SKYEYES Read online

  Tom gets in the truck and drives off. Louis watches, his day already crippled with sorrow, and after he reenters the building, the unmarked car rolls into the parking lot.

  Tom drives southbound on the Golden State Freeway with Zion on his lap. He fixates on an exit sign on the opposite side of the freeway, turning nearly all the way around to see: Buena Vista Blvd. He turns forward as pain fills his eyes and the past echoes in his heart.

  Spattering rain on the windshield and the drone of wipers sound distant, muffled as Tom passes the Buena Vista Blvd. exit. He turns a glazed look toward the silhouette of a woman next to him. She stares out the window.

  Tom drifts across a lane, an irate horn startling him back to the present as Zion looks up.

  The Justice department in Washington D.C. stands stalwartly like most government buildings, an intimidating edifice of granite, pillars, and high bronze-green doors presented by a run of marble steps. The morning’s dusting of snow softens the sharp edges of the severe structure. A plain black car pulls up and from it emerge two men in gray suits. Norbert “Bud” Meyerkamp, an angry-looking, moderately overweight man pushing the limits of middle age, is a high level FBI operative. His patient younger partner, Sidney Knowles, follows a step and a half behind carrying a thick briefcase. Bud stops unexpectedly at the base of the steps, causing Sid to bump him forward.

  Bud’s reluctance to mount the first step betrays his distaste of climbing upward toward the very authority implied by the task. Not that he’s generally contrary to the pillars of justice. After all, he considers himself, of late, to be holding them up entirely on his own. Just that in this particular matter, the effects of the system have grated against his efforts, and he’d rather not have to actually look at the pillars themselves in his ascent to a certain argument. His breath fogs in the cold morning air as he bolsters what little patience he has left and continues upward, oblivious in his mood to the bump.

  Sid and Bud barge through the imposing mahogany doors guarding the offices of the Attorney General, and Bud falls with a thump into a leather armchair, watching Sid approach the receptionist’s desk. Karla is her name, a handsome woman several years his senior and a veteran to the Capitol. A ballet of glances precedes their exchange, from which Bud looks away in annoyance, preferring to examine the silver studs cluttering the chair than witness Sid’s indiscretions. Before Sid can speak, she says, “I’ll tell the Attorney General you’re here.”

  Sid nods and sits next to Bud who, without hesitation, blurts out, “And tell him to keep the chair warming under an hour. I’ve got a few other behinds to kiss today.” Karla pretends not to hear as she answers her bleeping phone, speaking softly enough so Bud can’t hear, though he’s obviously trying. She hangs up and addresses Sid. “He’ll see you now.”

  Bud mumbles, “L. I. B., M. R. ducks.”

  Karla, always annoyed by Bud’s presence, snaps, “Excuse me?”

  Sid intervenes. “Thank you very much.” Another glance exchanges behind Bud’s back when they walk past the desk, and Karla’s eyes remain fixed on Sid as he enters through the double doors.

  Patrick Herlihy has, as one of his achievements, the distinction of being the youngest Attorney General to ever hold that office. He also had the good fortune to be a law student of Jonathan Stamp, now the President and his mentor. He stands at a tall window, looking across the snow covered lawn while his two guests stand silently at his desk, then takes a strategic breath.

  “Ah. Sid and Bud.” He turns around with a crooked Irish smile, a smile that angles more at the aspect of Bud clashing against the traditional decor, the smell of books, the tocking of a mantle clock. A badly dressed gargoyle, he muses. “Don’t you guys make wine coolers or something?”

  Bud is not amused. “Did you read the file on Holmes?”

  Herlihy keeps rolling. “Really, one of you should change your name if you’re going to hang around together. Sidney and, what the heck is Bud short for? Budman?”

  “Norbert, sir,” Bud forces.

  Herlihy tries his best to keep the dark cloud Bud brought with him from drifting in his direction. He looks just above Bud’s head, nearly certain he saw a small flash of lightning. Bud darts his eyes up, wondering what Herlihy is looking at. “Norbert? Sidney and Norbert. Now you sound like a men‘s store. That just won’t do.”

  Bud rarely shows this much restraint, reluctantly knowing his place for the moment. “With all due respect, the folder.”

  Equally reluctantly, Herlihy gives in to the smoldering insistence, looking at Sid for sympathy, though Sid’s blank stare delivers little. “All right, all right. Take it easy.” He takes another breath. “Right. The folder.” Herlihy looks around his folder-covered desk, picks up one the size of a phone book, and wags it at them. “Is this coming out in paperback any time soon?”

  Bud jumps right in. “This guy’s got more going on than a one-legged paper hanger.”

  Herlihy shakes his head. “Uh-huh. The one legged man is in the ass kicking contest, Meyerkamp. It’s the one-armed man that hangs wallpaper.” Bud stares back. “Anyway, give me a quick profile of this thing. Refresh my memory.” He turns to Sid. “Better yet, you do it. If we keep the four-letter words out, we’ll save time.”

  Bud curses under his breath while Sid pulls a file out of his briefcase. “Marshall Thomas Holmes, born in Seattle, educated at MIT, finished Harvard Law School in twenty-six months. Initial fortune came from his invention of new technology for encrypting digital streaming in satellite transponders, quadrupling their capabilities. He owns an airline, a cruise ship line, television channels, communications network, including satellite transponder systems, and millions in hotels and travel related ventures. Principal residence, 15,000 plus acres near Rockville, Utah, with a large business on the property. Estimated net worth over eleven billion, and we think he’s got as much sheltered where we can’t find it.”

  “Look, I know who Tom Holmes is. What’s the basis of this petition for a warrant?”

  Sid closes the folder. “Mr. Holmes has a history of unstable behavior since the loss of his eight-year-old son and the attempted suicide of his ex-wife, Francine. Besides risking his life trying to rewrite the Guinness Book of Records, he’s stayed one step ahead of the slammer thanks to a legal firm which he supports wholly.”

  “So what?”

  “Psychological profile indicates trauma induced neuroses—”

  Bud explodes. “Listen, Herlihy, this guy’s got some blades missing in the windmills of his mind. If you’d found the time to read the book on him, you’d know we’ve been tailing him for almost a year now and he’s up to something big. Possibly dangerous.”

  “I read your book on him. You’re talking about those purchases from NASA junkyards. I see nothing here to warrant a raid on his property. You know how powerful he is. You pull a questionable search and get nothing, we’ll be in court for years.”

  Bud locks eyes with him and clenches a fist, the one hanging by his side. “The sonofabitch is building a rocket, damnit!”

  Herlihy looks down at his desk. He shuffles papers around, then picks up a pencil, holding it up, looking it over with one eye. “A rocket.”

  “A rocket,” Bud insists. “What the hell else do you think he’s doing with all that hardware? He’s got a so-called bakery out there that’s surrounded like Fort Knox. And our sats picked up an infrared event that was a test fire as sure as the Pope is... whatever he is.”

  Herlihy looks to Sid. “You know very well that was reported as a gas explosion with no consequence.”

  “By his own fire department,” Bud retorts.

  Sid avoids the Attorney General’s glance, walking over to the same window. Herlihy taps his desk with the pencil eraser. “As for the hardware, he’s got kids crawling all over old Atlas boosters in a park out there. He donated millions to children’s charities in exchange for those rusting spac
e leftovers. Sounds like a good citizen to me.”

  Bud walks over to him and stands much too close. In a pressurized half-whisper, he hisses, “Don’t you think I know all that? For godssake, man, do you really believe it?”

  Herlihy leans into him. “Look, Meyerkamp, I’m telling you I see no grounds to let you go rolling in there. The FBI’s flown off half-cocked and made monkeys’ uncles out of enough administrations for the next century. Until you come in here with something more concrete than ‘the sonofabitch is building a rocket,’ you’ll get no help from me.”

  Bud arches his back, then walks toward the door, stopping to pivot around. “I’m warning you. I’ll take this to the President. This is national security.”

  “You go right ahead, but Jonathan knows Tom better than I do. In fact, he owes a piece of his election to Tom Holmes.”

  Sid returns his presence to the room by walking over to the door and opening it, creating an escape path for Bud, who declares, “Well, mark my words. If this fruitcake blasts off, I’m going to enjoy seeing you fry. In fact I’ll be there to flip you over ‘til you’re brown on both sides.” Bud walks out as Herlihy turns to Sid, who makes an apologetic face, then follows, closing the door.

  As Bud storms across the anteroom, Sid in trail, Herlihy opens his door, exclaiming, “And boys...” They stop, pirouetting in unison like a pair of music box clowns. “Do something about those names.”

  Bud raises a finger in response, but curls it back. He turns away to leave and runs into someone entering, blowing by without apology, followed by Sid who is at best able to keep up.

  Bud vaults down the steps toward the car three at a time, boiling. “Damn him!”

  When they reach the car they find a parking ticket under the wiper, which Bud summarily wads up and throws on the ground. He looks up at Sid, exasperated as Sid picks up the ticket. Bud opens the driver door, but pauses before entering. “By the way. Not a good idea to be rogering secretaries.”

  “Rogering? But, how’d you—”

  “Wouldn’t you be a little disappointed if I didn’t? That’s my job, to know things, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so, but—”

  “Listen, I’m just trying to give you some advice. It’s hard enough to kiss one ass, much less having to kiss another one to get at it. Get my point, Sidney?”

  “Got it, Norbert!”

  Sid gets in the car as Bud fights back a smile.

  The truck pulls into the parking lot of Villa Scalabrini, a single-story convalescent home nested into a residential area of deep lots and horse properties. Tom climbs down from the cab and Zion, hanging from his arm, squirms loose and hits the ground running, stopping in a flower bed. Tom scratches the palm of his hand and after a few rushed licks, Zion starts scratching under a bush.

  Tom walks up the cement steps to a patio that spreads left before the glass doors. It’s sheltered on three sides by tall hedges, broken every six feet by trellises of blossomed white jasmine, their airy fragrance surprising visitors as they come and go. In the middle of the patio there’s a stone fountain, still figures of a farmer pouring water into the bucket of his adoring granddaughter. She looks up at him, smiling a pretty marble smile, and the shadow of grandfather’s straw hat cuts across her alabaster arms. Tom stares, unable to join the carved smiles.

  He enters the lobby and walks down an antiseptic corridor made bearable by children’s finger-paint drawings pinned to the walls. He continues into the Sunroom, a greenhouse-like enclosure filled with plants, flowers, and potted ficus trees. Seniors shuffle about, some in walkers or wheelchairs, others under their own reduced power. Sitting in a wheelchair in the corner looking out is Nonna, Tom‘s grandmother. When Tom sees her, he walks over.

  “Hiya, sweetheart,” he says in his best Bogart.

  Nonna sits motionless, staring intently at the courtyard outside, an old lioness locked onto her prey. “Not just now, dear, I’m busy,” she says, barely moving her lips.

  Tom bends down and rests his chin on the top of her head, straining to see what she’s watching. “Don’t you ever get tired of sitting in this corner?”

  “Not with a view like this.” Suddenly flustered, she sighs, “Phooey. He’s gone. That gardener’s got a nice pair of biscuits. Can’t be a day over sixty. Oh well, come give us a hug.”

  Tom bends down and administers the hug from behind, turning it to a form of affectionate restraint. “I want you to do something for me.”

  “No.”

  “Come on. I haven’t even asked yet.”

  Nonna struggles loose from the embrace by turning her wheelchair toward Tom, looking at him with loving reproach. “You ask me this every time you come. No, I won’t come live with you. I like it here. All these old farts running around make me feel younger, and besides, you built this place for me. How can I possibly leave?”

  “For your information, Nonna dearest, I wasn’t going to ask you that this time.”

  “Oh, really? What’s the matter then? Down to a few million? Need to dip into my cookie jar?”

  He wheels her out of the room as she strains for a last glimpse of the gardener, ignoring Tom’s persistent campaign. “Listen you, you’re going on this cruise and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “A cruise,” she scoffs. “Any kind of sea at all and I’d be a duck in a shooting gallery in this thing.”

  “Oh, come on. You’ll be the terror of the poop deck.”

  Nonna swashes her cane ahead of their accelerating journey down the corridor. “Make way for the sea hag on wheels! I don’t think so.” Tom pushes her down the hallway a little too fast, prompting a nurse to frown as they speed by.

  Tom continues. “I’ve got a whole deck blocked off, and guess what? You can bring as many of these ‘old farts’ as you like. If it’s biscuits you’re so into, you’ll see more of all shapes and ages prancing around than you ever imagined, or fantasized, or whatever it is you do in that gray think-tank of yours.”

  This finally gets her attention as she looks toward him, still keeping a cat’s eye on their flight path. “You’ve got a point there.” As they turn into the lobby, Tom nearly runs over Arem, a rumpled old man in a striped terry-robe sitting in a wheelchair, forlornly holding a football. His eyes light up when he sees Tom.

  “Hey, Tommy! Split left on three!”

  Tom crouches to quarterback position. “Hut, hut. Hut!”

  Arem flips him the ball, and with all the agility of a ninety-year-old, pumps his chair down the corridor, then turns his head around, coasting perfectly straight. Tom fires a tight spiral to his outstretched arms and the nurse grabs a wall rail, ducking as the pass flies by. Arem turns ahead and brakes the best he can, rolling through open double doors into the kitchen. A faint crash of pots and pans fades as the doors close. The nurse, running after Arem, blurts out, “Mr. Holmes! Honestly!”

  Tom skids the wheelchair to a halt after free-rolling through the automatic door onto the terrace. Nonna looks up in feigned annoyance as Zion hops on her lap and she rhythmically whacks his raised behind. “Is Isabel going?”

  Tom looks up at the breaking overcast. “Yes, she is. She’s going to headline.”

  “Is that voluntary, or did you ‘ask’ her, too?” He looks away, inspecting a fingernail. “I see. Well, in that case, count me in.”

  Tom bends over and kisses her cheek. “Good girl. You call Janet and give her a list.” Nonna looks up at him, squinting at the Sun breaking through behind his head. “I love you,” Tom whispers. “Take care of yourself.”

  Nonna grabs his shirtsleeve as he tries to walk away. “You’ve never been able to hide anything from me. Now what’s going on?”

  Tom takes the cat from her lap. “Gotta run.”

  He walks toward the parking lot, leaving Nonna unanswered and unnerved. In a far corner of the expansive lawn between the parking lot and the h
ome, a young man overzealously rakes leaves onto a pile already peaked to capacity. Walter, born with Down’s syndrome, spots Tom and drops the rake, running full speed over to him.

  “Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!” he yells, throwing his arms around Tom’s waist.

  Tom puts his arm around Walter’s head and rubs the cat in his face. “Hey Walter, how’s the greatest leaf-raker in the world?”

  “Good! Good! I raked this whole front here!” he says, letting go of the hug.

  “I see that. Atta boy, Walter,” Tom says, smiling. “Listen, how would you like to go on a big ship way out in the ocean?”

  “A big ship? By myself?”

  Tom pokes his arm. “No, no. With Nonna, and lots of other people. You can go swimming and play with kids, and you can bring some friends, too, from your school.”

  Walter wags his tail. “Really? Will you be there?”

  Tom starts to reply, then stops. “I tell you what. Maybe later... I’ll come out of the sky and surprise you.” He ruffles Walter’s hair. “Now, you go tell Nonna I said you could go with your friends.”

  Walter runs off. “Nonna! Nonna!”

  Tom watches, then turns away. As he walks up to the truck and throws Zion in, he hears the faint sound of two voices intertwining in harmony, echoing, fading, and rising again. He looks toward the Scalabrini Chapel, a faithful replica of an old New England stone church, closes the truck door, and walks in that direction.

  The thick, carved-timber doors creak open as Tom enters. Two vocalists rehearse a classical duet from an arched choir loft behind the sanctuary. Walking quietly down the aisle, Tom looks around the church, observing parish helpers on ladders taking down Christmas decorations. Every sound echoes musically in the patient silence. Tom sits in the front pew and watches blankly as altar boys dismantle a life-size nativity that decorated the sanctuary, reverently packing the objects in boxes. He stares at the deep red and blue robed figures poised in the stained-glass turrets of the stone walls, each with a hand raised toward heaven.