Eddy's Current
Authors: Reed Sprague
Eddy’s Current
A Novel
by
Reed Sprague
Copyright © 2012 by H. Reed Sprague, Jr.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced, by any means, without the express written consent of the author with the exception of short excerpts contained in critical articles for review.
Cover Picture Copyright © 2012 by H. Reed Sprague, Jr.
eBook edition by
eBooks by Barb
for
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Eddy’s Current
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
In memory of
H. Reed Sprague, Sr.
To
My wife, Rhonda
Our daughters, Alicia, Breanna and Kaitlyn
Jean G. Sprague
Dan Rogers and Tim Smith
Julia, Kayla, Daniel, Aaron and Cole
Morgan and Mary Best (IN MEMORIAM)
Manuscript Review
Ruth Compton and Jeanne Ineson
Manuscript Review and Story Editing
Paula F. MacLean
Thank you, Paula, for your steadfast support for this book.
Contents
AN EPIPHANY
12:18
A.M.
, 2 JANUARY 2021
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The USFIA policy manual rule probably seemed clear enough to the bureaucrat who wrote it:
At the point that it becomes apparent to an agent that ingress will require forcible entry through three or more locked doors, the agent is to leave the premises and abandon the mission
. Mitchell forgot about the rule until it was too late.
“We still have to get through at least one more locked door,” Mitchell said.
“What do you mean? We’re in. We’re standing in the lobby,” River replied.
“Peterson’s office.”
“Okay, at least five doors instead of two or less. We’ve wasted time doing the math, now let’s get on with our work,” River said.
As Mitchell walked toward the exit door River reminded him of a conflicting rule written by a different bureaucrat:
Regardless of how an agent gains access to a building, once ingress has been accomplished the agent must make every reasonable attempt to complete his assignment before exiting.
“Great. Conflicting bureaucrats. Just what we need,” Mitchell said.
Mitchell suddenly turned away from the exit door, walked to the stairwell door, pulled it open, held it momentarily with his left hip, tossed a quarter high in the air over his shoulder, and called “tails” as he and River proceeded into the stairwell. The quarter landed on the lobby floor just as the stairwell door closed behind them.
They ascended the stairs to the top floor, the sixth, and exited the stairwell into the grimy hallway. They proceeded to the right, to the end of the long hallway, then left, down the dark corridor, to the office door with the numbers 639 crudely nailed onto the front. Mitchell easily got by the locked latch and deadbolt, opened the door, flipped up the wet light switch and remained motionless in the doorway for a few seconds. They entered the dark room. River closed the door and locked the deadbolt as Mitchell fidgeted with his old flashlight.
The flashlight beam flickered a few times then went out completely. Mitchell removed the back, dropped out the batteries, reinstalled them, tightened the back, pounded the butt of the flashlight a few times on the door jam, and turned it on again. The flashlight projected a light that flickered again several times before finally settling into a consistent but dull dirty–orange beam that shined out ten or twelve feet.
Mitchell stopped unexpectedly while patting the left side of his coat. “My holster’s empty. My gun’s back at my office. Another rule broken,” Mitchell said, referring to another policy manual rule that states that the senior agent must be armed at all times while on a mission. “Give me yours.”
“Here, take it. Now you’re armed but I’m not. This is not good.”
“We’ll be okay. The manual doesn’t say that the junior agent has to be armed, only the senior agent,” Mitchell replied.
“I don’t believe the bureaucrat meant that it’s okay if the junior agent is unarmed. What am I? The sacrificial lamb? Why wouldn’t the bureaucrat want me to be protected as well?”
“Too bad for you. That’s what the guy wrote so that’s what we’ll do. We’ll be okay. Don’t worry about it. Let’s get on with it. We’re wasting time,” Mitchell said, as they moved away from the door and on into Peterson’s office.
The office’s perfect order of architectural genius loci was long gone. The pervading spirit was brought to the entire building by Italian architect Fastello Madaffari in 1908, the year he designed and built the then–stately place. The spirit lived a good life here in Office 639 for nearly a century until it was supplanted years ago by a spirit of an entirely different sort named Tyler Peterson.
Gaping holes in the ceiling sheet rock exposed the rotten furring strips that were attached to the original wooden ceiling surface during the 1953 renovation. Patches of mildew and mold had grown all over the remaining sheet rock, through the furring strips and deep into the original surface. The fungi transformed the entire ceiling into a thick rectangle of absolute filth. The slimy surface was covered with daring insect acrobats who walked magically on the slime with nothing to hold them as they strutted and no net to catch them if they slipped. Dozens of them fell on Mitchell as his flashlight beam unexpectedly penetrated deep into their eyes, causing them to become disoriented.
“Peterson probably put it in an obvious place, thinking that we would look for a safe or some hidden location for it and ignore the obvious,” Mitchell said.
“It’ll be here. This is a large office, but it looks like the only places to really hide things are among all the junk,” River replied.
“Talk quietly. Only loud whispers, no talking above a whisper,” Mitchell said.
Mitchell’s light moved slowly across the ceiling, toward the back of the office. The three light fixtures along the way hung on by their power cords to the rusted electrical outlet boxes. The fixtures swayed back and forth as the rotten air from the heating unit blew out. The light reached the back of the ceiling where large drops were suspended above the desk, pulled down from their small upside–down puddles of scum water. Each drop waited patiently for its moment to plop down onto the desk.
Mitchell walked quickly and deliberately across the room to the wall behind the desk. There he found old water stains all down the wall, some new ones too, and putrid brown wallpaper that used to be an attractive pale green or some other meaningful color. Cheap wall pictures from the dollar store that were no longer art to anyone dotted the wall and floor. The large wooden bookcase was stuffed with stacks of old ledger books containing logs of thousands of phone calls placed to various U.S. government officials.
River suddenly screamed out, “The rat! The rat! He’s got my hand!” River slammed the rat repeatedly on the top of the small side table. The rat clamped down tighter with each pounding. “Help me get the damn thing off!” Blood squirted from River’s deep cuts as the rat finally fell to the floor.
Mitchell looked down at the dead rat, then up at River. “No talking, remember? Not only did you talk, you screamed. Go into the bathroom and clean up. And try to do it quietly. We’ll get you treated for rabies when we’re done. Make sure to force out a lot of blood to get as many of the germs out as possible. Let me know if you start to feel faint. No more screaming.”
The light moved to the surface of the desk where it revealed chaos and more filth. Ink from a large inkwell was everywhere. Most of it was mixed with cocaine dust, ceiling scum water and old coffee that ran out onto the surface of the desk recently when Peterson dumped his thirty–two ounce cup of coffee. The light followed a trail of the potent mixture over the edge of the desk and down onto the floor where a small portion of the spill was absorbed by the few remaining frail back threads of the carpet. Most of the spill had collected on the hard floor into several puddles of ink–flavored cocaine coffee. A rat nearby told his buddies, and they all scrambled to the puddles to enjoy a drink together.
Pen tubes used to stir coffee and vacuum cocaine were spread across the surface of the desk. Stacks of old file folders, magazines and papers were spilled out on the desk and down onto the floor. The light moved down and up, tracking the paths of the spilled piles. An old plastic flower pot sat on the corner of the desk; its dead stems jutted out from the bone–dry dirt. A mini card was close by,
Got you these flowers to brighten your day! To:____________ From:
Tyler
.
The watermark of a sunshine smiley–face in sunglasses, once a bright yellow, was faded to a ghostly gray and was only visible when Mitchell turned the small card back and forth while holding the flashlight within a few inches of it.
River came out of the bathroom with his undershirt wrapped around his left hand.
“How’s the pain?” Mitchell asked.
“Feels like multiple stab wounds.”
“How would you know how multiple stab wounds feel?”
“I didn’t know before but I do now.”
The light slipped over to the side of the desk, exposing a large microphone that delivered the stinking remnants of Peterson’s bad breath to the surrounding air. Old sticky fruit juice cups, French fries, other junk food and grease were everywhere, some hidden under the dust and some just above it. The space was crowded with pictures of picture–frame models and hamburger wrappers used by Peterson to blow his nose. A milkshake sat as a gross blob on the floor. The mice and maggots had cleaning duty. They took care of the milkshake.
The old computer sat on the floor surrounded by the junk beneath the desk. A family of healthy cockroaches rested on top to keep warm. Back up on the desk, the phone sat—a 1990 model with a hopelessly twisted handset cord, chopped and picked away and the inner wires showing. Handset receiver like new, seldom used; mouthpiece well worn, extensive use. More lingering bad breath, grease and cocaine powder.