Ted Bell - Phantom

“Robert Frost.”

“Yes.”

“May I quote my favorite poet in return?”

“Yes, please do.”

“Gravitation cannot be held responsible for two people falling in love.”

Waldo laughed out loud. “Albert Einstein?”

“Who else?”

“All right, now you can open your present.”

Stella pulled delicately at the white ribbon, not wishing to hurry the process. When she lifted the lid, she cried out, “Oh! Oh my goodness! Waldo, is this what you’ve been working on down there in your cabin all these eons?”

“Put a bit of time into it, yes, dear. Hope you like it.”

It was a jeweled butterfly.

Incredibly lifelike, although it had been crafted of pure gold. Even the wings, which were gossamer, a fine film of gold so thin you could see the candlelight through them.

“I’m afraid to touch it, it’s so delicate.”

“Don’t be. Just lift it by the folded wings and place it in your open palm.”

She did so, staring wide-eyed in wonder.

She had felt it move.

And then the wings unfolded and, at first, almost imperceptibly, began to flap ever so slowly. For Waldo, the look on his wife’s face made the hundreds of hours of work worth every second.

And then the butterfly rose from her hand and flew into the air.

Feynman, their old black Lab, roused himself from his favorite sleep spot by the fireside and watched the golden butterfly flitting about the shadows of the room. He was tempted to give chase, but instead he yawned deeply and rested his head on his paws and went back to sleep.

Later, when they were standing side by side at the kitchen sink doing the dishes, the telephone in the study rang. They had a rule about phones. One phone upstairs and one down in the house. And one out in the lab. That was plenty.

“Do you want me to get it?” Stella said. “Who would call us at this hour?”

“I’ll get it. If it’s a telemarketer, I’ll ask for his home phone number and say I’ll call back at midnight to hear what wonderful herbal goodies or erectile dysfunction cures he has to tell me about.”

He heard Stella laughing as he walked through the dining room and into the study.

“This is Dr. Cohen,” he said.

There was no response. “Hello? Who’s there?”

He was about to hang up when he heard a soft, melodic humming sound, reminiscent of Pachelbel’s Canon. It was so ethereal and lovely that he couldn’t put the receiver down. The otherworldly music must have been hypnotic because he couldn’t recall how long he stood there listening.

He put the phone down when Stella appeared in the doorway.

“Waldo, who is it? Who were you talking to?”

“No one, dear. It was the strangest thing. Just this very beautiful, angelic music. Heavenly music, really. Transcendent.”

“How odd.”

“It was, yes.”

“Well, husband, it’s getting late. I’m very sleepy. Are you going to walk Feynman? I think it’s stopped raining. He hasn’t been out all day.”

“Yes, I will walk Feynman. He hasn’t been out all day.”

“Waldo, are you all right. You don’t seem yourself. Is something the matter? Too much wine, perhaps?”

“No, dear. Everything’s fine. I’ll just get my coat and hat from the hall closet. You go on up to bed. I’ll be right back.”

“Well. All right. If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

“Of course I would. Don’t worry, dear, I’m fine.”

“Okay, sweetheart. When you come up, don’t forget the book on Capri. I want to read about the hotel where we’ll be staying before I drift off.”

A trail snaked through the redwoods that led to an overlook where you could see the Pacific on a clear night. It wasn’t clear, but the storm had mostly moved off to sea and the gibbous moon was shining in the dark sky above the treetops.

Dr. Cohen walked with a slow, measured tread, much too slow for Feynman who was straining at the end of his leash. The haunting music was still playing in his head, growing louder, blotting out everything else. The professor reached into the deep pocket of his flannel overcoat and felt the cold steel of the revolver he’d taken from the highest shelf in the coat closet. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought it.

Snakes, perhaps, or wolves.

The man and his dog emerged from the damp, fragrant woods into the pale blue light. The sea stretched away in the distance, afire with moonglow. Green, too, was everywhere, in all its varieties, the surrounding land stormy with muted blues, whites, and greys. It was as beautiful a sight as he’d ever seen. Even faithful Feynman appeared to comprehend its beauty, sitting on his haunches by his master’s side and staring peacefully out to sea.

Cohen stood for a few moments, very still, his eyes fixed on the horizon, listening to the music in his head, as soft and rhythmic now as the murmuring surf below.

As he started to reach into his pocket, his old dog looked up at him with his black gleaming eyes and licked his hand once before turning his attention back to the sea. The professor bent down and put his arm around his dog’s neck, giving him a hug.

Then he pulled the revolver out of his pocket, cocked the trigger, and shot Feynman through the top of his head.

“Good-bye, Feynman,” he said. “Good-bye, Stella.”

Then he put the barrel of the gun into his mouth and blew his brains out.

The music died with him.

Moscow

Deep within the Russian psyche is the knowledge that cruelty is like a powerful searchlight. It sweeps from one spot to another. And you can only escape it for a time.

As Alex Hawke peered out the rain-streaked windows of his black Audi sedan, the forbidding prison appeared to be weeping tears of pain. It was a large building with a facade of yellow brick. An old saying in Russia has it that, if you’re in a hurry to get to hell, the nearest portal is the doorway to Lubyanka Prison. Built in 1898 in the neobaroque style, it was originally the headquarters of the All-Russia Insurance Company.

It is now headquarters for the FSB, the Federal Security Service, and its affiliated, infamous prison. The grim, squat building’s reputation for cruelty, torture, and death is, to this day, enough to make many Muscovites detour around Lubyanka Square just to avoid the painful sight of it.

During the Soviet era, the four-story edifice, only a few blocks from the Kremlin walls, was referred to as the tallest building in Moscow, since Siberia could be so easily seen from its basement.

Hawke’s journey into central Moscow from Domodedovo Airport had been a fast-track one. Descending from Putin’s plane, he’d been met by the prime minister’s personal security squad. The pilot had taxied to a remote part of the field surrounded by high fences and concertina wire. He was immediately hustled into one of four identical black Audis with blacked-out windows. Audis, for some reason, had become the vehicle of choice for high-ranking Kremlin officials.

Hawke had found a dossier on Captain Lyachin on the backseat, provided at the request of Putin, no doubt. Skimming it, he learned that the man had had an incredibly distinguished naval career, was in line for an admiralty, and held graduate degrees in physics and electromechanical engineering. He was a family man with a wife of forty years. Sounded pretty stable to Hawke.

The caravan proceeded to the city at a very high rate of speed with two motorcycle officers riding ahead and clearing the way. It was readily apparent from the beginning that these chauffeurs placed very little value on human life. Citizens literally leaped for their lives as the drivers rounded blind corners at ridiculous speeds.

Hawke gazed out at the endless blocks of grey, featureless housing Stalin had erected for the proletariat. In some way, Alex had always found these huge, slablike, and dreadful buildings the most depressing sight in the city. They spoke of despair, poverty, and the feeling of helpless terror that comes along with living in a police state. If you had any dreams left, any hope, these concrete monstrosities of Comrade Stalin would crush them.