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The Bones of Lazarus

(The Novel)

Moose Harbor Books

ISBN: 9781620955987

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Cover Art and Title Page Art by Edward W. Derhak

Cover design by Becca Childs Derhak

MOOSE HARBOR BOOKS

Jupiter, Florida & Dover-Foxcroft, Maine

For my father, Edward: A man of character—generous, loving, wise; And master storyteller. Your spirit is a part of me old-timer. It’s with me wherever I am or go. Still, the aroma of your cigar and the sound of your laughter is dearly missed.

“An evil man seeketh only rebellion: therefore a cruel messenger shall be sent against him.”

The Book of Proverbs, 17:11

A Messenger Comes

From the shadows, he could see the length of the alley out to the street. Centuries had passed in the shadows, he reckoned, on the fringe of humanity. Darkness was an unlikely ally. Where he could see but not be seen by anyone. The irony was not lost on him. He was a shadow of a man himself, who’d exiled so many souls into the pits of darkness he’d forgotten how many were allowed to walk into the light. It did not matter. That which had been worked out long ago was no concern of his. He was bound to the world for one reason only: because the presence of evil among men was pervasive and unending. Much like the rats that filled the alley where he stood. They waddled along unaware or indifferent to his presence. They were feeding. The alley was filled with trash and debris that smelled of rot and decay of man and beast alike. It was crowded with bags or piles of trash heaped about, emptied and rotted wooden crates, and rusted trash cans. He had noticed a femur bone where he came out of the Underworld. Rats and maggots and flies were presently feeding on the carcass of a dog. A large rat came close to him and sniffed at his shoe. He stomped at it, scaring it away, and scattering a half-dozen nearby. Yawning, he stepped inside an entryway, a cranny in the wall of the alley. It wasn’t that deep, but it housed a service door, or what had once been a service door. For there were no longer any services offered within. He pulled on its handle but it didn’t give much. Lighting a cigarette, he took several drags, exhaled slowly, savoring the flavor and aroma—an earthly pleasure he retainedbbut then extinguished it, and stepped back into the alley. Waiting.

He knew better than to light up and smoke. The street was active, despite the late hour, and very dangerous. Three armed men had run past the alleyway moments before. One of whom carried a large case. He had continued running down the street when the other two had steered to a building opposite the alley, a battered four story brownstone, and entered it. The building had been vacated or was abandoned, but it was empty, nonetheless. In fact, he was sure most of the buildings along the street were empty or near empty, with the exception of a few squatters. The fighting had been particularly acute in this neighborhood. The street was narrow and the brownstones along either side were high enough to create an urban canyon. Ideal for guerilla activity. The brick façade of the building across from him was blistered with bullet holes. Not too many windows were intact. Some had web-like cracks through the panes, but most were completely shattered. In one, two large pieces of glass hung side-by-side in the frame. They were elongated, uneven, but came to a point. He imagined protruding canine teeth of a savage predator or perhaps even … a monster … about to attack.

There was no pattern to the destruction. There never was. The building had been the sight of more than one shootout. Bricks were pulverized in various locations across the front of it. There had been gunfire around a second story window which had splintered the frame. The entrance to the building—a set of wooden double-doors hung within a recess—was pitted with bullet holes. The doors were heavy and thick, he reasoned, or they would have splintered in pieces like the window frame. But his attention was drawn to the fourth floor, to a blown out window on the top right, and the partial silhouette of a man, undoubtedly, one of the two who had entered the building. He wondered why he was there and sniffed in that direction, but the distance was too great and the stink in the alley was too powerful.

Then he knew. Vehicles, at least two, were approaching the alleyway. They were in low gear and moving slowly. A patrol.

Such distractions were not enough to deter him in his work, nor his resolve. He had made his way through the Underworld to this very location intentionally—to draw them out—to reclaim that part of him which had been taken those many years before. The missing piece. It was neither vengeance nor revenge that drove him—that was beyond his emotion. There was conviction in his actions. Judgment, though, when it came, carried no weight or personal attachment for him. This night was no different but for one thing. There was a purpose.

Rustling in the back corner of the alley alerted him, crates gently moving and scraping over cobblestones. He stepped back under the doorway and merged with the blackness. A man crawled out from a hole and stood. With him came evil. It wafted in the air. It was immediate and overwhelming. The man moved cautiously a few steps toward the service door, but hesitated. The vehicles were very close. The movement of men—soldiers—could now be heard. The man looked around and back down at the hole with indecision, and then quickly burrowed under the debris amidst the rats. The vehicles and men came to a stop at the front of the alley.

Death in Air

The evening air was stifling, and a heavy stench filled the alley. The stink was familiar to him, much like rotted meat from behind the butcher stalls in a market. Death was in the air. A late afternoon downpour, which was typical for the time of year, only added to the heat. Generally, a mild sea breeze blew over the island. Warm tropical air usually offered some relief, but not tonight. The man had emerged from a small, manmade hole at the back of an alley and was walking cautiously toward the street, toward the fresher air, when he heard the familiar winding of gears and grinding of clutches. A patrol was approaching. Not good. He quickly retreated. Armored trucks and battered jeeps made their way through the streets nightly. He looked for a way out. There was a side door, a recessed service entrance from a long-closed business, but he knew it was sealed from the outside, and there was no time to make for it anyway. His only choices were to crouch in the refuse with the rats or to go back into the Underworld and wait. But he did not want to go back down. There was something about it that frightened him tonight. At times, he thought he heard footsteps behind him. Other times, the distinct smell of cigarette smoke passed him, even though he kept telling himself he was alone. It had as much to do with his imagination as it did with the message he had to deliver. That’s what he convinced himself. The truth was, he had been in the business long enough to know when he was being watched, but he’d never had the sensation of being stalked. It had been days now, but tonight, it was closing in on him. All because of the urgent news he carried—he was sure of it—news that changed everything.

He was in the middle of a rebellion and in violation of curfew. His business had nothing to do with the locals on either side. Yet, if spotted, he’d still be shot at. If captured, he’d be shot. Period. But not before he endured some hideously painful method of torture that was implemented to extract any kernel of information he may have. He did not want to go down that way, nor did he want to go back down the fucking hole. The thought made him shudder. The patrol was at the entrance to the alley. His choice was made. He hunkered belly-down in the muck. The vehicles came to a stop. A beam of light suddenly shot down the alley. The patrol abruptly fired off a lengthy round, startling him. The spray of bullets pockmarked the brick wall of the building behind him. He curled himself into a ball in terror. Rats, a dozen or so the size of small hams, crawled over him and scattered out from the heaps of trash. The soldiers unloaded on them. The rodents exploded around the man, covering him in their bloodied entrails. One bullet whizzed by, nicking the side of his head. A scalding, burning intensity shot through him. He wanted to scream out from the throbbing pain and clutch the side of his head. But instinctively, he suppressed the urge, using every ounce of discipline he could muster. Laughter and shouts could be heard from the street, quieted by a stern remark, inaudible but for one word. A name. Lazarus. God, he thought to himself, not the undead.

The beam of light ceased and all went quiet. Footsteps moved toward him in the alley. Is that cigarette smoke? Burnt tobacco? In that moment, all was lost. How could he have been so naïve to think he would make it to the hotel after dusk? Just to deliver a single piece of information—a warning, really—to anyone who would listen. He had cast his fate with the night, and the night responded with irony. The name he had just heard was the name he carried to the hotel. The name, the warning, she had written it out on the back of her business card. The one she had handed him. He pulled the card from his pocket, and straining his eyes, he read the words again: Lazarus has arrived. That was the message. All he was to say—to deliver.

Why didn’t he wait until the dawn?

A Humble Man Can Never Be Humbled

With a shiver and release he stared lovingly into his wife’s eyes. Straddling him on the bed, with hesitation, she rolled off him slowly as the last quake subsided. Side-by-side, heads on pillows, they stared blankly in a lover’s calm, absorbing the moment.

“We need to spend more time together, Daniel,” she said.

“Indeed, we do, Pia,” he said.

“We need to make the time,” she added.

“It’s near midnight, Pia,” he yawned. “I believe we just did.”

She punched him lightly.

“Ouch!” he shouted.

“You know what I mean,” she said, “and quit faking it.”

“I would never fake it with you,” he smiled. “You’re much too cunning.”

“Daniel,” she laughed.

“It’s good to hear you laugh, Pia,” he said. “I like the sound of it. From time to time during the day, I listen for it in my head. In the dark moments, and there’s been too many of late, it makes me smile, especially after a day like yesterday.”

“You mean that poor woman?” she asked.

“She was quite wealthy, actually, but yes, I know what you mean,” he answered. “Another victim. Sometimes it gets to be too much, Pia, and then I think of you, your laughter, and it keeps me rolling.”

“You really mean that?” she asked.

“Really,” he answered. “No matter what situation I’m in, when I hear your laughter in my head, I know that somehow, I will survive.” She squeezed his hand. “I think of the children, too, but in a different way. How unfair it is for them—to grow up in this mess of a country.”

“They know you work tirelessly.”

“Tirelessly?” he laughed. “Most of the time I’m so exhausted I feel like a zombie going through the motions.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I tell them there was a time when our little island knew peace and that we will again. The fighting will end and everyone will know your father as a hero.”

“Pia,” he said. “Please do not fill their heads with such things. I’m a captain in an army on a small island nation—in most other countries I’m a cop on a police force. Tell the children I’m doing my job—you know—‘to serve and protect,’ not ‘to harass and annoy.’ That’s it. All I want is a happy ending.”

“You are a hero to our children, Daniel,” she said.

“Well,” he conceded, “I guess that’s not a bad thing.”

“No it’s not,” she said. “And the time will come.”

“Time is a valuable commodity, Pia. Let’s hope Prime Minister Rinehart has found the time, a way, tomorrow night. He’s set to make a major speech at the Energy Consortium.”

“Really? A peace initiative?”

“I do not know what he’s going to say, exactly, but it’s a major announcement—a ceasefire agreement, maybe—something toward a peace accord.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you now. This is on the hush—very, very much so,” he answered. “Even I didn’t know the where and when until earlier today.”

She turned her head and nuzzled her nose into his hair, and whispered, “This is such good news, Daniel. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

He turned and kissed her lips. “For you, anything, Love. If Prime Minister Rinehart has found a way, he’s the hero, not me. I’d be content to stand in my office window and enjoy the view again without worries of being shot at,” he smiled. “Okay, maybe a gold star on my report card, too.”

“You’re too modest,” she said.

“No, I’m practical and humble. My grandfather always told me that a humble man can never be humbled. I’m with him on that sentiment. It keeps me grounded.”

“Your grandfather was a wise man. But I believe he’d agree with me about your modesty.”

“He probably would. Who could possibly say no to someone as radiant and lovely as you,” he smiled. “He would be, as I am, swayed by your wisdom, if not your beauty,” replied Daniel.

“Enough,” she said.

“But you are irresistible,” he smiled.

“I know,” she laughed, “but, enough.”

“If you insist,” he answered. “Though I would love to flirt with you for hours, I’m also very tired and must sleep,” he added, yawning loudly, “before the phone rings and the voice on the other end informs me another bomb has exploded in my district. Not all the rebels may believe or know what’s coming.” He regretted saying it immediately.

“Bombs, Daniel.” She squeezed his arm, nudging closer.

“I’m sorry, Pia, I did not mean to alarm you.” He could sense her mood shift, the tension, which made him feel like a shit. “It was dark humor and in very poor taste.”

“I know your jokes make it bearable,” she said. “Who could keep their sanity otherwise?”

“Please, Pia,” he said.

“No,” she said, and rolled over and kissed his cheek. “Rest, Daniel. I’m fine. It’s been three years.”

He calmed at the touch of her lips. He wanted to embrace her and tell her how sweet her lips are, but fatigue overwhelmed him, and his mind began to drift. His thoughts turned to the rebellion, the growing chaos in the city, and the escalation of violence in his district. Was he one man standing alone? The thought echoed in his head. He wondered if it were true or even possible.

When Evil Comes

In the darkness of the service entrance, he pressed his back against the door. He knew what was coming next, but the evil was taking hold of his senses. The burning gripped him. Demons were rising through him, from within. When evil came, when it was within their reach, they clawed their way up from the pits of hell and perched like vultures, ready to feed on one of their own. He could feel the wrath growing, the irrepressible rage, its hunger. But it was too late to move. He suppressed them with his will. He would make them wait—keep the demons down—a few moments more, and then act quickly.

When the violence erupted it was profound. A beam of light flooded the alley. On cue, the soldiers emptied the chambers of their weapons in a deafening volley of gunfire. Bullets lifted rats in midair and splattered them like water balloons. Trash cans went flying. Crates were shattered. Bricks exploded into pieces and powder. Amidst the staccato bursts he heard yelling, and then all went silent. The light went out. Voices and shouts came from the street. But he paid no attention to them. They, the demons, there were many for this one, were prying their way out. He walked briskly up to the man and stood over him. Hate and fear emitted from him, foul and repulsive. The man looked up slowly and their eyes locked. In those fleeting moments, the last the man would know on this earthly plane, his senses were overpowered by a putrid, hideous stench—from deep within. The demons were there now, before him, and with the unmerciful fury of Satan driving them on, they entered. The man screamed insanely. He did not feel the hand clasp his neck or the swift blow to his chest that followed. He felt but one thing: the demons, his very own, ravenous and voracious, devouring his soul.

Only seconds had passed and he was back in the Underworld. He had descended rapidly through the hole in the back corner, concealing the entrance behind him as before. Hesitating, he thought about the soldiers. He lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. A minute or two went by in complete silence. Smoking contently, he pondered fate, the universe, and the Divine. The silence ended abruptly with the scream of men. He dropped the cigarette and listened. Confusion and shock soon followed. Then there was an explosion.

The Monster Has Arrived

On the narrow street, soldiers gathered nervously around an old Jeep and a newer Humvee—staring into the alley. The scream was unearthly. Even after years of fighting, not one of them had ever heard such a cry of agony. They had seen a shadow or shadows moving along a building by the alley from the end of the street. They approached the entryway cautiously and turned on the searchlight. They fired into the alley without much thought. Routine for them. Fire first, before you are fired upon. They shot at the rats with delight and then turned the searchlight off. “Enough,” the Sergeant had shouted. “Save your bullets. ‘More than rebels walk the streets,’ it’s said. We may need every round before the night is over.” He was about to give the order to move out when one of the men, a young private by the name of de Groot, responded fearfully, “Lazarus? Is it true, Sergeant Barton?”

The name itself invoked terror in every one of them. The entire company stood silent, knowing full well that the mention of that name alone could curse them all to hell. Then they heard it. A scream so horrible and terrifying that no man dare move until Sergeant Barton yelled, “The light! Turn on the fucking light!” The alley was illuminated again. “You, Big Mouth,” he said, pointing at de Groot, “and you three, check it out,” Sergeant Barton ordered, pointing down the alley.

Moving hesitantly, they descended into what each thought was surely their doom. Rifles extended, ready to empty every last round at the slightest movement. They made their way through the garbage and shadows to the back of the alley. Amidst the stinking refuse and a thousand pieces of scattered rat gore, they stumbled upon a body. “Mother of Satan!” de Groot yelled before he retched. They all retched at the sight. Sergeant Barton rushed down the alley to join them, along with the curious who followed him. When he arrived, he forced the vomit down his own throat. His men would not see him lose control. The curious showed no such control. There, in the back of the alley, the corpse lay. The body, what was left of it, still twitched involuntarily. A single deep gash extended from the neck clean to the chest. The head was half severed, and the chest cavity was smashed open. The heart had been ripped clean from the body but was nowhere to be seen. A terrified expression was petrified into the dead man’s face. “We must go,” Sergeant Barton muttered eventually and swallowed hard again. “Tell no one of this. That’s an order,” he shouted. “I’ll handle it.”

“Tell them what, Sergeant Barton?” asked de Groot at the very moment the explosion erupted on the street. The Jeep and Humvee were blown apart and engulfed in flames, as were the not-so-curious soldiers who had remained on the street, content to gawk at the scene from afar. They were no more.

“That Lazarus is here,” Sergeant Barton finally answered, lying on his back, his voice barely above a whisper. Coughing, choking, and bleeding, he said to anyone and no one, “The monster has arrived,” before he lost consciousness.

All Must Face the Mountain

Daniel found himself standing alone in the middle of the city, in the heart of the district he commanded, beside the historic fountains in Christian Square. He had no recollection of how he came to be there. A steady wind buffeted him where he stood. He felt weightless and struggled to keep his balance. There were no signs of life, either. There were no pedestrians, no vehicles on the upper square; no honking horns in the distance; no traffic of any kind. He looked at the statue of Saint George slaying the dragon in the middle of the square, a larger-than-life bronze on a ten-foot pedestal. There were no birds fluttering around it or shitting on it, no sound but for the wind. Yet, it was not that he was there alone which he found troubling but, eerily, the overwhelming sensation that he was on his own. A gust of wind struck him and he spun. On the west side of the square, the Cathedral of Saint George towered above him. The twin spires of the great neo-Gothic structure teetered and tottered in the wind, creaking like masts of a clipper ship in a violent sea, listing left, then right. The motion nauseated him. He would have surely retched but for another gust of wind that left him spinning around, facing the National Museum on the other side of the square. As he stared at the massive Georgian mansion before him, a gust of wind pushed him closer to the building. He came to a stop a few feet before the broad, polished marble steps that rose up to the museum like the pitch of a Mayan pyramid. The wind ceased, and the air became heavy around him. He thought of a summer storm, and he jumped when a thunderclap shattered the silence. Then, from below the ground, where he stood, a deep belching, gurgling sound erupted. The earth began to vibrate under his feet, and the building began to shake. The ground rippled beneath him. It surged like a rogue wave up the steps, heaving and rolling toward the mansion. The wave struck the building, tossing it straight up off its expansive foundation, causing it to levitate as though held by unseen hands. Beneath the building, the earth began to thrust upward and outward. The snout of a dragon nudged its way out from its center, spewing flames at the building above. The heat intensified around Daniel. He turned away and glanced back at the statue. Saint George lay prostrate and bloodied across the pedestal, impaled by his own spear. The dragon was gone from there, and now, apparently, it was before him. Its head had broken through the earth now, its jaws gaping and unhinged. Daniel watched the country’s history—its heritage—being engulfed in flames and swallowed by a monster of legend that had just slain the patron saint of the island nation. He tried to scream for help but could only gasp for his breath in the searing heat. A series of explosions in the far hills drew his attention away from the spectacle before him. “I must go there,” he thought and took several steps away from the mansion. He found himself walking in the tropical forest beside his grandfather, who he hadn’t seen since his death years before. His grandfather was very old, and Daniel was as he saw himself at eighteen. They were strolling together on an old footpath in the foothills of Mont Chèvre, the island’s highest peak. The trail was well-worn and had once been the main access road from the interior to the coast. Local goat herders still used the footpath occasionally to move their livestock between pastures. He knew this because his grandfather had told him so that summer when they were here. That was his grandfather’s last summer. The footpath rose up under a canopy of kapok trees that broke into a clearing. High above was Mont Chèvre. Its prominence covered in thick vegetation up until the last hundred meters or so, which, from this side of the island, was an exposed cliff with a jumble of the car-sized boulders and rubble at its base. Below them, in the far distance, was the City of Saint George, and beyond that, the vastness of the Caribbean Sea. They came to rest in the clearing, where his grandfather turned to him and spoke calmly, “Do you see the mountain?” he asked. Daniel nodded, looking to the top of the peak. “Do you think you can climb it?” his grandfather asked. Daniel, confused, knew the mountain was virtually unassailable from this side. “I cannot climb the mountain from here, Papa,” he answered. “It is too steep, and I am not prepared.” His grandfather smiled. “That is correct, my boy. Today you are not prepared.” He paused to gauge Daniel’s reaction, and then asked, “But do you think you could climb it if you had to, right now, today?” Daniel was caught off-guard. “I am not sure,” he answered. “There will come a time, Daniel, when you least expect it, when you’ll stand before such a mountain, and you’ll have to climb it. There will be no way around it, no turning back. Sooner or later, at least once in life, we all must face the mountain. It, the challenge, will come before you in your most desperate hour, when all seems lost. It will make you or break you. To move forward in life, you must climb the mountain, Daniel. Do not shy away or even attempt to go back. There will be no way back. So, I’m telling you now, as I told your father once upon a time, you must prepare yourself for that eventuality—for you will not only be alone when that day comes, Daniel—but on your own. Getting to the other side will be your salvation.” His grandfather stared into his eyes to make sure what he said registered with him. “My mountain was not the Great War, which, believe me, was a tough climb. No, my mountain came after, in Russia. But you know that story.” His grandfather smiled, and Daniel smiled knowingly. “That changed my life forever.” He embraced his grandfather, and the old man hugged him close, and said, “Answer the phone, Daniel.” Daniel released his grandfather and found himself in his bed.

“Answer the phone, Daniel,” Pia was mumbling, her face buried in her pillow. “Daniel, the phone,” she raised her head. “It’s too loud. It’s going to wake the children.”

“Right!” Confused, he flailed about the bed, attempting to gather his wits. He sat up on its edge, placing his feet on the cool wooden floor. He picked up his cell phone and stared at it blankly. Another rapid staccato burst, like a hammer on a bell, rang out, startling him and rousing him fully. “The volume,” he thought. “I gotta figure that out.” The damn thing always made him jump. Clearing his throat, he answered, speaking with conviction, “This is Captain Loomis.” There was a pause. “Yes, Lieutenant Stefanus,” he said. Pia sat up. “Is he all right?” Pia placed her hand on his shoulder. “How many?” She leaned in closer and hugged him, frightened. “Common Market Straat—in the back of an alley?” he asked. “Yes. I know that place. I am on my way,” he said, but paused, and then responded, “A reporter?” Captain Loomis asked, surprised. “Really?” he asked again. “All right,” he gave a sigh. “Yes, yes, I will,” he said, and this time disconnected.

Captain Loomis turned his lamp on. He looked at the time. It seemed he had been gone for days, but he had only slept a short while. “The dream was too vivid,” he thought. “Too symbolic.” Christian Square. The monster. And his grandfather was there talking to him. He remembered that day. It had been many years. He turned to Pia, who was staring at him fretfully.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Daniel hesitated, unsure of how to respond, wondering if he should share the dream or the phone call, then said, “That was Captain Van Brock’s man, Lieutenant Stefanus. There was an ambush on Common Market Straat. Sergeant Barton’s unit.” He would not tell her that the ambush was a bomb.

“Oh, no!” Pia gasped.

“I need to call my aide.” He pressed a number on his phone and held it to his ear. “There are casualties,” he continued. “Sergeant Barton was wounded, but he’s alive. He was one of the more fortunate ones.”

“Thank God!” she breathed, then added, “Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“I know what you meant, Pia,” he smiled. He held up his hand to quiet her. “Robbins,” he spoke into the phone. “This is Captain Loomis. We’ve got trouble.” He paused, listening. “Another ambush, I’m afraid. A patrol was hit on Common Market Straat, and then some. Come get me at my house. I’ll fill you in, but I need you to find out about a reporter on the way over. Morley’s his name, Hanson Morley, an American. Also, call Sergeant Ford. Tell him to pick up Sergeant Scott and meet us there.” He paused, again, and thought he heard another voice—a woman’s. “That boy’s a gamer,” he thought, and smiled. “Ten or fifteen minutes, then.” He shut the phone off and began to dress rapidly. “There was a murder, too, Pia, in an alleyway.”

“Oh, Daniel, no,” she said. “Was it connected to the others?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “But I must go.” He rushed to the sink in the adjacent bathroom, and splashed water on his face and over his head. “There is much to do,” he hollered. He ran his razor over his neck and cheeks and chin as fast as he could; only lightly trimming his whiskers.

“Be careful, Daniel,” Pia said, “Please. I’m worried.”

“There’s plenty to worry about but nothing to worry about,” he said, stepping into the bedroom, buttoning his shirt. “That is the nature of this business.”

“But …,” she began to speak.

“I am always careful, Pia.” He slipped into his pants and tossed a tie around his neck. “Believe me, I have no desire to get my ass blown off,” he smiled weakly.

“What does a reporter have to do with this?” asked Pia. “Does Captain Van Brock want an exclusive?”

Captain Loomis laughed. “You listened intently, my dear. That concerned an American reporter I need to speak with.” He slipped into his shoes.

“At this hour?” Pia asked. Whenever Daniel started choosing his words carefully, she knew full well he was being evasive.

“It cannot wait,” he answered.

“But he’s a foreign reporter?”

“I know he is,” he said. “And he apparently has drawn Captain Van Brock’s attention.”

“You can never beat the press, Daniel,” she protested. “They always have the last word.”

“Just as history is written by those who write, the last word is written by those who hold the pen,” he smiled at his wit.

“In this country?” she added.

“Pia, my dear,” he said. “This bedroom is our sanctuary, but even here, for your own sake, and the sake of our family, we must choose our words carefully.”

“Has it come to this, Daniel?” she asked, looking into his eyes, “The all-powerful, all-knowing Directorate?” Her voice rose, as much in frustration as anger. She sat on the bed naked still, leaning against the headboard. Her knees were drawn up to her breasts, her arms locked in place around her knees. She rocked with nervous energy, squeezing her knees and breasts together tightly. Some questions were best not to be asked, but she could not help herself.

He could not answer her, not directly, and it pained him deeply. He studied her—her eyes, nose, and lips, her voluptuous curves and tiny toes. At thirty-nine, even after three children, she looked as fit and firm and beautiful as ever. She was seven years younger yet that much older than him. She was keenly perceptive. They had been married twelve years, but five years of quasi-civil war and terror was taking its toll. Pia was the world to him, yet there were times, like now, he worried he confided in her too much, gave her too much information. He did not want secrets between them, but he did not want to place her in a position of compromise, either. “Vigilance, Pia,” was all he could manage to say. He put his arms into the sleeves of his dark green blazer. She squeezed her knees and breasts together harder.

“Daniel,” she said.

“Van Brock’s not too fond of the press, and really, neither am I,” he half-joked. “Especially the Americans—but you know that. The majority of them never get the story right. They’ve always got something to sell.”

“Daniel,” she said, again.

“Yes, Pia?”

“Be careful.”

“I will, my dear,” he said.

“Don’t forget—I love you.”

Sterilized

“Well, Stefanus?” barked Captain Van Brock. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were hidden by dark glasses.

“Yes, sir?” asked Lieutenant Stefanus. He was standing rigid, at attention, in Captain Van Brock’s office, in front of his desk, in the bowels of the Directorate. He was waiting for an “at ease,” which he was sure would never come.

“Don’t play coy with me, soldier,” he snapped. “What did Loomis say?”

“I’m not playing coy with you, sir,” he responded. “I wasn’t sure what you meant.” He was exhausted. It was one-thirty in the morning and he was still baffled why he had been ordered to work through the night.

“Did Loomis have anything to say?”

“He responded affirmatively to your orders, sir,” Lieutenant Stefanus said. “Captain Loomis will question the reporter Morley, first, and then go to the bomb site to investigate.”

“Did he say anything else?” Captain Van Brock pressed him.

“No sir, nothing of importance.” He looked at Captain Van Brock’s face, the scars in the hollows of his cheeks were pronounced under the fluorescent light, pockmarks from a bout of acne long ago. It was hard enough for him to conceive that Captain Van Brock was ever a child, let alone a teenager with a bad case of acne.

“I will decide what is important, Stefanus,” he snapped.

Lieutenant Stefanus hesitated momentarily before responding, as he often did. In an environment of endless cross-examination and interrogation, he had adopted the catchphrase “the less said, the better,” as his personal motto. “Captain Loomis was concerned for the men,” he said. “Nothing more. That was all.” Who was he to decide whether the intonation in Captain Loomis’s voice, his stunned response upon being ordered to first go to the Hotel Paradise to question a reporter rather than go investigate a bombing of a patrol under his command, was incredulous or not. He did not want to hear a tirade. He had come to expect every response to every question asked of him to be probed and dissected by Captain Van Brock, for he trusted no one. Tirades of any kind for any reason were too common. Here, under Captain Van Brock, no one ever let their guard down or showed any emotion. Unlike his prior assignment in Internal Accountability, there was no trust or rapport on this level of the Directorate, which was six stories below the street and that much closer to hell. On his very first day here, he had noticed the vacuous expressions on the faces of his colleagues. No greetings, no welcomes, no introductions were extended. They were as cold as the atmosphere of the entire suite of offices, meeting rooms, labs, and interrogation rooms. With the exception of portraits of the Directorate Commander Colonel Stevin, Prime Minister Rinehart, and Captain Van Brock, which were hung side-by-side in the outer lobby behind the receptionist’s front desk, every wall in every room and corridor was barren. Florescent lights flooded the walls in a pale, bluish-white. It completed the effect of total and absolute sterilization of body and soul. “Sterilize,” Lieutenant Stefanus contemplated. A word Captain Van Brock, whose charge and domain was the OCI—the Office of Chief Inspector—used frequently and with reverence.

“You have made contact with Sergeant Butcher?” asked Captain Van Brock more congenially.

“Sergeant Butcher and his men were the first ones there at the bomb site. They have contained the street,” he said. “First responders have arrived on the scene, too. Reports are five men dead, ten men wounded.”

“Yes, yes, Stefanus, I’m well aware that men are down,” he said, impatiently and without concern. “But what did Sergeant Butcher say? Did he have anything specific to report?”

“Actually, he said, ‘the street and surrounding buildings are sterilized,’” Lieutenant Stefanus answered. “Those were his exact words.”

“Are you sure?” Captain Van Brock probed.

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Good,” he smiled, “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Sergeant Butcher reports that there’s been another murder—one of the dead in the alleyway was murdered—mutilated in the same fashion as the others.”

“Well, well,” Captain Van Brock said, “interesting fucking development.” He paused as though mesmerized by news of a mutilation. “Is there anything else?”

“He wants to know how to manage it.”

“Call Loomis and inform him of the murder, so he knows what to expect after he’s done with the reporter,” Captain Van Brock ordered. “Let him deal with it. I want a full report on my desk by ten a.m.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, without telling him he had already informed Captain Loomis of the murder.

“And then tell him to clean up his fucking District, too,” he said. “I’m sick of these fucking grotesque murders. I want the fiend responsible apprehended. He’s making me look bad.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Anything else?”

“No, sir,” he replied.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked. Lieutenant Stefanus wondered. What was he waiting for? It had been a year, five months, and three days since Lieutenant Stefanus was assigned to the Chairman of the Committee of Safety’s Office of Chief Inspector, the Directorate’s intelligence and counterintelligence arm, as Captain Van Brock’s aide. His predecessor, one Lieutenant Odie Dorfman, had been killed when a Stinger missile struck Captain Van Brock’s Land Rover as Odie drove away from Cortlandt Manor, Captain Van Brock’s dreaded urban retreat. When he was assigned to the Committee of Internal Accountability, previous to his assignment as Captain Van Brock’s Special Assistant, Lieutenant Stefanus had never been one to contemplate the possibility of miracles. But now he was thoroughly convinced he could make a solid case that not only do miracles happen, but that Satan was well-schooled in granting them. For, miraculously, Captain Van Brock was not in the vehicle when Odie sped away into legend—the third such driver to meet his end in an exploding Land Rover issued to the Captain. When he received his orders to report to the Committee of Safety, he was certain it was a death sentence. He wondered what he had done to deserve such a promotion. He had a PhD for a treatise on urban unrest in post-industrial society. For that work they sent him to personally serve the number-two man in the Directorate—a man one heartbeat away from, in all but title, being the de facto ruler of the country. Lieutenant Stefanus wanted no part of that day if it ever came. The country would be surely doomed, if it wasn’t already. Even the goat herders under the shadow of Mont Chèvre would find no peace.

“That will be all, then,” Captain Van Brock said, dismissively, with a wave of his hand.

With a quick salute, Lieutenant Stefanus turned a hundred-eighty degrees on his heel and marched out of Captain Van Brock’s office. He envisioned continuing a deliberate pace to the elevator, entering it and rising, going forth into the lobby, walking out of the building and into the night. Yet, as he sat down at his desk, he stared blankly at his computer screen. He was sure he heard the slightest cackle of delight coming from the room he had left, but did not glance that way to find out. Instead, he picked up the phone, and made up his mind right then. There was only one way out.

Alpo Can Get Expensive

“Why is it Jim, whenever I hear the phone ring, especially in the middle of the fucking night, I now think of you?” yawned Sergeant Scott. He was sitting up in his bed, his phone cradled under his chin, looking at the woman sleeping next to him. “My wife would think I’m having an affair!”

“First all, Jeff, you’re not married,” replied Sergeant Ford, “no woman would throw that dog of yours a bone. Secondly, if it’s me you think of in the middle of the night, you should know, I’m not your type.”

“No you’re not, Jim. Vanquish the thought.”

“I already have, Jeff. I spoon with no man.”

“Are you hitting on me, Jim?”

“No, but I am coming to get you,” he said. “The tuna boat is rolling your way right now.”

“What do I owe the pleasure?”

“Lieutenant Robbins called.”

“What did the choir boy have to say? Call Jeff. Wake him up and annoy him?”

“He began with a lecture, something about no time to rest or play when duty calls.”

“Enlightening.” Sergeant Scott stood up, looking around in the dim light for his boxers. He was momentarily distracted by the woman in the bed. She snored out loudly and farted, and he cringed.

“What was that, Jeff?” asked Sergeant Ford, momentarily confused. “Holy shit! You’re banging your landlady again!”

“That was my dog, Jim,” replied Sergeant Scott. “The Alpo makes her fart.”

“Maybe you should try feeding your dog something different for a change of pace. There’s better dog food on the market if you take the time to look. Shop around. Alpo can get expensive.”

“What’s the sudden interest in my dog, Jim? One minute you’re telling me the pooch couldn’t get a bone if it had to, the next you’re all concerned about what it eats. Make up your mind.” Sergeant Scott spied his boxers on the floor across the room, in a short queue of clothing running from the door towards the bed. “What next? You wanna rub its belly? ‘Cuz this is getting awkward.”

“Next month, pay your rent on time, Jeff, and we can avoid these awkward conversations,” answered Sergeant Ford. “As for now, let the Chihuahua snooze, and see if you can leave the apartment without waking her.” He laughed quietly to himself. “Meet me outside in five. Our presence was urgently requested at Common Market Straat.”

“Bad news?”

“Very bad. Barton’s patrol was hit hard, according to the choir boy.” He paused, and then added, “There’s also another mangled body.”

“The monster struck?” he asked, slipping into his boxers. “Holy shit! Is it true?”

“Jeff! Would you just get dressed and meet me outside? I’m two blocks away. This crap-ass Crown Vic is slow enough. It would be nice if we beat the Captain to the scene of the crime.”

“And watch Robbins puke?”

“For the love of Christ, Jeff!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m dressed,” he bullshited, “and walking out the door right now. Goodbye.” He shut off his phone and was dressed in seconds. He glanced around the room, gave it a quick recon. His handcuffs hung from a bedpost on the headboard. A nylon stocking was tied firmly around the other, its toe-end dangling near the pillow. A frilly bra was draped over the lampshade on the nightstand. Its clasp nearly touched the top of an empty wine bottle beneath it. Her other stocking and skirt hung from the blades on the ceiling fan. He crept over to the bed and pocketed his handcuffs. He smiled, studying the woman. He thought how nice it would be to come home to her each night. She likes to play, and play hard. He leaned forward to peck her forehead, but she twisted away from him, as though struggling to free herself from an invisible hand. Farting hard, she stilled and slept on peacefully. He backed away silently, having second thoughts about all. Knowing he’d nearly put his face in it, he wondered if it was time to start paying the rent on time, and rushed off to meet his partner in crime, law, and order, Sergeant Ford.

The Old House

The late model Land Rover pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the gate at the end of Captain Loomis’s driveway. Immediately, two dogs, German Shepherds, began to bark and run toward the gate. Captain Loomis came from the left side of his house this time and watched them run. They were playful, but very protective. He looked both ways, then up and around, before he dashed across the lawn to the gate. “Easy, girls,” he said to the dogs. “Quiet now, it’s only Robbins.” The dogs, whom his daughter had named Buster and Zed, quieted at his words. Captain Loomis patted each dog’s head. “Hello, my lovelies,” he said. The dogs wagged their tails eagerly, returning the affection. “Now go back to the house,” he said. “House!” he repeated, and the dogs bolted off to the front porch.

Captain Loomis watched the dogs run and then looked up at his house, a modest three-story Victorian that dated from the 1890s. Once upon a time, it had been his grandfather’s. He was a physician, who ran his practice out of the front rooms on the first floor. In his grandfather’s day, everyone in the city of Saint George, young and old, knew this house. It was a place to heal. Captain Loomis was grateful the property had passed to him, though it was quite by chance and unexpected. After the death of his grandparents, the house sat vacant for several years. There was no one in the family who had need of it. Daniel’s parents were retired to the heights above Eastpunt. His older brother, Peter, who had followed in their father’s footsteps, was an attorney. He ran a practice out of Sant Hoek, which was on the opposite side of the island. His older sister, Becky, who had followed in their grandfather’s footsteps and practiced medicine, lived there, too. She and her husband, Jediah, who was also a doctor, ran a clinic. His younger brother, Luke, was an engineer who landed a gig on Maui and settled there. Captain Loomis went to college in America, up north in the State of Maine. He had considered taking up residence there. But for the harsh winters, he would have. Upon his graduation with a degree in Political Science, he applied to and was accepted in, the Military Academy of Saint George. By then, what to do with the property had become problematic. It had fallen into disrepair, and there was serious talk of selling it because of increasing property taxes. However, by fate or fortune, Captain Loomis was posted in Saint George after his graduation from the Academy. He offered to buy the house, discussed the prospects with his parents and siblings. The family agreed, for one guilder, it was his to own and restore. Captain Loomis remembered that day, how happy he was, moving into his grandfather’s house. It was nothing less than a dream come true. The house sat on an oversized lot, just over half an hectare, in a quiet middle-class neighborhood. He set about restoring the property, which he did with care. Marriage followed, and then children. There were promotions, and his appointment as a District Commander. Captain Loomis was content and complete. That was, until dissent turned to unrest, and unrest turned to violence, and violence turned to chaos. He was befuddled at times over what he should do with his family, for their safety. He thought of sending them away to another country, but Pia would have none of it, even after the bombing. For their own peace of mind, they did agree on the wall. A seven-foot high brick wall was built encompassing the entire property, and an automated wrought iron gate was installed at the entrance to the driveway. It was over-the-top for the neighborhood, but given the degree of violence in the city, and his rank and position as a District Commander, he felt he had very little choice.

He looked over the property one last time—at Pia’s carefully tended flowerbeds, the neat shrubbery, and the tall kapok tree. Buster and Zed had returned to the porch and were sprawled out near the front door. He looked up and spied Pia’s silhouette in the darkened bedroom window. She raised her hand. “She’s a good woman,” he thought. “And I’m a lucky man.” He blew her a kiss, and then slipped by the gate. A youthful, blonde-haired man in his late twenties jumped from the driver’s seat and opened the rear door. Lieutenant Robbins was dressed meticulously in olive-colored fatigues.

“Good evening, Robbins,” said Captain Loomis, he jumped in the back. “Or should I say good morning?”

“Yes, good morning, sir,” he replied. He backed out onto the street quickly, threw the Land Rover into drive, and accelerated rapidly, “And a very early one.”

“Hotel Paradise, Lieutenant,” he said. Robbins was already at the end of the street and wheeling a hard right around the corner. “Easy man, we have much to do.” Captain Loomis had never warmed to his aide’s wild driving. He secured his seat belt and then reached for a cigar in his coat pocket.

“Yes, Captain,” he answered, looking in the rearview mirror at him. “It looks like another long day ahead.” He pressed on, accelerating through traffic at the next intersection.