Chapter Five

Thursday was just a buffer until Friday, thought Harry.

He and Lester worked as though there had been no strangeness the night before, minding the fractional differences of machines that lost their calibration, even if by tenths, and checking dispenser valves to make sure there was no corrosion that weakened seals or allowed seepage. Their conversation appeared banal the spare times Janet tuned them in over her labored breaths, sitting across the office much like a bloated, living piece of furniture for the OSE. The coexistence of departments in the shared space, while harmonious, was more a function of decorum than of genuine pleasantness. They efficiently ignored her, Martha, and Vlad much as they returned the favor, and only though the repetition of encountering them would it even register how fat Janet was, or the ugliness of the other, and the air of swishy-ness of the gangly Russian.

Lester was sedate on account of his lack of rest, and the adrenaline which carried him back to his car and Harry’s place was pegged at E. He had participated in a study years back testing endurance and sleep deprivation, and came out far better than most of the other test subjects, so he was used to bottoming out and operating in a diminished, conservational capacity. There was plenty of new information that he needed to process, but whether it was the weight of all those potentially intertwined thoughts just or sheer fatigue, sorting it out was not possible, and he was more or less functioning on auto-pilot. Tonight, he would sleep hard – barring any other odd interruptions. Harry, on the other hand, would continue to sleep with difficulty.

Weird shit was not his favorite part of the job, and whenever there was an assignment that was the stuff of the fantastic, it drained him. All agents of The Department surrendered to a battery of psychological testing and examination entering their program, and it was not only tough individuals who could handle the mental rigors of the tasks they would be asked to perform, but ones who were generally skeptical but unflappable. Harry didn’t take the time to ask, “gee, why am I putting steroids in an athlete’s drink without them knowing” or “am I really driving around a clone of the president?” He just did it, and didn’t ask why cancer cures were not being immediately revealed to the public or verifying the truths of alien encounter abductees. It was not his place, he felt, to question the reasoning, but rather his duty to facilitate that which was being done for “the greater good” of society and the world. But in that manner, that level of denial, or at least disassociation, took a toll which cost him the restful sanctuary of sleep, especially when his clandestine world became contaminated with the bizarre.

Worse, his thoughts of Angie made the odd nature of this assignment harder to block out. That Lester had possibly ended up with Ahern’s sheath gave brought back the faint memory of her after the night’s dream, which he could not recall beyond the suggestion of her presence. He would not find sleep easily tonight, almost subconsciously avoiding it just to rid himself of the chance that she would intrude again. Her unexplainable disappearance never sat well with him, not only because he doubted he’d ever have the chance to be assigned to assist her, but that it had been months since the episode and no further developments had come across the wire. It was customary to not speak of past work, but even when agents had been lost on the job, others still talked or shared stories. But with Angie, it was like she was literally lost, and there was no funeral, no follow up, and no mention. Harry didn’t worry that should something as strange ever befall him, would anybody bother to try and find out what happened – it was that there was the chance it could happen.

- - -

At 6:42pm, Brother Dave arrived at SCANTV for his anticipated show. Pam was always there before him, dressing the set and making sure there were no loose ends prior to broadcast. They had spoke only briefly the day before, enough for Dave to tell her that he was going to be meditating most of the day and calling off their usual war room session in the evening. At first it worried Pam, but with no guests to pre-interview, phone conferences to set up, or last minute ideas to cater to from Dave, she happily accepted being off her leash and gave no second thought to his intensity and worries before about the program going well. It was one of those rare shows that it was going to be surprise for her as much as it would be for the audience – and she was one of the closest people to him.

She didn’t bother asking what he’d done yesterday, and as usual, Dave was only thinking of the show when he arrived, keeping mostly to himself. Karen, a student beautician from the Wanda Trussler School of Beauty gave him a light base of make up in the opposite end the studio, while Pam and Missy were sitting with the two cameramen, Jonas and Brendan chatting about nothing of consequence. He closed his eyes and looked almost asleep in the chair, and Karen, with her model height and looks knew that he wasn’t going to open them and peer flirtatiously down her loose blouse. It was another silent application that caused some insecurity, since the older male hosts sized her up for dirty intentions and Dave couldn’t care less. He had been looking forward to taking a full show to talk about the things that he’d been told, and the conversations he’d had. It was like a yoke that would finally be lifted like so much baggage from his years.

A few minutes before the show aired at eight, Lester and Harry showed up at SCANTV. Missy came to the locked door, and spoke through the intercom as they buzzed the bell.

“Yeah?”

“Uh, we’re here for your show, ‘The Word,” Harry said. “We’re here to watch.”

“We don’t shoot that before an audience,” she replied, and started away from the door. Lester buzzed the ringer again, calling her back over. He leaned into the thin pane of glass that framed the metal door, so she could see him and to make sure she was actually coming back.

“Sweetie,” he said, “you’re gonna have to make an exception and let us in.”

He flipped open his wallet and pushed his badge up to the window, which she leaned over to see, made an unimpressed face, and disappeared back behind the door.

She hit the intercom and spoke. “I’m gonna need to talk with my producer. Sweetie.”

Lester was starting to protest, hitting the com button, but Missy was already walking back to the studio. She came upon Pam, who was in the broadcast nest, cueing up the intro, and had a look of loathing on her face.

“These two guys,” she said with a hint of sass at the word guys, “want to be in the studio for the taping. One of them had a badge, but it’s not a cop badge.”

“Finish scrubbing the cart back to the cue and I’ll go see what they want.”
They switched places and Pam attended to the men at the door. Dave drew his share of oddballs, and in addition to her dozen other functions, she had to be security screener and fan control.

“Guys”, she said apologetically, “we don’t allow for in-house audiences. Station regulations. Show will be on live soon, but we’ll be re-broadcasting and there will be links in case you don’t get home in time and miss some. Sorry…”

Harry tried again.

“I understand, but you’re going to need to let us in. We’d like to speak with David Bullock.”

He pulled out his own badge, and put it against the window, which caused Pam to point towards the mail slot in the door. He fed it through and she examined it. His Federal Inspector badge and photo laminate were satisfactory for Pam, although government workers other than mail carriers at the door was not a good thing in her mind. She opened the door gingerly to let them in.

“You can’t talk with him until he’s done with the broadcast, okay,” Pam started. “He won’t see you anyway…he’s on set and ready to go, and you don’t want him spending the next hour talking about two Feds who disrupted his show. They’re be a whole crowd of people outside this door waiting for you when it’s over.”

“I’d hate to get in-between the fan club and our boy,” Lester said, deflecting her implied threat.

“No, that’s fine,” interrupted Harry, playing the diplomat. “We’ll talk with him after the show. Agent Cohen and I just have a few questions for Mr. Bullock. He’s not in trouble, we just want to speak with him.”

Pam relaxed a little. She wasn’t going to tell Dave of the visitors until after they were done, but figured he was telling the truth.

“Okay Mr. Hardy”, she said, looking at the ID and handing it back to Harry. “You’ll have to watch from the conference room, but afterwards I’ll come and get you.”

She escorted them down the hall and opened the door for them. There was a large flat screen mounted on the wall, and a oval shaped table for eight in the center of the room. Pam gestured to the back wall and pointed out coffee, water and a few (warm) cans of soda, along with a fairly decimated basket of fruit and snacks. Public television had little in the way of craft service, especially by the end of the week.

“Thanks, we’ll be fine,” Harry told her, as they sat down to wait. The last minutes of the re-airing of Howard Buell’s Eat Seattle was playing.

When Pam was gone, Lester turned to Harry and complained, “Chilly reception from those two.”

“What exactly were you expecting?”

“I don’t know…I just felt like we were interrupting their quiet time by candlelight with some wine and a Joan Baez album.”

Harry laughed, and the screen went dark. The show was about to begin.

- - -

From the blackness, the slow build of horns sounded. Bom-didi-bom bom-bom-bom bom-bom bom-bom-bom, they went, as the image of soaring past stars in space faded in. The theme from the Superman movie built up momentum, as a superimposed shot of Brother Dave entered from the bottom of the screen. He floated, legs crossed in the lotus position until he reached the center, eyes opening wide as the music hit the familiar refrain, and a warm voice like a movie trailer said “The Word”. In a whisper, another voice echoed, “The Word”, and the theme played on. Brother Dave appeared to rotate around and hover off the top of the screen, the expanse of space still moving. The image faded out, and Pam counted down with her fingers…three…two…one, and pointed to Dave, who was sitting cross-legged on a pile of pillows, elevated on a yard long cube draped in a colorful sheet. Gone was the standard chair that would have been opposite him on the riser that was their stage, but to his right was an antique dark wooden side table, which has some candles and incense issuing dim light and strings of smoke. The house lights were dim, but soft floor lighting at either end of the stage cast enough light on Dave for the cameras but maintained the moody ambience.

“Good evening friends,” he spoke, turning his hands out in a welcoming manner, “and thank you for joining me this evening. I am your brother, Dave, and we are all family here, when we discuss…THE WORD!”

Jonas drew in closer, centering Dave for his opening words. Brendan had him at a 45 degree angle, but was holding a wider shot for Pam, who liked to overlap the images in a crossfade.

“Tonight, we have a very special show, but don’t have any guests, and I won’t be taking your calls tonight. Instead, I’d like to explore deeper so things we’ve touched on in the past. Of course, there’s going to be a lot of confusion and questions, and many of you will need to let what I tell you settle in for a while, but that’s okay. We fear what we do not understand, and what we do not understand becomes that which must be mastered. Our fear of that which must be mastered is what stands between us growing into the people we are destined to be and those we are forced to become. As always, I would like to begin this show with a moment of reflection, for all of us to take time to release those thoughts and feelings that are holding us back from focusing on what is truly important…and that is…THE WORD.”

A harp strummed lightly in the background to punctuate his completion of the words, and the cameras switched back and forth as Brother Dave took in deep breaths and rocked slowly forwards and back with his eyes closed for almost half a minute.

“I don’t know if I could sit through a full hour of this”, Lester said rubbing his forehead. Harry didn’t have any response, and kept watching.

Brother Dave opened his eyes and smiled.

“As long as one person lives in darkness then it seems to be a responsibility to tell other people. And so I tell you this - we have difficult times ahead of us.”

All eyes in the studio were on Dave, including those of girl who managed to get in through the locked front door and resign herself to the shadows of the adjacent hallway that led into the studio. Even if the darkness wasn’t her shroud, the long strands of her midnight hair obscured her face. Her petite form was shapeless under layers of long skirt, tunic, and overcoat, but nothing obscured those green eyes from training on Brother Dave. Ivy noted that he was nearly hypnotic the way he was speaking, and while there was some hint of that in the past, tonight he had seemed to ditch the manic turns between excitement and combative questioning for a more repressed and tranquil tone. It was like a serenade, a faint siren song that, now that she was seeing it up close, was so loud and clear that it turned everything else into static.

“Now, you have heard me tell you some things in previous shows that, I will admit, are incredibly hard to digest, especially for you folks who believe you think rationally. Do vampires walk among us in our fair city? Oh, that was quite a little stir when we talked about that. And the psychics we’ve had on this program have certainly left us stuck on what to believe and discount. I have brought you tales of ancient shamans, and discussed at length the theocratic dogma that is more a prison than a platform for us. You have been patient and attentive and humored my as much as I have humored you. What can you really believe? Should I have medicated myself to feel normal, and silenced the voices that are as clear to me as my own voice?”

He glanced over at Pam, who was rapt with attention, and Missy, who stood behind her equally transfixed.

“For all you know, I’m schizophrenic. Am I?”.

He paused, giving everyone time to make a decision. He smiled.

“The universe is an intelligence test.”

There was another pause, and then he continued.

“I have mentioned the concept of angels and demons to you, and read Vedic and Sumerian scripture. All you good little girls and boys who went to Sunday school and read your testaments have had fun trying to connect the dots with the hints I have given you. I have translated Hebrew texts and debated clerics and scholars across the spectrum, but what I’m sharing with you is nothing that I have studied, but experienced.

When I was young, I was awaked to a world, a realm of possibility that I did not ever believe could exist. If you stand in the sun and look over your shoulder, you’ll see your negative, your shadow. But imagine looking at yourself from the reverse, as the shadow, the opposite. Even in the 10-dimensional space of existence, there is something…more.”

He reached over to the table to pick up a ribbon of paper, which he gave a gentle twist and shaped into a möbius strip.

“I acknowledge the privilege of being alive in a human body at this moment, endowed with senses, memories, emotions, thoughts, and the space of mind in its wisdom aspect. We are unbroken like this.”

”Yes,” Ivy whispered.

“The concept of a soul is easy to understand, but as it is both intangible yet inherently part of your being, so are the Host. To be a vessel is both a privilege and sacrifice. At times, you feel fusion instead of union, but there is also a disconnect where a part of you is missing, and that void is as real as any piece of you that you can touch.”

Lester was looking out the window, watching the gales bend the trees in the twilight. The last amber and indigo hues were being swallowed by night, but also by a dense body of bloated grey clouds. The storm system should have cleared out for the weekend, but the gusts must have pushed them inland again, he thought.

“We know things in abstracts and binary terms. There are concepts like good, and evil, and we determine this from our perspective. But you have to consider all the angles before you can truly have a proper view. I speak to you the name Ru, one of three, and the three are of 17. They are seven and seven and three in-between, the observers…the judges. While the farthest reaches of time and space are in the chaotic throws of battle, we are relatively unscathed, but for how long is unclear. The Mayans dated it in 2012, and other cultures have their listings, but don’t think it’s going to be marked on a calendar when the barrier is fully breached. That day time will stop.”

Harry asked, “Do you think that he believes this?”

Lester nodded. “I really do. I just wish he’d tie it into something…discordianism, Elder Gods, the law of fives, the 23 principle – this is just a lot of cognitive dissonance.”

An incredible rumble cut through the air as the clouds collided. Even in the reinforced acoustics of the studio the thunder was evident. Brother Dave glanced upward as though his words had been heard by disapproving skies.

“A circle is the reflection of eternity. It has no beginning and it has no end - and if you put several circles over each other, then you get a spiral.”

Another monster rumble broke, this one even louder and shaking the building. Brother Dave closed his eyes and bowed his head down. Ivy watched attentively waiting for his next words, but they never came. The loudest roar yet jarred the building, and suddenly a forked bolt of purple and white lightening punched through the roof striking the infinity wall in the corner of the room. The wind swept through the gash in the roof and howled like an angry, wounded beast. Another luminous bolt split the roof further, bringing a sheet of rain through behind it. The electrical blast jumped around the room, reflecting off walls and diving through equipment, which shorted and caused a cascade of sparks. The thunder clapped again, and there was a moment of stillness. Then, a loud creak followed by a high pitched whine was heard, and the rest of the roof bent and fell into the studio. Pam ducked into the cubicle-like nest for shelter, but Missy was hardly as agile. A ceiling beam slammed into her head with such force that it nearly knocked it from her body. It was held on only by her spine, which had anchored it to the body as much as it slowed the velocity of the head from being plucked like a flower and stem.

The shorted equipment gave it’s last glowing burst of spark before faltering and plunging the studio into darkness. Harry and Lester ran though the hallway and in to the studio. They pushed through the collapsed roof and wreckage to Dave, who sported a nasty bruise on his forehead, and his clothes where tattered.

“It’s gone,” he whispered. “I can’t feel it anymore…”

Gone too was Ivy, disappeared into the rainy night and untouched by the crumbling building, guided by the Host.

Chapter Four

The jaded mind of Lester Phfister was irrefutably blown. For every one of Mr. Face’s revelations, Lester had a dozen more questions. As he walked down the slowly brightening tree-lined road, Lester couldn’t help but wonder if what just transpired was Mr. Face’s strange idea of interdepartmental bonding. Lester was aware that certain entities observed the work he and his colleagues performed. He didn’t expect those entities to be so dramatically gonzo. The after-hours surveillance was worrisome. If they were investigating him or vetting him for some promotion, Mr. Face made no effort to reveal such details. And leaving a caduceus unattended in a disco era automobile—talk about careless. This Mr. Face was sending Lester a message. Lester spoiled Face’s attempt at micromanaged subtlety.

Lester was already making plans to corroborate Face’s bullshit with management. And he definitely needed some concrete answers on the caduceus. But Lester had to overcome one major problem—the lines of communication between he and management were compartmentalized and extremely focused. Any attempt to find out information on other agents or missions would be stonewalled. More than once Lester had inquired about the outcome of major sporting events and stock tips. The closest thing he ever got to a response was a hearty guffaw. At least they would get an earful on Mr. Face’s slip up. Most likely though management wouldn’t even know who Mr. Face was.

The thought of someone else driving his Nova truly disturbed Lester. She was a bit temperamental, but not nearly to the degree of irrationality as the former Mrs. Phfister was. “If you love the car so much, why don’t you marry it?” she used to say, thinking herself very clever while using such a juvenile colloquialism. What little time Lester’s job allowed him to spend with Mrs. Phfister, she always made a point to fill it with the never-ending discussion about what little time his job allowed him to spend with her. It didn’t take long for both of them to grow weary of the conversation and the catch 22 they were in. The hours weren’t going to change, and Mrs. Phfister was never going to be happy about it even when Lester was around. The Nova was thankfully an inanimate object. The Nova didn’t mind Lester’s music, she was always ready for a ride, and if Lester wanted to walk, the Nova wouldn’t complain.

“There better not be a scratch on her, or I’ll drive her straight up Mr. Face’s ass. Mr. Face. Ha! He must have some ugly mug to be covering it up like that.” Lester always had to say something to fill the silence.

The sight of the Nova put a little spring in Lester’s step. He jogged the remainder of the distance to the car. So far Mr. Face was following through on his promises. In the Nova, the caduceus sat politely sheathed on the passenger’s seat. Lester’s reservations about Mr. Face were beginning to melt away. Mr. Face was starting to look like the red tape cutter of the year by handing over a lost piece of equipment in such an informal way. Lester picked the caduceus up to dutifully conceal it and was amazed at how light it actually was.

“Hold on now.” Lester’s eyebrows raised a fraction.

Without a CTU Lester was taking a huge risk by uncapping the narrow container. He was absolutely certain though and quickly found out that the sheath was in fact empty.

“Mutha… Do not tell me he was bluffing.”

The car started after a few cranks. Lester put it in gear and fish-tailed 180 degrees. The V8 roared. The solemn trees from a few minutes earlier became a wall of green. The uncannily cool Lester Phfister was uncharacteristically steaming. Lester quickly arrived at the dam only to find no evidence of the autoerotic party. Sheets of rain began to pour from the sky. Mr. Face and his associates were gone. The more Lester thought about it, the more unbelievable it seemed that someone could have delivered the caduceus to Lester’s Nova before he got to it. Maybe the mysterious Mr. Face could teleport. Or maybe he wasn’t bluffing. The caduceus in Mr. Face’s possession and the object Lester found were not one in the same. Harry! Lester didn’t have and never kept any company goodies or intelligence in his car. They could have been stalling him to get to Harry. The V8 roared again.

---

“Pam, do you believe everything Dave talks about? I mean we all know the government is pulling some super scary stunts, but when he gets going about all the inter-dimensional angels and demons stuff, I mean, come on.”

Pam gently caressed Missy’s smooth nakedness while the rain caressed their ears with white noise.

“I’ll have to claim agnosticism when it comes to that stuff. Dave has been right on with most of the topics he talks about. I can’t write off the other apparently dubious stuff. He seems pretty convinced it’s real.”

“Maybe they’re like really advanced metaphors. The images he uses to tell his stories are pretty evocative. I love the story about the first angel that crossed over to intervene in our development and how overwhelmed he was by the beauty of our world. The way Dave tells it, it really makes you appreciate everything around us. ‘And Sibr inhaled, and he tasted hyacinth. And then he fell in love with tangerine.’”

“And then he smelled shit. Did you fart?”

“Sorry.”

“Dang, Missy!”

“I guess I’ve gotten a little too comfortable.”

“Come here.”

Pam pulled Missy close, cradling Missy’s head on her breasts. She planted a fervent kiss on Missy’s forehead. Missy looked up with glistening eyes and brought her lips to Pam’s. The two were the definition of bliss. Only two other relationships had lasted longer than the one Pam now had with Missy. Pam was always chasing the high of her next infatuation. Missy’s innate youthful outlook and devotion to Pam and Dave’s vision definitely was keeping Pam engaged at the moment. When Missy came on the show as a PA intern it was instant attraction. There were times when the idea of monogamy filled Pam’s heart to the top. This was almost one of those times. However, there was the image of a raven-haired woman that just couldn’t be scraped out of the folds of Pam’s mind.

---

Lester tried Harry’s mobile phone three times, and three times he reached Harry’s voicemail greeting. As he blazed up Issaquah Hobart Road, Lester was anticipating morning traffic on I-90. Any heads up he could give to his partner would be crucial if in fact Mr. Face’s team was after data. A message would have to do.

“Turquoise, I just remembered we’re having a breakfast meeting, and you’re supposed to be in charge of the donuts. Can you bring a couple dozen? Also, make sure you include a few bear claws for me. Thanks.”

Any random food request message was a warning to the recipient to be on high alert and get moving. Lester could only hope Harry would get the message and call back. But by the time Lester made it to Beacon Hill, he still had not heard from Harry. Lester’s cool had returned, but the worried older brother sensation was starting to bubble back up. Harry, when it came to handling himself in a violent situation, was also, like Lester, a certified badass. But Lester knew Harry was more of a trusting “ask questions first” kind of guy-- a trait of Harry’s that bugged Lester constantly. In spite of this, Lester had over time grown to appreciate Harry’s unique perspective on the world and enjoyed the bits of trivia they traded back and forth. As much shit as they gave each other, what they didn’t share in personal history, they shared in mutual respect. If anyone messed with the Turq, they were going to get it back tenfold from the Phfist.

Lester took the stairs up to Harry’s floor. He approached the door to Harry’s loft cautiously. Lester hit the doorbell a few times, knocked a few times, and hit the doorbell a few times more. No one was coming to the door. Lester tried the door knob. It was locked. It was department protocol for a partner to have access to the other’s pad. Lester had it easy; he only had to carry around two extra keys. Harry had to memorize a sixteen digit security code for Lester’s heavily fortified lair. After figuring out which key worked which lock, Lester slowly cracked the door open. His quick surveillance of the room showed no signs of ransacking or blood spatter. Lester walked into the main living area and immediately noticed Harry’s limp body sprawled across the couch.

“Turquoise, wake up.”

Harry didn’t stir.

“Come on, Sunshine. You’re going to be late for work.”

Lester made his way to Harry’s sound system. He turned it on and tuned in to Seattle’s only classic rock station. He made sure Harry’s active subwoofer had power and he cranked the volume knob until the decibel meter on the display stopped moving upward. Harry fell off the couch.

“Lester, what the fuck?!”

“Grand Funk Railroad, baby!”

“You’re going to blow my fucking speakers, dickhead.”

Harry stumbled groggily to the stereo and Lester to turn down the cacophony.

“What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

“You are a seriously heavy sleeper, you know. I called a bunch of times. I was banging on the door.”

“I turned the ringer off. I was up all night studying the red folder and putting a plan together. I just fell asleep a couple hours ago.”

“Well, I didn’t sleep a wink. I had an unexpected encounter last night that led me to believe that someone might be coming for you. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you on the way to the office. I think we should take the Geo since the Nova might be damaged goods. Someone else was taking her for a joyride last night. Until I’ve checked her to see if she’s been bugged or LoJacked, I don’t feel right with her, poor baby.”

“Jeez. Now that I think about it, that tie does look familiar. Just give me a sec to shake out the cobwebs.”

Harry brushed his teeth and gave his head a bath while Lester gave himself a tour of Harry’s relatively Spartan quarters. The décor was decidedly modern with the main room’s foci on a vast wall of books and the glorious sound system. It actually surprised Lester that Harry’s sound system was so extravagant. Lester always thought he was more of the music enthusiast. The only photograph on display in the loft was in the kitchen. It was of an older a woman holding a little red-headed boy in her lap. It wasn’t hard to figure out the little boy in the picture was Harry. He was wearing a green checkered leisure suit, and must have been around three years old. Lester guessed the woman was Harry’s grandmother. Harry walked into the kitchen dressed and ready to go to find Lester studying the picture.

“It’s me and my Nana.”

“Yeah, that little suit is pimperiffic.”

Harry chuckled a little and smiled.

“It’s definitely the coolest suit I’ve ever owned.”

Harry grabbed his briefcase on the way out, and he and Lester took the elevator down to the garage where the Geo was parked. So far it was looking like, out of the two of them, Lester was the only person of interest for Mr. Face. Lester had Harry take the long way, so they would have more time to discuss everything that had happened. When Lester showed Harry the empty caduceus sheath, Harry made a confession.

“You know when I recovered Ahern’s caduceus, I never found the sheath.”

“They could have found her. Maybe they’re holding her. Maybe they took care of her. You don’t just buy these things at the supermarket. This has to be hers.”

“You said he called himself Mr. Face.”

“Yeah, no face, but he went by Mr. Face.”

“This is crazy. In the intel on our latest subject, Mr. Face is a name that popped up. Apparently in our subject’s mythology he has created, there are seventeen so-called angels that jump back and forth between their world slash dimension and ours. There is a segment in his show where he spotlights a different angel. They all have weird names, but they also have aliases they go by when they operate in our world. I’ve seen a couple of these names before as assets on our intel. One called Vros goes by Molar. One called Ciri goes by Miss Ojo. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen those names. Molar and Miss Ojo are always tipping us off on serious risks.”

“It gets weirder. There’s some cosmic war happening. These angels are protecting us from invading demons at the edge of the galaxy. In this other dimension, Vros slash Molar has like over 300 demon kills. Mr. Face was one of the aliases. His shortened angel name is Hrel. He’s also some sort of uber-angel. He’s a top weapons engineer for the angel side or something.”

“Well, he seemed like more of a douche than an angel when I met him.”

“The alarming thing is while half of what our subject is saying is some fantasy, the other half links to reality in some way. He knows things no one outside of our department should know. But he makes it sound like these angels or demons are responsible for a lot of the things we make happen. He can’t be just throwing random darts; he’s hitting too many bull’s eyes. It’s amazing it took us so long to catch on to this guy. His show is pretty mesmerizing. I watched a couple of episodes.”

“Damn. So this red folder and my rendezvous with Mr. Face can’t be isolated events. They could; but probably not.”

“I don’t know. Here’s another trippy tidbit. The subject, David Bullock, is the grandson of Lloyd Bullock. Lloyd Bullock disappeared near the Cumberland River in Kentucky in the early 1950’s as part of an incident our department was called in to cover up.”

“That’s right. They covered it up with a whole lake.”

“Yes, you know about this. I guess we’ve already dispatched a team from the Chicago office to interrogate Bullock’s parents who still live near Lake Cumberland. Lloyd’s son, David’s dad, never knew what really happened to his father. It seems David knows more than his dad.”

Chapter Three

Lester had planned to do something terribly stupid when Mr. Shitbag and his mysterious associate got into the Nova, like forcing a crash or attempting to yank the gearshift out and use it as a bludgeon, but he was spared improvising as he was coerced to go with them in their car by default of them holding a caduceus. However these two ended up with a one was difficult to rationalize but simple to understand; an agent’s three priorities were to conceal their affiliation with the Department, leave no loose ends on an assignment, and keep any equipment safe and secure. Somehow, they acquired one, and somebody had failed to do any one or perhaps all three critical tenets. They did not carry firearms or become invincible, but they were constantly reminded and sternly taught how to achieve all three, the process a nearly actionable mantra.

Beyond the obvious and risk of peril, it was both concern and curiosity that compelled Lester to cooperate. Did they know how to operate it? How did they get one? Did somebody’s assignment fail? Was there an agent down? Injured? Dead? Harry? It was clear they knew he was not just Department of Weights and Measures, so denial would serve no purpose, but he was not about sing like a canary. They would want information, but what could he learn before they started forcing things out of him, and how long would it be until that happened?

The three of them got into the Town Car, which had an interior modified like a police squad car – no passenger door fixtures, plexiglas screen between the front and back compartment, and laptop mount display for data – but they were certainly not police. From behind the driver’s seat, Lester could look into the rear view mirror and only make out the unearthly yellow eyes of the rain slicker wearing man, hood still pulled up, obscuring any details. Shitbag massaged his wrist and gave Lester a scowling glare from the front seat. They were heading outside the city proper, southeastern, which worried Lester. Polite conversation did not require such immoderate travel.

“Sorry about your boyfriend’s wrist. I guess you’re just going to have to let him watch you give it a tug instead of helping.”

Though at a disadvantage, Lester wasn’t disarmed.

“Why don’t you grab my…” Mr. Shitbag started to say, but was interrupted.

“I like your enthusiasm, Mr. Phfister, but I think there’s no need to negate pleasantries,” said the driver a hint of a wet gurgle. “Anton, our friend is merely trying to feel like he has the upper hand.”

It did little to calm Anton, and Lester wasn’t going to leave it alone.

“Anton? I did you favor…damn.” He muttered softer, but still audibly, “Shitbag”.

Anton’s stink eye intensified, but he looked over at the driver and then turned back around. The car had put the twinkle of city lights behind and was winding into the emerald hills past Kent into state park territory. Lester had only made the briefest of associations with the area as Harry had occasionally mentioned the hiking and bike trails he tried to visit whenever there was time, but was still unfamiliar with his location. The Town Car may have passed one or two vehicles heading the opposite direction, but those times he tried to identify the driver in the oncoming headlights. He wasn’t certain, but it looked as though the driver was bandaged completely around his face.

In what may as well been the middle of nowhere, the vehicle slowed and diverted onto a dirt road that was fairly hidden in the dark, forested hills. As they went deeper into the wilderness, Lester made out a handful of red lights fighting to shine through the tree line. Soon, the car began a slight ascent and started to clear the tall trees, bringing the lights closer. It was a dam they were closing in on.

“Yes, that’s the dam,” the driver confirmed, almost reading Lester’s thoughts. Seattle had almost two dozen water locks and dams, and while helpful, it was just as well he say they were going to their local Starbucks. Where a gate arm or fence should have been there was just a sparse line of low metal posts, some connected by a slinking chain, but mostly a series of lone posts. They pulled up at the boundary and stopped. Anton got out and opened the door to extricate Lester.

“Hey man, sorry about the wrist,” he said. “Maybe you can get on some kind of faggot worker’s comp since you won’t be able to do jack at the bathhouse.”

Anton was irritated but ignored Lester, nudging him up the path towards the dam structures. The driver had not heard Lester’s prodding, and would have certainly responded.

“I hope you’re not adverse to some exercise, Mr. Phfister, because the trail is a little more strenuous than going to an Asian market.”

Lester chilled a little at the comment and looked behind him to try again and learn about the driver, who took pleasure in dispensing the information that he was well more knowledgeable about Lester and his activities. In the sporadic drizzle and moonlight, Lester saw the face of the driver clearer, although it was hardly more face than shape. His face was indeed wrapped in bandages, but no longer were his alien-colored eyes visible. A heavy pair of goggles covered them, like a welder or aviator would wear, and the polarized lenses hardly reflected in the dark, far less than the bandages under the drawn hood. The glance had been quick, and the long black rain slicker obscured the driver’s form, but what looked like a brown suit poked out from the water repellant cloak.

The driver continued to address Lester, once more satisfying the questions on his lips before mentioning them.

“That is the Howard Hanson reservoir. Well, beyond the flood gates and pump buildings which I hope you’ll make good time to. We have associates I need to observe, and while it is unfortunate that I can neither direct my full attention to you or them, I found that in no way would either interfere with one another, so I wished to indulge a little conflux of time. I take it a man in your field can appreciate that, no?”

Lester walked on silently.

“Perhaps our forced agenda has left you a little less than talkative,” he continued. “Your creative epithets are hardly amusing to me, but since I’m here to indulge you, I figure you may want to address me as Mr. Face.”

Lester was too confused by what Mr. Face had meant by “indulge him” to properly enjoy the name. Mr. Face, seeing no response, resumed speaking.

“Like you, Mr. Phfister, there are many things we see to that your everyday citizen would find frightening or too complicated to properly understand, let alone make decisions on. I regret that we had to meet under these circumstances, but since neither of us report to factions that exist, it’s not as though we were going to exchange business cards at the office X-mas party. I sent Mr. Shi…Anton to stay out of your way, but since he was unable to show any grace in the matter, there seemed to be no reason not to hasten our conversation.”

Anton said nothing but stomped harder on the trail, leading Lester and Mr. Face to the lower walkway at the base of the dam. They walked across the landing that was about 16 feet above the waterline, and went up a metal staircase that led to the upper observation deck.

“Our departments don’t spend much time working together,” said Mr. Face, “and that makes me sad, because overall, I respect the work that your group does. And I’m quite jealous of the fun toys you get to play with.” He tapped the caduceus against the handrail for emphasis. “Oh, and how I would love to get my hands on one of those stylish bicycle helmets your agents like to walk around with.”

Lester stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around, looking back at Mr. Face, who was five or six steps below. Face stopped, and while his eyes were shielded, there was clearly a stare down in progress. Anton put his hand on Lester’s shoulder to move him along.

“Hey Shit-ton,” Lester said, continuing to gaze at Mr. Face, “you sure your hand’s in the right place?”

Anton paused for a second and took his hand off Lester, thinking again of his tender wrist. Lester turned around to face Anton, who in turn went back along his way, leading them towards another trio of men on the far end of the spillway. As they got closer, Lester could see that two of the men were holding a simple tether and harness that held the third man over the railing. He was leaning forward, bracing himself against the wall with his feet…and was wearing no pants.

“What the fuck,” Lester questioned.

“This,” said Mr. Face, “is John Murdock. We found him in Riverside, down in southern California. And thankfully, he is jerking off into the water supply.”

- - -

Pam was dialing Dave’s cell phone number, after not reaching him at her apartment. That was the last place they had been before his sudden impatience at their progress for the Friday broadcast. Pam had known him for many years, and was one of the first supporters of the strange agenda that Brother Dave was trying to air on SCANTV. At the time, she was only a phone op working on an Associate’s degree in broadcast communications at community college, but she was determined to show her bosses she was able to take on more responsibility. Dave had been rejected several times, mostly for his content, but having seen his submissions, Pam contacted him and convinced him to let her help produce a suitable demo. While hardly the polished program it was today, Pam guided Dave to the airwaves and gave his voice to the public. It could be argued whose coattails were being ridden, but Dave was clearly the talent and Pam his trusted handler who helped focus him.

Growing up in the repressed state of Utah, neither sexual nor pharmaceutical experimentation were regarded highly, let alone tolerated, and the moment she turned 18, Pamela Brody left the confines of Partoun for Portland before heading further north. The “Gateway to the Northwest” welcomed Pam, who for a long time was known in the Seattle lesbian community as “the gateway to gay”. In her mid-thirties, Pam had slowed her pace, but could make many a man envious of not only her numbers but the amount of supposedly straight women who took a walk on the vagina side. She had given up heroin with Dave’s help, who started shooting up when he found her using, and then quit cold turkey as a point to rally her. He was prone to insane demonstrations like that, but for his odd behavior and abnormal thoughts, she was quite solidly in his corner.

She had made several circles around the downtown area, and spoke with a few of her old friends who were dialed into the local hangouts and hotspots. It didn’t feel like a errand when Pam had to indulge Dave, but something about his crush on what was probably just another fan stuck out. There were times where Dave would suddenly become frisky as an alley cat, having in upwards of nine or ten girls in as many weeks cycling through in massive orgies of debauchery, and those times were usually punctuated by revelatory thoughts and fantastic dialogues. It was almost a predictable process where he would lose his drive, only to reconnect with renewed power and excitement, and these grand episodes, while chaotic, rarely peaked in frequency against the long term growth of “The Word”. And god knows that Pam was happy to have a fling with some of the more confused and vulnerable girls who Brother Dave brought into the fold. Was there part of her that hoped she’d find the young girl and have a little fun herself?

Pam was having no luck searching for Dave’s trophy, and wanted to head back home to spend some time with Missy before the next 36 odd hours leading up to the broadcast made any chance of relaxation impossible. The cell phone rang three times before Dave picked it up.

“You’re on with Brother Dave,” he answered, mocking his own on-air response to fan callers.

Pam, with faux excitement, cackled, “ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” and began hyperventilating. She laughed and then dropped the act.

“I’m striking out everywhere. Your little nymph must be in hiding, because after she crossed your path, she disappeared. Not even a screencap has turned up recognition. What now?”

“Take another spin around City Hall, and if there’s nothing, then let it be. I should have been more patient…she’ll show up. I was just…”.

Dave trailed off, but Pam waited to see if there was a conclusion to that or he was really done. He could also get preoccupied and not complete his thoughts. Pam saw he was non-responsive and picked up the conversation.

“I give it a shot but I don’t think we’ll find her tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow…”

“Yeah…okay.”

He was zoning out. Pam just hung up, not out of frustration or anything like that, but knowing that anything else, even as simple as farewells would not garner a response. Dave wouldn’t be angry either; his mind likely moved onto other thoughts. She figured he had left shortly after her and was walking along the riverbank, smoking a joint and being introspective as had happened so often in the past.

Dave was preoccupied, but not in the manner Pam had thought. He was on his way out when Missy arrived, and decided to stay while she took a bath in preparation of Pam’s return. He was quite helpful, making sure that she was clean in every fold and curve and shaved smooth in all the places bare skin felt exceptional. Pam would appreciate the tender assistance Dave had lent to Missy but never know of it.

- - -

Murdock was grimacing in what was possibly pain, possibly frustration. Lester was too stunned to intervene and pull him back over the railing. Mr. Face stood behind him and observed, before spoke.

“Just relax Mr. Murdock. Take your time and don’t try to force yourself.”

His words had an effect as Murdock slowed his breathing and moved less frantically and more fluidly.

“Mr. Murdock is going to ejaculate several more times into the reservoir before we’re finished tonight, and he’ll save probably 30,000 lives.”

Lester turned to Mr. Face, disgusted and confused.

“You see, Mr. Phfister, when Mr. Murdock finishes saturating the water with an appropriate level of his semen, it will make its way down to Tacoma, the primary user of this surplus. As it’s used in homes and enters the water table, the elements within will combat a particularly nasty organism that we feel may be present. If our prospects are correct, the specific composition of Murdock’s discharge will render the bacteria harmless. And if it turns out not to be present, the fine people of Tacoma will not notice any difference in their water.”

“How do you know any of that’s even possible,” Lester questioned. “And even if that’s true, what gives you the right to experiment on people?”

Mr. Face kept looking in the direction of Murdock. “Do you want me to tell you that I don’t know about the electromagnetic pulse testing that accidentally triggered an Indian Ocean tsunami of 2004? Or that there’s a U.S. built tunnel leading into Mexico to ensure undocumented workers can cross the border undetected? Or that a very popular cooking program is being aired with subliminal messages to limit overeating and unhealthy consumption? And those are just the big projects.” He turned to Lester.

“Should I not know that last year you and your partner played a part in the sabotage of the light rail construction that would have bankrupted the city transportation budget because the bidding contractors were grafting funds? Or the time you were in Santa Fe retrieving illegally obtained Indian artifacts from a broker to prevent the local tribe from voting down a proposition that would allow passages through their land and create 1000 jobs for two years?”

“How could you know that?”

“How could you not know that the population of northern leopard frogs in Seattle has decreased because of work by your department back in the 1930s, where shipments of frogs for pregnancy tests likely fostered a fungus that is not only statewide, but global?”

Murdock groaned and put another batch into the water.

“Well done, Mr. Murdock,” he said, taking a brief pause before explaining. “You’re not the only department with agendas and clandestine activities. Honestly Mr. Phfister, did you not think that even in our line of work, there’s no redundancy? Nobody to come along and clean up your messes? Check for quality? You and I, we do things that absolutely interfere with people’s lives, directly or otherwise. But you don’t question what you do because you think that it’s right.”

“So what…you’d rather be the ace than the benchwarmer?” Lester still wasn’t clear on why Mr. Face had revealed himself and the sister department that shadowed them.

“Oh, on the contrary. But I believe in working smarter, rather than harder. All I need to do is get you to see that the bigger picture is far less complicated than you think. You and your associates just happen to stick your nose into the juicier subjects, the more bizarre and unknown. Which is why you have things like this,” said Mr. Face as he once more pulled out the caduceus and waved it for emphasis, “and I have a man dangling over a public utility pleasuring himself.”

“So then why do you have that,” Lester asked, pointing to the rod?

“Yes, why would I?”

“Well, you ain’t the lost and found. And I think you got better things to do than be our custodial staff.”

“Yet here’s a messy little detail that somebody didn’t keep track of, that randomly found its way to me,” Mr. Face said accusatorily. “Let’s again suppose you and I are working towards the same goals. If we both exist to ensure that those special tasks get done, it would have to be something less than circumstance and far more…deliberate if both of us can’t be successful.”

Mr. Face held the caduceus up.

“This will be in your car, which you will find at the end of the service road, there,” he pointed between two buildings. “If you start now, you should get there before sunrise, which I recommend because it is expected to storm heavily in the morning. You don’t strike me as a man who reads much, but let me suggest some Shakespeare – ‘something is rotten in the state of Denmark’. Take a deep breath and see if you smell it too.”

Chapter Two

There was one room in the home of Claude and Agnes Bullock of Somerset, Kentucky that hadn’t changed in years. Various posters and tchotchkes celebrating the basketball exploits of Louisville’s Cardinals adorned half of the room’s real estate. The other half was devoted to classic Chevy muscle cars and a large sample of rock bands from the progressive and heavy metal pantheons. On a small portion of the wall above the room’s lone twin bed was a wooden crucifix. It was in this room the Bullock’s only son, David, first began hearing the voice.

The voice had a name—Ru. If not its full name, at least “Ru” was how the voice wished to be addressed. Ru first spoke to David from the dark southeastern corner of his room. The voice was completely obscured in the midnight shadow. It emanated from below the Uriah Heep album cover pinned to the wall. David swore he could make out what appeared to be two floating drops of oil that would have been Ru’s eyes. When David began responding to Ru, they both quickly came to the conclusion that the room was not the best place to talk.

Launching his dinghy into the eastern fingers of Lake Cumberland near Burnside Island, David would motor his way to a secluded cove on the northern bank to meet with Ru. The submerged town of Lula where David’s grandparents used to live wasn’t far away. It was there in Lula where David’s father was born.

When David first began to talk about the voice to his family, Claude thought it to be David’s clever way of testing him on his own Christian faith. David had always excelled in all academic endeavors including theology. But as time passed and David’s conversations with the voice became more detailed and consuming, Claude’s patience began to disappear. Was heavy metal to blame? Agnes always felt a little uneasy about the music David was into, but Claude refused to believe that music ever had anything to do with what David was going through. As one of the two pastors at the local Methodist church, Claude considered himself part of the open-minded set. Though he would never admit it, Claude took a certain amount of pride in his ability to understand and relate to the alienated younger generation. Back in seminary, his mentors and fellow seminarians piled crap-loads of grief on him for listening to and thoroughly enjoying Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and other like-minded acts. Music was one of the things Claude and his son tended to agree on. Even after David’s departure, Claude found himself spending time in the virtual universes of the internet to stay connected with his youth ministry—to understand the world the way young eyes would see it. For his son to begin to manifest signs of, dare he think it, demonic possession, was clichéd and absurd.

The list of neuroleptics prescribed for David was long with each drug more difficult to pronounce than the last. Each one was completely ineffective at silencing the voice. Their side effects, however, were quite capable of repelling what few friends David had. With no friends to interfere, David could spend more of his time getting to know the voice.


Claude Bullock was not aware of his son’s rising star on public access television in the Pacific Northwest. Had he known, he would plead with David’s fans to stop indulging a high-functioning schizophrenic man whose affliction was blatantly obvious and in need of treatment. To Brother Dave’s fans, he was a brilliant comedian taking conspiracy theory to the most extreme levels of absurdity. His deadpan was the deadest, and he never broke character. To Brother Dave’s followers though, he was a hero. He was the kind of man daring enough to stand up to a corrupt system by using that system’s own institution to enlighten the masses.

Dave and Pam were serving those masses at SCANTV’s editing facilities scrubbing through the footage from the day’s “press” affair. They weren’t about to rely on the mainstream media to spread their message. The task at hand was to pull out the best sound bites to upload to their website and replay for Friday’s broadcast. Pam noticed Dave was a little too interested in the footage of the post speech glad-handing. He seemed to be looking for something.

“Stop there. There she is. She’s amazing.”

Pam studied the girl and began to picture her in more compromising positions. “I would definitely consider hitting that. Do not tell Missy I just said that.”

“If we could make her part of the team…”

“Sex does sell.”

“It feels like I dreamed her into existence. From the other end of the country, she came here because of THE WORD. I believe she will come to me.”

“Dave, you are not going to let this knock you off your game? We cannot have you losing focus now over a fantasy.”

“There are powers greater than me that will not allow me to veer off course. We serve man by serving those who serve us. The world will know very soon how fragile our existence truly is.”

“Believe me. I cannot wait.”

- - -

Further South just below Lake Union on the fourteenth floor of the Seattle Municipal Tower, Harry was swimming. He was literally swimming. The lap pool at the athletic club was more convenient and many degrees warmer than the waters of Puget Sound. Harry had planned a kayaking excursion for the next day, but with a red folder hanging over his head, the kayaking would have to wait. Harry felt entitled to a little dip before cracking open what could be a long assignment.

His stroke was automatic. Harry’s mind was free to wander. His thoughts raced right back to his last red folder assignment. It wasn’t a particularly difficult assignment. It was mainly clean-up work. It was so simple, Lester stayed behind to take care of some administrative headaches. Lester’s last words to Harry before he left were, “Don’t forget the fuckin’ head-scratcher.”

With the head-scratcher on the list of required equipment, Harry expected the worst. This red folder task was initiated by a Hazmat call to Homeland Security. The HS dispatcher entered specific keywords into the problem log system and was immediately greeted on the screen with a code 624 message. Almost instantly the dispatcher’s phone rang again with instructions to relay to the Hazmat team in Missoula, Montana.

Flying was not an available option due to budget limitations and inter-agency conflicts, so Harry drove. Leisurely cruising down I-90 in his heavily modified ’94 Geo Metro, Harry alternated his listening between podcasts of This American Life and the latest Mogwai album, something he couldn’t do if Lester was in the car. Road trips with Lester always involved copious doses of Supertramp. When Harry arrived at the scene shortly before midnight, he was surprised at how relatively unsecured it was. The Hazmat captain was a little surprised himself.

“Just one of you? There is some serious shit going on here. You better be fuckin’ Superman.”

Harry could see the halo of vomit that surrounded the dumpster that sat around 100 feet behind the Hazmat captain. The image was unsettling in the perfection of the event horizon. Harry got right to it. “What’s the status of your men? How are they doing?”

“They’re fine. They’re all tough guys. Every one of them wanted to take a crack at it.”

“How many before you called?”

“Six of us.”

“And how many after? After we told you to sit tight?”

“Hey! We wanted to get to whatever is in there. I mean we don’t take credit for what we do, but these guys are heroes, and…”

“How many?”

“Six more. I couldn’t believe it. We were all in full suits, and we all yacked our fucking brains out.”

“I admit this country needs independent thinkers, but certain situations call for restraint. I’m a little dumbfounded that you didn’t call the minute you saw that ring of vomit.”

“Everyone checked out afterwards. No kind of contamination. Nothing.”

“That’s wonderful, but your team’s physical well-being isn’t always the only priority on our minds when we tell you to step off. I’m going to need everyone to clear the area and make sure it stays clear. Anyone who snoops in is done. I hope you realize this is no joke. After I’m done and I debrief your team, you can show me the best cup o’ Joe in town, and I’ll tell you everything I’m able to.” Of course Harry had already memorized the fabricated explanation he was to convey to the Hazmat team.

Once everyone was out of sight, Harry put on the Cerebral Tuning Unit, the thing Lester referred to as a head-scratcher due to its many fine prongs that caressed the skull. Once it was snugly on his head, he pulled his jacket hood over it. He then took the extra precaution of flashing the scene for lenses. He used a special scanner to try to find hidden cameras. Harry wasn’t as paranoid as some other agents, but no one ever lost a job in his line of work for being too careful.

The vomit radius appeared to be around fifteen feet from the dumpster which made sense by Harry’s reckoning. Within fifteen feet of the dumpster, the ground was clean. It looked like there was an invisible barrier that protected the dumpster by repelling all comers with an instant and brutal sensation of nausea. As Harry approached and the stench of vomit became stronger but not unbearable, he flashed back to the few times he had met the young Agent Ahern, the main object of this red folder task. Her beauty was apparent upon site and completely confirmed only a few words into conversation. Harry was always a little uneasy around women, but she had a way of making him feel comfortable and welcome to be around her. The thought that she was most likely deceased lying in a dumpster was more than a little saddening for him. Harry knew the CTU was working perfectly when he was able to pass the frontier of half-digested cheesesteaks, Night Train, malt liquor, and stomach acid. He was afraid the CTU wouldn’t be as effective at controlling any emotional outbursts he might encounter in the next few seconds.

Harry slowly peered over the lip of the dumpster. He was shocked by what he saw. There was no body. He frantically painted the beam of his flashlight across the dumpster’s bottom until it finally landed on the only other thing he could be looking for. The tech guys called it a caduceus. The field agents simply called it a sickstick. It was the perfect tool for getting people to think a certain way or believe a certain fact or fiction. Harry had heard a story about an agent who used it to help him quit smoking. It was supposedly 100% effective. If one was exposed to a caduceus for long enough, it was rumored one could see God. But Harry knew and was thoroughly trained to know that the caduceus was not a plaything. And here was Agent Ahern’s without its sheath. If she was still alive, carelessly losing an unsheathed caduceus in this way was a blunder worthy of dire consequences within the agency. She would be severely reprimanded hopefully. Oddly there was a piece of paper wrapped around the caduceus held on by an elastic band of the kind people use to make ponytails. Harry gently picked up the caduceus sensing its weight physically and mentally. He had never seen nor touched a fully unsheathed caduceus until then. Before placing it in the small box meant to hold it, he pulled off the band, unwrapped the paper, and read in large handwritten letters--

TOO MUCH

Harry lost count of how many laps he had traveled. His muscles were telling him he was in the ballpark of forty. But the pair of green eyes watching him from above hadn’t lost count—forty-seven. They drank up Harry’s vulnerability with admiration. Harry’s mild paranoia he applied to his work somehow surprisingly didn’t translate to his personal life. The knowledge bouncing around in his head was freeing in a limited way. Harry just didn’t care who knew that he searched online for a card shuffler when his Nana told him she couldn’t find a decent one anywhere or that he bought a yoga DVD as a gift for his cousin or that there were some pictures of naked women on his home computer. He didn’t care if anyone knew he was exercising at that moment. As long as they weren’t interfering, they could watch all they wanted.

When Harry finally made it home to his loft after the swim, there was no alarm system in need of disarming. He didn’t have one. Inside he set his briefcase on the coffee table, threw open the balcony doors and was greeted by the sound of Erik Satie’s third Gnossienne blending perfectly with the cacophony of rain-soaked traffic below. Harry’s upstairs neighbor, a piano instructor, always practiced her repertoire later in the evening. After hearing the faint sounds of piano his first night upon moving into the new digs, Harry marched right upstairs and convinced Ms. Liebgott to open her windows so he could enjoy her fine playing. She gladly obliged.

Harry sat on his couch soaking up each ominous note that drifted through the door. He placed his thumb on the briefcase fingerprint reader and entered the 16 digit code to pop open the agency-issued briefcase. He opened the red folder inside and began to read the mission abstract. He hoped to find any connection to his last red folder assignment. But the more he read, the biggest thing that jumped out at him was the irony of Lester’s words earlier that day, “Doesn’t look like something we need to be involved in.” The photos, the disc of interrogation footage, the profiles—they all revolved around this Brother Dave character.

- - -

Lester never did make it home that night. Acting as a tail countless times in his career, Lester knew when he had one of his own. And he definitely had a tail that night—a sloppy short one. Maintaining his ever-so-smooth cool, Lester pulled his Nova into a grocery store parking lot along the way to see how this tail was going to play out. Sure as day and night, the black Town Car drove past the first driveway and pulled into the second. Lester picked a distant spot to park. Not that he needed the exercise, he just wanted a little perspective on whom he was dealing with. He took his time. No one made a move from the Town Car. Lester would have to wait in the grocery store to get a better look. Browsing the magazine rack, Lester made the bag of shit as soon as he walked through the door. Lester didn’t just yet want to telegraph his awareness. Mr. Shitbag, the name Lester bestowed on him, watched Lester walk to the coffee bar as he took up Lester’s former position. Lester made a casual glance in Mr. Shitbag’s direction—a move that quickly forced the thug’s nose into the latest issue of Redbook. When Mr. Shitbag looked up, Lester was gone. But Lester wasn’t the kind of guy to walk away without some sort of resolution. He was the curious sort. After Mr. Shitbag made not one but two circles around the coffee bar, Lester quickly moved in from behind to put the man’s hand in an extremely painful yet unobtrusive aikido hold.

“Hey, hey, Mr. Shitbag! If y’all wanted talk to me, y’all just had to give me a call. The number is 1-800-DON’T FUCK WITH ME,” Lester whispered into the man’s ear.

Lester quickly escorted Mr. Shitbag from the building. While glancing at the Town Car, Lester guided the thug in the direction of his Nova. With just a little more pressure, he could have broken the man’s wrist. In a moment Lester was slightly disoriented and suddenly staring at a hooded figure directly in his path. Lester’s hold on Mr. Shitbag tightened as the Seattle rain’s tempo quickened.

“Mr. Phfister, we really need to converse with you,” came a tinny voice from the shrouded face.

Lester studied the figure more closely. It was impossible for Lester to turn pale, but what he saw in the dark figure’s right hand made the blood temporarily vacate his face. The caduceus was currently capped and harmless, but its potential was what worried Lester.

“I’m guessing that’s not a Steely Dan you’re holding there.”

The figure was amused. “You’re a sharp man, Mr. Phfister. Please, let the man go, so we can have a polite conversation.”

Chapter One

Harry Turquoise’s desk abutted Lester’s, and with their computer monitors at either end of their workspace, they formed a harmonious symmetry. Across the landscape were numerous manila folders, but both had adjacent stacking file trays, and a small caddie within arm’s reach with assorted pencils, markers, and pens – black ballpoints used exclusively by Harry, and retractable blue for Lester. Neither of them had the extemporaneous clutter of personal effects on their surfaces – no pictures or toy figurines; their desks were sterile, serious places much like the government business that transpired in the Seattle Municipal Tower.

The modern building housed various indistinct and bureaucratic sectors of the government, which even upon reading the menu sign in the foyer listing each would seem unimpressive but surprising that there really was a Commission for Sexual Minorities Office or Bike Advisory Board, yet they were all there in glorious anonymity, grinding efficiently like quiet cogs in King County’s infrastructure. The room where their desks were situated was also home to the Office of Sustainability and Environment, which was a recent development; they were moved out of the test station facilities where their three co-workers were based in order to create a more professional appearance for the Department of Weights and Measures.

Harry and Lester were both senior inspectors, though it was hard to say who was in charge of their branch. As far as everybody there could remember, they had been working for the same amount of time, and together. They were also the two field agents who handed complaints of weight abuse and coordinated the “unscheduled” visits by the division’s specially equipped (and unmistakeable) trucks at production, retail and wholesale locations. It was a consumer’s right to make sure his turkey really was half a pound or that the local taxi cabs were not fudging an eighth of a mile for profit, and along with over 3,000 other inspectors across the country acting as public advocates and striving for uniform standards in volume and quantity, by God and one nation under, it would be so.

- - -

Lester drove an old gas guzzling, dirty, white 1974 Chevy Nova, and he and Harry were heading north on I-5 to pay a visit to Chang’s Thai market. The mid-day traffic moved well considering the dawn showers that made the city look like it had just run through the sprinklers. It was their third visit in as many months, and the two prior times there had been nothing infraction-worthy. Harry had begun to suspect that Lester secretly harbored a crush on Eng, the owner’s daughter who worked there part time when she was not at U-Dub studying pre-med. It reinforced the idea that black men had a fetish for Asian girls, and that he was nearly twice her (perceived) age hardly softened matters. There was an ex-Mrs. Phfister currently living in South Carolina, but Lester hardly ever spoke of his marriage to Harry, as was the unspoken rule they shared not to share much in the way of personal information. Conversations tended to be wildly esoteric and philosophical, which made the monotony of reviewing numbers and measurements far less painful.

“You can’t fuck with this groove here,” said Lester, making tiny bobs back and forth with his neck and head. He took the volume knob and gave it a good wrenching. The radio was playing Steely Dan’s “Peg”.

Well, so much stereotypes, though Harry.

“And now check this,” he paused, finger raised like a guillotine, hovering through the repeat of the opening riffs and then dropping. “Yeah, that’s Jay Greydon doing that solo. There were seven or eight guys before him that did some good stuff, but he just nailed that guitar part. Makes the middle section keep the front and back from being too repetitive. It’s just right.”

“Isn’t the band named for a dildo?”

“A what?”

“A dildo,” Harry repeated. “You know, a fake dick. Women masturbate with them.”

“I know what a dildo is.”

“Well, you sounded like you didn’t.”

Lester cocked his head and looked over at his passenger. “How you know Steely Dan is a dildo?”

Harry cocked his head and looked back over. “Ever read Naked Lunch?”

“I don’t read books.”

“Yeah, well you know that William S. Burroughs wrote a book called Naked Lunch, right? That’s the name of a dildo in there. I guess it’s better than ‘The Talking Asshole’ or the other stuff he wrote about.”

“He’s got a talking asshole in that story,” Lester questioned.

“Oh yeah. Talking asshole, drugs, violent orgies…there’s all kinds of radical stuff in there that’s counter-cultural and part of the Beat Generation. You listen to Steely Dan; I’m surprised you’re not up on Burroughs.”

“I told you, man, I don’t read books.”

There was silence between them and the track faded out into a commercial for a local car dealership.

“I don’t even want to think about where the name Pablo Cruise comes from”, Lester said and then laughed. Harry started laughing too.

“Pablo Cruise? I don’t even want to know what else you listen to. No. I don’t want to have to hear what you listen to.”

They pulled up across the street for the market, and Lester flipped his car visor down, which had a city official parking permit on it. Harry got out and rounded the front of the car, but Lester stopped him, barring his hand across his chest.

“It ain’t quite time…hang back. Let’s get into character.”

- - -

As expected, nothing was out of sorts with the bar-code scanner, and as Harry had also figured, he did the brunt of the verification as Lester interviewed Eng at the register, who had pushed her medical texts aside unaware of the underlying cause for their visit. It hadn’t bothered Harry much, if at all, to make the trip since he had only been back at work for a few days since taking temporary leave. He was happy to spend time on the job and with Lester after his grandmother’s funeral. She had raised him after his parents passed away, and aside from the obvious attachment, with no siblings or cousins he was the only one to sort through her belongings and make arrangements to have her Missouri farmhouse sold.

Despite the death of Nana Turquoise, Harry appeared generally unaffected at work, resembling himself before his time off. His easy going and quietly calm nature was a good contrast to Lester, who tended to be more dramatic and charismatic. In fact, in many ways, the two of them were in contrast to each other. Harry’s shock of reddish hair and youthful looks hinted at what Archie would look like, all grown up and free of the two-vagina pitfall of Riverdale. He had never been married, but while Lester was very friendly with women, Harry simply shied away from attaching himself to the opposite sex, and either failed to let the opposite sex rile him, or probably more likely, never entertained the notion due to his lack of experience.

Traffic started to thicken on their way back toward the center of the city, and Lester didn’t address his possible intentions or the results of his conversation with Harry. The clouds had also congregated, threatening to resume their business. The savvy disc jockeys had dug into their crates for more rainy day music, and the hypnotic notes of “Riders On The Storm” played. Harry stared off into the sky, not quite daydreaming and not in a trance, but definitely not in the moment. Lester was preoccupied with circumnavigating the growing collection of cars and looking at the occasional drop of water the splattered on the windshield, maybe every couple of blocks. They were headed to the test station on Dearborn St. to get the reports for the day, though mainly because there were case weights and liquid measures to return, as well as calibrated glassware to be cleaned.

Coming up on City Hall, the impending rain did little to dissipate the crowd of sign waving supporters who were gathered to hear Brother Dave speak on the steps of the same building he was arrested and removed from a week earlier for interrupting a council meeting. There were probably 60 or so people there, though with their banners and cheering they seemed much larger. The Nova was stopped waiting for a light just beyond the steps, and Harry looked back over his shoulder to size up the proceedings. The light changed and they left the scene behind, and Harry turned to Lester.

“You know anything about that?”

“Not really. Doesn’t look like something we need to be involved in.”

- - -

In person, Brother Dave was shorter than expected.

His self-produced program, “The Word”, was a favorite with the fringe elements and townies who tuned in weekly to hear him deliver an assortment of interviews with authors and local figures of equal notoriety or celebrity, and he was seated for the bulk of the program. But even standing on the steps above his cult of adherents he looked diminutive. Brother Dave had not bothered to comb his blonde dyed hair which had grown out to show darker roots, nor trim the scruffy beard that he sported. It was equally comforting and unimpressive to see him decked out in a Mexican style hooded poncho, camouflage cargo pants, and covered in beads, rings and trinkets that made him look like a swap meet hawker, just like on his show.

He stood off to the side from where a makeshift podium was set up with a microphone flanked by a P.A. mounted on stands, talking to a taller, burly woman with short, spiky black hair with horn rimmed glasses and a thick ring in her septum. Admirers of the show would recognize Pam, his producer, but not the slender, tattooed girl beside her also wearing glasses who had her fading pink hair pulled into pigtails; her girlfriend. Missy stood with a clipboard and kept glancing at her watch worried. They had filed the proper papers for the city to allow them to have a short press conference, but was afraid that the observing police would swiftly end the gathering. There was little to conference over and no additional statement to make, yet following the arrest, it was easy to use that as reason to get another public platform. A cameraman from KING 5 was there to add authenticity to it, even though it was likely nothing would air.

Brother Dave, sensing that his crowd was at its maximum, stepped up to address his people.

“Thank you all for coming out today and supporting us in our spreading of THE WORD,” he started, with particular emphasis on the last words. The group clapped and cheered, temporarily giving him pause. He smiled and scanned the people in front of him, even though his eyes were hidden behind a pair of white sunglasses that were unnecessary in the grey gloom. Brother Dave turned to look at Pam, and then looked at the statement which was in his hand, which he read.

“While I can not go into details about the situation last week or the my arrest, I am happy to let you know that no charges will be filed against me for addressing…issues which are important to all of us with our city representatives. There are many ideas they are not prepared to understand like you do, but just because they do not know what we know doesn’t mean we should stop our crusade to inform others. We are going to be responsible for taking care of others and truly providing the safety and security that your government and officials say they can offer.”

He pushed aside the paper, choosing to speak his mind without the polished and scripted plan that Pam labored over that morning.

“Look, we’re all here because we believe in something. Am I right?”

The crowd replied heartily, clapping and flapping their signs.

“I’m not asking you to do anything more than you’ve already done. Keep believing, keep watching, keep paying attention, and keep questioning. There are things we are entrusted with, and the burden of that is something we have to accept. I want you all to watch this Friday and get as many of your friends and co-workers to watch too, for I have a special announcement.” Sensing he had sold his point, Brother Dave took a step back from the microphone and raises his arms wide in the air. The crowd yelled and clapped more.

He leaned back in and spoke, “Friday…thank you!”

Amidst the applause he came down into the audience and started shaking hands and receiving hugs from the people. A young looking girl approached him with bright green eyes and black hair like ravens falling over her shoulders. She was perhaps 18 if not much older and captivated him.

“Hi,” she said sweetly. “I just wanted to say that my friends here sent me some of your shows, and I’ve seen all the rest online. It’s really motivated me to try and make a difference, and follow what I believe in.”

“Oh, uh, thanks. Thanks for supporting what we do.”

“No, thank you,” she smiled and put her hand on his shoulder. “I came here from Florida because I really felt like what you were saying was true, and that this community, this environment was a healthy, positive place. I’m sure that it will empower me the same as it has you.”

She drifted back into the surrounding crowd and disappeared before he could continue or ask more about her, and the well-wishers wrestled his attention back to them.

- - -

After an hour at their testing station, Lester and Harry made it back to their office, though most of the building was in the process of leaving. They sat and logged the reports into the database and added papers to their respective files as the rain fell and gently ran down the window next to their desk. Lester finished first and unlocked the cabinet behind him, pulling out a drawer that had a lock on its lid. That disabled, he lifted it and pulled out a red folder, which he put on Harry’s desk.

“Take this home and thumb through it,” he said, grabbing his coat and locking the drawer and cabinet.

Harry put the file on top of his tray, and went back to typing. “I’ll just look though it here when I‘m done.”

Lester was headed towards the door, and spoke.

“There’s a lot in there. Better you take it home and be comfortable than stay here and work.”

“Anything for the job,” Harry replied, smiling with mockery that Lester would have appreciated if he had been looking.

In truth – the hidden kind that would be a fantasy of obscene proportion to your ultra-liberal skeptic, anti-government radical, or run-of-the-mill lunatic, these two were working for more than just a token wing of the Department of Agriculture, but also the Department Without A Name…if they had a name. More accusatory folks would call them The People Who Gave AIDS To Homosexuals or Who Homeless People Are Arguing With On The Street or The Group That Murdered Buxom D-List Models And Made It Look Like An Overdose, but that would require such substantial elements as, say, proof. Or confessions. Or witnesses. As far fetched and complicated as any number of ridiculous conspiracy theories and convoluted explanations went, they were never traced back to their source or identified the responsible parties in part due to other equally clandestine agencies operating to ensure secrecy, and thankfully so. Because had such inquiries succeeded, there would not be any pornography and music being illegally downloaded or carpool lane admittance for electric cars – all begetting the general (yet questionable) good of society. There had some epic failures in the Department’s past too, but every red folder was a challenge to undertake for Harry.