Secret Monitor Men: Skye Keller, #1

Chapter 1: The Cemetery

Despite the mad ravings of the Internet, it is not a common spectacle for six men of various ages and different walks of life to be in a cemetery after midnight, when the goal of the night’s mission is to confirm the status of a dead man. Nor is it usual to see otherwise respectable men participate in unlawful activities when it is their code not to do so. But curiosity can drive a man beyond reason. Mix in loyalty and an inborn desire for truth and trouble naturally follows. These are the chronicles of the men of the Secret Monitor.

An assortment of budding flowers offered life to a dead place. Crickets sang their seventh symphony of the night. The well-kept cemetery exuded a calm nocturnal atmosphere of freshly turned soil, yet haunting tones invaded the airspace this night. A waning moon glowed bright overhead, mirroring the magnificence of the sun on the other side of the planet. A supernatural current charged the air this summer solstice night, tracing its ancient power back centuries to the time of pagan ritual; to rites unknown even to the freemason. An owl hooted from a hidden perch in one of the many old trees about the graveyard, a bad omen felt in the pits of men’s stomachs.

Below, Ray and Andrew led the way while the others trailed behind, hesitant in their march; six men on a secret nocturnal mission.

I can’t believe we're actually going through with this. A lazy summer breeze challenged the building tension of his voice.

Damn it, Kenny. I have to know the truth about Darius. Can’t you understand?

Look, buddy, if we get caught digging up a grave, they will brand us as another P2. Kenny grabbed Ray’s wrist, holding him up.

And who cares what happened in Italy with that rogue lodge, anyway? We’re not trying to take over the damn country, guys. We’re simply investigating our friend’s death, justified Ray.

Do I have to tell you what a shit-storm that will bring down on us? We know the wild imaginings of people outside the organization. They already accuse us of devil worship and a variety of other conspiratorial acts of nonsense. What repercussions will this bring?

Ray pulled free of Kenny’s grip and continued toward his destination, the graveside of their deceased friend. It will bring us some closure, Kenny, asserted Ray, thinking of cowans, those outside the freemason circle of trust.

"You mean it will bring you some closure, Ray. You’re the only one that believes he is alive," admonished Kenny.

"I know what I saw, damn it. It was him, I tell you. I saw him, as I see you now, except he stood in the light of day."

For a second in a crowd? C’mon, buddy roo, we’re digging up a grave over a glimpse. You’re obsessed, Ray.

Like hell I am! I’m one hundred percent certain he’s alive. And something’s not right about his death. I mean, thirty-five years-old and never sick. Suddenly, he’s dead of some heart ailment I’ve never heard of. Bullshit.

Will you guys stop fighting and keep it down, whispered Jim. The last thing we need to do is draw attention to ourselves. Cemeteries have security now, you know?

Yeah, like some kid in a car falling asleep or blasting that damn fool rap music, pantomimed Frank, mocking the ‘low-riding jeans’ crowd.

Shayne laughed for the first time, saying: And besides, I saw no one tonight or the other nights I drove by here. We’re alone, so let’s do what we came to do and be fast about it.

The silent one of the group, Andrew, carried the shovels. The kid enjoyed the excitement such an adventure brings but remained too naïve to see the consequences. Cindy, his girlfriend, knew him to be spontaneous enough to do something this crazy.

Ray pressed forward, driven by a dogged thirst for the truth coupled with his unrelenting curiosity; the other four, loyal, but reluctant accomplices, with Andrew, the sole exception. Here we are, murmured Ray, stopping at a headstone with a familiar symbol inscribed on it. The moonlight filtered through the branches of an overlooking beech tree, creating sinister shadows, the silent picture show of paranoia. An aggressive gust of warm wind brought the tree limbs to life, its creaking moan issued a final warning. Lightning lit the sky, far in the distance. Trouble brewing set to a slow simmer.

Let’s get moving, guys, grumbled Shayne. An array of shovels passed around without ceremony. The men began digging, an earthy odor invading their olfactory senses. Grunts and soft curses could be heard around the gravesite. Sweat dripped down the sides of their heads where temple met hairline. The soft sounds of earth being pierced and piling up with increasingly labored breathing marked their progress. Two hours passed; the hoot of the owl acted like a cemetery clock, marking the much-anticipated time. The metal of shovels finally hit wood. A combination of sweat, curiosity, and relief showed on the men’s faces. The time had arrived to open the coffin.

Are we really going through with this? asked Andrew.

The men nodded their assent.

A croak from a gray tree frog represented the sole nay vote.

Well, who’s going to open ’er up? pressed Frank.

Ray, it’s your obsession, it’s yours to pry open, demanded Kenny, hesitant to open the thing.

I will need some help to get this coffin open. They use gaskets to lock these things, you know?

What I know is this whole situation creeps me out, whined Jim.

I have a weak stomach when it comes to dead bodies and if we’re wrong ... Kenny’s voice trailed off.

"I’m not wrong about this, guys. He won’t be inside. Someone else maybe, but he won’t be."

Well, that’s really comforting, griped Jim. I have trouble sleeping as is. Damn it, Ray, why the hell can’t you let go of this thing? He’s dead. Let’s go home before we’re arrested.

No one is getting arrested, Jim. Soon we’ll know and then we’ll just quickly fill in this hole and no one will be the wiser, soothed Frank.

Blue and red lights of a city police cruiser flashed by at an outrageous speed from the north paved road that acted as a boundary to the cemetery proper. Paranoia played pranks in the minds of these men this night.

No chance of being arrested, Frank? The five O just raced by. What if he spotted us here? You don’t think it looks a little suspicious? Men with shovels in the middle of the night? grilled Jim.

Frank snickered.

Ah, Jim, relax. He went by so fast he didn’t notice a thing, responded Ray, calmer than the others.

There’s always another copper that might pass by. And should he come to investigate, then what? Oh, officer, we just wanted to make sure our buddy is really dead, Jim jabbed at Ray, sarcasm coursing freely through his voice.

Soft mocking laughter brought a sour look to Ray’s face.

And what if he takes out his little evidence book and asks, ‘and your names are? And just how did you all know the deceased?’

Everyone went silent and serious. No one liked the idea of that scenario playing out.

Well, let’s get ’er done then, ordered Ray, sulking.

I’ll second that motion, joked Jim, attempting to lighten the mood. The sooner we find our answer, the sooner we can all go home and put this behind us forever.

Rays of white and blue light trajectories shone downwards from above as Ray, Kenny, and the new guy, Andrew, jumped down into the hole, using their shovels to pry the coffin open. After two initial unsuccessful attempts, the coffin creaked open.

The men gasped.

A look of triumph flooded Ray’s eyes, a wide grin bursting across his face; a believer’s smile of victory over the doubters.

No way, I don’t believe it, hissed Kenny, stunned.

Keep your damn voice down, scolded Shayne, shaken. We’re looking real guilty at this point.

Ray spread his hands wide: Guilty of what? Smugness lit his eyes, while an undercurrent of condescension laced his voice. Opening an empty coffin? Didn’t I tell you? How do you explain this?

Frank and Jim, utilizing their mini mag-lights, peered down into the newly formed hole. The men fixated on the empty coffin. Darius did not rest in peace.

Andrew stepped around inside, shining the light left-to-right, looking for no one knew what.

The others looked confounded with frowns and furrowed foreheads. No one volunteered to answer Ray’s question.

I’m not sure what else we can accomplish here, guys, blurted Andrew, breaking the silence of the night.

Nothing is down here. Sometimes answers only bring more questions. Let’s shut this thing back up and fill the hole in like it was, demanded Frank. I’m home by this time, he complained. Skye will worry about me. The meeting ended early at eight pm. We left the last few at the year-end barbecue at ten and it is now approaching one am. I heard there is a chance of a thunderstorm later tonight, so we need to fill in this hole now.

Frank’s right, Ray, agreed Kenny. We need to call it a night. We can figure this thing out later.

Andrew slammed his shovel down on the bottom of the coffin. You hear that, guys?

A hollow boom echoed back, but before their minds could process the knowledge the earth swallowed their friends’ whole. In an instant, a new sound, thick with fear, overshadowed the first: a sickening sound of men yelling; the sound of uninvited horror and panic.

Shayne, Frank, and Jim watched in distress as their lights pierced the black void. Their screams, more and more distant, faded into the night. A black hole remained, replacing the warm voices of friends with the cold shock of silence. Now they were gone. A disturbing question played on their unease. Where to? A question the men remaining could not fathom.

Who do you call when your friends disappear down a hole that doesn’t belong there? A hole we created, gasped Shayne.

I felt something, Jim, cried Frank, the darkness closing in.

Is it spitting out already? Jim squealed in horror as Shayne stumbled into him with an arrow through the side of his head. Blood splatter caused by a well-placed bowman.

What the hell? What the hell, Frank? A second arrow found its mark from an unknown adversary and Jim fell to the ground. Five men down, three below and two above.

Only Frank remained standing.

Excited calls of his predators sounded off in the distance, with no one in sight. The cemetery took on a haunted atmosphere.

Panic overtook him. A feeling of ice crystallized in Frank’s stomach, the cold sensation of fright rushed like a freight train in his veins. His skin tingled and prickled, sparking electrical current through him. Fear shot up his spine as a cold sweat trickled down his back. Frank’s face grimaced as his intestines twisted. Sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his eyes. The master mason’s feet flew with a flurry through the midnight graveyard. He raced like a running back, dodging gravestones, trees, and their treacherous roots, reaching up through the earth like booby-traps. Without warning, Frank’s foot caught on an offending root, throwing him forward into an undignified sprawl. Breaking the fall with his hands and knees, Frank looked up to his right, consumed with a sense of dread.

The silhouette stood beside a wide oak, a crossbow loaded with a bolt, pointing straight at his head.

Frank knew he was going to die. He stared down the Grim Reaper, cloaked in shadow, his eyes widening in horror. In the split second before the veteran hunter released his bolt, self-preservation kicked in. Skye’s father sprang to his feet, lunging forward like a track star out of the blocks, pushing his legs beyond their limit. A projectile whizzed past the back of his head narrowly missing its mark. With burning calves and rubbery quads, Frank pressed on like the cross-country champion of his athletic days, his trusty Ford now in sight.

Frank, a gasping and desperate man, reached his pickup truck soaked in sweat. Adrenaline coursed through him, a sensation he hadn’t known in decades. His chest heaved and his legs ached. Frank floored the accelerator before he understood what he was doing. A hunted man reacts by instinct. Something closing in behind him wanted him dead. His sides hurt as he rounded the corner with tires squealing. He didn’t know where to go but didn’t want to lead these predators to his home. He must protect Skye from these jackals! His mind raced faster than his Ford 150. What was happening? How can all five of his brethren be gone? It all happened so quickly. Had he lost whoever or whatever was behind him? That was no regular security. Who the hell uses arrows in a cemetery? What secret were they protecting? What had Ray gotten them into? Who buries an empty coffin, anyway?

Frank drove with the fury of the haunted. Hostile headlights harassed him. Like a man possessed, he floored the accelerator, lights still stalking him. Houses flew by in both directions. Shock and confusion reigned in Frank’s mind; speed his only friend. The night had gone bad. Everything had gone sideways, so much worse than he ever imagined. Frank pushed his truck to the limit without knowing his destination. His tires screeched in the night, rounding a corner too sharp, almost clipping a cyclist on his way home from work. How long since his pursuer’s headlights cursed his mirror? Frank lost track of time. His ears rang, distorting reality. Time had stopped back at the cemetery. Who would look after Skye? His daughter; alone, forced to fend for herself. Pure terror surged through the marrow in his bones. Frank reached for his cell phone, the darkness his enemy. Streetlights sporadically lit up the pickup, glimmering off the cell. His shaking hands snatched up the phone. He went to his contact list and hit a familiar number. It was ringing... God someone please answer.

Chapter 2: Skye is Falling

Skye’s increasing worry about her dad’s well-being, rudely interrupted her self-prescribed ‘slacker’ summer, defining the time of transition between university graduation and her unknown future. Normally, he returned home by midnight. Her female intuition sensed trouble. She called his cell. A recorded voice stated the user as unavailable. Should she call the police? But what would she say? She opted to call Shayne instead. Surely, the lodge master would be helpful. The phone rang three times.

A woman answered, Hello.

Yes, this is Skye Keller speaking. I’m sorry to disturb you this late, but my dad is not home from lodge and I hoped Shayne might have some idea where he is.

Oh dear, I don’t like the sound of that, replied his wife. Shayne is also missing. He is home by eleven most nights. Shayne’s wife sounded as worried as Skye.

Panic slithered seductively into Skye’s psyche. Is there anyone else I can ask? pleaded Skye.

Let me check his little black book. A few moments later Shayne’s wife returned to the line.

I have a few numbers you can try. Farris is the senior warden. You can try him. James is the chaplain and Ben is the treasurer. I also see a number here for an Andrew Rand. I don’t know him, she said, stressing the last word.

Skye listened to dead air and anxious breathing.

But here are the numbers. Please inform me if you learn anything.

I will. Thank you. Skye found the phone calls to be encouraging. No answer at Farris’s place. James’s girlfriend assumed they went out for drinks afterward; what they fondly refer to as ‘the Fourth Degree.’

Ben’s wife shared a similar story: In all likelihood, they’re out late for drinks and have forgotten the time.

Relief passed over Skye. She punched the numbers for Andrew.

A girl answered. She sounded freaked out. Who is this? insisted the girl.

Hello, I’m Skye Keller. I’m sorry to call you so late, but I’m trying to track down my dad. He’s usually home by now. I expect he might be with Andrew.

Andrew is not home, either.

The words, blurted out like bits of jagged ice, cut through Skye. A trace of terror crept back into her consciousness.

May I ask how your dad knows Andrew? replied the skeptical voice.

Frank, my father, belongs to the same lodge as Andrew. My dad is the lodge tyler there. That’s where they went tonight. A pause: Skye almost heard her thinking.

Just a second, let me check something. It seemed like an eternity until she came back on line. It says here Dale Emery is the tyler for Andrew’s lodge, and besides, they don’t meet until next Thursday.

Shock waves hit Skye. How could this be? Did she make the wrong assumption? I suppose he might have gone out with guys from other lodges, but that seems irregular. Skye recognized her last word and smiled. Her dad said that a lot.

I’m sure it does, the voice answered with a tone full of suspicion. Andrew acts different since he joined these freemason characters. Less time for me and I’m less than impressed, she spouted, full of jealousy.

Oh, you’re his girlfriend? asked Skye, already knowing the answer.

I am, but nights like tonight test my patience.

Here’s my cell number. Will you call me if Andrew comes home, or you learn anything?

I suppose I can on one condition.

What’s that?

Call me if you learn anything new. My name is Cindy.

Okay, Cindy, agreed Skye.

Thanks, I appreciate it. The phone went dead.

Confused, Skye programmed Cindy and Andrew's number into her cell. Something is not right. Against her better judgment, Skye made one more call despite the late hour. She looked over her dad’s official Summons. It listed another recognized name of a regular visitor to the house.

David O’Shea had been in her dad’s lodge since Skye’s kindergarten days. The phone rang, and he picked up on the third ring. Hello, a groggy male voice said, as if only awakened.

Is this David? pleaded Skye.

Yes ... is this Skye?

My dad still isn’t home from the lodge. Can you tell me if he went out with any of the guys for drinks?

Skye, your dad didn’t show up at lodge tonight.

Her stomach lurched and her head whirled like a sandstorm. How can that be? she panicked. He never misses lodge night.

Almost never, corrected David. He may have attended another kind of meeting, but even if he went for drinks afterward, he should be home by now.

It’s almost one am! Did Shayne or Andrew attend there tonight? gasped Skye, desperation creeping into her tone.

Old Penn sat in as master for Shayne tonight. There is no one named Andrew in our lodge. What the hell is going on, Skye? This is not like your father.

I’ve already called Shayne’s wife. She gave me Andrew’s number. I talked to his girlfriend. She knows nothing and seems as worried as I am. They’re both missing, David. Gone! I don’t know what to do.

Let’s not panic yet, Skye. Frank may have driven someone home after going out for coffee and got talking. You understand how your dad gets.

Skye laughed a little, and the relief that followed calmed her.

A trace of concern crept into David’s voice, Call me when Frank returns home.

If he didn’t go to your lodge, then where did he go?

Sometimes, masons know each other from other masonic organizations. It is not uncommon for them to visit another lodge as a group for a change of scene. I will call you if I hear anything about your dad or Shayne. Don't worry, Skye, I will check around to see if I can learn about Andrew. David paused in contemplation. "Are you aware of your dad’s memberships to other organizations?"

Like the Shrine?

Yes, and another obscure one he joined last year.

Not to my knowledge, frowned Skye, confused.

Look, Skye, search around the house for envelopes addressed to your dad similar in appearance to a Summons. I expect that will answer where your dad went tonight, but I’m certain the other group meets in the afternoon, he said, stressing the word ‘other,’ his tone cryptic. Then again, it could be like a general purpose meeting to settle some business that ran late with socializing afterward.

Skye sensed David believed no such thing. I’ll look around and see what I can find. Call me the minute you learn anything?

All right, Skye, I’m sure your dad is fine. Keep the faith.

Skye thanked him again and apologized for the late call. She hung up, more troubled than before. What other organization? She rummaged through the coffee table and went upstairs to search her father’s nightstand and dresser. She would find out the name of this other ‘obscure’ organization, as David called it. Cold fear crawled up her spine. Skye sensed something very wrong this night, her intuition told her.

The phone rang.

Yes, is that you, David?

Grab a pencil and paper and write this down.

Who is this?

Five squared plus three squared in parenthesis multiply W over IE.

Skye scribbled it down. And what am I supposed to do with this?

Wait for the question.

Skye gave a little laugh. 

Here’s a tip first: ‘Underneath the surface, there’s another surface yet.’ Ponder that.

Okay, Riddler.

I made you, Skye Keller, intoned the voice.

Simplify this, my daddy made me.

The phone went dead.

Weird, a Math Department random playing games. What girl hadn’t experienced a guy wielding a little Sudoku voodoo for a little nooky? Skye pocketed the equation and went to bed.

An intense heat and an acrid smell made Skye think something wasn’t right. Skye awakened in her third-floor bedroom, sitting bolt upright in bed. She must have drowsed off to sleep after the weird phone call. What is that bitter, burning scent? No alarms sounded to warn her. Confusion reigned. What is that noise? Her panic heightened. Skye leapt off her bed, racing into the hall outside her bedroom like a true athlete. Chair hastily moved. Skye, now standing on it, reached up for the smoke detector. Her dark chocolate brown eyes widened in shock. Battery missing! Someone is inside my house. Skye’s sympathetic nervous system kicked in, causing goose bumps to rise on her skin.

The sound of flames hissed and roared with life-threatening force. Skye felt the heat searing her bare arms, superseding the earlier chill of an intruder. Thick, black smoke gripped her throat, chocking her. The smoke irritated her nose and eyes. How did the fire start, and how can it spread so fast? No time, life is over; too young to die. Images flashed in her head: good times past mixed with future dreams. Instinct took over; she bolted for the window like a trapped animal. Her memory blurred and then nothing.

A security patrol car cruising through the neighbourhood made an abrupt stop in front of a burning home. Flames wrapped around the first-floor side windows. A vigilant patrol officer made a 911 call. The guard stepped out of the vehicle, making a fast call, alerting the backup patrol officer. Eric held his cell, saying, fire at 57 Acacia Drive, hurry, Jim.

The sound of breaking glass preceded a young girl diving through a third-story window; a female in mid-air. A body landed hard on the front lawn, contorted.

A loud creaking sound, the harbinger of hellfire, followed by the tremendous heat of a ferocious firestorm.

The guard held his hand up in front of his face, shielding himself as the front door blew out; a horrible roar of hostility. Sirens became part of the ambient noise. The guard bent down over Skye. Her breathing seemed shallow. His fingertips found a pulse. Eric wished he had a blanket to offer her. He gazed at the fallen angel, awestruck at her natural beauty accentuated by her high cheekbones and porcelain skin.

Flashing lights of an ambulance turned the corner. Time distorted. A female paramedic shook his arm, waking him out of his daydream.

The guard, clearly in shock, points down to the blond female at his feet on the front lawn. She just blew out the window, the guard screamed over the raging fire.

When?

A minute ago, she needs help. In the chaos and confusion of the fire, no one noticed the guard drop. Eric Lamont now watched over her from above, as the paramedics started her IV, checked her vitals, and carried her off on the stretcher.

An oxygen mask covered her sooty face. Long, blond hair flowed over the sides of the gurney. Skye’s stretcher rolled into the back of the ambulance, taking off seconds after the back doors closed.

A policeman called on his radio for another ambulance.

Why would he do that? Why did he see himself lying prone on the ground, blood oozing from his head?

We have a mid-twenties Caucasian male with unknown head injuries due to flying projectiles from fire site. Static filled the air.

10-4, Sergeant Abrams, ambulance en route, ETA is five minutes.

Hoses sprawled across the ground. London firefighters battled an enraged enemy. A relentless inferno blazed. The scene became an orchestra of lights and sirens.

Out of the melee of fire, lights, sirens, and smoke stepped one newspaper reporter. Katie Pierce sensed a story, but a suspicious odor lingered here. The kid worked for a local community paper, The Chronicle. As a rookie journalist, she yearned to work on a big city paper. She hoped a story in the city might establish her professional credentials. A recent university graduate, she dreamed of her big break. She didn’t see a local fire as a career-maker, but you can never tell when destiny taps you on the shoulder.

A male paramedic pronounced the patrol officer dead while his young female counterpart screamed: I just talked to him. How can he be dead? A scene of serenity transformed into death and chaos.

Katie reminded herself a good reporter is objective. She documents the scene and listens to witnesses, looking for what others have missed. With emergency lights still flashing, Katie noted a curious detail on the scene, a number twelve in what appeared to be spray paint on the front drive. She reached down to the asphalt and touched the one. White paint appeared on her index finger; still fresh. Who did this, and why? Katie noted this and moved forward. Her reporter instincts heightened, ready to flesh out a story at this fire scene. She needed to find the residents of 57 Acacia Drive. Was this fire accidental, or something more sinister? And what caused a young security officer to end up at the morgue? Someone full of life, only moments ago. Katie intended to find out.

Chapter 3: The Minister of Nothing

The minister of nothing sat at his desk, deep in thought. The early afternoon sun sent its mystical rays through the minister’s seventh floor window as he reflected on a new problem. His thoughts, all morning and through lunch, focused on the frantic voice message Hal received from one Frank Keller. The timbre of his voice alone, capable of haunting the most resolute, but one name spoken, sent a chill up the minister’s spine. Oh God, not that name. Not him. Any name, but that one. His fear peaked at one am, awakened by a panicked plea for help. He cringed at those words of terror. Denial assailed him like a warm blanket. He listened to the message a dozen times to ensure he heard right. A sense of uneasiness descended upon him. It must be a bad dream. Words like ‘ empty coffin’  and ‘ bolts’ garnered special attention. The minister knew dead men should be in their coffins, surely a societal norm.

A sudden knock at the door jolted the minister from his musings.

Within seconds, his calm façade, in place, he demanded: Who is it?

It’s Kevin, sir. Can I come in? Kevin, a Political Science Masters student, served as an intern last summer. His thesis paper, handed in, freed him of other responsibilities to work more hours.

The minister intended to make Kevin his special assistant. Of course, of course, replied the minister, smiling in his usual jovial way.

Kevin entered the office of the minister of Canadian heritage. The student detected no sign of trouble on his boss’ face.

Big Hal prided himself as being unreadable, a master of his emotions.

"I just wanted to thank you, sir, for the opportunity you gave me during my internship to gain some practical experience and to get a sense of how government works on a day-to-day basis."

Are you kidding? My God, man, you have no idea how things really work. Hal found it a challenge to stay in form with this kid. How can anyone be so naïve? Yet the heritage minister liked Kevin. He liked him a lot.

But, Kevin continued, I would like to request a letter of recommendation from you, sir, for the work I completed for you over the summer months.

Naturally, Kevin, naturally, but it is my hope you'll stay on here with my office after you finish university.

The kid looked bewildered as if he didn’t know what to say.

Have a seat, son.

Kevin took a seat on the other side of the minister’s huge cherry wood desk. Well, sir, my original intent had been to gain a working knowledge of government to use as a stepping stone into the Ministry of Finance.

The minister of nothing offered a Cheshire cat grin, chuckling to himself like an amused schoolboy. My God, son, why would you want to submit yourself to such a boring work environment?

Boring, sir? I’m told it’s where the action is; the fast track to the best jobs.

The minister remembered the reason he wanted to keep Kevin on. The kid amused him, always lifting his spirits. You can’t always trust gossip gleaned on the Hill, Kevin. Most of it is rubbish, the minister waved his hand in dismissal. Garbage passed on from one fool to the next.

But the Ministry of Heritage is not what I had in mind, sir. I mean, other than planning the Canada Day party each year, what could interest me, heritage sites? asked Kevin with a frown.

Amusement filled the minister’s eyes. He lived for moments like this. His smirk widened across his face, an exceedingly cocky grin, but based in a true sense of confidence, born of experience, past victories, and private secrets.

Everyone says this is the Ministry of Nothing, sir. An awkward pause followed. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I just don’t see myself in the Ministry of Heritage.

The minister of nothing seemed self-assured for being the chief of the do-nothing ministry of losers and lesser political fellows. Indeed, Kevin, donkeys do talk, but only an ass would take them seriously. I must confess I am aware of such talk, ill-advised references to the minister of nothing. In truth, I prefer it that way. Let the morons say what they will. While such preconceived notions appear to be the case, in fact, the opposite is true. I am the minister of everything, Hal spoke with pride, stressing the final word.

The boy did not understand how anyone took pride in such a bland and uneventful dark corner of government. With a confounded frown, Kevin challenged his boss. How can you say that? Nothing ever happens here.

Hal’s face lit up like a kid with a secret. Ah, but it does, my boy, it does, exclaimed the minister of everything and nothing. It most certainly does. Now if one sees only the dimension of prima facie evidence, then it would seem like a stale work environment. But this is Ottawa, son. Nothing is as it seems in the Heritage Ministry, confessed a now exuberant minister.

Isn’t this Gatineau, sir? corrected Kevin meekly.

The minister howled with laughter, tears running from his eyes. Officially, it’s the National Regional Centre, Kevin, but the real power lies in the unofficial world.

A stunned look betrayed the kid’s face, the afternoon playing out different from expected. He didn’t foresee the job offer. And more difficult to imagine, he would consider such a ridiculous request. Nevertheless, the minister piqued his interest. But the budget for the Finance Ministry is so much more, retorted Kevin lamely.

Yes, their official budget is larger, Kevin, wiping tears of laughter from his face, but it is their ministry, stressed Hal, which is boring. Remember, Big Hal’s pudgy finger, now up in the air, their spending is watched closer, ours is not. Nobody cares to know what is happening over here. Prying eyes are elsewhere; where the action is, as you so eloquently put it. And our budget is more than people assume. It’s just hidden from public view, beamed the fat man. And make no mistake, all sanctioned and legitimate.

Kevin looked intrigued.

Kevin, remember the outrage over the Firearms Registry expenditures? Pride seeped from the overweight minister.

Two billion dollars of public outrage, sir, noted Kevin, a slight grin forming over his serious countenance.

Did you not find anything odd about that even for the typical politician?

The Political Science grad student looked mesmerized.

Everyone envisions their politicians to be incompetent, but that’s a stretch even in this town, and across the river, the minister grinned, glancing outside, happy in his storytelling. There’s no way they could spend so much money on a gun registry; couldn’t happen. The truth is the lion’s share of the money found its way to The Ministry of Canadian Heritage for Special Projects, a slush fund with nothing to do with heritage at all. Big Hal paused.

The ticking clock sounded throughout the room.

The minister beamed.

Kevin offered a nervous smile.

Officials divert federal funding from various arms of government to me for secret off-the-books ventures. Kevin, this is where the action happens, but nobody would ever suspect it. Without those opposition clowns and nosy media hounds watching over our shoulder, we can get some work done and accomplish something. And yes, one day the public outrage will reach such heights, they will force my party, or the opposition, to scrap the gun registry. It’s inevitable. And when that day happens, and it will happen, we will find another pork project to siphon public monies from. All for a good cause, I assure you. The minister of everything looked pleased with himself.

What cause is that, sir?

Our national security, my boy, and other sensitive projects, said Hal, exuding passion and conviction.

Kevin looked aghast. I had no idea, sir.

No one does, and that is the beauty. No interference from well-meaning fools. Kevin, I would like you to take on the role of special assistant to the minister of heritage.

I don’t know what to say, sir.

Say nothing to no one. Remember the little piece of paper you signed?  It’s an iron-clad non-disclosure agreement.

Yes, sir, I remember signing and thinking of the seriousness of government and its secrets.

The minister nodded in approval.

We must do something about your clearance, now won’t we?

You mean they would give me a higher clearance level? asked Kevin, in awe.

As my special assistant it would be necessary, said the minister of heritage.

I guess there is no harm in trying, is there, sir? I mean, I like you and enjoy working for you. It is only the ministry itself I have apprehensions about. Kevin paused, admiring the art hung around the room, rethinking his biases. And now, ah, I’m just not so sure about anything, he confessed, disillusioned.

Fair enough, fair enough, truth brings confusion, responded the minister, as he patted Kevin on the shoulder. That’s the spirit. Take the rest of the afternoon off. Go buy yourself a decent suit and the ministry will pick up the expenses. Report here tomorrow morning at nine sharp.

After the door closed, the minister of nothing sat alone in deep thought, the cocky smile absent. A worried look overshadowed his countenance. What have you done, Frank? Where in the hell are you? Minister Thompson unlocked his lower desk drawer with a key. He pulled out a file folder marked ‘Heritage Site.’ He removed the first page, a picture of an old building under consideration as a prospective heritage site. In reality, the remaining file had nothing, whatsoever to do with any heritage site, the deceptive label acted as a serious deterrent to any normal human wanting a closer look. An inner file folder, titled ‘Project Methuselah,’ a redacted file with many areas blacked out. The work, a culmination of several allied intelligence reports, bolstered with current scientific research, and other less verifiable stories. The project focused on anti-aging and tissue regeneration. Scientists wanted to identify if certain longevity DNA like SIRT1 might be activated to slow the aging process, while others led knockout gene research such as CISD2.

The minister of nothing pulled a picture from the file, a man familiar to him, a dead man. According to rumor, this man had engineered, or faked his death, to conceal an abnormally long life. Might the rumors be true? Minister Thompson considered the myth surrounding Darius. Death remained a certainty in the universe, proving an easy misdirection for fools and children. Now the words ‘empty casket’ rang in his overactive brain. Why wouldn’t Frank let sleeping dogs lie? The fat man understood it to be a lunatic’s paranoid fantasy, yet he never bothered having the file digitized. Computer security is fallible, especially with the Shanghai hackers out there. In his mind, he heard the clickety-clack of computer keys as a visual of multiple hive-like monitors taunted him. Hal grimaced at the image of China’s best crackers, working into the night, finding pathways to his most sensitive secrets. And what if there was a kernel of truth to the Darius file? The minister of nothing, resistant to change, remained old-school, which could be advantageous. A spy would overlook a dusty file folder.  

Mysterious black eyes stared back at him. The person of interest appeared about thirty-five with dark hair and an olive complexion. If the stories proved true, no ordinary man; the one called Darius. Impossible, the minister reflected to himself, escaping his reverie. The sophistication of the ancients disturbed him. Might those in the past have been so beyond the science of today? But was it science or something else? He shook his head, not yet willing to trust legends or lore. Big Hal grabbed his secure landline and dialed an unknown number.

Frank Keller. Find him. Keep me updated. The minister of nothing cut off the call, rubbing his temples. Stress brought on hunger. He would go out for supper. Maybe calm himself with some aged brandy tonight. No, he decided, smiling; some double barrel Forty Creek with ginger ale. That would settle his stomach, allowing him some peace to think. And the minister of everything needed to analyze recent events. The dark underbelly of something unnatural, unraveling strange occurrences he did not understand. As Hal lumbered toward his car, his entire body vibrated with a sense of alarm. He felt it in his skin, his heart, and his stomach; a storm front approaching.

Chapter 4: Firebug

Katie heard a lead fire investigator arrived in the city last night. A source close to the investigation told her investigators suspected arson and passed information to police. But suspected is a world away from proven, and the site inquiry continued. Unconfirmed reports placed an accelerant detection dog at the Keller fire site. Katie’s interest piqued. She wondered if she might use the information in an article to maneuver her way into the city crime section. How would the profile of an arsonist appear? With her laptop, Katie investigated who would commit arson, the motivating factors, and the psychological triggers. Katie discovered an arsonist can nurture multiple motives, yet the research states most arsonists wish no one harm. They start fires to fulfill a craving for excitement associated with sexual gratification. Some may do it for profit or vandalism. The pathological arsonist types are rare and often remain at the scene of the fire. The latter are the most dangerous of arsonists, whom derive a perverse pleasure in the destructive force of fires while consumed with sadistic tendencies. Are pathological arsonists spawned from the black moat?

Why here? Why now? The area is quiet, well-maintained, and outside of high-crime trouble spots. An evil act can happen anywhere, Katie knew. Might it be someone’s idea of a sick thrill, or maybe something more organized? What about the number twelve? Katie sent a text to an old university roommate on her phone. One question: How does the number twelve connect with arson?

The text bounced back with a one-word answer: magnesium.

Katie stared at the screen of her cell, perplexed. Her knowledge of chemistry limited to Pop Rocks and Coca-Cola. 

New text: Why magnesium? Send. Five minutes passed.

Incoming text: Favourite incendiary igniter used by professional arsonists to mimic an electrical fire.

Katie tried a new tact as she searched the Internet for an arson associated with the number twelve. The young reporter stared at the screen in disbelief. Foul play now a certainty. Katie found herself hot on the trail of a bi-national serial arsonist. Why leave a signature like twelve in bold spray paint on the front drive when you went to the trouble of making it look like an electrical fire? Whoever set the fire is not only intelligent, but a little loopy. The young reporter learned firebugs exhibit mental instability. Might this be a random act of arson, or was 57 Acacia Drive targeted? Katie sketched a firebug skulking in the shadows of his target house. The motive behind commissioning a fire might be to silence the occupants or erase information in the house. A simple warning; back off, or else. One thing still puzzled her. What happened to the security guard?

SHAYNE’S HOUSE STOOD quiet and forlorn this night. His wife stayed at her sister’s home for comfort. Shayne would always call if running late. Yet he remained missing, and no call had ever come.

Advancing towards the home on Hillside Crescent, a small, dark figure lurked in the shadows. The firebug circled his target, a ritual he would always complete. As he circled, he moved inward toward his intended work site. Teddy took pride in his work. He loved his job. The moments before a fire made his body tingle with excitement. Teddy anticipated the special smell his fire would make. The Milwaukee arsonist imagined the destructive force of his fire and the acrid scent of ash hanging in the air afterwards. The time before a blaze is always an exciting time. It is a satisfying sensation to be a voyeur to his own fire, a project he engineered. He never understood why others didn’t share his passion. It never failed to lift his mood; to bear witness to the fascinating beauty of a fire. Teddy considered financial compensation a sweet bonus for his passion. The kid from the other Milwaukee found his way inside the locked house. People made him laugh. Antiquated alarm systems and silly little locks, only security illusions. A good dog would have done the trick, Teddy knew. He hated dogs. They scared him. Teddy considered the many ways he might start a fire. He adhered to his preference to check inside the house for susceptible areas. Fire, a furious force and faithful friend, fascinated him since childhood. The raging power of a growing fire never ceased to amaze him. Once again, Teddy found the electrical box in the basement. It didn’t surprise him to discover the wiring appeared old. Didn’t people know old electrical boxes could spark fires? No excuses for poor fire safety. Fires can start so easily. He placed the magnesium rods with care behind the wires. His babies, now in place, set to do their