Chapter 15: Cry Havoc!

“Get a message to Bob Zaglinder. Tell him it’s time to feed the ducks. Noon today ... he’ll understand,” Presidential Chief of Staff Barnes called out to his secretary in her outer office.

“Right away, Chief. You’ve got that missile defense contract group coming in at 12:15. Do I cancel, or reschedule?”

“Tell them to go ... oh, never mind. Reschedule. Tell them to make it dinner, a free evening next week, on their dime. A really big dime or it isn’t worth wasting my time.”

“You got it, Chief!”

The two men sat at an isolated park bench near a small pond. Zaglinder was tossing dried bread chunks to the impatient, squabbling ducks.

“I think it’s time to ramp things up,” Barnes instructed. “Do you remember the ideas from our conversation with Bauer, the dirty tricks guy?”

“Yeah, I do. But are you sure? That’s a pretty extreme call, and it won’t be cheap. Not even those psychos he’s got on the string like doing stuff ... to kids.”

“Get over it. We’re in this for a lot worse than that, before this is all over. Tell him to use both ideas, but to make them happen close together. Make it happen in the same week. We want the backlash to erupt like a tidal wave of grief, anger, and retaliation. No halfway measures. We want the full impact. This is only step one of a much bigger plan. Bob, make sure that your dirty tricks guys pull this off. Offer them a fat bonus to be sure it comes off really big!”

“Okay...” Bob sighed. He tossed the last handful of dried crusts to the ducks. “But it’s a pretty ugly thing, you know.

“Chief ... I gotta tell you this. I’ve gone along with some pretty dirty stuff, thinking it was just politics as a blood sport like the game is played here at the top. But this? Killing kids? This is really eating at my gut. It’s going too far. These are kids, innocent kids! I think you’d better get your own hands dirty with this one, Mr. Barnes. You deal with Bauer. I’m dealing myself out.

Bob Zaglinder twisted his hands together, his face a study in guilt and anguish. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. I guess I’m as deep in this shit as you are, Chief, but here’s where I stop. I’ll work on the usual stuff if you’ll let me stay with my regular duties, but this dirty stuff ... killing kids? For me, it stops here, Mr. Barnes.”

Barnes stared at his assistant for a long, silent minute, the scales of judgment tilting up and down in his mind. Zaglinder was unique, irreplaceable actually, with his eidetic skills. But if he were to go rogue or over to the opposition, his knowledge could be deadly. Better to keep him close, very close, until I can eliminate the threat, Barnes decided.

“This is nothing, Bob,” Barnes finally said. “You have no idea how big an ugly thing will be coming. All in its own time, Bob, all in its own good time.

“But I respect your ethics, Bob, such as they are. It’s a little late to be having qualms of conscience, but if you say it’s too much, then it’s too much. Consider yourself back to your regular duties. These special projects are off the table. There’s other people, less sensitive sorts, who can handle our special needs. So, forget everything we talked about, and I mean that in the strictest possible terms: forget everything about these special projects!

Samantha Edgars and her friend Rebecca Jameson had just left the community playground on a mild Saturday afternoon. There was no traffic around their rural eastern Washington neighborhood, but for a dark van moving slowly a short way down the street. They were laughing and giggling as they walked and they didn’t hear the van move up to pull alongside. The snatch and grab happened so quickly that no one heard their brief squeals of fear and protest. The side door slammed shut and the van pulled slowly away. Moments later it was on the main highway leading out of town.

“This is KTCA-TV, five o’clock news for the Tri-Cities area. State and local authorities continue to investigate the apparent kidnapping and killing of two area children, ages 9 and 10, from their southside Kennewick neighborhood. Few details have been released to date, but a source tells our reporter Kevin Lockwood that the girls’ mutilated bodies were found in an isolated area, and all signs point to Satanic rituals. Stay tuned for more details following this message...”

The news erupted in the region like a flash fire and quickly spread to all the national news outlets. Tearful parents were interviewed who denied any knowledge of devil worshippers in their city, or of any possible reason for their girls to be taken.

“We’ve been faithful followers of the blessed Reverend Chase Evans McClayne and his Holy God in Glory Church of the Primal Revelation, ever since that holy man started warning us—all God’s faithful—about them heathen people, and that awful Utah cult, and those space aliens! God knows, we’ve always protected our precious Samantha,” Mrs. Edgars sobbed. “It’s awful, just awful. Our sweet child, taken by those monsters!” she cried. “We pray for her sweet soul! We just know she’s in the loving arms of Blessed Jesus, and we know that God in Heaven will rain punishment and retribution down on those monsters who did this! I just know it, and I pray it will be SOON!” she screamed into the camera.

Every detail of the crime scene was played endlessly on national television. An elaborate altar of cemented stone was centered in a cleared area. A banner still hung between two small trees in the background, displaying an elaborate matrix of symbols. Stone slabs set in a circle around the altar seemed to be positioned for ritual participants. The ground all around was packed hard as if trodden by many feet, and it was swept clean of litter.

The cameras focused on the concave top of the stone altar where blood lay in a coagulated puddle. More blood had run down the sides. Feathered fetish objects, circles of beads and stones on leather thongs, lay soaking around the edge atop the altar.

The crime and its location was an anonymous tip called in on the county 911 line. Attempts to trace the call were unsuccessful.

“There is no doubt whatsoever,” the commentator exclaimed. “We have independent verification from accredited expert witnesses that those blood-soaked fetish objects are of Native American origin, of a type commonly found here in the inland Pacific Northwest region. But even more baffling,” the reporter intoned, staring angrily into the camera lens, “is the collection of symbols on the banner behind me. I’m informed that they are associated not only with Satanic cults, but are also commonly found embroidered into the sleeves and legs of Mormon undergarments, worn by all practicing members of that religion!