Pavel Kravchenko: Project Antichrist

“So it’s the same deal as with free speech, free choice of religious practice and all other free stuff.”

“What the hell is the deal with free speech?”

“Our forefathers fought hard to secure those rights for you. Those are the very liberties that make America the best place in the world. Don’t you know there are countries where they will throw you in jail for speaking out against the government, for example?”

“Are we nearing the point which will explain why an exhausted man framed for murder hiked for an hour to end up at a gay bar?”

Iris ignored this. She could care less if I was pissed.

“In a democracy,” she was saying, “there’s always a majority and a minority. And in a prosperous, united democracy like ours — which is really a Republic, but that’s beside the point — in a democracy like ours, with eighty percent or whatever approval rating, the majority includes almost everyone. You’re getting it?”

“No.”

“The time of persecution of minorities in America, although not exactly ancient history, is long gone. When you have the backing of eighty percent of population who are patriotic, heterosexual, Christian — there’s no need to persecute, or even pay attention anymore. Let them have their liberties, who cares. They won’t make any difference, aside from showing how open-minded and tolerant our society is. Here you can say what you want against the government, you can worship Pan, have sex with other men and so on. They will proudly display how free you are, but ignore you otherwise, because you don’t matter one bit.”

“Where the hell did that come from?” I asked. Iris giggled.

“Listen, I’ve been coming here for a long time,” she told me in low voice. “There’s never been a single cop in here. Ever. Understand? And there’s no surveillance.”

I did understand then, kind of. I was still a bit angry, though, so I decided to be difficult in revenge.

“So by your logic there are no gay cops?”

She looked at me closely.

“Not the ones who sleep with other men, no.”

I walked into what used to be the amphitheater in a state of, once again, extreme puzzlement.

Rows of seats had been replaced with tables and booths. The floor slanted towards the stage, which remained intact, complete with the curtain. Under the stage, in what had once been the orchestra pit, was the bar.

The place was packed. Loud, unfamiliar, archaic music blared from some unseen source. Iris glanced at me over her shoulder and made a motion with her eyebrows. I bent to bring my lips close to her ear.

“Are all these people homosexual?”

“Of course not,” she screamed in reply. “And neither am I.” Her cold palm closed over my fingers, and she led me on through clouds of smoke.

Special Agent Oliver Brome moved through the spacious living room pretending to examine it, while his partner, Special Agent Brighton, handled the homicide cops. Special Agent Brighton loved putting people in their place. And cops always needed to be put in their place when FBI showed up to take over. They always argued, stalled, gnashed their teeth, and in the end sulkily gave up the hopes of promotion for resolving a big case like this one, knowing full well from the moment they saw the corpse of a federal employee it was only a matter of time before the pompous feds showed up and took their bread. A circus, like everything else. Brighton enjoyed it.

Presently he appeared out of the hallway, grimly poised, but glowing with inner satisfaction. Brome nodded at him, glancing at the huge TV. A smiling female actor in doctor’s white was trying to convince him that he was not alone. That one out of every twelve Americans suffered from chronic anxiety and depression, but most were able to overcome their ailment with the help of personalized medicine from Freedom Corp., the leader in pharmaceuticals. She recommended not to delay the call. Help was well within reach.

“The cops are wrapping up,” Brighton said.

“Isn’t there a way to turn it off?” asked Brome.

“Motion sensors. And the command menu is probably voice-coded to recognize only the owner, Mr. Whales.”

“We’re the feds. Don’t we have some kind of a master remote for these things?”

“How about we catch our movie star murderer and bring him here to turn it off?” Brighton grinned. “Unless, of course, the street cops sell him the farm first. If they haven’t already.”

There was a good chance of that, actually. A dead marshal was just like a dead cop. The hunting season, although officially condemned, was very much open.

“What do we have?” asked Brome.

“Suspect: Luke Fredegar Whales, white male, thirty three years of age. Actor, talk show host.”

Brome nodded vaguely. Brighton droned on, skipping physical description as redundant.

“Called in sick three days in a row. During the conversation with his manager, James Cornwell, this morning appeared nervous, temperamental. Called the second time to report the discovery of a draft notice. Left the premises around 1 P.M., drove to his ex-wife’s house in Highland Park, where he assaulted her boyfriend and left in a state of extreme agitation.” Brighton paused significantly. Brome nodded again. “Getting interesting, huh? Let’s see. Made a call to his physician, Dr. Colin Wright, around 2, requested an emergency refill of his medication. Claimed to have lost the pills somehow. Some kind of antidepressant supposedly, the details are being obtained as we speak. Instead of going to the doctor’s office, returned to the building by way of parking garage around 2:45, as witnessed by the front desk clerk, Jeffrey Monroe. Ten minutes later or less the suspect was seen climbing the gate out of the marina. Has not been seen or heard from since. The police found an empty chest made to hold a handgun on the bed. That’s the case. Seems easy enough.”

“The victim?”

Brighton flipped a few pages in his old-fashioned paper notebook. Nothing but show, that notebook.

“Samuel O’Malley, white male, 44. Joined DHS Draft Marshals upon reestablishment the program in 2027. Prior service in the National Guard during the Iran campaign…” At that moment Oliver Brome, who had opened the door to the balcony and peered down through the glass wall, glanced at the little black notebook briefly. “…Immigration field agent, 2022 through 2027. Dead from two gunshot wounds in the chest. The bullets are 9mm, shot from a semi-automatic pistol. There’s a theory circulating that the gun that had fired them is the same one missing from the chest in the bedroom.” Brighton loved his sense of humor. “That’s the skeleton of it.”

“Do marshals carry guns?”

“Stun guns.”

“Any word on his partner?”

“Nothing aside from demographics, but here’s an old bookie’s advice: don’t bet on him being alive no matter what odds they give you.”

“If he’s dead, where is the body?” Brome asked casually.

“In the lake, most likely. Probably under one of the piers down in marina. I’ve already ordered the divers.”

“Do we have surveillance footage?”

“Oh, you’ll like this one. There’s no surveillance in the living areas. At all. Not even the elevators.”

“What? How is that possible?”

“Money, that’s how. There’s a bunch of famous people living here. Apparently, they decided their privacy was more important than security. This one will teach them.”

“They can’t ‘decide.’ This is downtown. There are regulations.”

“I don’t know how the bastards did it. Only that they did. The only cameras they couldn’t get rid of are at the entry points: lobby, service exits, garage, marina, but the one in marina had been out of order for the last two days.”