There were several uncomfortable developments in the previous chapter – for Mrs. Danvers, Tom Purdue's housekeeper, whose day was interrupted by a mysterious and rather creepy visitor who reminded her of someone (except hadn't he'd died like 80 years earlier?); for Sheriff Betty Diddon of Orient, IA, who realized a 50-something victim was not going to be the anticipated missing Trazmo to give this town closure over a 30-something cold case; for Capt. Ritard who continued to deal with the absurdities of the International Music Police's new office building; and for Mrs. Quigley, Dr. Kerr's neighbor on Conan Drive in Doylestown, who barely missed out on being present when Dr. Kerr's house had been ransacked – but perhaps the most uncomfortable development occurred in the chapter before that, when Graham Ripa, disgraced Aficionati agent, was wheeled in, soon to discover himself the star attraction in an experiment that, if all went according to Osiris' plan, would soon wreak terror on mindless crowds attending SHMRG's equally mindless summer pops concerts...
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CHAPTER 14
Graham Ripa had no idea where he was but he knew it didn't much matter because given what he could remember – what were definitely some previous memories or perhaps even his most recent ones (not wanting to call them his “last memories,” not yet) – wherever this was was likely to be someplace really, really bad. It must've been taking forever for the haze to wear off but he was also sure, whatever may have caused this, it wasn't nearly as enjoyable as any previous experiences with his favorite pharmaceuticals.
Words like “amnesty” and the promise of some “managerial position” floated above the sounds of a mariachi band and the dry desert winds blowing across the square of a small town in northern Mexico. “We all make mistakes,” a voice on the phone had said, soothingly forgiving. Could this be a chance to redeem himself?
After running from the Aficionati agents he knew would be looking for him, Ripa ended up in Tecuitlatlali, a village northwest of Chihuahua, a place he thought would be overrun with yappy little dogs. Yet, even here, in this God-forsaken desert dungheap, someone found him, so maybe it was time to get this over with. Everything (including his future) was fifty shades of mud, from adobe houses to not-too-distant mountains rising darker brown, barren and forbidding. It was a place so primitive, dinosaurs could still roam these remote mountains.
Over the phone, the agent – his name something like “Shango” – sounded conciliatory, offering more than amnesty. It was tempting, he'd thought. After months of running and hiding in fear, constantly looking over his shoulder, Ripa was being offered a second chance, a managerial position with some new laboratory working on a revitalized, expanded Mobot Project.
He'd meet Shango at this run-down tavern, Tzintamalli's. If Tenochtitlan had been the Aztec's Navel of Civilization, this was its asshole. Not a tree in sight, the desolate road disappeared into the looming foothills.
When Shango appeared, a silhouette against the mountains, Ripa was startled into believing there were dinosaurs coming down from those hills. The man before him seemed as big as a T-Rex but more fearsome. Immense, black, tattooed, and clad, what little he did wear, all in leather, Shango's appearance suggested this would not end well.
The next thing Ripa knew, he was on a gurney being wheeled into a space best described as “a sterile environment.” A hospital? The room was otherwise empty: no equipment, no monitors or doctors. He recalled no discussion, nor remembered having been torn to shreds by the powerful monster he'd seen before everything went dark. He felt woozy, some sedative finally wearing off, a curtain raised slowly, tantalizingly on a swirl of memories, recent and remote. He couldn't turn his head, but he knew: no – it was a lab.
He'd been in a lab not too long before, a “sterile environment” created in the basement of his own childhood home. But this couldn't be that lab: it had burned down, everything completely destroyed. This must be that revived and expanded version of Osiris' original Mobot Project, “suicide robots” with bombs detonating inside computer-generated brains.
Yes, he remembered now, as his supervisor – the thankless bitch, Perdita Vremsky – was strapped onto a gurney much like this one, and how that surgeon, Ivan Govnozny, inserted a tiny bomb into her skull. She would become a human test-dummy for the animatronic robot some enterprising music-lover christened a “Mobot,” controlled by remote radio signals.
The destruction wouldn't be as extreme as a regular bomb strapped to the chest, but it would be terrifying all the same, someone beside you in a concert exploding when you least expected it.
So this was how he, Graham Ripa, would find his second chance, his contribution to the cause he'd championed so loyally? A second test-dummy like Vremsky, detonated into bits of bone and brain matter? It will be the knowing, the waiting, the constant impendingness of the inevitable, not the flash of death itself, finis gloriosus. Well, he sighed, if nothing else, when the end came, it would be quick, bursting forth in a blaze of glory. The question is, when they implanted the bomb, would they use any anesthesia?
Maybe this time – Shango'd called it “revitalized and expanded” – they've figured out a way to do more damage, kill more people, discovered other ways to increase the amount of explosives planted into a bomber? It had to remain undetectable: surgically implanted into the body cavity – ah, that would be it: inserted up his rectum? Fitting...
Yes, that would no doubt be the “new improved” Mobot, lacking organs; but in a human, how would it work best? First, give him an enema, then replace everything with three pounds of C4? Would it be noticeable when he went through security? Could a bomb-smelling dog sniff out anything in a body cavity search?
A robot needed to pass unnoticed into a crowded concert hall, where the destruction had been minimal with the Vremsky Prototype. But line its interior mechanisms and sensors with thin layers of potent explosives...
He lay on that gurney for what seemed like hours while something in the I.V. kept him alive, his brain awake, counteracting how much sedation he must've been given to make his mind race. Odd, knowing what the outcome would be – unless they've planned something worse – he'd never felt so alive these past several months. His creativity had never been at such a peak, ideas upon ideas, yet unable to write them down, even remember them. Ripa always fancied himself more of an Idea Man than a mere implementer.
If the idea was to send a louder message to SHMRG, to scare people from attending their cross-over concerts with their detestable dumbing-down of The World's Greatest Music, then, he thought, just do it. Like, place him by some support structure, a latter-day Samson who could bring down the hall: but just make it quick.
“So,” he thought, as if talking with some imaginary friend like those he'd had as a child (there'd been few real friends; even the imaginary ones abandoned him if he'd hadn't killed them off), “this is what being on the receiving end of Karma must be like, when the 'Do-Unto-Others' Thing comes home to roost.” He imagined how he'd be surrounded by a ring of taunting spirits, voices from his past, come to savor his demise, starting with his grandmother (speaking of bitches), all egged on by Perdita Vremsky. He had murdered his grandmother outright and disposed of the body, tried to frame the old lady next door (that failed), and might as well have murdered Vremsky outright, killing her with office politics. That had been almost too easy, painting her into a trap with a boss susceptible enough to fall for his machinations.
It was his idea to kidnap Tom Purdue, fittingly the old lady next door's nephew and his father's childhood nemesis, who, coincidentally, had developed a computer program that could communicate commands to the Mobots, only the plan (which was golden) turned to shit, given those moronic assistants of his, the Punimayo twins, Vinny and Yanny. He was even converting his family home into the Aficionati's future American headquarters which wouldn't go unnoticed among the organization's elite, but unfortunately the renovations were woefully behind schedule and the gift ultimately backfired.
Undermining Vremsky's loyalty and competence was easy. He maddened her which caused her to stumble – in Osiris' eyes, a fatal flaw. Once she'd introduced him to The Boss, it was a matter of time. Instead of her bumbling ineptitude, Osiris would be impressed by his brilliance. With Vremsky out of the way, he would ascend.
“Payback,” he proclaimed, “is my bitch!” But instead, everything rapidly fell apart: the computer program rebelled (Artificial Intelligence, the Unreliable Frontier), that strange dude Kerr showed up out of nowhere, the farmhouse burned down...
When Shango materialized out of the shimmering haze of Tecuitlatlali's hills, his arms like trees and a torso like a bull's, Ripa knew there was no chance his ideas could win this guy over. The man reminded him of some mythical demon he'd seen in a book or cartoon movie: all he lacked were horns.
His mind, what was left of it, was exhausted from the constant race of hours, perhaps days of relentless, disorganized thoughts, from memories and second-guessing to revenge fantasies and the odd, unbidden sexual fantasy. How degrading, he thought, as if his humiliation wasn't complete enough without having them monitor such thoughts, especially fantasies involving Vremsky. Arranging the meeting with the initially conciliatory Shango, he'd assumed his inevitable rehabilitation, being forgiven and received back into the fold, meant his future would stabilize, an improvement over his recent fugitive existence. “Wrong...”
A flash of white appeared in his peripheral vision, a glimpse of someone in a hazmat suit (why a hazmat suit?). He was moving – what little he could see indicated he was being rotated. Blank white walls and no other sign of habitation or comfort, Hazmat Man aside: what kind of a room was this?
When he stopped – such dizziness – he faced a large window looking down on him. There stood the unmistakable silhouette of Shango. When he stepped aside, Ripa barely made out the presence of an old man in a wheelchair and a tall, statue-like figure beside him: Osiris and Selket. So, he thought, they had both survived.
Whatever death would shortly be his – so many options to choose from – the soon-to-be-late Graham Ripa knew it wouldn't be quick. Wasn't this the first time he remembered ever seeing either of them smile?
* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *
They were ushered back into the room, a single file of scientists, this time with Dr. Piltdown behind Krahang and Ossian. Her confidence was outclassed only by Shango's sheer size and Selket's imposing fearlessness. Krahang found Piltdown intimidating, too domineering for what he considered a woman should be, but Ossian, alas, was besotted with her. Krahang long suspected Ossian – Dr. Dawson – was a fool, but this clinched it. Riddled with countless insecurities, only a fool like Chuck Dawson, destined to self-destruct, would be attracted to a woman like that.
Piltdown, an undisputed expert in the field of Artificial Intelligence – Krahang opted not to joke she needed some Artificial Emotion software – had bristled against Osiris' insistence she choose a name from the Agency Catalog. So she picked “Nephil,” a 'Giant in the Earth,' contemporaneous to Adam & Eve presumably from some alternative creation in Genesis.
After Shango unveiled the existence of his “special guest,” as Osiris called him, they had been dismissed for the day and told to reconvene the following morning, though why specifically sunrise, Krahang wasn't sure. The delay would allow Dr. Piltdown to finalize some necessary equipment in order to gauge the next phase of the trial.
Al-Zebani explained this was needed to determine the best ratio of the various toxic chemicals being used in the mini-drones' venom, what levels it would take to stun a victim – or to kill one.
Graham Ripa's story, so far, was well known and, like Perdita Vremsky's, destined to exist on different levels within the organization. A prodigal son, the agent was being sought to correct his errant ways. The ending, Krahang suspected, was being written “as we speak,” the outcome inevitable, joining the pantheon of Aficionati mythology, Osiris' legacy.
To everyday engineers, Vremsky and Ripa would be hailed as corporate heroes, honored for their dedication and sacrifice to the cause. To upper management whose loyalty occasionally needed some reinforcement, they'll serve as warnings.
The story he'd been told about Vremsky when he first joined the staff at Basilikon was how she'd bravely stepped forward to volunteer her life when a human guinea pig was needed, a martyr. How they would spin Ripa's “sacrifice” remained to be seen, but Agent Krahang suspected he was about to be a witness.
Krahang and Piltdown each had their respective remote control devices, Piltdown's tablet monitoring the experiment's effects on the subject and Krahang's, more like a gaming device, to enter commands controlling the mini-drones in real-time. Ossian glanced awkwardly at the scientists on either side of him and frowned, wondering if he had forgotten to bring something. This time, they stood behind the old man in the wheelchair and his nurse with Krahang and Ossian to Selket's right, Piltdown on Osiris' left, and Shango retiring to a spot directly behind Osiris.
Dr. Háradov stood by himself at the farther end of the observation room, scrutinizing the “patient” stretched out on the gurney, and leaned forward with his hands clasped behind his back in uneasy anticipation. With everybody in place, al-Zebani turned to Osiris who paused, took a deep breath in the expectation of satisfaction, and nodded.
“Right. I want to explain, after yesterday,” Director al-Zebani explained, “we have been able to move parts of the puzzle closer to completion, and though not yet finalized, sufficient to foresee some potential results. Yesterday, sir, you observed the Mobots' maiden flight; so this morning we resume our presentation with this experiment – on a human.”
Krahang knew the optimal goal of this project, choreography aside, was to terrorize the public, even kill large numbers of them. He tried not to flinch now, knowing his involvement would lead to this.
There was an almost subterranean growl Krahang could sense coming from behind him but the only person behind him was Shango and he couldn't imagine this beast protesting the use of a human experiment.
Al-Zebani continued. “Agent Nephil – Dr. Piltdown – is perfecting a mixture of various toxins that, in various doses, will have different effects.”
She raised her chin, her posture exuding further confidence. “Each mini-drone can deliver a limited payload which can be controlled remotely. For this experiment, different phalanxes of bots carry different intensities of the toxin.”
She explained how each bot can sting a victim several times on contact, releasing different amounts of toxin into the body. A moderate level would stun a full-grown man, but others had their uses. There were different levels that could cause extreme discomfort, temporary paralysis – while the highest level could kill a man in seconds.
“For SHMRG's Summer Solstice Concert, I would send in a few hundred drones that would first sting members of the audience and create a panic by the time we'd send in the stronger doses.”
“After all,” al-Zebani interjected, “we want some survivors to bear witness. These would be the temporarily paralyzed who can later recover.”
“Those who remain would be taken out by the strongest doses, leaving behind possibly thousands of dead lying on the ground. They will, basically, have absolutely no idea what 'hit' them,” Dr. Piltdown concluded.
Al-Zebani added medical files on the prisoner – “I mean, 'patient'...” – revealed several allergies, inconvenient and annoying reactions but nothing particularly fatal. By introducing these into the lowest dose, he'll quickly break out in hives.
“Agent Nephil will tabulate the body's reaction to each level – blood pressure, heart rate, sugar levels – to help us determine if...”
Osiris interrupted him with an imperious gesture that said “do not waste my time with scientific data and explanations” as clearly as it said “if I say 'do this,' then it shall be done.”
Krahang tried hard not to blink. “This is torture, not Science,” he thought. Shango'd implied Ripa was no better than a lab-rat, given his crimes, but... Again, he heard this rumbling: was Shango purring?
Krahang, staring straight ahead, dreaded having to face a conflict with this man. No, not a man, more like... – a minotaur.
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Mornings at the motel had long lost their novelty for me, frankly, not that it would've taken much, at this point. This will be the fourth day since we arrived in Orient Monday evening. And since then, I've gotten the distinct impression something must've happened and Sheriff Diddon was shutting us out of the investigation. Things had gotten off to a rocky start when we arrived but then I thought she was going to be cooperative. Now, we can't get into Trazmo's old room because apparently “it's off limits.” Not a crime scene, just “off limits.” Plus, she's not returning my calls. Cameron said he'd relayed my idea about checking the ceiling light but she didn't seem to take any notice of it. She probably ignored it. So I decided it's best just to keep the proverbial low profile, sitting tight and hanging loose.
We'd spent part of yesterday afternoon wandering around off Debenham Road (other than “back road,” it seemed to be nameless), wanting to see where the body'd been found, get some kind of bearings. There were still a couple policemen along with Deputy Sheriff Roger Dett who didn't “take too kindly” to our being there.
“What's that over there?” I pointed to a building not too far away.
“That's the old Ratchett Factory,” Dett said. “Now it's some data center for the Government – Basilisk Something.”
“Interesting,” I'd said.
It wasn't, really, but while I was prolonging the conversation, Cameron glanced around. He didn't find anything any more interesting, so we left and spent the rest of the day hanging around the motel. Cameron did his exercises before going to bed; when I woke up, it was dark out, and he was exercising – still?
“Good morning! What excitement do you have planned for us today, O Captain?” If he exercised whenever he was bored, he'd be ready for the Olympics by the time we got back to Doylestown.
“Morning...” Watching him do twenty push-ups then a set of sit-ups, his feet hooked under the bed frame, I became exhausted. Somehow, I hoped to find enough energy simply to face another day here. One more morning walk wasn't about to relieve the tedium but might help the general circulation. “Maybe a walk around town...?”
I sat up and reached over for my phone. It was very dead.
The screen was dark, it didn't respond to anything. “Now what...?” Pressing the green button for “start” didn't register any effect.
“Hey, Cameron.” He'd just started running the water. “Did you do something to my phone last night after you charged it?”
“No, why? Did you shut it off or something before going to bed?”
I rarely did anything to it for fear I'd break it and, without touching it, that's apparently what I'd managed anyway.
He picked it up, pressed a few buttons – nothing – pried open the back cover, picked out the battery, waited a bit, clamped it back in, then tried starting it up again; and again – nothing. So, using his phone, he called and asked my phone company if they could check my account, maybe do some trouble-shooting.
There was a good deal of hemming and hawing (more hawing and most of it involving some rather bland background music), but eventually a technician found a call placed from an unidentified remote location which shut the phone off, a service provided in case the customer would not be using their phone for several days.
“I'm sorry, who could've initiated that call?”
“Is Mr. Curr in New York?”
“No, he's in... no, not in New York. Can it be switched back?”
“Sure – one moment, sir. – All taken care of.”
When Cameron handed me my now functioning phone, I quickly punched in his number in speed-dial and his phone immediately rang. “Well,” he said, “one mystery solved. The question remains: who hacked your phone?”
“And why? What was the point of disabling my phone: to give the impression I'd fallen off the griddle?”
“That's 'grid'...”
There was no indication I'd missed any calls, nor were there any voice-mails waiting for me, either. “Well, that was interesting.”
“Think you can avoid any additional crises while I go take my shower?”
“Go ahead. I'll sit here and meditate, see if I can exercise my brain a little – could come in handy, later” – and think about who in New York, apparently, had initiated the “Off-Grid Mode.” I was tempted to call people like Tom or maybe Chief Inspector Bond to let them know my phone's okay, now.
On the one hand, I didn't know anybody in New York City – I assumed the phone technician meant New York City, not New York State – who'd be needing to get in touch with me. And if Tom called, or Bond or anyone else in England had tried calling, they'll probably try calling back. “I'll wait.”
Meanwhile, I told myself, sit back, relax – the shower sounded soothing; I could use one myself, next – unwind. A music room...
Cameron's plan was to take his shower before we'd head down to the Dining Car for breakfast and then headed out. We weren't quite sure where “out” was going to be, just “not here.”
He shut off the water, toweled himself dry, and called out, “Next!”
“Next...?”
The music room – what had Tom said about that night at the Colony? “There were some composers in the room, playing their 'works-in-progress' to each other when Trazmo stormed in, saying he was next. He'd signed the room out so he could practice on the grand piano, so now they would all have to leave.
“But someone challenged him, insisting you can't sign out the music room to practice unless you were giving a recital there. When they checked the schedule, nobody'd signed it out: See? Trazmo was bluffing.”
Cameron sat down at his laptop and started checking our e-mail accounts. “What brought that up?” He was barely paying attention.
“The hacking – you saying 'Next!' – Tom in a music room...”
“How's that significant...?”
“What happened next? Motive, Cameron,” I said, getting ready for my shower. “Motive...”
“Terry – there's e-mail from Tom!”
My phone rang.
The ring-tone was the scribbly, unwinding motive opening the scene in Pimen's Cell from Boris Godunov, undoubtedly suitable for a scholar who spent his time burrowing into volumes of historical lore like Anton Vole.
“Ah, Mr. Vole,” I said, cheerfully and expectantly. “How are things in Greater Doylestown? Do you have some news for me?”
“I hope it's not too early,” he said, sounding genuinely apologetic, “but I figured by 9:00 you'd at least be awake.” Since it was barely 8:00 here, I thought best not to mention it. “I'd tried calling last night a couple of times – well, three – but even when you didn't answer, there was no voice-mail.”
“Oh, that.” I sighed. “I'm afraid it's a long and frustrating story. Something happened with my phone and I wasn't receiving calls or even notices of missed calls. We only realized it this morning.” I could tell him Cameron fixed it, what he'd found, what the implications were, but it would only confuse the man.
He sighed. “Technology's always baffled me. I just wanted to inform you of my little adventure.”
“Adventure, Mr. Vole? Do tell...!”
“Oh, nothing much, but last night, before I left work, someone attacked me.”
“What do you mean, 'attacked'!? By whom? How'd it happen? Are you okay?”
“Okay, for a curmudgeon conked on the head in the library with a candlestick by Col. Mustard, for all I know. Security locks the main entrance at five, but I'd heard someone before seven while going around to lock up the library. Or at least I thought I had: my assistant will usually do that. I'd been staying late several nights this past week trying to get caught up, since she's been out sick, poor dear.”
“You mean you thought you heard someone? Or you thought you'd locked up.” There were lots of rooms – the reading room, the archives, plus his office and the back entrance, intended mostly for emergencies. If he'd been attacked, someone could hide anywhere in the shadows and not be seen, not by a myopic old man.
“Well, that's what I was wondering, Dr. Kerr. Things were a little foggy when I talked to the police last night. I knew you'd been here before – Saturday, I think? We hadn't opened officially. But for some reason I was thinking you had been here last night. I don't really know why I can't remember...”
“Don't worry, Mr. Vole, it couldn't have been me. You see, I'm in Iowa, working... uhm, visiting some old friends here.”
“I'm sorry – I mean, your being in Iowa, not that you have friends.”
Mr. Vole was always one to think there was no reason, as an Englishman having come as far west as Philadelphia after ten years in Boston, to go anywhere else in the United States.
“But if you're... there, when were you here to pick up that letter?”
“Letter? The daPonte Letter? Are the copies ready?”
“But if you hadn't come in and picked it up – which would've been very naughty of you, but I know how impatient you can be – then I wonder how else could they have disappeared?”
“Disappeared? What do you mean, 'disappeared'?” I'd been alarmed enough about his having been attacked but now that alarm escalated exponentially.
“Exactly that: what else could 'disappeared' mean? I'd seen them two hours earlier; then, this morning, I noticed they were gone.”
“You mean the copies are gone?”
“The originals! The copies were never made.”
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©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train
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