by Guy Harrison
Chapter Thirteen
They called it the worst train derailment in the history of the United States. I was one of the very few fortunate ones—four, in fact—to have survived what I know to be a faceless act of terrorism. It was a disaster that only I could have stopped, if I was willing to kill my best friend and love of my life. Instead, as Ronni alluded to, thousands of people, both innocent and guilty, paid for what was discovered to be the improprieties of Philadelphia’s corrupt political machine.
Suburban Station, Center City’s rail hub, was completely destroyed. Despite the sinkhole’s proximity to City Hall, it only encountered minimal structural damage. Its political machine, however, was ousted in cinematic fashion.
According to an independent investigation commissioned by the state, the wreck was caused by a laundry list of faulty equipment. The train’s operator died of electrocution as its controls short-circuited. His door jammed, precluding anyone from taking the controls, which were determined to have been so faulty, they then caused the train to accelerate on its own. Lastly, it was posited with strong supporting evidence that the train jumped onto one of the station’s platforms due to its speed as well as an ill-maintained track leading into Suburban Station. That last finding proved most damming to the mayor and city council.
It later came out that the city’s political machine ignored a well-researched suggestion to upgrade the transportation system’s rolling stock, accepting a kickback from the company whose equipment the city kept. It also came out that those same administrators ignored a diagnostic test of the faulty track which suggested that it be fixed. They never took money for that decision. Instead, they chose not to spend it.
Philly’s police commissioner didn’t survive this mess, either. It came out that he knew all about the politicians’ indiscretions and merely used that information as blackmail to save his own job. Despite what the state commission said the day I visited Lincoln High School, Commissioner Sears did, in fact, oversee a police department that was devoid of any morals. In fact, he partook in the salacious activities of which many of his top-ranking officers were originally accused.
The Agency of Justice didn’t do this haphazardly. They did their homework—had someone inside City Hall, I’d say—developed a plan and executed it with Ronni’s help. I still don’t know how or why Ronni got roped into working for them. And it took me a while to accept that even the Agency of Influence knew not of her dealings. The old man explained to me that both agencies had long ago agreed to disallow the surveillance of the other’s employees. In the end, it’s all moot. Ronni accepted her role and played it well. If only I had paid attention to her sooner, perhaps I could have intervened …
Ronni wasn’t the only thing I lost in the wreck. The left side of my face was nearly damaged beyond recognition. Avoiding all places in which I could be identified, such as hospitals, I never had corrective surgery. I instead elected to let my injury heal naturally, save for a few liquids and ointments to prevent an infection. Thus, whenever I choose to take my God-given form, I wear a trench-like scar that starts from my scalp, just misses the corner of my eye, and terminates at my jaw line. The scar has a bit of a refracting effect, making one half of the left side of my face asymmetrical with the other side. When I can get past the horror, I laugh at myself in the mirror. I look like a Picasso.
My other injuries healed without incident. My internal organs were—to the best of my knowledge—relatively unscathed. I did suffer a badly sprained knee. Thankfully, it didn’t require surgery and the A of I was able to fit me for a brace.
Due to its consonance with the Agency of Justice, the powers that be at the Agency of Influence ignored the attack on Suburban Station, choosing instead to focus on the A of J’s infiltration of the Philly branch. The A of J issued a mea culpa and all was disturbingly right again in the world of karma.
Despite my distrust for Richardson—Ronni did utter his sales pitch, after all—I took him up on his offer of exile and never said goodbye to Jimenez and company before they were all let go. For the past thirteen months, I have been living in Canada—Montreal to be precise—under the identity of Kevin Stewart. I wanted to move to Europe but was reluctant to fully disconnect myself from the North American way of life. To its credit, Montreal is a slice of Europe with its French influence. I’ve had to brush up on my francais, but I manage.
Although the agency continues to pay me a handsome severance package, I’ve needed work to keep my mind off of everything I’ve lost, and to get me out in the community. I decided to stick with what I know. Kevin Stewart is an independent management consultant. He is also far more handsome than I, even before—and especially after—the train wreck.
Despite the money, these are still tough times. I may have taken on Kevin Stewart’s identity, but at my core I’m still Calvin Newsome III. I still found my niche and had it—among other things—ripped away from me. It was Calvin who influenced Mark at the coffee shop. But it was also Calvin who witnessed the impaling of Josh Jenner underneath the EL. And it was Calvin who lost the love of his life in a catastrophic disaster. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about her. It still hurts not having her around, especially when a woman smiles at me. When a woman smiles in my direction, it does nothing for me anymore. Ronni’s was always better.
In bed now, my attention turns from my window to my alarm clock. It’s already ten in the morning. When I was in college, my friends and I used to describe this amount of sleep as hibernation. It was great back then but now I’ve wasted a large amount of the day. When I eventually do get up, I need a good shower. I feel the crust around my eyes trying to hold them shut. I could also use a good swig of Listerine.
I turn my head the other way and am greeted by the back of the head of Thérèse, the blonde occupying the other side of my bed. She’s sound asleep.
A surprise to be sure, Thérèse helped fill a void, at least for one night. I met her at a bar last night, a crazy scene in itself. The locals sang and danced the entire night as the local hockey team and perpetual obsession, the Canadiens, moved to within one game of winning the Stanley Cup. Impressed with how much Thérèse knew about hockey and Les Habitants, and the fact that she actually wasn’t sloppy drunk, she pleasantly distracted me from my otherwise messed up life. Calvin would not have been able to bring Thérèse home. Kevin, on the other hand, did so with relative ease.
I turn my head to look back up to the ceiling of my studio apartment. I wonder what Jimenez et al are doing. They must either still be gloating about how they helped bring down Philadelphia’s political machine or are still stewing over their ouster, forced to contribute to society as mortals. They still have their powers, as do I, but cannot use them with the help of any agency intelligence. If they are still in the business of lifting people up, they are doing so on their own accord.
“I need to go,” I hear Thérèse say with her Quebecois accent, her back still turned to me.
“That’s fine.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.”
Thérèse gets up, her tanned skin, and all of its curves, exposed. I give her ass a playful smack.
“Naughty,” she says, her hazel eyes peeking through her golden locks. “Hey, are you going back tonight?” Tonight is Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final. I am curious how this hockey-crazed town will react to tonight’s result, win or lose. If last night was any indication, I’m not sure I want to be in the middle of all of what is most assuredly going to be chaos.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ll call you.”
“I didn’t give you my number,” she says with a smile and teasing raise of eyebrow.
“Then I guess you’ll never find out, will you?”
Thérèse snickers and, after buttoning up her blouse, jots down her number on a newspaper on my nightstand. In an effort to improve my French, and after everything I went through in Philly, I decided to start reading the local paper—all of it, not just the sports section. I
n theory, it should help me do a better job of keeping up with current events.
I sit up on the edge of the bed, my face near Thérèse’s midriff. She looks down at me and gives me a peck on the lips.
“Take care,” she says, framing the side of my face with her hand. I wonder if she’d do that if I were Calvin.
“Bye.”
Thérèse turns and leaves my apartment, her shoes beating the parquet floor. With the sudden silence washing over me, I look around the apartment, studying its exposed brick and ventilation system
The silence recedes when I hear the faint sound of my cell phone vibrating. I look around and can’t locate the phone before remembering that I left it on the kitchen counter. I jog over to the counter and pick up the phone without looking at the number.
“This is Kevin.”
“Calvin, it’s Jimenez.”
I look back toward my disheveled bed. “How did you get this number?”
“Easy. I Googled you.”
“What do you want?”
“I need your help.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Something big is happening. Tonight.”
“And I’m the only who can do anything about, right?”
“Right.”
“Forget it.”
“Calvin—”
“No. You think after what you guys did to me … I’m not an agent anymore. You don’t give me orders.”
“It’s not an order,” she says with a sigh.
“Then what is it, huh?”
“Look,” she says, “if I were you, I’d be angry, too …”
“Uh-huh.”
“… but, please, just listen to me. If you don’t want anything to do with it, fine. I can honor that.”
“Did you guys ever find out who the mole was?”
“No.”
“Of course not. You probably were the mole.”
“I’m not the mole! Please, just listen to me.”
I exhale loudly. “Fine. What is it, then?”
“They’re planning another attack, Calvin. In Montreal.”
“Who’s they?”
“The Agency of Justice.”
The conversation goes silent for a moment.
“How do you know this?” I say.
“I have my sources.”
“You have your sources?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Where—when will they do it?”
“There’s probably going to be a riot tonight, right?”
“Probably.”
“I didn’t get specifics, just something about a helicopter.”
“That’s vague, Elena. Montreal’s a big city.”
“Where will most people be after the game?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere around the Bell Centre, I’d think.”
“That’s probably where it’ll be.”
“Well, I appreciate the head’s up. Have a nice day.”
“Calvin …”
“Elena …”
“There’s a reason I’m telling you this.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m sure it’s very compelling.”
“Calvin, you can save these people.”
“No way,” I say with a snicker. “How the hell would I do that?”
“Use your powers. You saw what Ronni did to that train.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“I’m in Philly right now. I’m trying to get up there but I don’t think I’ll make it in time. You’re the only one I know up there.”
I exhale loudly into my phone’s receiver again. Why am I entertaining this lunacy? “So, you’re guessing they’re going to crash the chopper?”
“Yes.”
“During the riot?”
“Yes.”
I’m not sure what to say at this point. I really don’t want anything to do with what is, in essence, a mission given to me by someone who could be out to inflict more pain upon me. The less I know of this, the better.
“I—I don’t know what to tell you, Elena. You’re going to have to find someone else.”
“Wait—”
“I can’t trust you,” I say, “so, please, don’t call this number again.” I hang up my phone and take a deep breath, holding the phone tightly in the palm of my hand.
Wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, I walk over to the large window in my apartment and look out at the city. In the distance, I see the Bell Centre and its angular brick, concrete, and glass structure to the east. The building stands out among the city’s high-rises and otherwise European architecture. It’s also home to the Canadiens and site of another potential act of terrorism.
If what Elena said is true, why is the Agency of Justice doing this? I might not be the best at keeping up with current affairs but I know, with certainty, that no known or alleged corruption exists in this city, at least not to the pervasive extent that it did in Philly. The only controversy here exists over whether or not the province of Quebec should become its own sovereign entity. Unless there’s some rogue Quebecois separatist terrorist group in play, there’s nothing here worthy of an attack. Nothing worthy of the fate that befell Philly’s politicians.
In the aftermath of the Suburban Station attack, members of an outraged populace consequently made assassination attempts on the mayor as well as the city council chairman. The mayor survived but, adding insult to his wound, was promptly convicted of embezzlement and thrown in prison, along with half a dozen other wayward civil servants.
I could alert the local authorities but what are they going to do? Postpone the game? I’d be laughed out of Canada. And even if they did believe me, we’re not talking about a car bomb or an unattended piece of luggage here. They’re dealing with a weapon that only a select few people know actually exists.
I walk over to my nightstand and pick up yesterday’s newspaper. I find where Thérèse wrote her phone number and start to dial it before I notice a story under the fold on the front page. Despite it being written in French, I can make out that Chicago’s EL collapsed two nights ago, just after a game at Wrigley Field. The collapse knocked down a few nearby buildings and even knocked out a portion of the baseball stadium itself. Hundreds are unaccounted for. Local authorities are calling it an accident caused by a semi-truck. I look at the lead story above the fold to see what could possibly be more important. Of course, a preview of last night’s Game Six.
I finish dialing Thérèse’s number but my call goes straight to her voicemail.
“Thérèse, it’s Kevin. I don’t think I’m going to go to the bar tonight and I don’t think you should, either. I know it sounds crazy but I don’t think you should be anywhere near the Bell Centre. I just have this feeling that something crazy’s going to happen. You know hockey fans. Anyway, I’ll talk to you soon.”
