small hope of reversing the negativity on this planet was still a hope. Maybe a small ray of light could somehow penetrate the hovering cloud of doom that now gripped the nation. So who was he to stop it, and for what purpose? Fisher knew prestige did not last in his profession. He was only as good as his last story. His earlier phone conversation with his editor had proved it.

  No, Fisher told his conscience, this time there is no government cover-up. The mystery man works covertly because his ideas are revolutionary and could take humanity to the next step of evolution.

  Fisher’s mind continued to ramble as he stared at his reflection in the coffee. Ross could not picture any previous administration promoting such a quest to better humanity, at least not in the last half century. The only thing most leaders fought for were fame, power, and money, in other words, to maintain the status quo. How could this line of thinking ever allow us reach the next plateau? Fisher had met a man who promised an enlightened world, and he wanted to play a part in securing this future, not tearing it down with unsubstantiated fears.

  The reporter surmised the crystal was only being used for evil purposes only because it was in the hands of an evil man. Once the crystal was secured, its intentions would be reversed. Maybe this was why the military man did not want the FBI to put their hands on it. Maybe Diggs would be negatively influenced by the crystal’s contact with the killer. Perhaps the crystal just needed to be cleansed. It made sense.

  Fisher began to search every web site possible for information on quartz crystals. Every single one of them cited the benefits of this mineral. So maybe this mysterious military man really is a patriot. If so, he must be allowed to secure this crystal and begin the healing process. Fisher was sure his line of reasoning was correct. It had to be. He could not stand to write another column filled with cynicism, hatred, and contempt. Was this all America stood for? It was high time to remember the values of the founding fathers.

  Fisher felt sorry for his editor. She would never experience a fleeting moment of hope. She would just continue to function as a cog in the machine, weaving a context of stories that would only serve to maintain the nation’s great wall of depression. Fisher could now see this invisible wall she wanted to construct. It was built brick by brick, story by story. All the horrific news reports, all the scandalous talk shows, and all the barbaric antics of reality TV were the mortar that held the bricks in place. For all intents and purposes, she was a mason, assembling a fortress of despair for her fellow Americans. Fisher’s friends believed the media could never hope to effect change without the support of those in power.

  Yes, Fisher thought. Maybe my friends were right all along. It was high time for a change. A bit of good news is long overdue. This mystery man deserves my support, to help tear down the walls.

  ***

  Back in Washington, the mystery military man was currently eliciting another kind of support. Alyssa, Col. Wolvington’s high-priced call girl, sat on the king-sized bed waiting for her client. The colonel had excused himself from his bedroom to have a private talk, but she could still hear bits and pieces of his conversation spilling through the wall. Alyssa could not have cared less what the man was saying. It was all nonsense to her ears because nothing really mattered anyway. As case in point, the pretty rose print comforter she had wrapped around her naked body did nothing to actually comfort her.

  Alyssa wore a sullen look most of the time, even in the supposed throes of passion. Maybe this was why Wolvington was so drawn to her. He had entered into a marriage with despair. Alyssa’s and Wolvington’s depressed and somber moods somehow managed to comfort each other, allowing each to look upon the other as family.

  What Alyssa did not know was that Wolvington had a plan of escape. He had no intention of wallowing in a concave of hell for the rest of his days, washing down antidepressants with whiskey. But for Alyssa, it was already over—game, set, and match. She had resigned herself to selling her body for food and shelter. On occasion, usually under the influence of drugs, the hooker sometimes perceived a different shade of gray in her gloomy world. She was blind to all other colors. She secretly wished she could see the beautiful pink and purple tones of a sunset, the vibrant red coloring of a cardinal, or the dazzling blue of a cloudless sky. Alyssa was not color blind but her soul was.

  The colonel had taken his call in the adjacent living room. There he did his best to put a bandage on a wound that had been opened by Jake Campbell. However, Colonel Tom was only half as worried about this new infection as Major Jonas Schumacher was.

  “How should I proceed in regards to our whistle blower?” Schumacher asked his commanding officer. Schumacher’s concern radiated a small dose of warmth in Wolvington’s cold, calculating body.

  The colonel felt Schumacher was the best man to secure the crystal because it was in his DNA. Schumacher’s deceased parents had initially worked on a project known as “Right Hand.” The shortcomings and eventual complete abandonment of the project stuck like a dagger in Schumacher’s chest. He would not wear a smile upon his face until he had rightfully honored his parents.

  They gave their lives for the project and died believing they were failures. Schumacher could not live with this knowledge. Each and every waking hour was filled with torment. He must resurrect the project—not just for his parents’ sake—but also for the fate of mankind. For these very reasons, Wolvington trusted Schumacher implicitly with not only the most sensitive data about the project—but with his very life. As far as Col. Tom Wolvington was concerned, the project and his life were one and the same.

  Wolvington acted as security chief for the project, allowing access to authorized personnel only. No civilian or any other nation ever became aware of “Right Hand” and lived to tell about it.

  Near the project’s end, Schumacher was appointed to the security division. Over the years since the project ende
d, Wolvington and Schumacher had many private discussions on the matter. Both confided they felt like nothing more than walking corpses. Each man only managed to face another waking day with the hope of remedying the situation.

  Just one small discovery would be all they needed to get “Right Hand” back on line again. Wolvington still had many friends in Washington and annually sent a Christmas card to every surviving member of the research team. Wolvington and Schumacher were like a couple of adolescents pining to put a band back together. This band would be inclined to play a marching tune that every one would be compelled to follow.

  The discovery of the crystal was more than Wolvington or Schumacher could have ever hoped for. Because they were so close to resuming their dream, Major Schumacher could not allow the ramblings of an old man to threaten their dream. No one must be allowed to march to a different drummer. Everyone will serve the greater good under the directives of Project Right Hand...and they will serve it with smiles on their faces...

  Wolvington’s call broke Schumacher’s train of thought—a train of thought that was sure to lead him down a bloody path. Schumacher was positive his commanding officer would order Jake Campbell’s execution.

  “I suggest you talk to this Campbell and set him right,” Wolvington advised. “And I suggest you do it diplomatically, not with a gun.”

  The major did not care for such a liberal tact. He was out for blood.

  “I understand sir. We will have a talk if the situation presents itself.”

  Wolvington read what was between Schumacher’s lines: I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.

  Wolvington felt inclined to reiterate his desire for a peaceful outcome. “He’s just an old fool. That’s all anybody will take him as. I want your tactical energies devoted to tracking down the crystal. Do I make myself perfectly clear, major?”

  Schumacher agreed, but the colonel could detect an inflection of reluctance in his voice.

  Wolvington ordered Schumacher to await further instruction. In the interim, the colonel contacted an old friend at NSA to access Campbell’s financial records. Wolvington was sure a simple credit card check would reveal what flight Campbell had taken from Oklahoma to DC as well as which rental agency he had used and what hotel he had slept in.

  The colonel’s assumptions were correct. He cited the Patriot Act to access Jake Campbell’s records. Within minutes, the NSA contact provided Tom with the pertinent data.

  Wolvington would share this analysis with Schumacher an hour later. This time, Wolvington would remain in his bedroom to make his call. Alyssa was unconscious from a drinking binge. The top half of her body was covered by blankets, while the naked lower half remain exposed. Her feet dangled precariously off the bed. Each time Wolvington attempted to position her back under the comforter, she rolled out again—half covered, half exposed. The colonel assessed she was only a threat to his sexual appetite at this point. His eyes feasted on her toned calves, naked milky white thighs, and shaved genitalia. The colonel despised his conditioned thinking. He couldn’t help but define Alyssa as a sum of her naked parts. After all, it was her profession. But somewhere, deep inside her, she must aspire to become something more.

  He reflected about his future relationship with Alyssa while seated in the room’s dimmed lighting. The colonel would soon have the power to take her down a different path, out of the gloom. He decided right then and there to put an end to her misery. She would be one of the chosen few to sit at the right hand of God in the new regime. The power he held over her gave him a head rush. He dialed the phone and spoke in a hushed tone, not to keep secrets, but to allow his sleeping princess to rest peacefully.

  Schumacher scribbled the name of Campbell’s hotel on the cover of a matchbook as the colonel talked. By the end of the conversation, Wolvington believed he had convinced Major Schumacher that terminating Jake Campbell might not be in their best interests.

  “After all, good ol’ Jake is a believer. Perhaps, he will serve as our first test case.”

  Wolvington thought he heard Jonas chuckle. Relieved, he hung up the receiver satisfied his logic had worked.

  Settling back into bed, the colonel spooned his body around the slumbering call girl.

  The next day, the colonel and the call girl awoke to their same old perceptions. Their sun was dim, food was bland, and sound was flat. All they could do was wait for the crystal. Until then, they would remain trapped in their very gray surroundings.

  Chapter 20

  En route to Houston, Diggs spent her flight time fishing for information. Almost every news story she read about Jake Campbell provided a link to yet another theory or prediction regarding the Arrowhead crystal.

  Diggs discovered entire web pages devoted to prophecies. Here, web authors tried their best to manipulate the crystal’s presence into a plausible explanation for either Armageddon or rapture. They claimed the crystal could unlock the doors to either heaven or hell; it was ultimately up to humanity to decide. Diggs believed the authors were playing both sides of the fence. By promoting two outcomes, they effectively eliminated any probability of being wrong.

  The agent listened to her inner voice, the one that sounded a lot like Geoffrey McAllister. It told her to focus on the problem at hand, not online chatter.

  Caitlin clicked off her computer. She focused on her profile. The prime suspect appeared to be a troubled teen, a runaway from the state of Texas. He was probably an abused child, suffering from depression or anxiety. So far, her profile was sound. But how was this man able to walk away from two fatal stab wounds? And was a crystal really responsible for his superior healing ability? The last two thoughts nearly negated her whole profile. How could she present these concerns to Dudek or Rivers in a rational manner?

  She hoped for the best possible outcome—to apprehend the suspect and eliminate the need for wild speculation. But her gut instinct told her the suspect would continue to elude apprehension. He would remain immune to capture as long as he held the crystal. If she were right, the Arrowhead Killer would not be afraid to kill again. He would not fear a law enforcement agency that could not build a profile without turning to folklore. Diggs knew she needed to find just who this killer was—and fast.

  She believed someone in the Astrodome must know who her suspect was. But the dome was a big place. The instant the plane’s wheels hit the runway, Caitlin was up and out of her seat, grabbing her bags from the overhead compartment. By the time she entered the terminal, she was engaged in an all out sprint for a taxi.

  The Astrodome had become home to a vicious game known as life. Diggs flashed her FBI badge in place of a ticket to gain entrance. An eerie wave of silence permeated her senses. She looked upon the thousands of homeless people sheltered here. They sat in seats like they were at a football game. But there were no deafening cheers or jeers. Not one vendor screamed to sell hot dogs, popcorn, or beer. No one sported a painted face or waved a silly banner. Stranded men, women, and children huddled together in rows, fighting hunger and thirst. In between their sufferings, they desperately tried to comprehend their lot. Sounds emanated faintly from their lips as if they were ghosts. Diggs did not have to hear their conversations. They talked from their heart. They talked of despair.

  The regional disaster demanded that these people focus on survival. Their attention had been diverted away from the rest of the world. These people did not know who the Arrowhead Killer was. Furthermore, the search for him might very well pale in comparison to their need for simple human comforts like food, water, and rest. Diggs was well aware of all these obstacles. People usually volunteered information in a murder case when it struck close to home. They talked when the victim was a friend of a friend or a nearby neighbor. They had to have a stake in the justice, a reason to become involved. Diggs could only hope the killer had an acquaintance here. Maybe someone saw his murderous rampage coming.

  Caitlin gained permission to speak over the stadium’s public address system. She explained interviews were
being conducted to apprehend a fugitive from justice. “We are looking for a teenage suspect with long blond hair of average weight and height. Please come forward with any information you might have regarding his origin or current whereabouts. Your cooperation will remain confidential.”

  Diggs traversed nearly half of the stadium to find hundreds of empty eyes staring right through her. These people were having a hard time bridging the gap between past and present. But Diggs vowed to canvas every single section and aisle before calling it a day.

  Diggs’ legs were not used to marching up countless rows of stairs. They pleaded with her to give up the search. But her mind would not comply. She ignored a shaky sensation in her right leg. It caused her to trip. Fortunately, she was able to break her fall with her hands. As she got up, her eyes locked with a burly, bearded man in a yellow shirt. Despite his gruff exterior and unfortunate circumstance, the man was still able to smile with his eyes.

  Diggs pounced upon the opportunity to interview him before he could ask if she was all right.

  “Excuse me, sir. I am a federal agent. I need to locate a teenage boy who may have lived in a wayward center. Can you help me?”

  “Lady, maybe you should consider the possibility that your boy died in the flood. Look around; we barely have enough food and water. And we sure can’t get any sleep in these damn hard chairs.”

  “I’ve considered that. However, the boy I am looking for is very much alive. He is wanted in connection with two very serious crimes. If I can find where he came from, I may be able to ascertain his name.”

  “I sure wish we could help you.” Shaking his head, the man embraced his wife.

  Undaunted, Diggs began to climb the next tier of stairs. A teen dressed in a red hooded sweatshirt stopped her.

  “I may know who you’re looking for. I lived at the Corpus Christi Center for Wayward Teens with a kid named Shenk before the hurricane.”