Authors: Reed Sprague
“You’re right. It could literally be anywhere. We could bring a full contingent of agents in here and still not find it among all this junk,” Mitchell said.
Over slightly to the left, the computer keyboard and mouse came into view. Don't touch either. Some diseases spread from contact. Creepy. How many strange web sites have been accessed? The greasy computer screen appeared with its slimy tentacles protruding out everywhere, some terminated, some not. Mitchell accidentally knocked over several huge stacks of phone–log ledger books. As the books crashed to the surface of the desk, the old processor was jolted out of hibernation. The rambling screen saver message scrolled:
…Windows version 777 license protected by God’s law. Duplication, replication and all other forms of copying or even touching this computer are prohibited by God Almighty Himself. That’s evil and illegal—666 and eternity in jail, so don’t even think about it. Just move on…
Mitchell retreated to the center of the office to regroup. His dull flashlight beam shined on the wall across from the desk, then began to circle the office as he moved his hand and arm steadily from left to right and occasionally up and down. Specks of dust thick in the light’s beam fluttered silently in the air and remained in constant motion, energized by an invisible force and seemingly exempt from the law of gravity. Junk appeared then faded into the darkness, then more junk appeared, as the subdued light passed around the room. The light came to rest back at the shelves on the wall across from the desk.
The shelf bracket support screws were tightened securely into their lead anchors. Twelve of the anchors were out of their holes. The other six had been pushed back in about a half inch each, and were wedged in place by the downward pressure of the collapsing shelves. Records, a few CDs and even some eight–track tapes came into view as the small circle of light moved along the bottom shelf. The light stopped on a sloppy pile. Mitchell’s preference,
The Ten Most Critically–Acclaimed Opera Performances of All Time
, was on top of his least favorite,
God's Only Ordained Hymns of the Faith
. Tucked away on the back of the shelf were a few cassette tapes of some long dead rock ‘n’ roll that just won't give up and some jazz. Everything on the shelf was blanketed by dust.
“Someone’s in the hall, just outside the door,” River said.
“Not likely. Keep looking. Remember, no talking. Only whisper. Don’t forget again.”
The light continued up to the next shelf, then right to left. Pictures from a stranger’s distant past emerged. Three brave cockroaches, standing shoulder to shoulder, stared at Mitchell, unafraid. As the light passed, they stared out into the darkness, quietly guarding their territory. The light exposed several perfectly formed spider’s webs encased in dust. The webs united with the darkness as the light moved on. Then a few books.
God’s Edict of Annihilation
.
The Holy Bible, King James Version
.
Merely Christianity—The Real Story of Today’s Compromise Church
.
Up on the next shelf, a Crabapple–Orange sugar drink container sat, barely recognizable and perfectly comfortable—its contents melded together over time with its cardboard and wax skin. The little straw remained intact, refusing to integrate. Some of what was once a ham and cheese sandwich, still in its half–open wrapper, looked out from under its powdery, slimy green exterior. More books.
The Holy Bible, True Believer’s Version
.
God Needs You—Now!
.
The Twenty–Five Greatest Sermons Ever Preached Against False Prophets
.
Ready or Not?—2 Advent Either Way
.
“Okay, this is too much. Let’s get organized here. Just start with the most obvious places. Start with his desk drawers,” River said.
“Let’s start with the closet. We’re right here at the door,” Mitchell replied.
The air was saturated with the stench of rotten food, dead vermin and an office bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned in years. The stench was unbearable as Mitchell moved slightly to his right. He opened the closet door. The closet was crammed with many of the defining things of Peterson’s secret life. The items were revealed in rapid succession as they spilled out onto the floor. Old cartons of cigarettes, hundreds of tiny plastic packets of cocaine, eight boxes of gambling chips, stacks of ledger books, thousands of pieces of paper covered with senseless rambling, small paper bags of rotting leftovers from junk–food restaurant meals, mildewed clothes, garbage bags bulging with methane gas, and several boxes of hard liquor. Mitchell also pointed out a family of eighteen dead mice on the floor who had recently enjoyed a dinner of green rat poison inadvertently brought to them by their parents from the bait station in the hallway outside the office.
Mitchell closed the closet door and backed away slowly, stopping when his butt hit the front edge of the desk. He turned and walked around to the back of the desk while moving his flashlight up and down the side wall to take a closer look at the apparitions that he believed were there.
Careful of the board that props up the corner of the desk near the microphone. The drawer won't open. Pull hard. No use. Not locked, just broken. Obstinate junk. Long lines of roaches streamed across the top of the desk, trying to escape a rat who was hopped up on cocaine and caffeine. Didn’t work out well for several of them. The rat enjoyed a feast.
The light traveled over to the door, down to the floor, then slowly along the path from the door to the desk. Part rug, mostly terrazzo—a nearly indistinguishable combination of the two. Rips and holes in a rug so old and filthy that the vermin stay away from it. Giant stains, years old, blended into one another. Five bucks would buy the whole office.
Mitchell forced open the stubborn drawer. Its contents sprang up, having been compressed throughout the years into a semi–solid mass that has to be forced back down about three inches each time the drawer is closed. At the bottom of the pile, Mitchell found a loaded .357, rusted and oily, pitted and slippery, its wooden handle worn and cracked. The office was quiet except for the rat’s gnawing and chewing. Suddenly Mitchell went into a trance. There, behind the gun and pressed all the way to the back of the drawer, was the small envelope he was looking for. The rat stopped munching as the crackling of the paper filled the air when Mitchell peeled back the sealed flap of the small envelope.
“Look what I found, River. This is the gold. This is it. We’re almost out of time. You go into the bathroom and look everywhere for the rest of it. And I mean everywhere.”
“There’s a cabinet in the bathroom high up on the back wall, above the partition wall. How am I supposed to get to it with my hand like this?”
“Climb onto the top of the partition wall,” Mitchell said.
“Thanks for the advice.”
River proceeded into the bathroom and climbed onto the top of the partition wall between the toilet and the shower. He positioned himself awkwardly to pry open the small wooden cabinet. The odor was nearly intolerable.
The sound of the office door deadbolt suddenly cracked throughout the room and hatcheted deep into the nighttime silence. Mitchell turned to see, then froze. The intruder tossed the quarter into the air and called out, “heads, just as I found it.”
River remained silent. Mitchell dropped the envelope into the open drawer. He gripped his flashlight securely, didn’t go for River’s gun, tried to grab the .357, but failed. It slipped from his hand and joined the envelope as his lifeless body fell to the floor.
The intruder walked quickly into the bathroom, looked around but not up, then walked back into the office and continued out the door. He closed the door and locked the deadbolt.
River waited quietly and listened for the intruder to return before he jumped down. He checked Mitchell for a pulse, grabbed his gun but left the envelope. He bolted out the office door and scrambled from one corridor to another looking for his boss’s killer. His search was fruitless. He returned to Peterson’s office. The envelope was gone.
2:00 p.m., 6 January 2021. Two lines of soldiers slid the coffin carefully from its temporary storage and transport unit. The soldiers placed it gently on its special coffin stand, then proceeded to remove the flag. After the flag was removed and folded appropriately, the pearl white coffin glowed in the bright Virginia sun and waited patiently for the formalities to proceed.
Mitchell’s mother, father and teenage sister all cried during the first solo as his sobbing young widow tried in vain to comfort them. She was comforted by her tiny baby boy who slept peacefully in her arms. The pastor spoke, then the military officer, then River. The soloist sang another song. An assistant to the Governing Council spoke from behind a black curtain. The pastor spoke again. The speeches and songs shined nearly as bright as the coffin.
The soldiers stood at attention. Lift. Aim. Fire. Return. Hold. — Lift. Aim. Fire. Return. Hold. — Lift. Aim. Fire. Return. Hold. Never at ease.
The big man in the suit and black overcoat barked out to Mitchell’s widow and to Mitchell. “Take the flag, please. On behalf of President James Ian Barnes, I present this flag to you in recognition of the sacrifice your husband made in service to the United States of America. Thank you so very much for your sacrifice, Robert Dwayne Mitchell, Sr. May God bless your soul as you move on into eternity.”
Arlington was white and spotless—only snow and clean white crosses. Even the dirt was clean. It was acceptable to dump it on top of the polished coffin. Taps blared. Soon only the cross, the snow and the tears. Later only the cross, the grass and the memories.
Back inside the counseling room the big man spoke again to Mrs. Mitchell. “Take the report, please. On behalf of the United States government, I present you with this report of your husband’s death while serving honorably to protect the citizens of this great country. Please retain this report in order for you and your child to receive all of the benefits your husband’s family so richly deserves because of his selfless service to, and ultimate sacrifice for, the United States of America. Remember to file with the USFIA for all benefits. There will be no record of your husband’s death at the Social Security Administration or at any other government agency.
“In order to receive your benefits, please sign this confidentiality agreement here on this line. By doing so, you are agreeing to keep this entire report confidential, and you are reminded that you are under a lifetime oath to keep your husband’s work at the USFIA completely confidential. You are not permitted to discuss your husband’s work at the USFIA with anyone outside the USFIA. You are permitted to speak about your husband’s work at the USFIA only if you are requested to do so by an authorized representative of USFIA’s three–member Governing Council. You are even forbidden to speak with USFIA’s Director, Sydney Albert, or any other subordinate of the USFIA Governing Council regarding your husband’s work at the USFIA.”
USFIA Report On The Death Of An Agent
USFIA agent’s name: Robert Dwayne Mitchell, Sr. Hereby officially reported: Death during service to the United States Federal Intelligence Agency while on assignment in Italy. Cause of death: USFIA Code A74N–3. Date of death: USFIA Code UB–Y18. Time of death: USFIA Code 94R–T7. This commissioned report is official and has been certified, accepted and filed in strict compliance with: USFIA Procedure 614.17.44(e).
Further Inquiry Allowed: None. Report status, including attendant details: Top Secret. Signed by all three members of the USFIA Governing Council: Yes. Coded signatures used: Yes. Subordinates of the USFIA Governing Council permitted access to the codes used in this report: No. Subordinates of the USFIA Governing Council permitted access to this report: No.
Case status: Closed. Reopen file no earlier than: 6 January 2071. Exceptions: None. At that time, computer will define report codes used: Yes. Exceptions: USFIA Governing Council Signature Codes. Entire report, including attendant details, exempt from United States Freedom of Information Act: Yes. Entire report, including attendant details, exempt from all other U.S. and international disclosure laws: Yes.
6 JANUARY 2021
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Tyler Lee Peterson, forty–three, worked for two decades as an online evangelist, government lobbyist and political advisor who counseled his clients exclusively through his radio talk show. Peterson endured the entire twenty years locked away in his rundown office in Washington, D.C., where he delivered sermons to his keyboard, sought government favors from his telephone and gave political advice to his microphone.
Peterson’s favorite of his three jobs was his work as evangelist for the Free Will Independent Christian Church, an Internet church and renegade Christian denomination he founded in January 2000. Peterson worked long hours—from early each morning until late each night, seven days a week. His daily schedule included an hour or so for him to despair over his filthy floors, water stained walls, decayed office furniture and patently false numbers.
To make his case for a successful twenty–year career, Peterson pointed to the numbers. Peterson claimed that his church, located at www.godsonlywaychurch.org, reached scores of people each day. And he told anyone who would listen that his lobby firm, Tyler L. Peterson Government Representation, LLC, was booming. His proof for this claim was the extensive list of phone calls entered each day into his phone logs. The large number of phone calls he placed could mean only success, he would say. Peterson also said that his political consulting business was a hugely successful enterprise. There seemed to be no challenge to his repeated claims that he spoke to uncounted thousands as he spewed his political advice during his radio program. While it was always easy for Peterson to claim his numbers, it was impossible for others to verify them.
No one was ever able to verify the scores of people who were reached by Peterson’s church. His church’s only known score was one to one: It was virtually alive and spiritually dead. It died at birth twenty–one years ago. Peterson programmed his church’s web site to add numbers each day to the registers displayed at the bottom of the main page. The counter program automatically increased all six totals displayed there. Each day’s total and the accumulated total from January 2000 for the following categories were calculated and recorded nightly at midnight: “Visitors To Our Church’s Site,” “Members Of Our Church,” “Heaven Chosen.” The trick program was even set to add a larger–than–average increase to the numbers each Sunday, as well as on other Christian days of celebration, to reflect the increased interest and activity one would expect to see on Christianity’s special days.