14: Calliope Baxter was a middle-aged woman with sad eyes. She had been troubled for quite some time now, but didn't know who to talk to. Finally, she decided that she couldn't hold it in anymore. She approached Barney Abbot at the table where he was having lunch. He invited her to have a seat and join him.
"It's good to finally speak with you, Barney. My name is Calliope."
"Well, it's certainly nice to meet you, Calliope. Would you like any of these curly fries? They're excellent."
"No, thanks. I'm not very hungry. You see, actually I have something that's been bothering me since I heard it when we first came to this hotel."
"Oh, I'm glad you came to me. What's on your mind?"
"It's about your son."
Barney put his curly fry down, picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. He re-oriented his body to focus his entire attention on Calliope. "Did you know Daniel?"
"No. But I need to know. Kenn had said he was the Good Friday Killer." She looked him squarely in the eyes. "Is that true? Was he?"
Barney inhaled deeply and let his breath out through his nose. He never broke eye contact with her, but his countenance now reflected deep regret and emotional pain. "Yes, he was." His eyes welled up with an unexpected tumult of memories. He took a sip of his soda to wet his suddenly dry throat.
Calliope's eyes now focused on an imaginary point somewhere behind Barney's head. A flurry of conflicting emotions contorted her face several times before she could speak again. When she finally found her voice again, her cheeks weren't dry. "Three years ago, my husband, Maxwell Baxter was on his way home from work. He never made it home. I spent that entire night calling every police station, hospital and friend in Marble Cliffs. The next day, his car was found at the bottom of a wash. His body was found several feet from the car behind a creosote bush. A cross was carved into his chest and his body was completely drained of blood. Everyone said it had to have been the Good Friday Killer. My husband's killer was never found."
"Yes, that was his M.O. I'm sorry for your loss." Barney knew the words were nothing compared to what this poor woman had been through. "I tracked my son for years. I took the job as senior editor of the newspaper so that I could use all the resources available to expose his terrible acts and hopefully bring him to justice. He was always way ahead of me. Seeing him here was the first contact I'd had with him for years. I didn't know if I should kill him or hug him or both. I was well aware of the atrocities he had committed. It only hurt more that he was my son. When I found out that he was filled with the spirits of the Collective, I didn't know if I could trust him, but I decided to give him a chance. His sacrifice very well might have saved us all. It doesn't erase anything he had done in his past, but that was his cross to bear." Barney and Calliope sat silently for quite some time, each in their own world.
In the ball room, Mendoron, the Collective military specialist, was training a group of people with some combat techniques. Knowledge in hand to hand combat was going to be a matter of life or death in these grim days. The Collective had an understandably fluid style of fighting. For some it was difficult to learn, but Mendoron had an almost uncanny patience. Through diligence and practice, all who wanted to learn became better with each little step along the path to mastery.
In room 742, the Maine Eleven Company was setting up its equipment. Jeffrey turned to Lowe. "What up, chiznickel? Hey, what did you say your uncle's address was again?"
Lowe wasn't expecting the question so he took a second to respond. "Um, lot 1408 at Casanova Mobile Homes."
Jeffrey grabbed a nearby napkin and scribbled on it hurriedly with a hotel pen. He started a sentence mid-thought. "And you're staying in room 742, right?"
Lowe looked at Jeffrey. "Yeah, so?"
Jeffrey continued. "Well, if you subtract 742 from 1408 you're left with. . .666. Spooky, huh?"
Lowe punched Jeffrey on the shoulder. "More like kooky, dumbass." Just then a knock came at the door. It was Lume, the Collective musician. Jeffrey couldn't take his eyes off her.
"Welcome to a Maine Eleven Company jam session. Won't you please join us?" Jeffrey bowed.
Lowe shook his head. "Jeffrey, you old smoothly."
Jeffrey blushed and punched Lowe in the shoulder. "Is everyone ready?" Carrie nodded. Alex gave a thumbs up. Lowe hefted his bass and slung it onto his shoulder. Jeffrey tested his microphone once or twice. Lume stood in a corner by the entertainment center.
Carrie got a mid-tempo beat going. Lowe started in with a smooth groove. Alex strummed a chord progression to fit the bass line. Lume closed her eyes. She put her hands up and added an orchestral flourish to the musical endeavor. Jeffrey let the beat permeate his senses. As images filled his mind, he gave voice to them. This spontaneous rapture of harmonic melodies continued well into the night.
"It's good to finally speak with you, Barney. My name is Calliope."
"Well, it's certainly nice to meet you, Calliope. Would you like any of these curly fries? They're excellent."
"No, thanks. I'm not very hungry. You see, actually I have something that's been bothering me since I heard it when we first came to this hotel."
"Oh, I'm glad you came to me. What's on your mind?"
"It's about your son."
Barney put his curly fry down, picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. He re-oriented his body to focus his entire attention on Calliope. "Did you know Daniel?"
"No. But I need to know. Kenn had said he was the Good Friday Killer." She looked him squarely in the eyes. "Is that true? Was he?"
Barney inhaled deeply and let his breath out through his nose. He never broke eye contact with her, but his countenance now reflected deep regret and emotional pain. "Yes, he was." His eyes welled up with an unexpected tumult of memories. He took a sip of his soda to wet his suddenly dry throat.
Calliope's eyes now focused on an imaginary point somewhere behind Barney's head. A flurry of conflicting emotions contorted her face several times before she could speak again. When she finally found her voice again, her cheeks weren't dry. "Three years ago, my husband, Maxwell Baxter was on his way home from work. He never made it home. I spent that entire night calling every police station, hospital and friend in Marble Cliffs. The next day, his car was found at the bottom of a wash. His body was found several feet from the car behind a creosote bush. A cross was carved into his chest and his body was completely drained of blood. Everyone said it had to have been the Good Friday Killer. My husband's killer was never found."
"Yes, that was his M.O. I'm sorry for your loss." Barney knew the words were nothing compared to what this poor woman had been through. "I tracked my son for years. I took the job as senior editor of the newspaper so that I could use all the resources available to expose his terrible acts and hopefully bring him to justice. He was always way ahead of me. Seeing him here was the first contact I'd had with him for years. I didn't know if I should kill him or hug him or both. I was well aware of the atrocities he had committed. It only hurt more that he was my son. When I found out that he was filled with the spirits of the Collective, I didn't know if I could trust him, but I decided to give him a chance. His sacrifice very well might have saved us all. It doesn't erase anything he had done in his past, but that was his cross to bear." Barney and Calliope sat silently for quite some time, each in their own world.
In the ball room, Mendoron, the Collective military specialist, was training a group of people with some combat techniques. Knowledge in hand to hand combat was going to be a matter of life or death in these grim days. The Collective had an understandably fluid style of fighting. For some it was difficult to learn, but Mendoron had an almost uncanny patience. Through diligence and practice, all who wanted to learn became better with each little step along the path to mastery.
In room 742, the Maine Eleven Company was setting up its equipment. Jeffrey turned to Lowe. "What up, chiznickel? Hey, what did you say your uncle's address was again?"
Lowe wasn't expecting the question so he took a second to respond. "Um, lot 1408 at Casanova Mobile Homes."
Jeffrey grabbed a nearby napkin and scribbled on it hurriedly with a hotel pen. He started a sentence mid-thought. "And you're staying in room 742, right?"
Lowe looked at Jeffrey. "Yeah, so?"
Jeffrey continued. "Well, if you subtract 742 from 1408 you're left with. . .666. Spooky, huh?"
Lowe punched Jeffrey on the shoulder. "More like kooky, dumbass." Just then a knock came at the door. It was Lume, the Collective musician. Jeffrey couldn't take his eyes off her.
"Welcome to a Maine Eleven Company jam session. Won't you please join us?" Jeffrey bowed.
Lowe shook his head. "Jeffrey, you old smoothly."
Jeffrey blushed and punched Lowe in the shoulder. "Is everyone ready?" Carrie nodded. Alex gave a thumbs up. Lowe hefted his bass and slung it onto his shoulder. Jeffrey tested his microphone once or twice. Lume stood in a corner by the entertainment center.
Carrie got a mid-tempo beat going. Lowe started in with a smooth groove. Alex strummed a chord progression to fit the bass line. Lume closed her eyes. She put her hands up and added an orchestral flourish to the musical endeavor. Jeffrey let the beat permeate his senses. As images filled his mind, he gave voice to them. This spontaneous rapture of harmonic melodies continued well into the night.
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