by Kyle Mills
He continued to flip quickly through each folder, finding a stack of photos in each. Some—mostly drug-related—were obvious crimes. Some just looked like chance meetings between two people, though one was always a young, relatively clean-cut male. Those would probably benefit even more from the accompanying narrative.
Tristan opened the last file, this time finding that the photos were not loose in the folder, but had been sealed in a manila envelope. He hesitated for a moment, but then reminded himself that it was already too late to turn back and tore into it.
His breath caught as he slid the first picture from the envelope. It was an extremely graphic depiction of two naked black women lying on a bed in the throes of passion. Or at least the throes of lesbian sex. As he moved his face closer to the photo, he could read the expression on one of the women’s faces—it was more intimidation and confusion than passion. He could also see that she wasn’t a woman at all. She was just a little girl.
Tristan flipped through a few more of the pictures, finally stopping to examine one focused on a naked young man at the edge of the bed. He was sitting in a folding chair, eyes locked on the show playing out in front of him. Judging from the condition of his penis, he was enjoying himself immensely.
Tristan dropped the photos onto the floor and pulled another handful from the envelope. There were probably fifty or so in all, ten times the number in any of the other folders. The ones he’d originally pulled seemed to be from the middle of the stack. They were more or less in chronological order, starting with everyone clothed, then to the woman doing things to the little girl, and finally to the young man’s enthusiastic participation.
Tristan stopped on a close-up of the young man’s face. Despite the sexual release etched across it, the features looked familiar—in the same vague way three or four of the others had.
He shoved the pictures back in the envelope and flipped to the stack of surveillance records riveted to the inside of the folder. A few more minutes. He’d milk a few more minutes away from the camera.
two
One of the Inquisitors glanced in his direction for the first time since they’d filed in, forcing Mark Beamon to make a half-hearted effort to sit up straight in his chair. The attention was short-lived, though, and before he could completely correct his slouch, the woman had turned away and was, once again, deeply engrossed in whispering with her co-conspirators. In theory, Beamon was to be the star of this show, the reason they had gathered there, but right now he felt more like an ornament. And the longer he was ignored, the more he could feel it in the pit of his stomach.
Beamon turned to look behind him at the empty benches lined up between him and the distant double doors he’d entered through. There were no cameras and spectators were nonexistent. Other than himself and the five members of Congress towering over him at their enormous desk/podium, the room contained only a few young aides who seemed to have perfected the art of melting into whatever wall they stood against.
If it weren’t so goddamn dangerous, the whole thing would have been funny. Nothing he said here today was going to make any difference. His future, or lack thereof, was preordained. This was all just an elaborate play, staged solely for the benefit of its actors.
Beamon reached for a pewter pitcher at the edge of the table but found that it was as empty as the glass tumblers surrounding it. He looked up at Congresswoman Candice Gregory, the chairperson of the panel, and confirmed that she and her cohorts were still debating amongst themselves. Probably as to what version of the truth would be most politically convenient to the group as a whole.
Satisfied that his services were not yet necessary, he attempted to clear his mind and relax. The setting of this hearing had obviously been carefully devised to make him sweat. He wasn’t going to let it work.
“Mr. Beamon …Mr. Beamon!”
Beamon snapped back into the present and smiled politely. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Are you ready for me?”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she said coldly.
Beamon kept the calculatedly idiotic smile painted across his face as a number of unspoken and pointedly unflattering responses went through his mind, knowing that things were only going to get uglier. Lately, the political arena had become a very small lifeboat on a very rough sea. And worse, the men and women desperately clawing for a dry spot in that lifeboat saw him as the guy swimming around the hull with a drill.
“Please state your name and occupation for the record.”
“Mark Beamon. I’m the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Flagstaff office.”
He’d have guessed it impossible, but the expression of the man to Congresswoman Gregory’s right became even more smug as he leaned into his microphone. “It is my understanding that you have been suspended from the FBI, sir.”
He was from one of those redneck states, though Beamon honestly couldn’t remember which. One of those assholes whose ridiculous good ol’ boy drawl got thicker every time he came up for election.
“Call me a professional hearing attendee, then,” Beamon said, and then instantly regretted it
There was a quiet tittering from the previously silent young people pressed against the walls of the room. All except two, who looked on gravely. It wasn’t hard to guess who they worked for.
Congresswoman Gregory chose to ignore Beamon’s jibe, as it wasn’t directed at her, and moved on. She began flipping loudly through a thick bound document in front of her, effectively cutting off her colleague before he could protest Beamon’s “lack of respect for these proceedings” or “flippant attitude toward their important task” or whatever stock political phrase the situation called for.
“Mr. Beamon, I know we’ve all carefully read your report on this matter, but I think we’d appreciate a brief overview in your own words.”
Beamon couldn’t help frowning slightly—the report was in his own words. He’d spent months writing it. “I was investigating the Church of the Evolution—”
The Southern congressman leaned into his microphone again, provoking mildly annoyed expressions from his colleagues. “To clarify, sir. You had been directly ordered, on a number of occasions, not to pursue this investigation. Isn’t that right?”
Beamon sighed a little too loud. His microphone picked it up and bounced it off the walls. “I was investigating the deaths of two people and the subsequent disappearance of a young girl. A decision was made by FBI management, based on the significant financial resources and political clout of the church, that the investigation would be… problematic. Unfortunately, since the church actually had the girl and intended to kill her, I felt compelled to focus on them as suspects.”
As seemed to be the custom of the political elite, the man seemed completely oblivious to the fact that Beamon had been proven right in the end and, judging by his body language, felt he’d won the exchange. “… and that, in part, resulted in your suspension.”
Beamon let his mind go blank for a moment and stopped his growing anger before it could screw him. What could he say? “Uh, yes. It was certainly one of the factors.”
“Please continue,” Congresswoman Gregory cut in.
“During the investigation it came to my attention that the church had set up an extensive and highly sophisticated phone-tapping system. They’d incorporated a small long-distance carrier called Vericomm that connected calls through the Internet In essence, all calls had to go through the church’s mainframes before being dispersed to available bandwidth over the Net. They used that as an opportunity to record and listen to calls. Long-distance rates on this carrier were very cheap—five cents a minute all the time. They simply offered the service to anyone they were interested in.”
“And when you became aware of this system, did you notify your superiors at the FBI?”
“No. At that time, you could say that me and the Bureau weren’t speaking.”
“So you took action unilaterally.”
Beamon eyed the empty pitcher nervously, coug
hed, and then nodded. “Yes. I was able to get into the database where their more interesting tapes were stored and download a number of the recorded conversations. Many, as you know, involved political figures. When I completed my investigation and found the girl who had gone missing, I turned those tapes over to the FBI.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “And I suppose you are now going to tell me that you have no idea how those tapes were leaked to the press.”
“If you ask me, yes I will.”
The group stared down at him and he just stared back. Finally, one of the men Beamon hadn’t yet heard from spoke up. “I think we’re asking, Mr. Beamon.”
“As your colleague pointed out, I’m on suspension,” Beamon started again, satisfied with his minor triumph. “I was on suspension prior to turning over those tapes and I am still on suspension. I would have no way of knowing what happened after the FBI took possession of the wiretaps.”
“Illegal wiretaps,” Congresswoman Gregory interjected.
Beamon leaned back in his chair in silence. There it was. The direction all this nonsense was headed.
The tapes he’d delivered, and that had subsequently been leaked by parties unknown to him, consisted of activities by the political elite so heinous that they wouldn’t have been overlooked even at the peak of America’s prosperity and the voter apathy that an economy flush with cash could buy. Now, though, with unemployment hovering in the low- to mid-teens, the public was out for blood. And it seemed that the men and women in front of him were going to do everything they could to see that it was Beamon, and not they, who bled.
If they could convince the American people that Beamon himself was morally bankrupt—if they could make him out to be a rogue agent, using the power the government had entrusted to him to look through public keyholes—that might be enough to divert the public’s attention. Powerful politicians today, they would say to the American people, but tomorrow it might be you.
“The taps were illegal,” Beamon said, leaning forward again. “But certainly not perpetrated by me or the FBI.”
Congresswoman Gregory nodded and let silence once again fall over the large room. She was obviously trying to get him to say more, but years of dealing with the press had clued him in to that little trick.
Finally, she reached out and pulled a few loose sheets of paper from a folder in front of her. “These are memos and performance reviews relating to you.” Her tone had changed to that of a disappointed mother. “They span a number of years.” She perched a pair of reading glasses dramatically on her nose. “Allow me to quote from them. ‘Disregard for chain of command.’” She flipped a page. “‘Possible illegal activity.’” Another page. “‘Excessive drinking.’” She held up a form of some kind. “This is a physical you failed bringing into question your ability to do your job.”
Beamon once again wasn’t sure how to respond. Frankly, his admittedly questionable ability to run two miles without having a heart attack and his unfortunate history with alcohol seemed to have very little to do with the tapes he had uncovered.
He was working out a way to say that in as respectful a way as possible when the young congressman on the far left cleared his throat. Beamon had never met him, but recognized him as a member of David Hallorin’s Reconstruction Party. “I’d like to say something, if I may,” the man said to a uniform rolling of eyes on the panel. “I’ve read the same documents you have and they made me uncomfortable. I asked myself why it was that Mr. Beamon had been called in to consult on so many high-profile cases if he’s the disaster he looks like on paper.” He shot Beamon a conspiratorial glance and continued. “I personally know a number of FBI officials and last night I called them. I gave them the following scenario: Your child has been kidnapped and the kidnappers are threatening to kill her. Who in the FBI do you call? I talked to eight men and one woman. Seven of the nine named Mr. Beamon here. I think that’s pretty remarkable. What’s even more remarkable is that six of those seven had an obvious and violent dislike for Mr. Beamon.” He leaned back and pointed to the rest of the panel with his pencil as he continued. “Interesting? Yes. Important? Not in the least. The tapes exist and, unfortunately, they’re public. The question isn’t how they were obtained, it’s how the men and women we heard on those tapes managed to attain the positions of responsibility they did.”
“There are no cameras in here, Jacob,” the Southern congressman sneered into his microphone. “I think you can take the day off from campaigning.”
It seemed that the Reconstruction Party wasn’t interested in seeing this witch-hunt carried through, though Beamon doubted it was because of their deep respect for his life’s work as much as the fact that none of their ranks had been implicated in the Vericomm scandal. But in this business you had to take your friends where you found them.
He watched the shouting match that ensued with morbid fascination, too absorbed to notice the young woman who had quietly padded up behind him until her mouth was only inches from his ear.
“Mr. Beamon. David Hallorin would like a few moments of your time after the hearing.”
Beamon jerked his head around and looked at her with an expression that in retrospect must have been somewhere between that of a startled deer and a condemned man. She was polite enough to ignore it. “If you’ll just see me when you’re finished here, sir, I’ll have a car brought around for you.”
The argument on the podium started to die down as the young woman walked silently to the back of the auditorium and faded into a wall. Congresswoman Gregory was somewhat red faced, but managed to regain her composure and center the thick folder in front of her again. “Mr. Beamon, I’d like to go through your report with you. If you could turn to page two-seventeen of your copy, I have some serious concerns about your timeline.”
three
Tristan Newberry held the front door to his apartment building open with his foot and grabbed the plastic grocery bag that contained his work clothes off the sidewalk. They smelled like nervous perspiration, as did the sweatshirt and cotton pants he was now wearing. It seemed like the tickle of sweat running down his sides hadn’t stopped since he’d left work the day before.
He stepped into the empty foyer and looked up the stairs in front of him. Another bulb had burned out while he was gone, throwing deep shadows across the relatively clean but not so well-maintained stairwell. He’d hoped that getting home would calm him down, but it seemed like his arrival was having the opposite effect. He suddenly wanted to be back on that plane, with thousands of tons of steel and thousands of feet of air protecting him.
Tristan glanced at his watch. Eight P.M. Mrs. Dunn would have just gone to bed and he just didn’t think he could handle one of her screaming fits about noise right now. He pulled his shoes off and stuffed them in the bag with his clothes, then started up the stairs in his stocking feet. With a little luck, he’d avoid a confrontation and soon be suffering from his newfound insomnia in his very own bed.
He was almost to the top of the flight of stairs when he heard a quiet rustling in the hall to the right. He stopped short and, remembering that his approach had been nearly silent, remained motionless and listened with an almost athletic intensity. A few moments later he heard something sliding on the floor. He didn’t know if it was the effect of his nerves and an overstimulated imagination or if it was real, but whatever it was, he would swear it sounded like it was coming from right in front of the door to his apartment.
His mouth went suddenly dry and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. They’d found out. Somehow they’d found out He looked down the semidark stairs behind him, wanting to run, but knowing it would be pointless. They’d know he was there. They would have been watching.
It had only been twenty-eight hours since he’d discovered the file, but he’d replayed tearing that seal in his head at least a hundred times. He wanted to take it back—to have shoved it, unopened, back into that box and walked away under the watchful eye of those silent cameras. But it was too
late for that now.
What was he going to do? He looked back down the stairwell for a moment, then faced forward again. What could he do? Holding the bag of dress clothes in front of him like some kind of pathetic shield, he sucked in a deep breath and ran up the last few steps. It seemed like every muscle fiber in his body had tensed to the point of imploding by the time he jerked himself into the center of the hall to face the source of the noises he’d heard.
The woman lying on the floor next to the door to his apartment didn’t seem to notice his arrival. She was flat on her back; head propped on a dusty backpack, eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell in an even rhythm.
He took a few cautious steps forward and looked down at her. She was wearing a purple sweatshirt and green cotton shorts. Other than that, nothing but a pair of black sandals that were partly held together with duct tape.
Tristan let out the breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding and dropped the bag of clothes on the floor next to her. “Darby. Jesus Christ.”
The young woman opened her eyes and a slow smile spread across her face. “Tristan!” she said, holding both arms out in front of her. He grabbed her right hand and with his help, she sprang up into his arms and gave him a hug that lifted him off his feet. When she dropped him back to the floor, she took a step back and ran her fingers through his hair. “My God, what did they do to you?” Her voice was just the way he remembered it, a little slower than most people spoke, but with the words slightly slurred together so she still got sentences out in roughly regulation time. A few years back, Cosmopolitan had done a brief article on her in a series entitled Extreme Women. In it they’d described Darby Moore’s voice as “having a smile in it.” He’d laughed for a good ten minutes at the sheer corniness of the statement, but had never actually been able to come up with a better description.
Tristan managed a grin and covered his closely cropped hair with his hands. “The government doesn’t go for the long hair thing. I kept the ponytail, though. If you’re nice to me I’ll let you see it.”
