Blood Web: Caitlin Diggs Series #1

by Gary Starta

  A demure and petite waitress rushed to the table, apologizing profusely. Palumbo mumbled something that sounded like “you should be” and proceeded to order approximately half the breakfast menu’s contents.

  Wolvington cringed. He wondered what damage the senator could inflict at an all you could eat buffet.

  Minutes later, Wolvington was relieved to find Palumbo had become a bit more pacified as he munched upon a bacon croissant.

  “You know you shouldn’t use that cane as a baton, my friend,” Wolvington whispered. “It might draw unwanted ears to our conversation.”

  “Understood.” Palumbo continued to chew furiously on his sandwich, reminding Wolvington of a chipmunk chomping on a nut.

  When Palumbo finally came up for air, he asked just how Wolvington knew there even was a “seratonic” problem. Wolvington quickly corrected him. “It’s not seratonic—it’s seratonin. And I found it out by using a little black box.”

  Wolvington went on to explain how the communication device he had given Ross Fisher had read the reporter’s thoughts. The device known as an electromagnetic mind reading machine was thought to be only a myth. Only the most paranoid, conspiracy-minded Americans believed the government had such a device at their fingertips. However, the military has been able to change a person’s thought patterns and even deliver spoken messages to the brain since the 1950s.

  The CIA and NSA also employed the box for espionage. However, the limited capacity of the device ultimately made it unfeasible to control the thoughts of more than one individual at a time. DARPA eventually diverted its attention away from the mind reading machine and toward the deployment of GWEN towers. Long exposure to the device, like radiation emitted from the GWEN towers, could also result in brain damage and cancers. Wolvington explained that the machine he affectionately referred as to his “little black box” would be just as impractical to use as the GWEN towers.

  “Without the aid of the crystal, my black box would eventually kill all potential informants with radiation. So you see its limitations, Senator. But I must say it’s certainly been effective in rearranging Mr. Fisher’s priorities and in eavesdropping on his most private thoughts. I suspect he learned of Schenker’s seratonin deficiency by overhearing a conversation between the FBI agents. I was pleasantly surprised to learn this during my flight back to Washington. When I left Texas, I thought I might have to physically extract the information from our FBI lab rat. I shocked the hell out of him with my knowledge last night. You should have seen the look on his face.”

  Palumbo looked up from his plate. “And just what do we have in Texas?”

  Wolvington moved his head closer to the senator. “A test subject.”

  “I see.” Palumbo smiled, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Well then, you’ve managed to erase any doubts I may have had about the project’s success. Don’t worry, Tom. I’ll finagle the funding somehow. Maybe the seniors will lose a little bit of Medicare money next year.”

  “Just remember we need to distribute the funds in several different areas of DARPA, so as not to attract unwanted attention.”

  Palumbo nodded. He knew what Wolvington meant. He had heard terrorists were keeping a watchful eye on the DARPA budget. Wolvington didn’t want to spook them. They might be encouraged to stage another attack out of desperation if they believed the Department of Defense budget was becoming too exorbitant. Hainsworth had originally informed the colonel of this insight. Sometimes Wolvington wondered in the dead of night, just how the FBI director knew so much. How could he have made this observation without an intelligence source deep inside enemy lines? Was Hainsworth working with a cell group himself?

  Ultimately, Tom Wolvington didn’t care what the FBI director was up to behind his back. He would even accept war if it meant achieving godhood. And even if he became a seratonin-sucking mutant himself, Wolvington vowed he would make Project Right Hand a reality. He had waited too long for his bus to the Promised Land.

  ***

  Something caught Shenk’s attention on his drive to the Nashville bus depot. He had caught a brief glimpse of a woman’s clothing shop about three blocks away from the station. Time was of the essence, but so was stealth. Outside the confines of the Neon, Lukas realized he would no longer be able to rely on optical illusions to conceal his identity. He circled the Dodge back toward the bazaar, which specialized in female attire including jewelry and wigs.

  Inside the store, Shenk managed to manufacture a story about his girlfriend’s surprise party.

  “I need to purchase a complete outfit for Gayle’s birthday without tipping her off.”

  The saleswoman smiled in reaction to Shenk’s intentions. Fortunately for Lukas, she was completely oblivious to his resemblance to the Arrowhead Killer.

  “I’ll need a dress, shoes...um, perhaps some bracelets. And oh yes, Gayle has always wanted to try a new hairstyle. I thought it might be nice to surprise her with a wig.”

  “My Lord. What a lovely pendant you have, dear. Did your girlfriend give that to you?”

  Shenk felt a surge of anger rise from the pit of his stomach. How dare she trivialize the crystal? He wanted to wrap his hands around her neck until her eyes bulged out. But the urgency of buying the clothes outweighed his need for brutality.

  “May I ask you to hurry, ma’am? The party starts in a few hours.”

  The saleswoman proceeded to inquire about Gayle’s dress size. Flabbergasted, Shenk blurted out that he had forgotten to write down her size, but mentioned that she was built in similar proportion to himself.

  The response shocked the woman into silence and brevity. She retrieved a knee-length, orange, green, and blue print dress from the store’s window display. The print consisted of leaves and flowers. She matched it with red sandals, a few bangles, and a blond wig with shoulder-length locks.

  “There, that should put a smile on your girlfriend’s face.”

  Shenk dug money out of his jeans. He stuffed a bunch of crumpled bills on the checkout counter. “I’m sure this will cover the outfit, ma’am. Please keep any change for yourself.” He then made a mad dash for the car, entering through the passenger rear door.

  Inside the car, he stripped off all of his outer garments, replacing them with the new dress and accessories. He adjusted the wig in the rear view mirror, but realized with horror that he had nearly grown a full beard in the last few days. Fumbling through his duffel bag, Shenk thanked the stars for the electric razor Gayle had packed for him. The shave would have to complete his metamorphosis. He had no more time to waste.

  Leaving the Neon parked at the bus depot’s parking lot, Shenk negotiated a path to the ticket window. It only took a few paces for Lukas’ feet to protest his new footwear.

  Now came the question. Where would Shenk go from here? He really didn’t have a clue. The crystal was not providing any guidance, at least not at the moment.

  He listened to a conversation between two elderly women ahead of him. They were marveling at how this would be their first trip to the Big Apple. They planned to take in a Broadway show.

  Shenk ran with the suggestion and proceeded to purchase a one-way ticket to Manhattan. The nosy pair of women ahead of him had overheard his order. They suggested that he have a lovely time in the New York, but reminded him to be careful, because it would be dangerous for a young woman to travel alone.

  Confident that his outfit was convincing, Shenk boarded the next bus for New York City in drag.

  Chapter 30

  Hoyt’s brush with danger drained Agent Rivers, emotionally and physically. She returned to bed after closing the call, feeling compelled to recite a childhood prayer for Ed’s safety. She made if about halfway through the prayer when the Sandman intervened, breaking off her communication with the Lord like an inept cell phone provider.

  Heavy eyelids conspired to send her into deep slumber. As a result, her higher being chalked up her half-prayer as a wrong number. After all, it had been nearly a decade since
Rivers had made any conscious attempt to contact a divine presence of any kind. Yes, Ed Hoyt was having quite an effect on the agent. Maybe she was even evolving one might say. But right now, Rivers was out like a light, dead to the world.

  A few minutes of tranquility transpired. Then Caitlin began to stir. Harried chants and mournful groans consumed the room. It was like Diggs was part of some satanic girls’ choir. If the dead could be woken, they were up and drinking coffee by now. The auditory ramblings were all in response to the visual playing in her head, Geoffrey McAllister’s death scene recorded somewhere in the confines of an abandoned Miami warehouse. It played in high definition for the enjoyment of its captive audience of one.

  Caitlin had been through all the brutality, the punching, kicking, and pounding reverberated in her head just as vividly as before. It was loud and raucous like the sounds of a nearby marching band, passing you by on a warm summer day as you stood on a street corner. If only the aftermath were similar. Caitlin wished the painful remembrance of her partner’s death would slowly ebb and fade just like the noise of the marching band as it trudged off.

  Caitlin tossed and turned as the dream brought her back to that warm Miami day. The dream had no intention of marching off like the band did, not yet. It fought to stay in the forefront of her mind, providing a surrealistic guilt trip. Caitlin cried in her sleep, full of desperation. She was doing her best to bury her partner and go on with life. Yet here was this dream, relentlessly attacking her, reminding her of that loud and raucous marching band. It was coming back to invade the present with a tune from the past. But was its message all about fright and despair? Maybe there was a deeper message. If so, the recurring images could be alerting her of something missed in the investigation.

  After the wailing and pounding had subsided, the two dark-skinned attackers began to escort their victim outside. Diggs took notice of their attire. Each wore a navy blue windbreaker emblazoned with an insignia. A circle encompassed a picture of two computers. The name of the firm was hard to make out. It looked like Net World or maybe Net Wares. Diggs couldn’t be sure; she was too shocked by the brazen display of brutality.

  Each man grabbed an arm of her fallen partner. They transported Geoffrey with no more regard than a garbage bag, leading him through the building’s rear entrance delivery door, avoiding contact with the stream of blood flowing freely from his nose and mouth. He was only minutes away from death.

  Now the dream began to offer new revelations. Caitlin was able to read her lover’s final thoughts. Geoffrey was thinking of her, smiling on the inside with the last vestige of strength he could muster. He wanted to go out remembering their love, enjoying their partnership, and recalling how he had grown to become so comfortable with her. But at the same time, his mind focused on self-preservation.

  He had just been unceremoniously deposited in a dumpster. McAllister railed. He wondered where in the hell was his backup. FBI muscle men had been stationed outside the warehouse to conduct surveillance. The wire should have tipped them off that things had gone awry. Couldn’t they hear the shit kicking he was taking? Why weren’t they running to his aid? Was it because these two bastards had already slit their throats? And how long had the pair believed he was a weapons smuggler?

  Geoffrey McAllister would never get an answer to these questions. His final vision took precedence: one of his killers took the time to spit on his shirt as he lay in his yellow and green, trash-filled coffin. Diggs was there for his final gasp of breath. The scene cut away with Caitlin looking down upon Geoffrey.

  These swine surely needed to hunted down, as sure as night follows day. And as for their punishment, that went without saying. There was no doubt in the sleeping agent’s mind that only their execution could even begin to exact any semblance of justice. As consciousness began to take hold and bring Agent Diggs back into reality, her anger began to subside. It was replaced by unmitigated grief. She launched into uncontrolled sobbing. Her left hand dug into her bed’s comforter, her right hand began to softly pound upon the mattress. Caitlin spooled the remaining bed coverings about her legs as she lay face down.

  Enveloped by darkness, her tears choked her as they streamed down her face and into her mouth. She rolled the tears around her mouth like gargle. And then it dawned on her. The tears symbolized more than grief. They were a clue. It was rolling around inside her mouth in the form of saliva. One of the men had spit at Geoffrey, unwittingly providing his DNA sample. If the dream was truly a vision, then Geoffrey’s clothes needed to be retrieved from an evidence locker.

  Caitlin rolled over onto her back and glanced around the room. Rivers was out cold. Only a faint hum emanated. It was the sound of the room’s heating system. It was running at full steam. Diggs had left her dream world and now began to rationalize. Why was the heat running so forcefully? October Tennessee nights were fairly mild. She rolled over and found the window next to her was about halfway open. A soft breeze wafted through reminding her of Geoffrey’s touch.

  Agent Diggs never got around to inquiring if Deondra had been the one to open the window. Her dream sent her into overdrive. There would be no more rest tonight. A laundry list of items began to form in her head. First thing in the morning, she would give Rivers the news about Geoffrey. Then she would check in on Eugene Campbell who would be making his first psychic attempt to locate Schenker. But right now, at three o’clock in the morning, she would formulate theories. Why not? She was wide awake and had entrance to a portable library with the wave of a hand. Lukas Schenker may be establishing his own personal network at this very moment, but there was no need for Diggs to feel left out. The Internet was always open.

  Caitlin literally ran with her idea. She leaped out her bed and took a seat in the far corner of the room, maintaining a maximum distance from Rivers. She hastily worked a zipper to retrieve her laptop from a case, which was slung on the back of her chair. Although Rivers had not moved a muscle, Diggs decided it be wise to use only the light from her computer screen as a lamp. It was the only consideration she would give. Within the next five minutes, she was pounding away on the keyboard like the world depended on it. She perused numerous results for the word “crystal,” attempting to find a connection to the past. But sifting through the present was going to take some work. Her results established that a number of businesses decided to use the name as a moniker.

  Wading through the deluge could take the rest of the night, so she decided to narrow her search by employing the words: rose, quartz, and lattice. She learned crystals possess an electronic band structure as well as optical properties: that a crystal becomes polarized upon the application of an electric field. This made her think of how the crystal might be interacting with both natural and artificial electromagnetic waves. It made her wonder how Schenker was able to access information. Only a week ago he required Gayle’s computer to research the Sand Creek Massacre. Now he probably had access to every server in every single IT department in America. But how would that relate to finding the descendants of cavalrymen? As far as Diggs knew, you couldn’t conduct a genealogy search on the Internet.

  Maybe Schenker read genetic coding, distinguishing each individual by his or her DNA. As crazy as it sounded, it was the only plausible notion as to how Schenker could seek out his victims. Diggs wondered at how she even came to such a conclusion, lacking a background in science and biology. She did not realize that maybe her subconscious had somehow heard Rivers talking to Hoyt on the cell phone. Rivers’ notion that Schenker might be accessing a biological Internet or a blood web could have leaked through the walls, right into Caitlin’s skull.

  Rivers felt more comfortable discussing wild theories with Hoyt than with Caitlin, but her conclusions may have reached Caitlin via psychic channeling. Diggs visited a host of sites dedicated to lore and mythology. The information stored in her subconscious—via Rivers—slowly simmered as if it were a pot of water put on the back burner. It fueled her drive to make sense of the crystal’s connection with Sh
enk.

  Caitlin eventually stumbled upon a site claiming the ancient civilization of Atlantis distributed thirteen crystal skulls throughout the world. It reasoned that humans could use these skulls to evolve. The Atlanteans had developed the crystals for healing, teleportation, and information storage to reach an unparalleled state of cultural and technological advancement 13 million years ago, at least, that’s what the site claimed. Diggs read on, absorbing theories: “Greed and corruption followed the newly empowered Atlanteans, thus angering the God Zeus. He threatened punishment. In response, the Altanteans accessed a spiritual form to escape to another universe.”

  Caitlin was beginning to label this as science fiction until she discovered the philosopher Plato had recorded this story in his dialogs, Timaeus and Critias. Diggs pondered the possibility of giving credibility to this legend. Was Plato delusional? If he wasn’t, the story did seem to jive a bit with the current scenario. Maybe the Atlantean race had used the crystals to teleport themselves away from the wrath of their God. If they did, it would correlate with the notion that the crystal was again being used in the name of preservation. And maybe time had a way of altering the thirteen skulls, Diggs imagined. She supposed the skulls might have deteriorated into remnants and fragments.

  If this arrowhead piece was borne from those defections, it might behave differently then if it retained its skull-like form. It may need a power source to maintain its link with the human form, which could explain why it needs seratonin in such large doses. Perhaps it could only convert its human host into a spiritual form or astral body for a limited amount of time. And if this were all true, maybe whoever wants to get their hands on the crystal believes humans can embrace this power to perpetuate the next step of our evolution.

  But wouldn’t these people be acutely aware of the drawbacks? As much as the crystal is capable of enhancing genetic makeup, it is also quite capable of drawing on the most primitive instincts for survival. Schenker lusts for revenge, mates with Gayle to procreate, and seeks a neurotransmitter for nourishment. All three actions are reminiscent of a cave man whose brain relies upon the basest instincts to keep him alive.