Wicked Messenger by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 22
With the exception of a few anti-social hermits, the entire country heard of the events and was worried that the murders of Preacher Alvin Blunt and Castor Williams would lead to an increase in violence, from an already intolerable level. Of course, the most significant question of the day became; “Who did it?” If the population was fortunate, the killer of Blunt would turn out to be another black man and that of Williams another Eli, thereby not giving any impetus for anyone to look for revenge beyond their own circle. Odds were strongly against people being lucky on both counts. Quick answers were necessary as everyone wanted retribution to be rendered on their favorite villain, whether or not they were guilty.
Joshua walked the morning, early autumn streets of Manhattan, and saw that the specimen street trees were turning, showing lots of red and yellow, a harbinger of the return of the cold. He zipped his green jacket against the breeze and was deep in reverie concerning the killings. While he wasn’t personally the least bit disturbed by the death of Castor Williams, he thought that his demise would be viewed by some as a martyrdom, which would result in him and his misguided cause becoming infinitely more popular than it warranted. He thought it ironic and amusing that his efforts to defend Elis resulted in the first Eli fatality; his own. The list of potential assailants
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ran a yard and included his brother, Pollux. He strongly suspected that the answer would never be known as the murder of an Eli in Detroit didn’t even have the stature of an animal killing in Dallas and would not be investigated. He hoped that someone would make some sort of a mistake. Conversely, the assassination of Al Blunt, and the probable increase in posthumous popularity didn’t concern him. What did was a fear that the incidents would lead to an increased breach between black and white Earthlings and black and white Elis. With lines now regularly crossed, he saw the possible permutations as four factorial, twenty-four.
The potential new problems were so obvious that even Becky forgot about her exciting plans for the future. Daily news reports took precedence over her dreams of a glamorous film career. Grandpa tried to assuage her fears, using the method at which he was most adept. He told stories. He told her of the past, trying to find examples of similar events which seemed impossibly hopeless in their time, but somehow worked out. No matter the soundness of the analogy, Becky always made the same response; “But, they didn’t have ‘silver bullets’ back then.”
An early frost curtailed the Esperanza apple season, severely diminishing the number of farm workers staying at the Hawley rooming house. The quiet served as an inducement to do
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what was useless and morose. Becky dwelled on unpleasant thoughts. She had good company. Her Mom and Dad agonized and argued about their money shortage. While they thought their problems were as bad as they could be, they didn’t have the disadvantages of Becky and Grandpa. Without thinking about it, they assumed that whatever happened in the rest of the US, the family would be unscathed in remote Esperanza. They thought a
“silver bullet” was a funny looking antique camper.
On a late, chilly afternoon as Becky and Grandpa walked the desert, he was still determined to tell her the right story. He had gone through the historical “truths” he knew and resorted to embellished personal stories. Becky demonstrated a precocious knack in finding contradictions, and failing that, still had her
“silver bullet” refrain. She was so grim that Grandpa worried that she was getting old before her time. He spoke of movies and stars while she only showed interest in apocalyptic yarns.
Grandpa hated to see her so worried. In frustration, with an angry voice he said; “Becky, you should know that many times no one has had any good answer. And you know what. We’re all still here and the old problems disappeared.”
Becky laughed at his choice of words and retorted; “Maybe the old problems got zapped with a ‘silver bullet.’”
Grandpa had mixed feelings toward her response. It was the first time she had laughed all day, but, unlike her usual self,
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there was the obvious inclusion of sarcasm in her repertoire. He displayed his annoyed side and sternly said; “You are fixated on that damn ‘silver bullet,’ and for no good reason. You have your own.”
She corrected him, saying; “We have our own, and I don’t even know where it is.”
“My grandfather told me something a long time ago. When he was little everyone was panicked that somebody would start a war and use the atom bomb to decimate everything. This was a century ago for God’s sake! Every day the sirens would go off and all the kids would go down to the grammar school basement and put their heads against the wall with one arm behind it, as if this was going to be any protection against a real bomb. After about twenty years with no bombs dropped the people forgot they were afraid of it. So what did they do next? They worried that the communists were infiltrating the government and would take over.
So we entered a war with Viet Nam, after the French were bright enough to leave, so that we could stop the “commies” before they got to our shores. Guess what? We lost the war and they never invaded our shores. Then it was AIDS. Then it was the terrorists. Can’t you see? Every generation has believed that the world would end in their lifetime. They all said that things couldn’t possibly get any worse. And the bombs are rotting somewhere; the communists decided they wanted to be capitalists;
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AIDS is controllable with drugs; and the terrorists faded into the mist like the mad bombers of the 1940’s. Franklin Delano Roosevelt said; ‘We nothing to fear but fear itself.’ Man was a hero and a genius.”
Becky grinned, furrowed the brow over one eye and facetiously said; “He was a President or something like that, when there were still dinosaurs, right?”
Grandpa raised his hand and pretended that he was going to give Becky a slap. He said; “Ooooh you,” and they ran laughing back to the house.
The Eli ministers had an unusually quiet meeting. They were all unnerved by the step-up in attacks on Elis, the swastikas on the doors, and to a substantially lesser extent the uninvestigated murder of Castor Williams, as his sudden departure was a blessing to the Committee, for he was an openly anti-Eli Eli. No one brought up the idea of war. It wasn’t because Cronos or Marshall had changed their opinions; but because they were tired of playing the same note to a non-dancing audience and it was now obvious to them that the others had hardened in their dovetailed opinions and political campaigns. Zeus had already vocalized his open-mindedness, or so thought Cronos, perhaps in his wishful thinking which hung on a few amendable words. The President could tip the scales whenever
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he so chose, regardless of what anyone said at a meeting. The degree of violence in America was still considered minor by the sheltered Committee majority. There were the same numbers to be governed minus a very expendable one, and that one was not being governed anyway. They all shared one common thought. They all silently wished someone would take out his nuisance brother.
They discussed who might have assassinated the radical Sunny leader in a perfunctory manner. Earth business interests? Earth covert military? An infiltrator? An obedient moralist Darkie? An Eli military rogue? His brother? Random unexplained Earth violence? A lover? His landlord?
Marshall proposed the idea of tracking down and killing Pollux. This was rejected by Zeus, who dourly opined; “The
******* has enough followers already. I have no intention of increasing his popularity by making him a martyr.”
After having spent the customary hour, Zeus adjourned the meeting. He entertained a call for an investigation initiated by Prometheus and seconded by Brigitte. It would have shocked him if the “We Need More Information” contingent did not request a formal inquiry. Zeus said; “Feel free to pursue that,” and closed with; “Let’s hope for some good news.”
The huge American team assigned to investigating the assassination of Preacher Alvin Blunt made much motion and
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noise, but didn’t get any more results than the Eli ministers did in determining the killer of Castor Williams; and, in their case, they didn’t have to expend much energy. In fairness, the anxious team didn’t have anywhere to go after finding no evidence of an inside job. They had no descriptions. The eyewitness testimony of the bodyguards was all they had to go on. “In the cooling water the man was covered in a wetsuit to the head and carried what appeared to be a harpoon. The getaway car was an older cream or dirty white Toyota.” Plates were not seen. Forensics determined that the bullets were common .22
shells fired from an unregistered rifle, probably constructed
“at home.” Very professional. Informants were pushed, but had nowhere to move. Boaters and fishermen saw nothing, not even fish. The neighboring rental houses were empty in off-season.
After three days the investigators spun their wheels rather than sit on their *****, knowing that they were going to need a break; like someone with a big mouth or sudden riches.
While most of the black community did not like Preacher Al helping Elis, none wanted to see him dead. He had, over the years, shown himself to be a man of non-violence and his constituency thought he deserved the same courtesy. Some blacks organized demonstrations in Washington DC, and demanded that the federal government investigate Blunt’s murder. They called the lack of progress in the New Jersey local investigation, “Either
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willful or incompetent.” President Frank Stabile thought there was nothing to lose by assuaging them with the creation of a special four man task force to look into the matter.
The immediate result was a number of yelling matches and scuffles which required police intervention. Some used the term race riots. The only altercation of any substance started with taunts coming from a jealous white group, in DC to protest another cutback in farm subsidies. As in prior years, they were officially ignored, but this time, having heard news of the Special Commission’s creation, they became angry and started chanting; “N****** get special treatment.” They were answered with black middle fingers and taunts of; “Redneck welfare slobs.” Pushing and shoving was soon curtailed by DC police.
Medium term results of the seemingly innocuous Presidential gesture were anger in the black community at “The idiot panel,”
which became its own issue. Blacks wanted the right to appoint the members, complaining that the group of four contained only one black, a TV celebrity with a substantially white audience.
The long term effect was increased commotion and no results.
Frank hid in the Elliptical Office and put a hold on public announcements.
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