The Harvest Read online

  “Yes,” Reese answered. “Society progressed. Yesterday’s rumrunners became today’s dot-com millionaires. No reason to break the law if there’s a legal way to satisfy the need.”

  “It makes sense. What has happened since then has become ugly. Ugly and strange. Our old techniques for finding and prosecuting the bad guys seem as outdated as…as using a horse and buggy to enforce the speed limits on the freeways.”

  “When the mob families evolved from Prohibition days into the drug trade and white-collar crime, we were able to follow them through the transition. The motives were still the same, and in many ways the techniques were still the same. Our bad guys today are different. It might be some lone computer geek who wants to hack into the air traffic control system, just to watch planes fall out of the sky. It could be a third-year biology student planning on pumping some home-grown anthrax into the air conditioning system at Logan Airport, just to see how people die. Plus, there are the so-called terrorists who kill three thousand people with nothing but box cutters and an understanding of our public transportation system.”

  Reese was curious. “Why did you say ‘so-called’?”

  “Because so many of them were joy-killers before Al-Queda found them, or before they found Al-Queda. We’ve spent a lot of time profiling the survivors, as well as the crop at Gitmo. Checking their backgrounds, talking to their families, friends, and classmates, we discovered they, for the most part, were not ‘nice’ people who were somehow sucked into a Jihad mentality. They were torturing pets and pulling the wings off flies when they were happy, affluent, well-adjusted six-year-olds. Reese, could you have imagined or predicted what happened at Columbine beforehand?”

  “I did.”

  Reynolds hesitated.

  “My first book. I guess you skipped that when you were briefed on me. The concept of satisfaction of needs, as described by Maslow, was quite reassuring. He believed that as we created a society which removed the need to worry about the basics, we would transcend into an appreciation of the arts, as I mentioned in my lecture. He did not fully contemplate a satiation of needs for that level. You have to admit it is a little hard to visualize. However, he believed the next step on the ladder would be a turning within, or self-actualizing, and we would become a more intellectual being, a more philosophical being. It was an almost utopian vision and quite surprising coming from someone trained in psychology, for it showed a serious lack of understanding of human nature.

  “He was, however, partially right. As the individual members of mankind feel they have satisfied the second step on the ladder, they do turn within. For a small percentage of the population, this has resulted in a blossoming of philosophical thought. For many others, it has caused an almost obsessive quest for answers. The New Age movement has sprung into existence, offering theories from the quite reasonable and scientifically feasible to the outlandish and absurd. The third group to have reached satiation and turned within has found the primal beast that lives within all of us. Through all of our years of evolution and civilization, we have never eradicated the animal part of our makeup; we have only contained it. Focusing on the primal beast causes an intense hedonism whether it is sexual satisfaction, in all of its normal and deviant forms, or competitiveness to the degree of recklessness – witness the so-called extreme sports – or acquisitiveness to an astounding level, with CEOs and sports or entertainment figures making more money than can reasonably be spent in ten lifetimes. Unfortunately, these three categories, in my opinion, only comprise somewhere between twenty and thirty-five percent of the population.”

  “And the rest? What do they find when they look inside themselves?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Yes, nothing. They see no intrinsic value, no reason for existence. They look inside and see an empty shell. And, extending that outward, if they have no value, neither does anyone or anything which people have created. All of the physical trappings of civilization look like a false construct. All of our institutions appear, to them, as complex diversions and distractions. All of our rules are meaningless. Life is nothing but an elaborate role-playing game with no end and no possible victory. The sociologists have it wrong: kids aren’t emulating Internet role-playing games; the games are an artistic depiction of this group’s view of reality. In fact, these games have probably been created and are so obsessively played as an attempt by those with some vestige of a conscience to confine their anti-social behavior to a harmless environment.”

  “An outlet?”

  “Yes, Nicholas, an outlet which, for a time, keeps the participants from performing those acts upon the general public.”

  “Until the game no longer satisfies the need.”

  “Precisely. And we can glean clues from observing the games. They all share some common themes. The players can ‘take out’ anyone they want, at any time. It isn’t driven by hatred, envy, or greed; it’s just the elimination of one more player. The players remain anonymous. They build whatever they want and tear down whatever they want; after all, it’s just ‘virtual’ anyway. Finally, and of the most importance, the surest way for any of the games to lose their players is to impose some rules. Even the slightest hint of a limitation causes the participants to leave in droves, to quickly find another game without any restraints.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Yes?”

  Stu entered, carrying a single sheet of paper. “Boy, you were right, Professor. Your name worked like a charm.” He handed the sheet to Reese, who glanced at it only briefly. The faxed picture was obviously Special Agent Reynolds.

  “Well, I guess I’d better pack some things.”

  After giving a vague explanation to Dexter, the three men walked across the grassy mall to the faculty parking area, where Reynolds and Powell had also parked. It was a hot August afternoon in Tucson, and Reese saw his first mirage in the distance. Turning to Reynolds as they walked, he asked, “Do you ever get used to this heat?”

  “No.”

  They continued walking in silence. Rounding the corner of the Student Union building, Reese caught a glimpse of a man standing near his car. Reynolds immediately saw him as well, and asked, “Is that a faculty member or friend?”

  “Not a friend, and I haven’t been here long enough to meet many of the faculty.”

  Walking three abreast with the two FBI agents flanking Reese, they reached his Ford F-150. The stranger, a slender man with a reddish beard and round John Lennon glasses, stepped toward Reese. “Professor Johnson? Could I talk to you for a minute?”

  Reese started to answer, when Reynolds spoke up. “I’m sorry. The professor doesn’t have time right now.”

  Clearly irritated, the man fired back, “You need to stop this!”

  Curious, Reese asked, “Stop what?”

  “Stop this whoring for the church! Stop lending them the credibility of your science, your university.”

  Having heard this all before, Johnson did not bother to respond. Instead, attempting to step around the man, he found himself within inches of the bearded face. The stranger, reaching up to grab the front of Reese’s shirt, was quick, but not quite quick enough. In what was almost a blur, Reynolds and Powell grabbed the stranger by his arms, nearly lifting him off the ground, spinning him, and slamming him into the side of the pickup.

  Looking over his shoulder at Reese, Powell said, “Professor, please step back a bit.” Reese complied.

  Reynolds kept the fanatic at bay while Powell patted him down, finding nothing that could be used as a weapon. He then turned the stranger around so his back was against the front fender, making sure his own body was directly interposed between the stranger and Reese. Reynolds reached for his wallet and showed it to the man, verbally identifying himself as well. The stranger’s eyes widened, but he remained silent. Reynolds asked, “What is your name, sir?” The man did not answer; he just stared defiantly at the agent. Sighing, Reynolds again turned the stranger around to face the truck, reachin
g into the back pocket of the worn and faded jeans to extract a wallet.

  Turning him back around, Reynolds said, “Mr. Sheffield, are you a student at this university?” Sheffield continued to remain silent. Reynolds explained, “Look, Mr. Sheffield, it’s actually fairly simple. If you answer our questions, you will probably walk away from this parking lot on your own. If you don’t, you will definitely ride out of this parking lot in the back of a police car. It’s up to you.”

  “No, I’m not a student.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To stop Reese Johnson from continuing to poison the minds of our youth.”

  “And how is he doing that?”

  “With his hate speech.”

  “Hate speech?”

  “Yes! There are already too many people who hate gays and lesbians, blacks, atheists! He is goading them on, giving them support!”

  “Mr. Sheffield, how were you planning to stop him?”

  It was obvious from the fleeting expression on the man’s face that he had not mentally progressed that far. “Talk to him. Convince him that hate is not a family value.”

  Rolling his eyes, Reynolds asked, “Just talk to him?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Professor Johnson,” Reynolds said over his shoulder. “Do you have any desire to press charges against this gentleman?”

  “No, Nicholas, I do not.”

  Turning back to Sheffield, Reynolds moved even closer until their noses nearly touched. “Mr. Sheffield, you are free to go. Please walk around the front of this vehicle and then head east. Do not pause until you are out of sight, and keep your hands in plain view for us.”

  “But he’s got to be stopped. Don’t you understand?”

  “I do understand, Mr. Sheffield. You will have a chance to talk to the professor some other time. Right now, he has to leave. So please be going.”

  Sheffield was excited. Spittle dripped onto his plaid shirt. But he was rational enough to realize this discussion was over. Standing on his toes and looking over Reynolds’ shoulder, he yelled, “I’ll be back!” Panting, he turned to his right and walked around the front of the pickup, turning east.

  Reynolds watched until Sheffield rounded the corner of the building. Then, turning to Reese, he said, “I think you need to ride with me. Powell can drive your truck.”

  Reese started to argue, thought better of it, and tossed his keys to the other agent.

  א

  Reynolds was quiet, navigating the narrow campus streets, until he reached Campbell Avenue.

  “Turn north.”

  “I know.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Reese, what do you make of that guy?”

  “I’ve seen a million of them. They’re all like ‘Chatty Cathy.’”

  “Pull the string?”

  “Yeah, and the same phrases come out.”

  “Do you ever try to talk to them?”

  “At first I did. It’s a waste of time. If you ask them to explain the reasoning for their position, they can’t. If you try to counter their buzz phrases with facts, they start calling you a racist, a homophobe, whatever. It gets old.”

  They did not speak during the rest of the trip. It was not until Reynolds pulled into the driveway leading to Reese’s new home that Reese spoke. “I don’t see any reason not to tell my wife.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Taken aback, Reese said, “That’s surprising. You guys always want everything kept quiet.”

  “Would you if I asked you to?”

  “Nope.”

  Grinning, Reynolds muttered, “There you go.”

  א

  Reese and his wife, Claire, rode in the back seat of the Expedition. Reynolds was in front with Agent Powell. Reynolds was again driving.

  Claire asked nonchalantly, “So, Agent Powell, how long have you been with the FBI?”

  “Five years, ma’am.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “Actually, ma’am, I love it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s the people mostly. I meet some pretty nasty ones; they’re not the ones I’m talking about. But the people I work with are great. And the people I get a chance to help are incredible.”

  As Claire chatted with Powell, Reese stared out the window, thinking about how the conversation had gone when he arrived home. Claire was amazing, he thought to himself. He could walk in the door with two FBI agents and tell her he had to fly to Washington, D.C. to meet with God, and her first question was, “Can I come along?” Nicholas was less than happy about this turn of events but did not really have a choice. As they packed, Reese explained everything he knew so far. She just took it all in without saying much. Finally, as she zipped her suitcase shut, Claire came around the bed, gripped Reese’s face with both hands, kissed him, and said, “I am so proud of you. They need someone to verify that they are really talking to God, and they pick you.” Reese just blushed.

  They had taken River Road east to Craycroft, then turned south, obviously heading toward Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. Claire and Powell wound down their conversation as Reynolds paused at the gate. Sliding down the window, Reynolds opened his ID and handed it to the sergeant, suggesting he call his CO. The sergeant pointed to a parking spot just inside the gate and reached for the phone while Reynolds pulled forward. The phone call took no more than two minutes. The guard walked briskly to the driver’s window of the Expedition, returning Reynolds’ ID, and saluted with an exaggerated flourish.

  No one noticed the white Prius which had parked just outside the gate as they had arrived. No one noticed the slight build of the driver, the thick red beard, the round John Lennon glasses. After Reynolds was cleared, the Prius backed out of the space, made a U-turn and drove north on Craycroft.

  Chapter Three

  “You’ve got to be kidding?” Reese exclaimed, staring through the one-way mirror at the subject of his trip. “Did someone get this guy out of Central Casting?”

  Craig McWilliams, the head of the D.C. profiling group, agreed, “It’s weird, all right.”

  Sitting at the table on the other side of the mirror, sipping a glass of orange juice, was the most “perfect” God Reese had ever seen. With thick, wavy white hair, slightly long, a flowing white beard to match, intense blue eyes shadowed by thick but not unruly eyebrows, the man was neither slender nor heavyset. “At least he isn’t wearing a white robe,” said Reese sarcastically. He was, actually, wearing a white, long-sleeved oxford shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, no tie, brown dress slacks, and brown loafers. He looked like a recently retired symphony conductor on a trip to see the Lincoln Memorial.

  Reese addressed McWilliams, “Have you been talking to him?”

  “Actually, quite a bit.”

  “Well?”

  “Professor Johnson….”

  “Reese.”

  “Reese, we’ve all agreed not to share anything with you at this time, at least before your first interview. We want you to go in with a fresh mind.”

  Turning to face the profiler, Reese said, “So, he has already convinced all of you?”

  Quickly turning his face away from Johnson in an attempt to give nothing more away, McWilliams just shrugged. Reese turned his attention back to the glass. “This man could have been the model for Michelangelo.” Again, McWilliams said nothing. “Well, no time like the present.” Sidestepping to the door, Reese turned the handle and walked into the interrogation room. He was immediately struck with the warmth of the room. It was not the kind of warmth which tempted Reese to turn down the thermostat, but rather, as he would later describe, it was “the kind of warmth you feel when walking into your grandmother’s living room in the dead of winter, and the fireplace is blazing.”

  The man at the table was already facing the doorway as Reese came into the room. Reese noticed a presence around the stranger which was more powerful than any he had ever felt. ‘Okay,’ Reese thought to himself, ‘the guy is charismatic. Let’s not fall
overboard.’ The stranger’s blue eyes were locked on Reese’s, a slight smile crinkling the corners. ‘At least not yet,’ he thought further.