Rational Insanity, page 32
part #2 of The Suicide Society Series
Despite its conventional appearance, the door slid open to reveal a modern elevator. The interior was lit with LEDs, and the walls were upholstered in fresh fabric and plush cushioning. Two buttons populated an otherwise blank brushed aluminum panel. Since the building was a single story, Marshall pressed the down button. The doors closed quickly, and he immediately felt the sensation of falling.
After an unsettlingly long ride, the elevator slowed and then stopped. The doors opened, and he stepped into a lavish room of unimaginable opulence. As a pseudo expert in the field of art authentication, Marshall recognized disturbing but genuine Medieval Gothic paintings by Bonaventura Berlinghieri, Duccio di Buoninsegna and Jacopo del Casentino. Drawn to the gruesome wood carvings of gargoyles, demons and other wicked underworld creatures, he tried to look away but couldn’t fight the compulsion.
On the far side of the room, huge curtains shrouded a second chamber. Above it, a camera was attached to the ceiling and pointed toward the doors. Until now, Marshall hadn’t seen any security equipment in the building, but if he wanted to remain undetected, he couldn’t take a chance on a guard watching him on a monitor.
The lack of surveillance was a sign that the authorized list to this facility was limited, and they fully trusted those people. He turned back toward the elevator just as the doors opened again. Two men stepped out and walked toward the curtains concealing the second chamber. He couldn’t hear everything they said, but one man was called Delgado.
Marshall’s eyes darted around the perimeter until he found a single exit off the main room that didn’t appear to have a lock. He moved quickly in that direction and the door silently closed behind him just as the two men walked past. Did their footsteps slow as they walked by him? He struggled to breathe, but after several minutes, his vitals finally returned to normal.
Tentatively, Marshall looked around the room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Numerous rows of very old books sat on shelves that lined the long walls, illuminated by a soft security light. The etymological origin of the writing seemed to be primarily in Latin or ancient Hebrew dialects, and the majority of the books were in remarkably good condition. This was a library of some sort, and it housed priceless editions of lost masterpieces.
In other circumstances, Marshall might have spent weeks in the room studying these precious ancient manuscripts. Some titles from authors like Miles Cloverdale, Geoffrey, Chaucer and Dante were unfamiliar. Could these be undiscovered originals? Who assembled such a collection in an isolated underground bunker? … Mr. Cox. The name burned even when he thought of it.
Once the profound intellectual euphoria of the discovery faded, Marshall realized there was nothing he could do except find the most inconspicuous place in the room and try to remain undetected. The night would pass slowly...
***
When he arrived at O’Hare, Sixtus exchanged pleasantries with the flight crew before disembarking and making his way over to the rental car stand. He encountered little resistance as he paid for a vehicle as Percy Caldwell. The short shuttle ride dropped him off at the rental lot where he tipped the driver, found his car and sat inside while typing the address of the freight terminal into the GPS on his phone. The drive down Snowtunnel Road from Terminal 2 was swift since airport traffic had thinned considerably after the first blast in Istanbul. By the second detonation in Mumbai, it disappeared almost entirely. The thorough implementation of screening procedures had kept some planes flying, but they sent most of the ground crews home while security people were at full strength and pulling double shifts.
Twice during the brief trip from the passenger terminal to the cargo area, security personnel stopped Sixtus. Each time, he only had to show his ID as an Arizona government official before being waved on. He pulled into the parking lot and found a spot in the front row, which was close to the terminal. There couldn’t have been more than two dozen cars in the expansive lot. His watch read, 7:35. Even if Munoz’ plane arrived on time, he should have almost 10 minutes to spare.
Once inside the terminal that housed DeliverMax, Sixtus walked over to freight counter on the far west end. A burly clerk typed furiously into a computer, trying his best to act busy. Through experience, he apparently acquired the talent to ignore a customer even when the patron looked directly at him. Finally, after a period that was just long enough to ensure irritation, the man looked up.
“Can you tell me when Flight D-146 is scheduled to arrive?” said Sixtus.
Visibly annoyed, the clerk looked at his computer and made a few keystrokes. “It’s arriving in five minutes at the gate right behind me. If you’re receiving freight, you’re in the wrong place.”
Sixtus shook his head. “No, I’m meeting someone.”
The clerk looked over his glasses and shrugged. “Ok, you can wait over there. We have more passengers on the flight than usual. Times are, uh, strange.”
Sixtus nodded and moved away from the counter into a hastily constructed temporary waiting area, joining three other people. Two women traveling together spoke in low tones. A man dressed in business attire scrolled though his phone. They went to great lengths to remain anonymous, but there was suspicion in their eyes. As the clerk said, these were strange times indeed.
The roar of the jet pulling up to the cargo terminal made an uncomfortable situation more palatable as it drew everyone’s attention. Sixtus watched as the plane taxied to a halt, and the mobile stairwell moved into position. About a dozen people exited the aircraft and started towards an entrance into the freight terminal.
Once the plane disembarked, Munoz was the second one through. He kept his eyes straight ahead and walked with purpose before turning a corner and moving out of sight. Sixtus took a step forward but noticed a man in a business suit looking around suspiciously. He followed Munoz with his eyes firmly fixed on the detective. Sixtus waited until they were far enough ahead and then shadowed them.
As he turned the corner, he almost ran into Munoz standing near a bank of courtesy phones. The business suit had caught up with him, and they were talking in low tones. Recognizing it would look suspicious if he stopped, Sixtus walked by them without breaking stride, allowing only a quick side glance. The suit was gesturing, and deep frown lines creased his forehead. Munoz’ eyebrows arched, and he stroked his chin as the other man spoke.
However Munoz was going to diffuse the bomb, it appeared this other person was part of it. Sixtus reached a restroom with a recessed area in front of the entry. This allowed him to peer out at them without being discovered. About a minute later, they started walking toward the exit out to their car. Sixtus waited a few seconds and then followed.
The sun was just peeking out from the horizon, so it was easier to see Munoz and his companion as they got into a nondescript dark green Ford sedan. It looked plain, but the engine had a deep growl, and Sixtus suspected it was an unmarked police vehicle. He walked casually over to his car and waited for them to leave.
They pulled out of the parking lot and maneuvered through O’Hare’s security checkpoints until reaching the entrance of the Eisenhower expressway, which eventually merged into I-90. Trailing them was challenging as Sixtus constantly monitored his distance and speed.
The freeway was relatively clear, but the crowds of floaters, vagrants and psychotics were unnerving. They now gathered in concentric circles and swayed together in the exact same rhythm as their brethren in Portland. The early morning Chicago air was damp as a brisk wind blew, but the crowds seemed unaware. They collectively chanted something unintelligible, and although Sixtus couldn’t make it out, he sensed the angry and desperate tone that permeated their inflections. As the green sedan drove by, Sixtus watched the mob turn as one and stare until it passed.
After a short ride, the car exited the freeway, and after a few turns through the narrow streets of Chicago, it pulled into the unpaved lot of an old church in what seemed to be a poor neighborhood. They parked close to the building, and Munoz and the other man got out and walked around to the back entrance.
Sixtus parked across the street in a liquor store lot, and after several minutes passed, he crossed at the stoplight and went to the west end of the church farthest from the street. He moved quietly to the back of the building, which bordered an ally, and pressed his face up against an old, single-pane window that was slightly ajar. Listening intently, he could make out most of conversation from inside.
“Well, what about this Cardinal, his name is Riggs? It looks like he’s a ranking member of both the church and a lieutenant in the stealth organization. If the bomb is in a church, wouldn’t he know about it?” Based on the tonal qualities he remembered from Curtis Robert’s trailer, Sixtus suspected Munoz was talking.
“Risky at best.” This was a different voice that sounded older and bone-weary tired. “Cardinal Riggs will be surrounded by an army of bishops and priests. He lives in a compound, which is called the Holy Church of the Name on State Street. It’s like a fortress, almost impenetrable.”
“Could the bomb actually be in Riggs’ church?”
“No, we’ve already swept the area. No sign of radiation there.” A third person spoke. His voice sounded younger and slightly agitated.
There was a pause and some shuffling. Muffled conversation about coffee or something but Sixtus couldn’t quite make it out.
“Father?” Munoz spoke again. “Father, we may need your help. Do you have enough standing to get us an audience with Cardinal Riggs?”
“I suppose I could if that’s what Chad wants. But what on earth do you need to see the Cardinal for?”
“I wish I could say for certain. Maybe it’s nothing, but we have to talk to him,” said Munoz.
“I’ll phone them and ask the Cardinal for a meeting. I believe I have the standing. What should I give as a reason for the audience?”
Sixtus heard footsteps approaching and ducked down below the windowsill. The room must have become uncomfortable as the outdoor temperature was cold for July. Someone closed the window, and the voices inside became inaudible.
Sixtus crouched for a moment and then hurried back across the street to his car. He went inside the liquor store and bought two doughnuts and a small carton of milk. As he sat inside the vehicle eating the food, he wondered what led Munoz and the other men to conclude someone planted the bomb in a Catholic church.
Of course. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? The first bomb detonated in a Muslim country, and the second was in a Hindu country. Were the bombs planted in a Mosque and Pagoda? If so, attacking a Christian church would be a logical next step.
How did Munoz stumble on the plot to begin with? A pedestrian detective from Seattle was at the epicenter of an event so significant the future hinged on the outcome. And how were Randall and Anston involved in the grand scheme? These were answers Sixtus would probably never completely understand.
He was tired and reclined in the seat as his mind drifted to Kara. So many vivid memories of her etched deep in his memory, but the earliest times were the ones he remembered most fondly. He closed his eyes and pictured her in a simple print dress, her hair perfectly framing her face and shining in the midday sun. They were walking through an open market in Portugal. The street vendors were friendly, and luscious fruits, vegetables and sweets were in abundance. Kara purchased handmade jewelry, soaps, ceramics and colorful clothing that reflected the spirit of the culturally rich European country.
He watched her from behind as her hips swayed in the gentle breeze, and Sixtus felt at peace.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sixtus saw Kara up ahead in the Portuguese market, and he tried to catch up, but somehow she kept increasing the distance between them. He called out, but she must not have heard him because she never turned around.
Dark clouds closed quickly and began to roll in from the south, obscuring the sun and sending the vendors scrambling to cover their goods. A pouring rain started to fall, but no matter how fast he walked, Kara kept moving farther away. Sixtus broke into a run, but his legs felt heavy and sluggish. From the shadows, someone reached out and jerked his arm, which almost caused him to trip. He stopped and turned around to face Daxtar Liss, who looked at him with a mixture of pity and contempt.
“You killed her, Maras. You know that. In fact, you killed us all.”
Sixtus felt a different touch on his other arm, and he turned around to see Kara standing within inches, only this time her face had a horrible blueish tint, and foam spittle pustules caked the sides of her mouth. A large wound in her abdomen bled freely.
“Yes, Jeffery, you have killed us all.” Her breath stank of rotted flesh and sulfur. “Why would you want to do that?”
Jerking forward with a start, Sixtus realized he’d dozed off, but the unsettling images stayed fresh in his mind. He tried to focus and purge the dream by looking over to the church parking lot. Fortunately, the Ford sedan was still there. The need to shake the lingering cobwebs sent him into the liquor store for a cup of coffee. He sipped the hot liquid and felt the first caffeine surge just as Munoz and two other men walked outside and got into their car.
Sixtus started his vehicle and called up the GPS on his phone. He already entered the Church of the Holy Name into the address box, so he didn’t need to follow Munoz closely. Watching as they pulled out onto the street, he started his pursuit only after they were safely out of sight. A summer rain started to fall and the intensity increased as he weaved through the early morning traffic that was already backing up because of the weather.
In terms of miles, the drive was quite short, and only the heavy traffic made the 12 blocks seems like 10 miles. The church was right off State Street, accessible by a private driveway hidden by tall walls and dense vegetation. Sixtus drove past the exquisitely manicured bushes and a garden filled with the fragrant smell of orchids. After passing the rectory, he found a spot in front of the building and parked as far away from the police sedan as possible to avoid detection.
After waiting outside for several minutes, he still wasn’t sure what he should do next. The church bells chimed ten times, which signaled there was less than an hour before the next bomb was set to detonate.
How can I confront Munoz when he has two people with him who are probably fellow cops? Sixtus couldn’t overpower them without a weapon, but even with the obvious obstacles, he knew he must act. The element of surprise was an ally, so a stealthy approach was paramount. He stepped out of the car without much of a plan, but the unmistakable sound of gunshots coming from inside the church made planning irrelevant.
***
Marshall remained hidden in the strange library overnight, dozing occasionally despite his best efforts to stay awake. The hunger and thirst were oppressive, and his body odor was nauseating. For hours he debated whether to try and free Randall and Anston, but there was no way of knowing if that was the right thing to do. From a practical standpoint, he couldn’t overpower the guards anyway.
Throughout the night, the building buzzed with preparations and activity. Periodically, Marshall opened the door and peered out into the main banquet hall. The attendants pulled a large conference table out of a side storage room and surrounded it with about a dozen chairs. A lectern sat on top of a high pedestal in anticipation of a presentation of some sort. The freshly scrubbed tile floors gleamed, and all the lights in the room were replaced. The nervous commotion foretold something important coming soon.
Perhaps the strangest item brought into the room was a large metal cage set on a hoist and placed slightly to the right of the conference table. The enclosure was large enough to accommodate several medium sized primates. Once the maintenance worker positioned it properly, he checked the latch and hung a chain with a thick iron bracelet on one of the bars. The workers tidied up and dimmed the lights before leaving.
Marshall sat quietly on the floor for some time until he was certain he was alone. Mustering his waning courage, he crept out from behind a stack of books and walked over to the cage. He felt something threatening and dark lurking inside and was drawn to the chain with the open lock on the bracelet. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out scraps of paper and receipts, ripping them into smaller pieces and rolling them up into little balls he stuffed into the hole that housed the locking mechanism. Hopefully, if someone tried to close the lock, the paper would prevent the shackle from engaging. The cage could only be there for the captives, and Marshall wanted the option of helping Anston and Randall escape if the situation presented itself.
The sound of the main door opening sent him scurrying back to the library. He crouched down and peaked out as a number of people walked slowly to the conference table where they took the seat directly behind their name placard. These people might not have been instantly recognizable, but their dress and mannerisms hinted of great wealth and power. Traditional business suits, religious attire, thobes, capes, tunics and colorful headdress gave the gathering a distinct international flavor. Whatever this meeting was about, Marshall sensed the participants were very important global figures.
As the procession ended, Marshall watched a guard roughly shove Jarad Anston inside the room followed by Sarah. Two burly men dragged Randall in, each having draped one of his arms over their shoulders. His head drooped and legs slid lifelessly across the floor. They brought him over to a hard wooden chair and pushed him into it gruffly. Anston tried to break free to help his friend, but his restraints held him firmly in place.
One of the security men grabbed a chain and led Sarah to the cage. She showed only minimal resistance as they instructed her to get inside. One of the captors picked up the chain and wrapped the bracelet around her wrist as she shook her head vigorously in protest. As he pushed on the u-shaped bar to shut the lock, Marshall wondered if jamming the paper in the mechanism had worked. He imagined they set the cage up for something nefarious, and they proved him right.
