Steve reached into his inner coat pocket and put on a pair of sunglasses as we entered the conference room.
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked in a low whisper.
He turned to me and said, "I have glaucoma, if you must know; it makes me sensitive to light."
We walked into the room. The conference room was a wide square room with a podium up front. Six desks divided into two vertical rows could hold up to twelve deputies comfortably. During press conferences, reporters would crowd themselves in while all law enforcement personnel sat on steel folding chairs behind the podium and in front of the wall-mounted whiteboard.
Jessie was sitting on the front row desk next to an empty seat. Steve walked up the aisle created between the desks and circled the podium. I walked up and took the empty chair, pulling out and lighting a cigarette to help calm my nerves.
"Where the fuck have you been, Rude?" Joy asked angrily.
Steve was not riled in the least as he said flatly, "Nice to see you too, Joy. Before any other of you gets your panties in a wad, you need to be aware of what's going on."
Another one of the office ladies protested: "We already know what's going on! The project's fucked!"
"No, it's not," Steve said firmly. "Now shut up and listen so we can all live to see another day. Back in January a terminal tried to eliminate a representative. As you all are aware, not only was this not authorized by the committee, it also failed miserably. At the time, we did not know who activated the terminal."
"So you're suggesting you have an idea now of who was responsible?" asked Brianna.
"We think so. Anyway, this major malfunction diverted our resources as we tried to keep the project on track, which caused us to drop the ball in Egypt. We rerouted to the caliphate option which should come to fruition in about two-to-three years. We're also killing off the OSB persona through the use of the Navy—it's just taking too many resources and too much manpower to try and keep that shit up—so with that out of the way, we were led to believe that we could start prepping for the G8 dog and pony show."
"So what happened?"
Steve pointed at me, saying, "His mother is what happened."
I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me as all eyes in the room—including Jessie's—turned to face me.
Before I could interject, Steve continued: "The Quest woman—or someone posing as her—resumed active duty two years ago. I am not sure if it was by her own accord or not. Whatever the case, she contacted Earley who coordinated a meeting with Barber. Barber's job was to maintain tabs on the boy, especially since he discovered the defect of the scopolamine series terminals, while we tried to confirm whether or not this was indeed the real deal."
"I'm sorry," I said, finally unable to hold back any longer. "Are you saying that Mom… is alive?"
"Don't get your hopes up, Jonny: we aren't sure. The reason you found her picture in Barber's house was that he needed to know what she looked like just in case she tried to make contact with you."
"I have a question," Jessie said, raising her hand.
Steve looked over at her silently.
"Is the whole town in on this or something? I mean, it seems that every person we bump into knows something about what's going on. What's the deal with this office, anyway?" she asked.
Steve leaned back on his heels as he responded, "Not the whole county, at least… I don't think. You have to understand that a lot of these people were planted here many years ago. There's something about this part of the country that the higher ups have keen interest in and I highly doubt smuggling Canadian maple syrup is high on the list. The way we're set up is like the NFL: there are different owners vying for different players in an effort to try and map out plays to score over the other. Does that make sense?"
"In a way, I suppose it does. Now, what about this office in particular? Do they maintain strategic law enforcement installments as well?"
"This office is a strategic point, yes. Again, this is going back to something around here being of very high importance. The state police may or may not be involved; I'm not sure."
"I have one last question," Jessie said.
"What is it?"
"I imagine you're the infamous 'Steve Rude' considering what that lady over there said," she started, motioning towards Joy. "But… who exactly are you? And what is your organization about?"
Steve was silent. I could tell he was contemplating something.
"I'm someone you don't want to know," he finally said. "And my organization is about control. Control through media, technology, science… it's like a grandiose version of The Sims, only with multiplayer and people die a lot."
"Well, you look like someone I know… someone I haven't seen in a long time…"
"I've been told I look like Dwayne Johnson."
"That's not what I had in mind," Jessie said.
Steve waved it off, saying, "Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. I look like a lot of people; I look like nobody. What matters now is that we get the station back in working order. The last thing I need is to have regulars getting curious as to what's going on. I've already had an earful of bullshit from Thomas about the news coverage this incident has garnered."
"Is it okay that I have someone from the state coming down Monday?" I asked.
"Depends," he said. "Who is it?"
"Billy Beam."
Steve expressed a soft half-smile.
He gave an approving nod, saying, "Okay then. I haven't seen Billy in a long time; he'll prove useful."
With no more questions, the bald man looked upon the room.
"Everyone return to your posts. The janitorial staff will be here shortly. I'm sure there's somebody having an emergency somewhere. Jonny, you and Miss Bannon stay," he commanded.
Jessie didn't find it odd that the stranger knew her name. At the time, I attributed it to the dossiers that Barber had kept on us. I would find out later that notion simply wasn't the case.
After the other staff members left the conference room and shut the door, Steve pulled up a chair and sat down across from Jessie and me.
"I need to know what your next move is going to be," he said.
I shrugged, saying, "I was going to dig through the evidence box of what was cleaned out of Barber's house. I was also going to see the little girl and read up on her father."
"Fair enough, though there is something I need to ask you, and it's going to be a very uncomfortable question."
I looked at Steve. Maybe it wasn't glaucoma that was causing him to hide his eyes; maybe it was shame.
"Was your mother cremated?" he finally asked.
I thought for a minute. The funeral was back in 1990…
"No," I said confidently.
I knew what was coming next.
"Would you have any qualms if we…"
Steve stopped short to cough some. It was like he was desperately trying to work up the courage to ask me permission to dig up my mother from her final resting spot. It felt rather strange given that this man didn't seem to have any qualms about blasting holes in people's heads.
I gave a slight nod.
"You want to see if she's really dead, right?" I asked. "Why are you suddenly so empathetic towards me?"
"I may be an asshole, kid, and with questionable reasons. That doesn't mean I don't have a heart."
"I'm touched."
"Don't worry," he said. "You'll get over it quickly, probably after what I'm about to tell you."
"What is it?"
"We need to get permission from the owner of the plot in order to exhume your mother."
Jessie gasped, "Oh, no…"
"Thom called me while you were en route back and said you are having dinner tomorrow night. I suggest you obtain the necessary paperwork then," Steve said.
I looked down at the floor. I felt like throwing up.
"What if Dad objects?" I asked.
Steve stood up, reached across the table, and placed his hands firmly on my shoulders. I looked up into his shades and the firmness of his gaze behind them.
"If you have to put a gun to his head, then goddammit you do it," he said in a deep, dark tone that would make even Batman piss himself.
"And if that doesn't work?"
Steve let go and stood upright.
"Then you put it to your own head."
