James Bruno - Chasm

Copyright 2006 by James Bruno

CHAPTER ONE

When he awoke at dawn, slaughtering his family was not on his mind.

Polishing up his speech to the Yale Club was. Lets see now. Refugees. Ah, yes. Will have to dig into the refugee issue. Dont know squat about refugees, even though the State Department says Im an expert. Time. Time. Time. Not enough. And the deceit

One thing that really, really got William Winford Ferrets goat more than anything else was the way his wife threw his socks into the dresser drawer willy-nilly. Browns and blues and grays and greens and whites all mixed up together. But tossing the argyles into the mlange got to his craw. Argyles, already incorporating a mix of colors, simply did not belong with the rest of them. Any fool knew that. He would talk to her later about it. Calm, Win. Be calm. Old blood Connecticut Yankees kept their cool. Sign of a good diplomat as well as a good husband.

He closed the bathroom door tightly, yet silently. He tried to lock the door. But the lock was jammed. Why dont they tell me when things need to be fixed? Lynette must be told once more. And the boys too. And mother. Mother

He reached down into the cabinet below the sink and retrieved that can of Edge the extra tall one for tough beards that said 25% free! Connecticut Yankees loved bargains. He pulled out one new Schick razor from a crisp cellophane bag. He looked around, out the window. Then breathed easily. He wet his face and applied the lather. Refugees. Must look good before my fellow alumni. These folks are as smart as they come. You can get away with winging it before the Raleigh Rotary Club. But not before Yalees in Washington, D.C. Cream of the cream. Power elite and all that. They can spot a phony a mile away.

A rivulet of blood sprang from his flesh, just below the chin. He froze and stared at himself in the cabinet mirror. The crimson trickle poured effortlessly down his neck. A tiny, serpentine current progressing without hindrance, aided by wet skin and gravity. How fascinating. Lifes essence oozing forth with the ease of a spring brook in a virgin wood. How horrifying. Unlike a brook, its content was finite. If enough escaped the confines of a body, that body would cease to function, would die. An athletic man, not yet forty, a healthy man with so much to live for, could expire if the outflow were not stanched. Women and children, smaller and weaker than men, presumably would die faster.

The door burst open with a violent bang. The rat-a-tat-tat echoed off the tiles and exploded into his head. A nebula of primal emotions erupted from his innermost core, uncontrolled, spectacular forces that instantly devoured and neutralized his humanity. Except for one overriding instinct: survival.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat. He saw nothing. He felt nothing. He was subsumed in a brilliant mega-burst of light. It guided him. Told him what to do to survive. The all-encompassing white light held him, steered him, empowered him. At this moment there was no thinking, no morality, no yes, no no. Only survival.

All fell silent. The violent nebula ceased. A painful cold replaced the powerful, blinding light. A child stood before him laughing. No. Cackling. Mocking. Sneering. At him. At the instant when the urge to survive was to be transmogrified into counteraction, overwhelming counterforce, it stopped. His heart pumped like a piston in a racing engine. The sweat pouring from his brow entered his eyes and blurred his vision. Rat-a-tat-tat was replaced by this cruel, little childs squeal. A gleeful, high-pitched squeal which, coupled with his bent-over position and flushed face, broadcasted, I am the victor at your expense. You stupid, unproud adult fool!

Reason returned, yet the blunt force of survival lingered. He had to do all he could to\calm it, direct it inward, always inward. Ange\r supplanted it. His firm grip on the boys shoulders and vigorous shaking broke the five-year olds mirth. The childs plastic Terminator machine gun dropped to the floor.

Rup! Rup! Rup! Rup! The Golden Retriever hopped around them. He sensed the tension. A dogs barking in such circumstances can signal the need for help or simply its own hysteria.

Jeremy, What is WRONG with you!! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?! Dont ever do that again!

The boy scrunched his face up and began to wail. Tears streamed down his freckled face. Whaa! Whaaa!! The crying only fed Ferrets anger. And it got louder.

RUP! RUP! RUP! The dog barked more loudly. It nipped at Ferrets pant cuffs.

All right! All right! The matron appeared at the top of the stairs. She was wiping her hands, wet with soap suds, with a dish towel. She gathered the boy into her arms and comforted him. Thats okay. Theres my boy. Aww. Dont be frightened. Daddy didnt mean any harm. She shot a reproving glance at Ferret.

Mother, he scared the living day lights out of me.

Well talk later. She lifted Jeremy in\ her arms and carried him downstairs with the pet in tow. He could hear Lynettes voice. What did Daddy do?My heavenscome here little oneMommy will take care of you.

Ferret shut his eyes. Too much. Escape. I must

Win, are you all right? Lynettes face was the definition of wifely concern. Her neat blonde hairdo accentuated the proper good looks of a generic Midwestern, all-American girl.

Yes He shook his head. Im fine. Its just that Jeremy

Have you taken your medicine? she asked in a hushed voice. She reached into the medicine cabinet and took out a small plastic bottle, opened it and looked inside. Time for a refill. Ill do it this afternoon on my way to art class. She shook out one capsule, filled the bathroom cup with water and offered both up to her husband. Here. Only one gulp and its done. Come on.

I really dont think I need

She popped the pill into his mouth and pressed the cup against his lips. Lets do a-l-l gone. Like a good boy. He swallowed it and washed it down.

That doctor. I feel hes got it wrong. Im fine. Really, Im fine.

She placed her hands around his waist. Darling, he knows what hes doing. Hes one of the best. Been treating half of Bethesda for years. And forget your male pride and that damn Yankee stoicism of yours. Depression is no shame. Lots of people have it. And its treatable. She kissed him, then smiled. Come on, hon. Breakfast. Your mothers making blueberry pancakes and bacon. Your favorite.

Ferret hated his job. But with a wife, three kids, his mother, a mortgage on a suburban ranch house and two cars to support and maintain, he didnt have the luxury of dreaming about a radical change of careers.

But during the 30-minute commute between the Bethesda neighborhood of Carderock Springs and the State Department, Ferret would dream of what might be or have been. Above all, hed wanted to be a news reporter. He had developed fact-gathering and writing skills from his three years as an Army intelligence officer. And he had the language skills to qualify him as a foreign correspondent. This is Win Ferret reporting from Jerusalem. And Baghdad braces itself anxiously as the bombs claim scores of innocent victims. Back to you, Brian. He would practice aloud newsmens sign-offs with a dramatic flurry as he drove the 1991 Dodge Caravan down River Road. Then reality would take over again.

The Office of Special Admissions, Bureau of Population, Refugees and Migration, occupied a suite of offices in the basement of Main State the headquarters building housing the Secretary, his senior staff and the regional bureaus. Just three blocks from the White House, Main State had all the flourish and charm of a Soviet ministry of mines. The Washington Posts architectural critic once described it as modern Mussolini office building minus the grandiosity.

D Street entrance interior, like all the buildings entrances, hadnt changed except for the electronic, I.D.-reading turnstiles since the structure was completed in 1954. Ferret, clad in a gray-beige London Fog raincoat, trudged in lock-step with all the other gray-coated, attach case-bearing bureaucrats reporting for work at 8:15 on an overcast November morning. The walls, exterior as well as interior, were also gray-beige. Only glass doors and aluminum trim on the stairwells and chronically malfunctioning elevators detracted a bit from the scheme of common-denominator non-colors. The overall effect was of conformity. People blended easily into the walls. A homogenized universe of unremarkable lost souls.