Atmosphere (32 page)

Those workers. The bald men, black clothing, sunglasses, all a part their facade. These individuals could not simply be nightclub employees, could they? No. They possessed other motives; she had witnessed terrifying aspects of their mission. The hypnotic-like exchanges with other men for instance, men unlike themselves, seemingly willing to be captured and taken away into their alien grasp. Was this perhaps a method toward recruitment? And what of the one from her class who later emerged from the hedges, entrenched in blood? The one that had been so intent on killing her when she bore witness to his aftermath?

Jaimie shuddered, realizing that her glimpses of these bald men were most likely small pieces to the puzzle of their true purpose. How many of them had there been in that room? A hundred? Maybe more. How many had had blood on their hands at one time? All of them of course. Like Bobby Lindsay—he was here.

Jaimie suddenly realized that her eyes had been closed, seeking light within her inner lids. She opened them, but nothing in her sights changed. Darkness prevailed, and amidst it her thoughts sought solace but found only anguish with the realization that she was a prisoner, here in the realm of some crazed cult of death.

T
he pulse grew louder, and with each passing beat, Harold's strength grew as well. He squirmed in his binds, wrists and ankles tethered to the bed cart he lay on. Thrum...thrum...thrum..., each three second interval forcing energy into his muscles, erotic images of power and strength into his mind. He tugged and tugged at his binds, more forcefully, his muscles screaming, lactic acid veining within, adrenaline flowing, blood pumping.

And the pulse grew even louder. Now he could hear it from rising below, from deep within the earth but growing closer with each beat, thrum...thrum...thrum. Now, he felt it just beneath him. The bed cart shook, and he pulled and pulled on the leather belts, images of failure in the eyes of the Giver threatening him with abandonment should he not escape the Outsiders. Layers of skin ripped away from his wrists against the edges of the hardened leather restraints. Finally, one hand broke free. He unfettered himself from the belt hampering his other wrist, then from those at his ankles.

And the pulse grew louder and louder and louder...

He sat up, an all-consuming blanket of blue light ensconcing his mind's-eye, and within his thoughts he could see the same images the Giver saw, images of the earth chipping away from a variety of dark locations, a multitude of limbs guided solely from one unified embodiment, searching for waves of modified life, for all those beyond the confines of the body to return to the all-empowering Giver, and take place in the greatest event of all time.

Indeed, the time had come. Tonight all those who had taken part in the glories of the Giver would unite to share in a mass prayer of sorts, to combine forces and become part of the unified body. Too bad then that those who had had the honor to supply would then miss out on this great occasion. Perhaps it had been beneficial that he never found a way to supply, despite all his strenuous efforts. Now he could take part in the event!

The bed cart shook turbulently, as if an earthquake approached. He leaped off and tossed it aside, his one good eye peeking out through the bandages masking his face. At first it aimed towards the security camera in the upper corner, then to the crashing bed cart, then to the buckling tiles in the floor. They rose up and down and up and down, finally shattering into pieces, cement and vinyl flooring flying up in a shower of pebbles and shards, dirt spraying the room behind it. He shielded himself with his arms, peeking through as the appendage ripped through the floor of the hospital basement, twisting wildly like an angry snake, drilling away at the edges of the hole it had created just for Harold.

The door flung open behind him and he turned to see a number of Outsiders gathered, their stares glazed with shock at the daunting scene before them.
 
  

Unthreatened, he turned back and jumped into the small hole. The appendage wrapped itself around him, guiding him down the tight squeeze. He reached the bottom and crawled away through the tunnels the Giver had also created just for him. The appendage led the way, then released its grip on him and stayed behind to close up the trail behind.

Again, Harold was free.

J
aimie stood up, grasping the darkness, pacing in circles but finding nothing, the flooring warm beneath her bare feet. Unguided, she moved and moved, crying, nearly wishing death upon herself, as it seemed her only viable alternative at the moment.

She leaned against the wall. Within, the beat went on, music vibrating in the walls, pulsing,
thrum...thrum...thrum
, synthesized drones seeping from the wall into her body, like the beads of sweat escaping the skin on her very own face.

H
arold crawled and crawled, feverishly, dirt beneath his tattered nails, bloodied bandages dangling crazily from his face, on and on, forward, pressing, muscles screaming, bones aching. Suddenly, Harold no longer wanted to die. He wanted, needed to live, to experience the event within the domain of the Giver, to help assist those others recruited to arrange for the perfect environment, to help establish the field for the ultimate harvest.

And in his fury, Harold saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Out of control, he crawled to it, squeezing through the small entrance, falling into one of the blue rooms. Behind him, the hole immediately closed up. He stood, stretching his muscles, dirt falling from his body.

He glanced about the dark room and saw something odd.

A girl, in the room with him, standing just a few feet ahead, face, hands, and body pressed against the wall. Crying.

T
he afternoon lasted an eternity, and it seemed to Frank and Hector that all had been lost.

They had had a great deal of explaining to do. The two cops, out of jurisdiction, had found themselves in the middle a suicide where a father had nearly taken his infant child with him. This of course didn't include the multitude of other circumstances they had been involved with over the last thirty-six hours. Now, to their great misfortune, it had to come out into the open.

It took the rest of the day explaining to officials from both the 13th and 57th precincts what they had found, how they got involved, and where it all led to. From the incident in the alley to the discovery of Gross and the other baldies in the sketches. The interview with the Racines and the confrontation with Gross. The receipt in Gross' apartment and how it led them to Village clothing. Judas and the surveillance tape with Bobby Lindsay. They painstakingly detailed how they figured it all tied in, the murders, the prior kidnappings and the speculation of an FBI cover-up. Then finally, the cult theory, how Harold Gross, Bobby Lindsay and the others on file—James Hilton and Edward Farrell—may have all been involved.

Their story ended at the trail of blood leading to the apartment of the Latino.

However, conveniently, they left some things out.

The day had been long enough, so to start delving into all the truly unexplainable issues would carry their interrogation well into the night. For one, the tunnels. Their existence had been common knowledge, yet no details other than some passing commentary had been voiced, their purpose seemingly shrugged off; good thing, as Frank could offer no revelation, either logical or far-fetched. As well, it seemed none of the other cops could either.

They revealed no word of their discovery on the internet, leaving only their musings of cult practice on the table—a theorization founded purely on intuitive instinct, of course. To reveal the alienistic babblings of Sanskrit as a lead to potential answers other than cultish reverence would only embarrass the cops, and possibly condemn them in the eyes of their peers.

And then the strange black object. The biggest enigma of all. At first its presence intrigued Frank, then consumed him, driving him to seek out its function in this entire mess. At first Hector had written it off to remote speculation on Frank's part, then labeled it as an icon of religious fervor.

Now?

It had shown up at two of the crime scenes. In the alley early yesterday morning, and now, retrieved by Frank in the apartment of the Latino who nearly took his baby out the window.

With one in their possession, new theories would surely rise.

By the time Frank and Hector finally escaped the 57th precinct in the Bronx, the sun had begun its descent behind the city's skyscrapers. They rode in silence back into the city to a parking garage on 56th and Park. They located a diner a half block away and entered, helping themselves to a booth in the rear by the kitchen. The smallish, brightly lit restaurant housed mostly men, who probably, like Frank, had no one special at home to prepare a warm meal for them at the end of the day. He rubbed his tired eyes—which had seen their share of tragedy today—and listened to the Latin chatter of the cooks and waitresses behind the two swinging doors that led into the kitchen.

A young waitress with long brown hair emerged. She took their orders—grilled cheese and tomato soup for Frank, a burger and fries for Hector. When she left, Frank fished the object from his jacket pocket and placed it down on the table between them.

"I can't believe it," Hector said, shaking his head at the sight of the object. "You really had that thing in your pocket this whole time?"

Frank nodded. Believe it or not, now was the first time he had had the chance to get a good long look at it since pocketing it eight hours ago, waiting for the perfect moment to bring it out into the light and examine it, wanting,
feeling
the need for privacy before showing Hector his find. He stared and stared at it, unbelieving that he, Frank Ballaro, had finally taken possession of the biggest most mysterious object that had ever stimulated his consciousness.

"So what in God's name is it?" Hector asked.

Frank shrugged. He felt a sudden sweeping feeling, as if he were being hypnotized. In the trance he saw a strange wondrous place, a place of brilliant sunshine, laughs and smiles, a place that catered solely to lonely and desperate people, that brought joy to the despondent. Frank considered accepting its offer, to comply to the chance to relieve the loneliness tormenting his life since Diane had left him five years back. Yes, he thought, perhaps all his answers lay right here on the table before him...

"Sir?" The waitress returned with his dinner. Through waves of confusion, Frank let his eyes wander over her. Young, in her late teens, her name-tag was scribbled in black pen: Sam.

"Oh, cool.
Atmosphere
."

A shock flooded Frank at her mention of the ominous word. What was complete darkness in his life at the moment instantly exploded with a fire as big and as bright as the sun. He thought briefly of the Latino in the apartment, his child swathed in blood; the harsh whisper that had leaked from his mouth.

Atmosphere...

"What did you say?"

"That thing—Atmosphere. It looks like the new nightclub that opens tonight. It's on all the signs. See?" Sam pointed through the dampened window to a telephone pole outside. Frank could see a small poster stapled there.

"Pardon us." Frank nudged passed Sam and rushed outside, Hector not far behind. He hunched his shoulder against the drizzle coming down, facing the small poster.

There it was, the object, a sketch of a building with six cylindrical columns on its roof. Above, words printed in ink as black as coal made an offer:
Experience Atmosphere, Saturday Night, October 23rd. West Side Train Yard.

"What do you think, Smoky?"

Unanimously, the answer was clear. "All three of me thinks we should go check out Atmosphere."

Hector grimaced in confusion, but asked no questions. He agreed too.

S
he spent the afternoon sleeping in blue-tinged darkness, music filtering into her dreamless slumber, its vibrations keeping her aware of the fact that she was still alive.

Even asleep, Jaimie knew that she wasn't alone.

H
arold spent the afternoon waiting in the blue-tinged darkness, listening to the music, feeling its pulse in the walls and floor.

He spent the whole time watching the sleeping girl, waiting for her to move.

J
aimie awoke, her sense of timing long lost. She slowly stood, knowing she would have to find a way out.

H
er movement signaled his mind. He stretched his arms out towards her...

F
rank and Hector sped back to Hector's home, lights and siren in full array. Hector quickly changed into plainclothes while Frank placed a call home. He figured there would be a chance to catch Jaimie; usually around this time on Saturdays she would be getting ready to go out for the evening. But she did not answer. He left a message, then hung up to find Hector had donned a pair of khakis, a sport shirt and long trench coat, giving Gloria an 'I have to work late' story, and to not wait up. The frown on her face clearly stated that she would be up anyway regardless of how late he returned. This scenario was probably routine in the Rodriguez household, just as it had been during Frank's marriage to Diane.