Credence Foundation

Chapter Eleven



Trumaine sat on a stretcher.

He was still in the underground parking of the Rampart and there was no sign of the car that had run him over. He couldn’t remember when the ambulance had arrived and he had no idea about who had sent for it. All he knew was that a young medic stood in front of him, conscientiously tapping his forehead with a wet swab smelling of antimicrobial. Beyond the medic, the ambulance driver could be seen, talking into the radio.

The medic dropped the bloodied swab and produced a big bandage he slapped across Trumaine’s forehead.

“It’s just a minor concussion,” he said. “Give it a couple of days and you’ll be as good as new.”

He rummaged in his case, retrieving a bottle of pills.

He handed them over to the detective.

“If it hurts, take one. It might cause drowsiness, so be wary not to drive, afterwards.”

The doctor smiled, then packed his things. He went back to the ambulance, where he started filling some electronic forms.

Trumaine looked at the pills in his hand. Maybe he should take one, his head was aching badly already. Then he thought that it could be worse than that, so he put the pills in his pocket.

He got to his feet and his legs felt like jelly.

He turned to see a squad car he hadn’t seen before. Inside it, Firrell and the platinum-wig girl from the sidewalk, the one who had called him “daddy,” were talking. It didn’t take them much to finish. When they did, they climbed down from the car and approached Trumaine.

The girl looked him over and winked.

“Hey, daddy, you ain’t dead, after all,” she said lightheartedly. Then she turned all serious and, in a worried whisper, she added: “You scared the hell out of me ... I thought you were.”

“It’s just a minor concussion, says the doctor.”

“It didn’t look like that, when I found you, I swear. Your face was all covered in blood.”

She was suddenly lost in thought.

“I’m always afraid something like that is going to happen to me ...”

“Too bad for you I’ll still be around to dispense my good advice.”

Trumaine grinned. Just listening to the voice of the girl had eased his headache considerably.

She looked him straight in the eyes.

“It’s economics I study, not science, by the way.”

For a moment, she was silent and she looked like an angel—Trumaine’s guardian angel.

“I better go home now, I’ve got a test due in the morning.”

She stood on her toes and pecked him on the cheek.

“Good luck, then. And thanks for looking over me.”

“Aww, don’t mention it, daddy.”

With that, she strolled off.

Trumaine stared after her until she went up the exit ramp, disappearing from view.

Firrell stepped forth. It was clear from his small eyes, the long stubble and the crumpled suit that he hadn’t slept a wink tonight.

“I’m sorry I kept you up this late, Grant.”

“It’s five in the morning,” tutted Firrell, “that ain’t late—it’s early.”

He made a weak attempt at smiling.

Trumaine realized with a bit of regret that the whole Credence thing wasn’t hard on him alone; it was at least as hard on his captain.

Even if Firrell had developed a thick skin during all the years he had been serving in the force, the long waking hours spent in the dead of the night would wear even the strongest. Firrell was a brave fighter devoted to pursuing justice and he surely didn’t spare himself.

As he looked at him, Trumaine prayed to God that they were both going to chalk this up along with the solved cases.

“Would you mind telling me what the hell you were doing down here?” asked Firrell.

Inadvertently, Trumaine touched his fingers to the bandage around his forehead and a fit of pain stabbed through his skull. He swore.

“I was in Matthews’s office,” he growled. “I was wrapping my head around models of belief, belief levels and believers’ test charts and reports. I was looking for some clue, when something happened that struck me dumb. A small stack of computer punch cards—you know, those plastic sheets riddled with small holes? It looks like they still use them, after all. Well, a stack of punch cards toppled over one of the reports I was reading. Through the punched holes, I could read some of the words in the report, as if they formed a sort of disjointed code. Do you follow?”

Firrell was doing his best.

“That’s when I realized the punch card I had found in Jimmy Boyd’s desktop drawer could have been used for the same purpose.”

Firrell furrowed his brow, not sure he got it right.

“It’s elementary cryptography. The code is provided by a given page from a given book—any book, you name it. You just need to find and mark the words that form your message—as they come on the page, skipping the words that do not match. This way, you will have a number of words placed randomly on the page. If you cut matching holes in a blank sheet and send it to a second person, he will only need to have the same book and know the page number to read the message.”

Firrell frowned even more as he processed the information.

“The punch card would have no meaning for anybody else,” he said.

“Exactly! The card alone means nothing without the book and the page. It’s a simple but very effective way for sending and receiving encoded messages.”

Suddenly, pain pierced through Trumaine’s head and he made a pause, trying to focus.

“I was looking for this punch card that was in Boyd’s desktop drawer. That’s why I came back. I didn’t put much stock in it, at first. But now I’m sure it’s some encryption key Boyd used to transmit information to someone else. What, I don’t know. It was a major clue and now it’s gone, Grant. Someone took it. He was in the room with me. When he ran, I could only glimpse him: five feet five inches tall, medium-to-small build. Damn, he was fast, I chased him from the apartment all the way down the emergency staircase, until we got in here. He climbed in his car and he was about to leave. I stood in his way, pointing the gun at him. Well, you won’t believe this. The same moment I shot, he drove away from the bullet.”

Trumaine shook his head in disbelief. “He knew the moment I was going to shoot. I’m sure it was him ...”

“The mole?” asked Firrell.

Trumaine nodded his head.

“I’m not so sure Boyd killed himself, after all.”

Firrell’s eyebrows didn’t straighten. They were getting nowhere with the case. He had really hoped that Boyd was involved, now it looked like he too was a victim.

“We’ll search the apartment again, if that helps.”

“It’s gone, Grant.”

“What is this really all about? I mean, what has Boyd to do with the Jarvas’ murder? How does it all fit into the Credence angle?”

“I’ll be damned if I know,” said Trumaine, bitterly.

“No doubt, you’re onto something. Credence is not the peaceful realm Benedict wants the world to believe. But we’re getting closer, I feel it. Keep up the good work, Tru, and we’ll get him.”

“If he doesn’t get me first ...” groaned Trumaine.

His head was aching again.

He was beginning to fear the telepath’s skills. The fact that he could read not just the contents of his memory, but also see in advance what his actions and his movements would be, gave the murderer a disproportionate advantage.

“Any news from the Hibiscus?”

Firrell shook his head. “Nothing yet. They’re still looking for it.”

He gave Trumaine the once over.

“You look like shit, Chris ... Why don’t you take a few hours off? Go home. Get some rest.”

Trumaine nodded tiredly, it wasn’t a bad idea.

The first, cold light of day was just sweeping the horizon. The ocean hung below it, gray and flat like a millpond. The few solitary trawlers that were already out looked like confounded ducks swimming in circles. Even if they hadn’t pulled in their nets yet, they were stormed by flights of hungry, shrieking gulls looking for a free breakfast.

An electric car sped along the deserted seaside highway, its engine whirring away, quickly enlarging.

A pale, overworked Trumaine sat behind the wheel.

His head was getting worse, but he couldn’t stop thinking. He couldn’t stop feeling an idiot for having been fooled two times in a row: with the punch card first, and then when he had confronted the murderer.

Was he getting old all of a sudden? Was he beginning to lose his touch? Or was it something else? If the case was totally off all known charts, he needed to develop a new set of skills and he better do it quickly if he didn’t want to end up like Jimmy Boyd and the Jarvas before him. He needed to think out of the box, this wasn’t the usual murder case. Weren’t those Benedict’s exact words? Maybe he knew a thing or two about telepaths, after all.

He could tell that there was something big behind the death of the Jarvas. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the faintest idea of what it was. Why did Boyd use encrypted messages? Was he an accessory to their murder? If, as it seemed, the intruder was the telepath they were looking for, could he have used his skills to induce Boyd to kill himself? Again, why did he need to do that? To throw them off? To put the blame on Boyd?

The turmoil of thoughts crowded in Trumaine’s head and he felt like it was going to explode any minute now.

He pulled to his right and drove away from the highway, along a side road that soon shriveled down to a track in the sand. By jerks and jolts, the car arrived at a washed-out beach house overridden with sage and rosemary bushes and dried-out weeds.

From this side of the road, it didn’t look much more than an old bungalow. The plaster had turned yellow, was cracking in many places and peeling off at the corners, the caulking needed some serious fixing and the weight of the sand that had piled against the fence had bent it backward.

It was all the “house” he had in mind of selling for a bachelor apartment in the City amounted to.

Trumaine left the car and approached a mesh gate eaten away by the salt, where a coiled wire made for a lock. He untwisted it. The gate screeched loudly as it swung on its rusty hinges. After he had stepped past, again he wrapped the wire around the gate, ever so carefully, as if it wasn’t a rundown vacation house he was locking up, but a princely abode.

It was to him.

Because, despite what unfortunate things had happened in that house, for a brief moment in his life, in there he had been happy. That time was long gone and all that remained were memories. And memories, he had found out, could be very hard to die.

He came to a weather-beaten paned door, brushed off his shoes as if he had been slogging through thick mud, then unlocked the door and, at long last, he stepped inside.

Even if the French door shutters were ajar, the pale light of dawn struggled to find its way in.

The house Starshanna loved had lost much of its luster; it was now silent and buried in dust. Thirteen years had passed since Starshanna had first set foot in it, when Trumaine had led her in, when she had opened her eyes and looked at it in awe.

No way would he forget about how things went ...

Six months later, she had been granted the much coveted job on Aquaria and she had moved there. They had kept seeing each other, of course. As promised, they took turns to visit.

Each time he went, Trumaine had to go personally to the Aquarian embassy and request a temporary visa, since they had never given him the citizenship he had so diligently applied for.

Trumaine went to the dinette and fished out the pills the doctor gave him. They were small, smooth and white in the palm of his hand. He took one and washed it down with the water from the least filthy glass he could find.

He then stepped to the dinette table and reached out for the tray. The few fruits it contained were almost rotten. Trumaine picked up the one barely edible apple, wiped it on his trousers and bit into it.

The bite revealed a small, yellowish worm. It wriggled frantically from his outraged sanctuary. Even if it disgusted him a little, Trumaine found the thing hilarious. After all, he thought, there still was a happy resident in the house ...

Clutching the apple and the worm within, he moved to the living room, pulled the French doors and went out to the patio.

He glanced in the distance, at the beach and at the ocean washing beyond it. Then, in a sudden fit of anger, he flung the apple. It rose high in a graceful arc, shrinking to a dot before it fell out of sight, into the thorny shrubs that overran the beach.

Trumaine shuffled his feet to the edge of the channel. There was no trace of the dolphin that used to splash in there. Starshanna had taken him with her, when she had moved for good, one year ago; when she had realized that their story was over. The cetacean brought back the most painful memories, so he didn’t object when she had suggested that.

The water the channel contained was also gone. The ubiquitous sand and the brushwood blown over by the autumn wind had replaced it.

Trumaine turned back, looking for something. It was a lonely and squashed bucket of metal that lay in a forgotten corner of the patio. He retrieved and studied it, then he threw it in the channel. It hit the concrete floor with a dull clang that reminded him of a mourning bell.

The jarring noise rang painfully in his head. Holding it in his hands, he wobbled to the one weathered deckchair that had survived the scorching sun and the salt and slumped down on it.

As the sun finally got up from the horizon, Trumaine closed his eyes and fell into the soothing arms of long yearned for sleep ...

The dream came as swift, silent and merciful as the edge of a slashing blade. It took away the rising sun and the day and replaced it with a big hanging moon, and with darkness.

The moon shone brightly in the sky, casting a beacon of light above a boundless stretch of dark, churning water, revealing a lone swimmer paddling quietly but steadily toward the shore.

It was a fit, young Trumaine who rolled out of a nine-foot breaker, dropping exhausted to the sand.

He lay there, drenching wet, getting his breath back, squeezing the water out of his ears and nose.

After a long while, the young Trumaine climbed to his feet. He reached out for a nearby towel and started drying himself. When he was done with it, he slung the towel on his muscled shoulders and crossed the beach, headed for a solitary vacation house seen in the distance.

Tonight, Trumaine’s house displayed the flowers and the lush plants that only thrive in the late, hot summer.

Water-filled bowls containing bobbing candles dotted the patio and the path to the house, providing a surreal, exotic atmosphere.

The dinette table had been moved from the kitchen to the outside. It contained a wide selection of fresh fruits and cold courses, as well as a couple of uncorked bottles of wine and some crystal clean glasses that sparkled in the moonlight.

Trumaine came up from the beach, arriving to the patio. He approached the dinette table.

Uncertain about what he should help himself to first, he snatched an apple.

It was round and unscathed. He bit into it, savoring it. It was pristine and fresh, sweet but also salty. It tasted ... of life.

He dug his teeth a second time, when he realized that someone was looking at him from the veranda.

He knew already who it was. He could tell the thin, lean body and the bony, delicate shoulders even in the shadows. Scantily clad, Starshanna leaned in the doorway, her body shining in the flicker of the candles, as if it was covered in some oily essence.

“How’s the ocean tonight?” she asked languidly.

Her voice had the easing but haunting sound of the surf.

“Damn cold,” said Trumaine, stepping up to her.

He stood an inch from her, inhaling her scent.

“You weren’t supposed to be home until next week,” he whispered.

“I gave you a surprise. Don’t you like surprises?”

Her eyes glinted from the darkness. Trumaine couldn’t help but let his gaze drift over Starshanna’s body, contemplating her. Her shapely, tight legs; her fit waist; the small, firm breasts of a swimmer; her full and damp lips.

He swallowed hard. “I’m crazy about surprises.”

He got as close to her as he could get without touching her, smelling her neck. He nibbled at her earlobe, pulling at it.

She shuddered lightly, letting out the faintest moan.

He shifted his hand over her thighs, then attempted to kiss her, but she jerked back playfully. He tried once more. Again, she pulled away.

Slightly thrown by her behavior, Trumaine stopped.

Amused and excited, she approached him. She kissed him quickly at first, then with more passion. The more the kisses, the more the passion that went with them. They craved and sought each other, their fingers clutching hungrily at their flesh like claws ...

Starshanna took Trumaine’s searching hand and led it down, toward her belly. Her breath became heavier and heavier. Soon, she was panting hard. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she threw back her head, toward the moon, and let out a long, deep and slow wail of pleasure.

When she came to, she kissed Trumaine. She took his hand and brushed her lips on it, then pulled him along and led him toward the silent beach.

They dropped to the sand.

Starshanna leaned over Trumaine, but he pushed her aside and straddled her. He searched through her clothes, frantic for her body. She fumbled with him, helping him getting rid of her clothes, but they tangled into them all the more. It became a furious fight until, suddenly, they were naked. Only then did they allow themselves a moment of rest.

When they clung to each other one more time, their movements were graceful, slow and tender again. They started moving in unison, taking the pleasure from each other like the bites from a ripe fruit ...

A few feet away, the roiling ocean lashed away, oblivious of the two solitary bodies engrossed in quiet lovemaking.

The now flat ocean glittered in the first daylight.

Trumaine and Starshanna were still on the beach. They sat on a blanket, wore their clothes again and were surrounded by the empty trays, the glasses and the wine they had brought from the patio.

Peacefully holding onto each other, they watched the sunrise.

The sun came up heavy and slow, bringing along a light breeze that blew cold through their bodies and made them shiver.

Starshanna’s body felt warm between Trumaine’s arm and under his fingers. It felt comfortable, it felt alive.

It was back then when he first realized he could never do without her. It was back then when Starshanna had turned with a smile and, as if she could read his mind, she said, “Chris. I want a baby ...”

Trumaine blinked his eyes open.

He was still in the weather-beaten deckchair on the patio. It was noon and he could feel the warmth of the sun on him. He stirred and sat up, feeling better. All that was left of his headache was a vague throb in his temples. He had an unpleasant furry tongue and his mouth felt dry; it must be the side effect of the pills the doctor gave him, he thought.

He glanced around him. Except for the man standing just outside the French doors, looking at him, nothing had changed.

Trumaine couldn’t tell for how long Firrell had been there, but it might have been some time.

Firrell walked toward him. From time to time, he threw disappointed glances at what was left of the house. Trumaine couldn’t help but notice.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing ...” said Firrell with an innocent shrug.

“I know what you’re thinking. The house is a mess. It’s dirty, the roof needs fixing and the walls are in bad need of a paint job. Is that it?”

“Since you are at it, why don’t you throw in some shoveling? Give it another year, and you’ll be buried in the sand. Also, why don’t you get rid of that cracked deckchair you sit on? Buy a new one, plastic may be cheap, but it’s eternal.”

Trumaine glanced at the bleached couch he was sitting on. Nothing much was left of the original coat of paint; here and there, a few stubborn flakes still hung to the worm-eaten wood showing below.

“Anything else?”

“The pool’s empty. Don’t you swim anymore?”

Trumaine shook his head. He had had enough of water. He could remember a time when he couldn’t do without it, when breathing the brackish smell of the ocean sent a lively shiver down his spine. Not anymore.

“Ask the guys,” suggested Firrell. “I’m sure they will be more than happy to give you a hand.”

He fished out something bulky from his pocket.

“You left this behind,” he said, handing it over.

Trumaine took the bundle and unwrapped it to find his taser gun. He retrieved it and inspected it. Apart from a recent scratch in the butt, it looked fine. He held it in his hand for a moment, feeling its weight, then he put it away in his underarm holster.

The two were silent for a moment.

Firrell kicked a pebble.

“Are you okay, Chris? Head blows can be nasty.”

“I’m fine, Grant ...”

“Been thinking?” asked Firrell with a good deal of expectation.

“I’ve been dreaming.”

“About her?”

“Every goddamn time I shut my eyes. She’s everywhere I look ...”

If there was anything that prevented Trumaine from focusing on the case, Firrell needed to know. Maybe being friendly and straightforward with him would help ...

“How long since you last heard from her?”

Trumaine made a vague movement with his hand.

“Four months?”

“Why don’t you call her? I’m sure it would do you a lot of good.”

“What for? She was clear about it, she won’t come back. That’s it for me.”

“Why did you let her take the dolphin? If anything, it kept you company.”

Trumaine didn’t say anything.

Firrell set his jaw then, trying to be as casual as he could, he asked, “You still love her?”

“I think I do ...”

“But you won’t call her, goddammit!” exploded Firrell. “You’re the most stubborn jackass I’ve met in a very long time! You’d rather lie in here, writhing in painful memories and despair than just goddamn call her! You—you—”

Firrell threw his hands in the air with a defeated scowl and stormed toward the house.

Trumaine straightened his numb back.

“What about Boyd’s postmortem analysis? Was he doped?”

“No, he wasn’t!” snarled Firrell. Then, after he had cooled down a bit, “He didn’t use any drug within the last six months. If you ask me, I doubt he’s ever tried anything stronger than a light cigarette.”

“A sudden illness that could have pushed him to the limit?”

Firrell shook his head. “When he died, all blood parameters were in the norm; he was as sound as a bell. The reason he killed himself—if he killed himself—lies somewhere else. I thought of asking his parents for an explanation. Unfortunately, since Credence is down, so are long-distance communications.”

“Anything about the pirate vehicle?”

Again, Firrell shook his head. “I’m afraid the parking cameras only got the model—a Meteor ’55. It’s an old relic of a hybrid vehicle. Ugly as hell, but quite reliable. There’s still a bunch of them still whirring along in the streets.”

“Can we check them all?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing all the morning? About twenty years ago, when the vehicle first came out on the market, pearl-white was a fad. The computer spit out a list of two hundred forty registered vehicles—just in the City, mind you. No vehicle is registered to a believer. None belongs to a believer’s relative, either. That’s what you’d call a real help from the mainframe database, huh?”

“Nothing else?”

“About the punch card, we turned the apartment over. You were right, it’s gone ... Time ticks away, Tru. What are we gonna do next?”

Trumaine was grateful the pain in his head was gone and that he could think clearly again. He must go back to Credence and to the believers’ chamber as soon as possible, of course. As Benedict said, he needed to stay close to the telepath. But he also wanted to follow any lead, however feeble, that would shed some light on Boyd’s death. Jimmy, with his vanishing punch card, was a key piece in the puzzle that was Aarmo Jarva’s murder. If only Trumaine could link Boyd with Jarva ...

“Jimmy Boyd kept his university yearbook with his valuable books,” he said. “I guess it meant something to him; but what?”

“Maybe he was a sentimental guy?” threw in Firrell.

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

Trumaine stood and his legs felt strong again. He took a few steps toward the house.

“Where are you going?”

“Why, to the City University,” said Trumaine.