Ted Kosmatka - Prophet of Bones

“Keep them company,” the congressman told his own contingent.

The security teams backed away from the doorway, and the door closed with a loud click.

Martial walked down the aisle of the little church. He took a seat on the left side, third pew from the front.

Gavin and the congressman followed. Gavin sat in the row behind Martial, while the congressman took a seat directly beside the old man. Gavin knew his place. He was to remain silent until needed. Martial had made that very clear. “You’re to watch and listen,” the old man had told him earlier, when they’d discussed the congressman’s impending meeting. “Unless I lose my patience with the fool. Then feel free to jump in and try to defuse the situation.”

But looking at him now, Gavin didn’t see a fool. The congressman was right to be concerned.

Gavin watched the two men, sitting side by side in the bizarre little church. What made a church a church? It wasn’t the size. It wasn’t the pews, or the altar. It was the quiet, he decided. A special kind of quiet that happened only in churches. He thought of Liang Bua.

“The man who died, what did he do here?” the congressman asked, breaking the moment.

“It has been some years,” Martial said.

“Then to the best of your recollection.”

“He was a handler.”

“Of what?”

“Of animals. He was a low-level worker, back when our hiring practice was less carefully tuned.”

“He was killed in Miami.”

“Yes.”

“There was also a dead woman.”

“He was deranged, as I said. We had no part in that.”

The congressman sighed. “This is bad business.”

“It’s a hiccup. Nothing more.”

The congressman’s mouth became a line. “Congressman Lacefield is looking into it.”

“Lacefield? Should I know that name?”

“You know it well enough.”

Martial glanced up at the white cross hanging on the wall. “A simple, unfortunate death is a little beneath his pay grade, isn’t it?”

“Normally, I’d expect you’d be right. But it seems that for you he will make an exception.”

“Why is that?”

The congressman laughed—a sound without any mirth at all. “Perhaps you imagine yourself to be a man without enemies?”

“Truth always has enemies. Lacefield is just the latest.”

“Is that what you tell yourself this place is? Some kind of truth?”

“One path to it.”

Martial reached down between his legs and lowered the padded kneeler to the floor. He slid to his knees and folded his hands on the pew before him.

“Lacefield’s supporters might see it differently,” the congressman said. “And they are as numerous as our own.”

“If not as influential.”

“Yet. But remember that our supporters are not the only religious organizations to seek a voice in Washington. Lacefield has his hand in a different offering tray. There are those who predict a complete reshuffling in the next election.”

“Then you’ll have to make sure we don’t give them a cause.”

“We can’t sweep this under the rug,” the congressman said. “This is a tricky time right now. You are being watched.”

“I have nothing to hide,” Martial said.

The congressman’s face flashed anger again. “There are times when I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or just insane. Your jokes won’t go over so well back in Washington.”

Martial said nothing, but instead closed his eyes in prayer.

The congressman leaned forward and knelt close to the old man. He leaned into him, whispering softly, so that Gavin could barely hear: “We’ve known about the shallow grave for years. We’ve even known about your little beasts. But the thing that has me out here are the rumors. Rumors you would not want your enemies to hear.”

The old man’s head stayed lowered in prayer.

“There are rumors about a place called Flores, Martial. There are rumors that something bad happened there. There are rumors that you got your hands on strange bones.”

“Bad things happen all the time. As for the bones, they were stolen.”

“Stolen.”

“By the Indonesian authorities.”

“That’s not what the Indonesians say.”

“Nonetheless.”

“There are also rumors of new experiments.”

“Would you like me to show you, Congressman?”

The congressman looked up at the cross hanging on the wall. He bowed his head briefly.

“Congressman?”

“No,” he said. “You fucking bastard. You know I don’t want to see.”

Martial nodded.

“This project you have here,” the congressman hissed, “it has grown over the years.”

“Like a flower.”

“It was never envisioned like this.”

“It is like any flower: the perfect expression of God’s will.”

“With all due respect, there are those who say you have too much freedom here. There are those who feel we should leash you in.”

“Then I say, with all due respect, Congressman, just fucking try it.”

“That’s a dangerous attitude.”

The old man turned toward him, face reddening, on the edge of saying something. He opened his mouth to speak.

Gavin chose this moment to intervene. “There are dangers for all involved,” he said. “Care should be taken.”

The two men glanced at him briefly, then turned their attention back to each other.

The congressman smiled. “You’re toying with the wrong man,” he said to Martial.

“Toys are for children. I don’t play games.”

“Neither do I.”

The congressman rose to his feet and stepped into the aisle. He faced the altar and crossed himself; then he turned and left without another word.

The door slammed behind him.

Gavin lowered the kneeler in his own row and dropped to his knees. He let the silence envelop him.

“You agree with him, don’t you?” Martial asked Gavin without turning to look at him.

“I think it’s dangerous to anger him.”

“He came today. He was here. That means he can do nothing.”

“He’s a congressman.”

“They are less powerful than gnats. No, that’s not true,” Martial said. “That’s the wrong way to look at it.” He considered for a moment before speaking. “You’re right, they are powerful, but they are also fragile. It is a fragile power, so vulnerable to attack. It is in this way they are like gnats. They realize their vulnerability, and this is what makes them weak.”

Gavin watched the back of the old man’s head.

“What vulnerability?”

“To public opinion. To the withdrawal of support. To exposure.” Martial turned to look at him. “You don’t yet understand how it all works,” he continued. “Running for office requires money. Lots and lots of money. Campaigns are expensive, after all.”

Martial rose to his feet. “Come,” he said.

They left the church room and took the corridor back toward the main part of the complex. The security detail fell in behind them again, until Martial waved them off. They melted away like butter. “To get the money to run for office, the politicians need the churches. The people in the pews. The special-interest groups. The churches fund the politicians, who use their votes to fund government programs—which outsource certain things to outside contractor groups like Axiom.”

“I see.”

“Not yet, you don’t.” They arrived at another set of doors. A-17 was stenciled on a nameplate on the wall. Martial pushed through, and they moved into a deeper, older part of the facility. They came to another room that Gavin had never seen before. As they crossed the room, Gavin glanced around in wonder. It was enormous. If the other room had held the silence of a church, this room had the size. Endless rows of cages climbed the walls, floor to ceiling. Chrome bars. Tiny, empty cubicles, six feet high, stacked one on top of another, cage upon cage, extending to the ceiling. As they passed the cages, Gavin tried to imagine what they might be expected to contain someday.