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.”