Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 77
Five Days, Seven Hours, Thirty-One Minutes
Craig Donovan stared at the television screen in amazement. He stopped listening to the CVN Foreign Bureau reporter a long time ago as the words no longer had any meaning. Instead, he looked past the talking head-and-shoulders at the gaping hole behind him. It was the spot where the Vatican once stood, but now it was a mess of black earth, dark water, and half-buried bodies. Sirens occasionally drown out the words that the reporter tried desperately to say, and panicked citizens ran across the screen in utter terror. He heard their screams, their cries for help, and he sat in the living room, his right hand twitching, fighting the impulse to roll into a ball and smack something as hard as he could.
"This has to stop," he mumbled to himself.
CVN suddenly lost its feed, and the screen blanked to electronic static for a moment. Quickly, the broadcast engineers cued the signal from the main newsroom, and new talking heads filled the image.
"This has to stop."
"Craig?"
He turned to find Indiri slowly walking out of the bedroom. She had fallen asleep the moment they had arrived at the safehouse, after he had tucked her in and assured her that no one would come for her here, and he let her sleep. She had been through enough, but now … now he had to explain this.
"What's going on?"
Quickly, he grabbed the remote and muted the television volume. He stood, dropping the remote on the couch. It bounced off the cushion and clunked onto the floor. He nearly stooped to pick it up, but then he thought better of it.
"Indiri, there's been another terrorist attack."
He watched her mouth open in disgust. "Oh, no," she said. "What … what was hit?"
He cleared his throat, trying to force the images of the destruction from his mind. There were so many flickering reels in his head. Desert Storm. Backsteps. 9/11. Frank's death. Now … this.
"The Vatican is gone," he said simply.
She gasped.
"It's just making the news."
Slightly perturbed, she ordered, "Turn it off."
Now, he crouched to the floor, retrieved the remote, and turned the television off.
"Craig, how did this happen?"
Rising, he explained, "It's terrorism, Indiri. There's … there's really nothing more you can say about it."
"But how did this happen?" she pressed. "How could someone … get a weapon that could do this?"
He shrugged. Working for the government, for the NSA, he was more than aware of several classified defense projects in the works, and many of them had not long ago been the fodder of science fiction. But, as technologies advanced, the military always sought to find the perfect means to weaponize the science. Within certain government circles, weapons mattered. They were all that mattered. He'd often joked with colleagues whether or not some bureaucrats would prefer that weapons be given the right to vote. After all, all weapons are created equal … and they kill with increasing efficiency. How could you explain the logic behind using a technology to wipe out life … all life … with no chance of returning? He couldn't.
Stepping around the couch, he walked up to her. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"You have to understand, Indiri," he began, "that the people who make these weapons … most of the times … they don't think about the consequences of what happens after the weapon becomes active. They're just … workers … ordinary folks like you and me … they're doing a job creating a tool to make our world safer … but, yes, if it falls into the wrong hands … if any weapon falls into the wrong hands … I think you know the rest."
"Why would we make something that could do … this?"
"I don't have any answers."
Lifting her head, she locked her eyes with his. "Did Richard DeMarco have anything to do with this?"
Honestly, Donovan shrugged. "There's no way for me to know."
"But he's a terrorist!" she insisted. "Doesn't it make sense that he could be involved in this somehow?"
"It does," he agreed with her, and he slipped one arm around her shoulder, carefully leading her toward the couch. "Right now, I don't think we have all of the information necessary to give an honest answer about whether or not DeMarco had anything to do with this. I think it's a safe bet to say that he may be involved. But no one can say for sure."
Sitting down, she shook her head. "And he wants me dead."
Donovan sat beside her. Calmly, he placed his hands on his lap. He didn't want to say anything, but he trusted that she was waiting for him. "Yes," he stated. "It looks like it."
"If he can do that," she began, "how in the world will I ever be safe?"
Pointing at the television, he explained, "Indiri, you have to understand that using a weapon of that magnitude … he'd have to know where you are … and there's no way he's finding out."
"Can you be certain?"
"I can."
"There's no one who can tell him?"
He started to reply but thought better of it.
"If Richard DeMarco has control over that weapon, I seriously doubt that he would use it for personal revenge."
Easily, she placed her head on his shoulder.
"I'm just so tired," she muttered. "I'm just … so very tired … of all of this."
She began to sob softly, and Donovan reached up with a hand and touched her cheek. After a few moments, she drifted off peacefully, and he sat in the darkened room wondering where DeMarco could possibly be hiding … and, worse, who could be helping him.
END of Chapter 77
