Tom Avitabile - The Hammer of God

“What?” Bill’s interest was thoroughly piqued.

“Nothing, Bill. I don’t think we should talk any longer.”

“Why?”

“I should go.”

“Peter, you are starting to weird me out here?”

“Thanks for the time, kid. I’ll see ya round.” With that, Peter trudged down the steps of the Memorial.

There were 14 messages on Bill’s personal cell phone as he glanced at it sitting in the back seat of his government supplied Town Car. His government cell would have rung, or Bill’s driver, Secret Service Agent Brent Moskowitz, would have been beeped to retrieve him from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial if anything of national consequence had occurred. He scanned the messages quickly and decided to ring back Janice.

“Hey, Bill. How’s your day going?”

“I got to tell ya, a really weird thing happened. I met up with an old friend… acquaintance…from the neighborhood and the guy goes on and on and tells me a story that sounds like a science fiction author wrote it. Then, for no reason, he suddenly runs away!”

“Schizophrenia?”

“Maybe, but it was more like he suddenly didn’t trust me.”

“What triggered this?”

“I dunno, one minute we’re talking… he’s talking, I’m listening, then he asks me a question. Then he freaks.”

“What was the question?”

“He asked me if I ever heard of the Jesus Factor.”

“You mean ‘W W J D?’”

“What’s that?”

“What would Jesus do?”

“Oh right. No, I don’t think they call that the Jesus Factor. Besides, I asked him if it was a religious thing. That’s when he freaked.

“Maybe he’s in a fundamentalist cult. And you were suddenly an outsider.”

“Maybe, but he’s a real science nut. Religion has to have faith. I don’t see him as a holy roller.”

“Then back to my initial instinct: schizophrenia.”

“You’re probably right. What a waste of time. Anyway, how’s your day going?”

“I got the board to approve my program.”

“Aw, honey that’s great! Congratulations.”

“You have no idea what I’m talking about do you?”

Bill cringed. “Sure, the program thing. It’s great news.”

“Nice try, buster. I’ll fill you in tonight. Gotta run; love ya.”

“Love you too babe. Later.”

As the car found it’s way back to the White House, Bill’s head was reeling with all that he had absorbed from his three-hour “ lunch in 1968 ” with Peter.

Cheryl intercepted him as he approached his office. “You have staff at four and I need you to review the agenda for next week’s nanotechnology summit. You also need to…”

Bill was not intending to say the next thing he said, but something inside him compelled him to utter, “Cheryl, get Susan Clark, the Ambassador to the U.N., on the phone. Then get me a research person. Maybe that new kid, Harry.”

“Horace. I’ll take him off of filing. When do you want to see him?”

“From before I asked you.” He handed her his cell phone. “Go through my messages and cull and delegate them out, unless one of them needs me.”

“Got it.”

Once behind his desk, Bill went through his red-lined folder. Cheryl put all the documents that needed immediate attention or signatures in a recycled manila folder with the words, “Operation Quarterback” on the front, a memento from a previous adventure through which Cheryl had started working for Bill. The load was light and in three minutes, the folder was wedged between the tape dispenser and the stapler; the parking spot that told Cheryl that Bill had reviewed the contents. In that time, Horace came in. Bill gave him the name of Peter’s flying saucer book and many of the other details of the whacked out story Remo told him.

His next call was to Joey Palumbo.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure; what’s up, Bill?” the former FBI agent said.

“Can you look into the death of a scientist by the name of Ensiling? I’ll have Cheryl get all the info I have over to you.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Probably nothing. Hey, you remember Pete Remo?”

“Yeah, the only guy who was more of a square than you! Geez, I haven’t heard that name in years.”

“Me neither, till this morning when I met with him. He started out asking me to look into this professor’s demise.”

“How did it end up?”

“Weird… unsettling.”

“Bill, the guy Peter was always a weirdo.”

“Yeah, I know, Joe, but he was socially weird. His science and his brain were working on all eight cylinders.”

“Maybe he’s self-medicating.”

“Yeah… I thought of that. But even though his story was out there, it was very cogent.”

“You tell a lie enough…”

“…and you eventually start believing it. Maybe that’s it, but check into this just to make sure, will ya?”

“Once again, what are we looking for?”

“Just see if his death was kosher or not.”

“Where did he die?”

“Vienna, last week.”

“I’ll reach out through Interpol and a few other sources.”

“Thanks, Joey. Get back to me as soon as you know anything.”

Bill hung up the phone and wondered if he had just done the right thing. Peter was probably nuts. Who knew what he did since the days in the Bronx? Drugs, religion, alcohol, indoctrination into a cult, a million things could have scrambled his eggs in the past 20 years. Still, Ensiling was red flagged by the government, and that was bothering him. On the other hand, the UFO nonsense was finished business. Bill was at the top of the government technology Christmas tree and nothing ever went close to extraterrestrial anything. It was purely the stuff of conspiracy nuts and Trekkies. Yet, if the U.N. was… Well, he only had Peter’s say-so on the U.N., the U.N. Ambassador would tell him. Enough! I got work to do.

“What the devil?” was all the Sheik could say as the music startled him awake. Then the lights went on.

She was there again, in her red warm-up clothes. Swinging the sock.

“Hello, Sheiky. I am going to show you how much I don’t like little weasels who run to the teacher and cry about every little thing.”

She’s insane, he thought as a plan emerged in his mind.

“Come over here, dog.”

He remained in his bed.

“Come here now or it will be worse if I have to come to you.” She took two steps towards the bed.

He did not move.

“Hey, dipshit!” The sock knocked over a chair.

She stepped closer. “I am talking to you!”

He didn’t respond. Good a little closer.

“You are only making this harder on yourself, asshole.” She came to within two feet of the bed.

He sprang up, intent on grabbing her and falling on her and calling for the guards. He was stopped halfway by the chain.

“Jerk. I shortened it while you were sleeping. Now you are going to wish you had come to me when I asked you…”

She now administered the blows to his body with the sock in the leg of a pair of panty hose. This gave her more striking distance to stay out of reach of his flailing arms. At one point, he grabbed the sock and cradled it to stop the beatings. Wham! A second one beat him in the back, causing him to uncoil and release the first while gasping for breath.

Then he heard her leave. He lay there shuddering.

The next day was Friday. The Imam came to his cell with a guard and a translator who had a tape recorder.

He ran towards the holy man, causing the guard to intercede. He minded his distance and pleaded in Arabic, “Imam, they are torturing me.”

“Imam, they are torturing me!” was the translator’s immediate echo.