Читать книгу Book I: The Disappearance (The Fallen Race Trilogy) - Colin Patrick Garvey - Страница 6

Tamawaca Beach, Michigan

Sean O'Connell cherishes these weekends more than anything in the world – only the three of them at the cottage for the Fourth of July weekend. No aunts or uncles or cousins running around. No grandparents fussing over anything and everything. No schedules or classes for him.

No worries, he thinks, as they wait for the show to start.

He shares a blanket on the beach with his wife, Isabella, and their 5-year-old son, Conor. The weekend thus far could not have been more perfect. The weather has been fully cooperating, they have kept Conor entertained with plenty of boating and go-carts, and Sean and Isabella even managed a night out alone while their neighbors watched the lad. He knew coming up here for the summer would be a good idea.

Sean O'Connell is a professor of political science and history, but not the kind of history with timelines and endless dates for his students to memorize, regurgitate and then quickly forget. His teachings have the students focus on historical events from a different angle, rearranging the pieces over and over again until they form a complete picture of the players involved and their oftentimes underhanded and dubious motives. It seems too general at first, he knows, like he is using too broad a stroke on the canvas. But after a while, his students begin to enjoy this new, unconventional way of thinking, and the canvas soon becomes whatever they want it to be.

Sean uses various examples in class to illustrate his belief that the vast majority of history books contain any number of errors, omissions, and downright untruths. Indeed, one of Sean's mantras, a phrase he constantly reinforces in class, is history books should always be taken with a grain of salt.

By having his students accept this core principle of Sean's teaching, it paves the way for him to introduce an element not commonly found in a college-level curriculum, let alone any type of curriculum. It is only one word, but it is a word that often carries far-reaching implications. It is one word that seems to pique people's interest when it is written in the newspapers or broadcast on television. It is one word, when spoken, is like a lightning bolt that jolts the collective unconscious and forces people to pay closer attention. It is one word that constantly exists in the minds of anyone with a grievance against or story about the government, the JFK assassination, UFOs, the content of fluoride, the magnetic strips in U.S. currency, the belief Elvis is alive, and generally anything to do with the CIA.

It is simply one word: conspiracy.

There is something about the word in the American conscience that is like a five-alarm bell being sounded. For some Americans, it is a word that causes them to feel naive and foolish for believing in the actions and words of a government they are born and raised to trust in, and then learning it is all a lie. For others, the word characterizes how the government has functioned from the very beginning. This group sees conspiracies in every nook and cranny, behind every shadow and underneath every rock. These people believe the government holds an overly simplistic view of the public at large: ignorant, uninformed, indifferent and too preoccupied chasing the American dream to concern themselves with government conspiracies and mass cover-ups. Finally, there are those who cannot even fathom the word “conspiracy” coinciding with the admirable virtues espoused by the Founding Fathers, who believed all the information concerning a nation's leaders and their actions is intended to be scrutinized by a discerning public. For this group, it seems too outlandish for a country like the United States, which prides itself on openness and its assertion of a government for the people, to be involved in covert, Machiavellian plans removed from the prying eyes of the citizenry.

The word evokes various responses and different emotions, indeed, in everybody. It is a word that has become a catchphrase in today's trendy society, where words like that help explain away events in history people cannot possibly begin to understand. It is a word like that which may explain the men gathered in the Biltmore Hotel. And it is a word like that which may be used to characterize the events of tonight.

Sean was actually persuaded into teaching a summer course at Hope College in nearby Holland by his friend and mentor, Dr. Albert Rosenstein. Rosenstein claimed it was a favor to his friend on the faculty, Richard Murdoch, but Sean suspected the latter solicited no such request for this type of course at his university. Sean knows Rosenstein and he presumed the old man talked Professor Murdoch into it. Sean is acutely aware how much Rosenstein enjoys spreading his unique doctrine far and wide to all corners of the country.

Rosenstein taught Sean at DePaul University in Chicago, and the former built quite a reputation there. He has always been extremely outspoken in his views of the world, and he is not afraid to express his opinions in class or outside of it.

Rosenstein was arrested more than a dozen times in the 1960s and 1970s during various sit-ins and protests over the treatment of African-Americans and the United States’ involvement in the Vietnam War. He was fervently against the war and had even been cracked over the head with a billy club from one of those overzealous police officers at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. He initially viewed the era of peace and love the hippie movement ushered in as the peak of western civilization when humanity across the globe would join hands and unite to end their petty differences. His idealism sometimes far outweighed anything reality could hold a candle to. Rosenstein preached this unification doctrine to his classes and many of his students mistakenly construed his joyful lectures as encouragement to experiment with even more drugs. They misinterpreted and twisted his teachings, and believed that in order “to experience humanity at its best,” the use of hallucinogenic treats would assist them in arriving at their lofty destination.

In the 1980s, he constantly derided Ronald Reagan in his classes for his exorbitant defense spending and “Star Wars” approach to the military-industrial complex. He welcomed the era of the computer age as a force capable of uniting mankind around the world, via the Internet and email. Towards the late 1990s, however, he believed human beings were relying on computers to an excessive amount, occasionally neglecting the fact that it was human beings who created these machines and not the other way around. Rosenstein feared people were slowly and gradually turning into automatons, slave to the “almighty computer” at work and then using it as a source of entertainment when they arrived home.

Dr. Rosenstein shared his views with his students and in turn, his students loved him for telling it like it is and never pulling any punches. Not for one moment did Dr. Rosenstein believe his students too young and ignorant to think and imagine on a higher level.

One of the students who came to accept as gospel nearly everything Dr. Rosenstein said was Sean O'Connell. He already shared his mentor's distrust of government and those in positions of power and authority, and he enrolled in Dr. Rosenstein's first class at the university reflecting these views, a class called, “The Conspiracy of Government.” There were no textbooks or assigned readings in the course, but rather it was rooted more in philosophy and debate than it was a class of political science.

When mysterious and unexplained connections emerged after the assassinations of JFK and his brother Bobby, as well as Dr. Martin Luther King, Rosenstein began to believe there were deeper and darker meanings behind these murders than simply the hate of one man by another. He saw a “conspiracy” surrounding these events, and underneath the surface there lied something more than what the public initially perceived.

Sean excelled in the class and he was one of Rosenstein's favorite students. When Sean started teaching, he introduced a course similar to Rosenstein's wherever the administration would allow him. And as a “favor” to his old friend in the political science department at Hope College, Rosenstein asked Sean to teach the course during the school's summer semester. Rosenstein knows his protégé has a family cottage in neighboring Tamawaca, so he asked Sean to try it for a semester and see if it takes. Thus far, his students have been quite receptive to it. That is, the eight students who enrolled for the course.

Sean is lost in this last thought when his wife breaks into his reverie, “Hey, babe, you're zoning. You okay?”

Sean comes back to Earth and looks at the blonde-brown wisps of his wife's hair dancing in the wind. He reaches up and pushes the hair away from her face. She possesses striking emerald eyes that always remind him of the commercials where the ocean is shimmering off some exotic island in the Caribbean.

“Better than okay. You need another beer?” he asks.

Isabella gives him that warm, wonderful smile that makes Sean's heart skip a beat every time he sees it.

“Trying to get me drunk?” she asks playfully.

“Of course I am,” Sean confirms.

Isabella chuckles.

He turns to his son. “How about you, bud? You want a brew?” he jokingly asks.

Isabella laughs and with mock disapproval, says, “Sean-”

“Can I have another pop, Daddy?” Conor asks, as the joke zooms right over his head.

Kids sometimes.

To avoid the chance of a negative response, Conor quickly argues, “I promise I won't be up all night.”

“Alright kid, you promise?” Sean asks skeptically.

“Yeah,” he nods happily. “Daddy, are the fireworks coming on soon?”

“Any second they will,” he says. “I'll be back in a minute, okay?”

“Yeah,” Conor nods again.

Sean gets up from the blanket and begins walking towards their cottage. But first, he leans down and pecks his wife on the forehead as he passes, whispering in her ear, “I hope he's not up all night. I've got plans for us later.”

Isabella grins mischievously and replies, “You're a bad boy, O'Connell. Hurry back, okay?”

“I will.”

As Sean makes his way towards the cottage, he says some polite “hellos” to several people and waves to a few others. He is about to start jogging when he sees him and suddenly stops.

It is like Sean sensed him before he actually laid eyes on him. Sean peers down the sidewalk to the old man seated in a wheelchair. The man seems fragile and vulnerable, a once able-bodied man whose muscles have slackened and become flaccid. The man appears weak in every area of his body save one: his eyes.

The man's eyes tell a much different story, a story that betrays the man's physical appearance. This story depicts a man still strong as a lion, cunning as a fox, and sharp as a razor. The man's eyes scan the beach like a predator sizing up his prey. Finally, the man settles his gaze on Sean, who feels a tingle up his spine.

Jesus, Sean thinks, I thought that only happened in books.

Sean instantly recognizes the man from the limited number of photos he has seen of him, albeit when he was a younger man: R. Jonas Abraham.

Sometimes there are men in life whose sheer mystery evokes numerous stories and rumors to be circulated about them, whether true or not. From hired assassin to double agent, from war hero to traitor, from ambassador to Russia to atomic scientist, there is no shortage of speculation surrounding the old man. In some capacity or another, it is believed Abraham worked for the government at one time. Doing what is anyone's guess.

What is commonly known about the man is that he occasionally spends summer weekends in Tamawaca, does not have any guests or family, lives like a hermit, his health is rapidly deteriorating, and he is sitting on top of a fortune. Of course, rumors are also rampant in regards to how Abraham acquired his vast wealth.

Sean holds the man's stare for several seconds before finally turning away.

Within a minute, Sean arrives at his cottage. He opens the front gate of the porch, takes a few long strides, swings open the screen door, and enters. He heads directly to the fridge and grabs a couple of beers and a caffeine-free pop. Sean then moves towards the pantry to bring down a couple snacks for Conor.

He suddenly hears pop, pop, pop, which signals the beginning of the show.

Then he hears something quite unusual. It is like an airplane flying overhead, but an engine noise he has never heard before in his life. He pauses and listens for several seconds. He shuffles out of the pantry and slowly walks towards the screen door.

He opens the door and as he steps onto the porch, he is greeted by a sound louder than any possible firecracker. He feels a strange sensation course through his body, as if an unseen force has washed over him. This “shockwave” knocks the wind out of him and his feet suddenly leave the ground. He is tossed over the porch railing like a discarded piece of paper thrown into the wind. He lands on a soft patch of sand bordering the cottage, but this ancillary benefit does not concern Sean in the least because the force of whatever hit him snatches his consciousness before he even hits the ground.

* * *

Sean does not know how long he was unconscious. His first thought is he is paralyzed and will never walk again. He quickly dismisses this notion when he wiggles his toes and pulls his legs up. Sean momentarily thinks he hears the sound of running feet, but he may have imagined it. He slowly rises to his feet and his focus immediately turns to his family.

Are they okay? Are they safe? What the hell happened?

Sean hobbles as quickly as he can towards the beach. He does not hear or see any fireworks, so the show must have ended.

But where is everyone? Why are there not streams of people returning to their cottages? Why don't I hear people laughing or talking or…something?

There is only silence.

He arrives at the beach and stares, shocked, unable to comprehend the sight before him. There is not a soul to be found. The beach is deserted and all the people are…gone. Stranger still, the beach chairs, towels, blankets, coolers, and cabanas all remain, as if everyone suddenly got up and left.

In the next ten seconds, Sean hears two distinct sounds that take different periods of time to register in his mind. The first is the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades, a noise gradually growing louder.

He initially has trouble placing the second sound, but then he turns and looks down the sidewalk. He sees Abraham's overturned wheelchair, the wheels squeaking as they slowly turn in the wind.