Origins (Remote)

Remote

Eric Drouant

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Eric Ronald Drouant

All Rights Reserved.

James Cutter was sitting in front of a desk in a small office on a military base in Southeast Louisiana. The air conditioning was barely adequate, and that, coupled with his tension, had him sweating around the collar. Even early spring in Louisiana could be brutal, and he thought he might not ever get used to the humidity. The A/C was churning gamely but had succeeded in just knocking off the edge.

The man behind the desk wasn’t helping. Cutter had met General Philip Archer only once before. Archer had appeared in Cutter’s office a little over two years ago with an impressive proposal, one that Cutter had accepted without hesitation. Unlimited funding and a free reign were always attractive to a college professor seeking tenure and financial stability. The idea that he would one day be accountable to one of the most powerful men in Washington, albeit one who habitually flew under the radar, had been the furthest thing from Cutter’s mind. Since that day Cutter had operated in relative peace, filing regular progress reports (which admittedly amounted to very little) and receiving no input in return.

The stakes were high. Archer, a benign looking older man with an unassuming manner when he sat in the visitor’s chair across the country, now seemed distinctly more menacing. He did after all, hold sway over Cutter’s life and career. All his eggs were in Archer’s basket Cutter thought ruefully and Archer had been given very little in return.

Summoned from his post at Stanford, Cutter had been flown from California on a military plane with ten seats. The only passenger beside himself was a stern- faced and silent sergeant who brought him a cup of coffee as they passed over the Rocky Mountains, serving him with a distant politeness that did nothing to ease the worry. The plane landed on a small airfield in what looked to Cutter like the middle of nowhere. A road sign told Cutter he was five miles from Leesville, La, another told him he was entering Ft. Polk. His driver displayed the same kind of uncaring politeness as the sergeant, a kind of offhanded courtesy borne of days filled with driving strangers to meetings he himself would not attend.

That courtesy ended at the door. Archer went directly to the point. “It’s been two years Dr. Cutter, and quite frankly you’ve given me nothing but a bunch of maybes and some speculation.” He took off his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes and put them back on with a sigh. “What I want to know is when I can expect some concrete results?”

So here it is
, thought Cutter. He was thinking, for some reason, of his favorite restaurant back in California. He’d grown fond of sitting in the back corner, ordering a nice meal, and relaxing with a cold beer in the evening. The man across from him had made that possible. Before Archer walked into his office Cutter was more likely to be heating up a TV dinner in the low rent apartment he’d occupied as a junior level, poorly paid college professor. Now that he thought of it he missed his apartment too. He wanted to be home and away from Archer and this room.

But there was one thing, one small avenue of hope. Two months ago his neighbor’s cat, scrounging around in the backyard, had knocked over a garbage can, waking him up from a sound sleep on the couch. Cutter got up from the couch and went to his back door. The cat was sitting on the garbage rooting around for whatever had attracted him. When he opened the door, the black and white male, too well fed to be digging in garbage cans, watched him without too much concern. Cutter recognized him right away.

“Jinx, what are you doing? Go back home,” Cutter said. The cat belonged to his neighbors, or more specifically to the little girl who lived next door. In the mornings Jinx would prowl his own yard and Cutter’s, coming by to investigate when Cutter walked to his car or did yard work. If it had been a stray he might have found something to chunk at the animal. Instead, he took a step out into the yard, intending to simply shoo away the furred invader. Before he could get any further than a step he heard another voice.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cutter. I’ll get him.” Looking over the fence between his yard and the neighbor’s was Jinx’s owner. “He’s just so bad. I fed him a half hour ago.” She moved down the fence, opening the gate in front and came into the backyard. “Jinx, you bad thing,” she scolded. Jinx must have decided whatever was in Cutter’s garbage wasn’t worth the trouble and scuttled back over the fence into his own yard.

“Don’t worry about it, Sheila. No big deal,” Cutter said, bending over and putting the lid firmly back on the can. “No harm done.”

“I don’t know why he does that,” Sheila said, “It’s not like we don’t feed him. I’m really sorry.”

“Sometimes cats like to get their own food. It make them feel like hunters or something,” Cutter said, heading back into his house. “Jinx is welcome over here anytime, just not in the garbage cans.”

Cutter went back to his couch and closed his eyes. Just before he fell asleep again he thought of Sheila. That kid loved her cat. He’d seen her brushing Jinx out on the front porch, the cat rolling around in front of her, strolling back and forth, soaking up attention like a sponge. Sheila looked happy too, running the brush over the cat’s back and belly over and over.
Kids
, he’d thought as he drifted off to sleep,
are as simple as cats
.

The thought came back to him as he sat in front of Archer. Maybe what he needed to do was keep things simple, reduce everything down to the most basic information he could get. The simplest of filters often worked best.

“What kind of filter are you proposing, Doctor?” asked Archer. “We’ve given you everything you asked for.”

Cutter took a deep breath, pulling at the collar of his shirt.

“I want to try kids. I know it sounds crazy but listen to me. All along we’ve been using adults. That’s fine. They come up with some things that are in line with what we’re looking for. The problem is they don’t seem to be able to hone in on things. They know too much. They project their experiences into what they’re seeing, and we have to spend too much time deciding what’s relevant and what’s not. What we need are some subjects we can kind of tailor into observers. The adults give us too much feeling, too much of their own interpretation. What I’d like to try is some younger subjects, screened for intelligence and language ability, and see what happens.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Archer said. He stood up shaking his head. “You expect me to do what? Grab some kids off the street? We’re not in the business of kidnapping kids. Forget it.”

Cutter shifted in his seat. He could feel the sweat trickling just above his hairline. He fought the urge to pull out his handkerchief and wipe his face.

“Look. Here’s what we do. We go around to a couple of dozen schools in the major cities and talk to the principals. We ask them for their brightest kids. People that can do this kind of thing tend to be above average performers. Their IQ tests are in the one-twenty to one-thirty range. They also tend to have a little more ability in other areas. They see things other people don’t and they’ve got a knack for predicting sequences and patterns. Maybe a touch of what we call psychic ability. They’re good at card games. They win more than they should.”

“If we put it across the right way, call it a screening for a scholarship or advanced placement or something, the kids and parents would buy into it. Make them think their kids are something special. It would only be an hour or two a week for each kid. We could do a trial run for six months or so and see what the results are. If it doesn’t work out, we call it quits.”

Archer sat down in his chair. For a few moments he didn’t say anything. When Cutter tried to speak again he was waved down. Finally, the older man nodded his head.

“I’ll consent to another six months. I don’t think it’s going to work out but we’ve come this far so we might as well give it some more time. But I also don’t think you’ve given this enough thought. If it doesn’t work you’re going to simply try another approach. But let me ask you a question.”

“What’s that?” asked Cutter.

“What are we going to do if it does work?”

The school was situated on the corner of a busy street near Lake Ponchartrain. An old white church, set well back from the street, anchored the property. Adjacent to the church was the playground, at the moment filled with elementary school children. Some were running, some were sprawled across the monkey bars. Other lined up in formations for the march back to class. It was the kind of controlled chaos occurring every day in schools across America. Sharp eyed teachers worked the perimeter, keeping their charges together and away from the street.

Clinton Farrow edged his rented vehicle into a narrow gap between two parked cars across the street from the playground. He shut off the engine and picked his briefcase up off the seat. This small private school just off Elysian Fields was his third stop of the morning and he wondered again what kind of fool’s errand Cutter had sent him on. And he wasn’t the only one. Also working the New Orleans area was his partner, a man named James Ruff. Both had been given lists of school to canvas. The work was tiring and in his mind, useless. Farrow reached into his pocket, pulling out his notes as he crossed the median. Farrow was tall and lean and his crew cut head towered over the kids on the playground as he headed toward the closest adult, a harried looking woman who seemed to be scolding a redheaded young boy for some indiscretion.

“Excuse me, Miss. I’m looking for Ellen Keating. She the principal? I have a meeting with her this morning.”

“Go stand over against the flagpole, Ray,” the woman said to the redhead, “five minutes and you can go. And consider yourself lucky it’s not a detention. She turned and smiled at Farrow. “I’m sorry.” She turned and pointed back toward the church. “Go around the left side there and you’ll see a little opening on the right. Mrs. Keating’s office is the second door on the right.”

Even before Farrow could thank here she went stomping off, her voice carrying across the playground to where two girls were pulling a third around on a piece of cardboard. Farrow turned and walked away, following a cracked concrete sidewalk around the building. A small portico ran between two building and he entered, found the second door on the right with a small plaque that read Ellen Keating. He knocked twice. When there was no response he knocked again, waiting. He was about to try the door knob when the door opened and he found himself face to face with a plump woman in a blue dress.

“Yes?” she said.

“Mrs. Keating? I’m Doctor Farrow. I called you on the phone?”

“Yes, yes, come in Doctor. Can I offer you something to drink. I don’t have much but I can get you some Kool-Aid or something from the lunch room, or there’s a water fountain down the hall.”

“No, thank you,” Farrow said. “I’m fine.”

“Well then, come on in and let’s talk. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that’s you’ve chosen some of our students for your program. We pride ourselves on giving children the best Christian education we can.”

Ellen Keating gestured to a chair in front of her desk. They were in a small spare office, a series of pictures lined the wall, graduating classes Farrow assumed. The children in the pictures were lined up in front a small altar, a white cross in the background. They were all neatly dressed and a smiling Ellen Keating stood next to them. “Those are my kids,” Keating said. “At least I call them my kids. I’ve been here eight years. Another couple of months and they’ll be another one hanging next to those.” She shook her head. “I’m amazed myself. Where does the time go?” Laughing, she waved her hand at him in a shooing gesture. “But listen to me. You’re not here to talk about me. If I understand correctly you’re here to offer scholarships to some of my kids aren’t you?”

“That could be, Mrs. Keating. I certainly hope so.”

“Well, I assure you Mr. Farrow, you won’t find better prospects than right here at Blessed savior Christian School. We’ve got fine teachers and our students come from good Christian families.”

“I’m sure this is a good school, Mrs. Keating. That’s why you were selected. But let me explain a little about how this program works. We have a limited number of scholarships that we’ll be offering to exceptional students four years down the line. We want to identify those students now. We’ll be testing two students from every participating school to see if they qualify. What I need from you is the names of two of your very best students. We’ll do some preliminary testing and if they do well, we’ll monitor them over their High School careers and the scholarships will be available when they graduate.”

“Oh, my,” Keating said. “Only two? I was under the impression this was open to everyone.”

“I’m afraid not. As I said, we have a limited number of openings. We don’t have the resources to test large numbers so we’re relying on well trained educators like yourself to identify the most likely candidates. If that’s a problem the school doesn’t have to participate.”

“Oh, no,” Keating said, waving her hands as if banishing the thought of not being a part of this. “No, it’s just that we have so many promising young people here. It’s hard to pick just two. Give me a minute to think.”

“That’s fine,” Keating said. “You can call me back later if you’d like. I’ll leave you my card. But you understand the school year is winding down and we need to get started, so..”

Ellen Keating hesitated, reached for the phone, stopped, and reached again. She dialed a quick three numbers and waited. Farrow could hear the ringing on the other end. When it stopped, Ellen Keating said “Karen? Can you send me the records for Ronnie Gilmore and
Cassie Reynold, please? Yes, now if you would. Thank you.” She hung up and smiled again. “I think I have just the pair for you, Mr. Farrow.”