Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 53
Five Days, Eleven Hours, Fifty-One Minutes
"It's good to see you again, Senator Pendley," Fred Gallick, head of security for Heston Tower, said as the older gentleman entered the lobby.
"Hello, Fred."
"How goes the business of governing today, sir?"
"About the same as usual, I'm afraid."
The younger man joined him in stride as they moved toward the elevator.
"Have there been any developments I should be made away of?" the senator asked.
"Nothing of any consequence, sir."
"Let's hope it remains that way."
Gallick stopped in front of the service elevator – the only one that descended to Pendley's subterranean lair – and he quickly pressed the button.
"Oh, Fred," the elder statesman announced matter-of-factly, "I must tell you that I've stepped up my operational timetable. Project Kupher went active earlier today, and I suspect it will remain active for ... oh, I don't know ... perhaps several days to come. You may notice a slight drain in available power for your facilities, but it shouldn't be so significant gain as to go noticed by anyone important."
"Very good."
"Yes, thank you," he agreed. "Should anyone come calling about Kupher, myself, or – specifically – the reduction of power, please do me a favor and let me know? I wouldn't want any unnecessary attention distracting you from the day-to-day details of your job."
"I'll be happy to let you know, sir."
"Thank you, again."
A bell chimed, and the doors parted. Pendley stepped into the warm elevator car. On the keypad, he tapped in his clearance code, and a panel light turned green.
"How is your work progressing, senator?"
"Oh, I've encountered the usual political snag," he snapped in obvious disappointment. "I'm hoping, however, that I can put it right shortly."
"Very good."
"Good afternoon, Fred."
When the doors opened, the senator marched into the waiting glare of Dr. Eli Watanabe. Nervously, the man wrung his hands before him, his spectacles drooped down to the end of his nose. Shaking his hands, he wiped his sweaty palms on the pockets of his lab coat.
"By the look on your face," Pendley began, "I can only imagine that you're here to deliver less than stellar news, Eli."
"Senator?"
"What is it, doctor?"
His finger trembling, the doctor raised his hand and shoved the bridge of his glasses back up his nose. "Sir ... there's been a ... modest development."
"Certainly, not so far as the power to the Crypt is concerned, I hope?"
Watanabe quickly cleared his throat so that the noise sounded much like a stifled laugh. "Erm ... no, sir. I wish it were ... only that simple."
"Then what is it?"
"Let's ... let's head toward your private office, and I think you'll understand shortly."
Arthur Pendley knew something had gone terribly awry when he rounded the corner and came face to face with an armed sentry. As soon as the guard recognized him, the soldier immediately lowered his weapon to his side, taking up a traditional military 'at attention' stance. The butt of his rifle rammed solidly against the floor. Past the sentry, the senator noticed a small gathering of other soldiers – security he had siphoned off various FEMA posts to service this facility – and, at the head of the small throng, he saw the grim expression of Commander Harold Stephens, the recognized head of the unit. Immediately, he called out for his troops to stand at attention, and they obeyed.
"Harold?"
"Welcome back to the Crypt, sir."
Glancing around at the stoic faces of the enlisted personnel, he asked, "I certainly hope this isn't some training event ... not at this stage of the game."
"No, sir." The man relaxed somewhat as he inclined his head in the direction of the senator's office. "I think you had better see this for yourself."
Together, they moved through the archway and into Pendley's office. As they walked into the room, the statesman was suddenly overwhelmed with the pungent odor in the air. He sensed an unusual warmth as he noticed the red lines scrawled unevenly across the floor in a jagged script, and, after a second glance, he realized it wasn't writing but was blood – human blood – and, with his eyes, he traced the stretch of crimson back to the base of his desk. There, two still pale legs stuck out from behind the wood. Bringing a hand up to his nose and mouth – an attempt to stifle the smell – he walked hesitantly around the edge, noticing that the legs ended in feet wearing distinctly familiar high-heeled shoes. He had seen Belinda wear those shoes many times before. Once – though he suddenly was flooded with regret over realizing he could only remember doing so one time – he had complimented her on her shoes. He told her that she always wore something that looked 'comfortable.' Was that so crass? Was that so impolite as to risk a sexual harassment complaint? In fact, his heart sank when he decided he could never recall saying anything of personal significance to this woman – this wonderful, committed, faithful woman – who had agreed to such a difficult assignment as working in the Crypt's administrative offices would require. He wasn't certain if he could look at her face – her pale, lifeless expression with that forever fixed expression of shock and bemusement – but he insisted he should do so. He owed her that much.
In her outstretched hand, she clutched the .357 Magnum Revolver that he kept in his desk. Her arm lay on the floor, the gun at the end, and he could tell – by the unusual contortion of her body – that she had used the gun to put a bullet through her brain ... his gun ... her brain ... his office ... her life.
"Oh, my dear Belinda," he muttered.
"We found her like this not long ago, sir," Stephens explained. "We were all down below. Once your command came in from the White House, we've stayed down there in the event of attack. After none came, I ordered one of our team to do a general security sweep of these offices. He found her like this, with this in her hand, and he reported it back to me immediately."
The soldier held up a crumbled piece of paper. Pendley took it, and he realized – right away – that she had found out what he was doing – what all of them were doing – the wrong way.
The page was titled 'Secondary Kupher Targets.' He had printed it himself – not several hours ago – after a telephone call from the Elders.
Clearly, Belinda had read the list. Easily, she concluded that Kupher – the project she had sworn off normal civilization to serve her country, serve her government, serve Pendley – was wrong. Illegal. Deadly. Unable to reconcile the anger and fear and frustration that went with realizing she had unwittingly betrayed her country, she must have charged his office, she must have searched his belongings, she must have found further evidence, and she must have given up all hope for an amicable survival. He imagined that she cursed herself, cursed her life, and cursed him, as well. When she found the gun, there was only one real solution. She could've waited to use it on him, but that wouldn't have been in her nature. She had trusted in him. She had given her life to what she believed was a cause of worth and, quite possibly, the closest sense of nobility her country offered. He had disappointed her. He had tricked her. He had stripped her of any possible respect for human life – her own included – and she did what she felt was the logical, necessary step: she put the gun to her head, and she fired. She blew a whole through her forehead and out the back, spilling her blood, bone, and brain all over his office, leaving him one final message, one final reminder that only death could come from what he was doing, what he was attempting.
"My sweet Belinda," he said.
"Sir?"
Refusing to surrender to emotions, he fought back his tears. "Commander, please clear this room with the exception of yourself and the doctor."
"Yes, sir."
He stared down at her frozen body. He imagined what she must've felt in those few final seconds of life, her eyes closed and the desire to live slipping away. Did she blame him? She must have. Did she curse him? She had every right. Did she haunt him? Would she?
He closed his eyes.
After a moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes, turning to face Dr. Watanabe and Commander Stephens.
"Gentlemen," he said gently, "Kupher is green for our secondary target, and I'm looking for suggestions. We will strike ... we must strike ... very soon."
"But ... shouldn't we delay until we can have Belinda's body properly cared for?" Watanabe asked weakly.
"Stephens will handle that issue, Eli," the senator concluded authoritatively. "He and his men will see to the body's disposal after we've concluded this meeting."
"But ... shouldn't we contact her family ... or the authorities?"
"From this point forward," Pendley concluded with considerable menace, "mine is the only authority you should concern yourself with, doctor."
END of Chapter 53
