About The Governor (Added Content From "It Didn't Happen")

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It Didn’t Happen: A Novel (Working Title)

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Chapter One: The Man Upstairs

            “We need to get out of here. All of us.”

            “No. We can’t go back.”

            “Why not? Look at them. They’re all waiting for me down there. Waiting for answers I can’t give.”

            “A little more time. You never said it would be first thing in the morning.”     

            “I know. Guess I just assumed.”

            “Sure. We all did.”

            “Weird how that works. Everyone thinking a thing.” He dragged in a few more uncomfortable breaths. The converted barn that had been their home for the last six months was shrinking. There was an ominous weight to the air, probably something akin to the fog that hovered over the folks inside the Bastille or the Alamo, just before those places became more than anonymous, crappy old buildings.

            Something imminent was rounding the corner.

            Just not the thing he predicted.

            As he was about to hazard another peek through the curtains, she put her arms around his waist, rubbing his stomach with calloused hands, pressing a pensive kiss to the back of his neck. She was just as concerned; perhaps more so. “Have you heard a message?” she asked quietly. “Anything would be helpful.”

            Instinct almost pulled him away, but his will and the long term desire for self-preservation won the moment. He was beyond exhausted. It was supposed to be over, but there they were. Still. He couldn’t run from the fortitude of her embrace. It was the only thing holding him up, physically and spiritually. Cinching him together with implacable love and faith. Perhaps, also, with a helping of her own desire for self-preservation.  

            “You know what’s funny?” he asked, tilting his head back take in more of her smell.

            “I’m surprised you’re finding anything funny just now.”

            “I’m hungry.”

            “Got to say, not the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” She patted his stomach. It was flatter. That little layer of adipose common to men in their late thirties was a thing of the past.

            “You know what I mean. Never expected to be hungry again. Thought that was a worry relegated to the dustbin.”

            “It’s still early,” she said, checking her watch as an alternative to looking outside. It was becoming her only line of defense, and the more she said it, the more she could sense her own desperation coming to the fore.

            Down below, they could hear the door slowly opening and closing. The deliberate nature of the entry made the identity of the arrival obvious.

            “Are you up here, Paulson? Lydia? Did you go in the Storm?”

            She could feel his shoulders slump. He patted her hands and freed himself from her grasp, turning to face the stairs that led up to the loft. “Still here, Chet.”

            “Are y’all decent?”

            “C’mon up, little brother.”

            Chet plodded up the stairs and into their living space. There was no door to the loft; hence Chet’s apprehension. He’d walked in on Lydia in a state of undress some months back. It scared her half dead and managed to add a new trauma to his already severely scarred psyche. “Boy, I don’t know,” Chet said, mumbling with his hands burrowed somewhere between his shirt and overalls. “The Storm not coming’s got most everyone nervous as all hell.”

            “It’s still early,” Lydia snapped. Chet’s face went flush and he closed his eyes, shaking his head. Paulson tried to avoid flashing a chastising look at his wife.          He walked over to his brother and rubbed his golden buzz cut, kissing the spot where hair would never again grow. “Everything’s going to be all right, buddy. I’ll go out and talk to them. Say something reassuring.”

            “Boy, I don’t know,” Chet whispered, tears in his eyes. He was still smarting from Lydia’s hot tone.

            “Hey, pal,” Paulson said, holding Chet’s head level with both his hands. “Give me a sit-rep. Cut the bullshit, yeah soldier?”

            “Okay.”

            “Davis and his family?”

            “Stirred up. Confused but not crazy. Probably need watching.”

            “What about Ida Jean?”

            “Didn’t get eyes on. Everyone else is out there, save her. Maybe in her cabin, or maybe the Storm took her.”

            Chet’s report was delivered evenly. Given a thing to do, he was his old sturdy self. The one who’d followed Paulson to Afghanistan to fight for code and country, before the fight had taken what it had.  

            “What about Elson?”

            “Normal, I’d say. Smoking his pipe like always when I walked by just now. Drawing in that journal. He’s a hard one to read on a normal day.”

            “I understand. How about the Hood’s?”

            ‘They didn’t look happy.”

            Paulson turned momentarily and sighed at Lydia, still holding his brother’s face. “Those are some bitter pills.”

            “I know. But more than the usual.”

            “Thanks Chet,” Paulson said, offering another quick hug. “Proud of you. You’re a good man.”

            “What are you going to—”  

            “Go on down. Say I’ll be out there in a few. Don’t worry. Things are gonna be just fine, pal.”

            It was obvious that Chet wanted to throw out another Boy I don’t know, but one last look at Lydia had him lumbering for the stairs, tongue jammed against the back of his teeth.

            Paulson walked over to the bed and grabbed a flannel shirt hanging off the footboard. Lydia was standing rigidly in the center of the room, hands atop her head, ready to burst. If her state of mind was any sort of barometer for what he was going to have to face, things weren’t looking good.

            As much as he wanted to fight it, he knew it was coming the second his left eye started to twitch. He snapped his shirt almost to the top and wrestled his feet inside his boots, desperate to avoid looking at his wife. When he collapsed onto his back, she almost didn’t notice. There wasn’t the usual violent crash associated with one of his spells. No knocked over lamps or cracked knees. Just a soft landing and a few muted convulsions underneath a light poof of dust.

            Paulson James. How are things in Crazytown, Texas?

            “Where are we?”

            Complicated question, but you know that. Anyway—where does it look like?

            “Looks like the mountains,” James chattered, feeling a chill on his arms, wondering if the place or the sensation was really real. As many times as this happened, it was always the first thing he thought. “What’s with the fishing poles?” he asked, teeth still clattering together.

            I thought you might want to catch something. It’s like spiritual virtual reality. Add something more physically interactive, I thought. Just an idea. You used to like a little angling, I was told. I could see it. I can see it right now, actually. Ah. Let’s not get bogged down in space and time.

            Paulson glanced at his interlocutor with a disdainful smirk before scanning his surroundings. His feet were dangling off an old wooden bridge. There were snowcapped peaks on either side. Underneath an icy stream ran deep and steady, singing out a consistent low note. “You told me today was the day, Levi. What are we doing here?” Paulson figured on seeing his Messenger again, but not like this. Their next encounter was supposed to take place in the great beyond, burdens gone. Maybe God at the end of the table, offering a toast so profound only God could come up with it. Perhaps a few of the Saints and Martyrs, sharing war stories.

            Don’t let your line run too far out.

            “Levi? Seriously. And what’s with the accent?”

            Biloxi, Mississippi. 1930s. Figured I’d try it out. Sort of a redneck musicality to it.

            “So weird.”

            Why? Oh, because of the face? I’ll have you know that this is a composite of fourteen different Japanese action stars. Whipped it up myself. All very handsome men.

            “Not saying otherwise.” Paulson rubbed his eyes with his free hand, feeling a headache coming on that was real in any dimension.

            Look, there’s been a delay. This kind of stuff happens. Things you need to do yet.

            “Nobody’s going to listen to me back home. You can only predict our last day on the planet once. People lose all faith in the batter after strike one.”

            Levi scratched his perfectly managed gray goatee and whipped his pole around like a paintbrush, attempting to goad a fish toward the lure. He was dressed as he always was. A corduroy sport jacket and board shorts. On his feet he wore military combat boots with no socks or laces. He was the homeless guy who all the other homeless guys felt sorry for.

            You get more than one strike, Mr. James. Consult a history book. People have a capacity for gullibility that you fail to grasp.

            Paulson braced at the sound of Levi using the word gullibility. It made him feel like the charlatan he promised his people he wasn’t—the nutjob he prayed he hadn’t become.

            You’re getting mad. Easy, big guy. Integral or expendable as you are, I still have a pretty big checkmark in the seniority column. Hundreds of millennia. Don’t want to pull rank. Just a reminder.

            “What am I supposed to do? Is it ever going to actually happen? What do I say to those people?”

            Levi threw his rod into the river and turned squarely to Paulson.

            Just once. Just once I’d like for you to consider my feelings.

            “I’m supposed to feel sorry for a Emissary of God? You have powers. You get to hang out in Heaven. All the secrets are at your fingertips.”

            I can see in your soul. We’ve been over this. It’s almost automatic, but it’s not an automatic blessing, if you can follow. Just now—I had a good look. Dark. You are a classic narcissist. Projection. Deflection. It’s dawning on me—kind of a jerk, Paulson.

            “I don’t even know if you have feelings to hurt.”

            See that right there. You think because we operate on separate metaphysical planes of existence, you get to treat me like the “other.”

            “Enough, Levi. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

            No idea.

            Paulson’s face remained unchanged. Like he was waiting for the actual answer.

            I’m serious. You have to go back. That’s all I was told. Probably some unfinished business you need tending. Or not. Could just be a scheduling thing.

            Paulson took a swing at Levi. He hadn’t made an aggressive move since coming home from the war. Now here he was, fishing in an ontologically iffy setting, having a go at a supernatural being.

            I’m gonna let you have that one.

            Levi disappeared and then reformed on Paulson’s other side, quick as Biblical Mercury.

            You need to get your emotions in check.

            “Sorry.” The apology came quick and humble. Levi’s little show of otherworldly power wasn’t done as an idle boast. Crazy as the thrift store ambassador was, he was also packing serious fire and brimstone. “Please. Just give me something I can tell them.”

            We’re gonna let you work it out for the next little bit. It’ll be good for your character. Little advice. Get things on track with Lydia. Happy wife, happy life. Little simplistic, but can’t hurt.

            Levi smiled and lit up a cigarette. After an overemphasized drag, he blew the smoke straight up and gave James a playful look, slicking back his greasy black hair.

            Paulson’s hands went stiff, like a person’s hands just before they start strangling someone. He shook them out and did his best not to roll his eyes. “Okay. I just wish—”

            It was warm in his ear. He could feel his eye still twitching, but couldn’t see anything. Not long and he realized Lydia was whispering something soothing to him as he struggled between states of being. He hated that she had to watch. No matter how many times she tried to reassure him, he imagined it was like viewing a bad actor being possessed in some movie about found footage exorcisms.

            The eye went back to stasis. His vision corrected itself to seeing the here and now. “How long?” he asked, throat cracking dry.

            “Ten. Maybe twenty seconds. I barely had time to get over here.”

            “So weird.”

            His wife got off the bed and yanked him up to a sitting position. They’d gone through the routine enough times for her to be versed. She placed a hand on his crotch.

            “Damn.”

            “It’s okay,” she returned, getting up to fetch some fresh underwear and jeans. “What’d he say?”

            Paulson held out his hand for the clothes. Debriefing was hard enough and being covered in piss was just a little too much. “Said that we’re going to be here a little longer. Said that everyone would understand.”

            Lydia answered by smacking her husband across in the face with a pair of boxer briefs.  

            “Ouch.”

            “Sorry if I’m not your biggest fan at the moment. We could have a riot on our hands.”

            “It’ll—”

            “What if your brother had seen?”

            “I’m—”

            “And we get these little pieces. All that, and how many times have I really let you have it? Don’t put limits on my feelings. It’s gross.”

            “Well—”

            “Paulson,” she said, squaring up next to the bed, arms crossed like a little drill instructor.

            “I’m sorry,” he whimpered, stepping up to put on his fresh clothes. Levi’s. It was a reminder that he couldn’t tell her everything. Those were the rules. Whatever was happening, there were rules. “You’ve been strong for me. Stronger than me. Always have been.” James wasn’t just telling her what she wanted to hear. Nor was he lying. Lydia had always been the rudder, even before all this. They’d been a power couple, on the rise in Texas business and society, but it was her will and positivity that had carried them along. She was forged hard to life’s challenges, clawing her way to prominence at a leading commercial real estate concern, managing to forge a path through an old boys club, dignity intact. With her unflagging encouragement, he’d broken through as a motivational speaker, sought by everyone with enough money to pay for his time; high-end corporations to national high school football conferences to international sales conventions. He could work a room. Thousands would sit enthralled, listening to practical advice like it had come from a stone tablet. Now his audience was less than a hundred—they listened to spiritual revelations more or less like it was what one did to better their day-to-day.

            Irony.

Chapter Two: Sentinels

            “Guess it didn’t quite work out how you wanted. That about sum it up?” Agent Jordy Phelps from the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco Firearms and Explosives hurled the question skyward with his usual high-pitched, incendiary tone, sweating through the backside of his skin-tight Wranglers. “I mean—it’s getting damn near noon time. If I’m the Lord—Lord knows I’m not—but if I’m the Lord, I’m not waiting half the day to lift off my chosen people. Just don’t seem to compute.” Phelphs squinted at the cresting Texas sun, pulling the brim of his cowboy hat level with his overgrown black eyebrows. “You ever gonna get to talking? Hell, man. Ain’t part of you happy? Or don’t you get those type feelings?”

            The subject of the agent’s criticism was a man in his fifties named Theodore. He was the one everybody at the ATF field office called “The Lookout.” The sinewy, bearded figure sat or stood in a wooden tower near the gate to the compound, watching the road and the edge of the property. He never spoke, save one word: “Blessings.” Other than that, you weren’t getting anything out of old Theo. He was a sentinel. He was one of those silly soldiers standing guard outside Buckingham. He was Idris Elba from Thor—that’s what Phelps liked to call him—Hamdoll—that’s how it came out of Phelps’ lips, anyway.

            A car door slammed closed behind and Phelps turned to see his boss getting off a call. Agent Wolf Becker looked at the junior agent and then up at the tower. “Has he said anything?” Becker asked, flat and authoritatively. He was the senior man at the Fort Worth ATF office. That put this problem square in his lap, but if any fed was built for it, he was the guy. Wolf Becker had the equanimity of a cup of water, at least to the casual observer. Whatever Phelps was—Becker was the opposite.

            “No, sir. Nothing after ‘Blessings.’ Hamdoll’s  doing his usual bit.” Becker tilted his head, watching Phelps as he talked. The young agent made strange movements with his right hand when he spoke. Pointing, waving, but generally having nothing to do with what he was saying. Becker had learned to ignore the habit. Mostly.  

            “Then what are you on about? Becker inquired. “I could hear you from inside the car.”

            “I was trying to establish—you know—establish a thing.”

            “Wow. As if you lifted procedure straight from the training manual.”

            Phelps pulled his hat down another inch and wiggled his free hand. “Well.”

            “In half a year the man has shown no crack in his will. Not so much as a hairline fracture. He’s impervious on a microscopic level. What’s your reasoning for starting in today?”

            “Come on, Becker. You know. I ain’t stupid.”

            “Pretend I’m stupid.”

            “Today’s the day.”

            “Keep going.”

            “Well, if any of these wackos are going to become pervious, figured on it being right about now.”

            Becker didn’t much like Phelps. He was pretty sure the younger man was a born racist full of resentment at being under the command of a black academic.  Most agents were either ex-service or former local law enforcement. Wolf Becker had taken a different path. He did a stint as a criminology professor before joining the bureau. It was an unusual road, but either despite it or because of it, he was a highly effective investigator and one of the most level-headed brains ATF. All that said, he didn’t wholly disagree with the simpleminded Phelps. If the dam was going to break, today would be one you’d probably mark on your calendar.

            “It’s not inevitable,” whispered the head agent.

            “What’s that?” Phelps asked, spitting onto the gravel road and adopting a bemused look.

            Becker walked toward the gate, away from his subordinate, staring at “The Lookout.”

            “Guess I’ll leave you with your thoughts then,” Phelps said, overemphasizing his accent and kicking rocks as he made the way back to the car. “Taxpayers don’t pay me enough to be mindreading in this heat. I’ll be enjoying the A/C while you and the freak play the silent game.”

            It’s not inevitable, Becker thought, resting his arms on one of the rusty gate’s bars.

            That’s what everyone was thinking. The situation had tragedy written all over it. A big piece of private property in Texas with a herd of toe-the-line acolytes made anyone with a pulse go to one place: Waco. The head of the ATF in Washington was soiling himself on an hourly basis, afraid of another public relations catastrophe that would leave an indelible mark on the collective American conscience for all of time. The FBI was breathing down everybody’s throats. No surprise there. The Texas Rangers and local police knew the property and a lot of the people living on the compound. For the hometown badges, the investment was personal; they weren’t too keen on letting another group of folks go up in smoke. Blame would go to Becker and the federal task force, and at that point he wouldn’t be in any position to argue. He’d resign in shame and failure. A life dedicated to stopping bad things from happening would be forgotten by everyone he’d ever met, until the point where he’d forget it himself. God would be a refuge, but Dana would leave. Take the kids. Faith would dissipate. He’d start drinking. Harder this time. It was all laid out. The die was cast. It felt fated to everyone watching from his side of the gate.

            But not to him. He thought things might work out. Wherever his mind was, he knew he needed at least as much resolve as the man in the tower. Calm. Peace under fire. A sentinel. Easier said than done.

            The ATF man felt a vibration in his pocket and let out a sigh as he answered the call. “Hey there, Paulson,” he said, turning away from Theodore and the watchtower. “What do we do now, old friend?”

Chapter Three: MRI

            The Membership was gathered in the mess hall. It was the largest building on the property, right in the center, with all the surrounding structures radiating around it. Paulson James was smoking near the back wall, standing alone under the shade of a thick oak. He could hear the clamor emanating from inside. The sound of discontented hearts. The sound of his Lydia trying to quell their uncertainties using a temperamental, feedback-prone PA system. A bit like a crowd that’s been waiting in the rain all day after you tell them their favorite band isn’t showing up. The change was frightening. The Membership was comprised of some of the most docile and benevolent people Paulson had ever met, save a few surly-ish outliers. Currently, they sounded like the Hell’s Angels riding a particularly strong crank high.

            Understandable. Their band didn’t show up—God being the band.

            “I don’t know what to do now. This isn’t the best time, Wolf. The day’s not even over yet.” James lit up another cigarette and smoked it down like it was his last, listening to unoriginal advice from his old college buddy. Frankly, he expected better. “How long have we known each other?” Paulson asked, turning away from the cafeteria. His eye started twitching. Standing in front of him, going in and out of focus, was Levi the Messenger. He was wearing shorts and had swapped his combat boots for the cowboy kind. The ensemble was topped off by an oversized Hawaiian shirt. The wardrobe was almost as arresting as his presence.

            You shouldn’t be talking to him. More important things to do.

            The words sounded squelched, like they were coming through an old car radio. Paulson was frozen in place, cigarette hanging by the little wet on the inside of his lip. Before he could respond, Levi was gone. “What the shit!?”

            “What’s wrong?” Agent Becker asked, voice full of genuine worry, fearing the worst.

            “He never comes here. I always go to him.”

            “Are you seeing the guy—the emissary character—is that what you’re talking about?”

            “Yeah. He just made an appearance. Right here. In Texas.”

            “So he’s gone?”

            “Yeah. Came and went. I don’t understand.”

            “That’s okay, PJ. Things get a little out of hand sometimes. What’ve we been talking about lately?”

            “We’ve been talking about a lot of things lately, Wolf.” The Membership’s leader was taking fretful little steps in random patterns. Little figure eights. Flattened circles. Eccentric squares.

            “Do you trust me?” the agent asked.

            James turned around and was startled once again. “Holy crap!”

            “What?” Becker asked.

            “Everything’s fine. Keep the jackboots back. I’ll call later.”

            Paulson ended the call and gathered up an exasperated breath. He tried to light up a smoke, but couldn’t stop shaking.

            “I’ll get that,” said Dr. Davis Dade, taking two steps forward to grab the lighter out of James’ hand. “Seems like you’re about to burst. And you shouldn’t be smoking.”

            “Don’t know if you noticed, Doc. Things—little bit crazy around here. They’re ready to tear me to pieces. The feds could be on the march. I’m seeing things. Oh, what’s that other thing? Right. We’re not in Heaven!”

            “Yeah,” the doctor said, putting his head down. Paulson could see the gaping bald spot toward the back of Dade’s scalp. The skin was red and looked irritated. Too much time in the sun. It made Paulson feel sad. Poor Davis. Lifted from a beautiful life of country clubs and never having to be outside for more than an hour. Now this; rashes and unfulfilled prophesies. “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about,” the doctor said, gathering himself up to face his “leader.” Paulson studied Dade for the thousandth time. The doc was a weird little fella. His head was too big for his shoulders and his face was too small for his head. He once told Paulson that his incongruous looks helped spur him to great heights in the medical field. He figured money and success would make up for his aesthetic inadequacies. Something like a blind man being able to hear the notes better than someone with sight. Turned out, he was right. Dade’s wife Julie was a knockout. “Not that women go for money and security,” the doctor once joked with James.

            Paulson liked Dr. Davis Dade. He was mostly a self-aware type. A rich man able who in the end was able to assess his boundaries and weaknesses with honesty. His short, slight build was kind of annoying; you couldn’t hear him when he was sneaking up—but that was hardly something to castigate a guy for.  

            “So what’s up?” Paulson asked, looking over Dade’s weird head to the cafeteria. There was still that lion’s den to contend with. “Why aren’t you back in there with the natives?”

            “Remember a couple months ago?” the doctor asked.

            “You’ll have to be more specific.” Paulson was acting aloof. More than usual. He lit another cigarette and scratched his dampening hair. The nerves and the driving sun were beginning to take their toll. “What happened two months ago, Doc?”

            “C’mon, PJ. The MRI.”

            “I don’t want to talk about that.”

            “Nobody wants to talk about their MRI.”

            “No—I mean—we already talked about it.” Paulson blew a stream of smoke over Dade’s patchy head. It was hard to shift focus from the red spot. It looked like a rash that would only spread. James thought about the irritation that was already spreading through the camp. It made him long for loneliness in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time.

            Dade cocked his chin up and crossed his arms, skinny legs stiff with newfound resolve. “I wasn’t honest.”

            “About what?”

            “About the MRI.”

            “We’re still talking about the damn scan? Move on, Davis.”       

            “I can’t.” The little doctor took a deep breath, walking through a cloud of Paulson’s smoke without flinching. “It wasn’t clean.”

            “What’s that mean—not clean?”    

            “You have a tumor. Pretty big one, actually.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            “I’m not, actually.”

            “Stop. This isn’t funny.”

            “Before you get too upset, try to understand.”

            Paulson took a half step and made like he was going to walk away, but he couldn’t let the conversation end there. “Let me understand. We snuck out of here in the middle of the night to get my noggin looked at—”

            “You wouldn’t stop about the headaches.”

            “To get my noggin looked at, just so you could lie to me about the results?”

            “You make it sound so simple.”

            “Sorry if my summation doesn’t square with your fragile sense of decorum.”

            “I can see you’re losing it. We should probably continue this later.”

            “Don’t lecture me about my temper, Doc.” James placed a hand on the little physician’s shoulder and gave enough of a squeeze to demonstrate his ire. “You know, I never used to have a temper. Not at all. Turns out, it might be the giant brain eating away at my gray matter.”

            “That’s not impossible.” Dade was bending from the pull of Paulson’s grip.

            “And everything that’s happened—all of this—could just be the hallucinations of a madman with a damn medical condition.”

            The doctor ripped himself away from Paulson and turned to face the gym. The clamor was only growing louder. “I figured it didn’t matter, PJ.”

            “Explain how that makes any sense.”

            “I knew it might kill you, but I figured we were supposed to be gone by then.”

            “Ain’t cutting it, Doc. First, you know damn well that a brain tumor can cause people to act weird—real weird. Second, you wouldn’t have come out here to tell me unless you felt guilty.”

            “I’ve always felt guilty, but I’ve always had faith. Still do. God could’ve put it there. The tumor is like an instrument.”

            “Oh God.” Paulson pulled his cigarette pack from his front pocket and chain-lit the next. “You sound crazy, Dade. You’re the kind that makes it easy for those assholes out there to call us a cult. I’m supposedly in charge, yet you’re giving me the creeps.”

            “Look, I know this is a lot to take in.”

            “Sure you do. We all have tough mornings.” Paulson barely finished the sentence. He buried his fist into Dade’s stomach and shoved him down into the wild grass like the doctor was nothing at all. “Shit,” he whispered, walking away while Dade rolled and writhed around, grasping for oxygen with terrible, grating gasps. “Shit,” James repeated, holding out his hand. “Stand up and calm down. You’ll get your breath back quicker.”

            The doctor abstained from hailing the physical as everything, so you resort to physical violence.

            “What!?” Paulson called out.

            There’s some sort of poetry in there, I think. Oh—outstanding leadership strategy. Maybe we picked the wrong guy after all.

            Holding the doctor up, James whipped around, expecting to see Levi. There was no one.

            “What?” Dade asked, confused by the sudden change in orientation.

            “Nothing,” Paulson said, pulling grass from his friend and doctor’s head. “I’m sorry for hitting you.”

            “It’s okay.”

            “No, it’s not okay. You’re a faithful guy, Davis. Sure your heart was in the right place. You’re going to have to explain to me exactly why a lie on that level seemed a good idea.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “That’s great. But seriously. We’re going over the fine points. Good soul as I know you to be, it was a weird decision.”

            “A tumor doesn’t explain everything else that’s happened. Everything else that you did.”

            Paulson took a second to try to remember the entirety of the last six months. Davis had a point. A tumor didn’t explain the rest. Didn’t even come close. The doctor’s logic suddenly became forgivable, if not completely understandable.

            “The Storm’s still coming,” Dade said. “I know it is.”

            “Yeah,” James said, steadying his friend. “The Storm’s coming.”

Chapter Four: Last Year’s Lydia

            Lydia James sat behind her husband on the little mobile stage, watching him quell the membership. He’d entered through the back with a literal cloud over his head, smelling like a derelict pool hall, projecting little to none of his normal casual handsome cool. Nevertheless, he was once again doing his thing. The crowd had been close to riotous. Not now. She slipped away, picking up a few words here and there, mostly lost in herself.

            “The day ain’t over yet. And it’s no time to panic. That’s not what we do here. This is not a bunch of weirdoes. You guys and gals are some of the most accomplished and wonderful people I’ve ever met. Don’t go freaking out.”

            Lydia heard them chuckle. Paulson had probably flashed one of his self-effacing smiles their way. She couldn’t see. Instead, she looked down at her hands. They were covered with wear; blisters and callouses in the bends of her fingers. Layers of dirt underneath her trimmed fingernails. What would last year’s Lydia James say to the present day version? Last year’s Lydia. She almost laughed out loud at the thought.

            “We aren’t the same people that came here six months ago, but that doesn’t mean we’ve devolved. Am I right!?”

            Last year’s Lydia would’ve snuck out the backdoor. She’d have never gotten close to a strange place on the outskirts of Fort Worth, surrounded by knots of wide-eyed religious nutters. But last year’s Lydia hadn’t seen the things she’d seen. The things that her husband had done. A strong dose of belief coursed through her veins, mixed in with the pragmatism that made her so successful in her career. The belief wasn’t necessarily welcome, but it was there and there was no denying it.

            Though she still tried.

            Another look at her hands.

            “Y’all can call me names. Go ahead and do it. Out loud and now, if you’re feeling it. Heck, I bet there’s nothing you haven’t called me that I haven’t called myself ten times a day and twenty on Sundays! Haha! Twenty on Sundays. That’s not even a thing, but here I am, facing the fire, facing the light in each in every one of your eyes.”

            They were laughing now. She put her head down, impressed but not surprised, yawning as her thoughts to six or seven hours prior. Lydia had been crawling around down by the creek, through dirt and burrs and mud, looking for a bear, armed with an Alaskan Winchester Model 70. Being her last night, she was determined to find the animal. I’m going crazy, she thought, clapping mindlessly after the applause had already died down. She never told Paulson about the bear, mostly because she thought it might not be real. Bears weren’t a thing in North Texas, especially this close to the city. There was no way it would just be wandering through the property, and yet, Lydia had seen it at least ten times.

            Or she was barking mad.

            “One thing I know. We’re not crazy. Not one single solitary person here is anything but a good old-fashioned red-blooded American of sound mind and body. Don’t tell yourself otherwise.”

            Lydia had never found the bear, despite her many attempts to stalk it in the night. It felt more like the bear was stalking her. I’m barking mad. Last year’s Lydia would call for the orderlies and the padded room if she could see what had become of her.

            “Doubts are natural. Let’s take a good lunch and breathe. Talk to one another like you know how. Don’t make everything about us and the Storm. Let’s just be friends for a little bit before we get all riled up again. And no, Chester. That’s not me using women words. You old dog.”

            Lydia crossed her hands in her lap and smiled as the membership rose and applauded. She rose too, but as the crowd smiled and hugged she found herself on the verge of tears. It was the bear. She wanted to see it and know that it was real.

            “You okay, Lyds?” Paulson asked, walking up to give her a hug.

            “I’m fine,” she said, blinking away the nascent tears. “That message—really something, husband.”

            He kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks. I love it when you call me husband, by the way. It’s like you’re in the supporting cast of Witness. Maybe one of those bonnet things…”

            “I don’t want to hear a segue into another one of your Harrison Ford fantasies.”

            He laughed. She could always make him laugh, but right now it was easy. He was coming off a speech. A time when he was Teflon to the hardness and a welcome mat for any positivity that might be coming his way, regardless of circumstance prior or previous.

            Despite her knowing that he was merely basking in afterglow, she was genuinely relieved. Hours ago they thought this might be the tar and feather show; now at least he’d bought them some time.

            “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, taking her hands. “I can’t believe gardening does this to you. It’s like a contact sport.”

            “I’m fine,” she said, slipping her hands out of his and kissing him on the cheek. “Think I’ll talk to Janie. See how she’s doing.”

            Lydia hopped off the stage and took a labored breath, Glad as she was to not be lambasted by the membership, she wanted to be taken in the Storm as much as anyone. More than anyone. If the delay lasted much longer, present day forty three-year-old Lydia was going to have to break a serious slice of news to her husband: On the doorstep to the afterlife, she was pregnant with their first child.  

Chapter Five: Bored With the Board

            At the ATF field office in West Fort Worth, things were buzzing. Wolf Becker didn’t have a number for the roster of FBI agents milling about, looking busy on their cell phones. He always wondered who they were talking to with their concerned, scrunched faces.

            One could never tell with the FBI. Good agents for the most part, apart from the odd simpleton dispersed randomly throughout any collection or herd. There were so many and they seemed able to replicate by spontaneous mitosis; whatever vetting process was in place, nature and the law of averages were bound to let a few clunkers pass muster.

            Turning by a series of cubicles toward his corner office, he bumped into a young officer with the Texas Rangers named May Dukes. She was carrying a stack of files and managed to adjust her grip before they scattered to the floor.

            “Nice save,” Becker said, holding his hands out in case anything spilled from her grasp.

            “Thank you, sir,” she said, now fully confident in her payload. “Sorry about that. Was just on my way to see you.”

            “Really?” Becker asked. “Where exactly?”

            “Your office.”

            “I’m heading to my office right now,” he said, slowly raising a long finger to point it over her shoulder.

            “Of course,” she said, cheeks red with embarrassment. “This whole thing isn’t what it looks like.”

            “That you don’t know where the hell you are or what the hell is going on?”

            “Exactly,” she said, looking like she wanted to melt into the lifeless gray government-issue carpet.

            Becker took half of the files out of her hands. “Take it easy on yourself, Dukes. This is my operation and I can barely find the bathroom these days. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

            Ranger Dukes turned and followed Wolf Becker, biting her lip in frustration. Of all the people running around there that day, he was the one person she was interested in impressing. So far not so good.

            “Do these task force soirées get you pumped, Dukes?” He asked, stopping in front of the glass door. “They get me pumped.”

            She offered a muted smile and nodded quick and short nods, meeting his eyes with a mix of apprehension and eagerness. “Not sure how to answer, sir.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “Your relaxed shoulders and the fact that your hands are in your pockets. Those indicators lead me to believe this isn’t something you take all that seriously.”

            He made no attempt to change his bearing. Just tilted his head back slightly and sharpened his eyes; she inferred he was waiting for more.

            “On the other hand, as a less experienced member of the law enforcement community and dogged member of this task force, I’m almost inclined to disagree with you.”

            “I see.”

            “But I would never do that—disagree with you—sir.”

            Becker showed a rare unfettered smile and gave Dukes the slightest of winks. “Yeah. You’re gonna be fine.”

            “Thank you, sir. I really like my job.”

            “I can tell. Few improvements with your directional abilities and you’ll probably make a first-rate cop.”

            She smiled at the rapport they seemed to be building, but quickly forced her face back to serious, nodding her little nods and blinking away a layer of tension as they entered the office.

            “Guess you guys couldn’t wait to get going today,” Agent Becker said, smiling tacitly as he walked behind his desk in the corner. He stood there with hands on his hips, looking over today’s players. Mostly old faces. One new one. He said a quick hello to Brad and Phil, his point guys on the Paulson case. A wave to the FBI liaison and a “howdy” to the U.S. attorney, a sharp but overworked Latina woman who had seen a wider range of cases than anyone else in the room. “Governor,” he said, shaking the big hand of the man standing like a statue on the other side of his desk. The politician looked immediately displeased; put out by the fact that he was the last to be addressed. It was exactly the effect Becker intended. “Hey Dukes. Come meet Governor Biggs.”

            Everyone adjusted in the limited space to allow Ranger Dukes the opportunity to shake Texas’ chief politician. She smiled and nodded six or seven times before speaking; short bursts of dutiful word groupings—something about it being an honor. She had her head cocking back like she was in the front row of a movie theater. The governor was a massive figure and had something of a presence, but Becker imagined the spry Ranger Dukes to be twice the person. Biggs was a dolt during sunshine and a led vest in stormy seas.

            “I know you don’t like me being down here, Wolf,” began the governor, talking too much with his hairy hands, “but maybe it’s good to have reminders. We all need reminders—am I right?” Everyone in the room muttered some sort of affirmative answer, not really knowing if the question was rhetorical. Biggs was mostly banal and unspecific; it was difficult to conclude when he was looking for a real answer.

            “It’s not about what I like or don’t like,” Becker said, standing tall with his arms behind his back. He wanted to appear deferential, if only to get the show moving.

            “Today’s the day,” the governor said. “Am I right?”

            Another vague question. It rattled the ATF agent. He picked up a ballpoint pen and dropped with a thud on his day planner. “It’s another day, if that’s what you mean.”

            “I think you know what I mean. Paulson’s people—still here. At least they didn’t kill themselves like those other dumb bastards.”

            “They never said they were going to kill themselves. Can I ask where you got that notion, Governor?”

            “Don’t get your blood up, Wolf. I don’t need people giving me notions. I come by them all on my own.”

            That’s probably true, Becker thought. God help us.