CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Rose Gardner sipped at her coffee, strong and black, none of that latte mocha crap they served in the cities. Greg stood at the wheel, guiding their flock of barges. He was a solid, reliable man, if a bit dense at times. For forty-two years he had served with her father and now her.

Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 6 ended on the radio and National Public Radio came on. Rose normally ignored the news, other than the weather and general economic indicators, but ever since those two FBI agents had been poisoned, she paid attention. The story riveted her.

The story began when a psychiatrist named James Barash killed a United States senator. Politicians didn’t get knocked off nearly often enough. Then a woman named Joanna Prall had killed the doctor. She was the interesting one, the ringleader of a conspiracy who hid in a mental hospital. Every day there was new speculation about who she might really be: a right-wing terrorist, an anarchist, or simply a woman driven by greed. After killing the doctor, she fled to a cabin in southern Ohio. There two FBI agents found her. Somehow Prall managed to poison them with a substance that the coroner could not identify.

There were more bodies: a janitor at the office building where the psychiatrist kept an office; a nurse at the hospital where Barash worked; the nurse’s husband; several patients at the hospital. All had died of the same or similar poison, except for the nurse. She was bludgeoned to death, perhaps in a fit of rage.

At least that is what the radio told Rose. The towboat captain knew there must be more to the story than that, hidden layers and secret combinations. The reporters said that the senator was a good man, which was a surprise. You did not get to the Senate and remain good. But strange things happened, maybe he had somehow made it into the Senate honestly and they killed him for it. Barash and Prall were probably government assassins, or maybe they worked for the Mafia and were hired by the government.

It could be the Jews. That is what her father would have thought. He had fought in the war against the Japs, helming a landing craft. He had understood how the world worked, the grasp of the Jews on the banks. She always listened to him respectfully, but after seeing a film on the Holocaust in school, the idea didn’t always make as much sense to her. Would such manipulators have allowed so many of their kin to perish in gas chambers?

She believed more sophisticated ideas than her father. The government and Mafia controlled everything. Was not the government just a big mob, extracting protection in the form of taxes and using assassins to rub out anyone who opposed them? She was only six when Kennedy lost his brains in Dallas. The government was out to get him then. She remembered the grieving widow and the children her own age. She felt sorry for them.

The government was cunning, flitting about in flying saucers to cover up secret projects. To cover themselves, they promoted the belief in aliens, life on other planets and such. That was just too silly of an idea. They probably even owned those supermarket tabloids that regularly published grainy pictures of aliens. People were gullible, the government used that to manipulate them.

It was a little past midnight. The lights of Memphis glowed above the trees of the river bank as the Rose Marie slid up next to a wharf. The towboat’s spotlights reflected off of oil slicks in the water and cast shadows behind floating garbage. A bit of deft maneuvering brought the barges up against old tires that served as bumpers on the concrete wharf.

In the morning three more barges, carrying scrap metal bound for Greenville, would be attached to the front of her flock. A small load, but a nice bonus since she was already bound that direction.

Rose suddenly felt the need for a candy bar. She knew of an all-night convenience store only a half-mile away.

“I’m going ashore,” she announced. “The crew is to remain aboard.”

“Yes’m.”

At the store, she bought a couple of candy bars and a bag full of groceries. Chips, bread, cheese, and cans of food. A gallon of spring water and a copy of Newsweek completed her purchases. The cover of the magazine was a picture of Lauren Yalom and her two children under the bold letters of the headline: “Federal Agents Slain.”

She did not understand why she had purchased the water or food. She did not need these items. As she approached her barges, she paused by the front barge. The towboat’s lights were off, except for some faint running lights, leaving an area of near darkness around the barges. Her thoughts crumpled into confusion and she felt the compulsion to move to the next barge.

“Joanna, come to me,” she said out loud, then she pulled back the flap of the barge cover and reached in with her hand.

Nothing happened. “Joanna, come to me!” she said loudly, apprehensive that someone might hear.

The sound of rustling canvas, then a thin and delicate hand reached out. Rose’s own calloused fingers grasped the strange hand.

* * * *

In that moment of contact, I learn of what happened to Dave Fisher and Lauren Yalom. Sudden sadness makes me sag against the cold metal of the barge. For some reason my enemy kills everyone that I have put a fragmental in, even if the fragmental is gone. I wonder if my enemy can recognize whether the fragmental is really gone; more probably, it checks by touching a person and kills the person during its rage. I wonder if Tim Horgan is safe, but the very act of checking on the boy might tip off the enemy.

Rose passes the food and water to me and I take it gratefully. I choose to keep a fragmental in the Captain in order to keep her quiet. If she reports finding someone in her barge, the enemy will surely slay her. My only concern with leaving a fragmental with Rose is that if my host, Joanna, was killed, then Rose would become my new host. I did not want to kill her; she is a strong woman, if a bit paranoid. The paranoia does not arise from an organic flaw and harms no one.

* * * *

Rose walked down the line of barges, each one hundred and ninety-five feet in length. The story of Joanna Prall was now very real, not a story on the radio or in the magazine she held in her limp hand. She felt an overwhelming urge to keep this knowledge secret.

She struggled to rationalize this urge. Joanna was not a dangerous conspirator if she was forced to hide in a barge. Rose felt the craving for a drink, smooth Scotch straight up. That thought stopped her, sending shivers of horror up her spine. The convenience store had wine in it, cheap bottles for the local bums. She so desperately wanted to walk back to the store.

“No!” she muttered through gritted teeth. She would not give up nine years of sobriety because of one fugitive.

She boarded her towboat and tersely ordered Greg to take care of the barges in the morning. Going to her cabin, she found that sleep came quickly.

* * * *

After letting Rose go, I crawl back into my culvert pipe. Eating the bread and chewing on a block of cheese, I try to understand what is happening with my enemy. The effort does not yield any useful conclusions. The answers lie in the past, so I put away the food, then curl up to resume my quest.