It’s certainly a complicated world these people lead. In some ways they are so human and in others…I don’t mean to sound bigoted, but even after a week of spending the better part of each day with him…it all still sticks out as something off of the X-Files. I guess that makes me the hero.
I hadn’t realized before, but I guess I’m the First Contact. I can see the movie made when this is all said and done, they’ll have some old man more than slightly off his rocker playing me. I’ll be the guy who’d seen too much and dealt with it too little, like Gene Hackmen in Enemy of the State.
Who knows, maybe this will drive me crazy; it’s certainly tense enough.
Old Sammy
Samuel Banks’ Apartment
“Okay, so the news is saying this whole recount bit could drag out for as long as a week.”
“That’s not long enough, we’re going to need more time.”
“What do you think we can do Nathan? Call the FBI, tell them a “golem” hired some unknown, unheard of assassin to kill Ken Morrison?” Old Sammy took his hand away from the blinds, letting them fall back into place and turned to where the Golem sat in his wheel chair.
“No, we’re going to have to play both sides of this issue. They’ve got to see that peace can work, but it’s got to be mutual.”
“Yeah, the one guy in the brawl preaching peace is usually the punching bag for the others.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Sammy paused as he slumped down into an over-stuffed and over-used recliner. With a leg canted over an arm, he let his attention lull onto the wall. “So how do you figure we go about all of that?” His hands made a rather grand motion in the air, emphasizing the obviously impossible nature that Old Sammy was giving the situation.
“I can’t very well go out and work this myself.”
Sammy didn’t say anything, the Golem was baiting conversation and Sammy didn’t like where it was going and he certainly wasn’t going to drag it out of him.
“…you’ll have to go in my place.” The last bit came from the Golem with a resolute, final manner that Sammy didn’t know if he could argue with or not.
“I’ll have to what?” But he tried anyway.
“I’ll make all the phone calls from here, but I’m going to need someone to be there in person; someone to be able to bargain and make decisions…” Nathan’s mind was working faster than he was speaking. Amazingly that could be read in those all white eyes.
“I’m glad I’ve got a say in all of this…”
“You’d better get on your computer. Log onto www.Travelocity.com. I’ve got my credit card numbers memorized. We’re going to need to get you some transportation.”
“Credit card numbers?”
“Guy’s got to travel doesn’t he? Oh, if you’re wondering, the Golem Council has excellent credit. Think of these as my Government Executive cards. You wouldn’t believe the limit I have on these.”
The light of his own computer somehow made Jules McCleary seem ever more devastatingly handsome. The flickering screen was full of text, windows stacked upon windows of the stuff, and his perfect eyes were still combing over it well into the morning.
Christ, what was he doing? He should be with that red head, or was it a blond this week? It didn’t matter, to him a human model was a dime a dozen. His mind was clearly elsewhere as his hand reached across masses of paper clippings and file photos on its way to coffee long gone cold. Ken Morrison. Just who was this guy? Computers did make rambling research a central affair, but as much as they helped, they hurt tenfold by slamming you with that much more information to dig through, only a fraction of which actually related to the subject.
For a public figure, as all politicians are, there was surprisingly little available about this guy. And all that was there was the same basic information presented by one another with their own hack attempt at a personal spin on it. And what’s worse was he never really was noteworthy. Morrison was a puppeteer, a behind-the-scenes guy, a backroom player.
Siren controlled eh? That’s what the Golem had said, “near total control.” So there had to be another party at work…that or the very people he was working with to benefit off Morrison getting into power were shafting Jules. They certainly didn’t have “near total control” over him.
On a whim Jules clicked into the Public Records page for the state of
Location Undisclosed
Explaining to the Golem council that Ken Morrison was still alive because
The whole situation had gone to shit in these last few days. Murphy was kicking George Pruent in his sharp, shark-like teeth and giving him black rings around his all white eyes. Like Jules, so many hundreds of miles away, George was staring at a computer screen. But the light from his rendered his cheeks even more hollowed and placed those sick eyes in wells of shadows. But, as both were frustrated at what they were looking at, the Golem wasn’t facing a needle in a haystack. On the contrary, the only image on his screen was the blinking cursor at the bottom of the chat room screen. Gabriel had missed the rendezvous that was scheduled for tonight. This meeting had been part of the “extreme circumstances scenario” package. Were something to go wrong, were the shot not to be taken, the pair would meet online as they had so many times before, and there Gabriel would be given his follow on orders. By not showing up he had left George Pruent to do something that he didn’t do, ever: trust blindly in another. Worse than that, he’d been lying to others to draw them into some sense of trust. The assassin who’d taken to calling himself Gabriel had gone underground. He’d shrugged off all ties to anyone, even his employer. No one could know that George Pruent wasn’t in control of the situation. No, he’d been making reports to the contrary, telling the council that everything in Austin was perfectly under control. He’d be ruined if this were to foul up.
On top of all of this Nathan Wilde had escaped. And Nathan Wilde was a liability that George Pruent simply couldn’t afford to have. The Council didn’t know he was loose, thank goodness, and it had tried all of George’s means just to keep that one under wraps. Staring at his computer screen the Golem decided that Nathan Wilde would simply have to die.
November 14, 2000
Washington, D.C.
Samuel Banks’ Apartment
The recounts had been going on for nearly a week now and they had dwindled into a comical realm, turning the once famed American democratic political system into an international laughing stock. But there was a glimmer of hope buried within all the negatives. On the lowest, most immediate level, every day that George W. Bush wasn’t giving his victory speech was another day that Ken Morrison continued to live, continued to breathe. Only a handful of creatures knew this though and even less knew that everyday that the election drug on was a day that Nathan Wilde had to write, phone, work; spin his way towards peace. It was all coming into place, he could feel it; he could feel peace. The word meant so much to him.
He had an ally, a human no less. He’d lost the use of his legs, been confined to a small apartment, but in so many more ways he was upwardly mobile. Now, thanks to this Old Sammy fellow, he could be human; do human things. Despite his crippled nature Nathan Wilde felt a nearly blissful freedom as he half watched the election on CNN and half went over the rather tedious chain of events, meetings, phone calls, and travel arrangements that he had set Old Sammy up with.
November 15, 2000
Los Angeles/New York City
Phone conversation
“Jules I understand what you are trying to say, but I don’t know what you are trying to have me do.”
“I need you to snoop around the old Worlders, I just want you to toss the name “Ken Morrison” around.”
“Who’s he?”
“A political aid for Bush. I just need to know if anyone’s heard of him.”
“Jules, would I get an answer from you if I asked why?”
“Just trust me on this one Susan, I’m running on a hunch here.”
“Damn it all Jules, I knew you’d say something like that, it’s why I wasn’t going to ask.”
“Susan?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
November 16, 2000
Los Angeles, California
The plane had set down at LAX roughly around mid day but Sammy was at a loss for even what day it was, never mind the time. He’d been criss-crossing the country and the only way he knew where he was anymore was by the airport on the plane ticket. When this was all starting, he shook his head at the ideas running around through that Golem’s head that he’d found. This Nathan Wilde guy had him doing more reporting, elbow rubbing, and politicking than he had done during his entire career at the Washington Post and college combined, and this was in little more than a week. After many flights, bus rides, a spin or two on trains, and more stairs, elevators, escalators, hotel rooms, and office lobbies than he carried to count, Old Sammy was simply at a loss.
Bundling his coat around him with one hand and holding his old duffle bag over his shoulder with the other, Sammy stepped outside into what should have been a brisk fall day. As he was greeted by sunny and seventies it hit Sammy just where exactly LAX was. It was a refreshing surprise to say the least as Sammy settled onto a bench located just out of the main flow of traffic outside the baggage claim exits. There really was no reason to hurry about, he was in California now, and no matter how fast you tried to move here you never really got anywhere.
The sun was setting when Sammy finally came to. With a mumble about “jet lag” he rose to his feet and gazed about the busy landing that edged onto the airport exit. The urbanite in Sammy kicked in and a pair of hands ran over his self and performed a quick personal inventory. Wallet: check. Cell phone: check. Duffle bag: check. It was a tribute to airport security, Sammy had slept for, a quick glance at his watch told him it’d been nearly four hours, a good while on a bench in a very busy international airport and he’d been neither disturbed nor robbed. As Sammy stepped off to look for a cab, his pocket jumped to life with the ringing of a cellular phone.
The phone pulled out and examined, Sammy unfolded it and pushed the little green button.
“Yeah?”
“Is that normal human protocol when answering the telephone?”
“Ha. Ha. I’ve missed your sarcasm Nathan.”
“And I yours Sammy. I take it you’ve arrived safely in Los Angeles? I tried calling you a few times prior but there was no response.”
At the question Sammy looked around, he’d lost track of what city he was in again and Los Angeles seemed as good a city as any. “Yeah, sorry about that, I was…taking a little nap.”
The Golem on the far end of the phone’s response hesitated, he wanted to yell at the young man but he decided that chastising would perhaps be better saved for a latter moment. “Hold one.” There was an audible click over the phone and a third voice tripped into the conversation.
“Hallo?” It was a man’s voice, distinctly English, and bore a charming, sophisticating sound, but then Americans think all English accents have that.
“Hello?” The response was the only thing that Sammy could really think of.
“Gentlemen, this is Nathan Wilde. I’ve called both of you so that you two can arrange to meet and discuss things that are better left off of phone conversations.”
“Nathan, you always make everything sound so cloak and dagger.” The chide rung through the cellular clips and filtering but that English accent was still very much there.
“Jules, this time I think it is.”
“Alright, Sammy, right?” The question was unanswered as Jules continued to move on, regardless of the human’s name. “Where are you at right now?”
“LAX, right outside the baggage claim.”
“Alright, don’t go anywhere, I’ll send the car for you. And don’t worry, I’ve got your cell number.” The English tirade ended with a click.
“Hello?”
“He’s gone now Sammy. Just remember what we talked about. You need to be convincing. Jules and I have worked together before but never on something that mattered this much.”
“I’m not a child.” The salt and peppered hair that the cell phone was resting close to only added the emphasis to this statement.
On the other end of the line the Golem steadied himself. Nathan Wilde was holding on too tight, but then he had reason to. In a very short time he’d seen, and possibly aided, the events leading to the possible genocide of two races. In a very short time he’d been a runner, run from his own imprisonment, most likely his own death, and through the course of events, exiled himself from his own race. In a very short time he’d lost the ability to walk and landed himself in a wheel chair. From his end of the phone the Golem sighed wistfully. “I’m sorry Sammy…it’s just…you’re right, I’m being unfair, this all just means so much.”
“It’s not a problem. Hey, there’s a driver with my name on a placard. I’d better go.”
“Alright Sammy, and good luck, a great deal is depending on this.”
“Gee, no pressure or anything…”
With the phone conversation ended and the phone itself folded up and clipped onto his belt, Sammy hollered as he approached the driver with his name on a sign.
“Samuel Banks?” the driver decked out in a modest grey suit and standing before a rather sleek limousine asked as the rather old looking ex-intern approached.
“Yup.”
“Let me take that bag for you. Right this way sir.” The bag landed in the trunk and the door was opened for the rather eager Samuel Banks. Old Sammy slid into the car, working his way rather deeply onto the rich, soft leather seats. The smell of a Marlboro Red caught his nose just as the door was being closed behind him and drew his attention to a set of rather long fingers that pressed the cigarette between the teeth that held back a rather shark-like grin.
“Who the hell are you?” Sammy blurted out as his hand grabbed the door handle at his side.
“It does seem that I could ask you the very same question. And,” here the Golem paused to show Sammy that he was indeed speaking the truth, “since I am the one of us that came to this meeting armed I think that means that you’re going to answer mine first.”
“I’m Old Sammy.”
“If you want to live than your explanations are going to have to fair a bit better than that one.”
November 18, 2000
Milan, Italy
The city of Milan is many things. During the winter it’s foggy and grey. During the summer it’s muggy and hot. And during the spring and fall it’s host to a great many fashion shows that lend to the city two types of busy bodies, business executives and what has been termed “the fashion crowd”. While
The laughter, the haughty, self-important kind, drifted up from the café seated not far from the Piazza del Duomo; the heart of Milan itself. The piazza was a magnificent place, surrounded by museums and statues and gargoyles. It dated back to the Renaissance, the Italian one, the good one.
“Yes Susan dearest, I can hardly believe his “linear motif,” it was a gosh hack of the seventies.”
“Nora, I can hardly agree more, it’s the year 2000, the new millennium and here he greets us with outdated fashion.” The two laughed some more as they shared their espresso on the porch over looking a day that wasn’t that grey, really.
“So Susan, how are
“Settling down, or so it would seem.” Susan eased back in her chair. She was here on business, but that needn’t mean that she must be uptight. Stress was important in life, it shows people what they are made of; what they are capable of. But breaking, now breaking was something that should only happen to a person once in a lifetime, twice if they’ve a habit of making bad decisions. When someone breaks, it’s a sign, a sign so big they can’t avoid it. Jules McCleary was on the verge of breaking and Susan White feared that she might not be far behind. She was lying through her teeth, but Nora wouldn’t notice, or even if she did she wouldn’t care, that was simply the way things worked with the Old Worlders, ask a question that’s forgotten before it finishes leaving your lips. And so why should Susan tell the truth? Why should she let Nora Vonteer know that things “State side” were going terrible, that there were assassinations planned, that the Writ of the Dead had been enacted, that the Hidden Races were both in serious danger of being discovered. Nope, everything was fine.
“Good to hear. You know I heard those…those fellows were up to no good again,” the way Nora paused midway through the sentence and leaned towards Susan, like she was afraid to even allude to the word “golem,” didn’t sit right with Susan, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t act like she even noticed.
“Oh those.” Susan took a thoughtful sip of the espresso she’d been nursing for quite a while now. “Yes, they caused a spot of trouble but that’s been taken care of now. We’re all to busy laughing at the electors down in
“Oh that’s right!” The announcement brought a laugh, a good hardy one, from Nora as a hand rose up to brush back a rich brown lock of hair. “The election ordeal, how is that going?”
“Oh who knows? It’s all silly anyhow. It was laziness that got them into this mess. If more people had voted overall then perhaps it wouldn’t have been so close. Did you hear that more states are threatening a recount and
“Oh now that would be a sight wouldn’t it? The American people left without a leader. The heavens know that
“Depends on what Ken Morrison has to say about it all.” Susan thought it was time to slip the name in. She owed Jules that much, he sounded so determined on the phone, as if something very important was banking on whether or not this Old Worlder knew something of whoever this human was.
“Who?” Nora seemed to be feigning conversational interest. Truthfully Susan was only speaking with her because they both were to attend the opera that night at La Scala, the opera house located in the Gallaria Vittorio Emmanuele, not far from where they were each drinking those un-masculine European coffees.
“You haven’t heard about Ken Morrison?” Susan baited, she couldn’t really tell if Nora was very adept at hiding the truth. Old Worlders tended to be hard to read. Not like New Worlders, a kindergartener could read a New Worlder.
“No, who is he? Is he in the industry?”
“Far from it, he’s a politician. He’s rumoured to be very important.”
“Oh, I’ll have to keep an ear open for him.”
No luck, the woman really hadn’t heard of him. At some point that night she’d have to phone Jules. He’d want to know. This wasn’t the first Old Worlder she’d approached either, no, Nora was the fourth and all had met with no success. Jules had better be on to something because as careful as Susan was, this could all easily back fire. If one Siren talked to another and a certain important American politician came to subject…this could all so easily blow up in Susan’s face.
“So let me get this straight,” the Golem leaned forward, the cherry of his cigarette drawing attention away from his stark, solid white eyes. “You got all of this information out of Nathan Wilde and now you want to talk to Jules McCleary to try and ‘keep the peace’?”
Sammy looked up at the Golem and nodded. The bruises and lack of sleep made him appear that much older. “How many times are we going to go over this?”
“Christ Sammy, you want me to kill you now?” The question just got Sammy to shake his head no. “So what does he know? What did he tell you?”
“I got his credit card numbers out of him, and names, and he told me some cock-eyed story. I’m double checking it.”
“What cock-eyed story?” The Golem was sounding both tired and angry, like he was reaching the end of his rope. Truthfully Sammy didn’t know how he was holding on. Two days of little to no sleep, beatings on a regular basis, and questions met with lies, lies, and more lies should have put him past the end of his wits some time ago. But miraculously he was holding on.
“He, Nathan, has a series of assassinations planned, bombings, shootings…I told you, he even plans to ruin the stock of several movie production companies. He called it the “Writ of the Dead”. One of the names on there was Jules McCleary, I flew out here to check up on him, to see if he’s…” Old Sammy’s tone dropped as he leaned against the restraints; tried to edge closer to his captor, “a Siren.”
George Pruent had about as much of this bullshit story as he could take. He stood up and walked out of the room. His long fingers reached into his pocket and pulled out the cell phone that he’d taken from the human, from Old Sammy. A cruel nail hooked the face and opened the device up. Practiced motions turned the phone on and dialled the number for Jules McCleary’s house. He’d memorized it as he had memorized all the travel arrangements that had been charged to Nathan Wilde’s credit card. Ah, praise the Electronic Age, there were records of everything available online, just a click and a dot com away.
“Hallo?”
“Listen quickly and carefully. If you want to see the human called Old Sammy alive again be at the Townsquare Shopping Centre the day after tomorrow. Come alone. The usual spot.” George didn’t let the Siren get a word in edgewise. A nail pressed the red “end” button and the call was over, that was it.
November 18/19 2000
Telephone Conversation
Italy/California
“Yeah.”
“It’s Susan.”
“Susan, how are you?”
“Good, I can’t talk long, I’m on the way to the opera.”
“Oh? Do enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you. I did some checking on your Morrison fellow.”
“And?”
“Nothing. No ones even heard of him over here. I just hope that nothing important is happening to him that would make me look bad for asking questions.”
“Let’s hope not.” The mumble snuck into the conversation at barely a whisper.
“Jules? What?”
“Nothing, must have just been static, I’m on a cell. Susan dear-heart, thank you so much for all your help. I owe you one.”
“Jules, I must be going now, La Scara waits for no one.”
“Good night Jules.”
“Good night Susan.”
<>
Outside
Townsquare Shopping Centre
They hadn’t been gentle on Old Sammy and he surely felt like it. By his count, it had been three days since he’d been abducted at LAX and been moved a great distance since then, beaten a great bit more since then, and hated life a great bit since then. Transportation had been hell; somehow they’d managed him onto a train and brought him cross-country. Briefly he’d tasted the air of the Eastern seaboard; once as he was drug from the storage car (he assumed) into what felt painfully like a large commercial shipping van, and the second time when he was dragged out of the van and into the resonating, eerie halls in the underbelly of what must have been the Townsquare Shopping Centre. Of course Old Sammy couldn’t be certain of any of this, that blindfold had effectively denied him of sight and repeated blunt assaults had dulled his thought process, leaving him edgy, frightened, paranoid.
With a hand on each elbow and the only sound that of echoing, contained footsteps Old Sammy was escorted into the labyrinth. His head was pounding, and his feet were having the most difficult time nod doubling over themselves. Each time he’d lose his balance, swagger, stumble, or threaten to fall along the journey that his fogged state seemed to stretch into forever one of the hands would jerk him up with a terrible, jarring force. Eventually though, as all things do, the trip came to a close. Sammy’s body, for his mind was surely elsewhere, was flung down into a pile of most empty (the box that struck his head was rather full actually) cardboard boxes.
“…this the spot?”
* * *
The rich leather shoes of Jules McCleary were leading him through the service halls and storage rooms that lay buried beneath the behemoth. He knew them rather well actually and that seemed to irritate him. In the modern world late night meetings with shady individuals were not carried out on dark street corners or along fogged in docks, no in the modern world they were carried out beneath shopping malls of all places or amid trendy night spots. It didn’t fit the bill, but then now a days the bill was so out of the norm that Jules wasn’t even sure that he knew what it was. A glance down at a too perfect wrist betrayed the presence of a rather expensive, but not gaudy watch. 11:29 pm. The meeting, exchange, what have you, it was all semantics anyway, wouldn’t take place for another sixteen minutes. It hadn’t established, officially Jules didn’t even know whom he was talking to, but then again he knew. Just from the way the phone call had been placed, just because Murphy said so.
The cigarette that parted those perfect lips was the definitive cigarette, but not to an American. The tobacco was not rough or mixed, no, it was the same quality as a fine cigar, only a smaller scale. Cupped in those perfect hands it met with the touch of a flame and the first drag was exhaled with a sigh. Leaning against a wall, Jules McCleary let the expensive import fall to rest at the end of a dangling arm as the other brought his watch up and into perspective. 11:32.
* * *
With a groan Old Sammy rolled about a bit, he was regaining consciousness but he was at a loss as to whether that was a good or a bad thing. The boxes had given way under his nearly dead weight and he was laying in a hole of his own, in one-way or another, creation.
“You can take the blindfold off,” the words came from the other side of the room and echoed off the stark walls only to be lost in the countless hums of florescent lights, ventilation systems, and dripping water. There was a few seconds pause before Sammy’s own hands carefully pulled at the bandage and allowed swollen eyes to face light bright enough to simply close them again. A few blinks and Sammy was actually able to sustain his eyes in the open position. Sitting up was another matter altogether though. For the time being he was content to simply look down his chest and between his two feet at the Golem seated on a box across the room and smoking a cigarette.
Sammy was at a loss for words. Honestly, what do you ask a guy who kidnapped you, beat you, smuggled you across country and now was waiting to barter you over to another for means and reasons that you were unaware of? Besides, Sammy wasn’t certain if his jaw still worked, it did hurt like Hell. The pounding in Sammy’s temples was so great that he just let his head fall back down into the well of cardboard he was laying in.
The soft clicking of dress shoes was down here, like a series of thunder claps, one right after the other, and each growing closer. Even within the spinning world that Sammy called his head he could tell they were coming closer, somewhere down deep within him he found the resolve to roll onto his side. From there, he called on a resolve still deeper and hauled himself to a seated position with a box to his back. Through bleary eyes Sammy actually recognized the new comer, oh he was a Siren, Sammy was sure of that. And this wasn’t their first meeting either. No, he’d seen him here before, how many months ago was that? Oh it hurt to think back. So Sammy didn’t, he just watched as the Golem raised his hand to stop the Siren when he was just a step within the doorway. Jules didn’t stop.
“That’s far enough.”
“Oh, you’ve never been one to talk of things going far enough before.” The words came not from the Siren, nor the Golem smoking the cigarette, but instead they came accompanied with the slight patter of a wheel chair rolling along concrete.
“Nathan Wilde, I should have known you’d float your bleeding heart into this somehow.”
“Only because you’re making the largest mistake of your life.”
“…this the spot?” Sammy’s hand, the one not pressed against the ground and keeping him up right, rose to rub at his eyes. “…this the spot?”
“Ah yes, I do believe you are the resident expert on tremendous mistakes Nathan.”
“No, he’s telling you the truth.” Jules’ defence of the crippled Golem only gave reason for George Pruent to shake his head. “You’ve been had, I don’t know by who yet, but there is something you should…”
“…this the spot?” Sammy began to wonder if he needed a CAT scan, he must be going crazy. Where was he getting this question?
“Look don’t sell my your bull shit story why I shouldn’t kill Ken Morrison I-,”
“Ken Morrison means nothing to no one. I checked. ‘Joanna’ is using you as a tool.” The words rolled out on that slick English accent.
“You’re crazy. Is that the best story you could come up with?”
“…this the spot?” Christ, he wasn’t alone. He’d brought a second man, a second gunman… Sammy tried to scream but his jaw was so swollen that it just came out as an agonized groan that barely was given a glance by the three members of the Hidden Races.
“Answer me this George, why would a Siren sell out their own? A Siren controlled Whitehouse would be beneficially in at least one way to the entire race.”
“That’s crazy, why would anyone try and start a war?” George’s question was met with dark glares from both Nathan and Jules.
“Look you were set up on this George, but we can still stop it. We’ll find out who set all of this up, we’ll find something to tell the Council, there’s got to be a way.”
“Nathan Wilde, I wish there was a pessimistic bone in your body somewhere. Without one you just always seem like both the Dreamer and the Fool.”
“…he’s not alone!” It had been meant to be a shout, but the barely intelligible groan was all that Old Sammy could produce. It was enough though; the hoarse call drew attention to the human steadily slipping back into laying flat on his back.
The scuff of a shoe brought eight eyes toward the door and the man with pistol in hand turning the corner into the room. In the confines of stark concrete walls and bare ventilation ducts the shots that rang out of the heavy revolver were deafening, echoing about, and leaving the ears ringing with the undeniable sound of death.
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