Original Sins Page 3

  What does he want? Why is he doing this? How does he get from one location to another so quickly? Why is he playing this game with me?

  The man wearing the khaki-green coat continued to stare at a fixed point in the shadows directly across from him. Damien’s approximation from the Native American had to be 100 feet. Slowly, Damien backed away with his eyes locked on the Regimented Man, who did not move, and took refuge behind the privet hedges at the corner of intersecting streets. Instead of running towards the university, which he thought the man in the khaki-colored jacket would anticipate, he waited. Then as soon as he was able to build his courage, he looked around the wall of the hedges. The Regimented Man had disappeared. There was nothing beneath the cone of light except for a detached page from a newspaper that littered the street, nothing but trash. Here was Damien’s chance, an opportunity. He had outwitted, out thought—

  A hand as big as a bear’s claw wrapped around Damien’s face. In this hand was a cloth that smelled acidy and harsh, the agent within the fabric caustic as it slowly stole away the student’s conscious. When Damien awoke, he would find himself bound and gagged inside of a van. Across from him was a woman whose eyes remained at half-mast, someone he recognized. It was Michelle Woolery. Sitting at the end of the van watching them was the Native American. His features refused to betray whatever he was thinking, the man stoic to the end. When Damien tried to yell through his gag, the man moved towards him with the caustic-smelling cloth and wrapped it over his face. As Damien protested from wide eyes, the cloth blotted his sight . . . . . . And sent him to darkness.

  * * *

  Peter Savange felt as if he was sitting on top of the world. And journalism had made him a king amongst kings. At thirty-two years of age, Savange had accolades and journalistic prizes heaped upon him for his reporting on the D.C. front. Politicians were his targets with a no-holds-barred attitude. He would often write about the Washington go-getters who were most often in the limelight, especially those who drew mass interest with scandalous headings. For the past few months he had been investigating Senator Jeffrey Rhames, a six-time incumbent. Allegations had been thrown about by a mother that her daughter, a minor, had sexual liaisons with the senator. But the accusations were baseless since the mother was not willing to file a criminal complaint, but a civil one, the idea a means of extorting funds from the senator through the court system. And since the senator was planning a run for the presidency, the timing of the claims couldn’t have been any more coincidental. Pay now or suffer later. Of course, Senator Rhames brushed off the accusations by claiming that the defendant was trying to use the court system in a money-grab scheme based on unfounded allegations, until the girl’s mother claimed that a video existed. This prompted Savange to dig deeper into the senator’s past and he began to excavate a history of the senator’s taste for younger women that was not acceptable by social conventions. The deeper he dug, the more he was beginning to unveil. It was like dredging up the bones of a fossil piece by piece to make a complete framework, slow and tedious. And though the articles were far from Watergate, he still eyed the Pulitzer. All he needed was for the dam to break. And for Senator Rhames, the fissures against the dam’s wall were beginning to lengthen. Savange was sitting in front of his computer inside his apartment working on a feature. The lights to the room were out since Savange enjoyed working by the soft light of the monitor’s screen, its cast causing the shadows of his face to shift constantly, if not with an air of the macabre, whenever he moved his head. Somewhere in the apartment a floorboard creaked, which caused Savange to stop with his fingers poised above the keyboard and listened. Silence. After a short lapse of time Savange returned to work.

  Like the fingers of a pianist, his fingers danced quickly over the keyboard. Characters and words quickly filled the screen, his thoughts rolling. Though he would fill numerous pages to get his point across, he also realized that Michelle Woolery would whittle down the words by trimming the fat to make the article meatier. Senator Rhames: Potential Pedophile or Political Prophet. Savange proffered a one-sided smile, the pleasure of his work perhaps the closest thing to an opiate. Another creak, the sound reminiscent of boards groaning under stress of an ancient ship. This time he rolled his chair away from his workstation, stood up, cocked his head slightly, and listened. Nothing. Then like a dog that sensed great danger, the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. He knew he was not alone. Grabbing an aluminum bat by the door, Peter Savange started to make his way down a darkened hallway. Framed photos adorned the walls of the thin corridor, black-and-white images of political bigwigs who were either waving, smiling or posing. He stopped and listened for sound as his fingers readjusted their grip on the bat for a firmer hold. Nothing. He then pressed ahead with the bat held ready to fly in a horizontal arc. As he reached the end of the hallway that led to the living room, a massive shadow stood in the center of the room. Broad shouldered and barrel chested, the shape that was blacker than black remained as still as a Roman statue. Savange held the bat high and behind his shoulder, ready to swing for the fence. “I called the cops,” he lied. There was a hint of stress from his vocals, somewhat of a warbling effect. “I did. I called the police and they’re on their way.” The shape remained riveted and unmoving.

  And then from Savange came a show of false bravado as he waved the bat. “You want a piece of me? . . . Is that it?” The Shape remained still, the black mass watching from eyes that Savange could not see but feel. And then the Shape shifted by moving across the room with unimaginable speed with a clawed hand reaching. Savange swung the bat, a swing and a miss as it struck the wall and smashed a few of the wall hangings. As he tried to gather himself for another strike, a hand that was as large as a skillet with sausage like fingers wrapped around his throat and throttled him. With its free hand, the dark mass snatched away the bat and tossed it aside, leaving Savange without a defense. As the reporter tried to escape from the python-like grip, the hand around his throat continued to squeeze the air passage close, the clench tightening about as steadily as the slow turn of a screw. Then from the edges of his eyes, Peter Savange began to see pinprick bursts of light from the starvation of oxygen. In time his sight began to blot out and started to give way to an even greater darkness. Choking and gagging and flailing aimlessly with arms that did little to help his escape, Peter Savange, a moment before he slipped into absolute darkness, was able to glimpse into the eyes of the Shape as it pulled Savange close. They were cerulean blue and a type of shade that reminded Savange of Caribbean waters, pure and clean. But these eyes were beacons from something that operated within sin, which literally sent a chill along his spine. And then these eyes began to fade away as Savange’s world became eclipsed by absolute darkness. But utter darkness, the reporter considered before going all the way under, was certainly better than staring into the eyes of unforgiveness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The ceiling of a jet’s cabin. The hum of a plane’s engine. When Peter Savange opened his eyes, he discovered that his wrists were bound by duct tape and that he was seated inside a jet aircraft. Damien Lovecraft and Michelle Woolery were sitting in luxury seats on the other side of the aisle. They, too, had been bound by duct tape. Seated in the rear of the plane was a Native American, a large man who sported raven braids of hair and wore a khaki-green military jacket. Sitting in the chair opposite him was a man pouring over documents. When the man lifted his head to look at Savange, there was no mistaking that this was the one who had breached the apartment. There was no way to misidentify the anger within those eyes. “Evening,” the large man with the cerulean-blue eyes stated evenly. Savange tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was like a dry strip of carpet, no moisture. “Peter Joshua Allen Savange,” the man said as he returned to the man’s biographical record. “Age thirty-two. Started as a journalist in Seattle, relocated to Boston, and then you made your way to the Post. You’re aggressive, ambitious, normally good qualities in most men, but your actions appear to center on t
hird-rail issues. What I mean by that, Mr. Savange, is that you attack certain political-play makers injudiciously.”

  Kimball set the manila folder on the seat next to him and stared at Savange, as if waiting for an explanation.

  “What is this?” was all Savange could manage dryly. “Where am I?”

  “You’re riding in a plane that’s cruising at an altitude of ten thousand feet.”

  He looked at Michelle Woolery and Damien Lovecraft, could see the stark terror in their eyes and the shared confusion. And then: “Why are you doing this?”

  Kimball spoke evenly as he repeated, “Age twenty-eight. Started as a journalist in Seattle, relocated to Boston, and then you made your way to the Post. You’re aggressive, ambitious, normally good qualities in most men, but your actions appear to center on third-rail issues where you attack certain political play makers in . . . ju . . .diciously.”

  “Injudiciously? I don’t write anything unless it’s been confirmed and verified.”

  Kimball stared at him for a long moment, his features refusing to betray any sentiment, any emotion, the man a cold, smooth operator. Then with the same consistency of even speech, Kimball said, “I disagree,” he said. “I believe you’re allowing your ambitions to motivate you to forward damning misrepresentations regarding certain incumbents.”

  Savange appeared perplexed. “I’m talking about Senator Jeffrey Rhames,” Kimball said after intuiting the look.

  Savange’s perplexed expression quickly evaporated. “My examinations of his actions are proving true,” he told Kimball. “Senator Rhames has a personal deviation and taste for young women not of consensual age, if I may express it that way. But we both know what I’m talking about.”

  Kimball continued to give off that one-dimensional look, that of showing zero emotion. “You, Mr. Savange, are publishing articles that have no merit outside the voices of conspirators within the White House and Senate, who are clearly looking to undermine the senator for political purposes. Isn’t it true that another person’s loss is another person’s gain?” Kimball leaned forward to emphasize his points. “Your claims regarding the good senator has no merit or proof outside of your imagination, which I believe, serves as your so-called source.”

  Savange shook his head. “My research is thorough and is never based on imaginary sources.” “Not true,” said Kimball, as he reached inside the manila folder and pulled out a few articles. “When you worked in Boston as a reporter you did so as a yellow journalist, did you not?” He held up copies of the articles. “Especially those with celebrity status such as actors and politicians.”

  “That was my job, man. That was what the Boston Recorder was all about. It was a rag that presented little or no legitimate well-researched news. Everything was about using eye-catching headlines for increased sales. And the techniques included were exaggerations of news events, scandal mongering and sensationalism. But we’re talking about the Post here; a respectable agency who excels on the reporting of truthful events. In the case of Senator Rhames, the stories stand as such.”

  After Kimball returned the articles to the manila envelope, he faced Savange with his hands clasped together in front of him with his fingers interlocking. “If what you say is true,” he began, “then your sources must be coming from within the White House, or from someone within the Senate halls, yes?”

  Savange remained quiet, which was answer enough for Kimball. Then from Kimball: “Who?” “You know I cannot divulge my sources. I have an obligation and a right to protect them. And it’s a constitutional right, at that.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really.”

  “I’m going to give you an opportunity, Mr. Savange, to do the proper thing for your country,” said Kimball. “Are you willing to do the right thing?”

  “I am doing the right thing,” he answered. “I’m divulging the truth about a man who does not deserve to sit in the Senate. The people have the right to know the truth about a man that they elected, and the disagreeable morals he exhibits behind closed doors.” “

  Are we talking about the same man here?” Kimball asked. “We’re talking about a senator who promoted bills that saved the lives of America’s poor by developing programs to feed, clothe and to provide a roof over their heads. He spearheaded causes that kept people employed with tax cuts and funding, keeping companies afloat to flourish when times became tough. We’re talking about a senator who pushed for change within numerous programs that benefited the needy. And yet you say nothing about his history within your articles. Why is that?”

  “Those achievements have already been chronicled. What I present to the public has not and it’s their right to know . . . Plain and simple.”

  “Plain and simple? The man has operated in the Senate because he has always crusaded on behalf of the people as senator over his six terms. And now you’re trying your best to diminish the man within the court of public opinion—which you’re doing quite well, by the way. Consider this moment between us a conversation where I grant you a cease-and-desist order, immediately.”

  “Is that what this is about? A threat to back off on my reporting of the senator. So Rhames set this up? This illegal kidnapping.”

  Kimball remained steady with his approach. “I’m giving you an opportunity here,” he told him. “What I need from you is a couple of things. First, I want the name of your source who is feeding you this garbage, whether it be within the White House or elsewhere. Secondly, upon return to Washington, I want you to write a rebuttal in the Post reversing your previous articles, saying that you recently discovered that your source, or sources, were proven incredulous.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “You will do this.”

  “I won’t. I have rights.”

  “Everyone has rights,” Kimball told him. “And if you don’t do as I ask, then I’m about to exhibit one in about two seconds. Will you or will you not do what I ask of you?”

  Savange raised his chin slightly in defiance. “I won’t.”

  “Fair enough,” Kimball said. From his seat which faced the rear of the plane, Kimball gave the Native American a nod, which was a predetermined signal. “Ghost.”

  Nodding, the large man rose from his seat and had to bend acutely so as not to hit his head against the plane’s ceiling. As he moved down the aisle, he was eyeing the woman. When he reached her, he grabbed and lifted her as if she weighed hardly anything at all. Michelle Woolery reacted to his hold by writhing from the large man’s grip, but failing, the Native American too strong, too powerful, the man handling her as if she was a small child throwing a tantrum.

  “What are you doing?” Savange called out. But Ghost ignored him as he carried her to the rear of the plane. When they reached the door, Ghost reached for the lever with his paw-sized hand, wrenched it to the side, and opened it. Cold wind and air invaded the cabin, but the plane remained steady and even in flight.

  “Don’t do this!” the woman cried. “Please, this doesn’t have to happen!” But the Native American offered a smile, one that said he was kind and gentle and willing to lend a hand in help. And then in a measure that sounded just as kind, just as gentle, he said, “shh-shh-shh. It’ll be all right. Everything will be fine. Just close your eyes and trust me, it’ll be over before you know it.”

  Then from Savange: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  As Michelle continued to cry out, Ghost lifted her with ease and tossed her through the opening, her screams diminishing quickly out of earshot as she began her freefall. Reaching for the latch, Ghost grabbed it and closed the door, locking it. Exuding calm as if committing murder was a part of his natural makeup, he retook his seat in the plane’s rear and waited for further instructions.