SUMMATION Read online

  Getting ready to go, he took one last look at the open garbage can his clothes were in. He hesitated, thought about it, hesitated again, then finally went back to the can. He pulled the bag out of the garbage.

  He ripped the bag open, letting the clothes fall into the can, open. He tossed the plastic bag into the can after it. Finally, a smile crossed his face.

  Let them have a whiff of that. Should be pretty good by morning.

  He flipped off the light and closed the door. Tightly.

  * * *

  He reached his regular watering hole about fifteen minutes later. It was only a short walk from the Vatican. He didn't live a whole lot further away, so it worked out pretty well. Not the bar he would have generally chosen, but hell, it was on the way home, and it was pretty cheap. Those were two strong points in its favor. That was enough.

  He'd finished his first two beers. He still thought he could smell everything from today on him, a stench that stealthily wove around him, a tell-tale heart announcing itself not through the ears but through the nose. He knew it was only his imagination, but it was there none the less. No one was sitting close to him. Could that be why? He wondered, taking a slow, deep breath, seeing if he could smell anything. Nope, nothing. At least nothing from him. He did manage to pick up a whiff of the not-necessarily-emptied-every-day garbage can right behind the bar.

  At least it wasn't him.

  He pulled out his notebook. Just the feel of it in his hand was soothing. Another beer arrived, and he took a large swallow, just looking at the cover. Savoring it. This was going to be his salvation. The one thing he wanted more than anything. Well, the Bugatti and other items in his fantasies were one thing, but this, this was real. This was within his grasp. The day he walked in with his list. The day he would see the shocked look of his boss. He had never really thought about it before, at least not quite like this. They were right. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Did payback fit as well? It was true that this was more of a payback than revenge, though the difference may only be semantic. He took another swallow, and considered the difference between them. He decided the difference didn't really matter.

  He prided himself on the depth of his thinking after a few beers. Moments like this, when he would consider the significance of the difference between two items so central to his being, arguably so similar, but could they really be interchangeable?

  No, he thought, those people at work never would really understand that at heart, he really was both intelligent and thoughtful. No question about it. People just didn't give him enough credit. Once again, he agreed with himself, and with a congratulatory flourish, finished off his beer.

  Setting down the empty glass, he caught the bartender's eye, and with a flick of the finger, ordered another. A slow buzz was just beginning to kick in. He settled back, momentarily closing his eyes as he imagined walking into the Monseigneur's office, the priest in overall charge of the maintenance of the Vatican's ancillary buildings. A cold man, his superiors had made the surprisingly intelligent decision to take him from the day to day spiritual contact with the masses to instead supervise the maintenance of the facility. His lack of tact with the public became his greatest asset in the new position.

  Who would have known?

  He had never had much contact with the man, but had had enough to know that he would much rather be turning the information in to him than be the one called after he read it.

  Such a satisfying moment.

  In his mind, he handed it over with great flourish to the Monseigneur. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it, picturing the priest opening the book, and starting down the list. Item, by item. One item at a time. One page at a time. Savoring it as he had. He opened his eyes, and started reading the list himself. He began reading his book, just as he would read it, from the first page on. Item by item, page by page.

  A sick feeling began to come over him. A quiet feeling of desperation, that all was truly for naught.

  He set the notebook down, and took a long drink. Picking up the notebook, and opening it again, he began to read. Going through the list again, it began to dawn on him how sophomoric the attempt had been.

  '05/17 J. Stenno took carpet cleaner home without permission overnight'.

  '05/19 M. Marcos left at 2:30'

  '05/20 J. Stenno called meeting for first thing this a.m. but was late himself and

  everyone had to wait instead of starting on their assignments.

  He flipped a couple of pages back. Same thing. Several more pages - the same again. Stunned, he looked at the closed book as if he had never seen it before. This was to have been his opportunity. This was his chance at payback.

  This was ... This was…This was just stupid.

  Juvenile. Childish.

  Nothing would ever happen with this, other than getting himself fired, and worse, laughed at again. Even more than before. All this time. All this work. He looked up, and caught his reflection in the mirror over the bar. He was disgusted. No wonder people laughed at him. No wonder no one hung out with him. No wonder he had no friends, male or female. In disgust, he reached over the bar and tossed the book in the trash.

  "Hey, Whaddya got to do to get a beer here?" He pounded on the counter. "C'mon, man, let's go. Can't you see that fuckin' glass is empty?"

  Another glass quickly appeared. Several people looked up, and catching his eyes, quickly looking back down into their own drinks. Ignoring the looks, he tipped his glass up.

  It was the start of a long night. Or it would have been, had he not run out of cash. He staggered home, arriving at a reasonable time, despite himself. Opening the front door, he steadied himself in the door frame, then headed for the kitchen. He hadn't eaten all night. Leaning against the top of the fridge with his left hand, he pulled the door open with his right, bending over to see what was in there. Two cans of beer, and some carryout left-overs from, from when, he couldn't remember. Trusting his balance, he took his left hand off the fridge and opened the bag. The air wafting up reminded him of his day earlier, and he quickly shut the bag again. Looking again, there was nothing else in there other than some catsup, some mustard, and an open carton of cigarettes.

  He pulled out the carton, tipping it on end to get another pack out. None left - the carton was empty. He tossed the box aside in disgust and grabbed one of his last two beers. Truth be told, he was surprised he had left two unopened cans in the fridge. He popped the top and took a quick sip, then set it down to flip on the TV.

  It was old, and still used an old hangar for an antenna. It still had cable hooked up behind it – it was just that the cable company had finally shut it off after being more than three months late. It was okay, he could still get the games. Of course, none were on this time of night, so he flipped through the channels, finally settling on an old James Bond movie. Walking backwards to the sofa, he found his seat, and without taking his eyes off Bambi doing her backflips during an attack on Sean Connery, he reached for his beer. Promptly knocking it over.

  James Bond never had these problems.

  It had not been a good day for Frankie.

  Chapter 6

  Minnesota

  Sue Blakely was the first of the three women entering O'Malley's as a group. The three of them had been planning this week for several months, and it was the first time the group could get away together. Sue, a private pilot with her own Piper Arrow III, had flown the group up from Rockford to do some shopping at the Mall of America, followed by some long overdue drinks at O'Malley's, a tradition for some half dozen years now. The license to fly now gave them more time to shop, cutting a number of hours off the trip each way, with the added advantage of the view as they passed over Devil's Lake in Wisconsin, and the colorful hills before crossing the Mississippi River on the way north. Plus, as far as Sue was concerned, any excuse to be in the air was a good one.

  The afternoon had been productive, and the local economy was now healthier thanks to the efforts of the group. They were stil
l comparing notes as they sat down at one of the tall tables toward the rear of the narrow bar, well away from the windows in the front which were still bright from the late summer sun. Although setting, the window faced west, and even with the dark film on the glass, it was bright near the windows. It took a minute for their eyes to adjust. It felt good to be off their feet.

  "You know what I want - go ahead and order - be right back." Sue got up to head to the restrooms, weaving through the crowded room. On the way, the television caught her eye.

  "Massive pile up at WI-IL border leaves over a dozen dead" read the scrolling ticker under a scene straight from an Armageddon like view of cars piled and burning. "Bodies being transported to the Winnebago County morgue just south of the incident, in Rockford, IL."

  "Oh, shit." She quickly went back to the table.

  "Hey, that was quick, wh-A her friend started to say.

  "Hold on, look. Look at the TV."

  The other two turned, and looking across the room, stared at the screen. The videographer pulled back giving a more complete view. The devastation was remarkable, yet contained within a very small area. Dozens of emergency vehicles from both sides of the border had responded. The view cut back to the newscaster, but with all the noise, they couldn't hear a word.

  Sue pulled out her phone and started dialing. "I'll be right back," she shouted to them above the multiple conversations going on around them at the bar, "I gotta make a call." Seeing the drinks coming over, she added, "Don't wait for me, I'll be right back."

  Going back into the restroom where she'd originally been headed, she finished dialing, listening through the noise that still came through the door. She thought she heard someone pick up.

  "Mike? Mike? Is that you? I can hardly hear."

  "Yeah, it's me. Sue? How's Minnesota? Leave anything for the others? You can only carry so much in that Arrow, you know."

  "Very funny. What's going on? I saw the news..."

  "You probably know as much as I do then. Huge pileup. A lot of dead. Never seen anything like it. Somebody thought it was a tornado, but they said it wasn't. Who knows. Anyway, bunch of dead people. Gonna be a long night. Gonna try to get some help from some nearby counties."

  "Mike, I can come back. This is too much."

  "Forget it. You've had this planned. We'll get by. They aren't going anywhere. Don't worry about it. You enjoy your vacation. Seriously, we'll get it. Gotta go. Click."

  She looked at her phone, then clicked it off. Finishing her business in the restroom, she returned to her table. Her drink was sitting there. The other two had started, and in fact were more than halfway through their first, still staring at the screen.

  Sue sat down, looking at her drink, then back at the screen. The other two turned toward her.

  "Well, what happened?"

  "I called Mike. He said he had it under control. I guess it's pretty bad, though. He sounded pretty stressed. He said he'd try to get some help from the other counties."

  "Can he do that?"

  "Maybe. I don't know. Never did it before. He said not to worry about it, then he hung up."

  "Okay, good. Here's your drink. You're behind, you may have noticed."

  She picked it up, pausing, again looking at it, and then the screen.

  The other two watched her. "Something wrong?"

  She set the drink back down on the table.

  The other two knew what was coming.

  "I'm sorry guys. I gotta go back. You guys can stay."

  The others began to protest, but she held up her hand.

  "Wait a second, guys. I can come back up later tomorrow, or Wednesday morning, latest. I'll be back, and we can still go out Wednesday night, and still come back Thursday like we planned. I'm sorry, but I can't leave it all on him. It's too much. I wouldn't enjoy myself."

  The other two looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. They knew her well enough to know they weren't going to convince her to forget about the job. Not even during a trip out of town. They had tried that before.

  "If you're sure-A

  "Yea, sure. Not a problem. I'll be back no later than, say, Tuesday night. Wednesday absolute latest."

  "Hey, you don't have to do that. We can just rent something and go back down ourselves."

  "No, no. Don't do that." She stopped, thinking. "Well, tell you what. I'll call you later. Maybe I can get back up for a day or so anyway. Just wait and see. I can let you know." She stood up to leave. "Don't do anything til I get back with you, okay?"

  Her friends got up as well, each giving her a hug. "Oh, would you guys mind grabbing my suitcase?"

  Both nodded. "Of course. Besides, you are coming back, right?"

  "I'm sure going to try. See you day after tomorrow. I'll call. And you can flip for the drink." She headed out to grab a cab leaving the other two staring at the screen.

  Sue arrived at the airport less than twenty minutes later. She had been able to file a flight plan online while in the taxi, saving time at the airport. Showing her ID at Flight Service, she paid for the fuel and headed out to the plane to preflight. Finishing the initial checklist, she started the plane, then completed the final preflight. Looking at her notes, she punched in the initial radio frequencies she'd need, and her destination on the GPS. Finally ready, she contacted Departure Control.

  "Rochester Departure, Arrow 73804" There was a short pause.

  "Arrow 73804"

  "Rochester Departure, Arrow 73804 requesting departure for Illinois as filed." Another quick pause before the radio lit up again.

  "Arrow 73804, squawk 3547. Cleared to Illinois as filed. Cleared to taxi on Bravo to runway three-one. Contact tower when ready for takeoff."

  "73804 cleared as filed, taxi Bravo to three-one contact tower," she repeated in her mike.

  She taxied down to the beginning of runway 31, stopping before entering the runway.

  "Rochester tower, Arrow 73804 ready for takeoff, runway three-one."

  "Arrow 73804, you are cleared for takeoff three-one. Maintain runway heading not to exceed three thousand feet."

  "Arrow 73804 cleared three-one, runway heading, don't exceed three-thousand," she repeated back. She pulled onto the runway, pushed the throttle forward, and in a few moments was airborne for Illinois.

  The weather was clear, and the flight smooth. She always enjoyed flying at night, even more so in the summer. Summer air, with the heat rising from the ground, tended to create turbulence, and a bumpy flight. At night, though, the air cooled and settled. No sun glaring into the windshield. The sun was still there, off to the right, but not for long. Fewer flights were in the air, and the stars were beautiful. No question about it. Night flying was her preference for getting from point A to point B.

  She'd been in the air for about an hour and a half, and could see Madison off to the left. Her direct flight would take her a little west of Beloit, but she was curious about the accident site and homed in on the Janesville VOR. From there, she could turn southeast and be at the accident site in two or three minutes. Sue continued, enjoying the clear night sky.

  * * *

  Although still some twenty miles or so away, she could see a bright spot with flashes in the distance. That must be it. As she crossed the Janesville VOR, she could clearly see the flashing red and blue lights, as well as the brilliantly lit accident scene just across the state line. The entire area was illuminated by the floodlights the fire department had raised on their extendable mounts, appearing as miniature stadium lights, highlighting a pile of wreckage surrounded by emergency staff from numerous agencies.

  She was amazed that even now, all these hours later, the wreckage was still not only present, but still being disassembled. Something awful must have happened.

  Puzzled, she saw the ground in the area covered in white, almost like snow. She wondered what on earth it was. Probably foam from the fire department. What else could it be?

  She steered back south, and contacted Rockford approach for landing in
structions.

  * * *

  Taxiing off the runway, she headed towards the hangar she rented for her Arrow. Shutting the plane down, she opened the giant doors that rose up, opening the entire wall. She attached the tow bar to the front wheel, and pushed the plane back into the hangar. She jotted some notes in her Pilot's Log, then turned out the lights and locked up the hangar. She walked out to her car, heading for the exit gate, and from there, straight up Highway 2 towards the Public Safety Building.

  The cavalry had arrived.

  Chapter 7

  Finished

  He finished, leaving his seed deep within her. "IT IS DONE," his first spoken words.

  As he climbed off, a change came over the group. The hoods of all twelve men were tossed back, and they began to congratulate and hug each other. One of the men took another blade (not used in the ceremony) and cut through her bindings. Another brought a robe and covered her, even before her limbs were freed. Gently, they helped her off the altar, placing her on several blankets lying over a bed of straw in a four-wheeled horse-drawn cart. The change was so complete she thought she had gone mad, or perhaps had actually died. There was no understanding, and still, no one spoke to her.

  After resting a few minutes while other preparations were made, she was placed on a horse, flanked by two of the men.

  "Be sure she returns home safely, or all is for naught."

  The two nodded, and all three wheeled around and took off at a canter, visible as clear silhouettes against the moonlit background.

  The remains of the Demon-Star, comprising of three larger pieces, a few smaller, and some tiny flakes and fragments, all that could be recovered, were all wrapped in a soft, red blanket, and placed within an iron lock-box. The remaining blood-powder mixture was scraped into a small clay urn. Wax was then melted and poured around the upper rim of the urn, and a small clay disk pressed down upon it, forming an airtight seal. The urn was carefully wrapped with numerous yards of a yarn-like material that not only secured the lid to the urn, but provided cushioning to the brittle container. This was placed within the red blanket as well, for additional protection. The box was then locked on both ends, and across both sides, each man present providing their own lock. Finally, additional wax, still warming in the surrounding fire, was applied to not only the locks and opening edge of the lid, but to each seam. Each man applied his seal to the wax on one side or the other in turn.