Local Event - CHAPTER FOUR (of a novel)

Local Event - CHAPTER FOUR (This is still a little rough, so all critiques welcome. Anything to improve it. If you need to read the first three chapters, they are posted below, in reverse order. Thanks! Steve)

The Core

"Okay! Everybody listen up! Here's what I want." Sal shot out her directives in staccato fashion.

"Play back the visual scan; start it right after Jones kicks out the locals. I want a simultaneous audio playback of all sounds in that main room. Pump up the volume. I want all of that recorded together. Superimpose an overlay showing elapsed time to the tenth of a second."

From the moment Jenson announced the presence of someone else in the room, The Core had been humming. Where almost everyone had been immobilized by the crying FIN, they now consulted their respective consoles for information that would support or contradict Jenson's statement.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said Sal when she thought things were about ready, "I want you to observe closely how all this unfolds. I expect you to learn." Neither her words nor her tone was lost on them. From a darker area, up near the top of the tiers, came the word, "Ready". Jenson's voice, again. Leaning back in her chair, she gave attention to the screens. "OK. Let's see it."

The replay started, opening with the look the last local gave to Jones. The tell-tales hidden throughout the dead woman's apartment made it easy for everyone to see and hear everything that came next. White numbers changed rapidly on the lower right corner of the main screen. This was the first time most of the people had seen what had occurred before Jenson's discovery. Most had been dutifully manning their own consoles up until then.

Sal noted the subdued sounds coming from the screens. She knew them to be the aural detritus of her own crew going about its business. Her thoughts flickered off to the time she, herself, had been a FIN. She kicked her attention back to the screen

There.

Jones was starting to have his breakdown. Sal raised one finger in the air, getting everyone's attention. As Jones buried his face in his hands, Jenson's voice could be heard again, calling out in the twilight, with all the same urgency and excitement, only this time, it was from the playback, "He's not alone! There's someone else in that room with him!"

Jenson. Not only did it make him look good (he had been over eight feet away from his own console at that time), it made Hardiwick look bad. Part of what Jenson had observed was on her station!

Jenson's voice, again from the playback, "Look! Two pulses! Extra breath sounds! Where? Can anyone see the other person?" The recorded voice had a real-time galvanizing effect on the rest of the group. People had begun to fine-tune their various sensor arrays, doing everything possible to sensitize them to even the slightest indication of additional life in the room.

Hardiwick, possibly fearing Sal would rethink her invitation, could now be heard on the playback. "There's something wrong with the east wall. It appears to be about two feet closer than it shows on the specs." She had concluded this by comparing her research with information from Stanton's console and Bredvick's console. Sal remembered that both had appeared stricken when Hardiwick originally made her announcement.

She liked this kind of one-up-man-ship among her team. She kept her face turned toward the main screens so no one would see the grin. The screens had returned to real-time. It looked like Jones had finished his emotional breakdown. Sal wondered what would happen next. Deep inside herself, she recognized that she hadn't been this happy in a very long time.

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Crime Scene

Even though he had managed to stop the tears within a few minutes, almost half an hour passed before Jones raised his face from his hands. Unchecked emotions had immobilized him for most of the period and worry filled the rest of it. The mood swings were happening more often now.

The first time he had broken down like this had been late at night. He'd been alone in a hotel room. He had cried uncontrollably. As surprised as he was, it wasn't without warning. For a few weeks preceding that first breakdown, he kept feeling anger pressing at the seams of his control, on the edge of exploding. Even after they were loosed, whether overwhelming sorrow, complete with meltdowns like this one, or white-hot rage, he had managed, for a while, to keep them tucked safely into the unseen corners of his life.

These . . . episodes weren't good, he knew, but he didn't know what to do about them. So, he just moved on, hoping they'd fix themselves.

Pulling himself together, he saw that the flimsies had been unaffected by the moisture. They were as dry as Austin's almost constant humidity would allow. After the strike, many a patent had been filed devising humidity resistant furniture, clothing, building materials, and, even man-made printing surfaces like these flimsies.

It was time to put aside emotions and do his job. He had some truly amazing powers of perception whenever he decided to bring them to bear. He felt the odd mental shift he had experienced so many times. Then, he began to really see the crime scene. He scanned the room, beginning with his immediate left where several small print books resided on a fold down bookcase. All were from "Vici Press", so he assumed they were inspirational in nature. Continuing around to the right, all sorts of interesting information began to come to his attention.

The desk faced a large bay window with several small, rectangular panes. The area had been set up as a window seat, and he could tell it had been used for reading. There were no curtains, blinds, or shades. Then he saw the wall switch nearby. Opaquing glass; turn off the electricity and the electrons no longer line up like little soldiers. The result was that light came through, but no one could actually see in or out. To the right of the window were four medium photos, framed, and carefully spaced along the wall about four inches apart, at about eye level, he decided, for a five-foot-two woman. He recognized Kara in each of the photos, and, in some of them, he recognized some of the well-known Vici national leadership. Kara Powers appeared to know some pretty powerful people. He made a mental note to go back and check the contents of the bookshelf.

Shifting his gaze again to the right, he concluded that the east wall was load bearing, though it had been made to appear that it was composed of distressed brick. While he watched, something strange happened. He thought he saw something flicker across the surface of the wall. He froze, watching intently. Then, there it was again, a flicker of light. Holding steady, he forced everything to slow down. This was one of the little tricks he could do. It didn't actually make time slow down, anymore than the sun actually moved across the sky every day. The best way he could account for it was to think that his mental perceptions speeded up. The effect of the process, whatever its internal function, was to make everything appear to move in slow motion. In this state, he waited what seemed like hours. Then, he saw it; stepping across the wall, diagonally from south to north, were shadows of leaves, each with its own corona of sunlight.

He released.

Standing, he strode at normal speed over to the window and looked out. Across the street was a small park situated directly in front of some sort of mini-cathedral. The tiny edifice was very narrow across its front, and situated in front of, or possibly affixed to, the large, blocky building that rose behind it. That building stretched west, up the hill toward Colorado Street (tunneling through the hill?), then on back to Lavaca Street, where the hill crested. He got the impression that the larger building might have continued down the other side of the hill, perhaps for several blocks. Maybe through the hill. The markings didn't look to be Catholic or Muslim. In fact, he didn't recognize them. Another little mystery to investigate when time allowed.

He could see that the park did, indeed, contain a tree; and, there was something behind it that, periodically, flashed a light his way. He focused. Now that he had been using his abilities, the transition was effortless and instantaneous. Jumping into view was a statue. Affixed to it were all manner of papers, pieces of fabric, some paper money, and...? Yes, there it was, a teardrop shaped crystal hung from one of the statue's gray-green fingers, tied on with a piece of fishing line. The crystal was cut with many facets. As it moved in the wind, it sometimes caught the afternoon sun, its prisms scattering the light all about the little park. As he watched, another flash rose from the tableau.

Turning back toward the east wall of the apartment, he shifted back to slowmo. Soon, he caught the same steady march of images he had seen before. He was satisfied.

Then, as he started to release, the wall appeared to undulate. Faster than he could formulate a question in his mind, the wall simply faded away. Slightly further away, now, was what appeared to be the same brick wall. That's when he saw the dead man leaning against it.

His voice betraying surprise and amazement, and, something else, Jones spoke the question filling his thoughts, "David?"

Looking a little surprised, the dead man recovered quickly, leaned out from the wall and quietly greeted him, the mildest hint of a southern accent coating his speech, "John."

The silence was palpable. The man at the wall looked slightly amused, and not a little chagrined. He noted the haggard features of the other; the look of someone who had just completed great exertion, drained of all strength.

"David? You are dead. You cannot be here. And I cannot afford to go crazy right now. Go away." The dismissal in Jones' voice seemed to say that he expected the man to disappear.

"John", said the man. "You're not crazy, but...well, you should see yourself."

A bit surprised that the man was still there, Jones said, "I'm trying to solve a murder, David!"

"Yes, John, I know why you're here."

"Did you . . . did you do it?" Jones felt that he might be losing it, again. Was he really carrying on a conversation with a ... what? ... a ghost?

The man, Jones decided, was looking less dead all the time. Appearing uncomfortable with the question and sounding a little exasperated, the man said, "No, John, I didn't kill her.”

"But you know who did."

"Maybe. Or, at least, I may know who is responsible."

"Tell me."

"I can't do that. You have to find out for yourself."

“You're obstructing justice!"

"Actually, I see myself aiding justice. In time, I expect you'll see it that way, too."

Walking quickly to the desk, Jones lifted the gun. He grasped it in a loose, two-handed grip and pointed it at the man. It felt all wrong. He looked down at his hands. They didn't seem to know where to go. It felt like he had never held a gun in his life.

Still, curling his right index finger around the trigger, the man known to his colleagues as Samuel Jones, Federal Investigator, servant of the people, spoke far more calmly than he had seconds before. "Tell me. Tell me or die."

Staring at the muzzle, and the tense grip with which his former friend held the piece, the other man said, "There is something I need to tell you. It is an answer of sorts, just not the answer to this question."

Jones was exerting enormous effort to simply maintain control. He took a couple of steps toward the man, and, despite the rage that burned within, continued to sound calm. "If it helps with this investigation, I'm all ears." The knuckles of his hands were white.

"I know where your son is."

The trigger hand spasmed. Strangely, the report from the shot was almost inaudible. What was most evident was the recoil. He sat down on the floor, hard. Though the gun was held tightly in his fists, the power of the shot lifted the muzzle to point at the ceiling. He sat there, confused by the near absence of sound, coupled with the power of the shot. A part of his mind reminded him that this weapon was not a neural disrupter. Another part wondered if those exiled to the hallway had heard the shot.

He lowered the gun and fired again.

This time, with intent, he did a better job of aiming, citing on the center of the other man's torso. The recoil put him on his back. And, still, the sound had that quality of a noise heard from a great distance. Jones lifted his head and could see that the man was again lounging against the east wall, framed by the red-orange of the approaching sunset.

Two shots. No blood.

In the face of the FIN, confusion fought with rage. Soon enough, though, that fierce power began to flow out of him. Confusion reigned. In a tired voice laced with wonder, he said, "Are you even here?"

"Oh, yes. I'm here. I was here before you came. I haven't moved from this spot for hours. I was here for the little jurisdictional dance you did with the locals."

"But, all those people...why didn't they see you?"

"Well, to them," tapping the brick behind his head, "this wall seems about two feet closer than it actually is. They saw the wall, not me."

"But, I can see you."

"That's you own fault. It's certainly not my doing. It was very interesting to observe, though. Once you decided to see, to really apply your perceptive abilities, everything in this room yielded itself to your vision, me included. You know, John, I think that's something new for you.

The gun rose again, turning its snout toward the man. Then, after a brief pause, Jones lowered it just as quickly as he had raised it.

"Why aren't you dead?" he said, sounding petulant.

"Do you mean, why didn't I die in Brazil? Or, do you mean why didn't I expire as a result of your expert marksmanship? Both will need some time to explain. As for today, I can at least address the "what". I've gotten pretty good at reading people since our Brazilian adventure. I suspected my little bombshell about the boy might push you too far. Even you can't be in control all the time. Anticipating your response, I arranged for the space just in front of the gun to be located about the center of the Chihuahua Desert. The bullets safely inserted themselves into the side of a small mountain, about 60 feet off the ground. As far as the "how" ... well, that'll have to wait until we have several uninterrupted hours. As for Brazil..."

Raising the gun once more, Jones pointed it, then, seeming to recall its lack of effectiveness, placed it on the floor and slowly came to his feet. "We will get to Brazil in a minute. Tell me about my son."

"Oh, he's OK. They're both OK."

"Both?"

"I think maybe you should sit. There's a lot to tell here."

"I can't. My butt hurts where I landed on the floor."

Smiling at this, the first real sign of the person he used to know, the man said, "Welcome home, Colonel. You wanna walk that off?" He stepped forward, extending his hand. "I know a nice park in Paris."

####

The Core

Everyone in The Core watched closely as the two men moved toward each other and clasped hands.

Then, with nothing more dramatic than something like moisture shimmering off hot asphalt, the room was empty.