Russell Twyce

Chapter 20 of Shiva’s Messenger

Snake’s Heads or Rat’s Tails

Shiva’s Messenger stood on a bluff overlooking the Spokane River, as it snaked through a green city setting on it’s slithering path to the Columbia. He had performed his “Hello, Alex Benson” ritual at his father’s mini-storage unit in nearby Idaho. His rental car was over his shoulder at the curbside wearing license plates that weren’t issued by the agent. Alex’s body was serene but his brain worked.

“I wonder who President Larry Weeds is coming here to see.” The inquiring minds of media wanted to know that as well but the answer wasn’t forthcoming. The White House told that he was visiting Spokane and information regarding his lodgings was also forthcoming but the reason was only listed as a scheduled meeting. “Why tell a little about a trip and then withhold the juicy bits. That’s like dangling a celebrity in front of a slavering pack of paparazzi.”

“Is this an unguarded lamb in security I imagine or a sly tiger trap poised to rip open when stepped on?” The president obviously had this slightly clandestine trip arranged but then decided to bait the assassin. In putting the itinerary into the open as a lure, without the mention of this would be a black hole in Larry’s agenda. The travel time alone spanned a return trip across the continent. Alex’s thoughts went back to a dollop of confusion that was recently dished into mind by his brain’s houseguest.

[A white sahib has a badshah but also elephants and beaters.]

Alex recalled his home educational work as supplemented by the Internet. The imperial British masters in India were the white sahibs and one sport they engaged in was tiger hunting. A badshah was a very high ranked personage as a prince but deferring to the colonial overlords. The badshah commanded the elephants to ride and the beaters to drive and contain the tigers.

“Was that just interesting trivia or valuable insight?” Shiva’s Messenger weighed his knowledge against the current question and it fit. For Sahib Weeds to get his game in the open, Badshah Taylor had to have an adequate supply of drummers and pachyderms. All, or at least most resources would be on the east coast pounding and trumpeting through the urban jungle there. Since the hunt came up unplanned, Sahib slips away for his previously scheduled quiet tea.

“Larry doesn’t expect to share his crumpets with more than just his mysterious fellow sahib.” Hauling in a badshah and his retinue wasn’t logistically sound. The president would be bringing his usual security and it might be beefed up but was that enough to catch Shiva’s tiger?

Alex now focused his eyes back on the vista. He drew out his city map and found the president’s hotel. Then, he plotted several avenues where a presidential entourage was likely to pass. As he drove away, Alex constructed a three-dimensional area model in his mind with shimmering webs of his plan running through it. “I only need him to travel by once and slow at the corner.”

From a non-descript hotel room, Alex regularly scanned the street with field glasses. He monitored the people and the traffic patterns. Some of the things he was watching for might not take place until the wee hours in the morning. He dozed often to conserve his energy and took regular walks to rebuild his stamina. The messenger paced himself for a round-the-clock vigil.

On one of these strolls he passed a homeless man seated in a small, grassed area. Spokane is large but not a mega-city. Alex actually recalled this same man walking up the bluff he had stood on. He only noticed because the man was wearing a heavy coat. It had seemed too big to suit the mild Pacific weather and it was definitely overdressed for climbing a hill. Alex had driven away before the hiker reached the summit but this time he fumbled in pocket for loose change.

They may be invisible to most people, but each has a story. His compassion for the plight of destitute people had grown stronger since meeting Audrey. The tribulations behind this man’s life on the streets weren’t apparent. He was probably in his mid to late forties and showed no obvious signs of substance abuse. If it weren’t for his clothes and unkempt grooming, Alex could have taken him for a healthy office worker. The man didn’t beckon for money so Alex didn’t intrude on his solitude.

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…

“You’re all spiffy for a date with a lady lawyer.” Eldon Browning regretted the statement on its utterance. He had remarked on the uncharacteristic and decidedly feminine appearance of his partner. He tried to cover his non-liberal quip. “Should I have broken off some comb tines in my curly mop?”

“I’m not even a switch-hitter so put your notebook away. I even enjoy looking like a girl again after I finish my shifts.” Beth Withers chuckled as she read his mind. After flying to the closest airport, the FBI team had taken rooms where Beth had carefully fretted over her appearance. She explained the motive behind her visual change.

“A bartender in Windsor said his name was Yuri. In Winnipeg he was Garcia and Roger with each persona having a different look and feel. In Akron it was Allen Powers and Wright.” Agent Withers didn’t include her burgeoning new belief that his apparent behavioral patterns would be different than the Allen she knew, if discussed with Judith. “The assassin is a chameleon but he takes that lizard a further step. His colors change and so does his technique for catching flies with his tongue.”

“There’s a better chance of finding him through that,” Eldon nodded his approval, “than we do in measuring the gaps in between his double-taps.”

“Darcy Leach spent business moments with him and I got some good details from her. Jessica Ellis spent intimate days with him.” Again the young agent failed to mention a critical fact. Beth too had enjoyed quality time with him but as yet, only her Task Force boss was privileged with that knowledge. “I want what’s in her head and I’m dressed to see if I can cajole what happened in her boudoir.

“I’d love to be a fly on the wall and you can even tick off closet voyeur on your Eldon’s foibles check sheet.” The male agent soon found the small town’s only lawyer’s office. “Can I at least fit you out with a wire in case you suddenly require a big burly backup?”

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“John simply can’t resist testing sharp women’s edges.” The lawyer recalled Romero’s intentional taunts with news of her status and pay raise. He impertinently sticks out his tongue just to see how we’ll react but Agent Withers got her dosage differently. “Beth had a schoolgirl’s crush on the cute boy in the desk behind. She swooned as he skipped away giggling, then found her ponytail in his inkwell.”

Cheating on taxes is the morally correct thing to do because funds given to a corrupt government will be used for corrupt and evil purposes.

A party system of government is corrupt – period. A party system is corrupt because it is designed to facilitate corruption. The government is corrupt and actively doing Satan’s work, but you can’t prove it because they control the records of their corruption. And so corruption flourishes.

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Chapter 19 of Shiva’s Messenger

Piñata of the Inquisition

John woke up gradually, still strapped to the kitchen table. When he had blinked his eyes for the first time, his lips were dry. A gentle hand had held his face and poured some water into his mouth. Most had spilled down his chin. The events of the past few days slowly came back to him.

On a zigzag course, always going west but with jogs north and south, he’d outdistanced any pursuit and closed in on the national boundary. His dash across the border was purposely timed for a peak period at a busy crossing. Canadian customs should be an unnecessary formality and often is. Who would want to smuggle out of the U.S.?

Sunlight was streaming into the kitchen window as he opened his eyes. Even before his pupils adjusted, a figure like an ethereal angel bathed in a halo of radiance approached, to moisten his lips again. His eyes focused and the seraph was Jessica. He had felt the presence of her voice but had thought it was part of a dream.

With a woman he loved on either side propped under his arms for support, he walked at their urging to a bed. He tried to speak but his voice wouldn’t answer the call.

“You need more sleep.” Cindy’s fingers stilled his lip’s efforts as she offered her prescription.
On one of the few lucid times in his early recovery, he’d asked for the name John instead of Roger or Romero. They in turn, had filled in the gaps of how they came to both be here together so unexpectedly. Now in the day following his surgery, Jessica helped him to eat some hearty soup but he ate as slowly as possible because he could see the girls were on the edges of their seats. There is a tempest of questions looming on the near horizon and I can’t see any shelter for the answers.

“What is your official name?” Cindy waited until a last mouthful went down then gave the eggshell a rap with the heel of a spoon.

“I don’t have anything official.” John’s thoughts raced. Father, please insert advice here. I’d even accept a cryptic Shiva gem. The internal pleas were barely past his brain’s lips when he realized the hitcher had advance paid his passage with a coin. Bhairava and his atonement bowl.

In Hindu lore, Shiva has another manifestation called Bhairava and while in that form, he beheaded his father Brama. The young John had mercy killed his as well. The guilt crazed Bhairava held his father’s skull and it transformed into a begging bowl. Atonement was finally found in the holy city of Benares but there was a lesson for the now and here. Absolution couldn’t be given until asked for.

How much baggage have I been packing from my dad’s death? Retrospectively, he could see the amount required a trailer hitch on his bumper. He was afraid to let people get too close. It wasn’t just to protect his mission, as he rationalized it to his consciousness, he was avoiding his own possible hurt. Existing in a space wasn’t living a life but contact with souls was. I have to check some luggage with a porter. I can answer their questions. Cindy and Jessica deserved no less than the truth. His habitual inclinations however, would still make it as sparingly as practical.

“I was born in a cabin in the far north.” Just that first sentence seemed to lighten his burden. “My father intentionally didn’t register my birth. There are no records of me anywhere in the bureaucracy. No one has my fingerprints or a sample of my DNA. That’s why I can’t ever go to a hospital. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a real name is the one my father called me by, John Fitzgerald.”

“Why would he do that?” Jessica took her turn at working a butter knife into the piggybank. It seemed to her that the worst kind of identity theft would be not providing an initial one.

“That’s a story that started long before I was even born.” John winced, as she nailed a critical inquiry. “My father committed an act on behalf of his governments. In return, they betrayed him. He escaped and swore to get his revenge. I’m his weapon.”

“You don’t have to do your father’s bidding.” Cindy bristled. If that were his motivation on her behalf, she would rescind tentative faith in him. “You’re a man of your own free will.”

“I made him a solemn vow and that was my choice.” Shaken at the way her voice had changed suddenly, John suspected he knew why. “Vengeance and weapon were the wrong words. They don’t suit his intent. Rather, I’m to be his tool to make amends and I will hold true to my oath.”

“What is your overall quest?” Jessica found a tasty trove and used a mallet on his walnut.

“That’s really the crux, isn’t it?” John took a cavernous breath. Two sets of eyes were each double-tapping his forehead. “I’m going to kill a man.”

“You’ve already killed many.” The lawyer was quick to point out. “Here in Creston, then Winnipeg, Windsor and Akron.”

“Why do you think I did those?” His brow furrowed on the admission of knowledge they shouldn’t have. Do I talk in my sleep?

“They had your personality etched in like a vandal’s signature in concrete.” The young woman explained. “My friend, Darcy Leach also confirmed that a Roger Connors was there in the periphery.”
“Do the police know what you do?” His trail had apparently not been very well concealed. Bound to make errors occasionally, his last line of defense was that there was a point where all trails would ultimately disappear. Even John’s real identity wasn’t factual.

“Neither of us said anything and locally, the RCMP couldn’t tell headquarters from hindquarters without both hands and a flashlight.” The scofflaw lawyer giggled. “Still, if we could figure it out, maybe others else can too but no one has asked us pertinent questions.”

“Thank you.” Cindy and Jessica may be subtle supporters,

“You’re welcome.” Jessica glanced over at her pensive cohort then returned the spotlight of inquisition back to her witness. “You evaded my crux question. Doctor Cindy may have sworn an oath, to do no harm but I haven’t. I’m not above poking a fingernail into your painful wounds. Now, what remains to be accomplished?”

“I’m to kill another president.” On second thought, one of them is a vindictive backer. John thought Shakespeare had stated it best. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ He might even be forced into knit sweaters with all the wool pulled over a certain ewe’s eyes.

“Then why didn’t you?” Jessica and the whole world knew that the golden ring had been right there for his trigger finger.

“The time wasn’t right.” John balked. Sins contemplated in the future had no place in the confessional today. His mind skipped to a paraphrasing of Judith’s dis-inspiring sermon. The vice-president is worse. Were he not absorbed in counting antler points on the other trophies, the season in Akron would’ve closed before opening. In fact, the man-hunter now wondered if he even had the appropriate quarry tag for the game specified on his license?

“The most earth-shattering thing my dad ever asked me to do,” Jessica grinned at her recollection because she hadn’t obeyed the order, “was to dump an older boyfriend when I was in grade 8.”

John just smiled. This isn’t turning out so badly. All Jessica really got him to do was to confirm some things she already knew.

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“The perp in Windsor was a man of probable Slavic extraction with blue eyes and light brown hair.” Eldon recounted after their discussion with a car salesman. “This one is described as definitely Latino with dark hair, eyes and skin tone. Both are of approximate height, weight, build and age, as are a percentage of males in the planetary population.”

“The first mentioned descriptors are transformable with hair dye, contact lenses and a tanning bed.” Beth wasn’t ready to give up quite yet.

“The last group can be spoofed with elevator shoes, crash diet, a gym and a damn good Hollywood make-up artist.” Browning could play that game too.

“Our next chat is with the late owner’s widow.” Beth grinned at the partner she had a rocky start with and joked. “Try to remember the phone number already in your pocket.”

“I thought we agreed to be friends.” Eldon shot her a look that showed he appreciated the humor in it. Sarcastically speaking, the next witness was quite the prize.

“I’ve seen more realistic theatrics in an Ed Wood movie.” Eldon commented under his breath as Mrs. Frost took a powder room break after her description of the killer.

“If labels in his designer clothing can be traced,” Beth quipped on the over dramatized description heavily leaning towards fashion, “then his jeweler’s records can give a positive ID”

“True,” Eldon chuckled even as the sentence formed in his mind, “but the mug shot matched half of the demons in purgatory so we have to tack posters up all over hell.”

“You had just mentioned a racketeer.” Beth reminded of where they had left off before the urgent bladder mission. Unfortunately, she still had the mirthful aftereffects of her partner’s clever remark.

“It’s not funny.” Arlene Frost became indignant. “The man is involved with all the major mafia families in Canada, America and in Sardinia.” She heavily stressed the nation in her short list.

“Tell us about the circumstances.” Beth suspected the woman wished to impress global law-enforcement significance but Sicily was the original home to La Cosa Nostra
The killer’s portrayal matched fifty percent of the underworld’s denizens and the loan shark now comprised the remainder. Beth’s only valuable information from the chilling spiel was a sideline fact. The murderer had taken a large amount of cash from here also.

“I can identify him and will testify but I need to get into the FBI witness protection program as quickly as possible.” Mrs. Frost was such a selfless civic-minded person, willing to uproot her life to bring a felon to justice—then disappear with her inheritance intact. “One lawyer is already using pressure tactics—and she’s in collusion.”

“You’re more likely to find RCMP or CSIS sanctuary.” Beth jotted down the names of the two dastardly Mafiosi in question.

The pair of FBI agent’s then found the supposed loan shark. Though he confessed to lending money to Andrew Frost, he was offered that it was only in the interests of friendship. His angry tone of voice with four-letter expletives suggested otherwise. In a short sentence, he managed to insert five derivatives of the ‘F-word’ in an assortment of verb, adjective and noun positions. He couldn’t vent his frustrations by breaking the debtor’s kneecaps, so deluged it into his speech.
On that particular phrasing, Beth glanced over at her partner. Eldon was scrutinizing her in a manner that would’ve been offensive just the one day earlier. Now though, she just took a mental note and concluded the interview.

“Confess what you’re looking for?” Beth was friendly yet stern. His close examinations had been one reason for her initial reaction and now she wanted the root cause.

“None of the guys knows you from Adam, or in your case Eve.” Agent Browning certainly didn’t wish a return to her surliness and spilled his unofficial assignment. “I’m on sexual harassment reccon duty. In there, I was gauging your reaction to the intense vulgarity. The troops don’t want to accidentally jackboot on your sensibilities.”

“Different circumstances change them.” Agent Withers would deem a bawdy quip by Eldon as fine but the same one in Windsor would’ve been completely unacceptable.

“I’m not planning a detailed study, just jotting some handy-dandy reference markers.

“Pull out your notepad.” Beth quoted George Carlin’s line that listed ‘the seven words you can’t say on television’. Those covered the gamut. “I can also use those in some situational applications to redden the ears under a construction helmet.”

Eldon Browning licked an imaginary pen’s nib in his right hand and scribed a notation in his other palm then looked up and grinned. “I’ll send a photocopy so you’ll stop offending my tender feelings.”

“I’ve never spoken with a real FBI type.” Darcy Leach tried to decide why Beth looked familiar. Since the agent had caught her on the way out to lunch, the lawyer had invited her along. The two were now conversing over deli sandwiches in the building’s foyer.

“Until recently I was a Secret Service Agent.” Beth had elected this duty too suddenly to call ahead. Eldon was examining forensics but new to criminology, Agent Withers had pulled up short. The task was probably beyond the level of her squeamishness.

“That’s where I’ve seen you before!” Darcy nodded as her recollection also explained the noticeable limp. “You took that bullet meant for the president.”

“I did get shot,” Beth downplayed it for her likable acquaintance “but learning where the bullet would’ve hit, makes me wish my foot was heading there instead of my leg.” The American had found it odd that Canadians recognized her. At first, she thought it only in Windsor, as it was so close to the U.S. Now far from the border, Beth’s notoriety had traveled along. “Anyways, I’m with the Bureau now. I became a minor celebrity and then my secret was out.”

“If it’s any small consolation,” Darcy lightly touched the Agent’s knee in a reassuring gesture, “I think the president’s last minute ditching out on awarding your medal in person, was just shabby.”

“I was relieved when he begged off.” Beth divulged the secret detail and this new friend was now the first to know it. Why did I feel so comfortable in telling her that? The FBI agent was also bemused on the young woman’s casual knowledge of what was such a minor detail, in a nation foreign to her own. “But let’s talk of the murders.”

“I’m not your expert on that. I only served a search warrant on behalf of a client.” Darcy filled in with the details of public record. “The way it’s turning out, I should’ve taken the brief on pro bono.”

“You didn’t?” Beth found this surprising. From just her brief stop in the offices upstairs, she could see it was upscale. Those didn’t come with a frugal price tag in any country. “How would a penniless person, as you’ve described her, have the funds to obtain representation from such a prestigious partnership?”

“Her benefactor posted a retainer.”

“I’m mildly intrigued by this sponsor. Please tell me more?” The FBI agent sampled her spoon as gently as possible into this unexpected lunchtime desert but she was hungry to devour it all.

“His name was Roger Connors.” Darcy was honest but for an inexplicable reason she felt a twinge of guilt in talking about him. He hadn’t asked to remain anonymous and his name was recorded in billing records—but nice as Beth was, she was still the FBI.

Darcy Leach had been caught unguarded by having lunch with a woman with whom she shared such good rapport. Now her mind backtracked. Why was the FBI, for that matter, why was the girl shot at Akron specifically looking at a Canadian incident? The possible conspiratorial undertones were far too many to explore just now. Then, Darcy remembered her discarded notion of connectivity between her case and the murders. Jessica expressed her interest too. The Winnipeg lawyer decided to clam-up.

“Oh my goodness!” Darcy ingeniously thought of an alternative track of sending the topic into girl talk. She fanned her cheek and swerved onto the scenic detour. “He was just such a hunk.”

“Do tell.” Beth followed along as the chitchat sidetracked over some shoulders and through a chest, in an off route viewing of a hot young guy. The meandering trail was headed to precisely what she wanted to know. A familiar face formed on the description but a new backdrop was emerging. How could Agent Withers maintain her proper animosity? The snake seems as charming as the flute.

Chapter 18 of Shiva’s Messenger

Operating with Unorthodox Stitches

“It’s wonderful to be practicing medicine again but working at the convenience store sure wasn’t as hectic.” Dr. Cindy Smart left the Creston clinic after a long day. No longer working at the c-store also meant giving up the apartment above. She had bought a small hobby farm in the Lister area. Only a 10-minute drive from town, it was a quiet area and she was even considering buying a horse.

‘Will you have time to ride it? It’ll be an expensive, road-apple producing, lawn ornament’. Jessica had splashed some red ink into Cindy’s decision-making process.

“Maybe I should get a goat instead to keep the grass trimmed.” The doctor kicked at a tuft. She looked up at the sound of tires crunching on gravel but didn’t recognize the Lexus entering her driveway. A man with short light brown hair struggled to get out and his possible identity shot instantly to mind.

“Roger?” Cindy confirmed her guess despite the huge change from his previous appearance. Then, she noticed the ashen color of his face, the sheen of perspiration and the un-focusing eyes in his pained expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I have bullet pox and I didn’t know who else to turn to.” She had asked him to return if afflicted by childhood illness but this form of lead poisoning wasn’t specifically included in the invitation.

“Come into the house.” The petite doctor ducked under his armpit to support his tormented gait. “How did you find me here?”

“I waited until you left work and then followed you home.” His words were stilted between groans. “Will you keep me?”

“You should have come straight into the clinic. This time you do have to go to the hospital.”

“I can’t.” By now, they were into the house. Cindy took him directly to her spare bedroom.

“Let me see it.” She grabbed her scissors and cut away the bandages. “Oh, this is bad. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

“I’ve done some things,” he grabbed her wrist but his grip lacked even the strength it would take to milk a goat, “and a hospital would report the gunshot wounds. I would rather die now.”

“I know what you’ve done.” She looked more closely at the puckered bullet holes but couldn’t view his back for the exit wounds. “Did they go all the way through?”

“One did but I think I’m still plumbiferous.” His prone position was triggering the long resisted body urge to shut down and attempt self-repairs. On that quip, his consciousness lapsed.

“Don’t try to make me laugh right now!” She couldn’t suppress a snicker even in spite of the critical situation and had to rail against the urge to slap him playfully like she had several times during their scrabble games. Plumbiferous, an adjective, denotes something containing or yielding lead. The uncommon word had probably never been used to describe a human condition.

“If it were anyone but you.” She continued even though he was too far-gone to even hear. “I don’t have the necessary equipment.” Cindy dialed her phone.

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Chapter 17 of Shiva’s Messenger

Paper Snake and the Mongoose

“Do you use this stuff while I’m away?” Carl Eckert considered whether buying a video camera to record the movement for later fast forwarding was advisable. He refilled the food pellets and water in his hamster’s feeding apparatus and watched the animal’s shuffling progress from the furthest corner of the sprawling habitat. Knowing the answer may be detrimental because Carl often felt he only kept the pet to justify buying intricate segments for the elaborate cage. New pieces somehow added scope to the habitat of Eckert’s own life. He locked the door of the two-bedroom nesting-box condo that he shared only with his stinky rodent, James Bond.

Skittering his oft-navigated maze of the Metrorail and myriad rat-tunnel corridors of the Langley facility, Carl’s mind followed the convoluted pathways of his memory. His recruitment into the CIA had been before the Berlin wall fell. With his eyes full of nameless stars, Eckert had stepped over the CIA seal at Langley for the very first time. He was destined to be like Ian Fleming’s 007 spy, with a license to kill and a life to thrill but it hadn’t turned out quite like that. For reasons undetermined, he never made field grade.

Carl Eckert switched on the light of a box shaped room with a window for people with larger lives to look in through and watch him. As Section Head of Filing, he held probably the least glamorous job in the CIA. Now at age 44, after 20 years of plodding forbearance, the enticing light at the tunnel’s end showed only as a shiny gold retirement watch dangling like eighteen carrots on a telescoping stick. Unrelentingly, the grist stones of the bureaucracy had rolled over his aspirations but like diamonds, his dreams resisted crushing.

The files were now the cheddar in his job. Flavored to taste by his imagination, a routine report from the field office in Berlin had a dangerous female operative slowly strolling out the fog at Checkpoint Charlie with secrets under her trench coat. Fine cheese does improve over time and as his administrative grade went up, so had his security access but that was a vicious triangle. The more he could read meant more he could imagine but by morning, as now, he knew he could only just read.

“What tasty Roquefort is this?” Carl found that an overnight codex sweep had shunted an intriguing prompt to the department head. The file in question had a baffling classification that existed outside of the normal secrecy hierarchy. The dossier had originated before he even joined the CIA. “It’s been aging for a long time.”

Now came a dusty task of rodent proportions. Carl needed to travel the catacombs of the subterranean archives to gain his treat. The physical folder had lingered unmolested for decades and it took almost an hour to locate.

Perhaps it should’ve grown crumbly and somewhat moldy like the king of cheeses he had named it after. Instead, the jacket felt brittle and papers peeking out seemed to crackle with an electrical charge poised to arc on a touch. Like a timid mouse tempted, his shy fingers gingered at the folder and a fanciful vignette took its mysterious roots in his mind. Carl Eckert was about to learn that real traps snap harder than imaginative ones do and a lightning bolt of power spins a treadmill like a whirligig in a tornado.

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Chapter 16 of Shiva’s Messenger

J.D. Tippet’s Revenge

Policeman Jerry Burke had been elated by the word on the radio about shots fired at the president. How opportune that it had happened on such a perfect day, when he was already set to capitalize on it. He had brought a small quantity of drugs and a throwaway gun on his patrol today. His nefarious plan had been to find a likely looking subject in an unobserved location. By the time he called for backup, the evidence would prove that Jerry had killed an armed drug pusher during the commission of a brilliant arrest.

Jerry could rationalize slaying a possible innocent, to further his selfish aims in the fact he was a policeman and therefore he was above the law. Shopkeepers should pay him in free donuts for keeping thieves at bay with his presence. It was only Burke’s due for streetwalkers to give him free services because he carried a badge. Though she had reneged on her obligations, his wife owed him release from his tensions in whatever way he demanded. Now someone could pay a life to buy Jerry Burke his deserved stature.

Then suddenly, an assassin had fired shots from one of the buildings where he should have been standing escort. Now the whole department was on full vigilance looking for the escaped subject. Burke had the opportunity to gain everything he wanted and far more. He just needed to find a sole occupant in a rental car. He could murder the hapless driver and plant the disposable firearm. The FBI would have a dead suspect and the fame would be Burke’s. The foul patrolman ditched the dope and went hunting.

“This looks perfect.” Waiting stealthily on the highway on-ramp, the cop very shortly spotted a lone male in a late model car. Highway traffic was sparse and Jerry gunned his engine to follow. Sure enough, there was the leasing company bumper sticker. He had his high-visibility bust and even if this guy had nothing to do with the shootings, his situation and locale fit with a getaway attempt. “You’re mine, Lee Harvey Oswald.”

Allen checked and then rechecked his speedometer. He was definitely not speeding and he couldn’t think of any reason why he would be stopped. Is this my second mistake today? A wait of a day or two in Akron before trying to leave town might have been wiser. He reduced his speed slightly to let the police car travel by him but instead the lights flashed and siren started wailing.

“I hope that I don’t have to kill another policeman.” He might not have any choice in the matter. As he turned into a lonely siding, Allen leaned naturally away from the centrifugal gravity of the corner and used the movement to reach into the glove box for his gun. He slipped it into ready reach, out of sight beside his seat. Maybe I can talk my way through this without bloodshed. He braked smoothly to a halt then observed the officer exiting his cruiser with a hand on his Sam Browne belt. Allen took several deep breaths in case a parley wasn’t going to be sufficient.

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…

Jessica Ellis had been watching the interview with rapt attention. She had been oblivious to everything else. She didn’t see her friend Cindy smile back at her several times and even good-naturedly wave slightly, as if to catch her attention. The young lawyer was scrutinizing the words the American Congresswoman was saying—and her ambiguity. Suddenly Jessica turned back to her doctor friend and her face turned ashen.

“Romero is Shiva’s Messenger!” Jessica announced.

“We agreed that he wasn’t.” The doctor was now quite puzzled. “What’s prompted your sudden change of mind?”

“Did Judith Forester study law? I would bet my new car against your next cup of tea that she did.”

That would be quite the wager, as Jessica loved her recently bought, used, but very well kept Alfa Romeo Spyder. Jessica claimed it was a well-crafted automobile, but Cindy chided that she bought it just for the name.

“I don’t know. Probably. A disproportional number of elected leaders seem to be from the legal profession.” Cindy mused.

“Did you ever wonder why that is? I agree with you that the percentage is far above reflective population.”

“Because lawyers are naturally as dishonest as politicians?”

“I’m going to be the only nice kid in the playground and pretend I didn’t hear that,” Jessica warned with a derisive look. “It’s because in law we learn and use logic. That’s also a very valuable tool in government, so it’s a natural progression.”

“Almost every profession uses it. I see a patient’s symptoms and come to logical conclusions about their ailments.”

“Yes you do. However, the actual science is a cognitive evaluation of statements and I loved it.” It was also the only subject where Jessica had outscored Darcy Leach.

“Why does that make you believe that Roger was in Akron?”

“Someone can speak in a way that sounds on the surface like they are saying something else entirely. If taken to task, they can demonstrate word for word, that they hadn’t actually said what was assumed. A really good lawyer or politician never has to lie.”

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t see the relevance.”

“Judith Forrester doesn’t believe in capital punishment, yet she confirms the validity of the assassin’s choice of victims. She forgives him for the injury because the boon outweighs the harm. Her statement of not currently being in his head could imply that she was there previously. Lastly, she specially equated Shiva to love.”

“She agrees but can’t agree.” Cindy suddenly felt a strong kinship with the American lady that epitomized her feelings also.

“There are a lot of murderers in this world,” Jessica’s eyes twinkled, “but how many of them do you suppose are lovable?”

“Roger is Lee Harvey Oswald.” The doctor whose birthday was on Kennedy’s death day nodded knowingly and then paused. “I just hope that Jack Ruby doesn’t find him.”

Chapter 15 of Shiva’s Messenger

Hailstones from a Leaden Sky

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Numerous times, he caught sight of Agent Beth Withers performing her circumnavigations of the protected regions. Her intricate familiarity of the environs doubtlessly exceeded his by a stretch. His advantage was that after his plan was established, his concentration could narrow to within finite parameters. The range of possible threats for her to guard against encompassed the entire sphere surrounding the site where the president would be vulnerable. Hers was a daunting task that he didn’t envy and when Shiva’s Messenger was successful, it was one where she would face recriminations. He suffered a twinge of guilt over that but this was set in motion long before he even met the lovely security fed.

On several occasions as she neared the emergency vehicle, he casually obscured his face with his nose tucked behind his pocket novel. While her head craned everywhere to see everything, her busy eyes never managed to lock sunglasses onto the one place that would have triggered a suspicious recognition.

In the rearview mirror, Allen could see Judith and he knew her well enough by now to almost hear the thoughts running through her mind in anticipation of the event. Her eagerness to participate in such a well-attended function would be conflicting with a desire to convey the right message. The throng of media in the midst of their preparations would be both a source of ecstasy and consternation. They represented a rare opportunity to expound her message—if still taping at her turn.

Allen saw Judith’s hand nervously searched her pockets for the absent notes. It seemed she actually heeded his last advice. Yes, he thought that she did speak better when not prompted by her prepared text but his suggestion was based more on his wishing to spare her the exhaustion of working on a speech that she wouldn’t have the opportunity to give. As if in thanks for that small kindness, Judith Forrester waved at him and smiled.

Allen’s mind did a fully automatic lurch that jerked his body alert. How could the congresswoman have possibly detected him here? He adjusted the mirror slightly and recognized the trim curves of a tailored dark suit as seen from a delightful angle. The politician was actually greeting Agent Withers where she had taken up station in the wing of the stage, with her rearview towards his mirror.

Having Beth now on the platform was a sure indicator that the show was about to start. The timing for the next phase was nigh.

“Guys,” a look into the back of the ambulance confirmed that the paramedics were still engrossed: he interrupted the card game, “I need to find somewhere to take the boa out for a hiss.”

One of the medics simply waved an offhand affirmative and Allen dissolved into a mingled throng.
The senior congressman for the district was the master of ceremonies and lead speaker for the event. Thomas Albertson was one of the president’s best cronies and was the driving force behind this visit. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he introduced himself with a self-flattering diatribe that was flowery enough for his own eulogy.

Allen turned his attention away from the podium. He moved to the spot where a dumpster partially hid the maintenance door into the Akron Financial Tower Building. This was the tallest structure that bordered the square and there was sure to be a sniper posted in that excellent vantage. There had better be one there or this whole set-up was going to be fruitless.

Unobserved, he slid his fingers into sheer surgical gloves. His master key duplicate gained him entry and he quickly traversed the maintenance passageways to the elevator. Although he entered in the alley door, the building rested on sloping ground and he was technically in the basement. All access to this level required a maintenance key.

He pushed the button to call the only elevator and as he entered it, he used another key on his ring to select the lift console to service mode. His finger depressed the top floor button and Allen ascended in the conveyance that would now only respond to local commands.

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…

Up in the sniper’s nest, John took aim at his next victim, who was trying to hide under a chair. District Attorney Evan Masters was a rising young comet in the Republican Party. His entire life had been devoted to soaring in politics and he knew what manipulations were required to get him there. Since his heart was comprised mostly of ice and rock, he had no problems in doing whatever was necessary. In his luminous wake were the vaporized remains of the people that had fueled his meteoric ascent. His chosen trajectory might’ve been the seat that Judith now held but now at the very zenith of his career, Evan was only headed for perigee with a stainless steel cadaver tray in the morgue.

John Fitzgerald, a different kind of shooting star, sent his next lead projectile through the cowlick of Evan Masters’ hair and it exited out much larger hole punched in his forehead. Since he was already cowering on his hands and knees, the DA’s lifeless husk had only a short freefall to the splashdown on the stage deck.

Completely in the zone, John concentrated on his breathing. He swung his muzzle gracefully to trace the actions of his next target. This one took extra care, as the sniper had to wait for the victim to adopt a conducive pose for his precise shot.

The periphery of the scope showed him that several Secret Service John Wayne types had their service revolvers out and were trying to pick him off of the 14th story roof. Shiva’s Messenger seriously doubted that any of them had given thought to what gravity was going to do with lead bullets as they tried to climb up the 14 floors. If one of the agents managed to allow enough of an arc to actually hit him, it wasn’t a problem. The bullet wouldn’t even have the inertia left to penetrate his skin.

His only real worry would’ve been the snipers on neighboring buildings. However, with his position being higher and by moving to a place where he was effectively shooting down and around the corner, none of those could even see him.

…

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After discharging their duties to the Emergency department staff, the ambulance crew was finished with their shift. The assignment ended abruptly and in chaos, but the event was over and they were now off watch. Having missed just about everything while they were absorbed in their game, they glued themselves to the set to see it. Nobody expected the aloof driver to join in, and he didn’t disappoint.

Shiva’s Messenger now couldn’t think of a single thing standing between him and an entirely successful getaway. He would drive to somewhere quiet and destroy the remaining evidence in his car. Allen Wright, like Allen Powers, could vanish leaving only his names and the few people he had brushed briefly past. He had nothing left to do in Akron except to look at it in his rearview mirror.

[A Murudeva asks for a cosmic dance duel.]

“Can’t you just give me straight instructions?” Instinctively, Allen began his breathing exercises. A police cruiser had squirted off an on ramp and was accelerating like a nitro-fueled dragster.

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Chapter 14 of Shiva’s Messenger

The Writing on the Wall

Allen enjoyed the comfortable heft of his new Ruger in his right hand. With his list of special life insurance clients resting in the palm of his left, he ran the muzzle unhurriedly up the page. The tip of the barrel came to rest at the upper name. The top spot belonged to Randal Woodworth and he deserved to be number one on that roll as he was a real charmer.

His original intent with this special client was confirmed as a sound one when he saw Beth’s book. But even if the circumstances surrounding his main objective had mandated a scrub, Shiva’s Messenger would have made this call before he left town, because Randal had to die.

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…

Patrolman Jerry Burke was having one of the worst nights of his life. At the station, the Sergeant pulled him off of one of the plumb assignments for the president’s visit. He’d been scheduled to be sitting on top of a building watching a sniper and taking it easy. Now he was relegated back to an ordinary goddamned patrol because the detectives were on the task force.

At only 43 years old, Burke appeared to be over 50. His thinning dark hair was heavily sprayed with grey. He had a thick moustache that rode down over his fleshy chins like a salt and pepper frown painted on a clown. A distended abdomen flopped over the top of his belt from a mainly sedentary lifestyle garnished with far too many beers. Burke wore his sleeves as short as possible to display the barbed wire and flames tattoo that he’d gotten around his arm. He was proud of the size of his biceps and while it was true that his upper arms were large, the bulk was mostly just fat. In several more years, that type of muscle would roll further down the humorous bone to form flabby rolls at his elbows.

In a black funk, Jerry tried to take his pent up frustrations out on his wife. This time he’d probably left marks but he’d been too angry to be careful. He left her in tears and went to a tavern to stew over a couple brews. Jeannie and her suitcase were both gone when he returned. Burke went to the fridge to get another beer to find that she had poured them all down the sink before leaving. He tried to switch on the TV but it was suddenly not working and a look at the back of the set proved that she had destroyed that as well.

“I don’t get any respect or promotions because I never make any important arrests and it’s as simple as that.” Sitting in front of the black screen, Jerry brooded about all of his problems that weren’t even his fault. “The captain was willing to assign me to the paltry escort duty but not to investigate the serial killings.”

Patrolmen like Jerry weren’t positioned to get the important busts that would propel them forwards. Maybe he would be, if he spent more effort doing his job instead of hanging out in a donut shop. Getting that first critical collar was just the luck of the draw, or did it have to be? He had thought that watching a sniper was a big deal but now he realized that there was another way he could gain the respect he deserved.

“Police work isn’t about protecting the public: it’s concerned only with showing the stats of crimes and criminals.” Jerry wasn’t able to find a wrongdoing—so he needed to create one. Burke sat in the dimly lit room staring vacantly at the screen of his broken television set while he deliberated on making his first impressive score.

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Secret Service Agent Beth Withers stared up sleeplessly. Occasionally, a stripe of light would arc across the darkened ceiling like a windshield wiper, as stray headlights and reflections from outside caught the crack in her curtain. If Allen weren’t in Vegas, her insomnia might be pleasurable. In her mind, she played out scenarios where there could be problems. Beth was comforted that most of the difficulties would be swiftly addressed by the procedures in place but the biggest variable was now causing her wakefulness.

“Shiva says—what?” The semi-illiterate serial killer couldn’t even complete a sentence! “What is noteworthy about leaving a body without a hand and penning a message on the plaster?” Just thinking about this gave her an ominous spinal shiver before she finally succumbed to a sleep fraught with nightmares.

Beth didn’t know that approximately 2500 years ago a Persian prince watched a disembodied hand scribe the words Mene, Mene, Tekel, Peres. The origin of the cliché, ‘the writing on the wall’, had ominously foreboded ancient Babylon’s epic fall.

Chapter 13 of Shiva’s Messenger

Beating on the Wrong Drum

“Did you think I’d forget about my disciplinary threat?” Judith sat in the back seat of her own car. Budget money for a driver and limo was earmarked elsewhere.

“I don’t want to go unless I can wear a chauffeur’s cap.” Allen didn’t really want to go at all. At the last minute, Judith included him in the obligatory session with the Secret Services liaison officer.

“You’ve tried a handful excuses to weasel out of this already and that one was by far the lamest. Now drive on James.”

The unwilling participant shifted the lever into gear. He knew the route as well as he did the running trail at his woodland home. The congresswoman’s assistant had been to the proposed presidential speech venue innumerable times already and had every inch of that site fixed in his mind too.

“I’ll wait in the car.” Allen parked on the far side of the square from the building where he now held a part-time maintenance job. It would be imprudent for him to be glimpsed by a co-worker.

“You’re sulking like a five-year old brat.” She admonished but in good humor. ‘If your mother were here, she’d warm the back of your trousers but good.”

“Okay.” Powers resigned himself to the seeming inevitability. He focused on the one slender positive of netting a covert peek at his principal adversary, the Secret Service. That could be constructive but not so much so as to be worth the risk.

The politician and her aid were expecting the stereotypical non-descript man in a black suit and dark sunglasses. Instead, a woman in her mid-twenties approached. She wore the customary eyewear and her deep charcoal suit was tailored to subdue her trim figure.

“I’m Beth Withers.” After the introduction, the agent wasted no time in pleasantries. She began explaining the pertinent protocols.

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Though a university had conferred a degree in political science, Judith planned on conducting a little experiment in sexual chemistry. First she had to decant the two test subjects into a suitable beaker. A quiet table at a restaurant might provide a nice environment for the human compounds to interact and hopefully combine.

“Goodness me! Just look at the time.” Judith broke off the tour prematurely by consulting her watch in an apparent panic. “I’m sorry, Agent Withers but I’m going to have to ask you to go over the balance of the details with Mr. Powers. Don’t worry, I trust him completely to give me the gist your presentation. Why don’t you two meet over dinner tonight to finish this briefing?”

“I’m fairly busy with my duties,” Beth resisted with an aside glance to see Allen’s reaction.

“I must insist. This material is crucial to me but I’m not certain when or even if I can reschedule.” Judith physically urged her driver towards the car while the agent scurried behind. She continued her ploy as they reached the curb. “I just realized, you have some extra time right now that was allotted for my use. You can simply redeploy those hours to tonight instead.” Judith posed an excuse and it was even a marginally valid one though the crafty woman had contrived it. “Busy people have to eat. Do you have another pressing engagement for tonight?”

“Well, no but—.” Beth watched the color drain from his face.

“It’s settled then.” Judith didn’t allow her to finish her refusal but went on to quickly supply them with a place and time to meet.

“Come along now, Allen.” Having achieved her objective, the meddlesome woman terminated further discussion. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to break some speed limits.”

“I didn’t know anything else was scheduled.” Allen’s thoughts swirled in a muddled spiral around a sinkhole.

“There’s no appointment, stupid.” Judith laughed out loud. “You obviously wanted to invite her out and she was dying for you to ask but since you were procrastinating, I took the initiative for you.”

“I didn’t say yes, you did that for me.” The downside to keeping his true thoughts hidden from his boss was having her misconstrue his intentions. Allen considered the prospect of an evening meal with the lovely Secret Service agent. His coffee with Jessica was an insignificant gamble compared with the highly explosive, deadly poisonous and radioactive danger that just standing an arm’s reach from Beth Withers was.

“So your refusing now would reflect badly on me.” She cinched in her trickery by one more grommet. “You can talk business for a few minutes to satisfy the pretense. Then you kids should just relax and enjoy each other’s company.”

“I have a pulsating headache and my stomach is upset.” This was the truth too but it stemmed his fear of a spike-embedded pitfall on his path.

“Then take a Midol.” Judith laughed at his latest excuse, which described the symptoms of PMS. “Now drop me off at the office and you can get spruced up for dinner. You might want to get a trim.”

“Women!” The females of the species were doomed to be the bane and occasionally the blessing of Allen’s existence. Maybe they represented the same duality for all men but for the messenger the stakes here were deadly high. He wasn’t certain if he was more furious with Judith or frightened of Beth. “My spending intimate time with a Secret Services girl is like a fireman kissing an arsonist!”
Allen viewed himself in his bathroom mirror. He had passed at least four barbershops but defiantly drove on in protest. If a way existed to make his form less appealing, he would have done so. “I should paint on chicken pox and pretend to be contagious.”

That wouldn’t work and every pretext that he could think of wasn’t plausible either. “What if I pretend to be gay?” His father’s advice was now working against him. ‘Never lie if it’s one destined to fail.’ “I’m shy? I’m sick? I’m a jerk?” He stumbled on a delicious idea. “Yes, I am an idiot.” With a cunning smile, the self-satisfied reluctant suitor snatched up the daily newspaper.

…

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Chapter 12

Becalmed in Political Doldrums

Like a buyer at a stock auction, Brian Bain carefully looked over the boy who’d responded to the employment ad. A very good looking young man he was with a face and body that would have housewives squirming to pee themselves. Their moderately jealous husbands would buy a life insurance policy simply to prove they were responsible providers. Brian had started in the business that way so he knew very well how a lad like this could produce. Still, it took more than visuals to be a top life insurance agent.

“Why,” Brian glanced back at the résumé, “have you left your previous employment and come to Ohio to seek work?” Not actually reading anything on the paper, it made the interviewer appear to be studiously evaluating.

“I was in a dead-end rut and wanted to change my prospects. My friends there were working class guys and being unfettered will make my transition to white collar work much easier.”

“Why are you interested in selling insurance?” Looking up from the application form he watched to appraise the apparent honesty.

“I believe in the product and I can sell anything that I’m sold on. My father died without coverage some years ago. His unexpected death left my mother in difficult circumstances. I also want a career that builds as I work and pays me compound interest for my efforts.”

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“You’re an exceedingly attractive man.” Judith observed. “Supposing I was to indulge my libido and invite you to my boudoir. This is just a hypothetical question.”

“Then you and I would play the beast with two backs under a blanket.” Allen smiled and then added. “Of course that’s simply a theoretical answer too, until you choose it to be otherwise.”

“Young men don’t jump into bed with old women unless there’s a compelling reason for it.” Judith dangled the bait. His response to this one could be the crux, unless he evaded the issue—again.

“When you were younger, did you never entertain speculations towards a much older man? A strong societal precept discourages that behavior and perhaps you missed an enjoyable encounter in the flesh.”

“I had a number of adolescent crushes and you’re correct about the reason being the taboo. But that one exists to stop people from making mistakes at an impressionable period in their lives.”

“I could debate its true intent and its value but that’s a sideline issue. I suggest that if you had succumbed to the temptations, then even if the tryst turned out fully gratifying, you would’ve still felt a remorse because in societies eyes you’d been shameful.”

“That’s correct. I would’ve felt terrible. But those societal precepts as you called them, are also a beneficial basis to extend outwards to form the rule of law.”

“I don’t want to discuss the footing of the law either. That’s another tangent.” He paused to demark the shift back to his crux. “You allowed society to decide your morals but that was your choice and I can’t fault you for it. I’m the reverse. I have my own rules of honor and I’m comfortable with them. If I wanted to do something that fit with my personal ethics but didn’t because a group though it unmentionable, then I’d feel I’d let myself down just as strongly as you would if you’d lustily banged your chicken-hawk.”

“That sounds vaguely libertarian but what’s your main point?”

“The core lurking beneath the surface,” he grinned knowingly, “is that I’ve eluded another probe because you wrongly discounted the possibility that pure allure, in whichever its form, could be that compelling reason for a virile man’s ardor. This is still hypothetical.”

“Touché!” Judith laughed heartily. The crafty little shit got me again and it was a good one. He’s been wise to my explorations.

“There’s really only one succinct question remaining.” Allen took two relaxed breaths to allow suspense to build before lighting the fuse. He looked into her eyes and asked. “Shall we have sex?”

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