A Revolutionary Act

He’d never been thrown out of a bar before. Asked to leave more than once, escorted to the sidewalk a time or two, but never physically tossed out the door. He had been punched in the face many times in his life and was once again reminded of what an unpleasant experience it was as he sat on the damp cement and held his coat sleeve to his nose. Feeling sufficiently debased, he struggled to his feet under the icy glare of a bouncer wearing a shirt shrink-wrapped around his bulky, chaotically tattooed body, standing under the bar canopy making sure the little piece of the planet he was hired to protect was not violated again by the most toxic reporter, ex-reporter, in the Chicago area, Joel Happling. Staggering down the street through the cool evening mist and cacophony of car horns, Joel kept a swollen eye out for a cab.

            A bag of frozen peas with an expiration date in Roman numerals lay draped over his battered face. The bleeding had stopped, but his head throbbed and he was waiting impatiently for the five ibuprofen to finally kick in. He lifted the peas long enough to check for new calls, but saw they were all from the strange area codes where only debt collectors lived. He stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on his background photo of the snow-tipped Elkhorn Mountains in Montana, and he sighed longingly before gently laying the bag back down. He’d been fired that day from the Chicago Tribune for insubordination, and was admittedly grumpy when he entered O’Grady’s Tavern at three in the afternoon. Who should come in a few hours later but Thomas Castle, the Commissioner of Transportation who was under indictment for taking kickbacks as a result of Joel’s three-part series? Words were exchanged, punches flew, and he now lay in his bed unemployed, bruised and bloodied and probably facing a civil suit for assault. Before dozing off, he called his sister and left a message.

“Hey Sis, it’s Joel. Listen, give me a call tomorrow. Okay?”

            Shadows were long the next evening as Joel followed GPS instructions through winding streets of opulent homes in Lake Forest. At thirty-two year’s old, it was clearly embarrassing to be asking his big sister if he could take up residence in a small room of her very large Richard Romanesque mansion until he landed another job. He had no choice. If he wasn’t at his apartment, they couldn’t serve him with an eviction notice. He stopped at the front gate and announced himself. Moments later the ornate iron barrier creaked open and he drove to the front door. Tina greeted him at the top of the stone steps. Nearing forty, the woman was tanned, toned and perfectly tailored, looking as if she was prepared for a visit from the French ambassador rather than her brittle, angry brother. They hugged, then she held him at arm’s length.

            “You look like shit, little brother.”

            “You should see the other guy. Jesus, how many times have you heard me say that? You’re sure this isn’t a problem?”

            “You’re kidding. Right?” she said, leading him up a wide central staircase. “We’ve got five empty bedrooms that do little but collect dust. Come on. I’ll show you your room.”

            The bedroom was huge and perfectly decorated, with two large windows letting in a comforting golden haze of late afternoon sun. Hands on his hips, Joel couldn’t stop himself from gawking.

            “Wow. It’s incredible,” he said.

            “It’s the largest guest room. There’s the TV, mini fridge, and Wi Fi, of course.”

            “Of course.”

“When we’re here, we usually eat dinner around 6:30. Feel free to use the kitchen or ask Chef Aaron to fix you something.”

“You have a chef?”

“Doesn’t everybody? Sorry. Just kidding. We do have one live-in person, Karen. She really runs the house. I already let her know that you’ll be staying awhile, so don’t be surprised if she comes in to clean or check on you.”

“Tina, I don’t know what to say, except thank you.”

“I’m glad I can help you out, Joel, and keep you off the streets. Feel free to roam around. There are a few locked doors, but they’re just storage rooms. So come down for dinner in an hour. Chuck’s looking forward to talking with you.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

Joel unpacked his carry on bag and collapsed on the bed. Only moments after his head sank into the pillow, he was sleeping noisily.

Knocks came from somewhere. Joel’s eyes flittered open and he quickly got up on elbows. His attention was drawn to an open closet where he thought he heard something or someone thumping against the walls. More knocks. He got up and went to the closet and turned on the overhead light. The large cedar-infused space was empty and still. Then knocks came from his door. Karen called out letting him know that dinner was ready.

Ten minutes later Joel joined Tina and Chuck at the dining room table, where Karen was serving everyone from covered dishes.

“Joel,” said the purple-nosed, balding patriarch, grunting to his feet and extending a hand. “It’s been almost a year since we’ve seen each other. How are you?”

“I’m sure Tina’s filled you in. Not my greatest moment, but I’m trying to make the best of it.”

“Good, good. That’s the spirit. Be positive. That’s half the battle. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Just don’t write any exposes about me.”

“Never,” assured Joel with a broad smile. Chuck smiled too, but it didn’t seem to convey the same enthusiasm of a good-natured jest as Joel had understood it.

After eating more in one sitting than he normally consumed in a day, Chuck and Joel retired to a sitting room with large windows looking out on the nursery for a brandy. Tina excused herself and went upstairs.

Joel took a sip. “Wow. Spectacular.”

“Glad you like it,” responded Chuck, tipping his snifter toward Joel.

“I took a short nap after I got here and had a weird dream. I thought I heard thumping on the closet wall, like it would sound if you hit the wall with the pad of your fist. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if you told me this house was haunted.”

After years of observing human behavior and especially facial cues, Joel was aware that Chuck’s first reaction was alarm, his gauzy brown eyes giving him away, but he quickly transitioned to a wry smile. “Actually, I do believe the house is haunted. Tina thinks I’m growing senile, but I have heard some strange things in this place, especially at night. I mentioned this once to one of my managers, and the next thing I know I’m getting calls from the Chicagoland Paranormal Team or some such nonsense wanting to spend a night here to look for ghosts. No thank you.”

“Interesting. I thought I was awake when I heard it, but….”

“There’s just something about big old houses like this one that triggers our minds to see shadows move and hear eerie noises. Before I bought the place, the previous owner rented the house out as a set for a horror movie.”

“What?”

“Back in the 70s. It was called ‘Castle of the Damned.’ I’ve watched it a couple of times on TV and it is truly one of the worst movies ever made. I think it was an Italian production company. Lot’s of blood and sheer nightgowns.”

“Sounds like an Italian horror movie or one of my evenings on the town.” Joel finished his brandy. “Dinner was fabulous and your brandy is excellent, but I think it’s time I head up stairs. Thanks again for your hospitality,” he said as he stood up.

“Our house is your house, Joel. Good night.”

In his room, Joel went to the closet and inspected it again, but nothing seemed odd or out of the ordinary. It was three walls, some shelving and hanger rods. He gave up, opened a new fifth of bourbon and sat on the edge of the bed. He had never spent much time with Chuck, but when he did he always felt as if he was talking to someone wearing a mask. It seemed something was always going on well below the surface that didn’t have a direct relationship with what was being talked about in the present. And he learned years ago to never bring up politics, one of Chuck’s passions, as the ideological chasm that existed between the two men was wide and deep.

Soft thumps on the wall awakened Joel. It was 2:30 in the morning. He waited in the darkness for any more sounds that might help him zero in on the source. Finally he turned on his light and inspected the room through achy, swollen eyes, but again saw nothing. The closet was just as it had been earlier. He took more ibuprofen, ritualistically chastised himself for drinking too much, and climbed back into bed.

The next morning he was in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee with a shaky hand when Tina made her entrance, already primped and polished for the day. “How did you sleep?” she asked.

“Fine, except I did hear that thumping sound again.”

“Really? This is an old place and we’ve had our share of pests over the years. I’ll call our person and have him come over and spray or do whatever it is they do.”

“Sure. Didn’t sound like a rat.”

“Chuck is flying to Toronto for a few days on business this afternoon and I’ll be out the rest of the day, so relax and enjoy.”

“Thanks. I’ll be on my laptop trying to find another writing gig. I’ve got a few friends I can tap. Chicago’s a big place. Something will come up.” Optimism was not one of his strong points and it came out a bit forced.

“I know it will. Good luck,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. As she breezily gathered up her purse and keys, Joel caught just a hint of an odd odor. There was perfume, hair spray and something else a bit more musty and acrid. The aroma of coffee quickly overwhelmed it, and he carried a cup to his room to begin the online job search. An hour later he’d sent out two resumes and talked to a friend at the Trib who had a lot of contacts in the city. He felt reasonably good about his progress, enough so that a celebratory dram of bourbon in his coffee was surely called for. It burned like bleach going down, but not enough to stop him from repeating the action. A vacuum cleaner hissed up and down the main hallway of the second floor, piloted by the pale, demure Karen. No need for a last name in this old world, class-conscious time capsule, he thought. She was pleasant and reasonably attractive, but the dark brown haze around her eyes made him think she was not a sound sleeper. Finally the whining appliance stopped. Thump. Thump, thump.

Joel hopped off the bed and went to the closet. Thump. His heart racing, he ran to his door and out into the hallway, eliciting a surprised squeal form Karen.

“I’m sorry, but…uh, would you come in here for a minute?”

Karen’s tired eyes widened and her creamy cheeks turned rosy. “I don’t think I should.”

“No,” insisted Joel. “I just want you to hear something. That’s all. I promise.”

Reluctantly, Karen followed Joel into his room. He had her stand by the closet threshold. “Now, just listen,” he insisted. Confused, Karen stood awkwardly, rubbing her hands together. After several seconds there was a distant thump.

“There. You heard that right?” he asked.

Karen smiled. “It’s an old house, Mr. Happling. I hear strange noises from time to time.”

“Everyone keeps saying that, but—“

“It also has an ancient and noisy water heater we have to get fixed all the time. It makes weird sounds like that.”

Joel wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t want to make Karen any more uncomfortable than she already was. “Right. Okay. Thanks for humoring me.”

“No problem. Let me know if I can get you anything.”

Her willing servitude was so far outside of Joel’s daily reality that he had an urge to grab her by the hand and help her escape the house, release her into the wild. It was, he knew, her job. “No, thanks. I’m fine. I am going to take my sister up on her invitation to explore the house, just in case you see me wondering around.”

“Okay. Thanks,” she said, turning and hastily making her way out of the room.

He didn’t know what she was thanking him for, but he left shortly after and began his investigation of the musty, largely unused mansion of a true one precenter. There were four other rooms along the second-floor hallway besides his, each leading to a bedroom decorated in idiosyncratic colors and furniture, all of it from past eras and decorating styles. On the third floor there was another bedroom and a sun drenched sitting room adorned with plants and shelves of hardcover books. It was a comfortable but dusty niche, and he used the opportunity to sip from his flask as he contemplated having a house with dozens of rooms that are never occupied. Then it was down flights of stairs to the first floor. He caught site of Karen entering what he guessed was the kitchen. He turned and walked in the opposite direction, down the light-starved main hallway past another sitting room, the formal dining room, and library. A brooding grandfather clock stood guard at the end of the hall, keeping watch over a locked door to his left. Curious, Joel leaned in and put an ear to the wood. He pressed harder as he was sure he could hear twinkly music coming from somewhere far beyond the barrier. Eensy Weensy Spider?

“Excuse me, Mr. Happly?”

Joel jumped and put a hand to his throat. “Oh, god. Karen, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
            She held out a glass of brown liquid. “Sorry. I thought you might like a glass of freshly made iced tea.”

 He took it with a jittery hand. “Thank you. Very nice. Uh, what’s in this room?”

“Storage. That room and the basement are always locked.”

“The basement?” said Joel. “You’ve never been in the basement?”

“No. Haven’t needed to either. I have to get back to the kitchen. Enjoy your tour.”

“Thank you,” said Joel, taking a sip of tea to show his appreciation.

Turning back to the door, he heard the faint but unmistakable sound of a creaking floorboard.

Cocktail hour began in earnest around four. By six, Joel was s blurry-eyed blimp floating and bouncing between hard objects as he made his way downstairs for dinner. The large dining room was unexpectedly quiet and empty. As he stood leaning against the bare table for stability, Karen entered from the kitchen.

“Mr. Happling. I’m so sorry. Mrs. Hartwick decided to spend the night in the city and I…well, I just—“

“No, no, no. Karen, there’s no need to be sorry. It’s no big deal. I’ll just fix myself a sandwich.”

“Oh, I can’t let you do that. You go back to your room, and I’ll fix up a dinner plate for you. Okay?”

“Really, you don’t—“

“Go. It will only take me ten minutes or so.”

“Okay. On one condition. You join me.”

Karen blushed. “I don’t think….”

“My sister’s gone for the evening. Chuck’s out of town. Look, I promise you I will be on my best behavior.”

“It’s just that—“

“Did you have a boyfriend in middle school?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he ever come over to your house and hang in your bedroom?”

“I guess.”

“I’m just going to make a wild guess here, but I’ll bet your mother made you keep your door open. Am I right?” Karen looked down and smiled despite herself. “I promise I will keep the door open.”

            Ten minutes later Joel let Karen into his room carrying two plates of rich, expensive leftovers and, to Joel’s surprise, two flutes of pale Champaign. They sat awkwardly on the side of the bed sampling the food and drinking, trying to keep the conversation benign.

            “The pate is to die for,” said Joel. “You haven’t tried any.”

            “I’m not a big meat eater”

            Joel looked at her. “Ah, now I understand. A protein deficiency.”

            Karen looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

            “It doesn’t matter,” said Joel, finishing off his Champaign. “Mmm. Very nice, but why would I expect anything less?”

            “I’d get fired if they knew I was doing this.”

            “No one’s going to…” Joel looked around the room as if confused.

            “What’s wrong, Mr. Happling?”

            “I don’t know…”

            “Are you okay?”

            He suddenly felt flush and the flowers on the wallpaper started dancing. “No. No, I’m not.”

            Surface. Breath in. Blink. The interior of a theatre materialized before him, and he was sitting in the audience. It was dark. The chair was uncomfortable. A curtain began parting slowly, allowing a thin shaft of light to escape that grew more intense until he was squinting at the brightness. The spotlights were on him and not the stage. A shadowy figure surrounded by white light stood above him.

            “Mr. Happling. Are you awake yet?”

            “Awake?’

            “Are you with us, Mr. Happling?”

            “Who the fuck are you?”

            “Ah, that’s the Joel Happling we all know and loathe.”

            Although the clouds were slowly lifting, the dark figure in front of him came in and out of focus. His head banged like a church belfry with pain. “What the fuck is going on here?”

            The hazy figure stood still. “Now I think I have your attention.”

            Joel fought back the urge to vomit. “Fuck you.”

            “You like that word. Fuck.”

            “I do, fucktard.”

            “No wonder you get beat up so often. Let’s move on. We—“

            “Who’s ‘we’?”

            “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you listen carefully to me right now. You have two choices. I am going to make you an offer. If you accept that offer, life is good. If you do not….”

            “What?”

            “Mmm?”

            “You’re such a fucktard you can’t say, ‘If you don’t accept it, we will kill you.’ So now I know you’re from a government agency. NSA, CIA, FBI?”

            “Please concentrate on what I am going to explain to you right now. The newest Democratic senator from Minnesota, Paul Keenan, is very close friends with the Vice President. That means he has the VP’s ear. Now this senator is not on script with the intelligence community’s needs, and this is causing concern at some very high levels. He’s starting to sway the VP to push the President for reforms that are unacceptable to us. So this is where you come in. We know you were recently fired from the Tribune, but you also have high credibility as an investigative reporter.”

            “A Pulitzer wasn’t enough to save my fucking job.”

            “Right. Anyway, we want you to freelance for the Tribune. Your relationship with the paper has already been taken care of. You write a few articles over the next two or three months. Then, in September, you will write an expose of Senator Keenan that will destroy him and his political career. We will supply you with all of the information you’ll need to write the piece. All you need to do is to craft the article in your characteristic voice and submit.”

            “How am I supposed to survive all this time? My effervescent personality?”

“Once the Keenan piece is accepted, I will transfer a substantial sum of money into your bank account as a “thank you” for your efforts from a grateful government. Questions?”

            Head still throbbing, Joel rubbed his temples. “And if I refuse?”

            “I thought we just went through that.”

            “So my sister and her husband and that little bitch maid are in on this.” The man stood silent, hands clasped in front of him. “What choice do I have? Okay.”

            “Wonderful,” said the man, walking down steps toward Joel. He was pale and thin with probing brown eyes. “Do you know Alice Grumman, a senior editor at the Tribune?”

            “The Iron Bitch?”

            “She will be your contact at the paper. All of your correspondence and articles must go through her.” He extended his hand to Joel, but was met with an icy indifference. The man turned away and pulled his jacket from the chair back. “Mrs. Grumman will be expecting a call from you tomorrow.”

            The next morning, stomach churning, a head full of rocks, Joel poured a glass of orange juice with a shaky hand while waiting for the coffee maker to finish. His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but decided to take it.

            “Yeah?”

            “Joel, it’s Alice Grumman from the Tribune. You were told to contact me, weren’t you?”

            “It’s 9:30 in the morning.”

            “I’m emailing you background on your first story. Deadline is two weeks. If you have questions about anything after you read the documents please call me.”

            “Okay,” he said.

            She disconnected immediately.

            He checked his email a short time later and found that the article would be a pretty routine piece on waste by a city department. He could write it in two days, so he went back to bed and slept until noon.

            Downtown. Dusk. Joel followed a well-worn path from the Tribune building down side streets and alleys, finally landing at the entrance to Kurt’s Liquor Lounge, the façade consisting of a scuffed green door and a large cracked black window. Inside, the air was an ancient musky mix of beer, body odor and despair. It wasn’t on the map of hangouts for most Tribune staff, but Joel knew the man he wanted would be here on a Friday after work. He found him in a booth, tapping on his iPad, a ravaged plate of nachos and half glass of beer in front of him. The bearded man pushed back a shoulder length trail of greasy brown hair and set his iPad screen down as Joel approached.

            “Kevin.”

            “Joel. What’s brings you to my favorite dump?” He was guarded, but not hostile.

            Joel slid across the cracked vinyl seat. “How you been?”

            Kevin leaned back and cocked his head. “Great, Joel. Absolutely peachy. And you?”

            He ordered two fingers of Jack Daniels neat and another beer for Kevin. “Couldn’t be better. Getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

            “Okay.”

            “You sound as if you don’t believe me. I guess that’s to be expected.” Joel picked up a nacho and inspected it. “Interested in some freelance work?”

            “Always.”

“I need to tap into your network for a few things.”

“You know the price. Let me know what you need.”

 “One thing about this project. Communications need to be old school. Really old school, verbal and paper only. No phones, emails, texts. Nothing.”

            “You must be in some deep shit, my friend.”

Joel drained his drink in a single movement. “It’s getting deeper by the minute.”

Three weeks and three articles later, Joel came back from an errand to find a manila envelope stuffed with damning information about Senator Mitch Keenan on his bed. It was documentation that could get the Senator some jail time, on the other hand, you could fill an envelope with similar nastiness on at least half the reps on the Hill. He set the envelope on a nightstand and made himself a drink. Joel stared at his monitor for several minutes, willing himself to start writing the story that would alter his life forever. Finally ready, he began tapping on the keyboard, picking up steam as he wrote, a flurry of words, sentences and paragraphs soon filled up the white page. He stopped to sort through documents, grabbing pieces of information from here and there, and then he’d start tapping again. Three days later the article was ready to send to the agent and Grumman for review. Back the next day with only minor revisions and a “Nice work” note from someone, Joel made the changes and sent the finished piece back to Grumman on Friday afternoon. It would run in the Sunday edition of the paper, he was told. He checked his savings account and was pleasantly surprised to see it had gone from the low four figures to the high six figures.

            Later that evening, he took a walk around the neighborhood. While eyes were on Joel, a man in dark clothing slid along the shadows of the oaks that encircled the large back yard, tucked a plastic bag under stairs leading to the door of a tool shed, and left the same way he entered. Joel returned to the house at 8:30 dying for a martini. Under cover of darkness, he pulled out the bag from its hiding place and took it inside, and set it next to his computer.

            Saturday morning was a gloomy mess with drenching rains separated by a depressing grey mist. Joel had been awake since six propped up in bed tapping away on his keyboard, increasing his word count into the thousands. His concentration was broken by a text. All it said was “Meet me at your apartment,” but he knew it was from Mr. X, and he picked up his keys and left the mansion.

            “Generic G-man,” said Joel, letting in the man into his apartment, who if anything, looked sicklier than the first time he had been there. “What a…surprise.”

            “I smell bourbon.”

            “I sold my soul to write, not become a monk.”

            “It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

            “It’s five p.m. somewhere. What do you care?”

            The man stopped in the middle of the living room and turned to face Joel with a tense smile. “Actually, I just came by to thank you. You wrote an excellent piece. By tomorrow evening, Sen. Keenan will be in the fetal position under the dining room table.”

            Something was off. The man’s words and expression weren’t matching up. The posture was wrong, his fingers were curled, not relaxed. Of course, the job was over and so was his usefulness. He’d been lured here to be killed. Joel smiled broadly and looked over the man’s shoulder. “Megan, glad you could make it.”

            The man turned his head and that was all it took for Joel to lunge forward and knock his smaller opponent to the ground. They grappled on the floor for a few seconds, but Joel was able to rise up over the prostrate figure and rain several fist hammers on his face, finally knocking the bloodied G-man unconscious. The first thing he did was find the man’s gun and slip it into his own jacket pocket then he located his phone and kept that. He tied the man’s hands together behind his back with an extension cord and for added peace of mind bound his feet together with an old electric guitar cord. It was a little bundle of government agent ready to put under the Christmas tree.

            Five minutes later, Joel’s phone rang.

            “It’s happening,” said the man’s voice on the other end.

            Joel put his phone away and dragged the slowly recovering agent into a downstairs bedroom. Moans for help were quickly silenced with a washcloth in the mouth. Checking his watch, Joel ran upstairs to his bedroom and began packing a carry-on bag.

            At eight o’clock that evening, Joel clicked the “send” button on his laptop. At nine o’clock that evening the Chicago Tribune’s main server was hacked.

            As part of his regular morning routine, even on a sunny Sunday morning as beautiful as this, CIA Deputy Executive Director Glenn Donnelly scanned national and international newspaper headlines on his iPad. He raced through a series of disaster and sky-is-falling marquees anxious to see the morning’s Chicago Tribune front page and the take down of the traitor Keenan from Minnesota. The masthead popped up and his eyes quickly darted over the page, then grew large with awareness and rage. The headline at the top of the page read: “Massive Midwest Pedophile Ring Busted.” The byline was Joel Happling.

Chicago — A pedophile ring based in Forest Lake with clients stretching from Denver to St. Louis to Washington D.C. has been broken up, say law enforcement officials. The FBI and Forest Lake and Chicago Police raided the home of Tina and Charles Hartwick early this morning where they found twenty-one children being held prisoners ranging in ages from seven to 12 in a highly fortified basement at the Hartwick home. Charles “Chuck” Hartwick, owner of Hartwick Industries and a former congressman from Illinois, was arrested along with his wife and an employee of the Hartwick’s. Computer equipment was taken from the home that officers say contain client names and addresses.

Heart beating dangerously fast for a 74-year old man, Donnelly fished his phone out of his bathrobe pocket, turned it on and saw he had 23 missed calls. Two were from the Director. One was from the White House.

The rusty SUV creaked and complained as it crawled along the rutted gravel road off of highway 12 west out of Helena, Montana. Joel finally pulled the vehicle to a dusty stop, got out and unlocked a heavy metal gate, then drove deeper into the tall, shadowy pine stands reaching up to a crystalline blue sky. Another half mile and a log cabin came into view, built in a clearing with fences of trees on three sides. It was rustic, isolated and lacked electricity, which was exactly why he bought it, and it would be home for the foreseeable future. Like a giddy groom, he carried the case of Jack Daniels and his fly rods across the threshold, ready to start a new life off the grid.