The Spook House (The Spook Series Book 1) (5 page)

“I bet you’re wondering why we asked you to be here.”

I was “ordered,” not “asked,” to be there, but I didn’t say that. I simply answered, “Sir! Yes, Sir!”

“Please,” Owl-Eyes, said. “Let’s keep this informal, shall we? You have permission to speak freely.”

I looked at the uniformed officer. He stared backed at me, as if studying something intensely, and said nothing. I thought I saw an almost imperceptible nod. I looked back at Owl-Eyes and said, “OK.”

“I am Dr. Smith,” he said, “and this is Major Jones.” Jones nodded without breaking the stare.

Smith and Jones, I thought. Sounded like aliases. What was this all about? Since they wanted me to be direct, I was. I looked at Owl-Eyes and said, “Why am I here?”

The doctor smiled. I was talking informally, and that was what he wanted. He was establishing a rapport.

“You are here,” he said, “because we sense potential in you.”

It sounded like a line from the goddamn recruitment video. Oftentimes, it is good to let your enemy underestimate you, but I couldn’t stand to be treated like I was stupid.

“Potential for leadership,” the doctor added.

I started to laugh. I hadn’t excelled at anything since I got here. The men exchanged glances.

“Just be straight with me,” I said.

That’s all I want, I thought. It’s not too much to ask.

“We want to do a psych test,” Dr. Smith said.

“A psyche test?”

I wanted to say, “What the hell? Do you think there’s something wrong with me? There’s not. If you want to find real psychos, just look around. I’ve met more than a few psychopaths here. They’re easy to spot. Hell, you can start with your staff. Just pick any drill instructor.”

Instead, I tried to stay calm and simply said, “Why?”

“Because,” Smith said, “Your performance on all tasks is reported to be average. That would normally be enough information for us to know what to offer you, except that your test scores indicate that you are highly intelligent, but not in anything useful, like math, science, or technology.”

I wanted to argue about that but I kept listening.

“I believe imagination and creativity are undervalued in the military. So are independent thought and critical thinking. I want to change that. I am studying all types of character traits. So please. I want to ask you a series of questions, and I want you to answer honestly. Remember, there are no right or wrong answers. The contents of this meeting will be strictly confidential.”

OK. So this wasn’t about the assault at all. Or maybe it was, but it wasn’t about the legal stuff yet. What a pitch. It sounded legit.

Of course, I thought. This is the military. There’s always an ulterior motive.

 I admit I was intrigued and I wondered what they were going ask me. How did you actually test someone’s imagination?

“OK,” I said. “I’m ready.”

“Excellent,” Smith said. He smiled a grin that was genuine, but at the same time, there was a weird gleam in his eye. I could tell he was really looking forward to what was to come, and that was kind of scary. Then the questioning began.

–––––

The first question was easy: “Do you like to read?”

“No.”

“What are your three favorite movies?”

I thought about it and listed them. They were popular and sufficiently generic.

The next question was, “Do you believe in God?”

I said, “Yes” with absolute certainty. Most people probably said yes to that. I, however, said it with more confidence than anybody else, because unlike everybody else, I actually talked to God years ago. I don’t just believe He exists. I know it.

“How do you know?”

That was a hard one. I imagine a lot of people would say, “I just believe it,” or “I feel it,” or something like that, but I’m not “most people.”

I figured these guys, like anyone else, could probably tell if someone were lying to them. In fact, they might be better at it than most people if they conducted a lot of these “interviews.” I had to tell the truth, but I would be deliberately vague. I said, “The world is too complex for it all to be the result of chance.” The basic Creationist argument. It was a good answer.

The next question got harder.

“Do you believe in the Devil?”

For the first time since I entered this room, I felt a spike of fear. It was like the tip of a cold finger dragging down my bare back.

I shuddered. How much did these people know?

“Mr. Abrams?”

“Huh?”

“The Devil?”

Again, I gave an absolute yes.

“Why do you believe that?”

I thought a long time before I gave my answer. I finally came up with something that didn’t sound crazy and I said, “Um, I used to see her in nightmares.”

I suddenly knew how guilty suspects felt when being interrogated by the police. I didn’t know how much they knew, or how much information they were hoping I would volunteer.

Dr. Smith peered at me through his thick glasses and echoed, “Her?”

“Huh?”

“You said you saw her in nightmares?”

Oh no. I felt the web around me closing tighter. His next question was, “What does the Devil look like?”

I was thinking too much. If I’d been in court, I would have looked guilty as hell. I had to be honest.

“She’s a tall, beautiful woman with long red hair. Her face and her body are perfect. But there’s something wrong. It’s like it’s all an illusion. Her fingernails are long and sharp, but when she notices that you looking at them, they’re normal again. The same thing goes for her teeth. And her eyes … That must be the hardest part for her to maintain. They’re not normal. They’re too big, or too dark, or something. It’s messed up.”

I shook my head. I was rambling, lost in a memory. Smith and Jones looked at each other.

“How do you know that?”

“I … I saw her in a dream.”

Sometimes I try to tell myself that. But that’s a lie (I think). I saw her in person, in my house. But I couldn’t tell these guys that. Saying, “Because that’s how she looked when I met her” wasn’t going to work.

The men behind the table stared at me after I described the Devil in detail. I waited for the next question. The doctor looked down and shuffled papers. The major just stared at me without saying anything. After an uncomfortable period of silence, the Dr. Smith looked up and changed the subject.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

I instantly said, “No.”

“You just said you believe in God and the Devil.”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe that a spirit can live outside of the body?”

These questions were getting weird.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you believe in the afterlife?”

God and Satan were real. I was certain of that. But when I met each of them, neither of them talked about the afterlife. There was no discussion of Heaven and Hell. All they were concerned about was this life and what was going to happen on Earth.

So I started thinking. Maybe this life is all there is. God and the Devil don’t have any place or any plans for anybody after death. This life is it. Earth is the game board. At the end, a person’s life or soul or whatever is judged to be either good or evil, light or dark. God collects the white pieces and Satan the black ones, and in the end, or maybe just periodically, they compare piles of chips to see who’s winning.

Did I believe in the afterlife?

“Not really,” I answered.

Owl-Eyes peered at me through his glasses like a detective inspecting something interesting under a magnifying glass. “So you believe in God and the Devil, and in good and evil, yet you don’t believe in the spiritual world?”

What type of interview was this? I had no idea where this was going, and I said, “God and the Devil are active in people’s lives. I know that. I don’t know if there’s an afterlife. Nobody does. If people say they know or think they know, they don’t. Nobody knows.”

Smith and Jones seemed satisfied with that answer. Then they moved on.

Then the questions got even weirder. They asked me a lot about my drug usage. I wondered if the drug questions were prompted by the answers I just gave, or if they were in the agenda all along.

Fortunately, I didn’t have much to say. I admitted to smoking weed in high school, but who hasn’t? I didn’t tell them about anything else. That’s all behind me now.

The interview came to an end. I still had no idea what this information was going to be used for. I didn’t think I said anything embarrassing or incriminating. They hadn’t asked anything about Gunner, the rape, or the men in my unit.

“Well, Mr. Abrams,” said Owl-Eyes, “That was very helpful. You’re candor was very refreshing. Your truthfulness is a great asset.”

An asset for what? I wondered. Since “truthfulness” was so valued, I expected some in return. I said, “What’s this really all about?”

“That’s classified,” Jones said loudly. Smith shot him a look, and then returned his gaze to me. He smiled like a grandfather calmly trying to reassure his grandchild everything was alright.

“This information will only be used for research purposes,” he said. “If anything, it proves that you are not a mindless drone. We see so much of that in the military.” He glanced at Jones, as if the major himself proved the point. Jones shot back a disapproving look.

Owl-Eyes continued. “So don’t worry. Major Jones is correct. This information is classified, which means that it’s completely confidential.”

I was starting to accept the fact that I wouldn’t get a straight answer. That’s just the way the military is. Intel passes from the top down. Nobody knows everything. Many people are deliberately kept in the dark. Hell, before 9/11, the different branches of the military and local law enforcement barely talked to each other.

So I let it go. The government did a lot of pointless shit, and this could be another waste-of-money research thing that there was no good reason for.

Somehow, I had the feeling a record of this conversation would be going into a secret file with my name on it. I’d probably be sworn to secrecy about the contents of this interview. Then I’d be locked up again (or killed, I thought, only half-joking). At this point, I really didn’t know what was going on.

The doctor and the major both stood up, and I did the same. They extended their hands, and I shook them as if I had just finished a job interview. I saluted the major. The door opened. Owl-Eyes nodded to the MP officer, and the armed guard escorted me through the deserted halls back to my room.

8

I was released shortly after that meeting. Life in boot resumed as usual. In other words, it sucked. As far as I knew, I was the only one who got “interviewed.” I didn’t know for sure. Nobody told me anything or wanted to associate with me. They were too ashamed of themselves or afraid of the legal consequences.

When I graduated from basic training, I felt both relieved and a little anxious. The Army usually gives you several “career” options. For example, you can go into medical, tech, etc. Just as like in the real world, the smarter you are, the more options you have. And just like the real world, sometimes you have plans, and fate has other things in mind for you.

My fate, however, wasn’t decided by the gods but by mere mortals. The higher powers in charge of my life were higher-ranking officers. And just like divine fate, these forces were invisible and their motives were mysterious and unknown.

As it turned out, these controlling forces, whose judgment affected so many lives, had a special plan for me. They claimed they were giving me the opportunity to join an “elite Special Forces team.” Our missions would be Black Ops. I would be given a security clearance and sworn to secrecy. The punishments for breaking that silence would be severe. It was a matter of national security.

My first thought was, What were they thinking?

Have you ever done something, like at school or on the job, where people think you know what you’re doing but you really don’t? It’s like, you know enough to get by and fool everybody, but the rest of the time you’re just faking it? Well, that’s how I felt about my military career so far. I didn’t know why I was chosen. Did somebody screw up?

Then I thought about it some more. The job sounded dangerous, but that’s why I was here. I didn’t want to be stuck in front of a computer. Maybe this was a step towards “becoming a leader.”

So that was it. I didn’t want to hear about any other options (not that any were offered to me). I jumped at the chance. I told the recruiter, “Yes! I’ll do it!”

–––––

Alright. I’m going to go kind of fast through this next part. I joined the special division. Too bad I couldn’t tell anyone about it. My dad would have been proud. They flew me to a fort outside of Boise, Idaho. Looking out the window of plane as it descended, you would have thought we were landing on Mars or something. All I could see were rocks and dirt. I spied some unnaturally straight lines in the ground that I identified as roads. I confirmed that when we got closer and I saw staggered telephone poles alongside them.

When I stepped out of the plane onto the Martian landscape, cold wind chilled my face. The terrain looked as bleak as Texas, but air was colder. I took that as a good sign. I’m from Montana, and I’m used to the cold. That heat in Texas just sucked. Whatever was in store for me in Idaho just had to be better than that. It had to be.

I was wrong again.

9

I spent a week at the fort in Boise, Idaho. I wondered what I was doing there, or rather, what the Army was doing with me. I soon found out. The CO said we were waiting for other guys to arrive. Once we were all together, Command told us the fort we were at wasn’t our final destination. We were being transferred to a secondary location. We were moving again. The details were classified.

The location was so secret, in fact, that we wouldn’t be taking a military transport there. Instead, we were ordered to put on our civilian clothes. From there, we were driven in unmarked vehicles to the Boise International Airport. 

“International.” Yeah right. As far as airports went, it was small and practically deserted.