This Theist's View Of The Universe

     The first thing that impresses me about your acquaintance’s response is that it really contains nothing that qualifies as an argument - although this was clearly what you requested. So maybe you should start by asking your question again, then get back to me. I’m obviously being slightly sarcastic, but I’m also being serious. If I’m missing something, please let me know. The only argument that he advances is a fallacy. He, at one point, defends his belief in evolution by saying that it is a theory of the same caliber as gravity. Yes, it is considered a theory by science, right alongside cell-theory and relativity, but this isn’t your fault. A theory in science is an accepted fact, regarded as no longer needing proof. Cell theory, of course, needs no further proof because it’s been observed time and time again. If you walk up to an particular oak tree, you don’t need to observe it under a microscope to be scientifically certain it is made up of cells, because you know that other oak trees have been observed and been shown to be made of cells. But, of course, as he himself says, theories are subject to modification. At one point, gravity or “gravitational theory” (as he oddly puts it) was thought of, by science, as being a sort of Star Wars tractor beam, emitted by a celestial body, sucking objects toward it. Now we know (or think we know) that it is caused by a ripple in the single fabric of space and time caused by the mass of the celestial body, which when followed by smaller objects causes them to drift towards it.. He also states that gravity is “not generally questioned by the general public”. This is another aspect of the same fallacious “argument”. I guess he’s saying that since virtually nobody questions it, neither should you. I know you well enough to know that isn’t going to satisfy you. The point is that Evolutionary Theory is certainly not a theory in the same sense that Cell Theory and the Theory of Relativity are. Both of these latter are clearly observable, but Evolutionary Theory is not, except for in the fossil record which falls far short of proof, most notably because fossils are dead and contain little or none of the fossilized life’s original material. Also, I believe, the reason that many scientists generally consider the Theory of Evolution as an accepted fact is because it, or some derivation of it, is the only choice available within their worldview (religion??). This makes the creation/evolution debate really a question of philosophy or metaphysics. Therefore, while the Theory of Evolution may be accepted fact to modern science (or modern scientists) it is most certainly not in philosophy or metaphysics. If you accept it as such, he has won the argument by default. 

     Most “scientific” people are loath to recognize the philosophical/metaphysical nature of the creation/evolution debate, but it is certainly true. Evolution is the choice of atheists, because it dovetails with their religion. Really the word “choice” is not applicable. Theists believe that God created the universe, atheists believe that the universe created the universe. Theists have faith in the supernatural, atheists have faith in nature. Both points-of-view require faith. Theists have no choice in the matter, neither do atheists. Theists may have more freedom to maneuver than atheists though. Theists can choose between the biblical creation account or a more deistic view of God as the driving force behind an evolutionary process. The latter is almost as weak as the atheistic evolutionary theory, but at least one isn’t left with blunt instruments like mutation and natural selection as driving forces. Atheists are stuck with Darwin in all his pre-genetics glory. If you can think of another option, let me know. Furthermore, this option basically amounts to spontaneous generation, a concept that died with the 19th century. To mask this embarrassing truth, evolutionists, almost uniformly, resort to personification of natural selection and mutation and even throw in “Mother Nature” from time-to-time, assigning words like “design” and “plan” to inanimate forces incapable of intent. In light of this, his statement that “the scientific process starts with observations and ends with a body of facts” is nonsense. 

     He doesn’t really give any of the “overwhelming evidence for evolution” that he refers to, but I’m sure he has the fossil record in mind. Moreover, he throws out fearsome references to “endogenous retroviruses”, “phylogenetic inference” and “molecular data” apparently referring to evidence for evolution in genetics. This sounds a lot like a smokescreen to me. If someone told me to feel free to research <fill in name of discipline here> and you’ll find I’m right, I’d be more than a little suspicious. He never gives any of the overwhelming evidence that’s in the fossil record or in genetics, so I wouldn’t know how to counter him. Sometimes I think, that the evolutionist “argument” bears more than a passing resemblance to the Stalinist/Maoist “big lie”, i.e. if a lie is told often enough without challenge, it becomes accepted fact. We, Christians, must be extremely careful not to fall into the trap of arguing with the restrictions set in place by our opponents. I don’t mean that you shouldn’t argue from science, we just shouldn’t allow our opponent to dismiss our concerns casually, which is what happens. You put my problem with the fossil record as proof of evolution very succinctly when you said “every species reproduces after its own kind, and such patterns are genetically predetermined”. Basically, you are quoting the Bible’s “each according to its kind”. The fossil record shows exactly that, but this argument is often casually put off as the overly-simplistic explanation of a religious zealot and scientific neophyte who’s copped out by resorting to magical explanations. Before moving on, we need to demand an explanation for the lack of transitional species. If evolution were true, the fossil record should show unbroken transitions of species. As a matter-of-fact, I think it should be somewhat hard to tell where one “kind” begins and another “ends”.


     In regard to genetics, again you sum it up well, saying: “The form is a direct representation of the information from whence it comes.” If you were to study genetics for decades, I doubt you could come up with anything better than that as a summary. Does the DNA of a fish have the “ability” to eventually become a dog? Certainly genes can mutate, but can they make a leap of that magnitude? (Never mind that the effects of mutation are most often deleterious, as he admits) It’s at this point that the evolutionist usually resorts to “billions or millions of years” as the secret sauce that makes all possible. It always seemed to me that it is “billions or millions of years” that are the evolutionist’s god. Who knows what can happen in this amount of time?? Clearly, we can’t be satisfied with that, we must find a biological mechanism. Also, Darwin’s original theory relied heavily on his belief in the inheritance of acquired traits, i.e. if I become deaf from a childhood disease, I may father children who are also deaf. When this was found to be untrue, Darwin’s view of natural selection, to a large degree, broke down.

     When I was younger, I would often attempt to take the initiative in an argument and seek to prove my case. This is fine, but when you aren’t an expert on the subject (and it’s impossible to be an expert on every subject), it can be very difficult. Your father once told me, in reference to apologetics, particularly against cult beliefs, that it’s much more important to know what YOU believe rather than what the other guy believes. This can take you a long way. You’re a smart guy, so make them explain themselves to your satisfaction (and hopefully to theirs as well). A statement like “The second law of thermodynamics only applies to closed systems” is obviously used fallaciously here. When you’re talking about something as all-encompassing as evolution, I’m not sure what constitutes an open system or a closed system. Is it an open system then? If so, what is it open to? God? His obtuse analogy: “...is like tying your unlaced shoe and claiming that the complexity did not just increase” also doesn’t pass muster as bolstering his argument, but it might bolster yours. In context of this discussion, I think it just might be God who’s tying your shoe. His dismissal of the term “macro-evolution” is also self-serving. This is clearly an attempt to use a little sleight-of-hand to re-frame the argument in his favor. “Micro-evolution” like the famous black moths “succeeding” over white moths in England as the Industrial Revolution began is obviously true to the point of being a truism. Lumping the metamorphosis of single-celled organisms into humans (macro-evolution) in with these moth’s success (micro-evolution) is almost breathtaking in its audacity.

     My point is that you don’t need to commit every scientific tome to memory in order to argue with people like your acquaintance. On the contrary, I believe it can be a hindrance. You’ll more often than not fall into a “forest-for-the-trees” blindness and confusion. Put this debate into its proper place: metaphysics. You will find that just beneath all the impressive-sounding jargon lies the real reason for his belief in evolution: his atheism. That, far more than anything else determines his views. He can’t believe in God, so he, as a matter of course, must accept the humanist evolution myth. Metaphysics should be your point of “attack”. Moreover, in my opinion, you’ve already “won” the initial round of the argument over the physical evidence by default since he did not advance any counter-arguments to your assertions that a) the fossil record supports creation by “kind” and b) our modern knowledge of genetics tells that a “kind” reproduces only another of its “kind”. He must confront these assertions with something other than a smokescreen before discussion of the particulars is appropriate.

     Isn’t it a shame that we live in an age when philosophy and metaphysics is largely viewed as quaint and antiquated? These disciplines were rightly seen as foundational for millennia and nothing has changed. In fact, the first scientists were, of course, clergymen. We have morphed from a nation of thinkers to a nation of technicians. Since you are a thinker and scholar, I don’t need to tell you that this is a bad thing. Such a nation is a follower nation, not a leader. A follower nation since we are no longer able to metaphysically justify our actions as good or bad. Macro-Evolution is simply another symptom of secular humanism, which has come to the fore since The Enlightenment. Others include socialism, judicial activism and justice as rehabilitator rather than punisher. As a military man, you know that as recently as World War II this nation was capable of seeing itself as an force of good set against a force of evil. Now it seems we are not, since we are unable to denounce, or at least publicly denounce, something as obvious evil as the Islamist movement.

     I hope this helps. At any rate, it was fun to think about and discuss with a brother. And hopefully, at some point in the future, we will be able to discuss things further over a pint.

On a Lee Shore 13 - Demons in the Forest

There are demons in the forest.  In small villages like Guasimalito, on all three of the earth’s continents with third world populations, there are demons in the forest.  Ask any villager.  Within its borders, the village shelters its people, but in the black-green shadows of the timbered primordial expanse beyond, they’re on their own.  And at dusk, the dark ethereal perimeter seeps slowly inward, and as the shadows of the trees stretch toward the east swamping their sanctuary, the inhabitants bed themselves down behind doors and compound walls in hope to making it through until light.  Night.

The men are on the move toward a new target.  Several weeks ago on a different continent, Guasimalito, Jose Mirobal’s village, has already been hit, but the profile of tonight’s target is the same.  A remote village in a heavily forested region of a country plagued by civil war, drug-running and banditry.  The forest gives the men cover to launch a quick strike into the village and the ability to disappear quickly afterward.  The region’s history of unrelenting violence allows the men to do their worst without fear that an undermanned and corrupt regional police or militia, if it even exists, will take too much notice.  

    The hysterical shriek of a tin whistle sounded by the squad leader rips through the village’s nocturnal peace signaling the start of another incursion.  Teams positioned to the north, south, east and west of the village surge forward out of the trees toward their targets.  But these targets are not chosen at random.  One week earlier, the scout squad, disguised as missionary workers visited the village, identifying villagers in comparatively good health matching the requisite blood types and genetic profiles, taking photographs of those selected, and marking the GPS position of each target’s home, for use by the harvest squad.

    And so it begins.  Teams of three approach each targeted house.  One man, stationed outside keeps guard, armed with a AK-47, the nondescript weapon of a drug runner or revolutionary, under orders to neutralize any alarmed villager who might attempt to interrupt the operation.  Forcing entry to the home, the other two men shove flashlights in each occupant’s face, compare them to the target photos and either select or reject.  Resistance offered by an occupant, not being extracted, is eliminated with a single shot to the head.  The bewildered target is then bound with plastic cinch cuffs and gagged with duct tape.  Under no circumstances is the target to sustain any damage other than superficial injury, the viability of the target is preserved at all costs.  Members of the squad know that damaged goods will not be tolerated.

    On to the next house.  There, a frightened girl, only 14 years old, has been targeted and is being extracted.  Eyes bulging in their sockets, she frantically searches the room for an explanation, her hands bound tightly, her mouth gagged.  On the floor, her father, recently widowered, is bleeding out from a wound to the head that has severed his temporal artery.  He is alive, but not for long.  The victim’s legs are not restrained, the extraction teams need her to walk on her own.

    Exiting the village in the directions from which they entered, the teams travel at least two miles out of their way before doubling back to a stretch of road running from north to east of the village.  This is the rally point.  Waiting at a point in the road north of the village, a van begins bumping its way along picking up each team, in turn, as it moves to the south and east.  Each target is placed on a rack in the van, designed for just this purpose.  Only then are the victim’s legs restrained.

    Seventy-five kilometers to the southeast, a small field hospital has been set up, equipped with a reasonably sterile operating room, where a surgeon does the unthinkable.  The victims, including the young girl, are taken one by one, alive, into his chamber but emerge only as empty husks to be discarded and harvested merchandise, cryogenically preserved, to fill Miguel Mariposa’s manifest.    

On a Lee Shore 12 - Revelation

    Three o’clock in the morning.  Cold sweat.  Night terror.  Her open door let the rising flood of moonlight, deep on the floor outside, gush into her room in a torrent.  Black night behind the blinds of her windows and in the haunted, grasping trees beyond.  Her body shook in the wet sheets, the room spun and for a full minute she gasped for air, her lungs compressed, as she frantically tried to scream out.  

    “I’m awake!   Calm down.   Dammit!  Calm down!”  She lay frozen, not daring to move, her ears straining to detect any foreign noises in her room or in the bungalow made by the specter that had visited her.  After an eternity, she realized she was alone.  “It was just a dream.  All a dream.  I’m home.  In my bed.  Daddy’s the only one here.“  Relieved, she gave in to two or three jarring sobs that she let force her into a fetal position, which she held, her arms wrapped over her head, squeezing her body into a knot and shutting her eyes tightly, trying to force the fear and panic out.  

    How the does it happen?  How do memories in the subconscious brain re-emerge into the conscious? Is it simply a matter of chemicals shifting position?  Electricity redirected onto different circuits?  Neural impulses changing paths?  However it happens, as she slept that night, the details of the night of Katie’s death slipped out of the shadows, showed themselves and then slipped away again, leaving her with no direct recollections of the events but only memories of the dream now past, a strange ability to know of the thoughts of others in the dream, and the certainty that what the dream revealed was the truth.

    Alone in the dark room, she took inventory of the fragments of her dream.   In her dream Miles sat apart from the others that night, not drinking and watching… watching Katie.  Not drinking, staying alert.  Katie was talking to Chris, and Miles, she was sure, was intent on knowing what they were talking about.  A heavyset man also made an appearance, clumsily hitting on Katie, trying to buy her a drink.  And in the end, Miles had looked at the heavyset man and given him instructions, she knew, omniscient in her dream, with a single look.  His instructions were, “Yes, she’s the one.  Kill her.  Get rid of her for me.”

    It‘s true, she gasped to herself, Miles murdered Katie or, at least, arranged it.  Miles.  Her Miles. The fact asserted itself in her mind and wouldn’t be denied, no matter how much she wanted to doubt it.  At that moment, she was a seer, a psychic, her mind connecting to something in the natural world, that it couldn’t access in its conscious dimension.  Miles killed her.  Still she wanted to doubt but it wouldn’t let her go.

    She spent the rest of the night, lying still, piecing together the events of last few days - Miles' behavior, yesterday’s meeting with the Mark Hall, the FBI agent - while slowly emerging from the strange state of consciousness, it’s power over her gradually diminishing until departing, finally, at first morning light, but leaving her with an inescapable understanding of what had happened.  She reached for her phone on the nightstand and called Shannon.

    “What’s up?” Shannon mumbled groggily.

    “You’re going to think this is crazy, but I think I know what happened to Katie…”

    “What??”

    “I know, it sounds stupid.  But I’m sure.  I know it.  I know it.  Can you meet me somewhere?”

    “How about the beach?”

    “In an hour?”

    “An hour?!”

    “Yeah, please?”

    “Okay.”

    She got there well before Shannon and nervously paced the area of the beach where she felt Shannon would go to first.  It was only then that she considered the implications of her early morning vision beyond what had happened to Katie.  If Miles had done what she now believed he had done, what did he have in mind for her?  Shannon?  Her father?  Even Chris who was the last person Miles had seen talking to Katie?  Her first instinct was to doubt the accuracy of her dream - it was a dream after all.  Her second was to doubt her own sanity.  Her third was to seek shelter up near the dunes where she wouldn’t be so exposed out in the open.  Her eyes studied each approaching form, which, one by one, proved to be strolling retirees and beachcombers, until, at last, out of the haze of the early morning sun and salt spray, she saw a form that she recognized.  Closer and closer it came.  White t-shirt.  Black, knee-length, athletic shorts with a blue stripe down the side.  Dark skin.  Red, curly hair, pinned back.  Searching green eyes.  Shannon.

    “This better not be a joke.”

    “I swear to God…”

    Cara had intended to start at the beginning and give an orderly account of the last two day’s events, but instead she excitedly launched into the details, darting back and forth idiotically between last night’s dream and her conversation with Mark Hall, until Shannon, exasperatedly, slowed her down.

    “So… it came to you last night that Miles ordered some guy to kill Katie?  In John Steven’s… the night she died.”

    “Yes.  That night’s been just a blur for me until this dream… I got so drunk that night.  I guess it’s always been there.  I can see Miles doing it:  looking at Katie then to that fat guy.  Do you remember that fat guy?”

    “Vaguely.  Balding.  Little goatee.”

    “Yeah.  And then the other night when you and Miles were arguing Katie about that night at John Steven’s… Miles lied.  He said he was drunk but I know he wasn’t… he didn’t drink anything but Diet Coke.  I remember thinking it was strange then.  It was the conversation, I had with this guy Mark, the FBI agent that must of triggered all this.  And oh… he was there that night too!”

    “The FBI agent was there?  That night?  At John Steven’s?  What?  Before Katie was killed?  That can’t be a coincidence.”

    “Yeah, he told me he was and at first I didn’t remember him.  But now I do.  I was talking to him.  But I was so drunk…”

    They stared at each other.

    “He’s following Miles… investigating him, maybe…” Shannon said,  “Or… he’s investigating you because he knows you’re with Miles.”

    “Yeah, like I told you, when I was leaving the police station, he walks me out to my car…  then he just asks me what I know about Miguel Mariposa - Miles’ father - and that he knows I’m seeing Miles.  That was it… and he had this look in his eye like he didn’t want to say more… and then he tells me to be careful. ”

    “Here’s what he’s doing.  I know it.  He’s gotta be investigating something that Miles’ father is involved with.  You know… we’d always heard that he was some big connected guy or something… and he’s identified you as being on the inside - he must want you to watch him.”

    “Me?”

    “Yeah, he wanted to plant all that in your head… so you’ll watch Miles and, I suppose he’s hoping that you’ll report what you see back to him.  That’s it.  The guy’s taking a risk.  What if you just go and tell Miles all he told you and Miles warns his father and they just pack up their little show and leave?”

    Cara thought for a while.

    “I know why he’s not worried about that,” she said.  “The last thing he said to me before I left the police station was, ‘Did you know your father is a associate’, or did he say ‘former associate of Miguel Mariposa?’”

    “Shit.  He’s got you. Doesn’t he?” said Shannon.

    “Yeah, I better keep everything he’s told me to myself, because he’s got something on my Dad.”

    Cara sank down into a heap in the sand, covered her face with hands and cried. Shannon crouched down behind her and put arms on her shoulders, barely able to keep the tears back herself.

    “What is going on?  This can’t be happening.  What am I supposed to do?  What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Cara blurted out, nearing panic.  “I come down here to try to help my Dad out, I mean… he’s become this hopeless drunk… and now this…  What is he involved in?  Something big enough to get somebody killed?  You gotta help me, Shannon, help me think what to do.  You gotta help me. ”

    “I’ll help you…” said Shannon calmly.  “I will… This is good… in a way… because now we can do something… We’re gonna work with this guy Mark - at least we’re gonna try. Here’s the thing.  I think I know why they killed Katie.  Remember, Miles didn’t just lie about being drunk that night.  You busted him in a lie before.  Remember?  At the beach, the morning of the day Katie was killed.  Miles told you he was going to be one place, but Katie saw him up at Swan’s Wharf where Johnny keeps his boat.  She saw Miles and a bunch of other guys unloading something off a boat…”

    “That’s right!  And she said that he looked at her like he wasn’t too happy to see her.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Jesus…” stammered Cara.

    “I also remember Katie saying that one of them was a cop.”

    “Well, they're smuggling something.  Something valuable enough... or incriminating enough... to kill for.”

On a Lee Shore 11 - Interment

    “…we now commit this body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes; dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, who will change our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body…”  The minister spoke these words like an incantation, beneath a green awning, where the guests huddled and Katie’s flower-piled coffin lay poised, suspended above the open grave, ready to be lowered.  Then it was over and they left, plodding, black-clad, through the neatly manicured grass of the cemetery to their cars under the raining skies.


    A mostly spent Atlantic storm stalled over the Keys bringing rain for the next week.  Each day, Cara made the drenching trip from the bungalow to work and back again, like the raven from the Ark going to and fro, finding no place to rest and no dry land.  At the Parrot, conversations, regardless of  how innocently started, ended up in the same place, with something Katie said while sitting on this barstool or that, the time Katie got stuck in the ladies room or something that Katie drank, after drinking something else, that made her sick.  But talk of this sort was dropped as soon it came up for the way Katie died made such happy memorializing unthinkable.  Those who were so inclined ended up in tears and those who weren’t either stared ahead blankly, pretending to be drunk or made clumsy conversation for cover.


    The bungalow was worse.  Her father spent most of the time drinking in front of his laptop, producing nothing.  Paula came by a few times and attempted to get him out but he wouldn’t go.  They ended up sitting around making stumbling small talk and after a while she stopped coming by.  Being with Miles was easier.  She could talk to him without worrying about him mentioning Katie.  He avoided the conversation even more carefully than she did.  In fact, he didn’t seem to want to talk about her even in the rare moments when she did.  In the evenings, Miles and Shannon sat together in the Parrot while, from behind the bar, Cara served them drinks until their grief was bearable.


    And so it went until one night, after yet another session of directionless, anesthetized conversation, Miles spoke up.


    “It sucks that it happened, but I guess if you think about it, it might have been inevitable.  Katie was just the kind of trusting person who would walk through a dark alley in a bad area of town, see someone, then instead of running in the other direction, go over and talk to them…”


    Cara and Shannon sat quiet for a moment until the shock passed.


    “I certainly hope that’s the beer talking, but let me get this straight. You’re basically saying that Katie had it coming.”  Shannon said, turning sharply toward him.  “Please tell me that’s not what you’re saying…”


    Miles’ face flushed.  “No… I mean, you have to admit, she always went into things so unquestioningly… like a little kid…”


    “Sometimes people do things when they’ve had a little too much to drink, that’s true.  Things that they might not do when they're sober, but Katie walked down that alley a hundred times at all hours of the day or night, and nothing ever happened!  Nothing!  Not a damn thing!  And that area of town isn’t exactly the 'hood either.  It’s no worse than where I’ve lived for a year now.  And no one’s even so much as looked at me cross-eyed.”


    “I didn’t mean anything by it…”


    “Well why say it if you didn’t mean anything by it?  If you don’t having anything to say, don’t say anything…  Don’t say anything, just keep your mouth shut!”


    “Okay, drop it then.  Let’s just sit here...”


    “That’s what we wanted," continued Shannon.  "But you brought it up and now it’s out there, so let’s talk about it!  What makes you feel so qualified to say such shit?  Your rich-ass upbringing?  She was the sweetest person I ever knew.  So sweet it made me sick sometimes.  And now she’s gone.  Someone crushed her skull, left her dead... and she’s gone.”


    “I guess we’ll have to be more careful when we’re up there.”  he said, trying to pacify her.


    “Yeah, be more careful.  I suppose next time you’ll be walking us to our cars?”


    “Yeah, I suppose I will be.”


    “Well, why didn’t you?  None of this would've happened if you'd done that the other night.”  she said contemptuously.


    “I guess I was too drunk.  Like everyone else.”


    Cara standing silently by, held her breath as memories of that night poured back into her.  The image of Miles sitting at the other end of the bar, watching, eased its way back into her conscious mind for the first time since that night.  “He wasn’t even drinking that night.”  She thought to herself.


    “You know, it would go better for you and everyone else if you gave up pretending to be a human being and go back to being the pretty house-plant that Cara wants.”


    Miles’ expression darkened, his eyes deadened, his teeth clenched and with an predatory leer, he looked at Shannon and hissed, “So that's the way you want it, huh?” You have no idea what you're doing, you fucking bitch!”  In a instant, Shannon’s anger collapsed into tears and gathering her things, she looked at Cara with wet eyes and hurried out.


    Miles walked her home that night.  She knew he was doing it as a concession to the things Shannon said, but to her it seemed that they walked along, more wary of each other than of any threat.  He droned on, making benign conversation, attempting to restore the status quo.  Like a pilot burbling on over the intercom while trying to regain control his aircraft as the passengers wretched into airsickness bags.  She didn’t know how to account for it; he was walking her home to keep her safe, but somehow she felt that she wouldn’t feel anymore threatened if she were walking alone on the exact spot where Katie was killed.  She’d never put too much thought into Miles or what he might be thinking or doing.  In general, she’d always kept the advantage in life by concentrating on her next move, not anyone else’s.  Was he the houseplant or was she?  At hand when the mood struck him or, at the very least, on the periphery.  The tension increased within her with each step.


    By the next morning, the rain moved out and a blanket of heat returned.  After some much needed rest, Cara was able to shove these thoughts to the back of her mind.  She hung around the bungalow, cleaning up and lounging in front of the TV.   Her father sat, brooding, in his usual spot on the jetty.  Her phone rang.  She didn’t recognize the number.


    “Hello?”


    “Hi.  I'm Special Agent Mark Hall of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  I’m looking into the death of Kathleen Corcoran.  I understand you two were close friends and I wonder if you could come up to Layton Police Headquarters to spend some time talking about her with me.  I’m sorry if this upsets you, but it’s really important.  Could you come in today?”


    “I’ve got work today.  I’ll have to see… but I’m sure I can.”


    “Good.  Can you make it up here by noon?”


    “Yeah, I think I can.”


    “Good.  Thanks.  I’ll see you then.”


    She hung up and stood still for a while to take it all in.  She made some calls and got someone to take her shift, then sat around fidgeting for the hour or so before it was time to leave.  At around 11:30, she told her father she was leaving, went outside, hopped into her jeep and headed toward Route One for the trip north to Layton.


    Arriving at the precinct, she walked in, gave her name and who she was there to see.   The officer on duty called for an escort and she was taken back through an office space abuzz with police officers yelling to other police officers, rushing in and out with nervous citizens, standing in groups, holding animated discussions or sitting in cubicles clicking away at reports.  From there she was led into a hall lined with interrogation rooms.  Above each room, an illuminated sign indicated whether the room was occupied or not.  A broad-shouldered Clark Kent of a man, looking to be in his mid-thirties, wearing a crisp white shirt, tie and shoulder holster, came out of one of the rooms at the end of the hall and walked toward her, smiling.


    “I’m Mark Hall,”  he said.  “You must be Cara.  Thanks for coming up on such short notice.  I would have been more accommodating to your schedule, but I’ve got to be back up in Tallahassee for the rest of the week, so I was glad we could meet today.  If you don’t mind, could you come with me?”


    He led her down the hallway and into the room he had just exited.  Just beyond this room, across an aisle, there was small area of empty cubicles.  The interrogation room had absolutely nothing in it other than three chairs and a table.  They went in.


    “Sorry about the interview room.  It tends to make people uncomfortable… but that’s sorta the point.  Do you feel like you’re on American Justice?" he smiled.  "All that‘s missing is a light bulb dangling from the ceiling.” 


    “Actually, I do. “  she said, laughing back nervously, by reflex.  “What’s this about?  I talked to the police after Katie’s death… a few times by phone.  But that was it.”


    “Do you remember me?”  he asked, leaving her question unanswered.  “You talked to me at John Stevens the night Katie died.  If you don’t, I’ll understand.  I never seem to leave much of an impression,” he laughed.


    “There’s a lot I don’t remember about that night.  It’s one of the few times, I’ve been completely drunk.” she replied, beginning to contemplate what it meant that an FBI agent had been there that night, even before Katie had been killed.  “Although, bits and pieces of that night have been coming back to me over that last few days.”


    “Yeah, that happens and, to tell you the truth, I’m glad to hear it.  The police down here haven’t been able come up with much.  So I’ve been helping out a little.  To start out with… Katie’s - that’s what she went by, right? - well, her death, her killing,”  choosing his words carefully, “just doesn’t make much sense, in its most obvious context.  I mean, there's not much evidence of a motive.  Her watch and rings were missing, we know that, and her bag was spilled, but her wallet had over $400 and it wasn't touched.  There was no sign of sexual assault, nothing.  If I see something like this, I usually think it’s an execution and a clumsy attempt to cover it up by taking a few items of value.”


    “Who the hell would want to execute Katie?” she stammered, confused.


    “I don’t know.  I wanted to ask you that.  Do you know if she had any enemies, anyone harassing… bothering her.  Any debts?  Anything at all that raised a red flag in your mind.”


    “No.  Katie was friends with everyone.  And she’s got money,  from the settlement of her father’s estate, seven, eight years ago, money’s never been a problem.  Frankly, she’s loaded.”


    His phone, sitting on the table in front of him, rang.  He picked it up, looked at the incoming number and said, “I really do apologize, but I have to take this.  Excuse me for just a minute.”  He got up and walked out of the room, leaving the door open.


    She sat and stared blankly ahead at the white walls as her mind whirled about trying to get its bearings.  Outside the room, he had stepped into a cubicle on the other side of the aisle and as he talked, he paced in and out of the cubicle.  When he was outside of the cubicle she could hear parts of his conversation.


    “I’ve got her here now… No…  Yes, the Colombian officer’s name is Pinzon… I talked to him this morning…  the village is Guasimalito… Yes, identical to the reports out of Thailand and Ghana… they took five there… only two were recovered… the same wounds…  harvested…  Yes, he’s another one… the guy in Amsterdam… sick as a freakin' dog last month… on the list… nothing else would save him… sounds like his wife… funeral… turns up fine… yeah, rich as shit…  we saw his house… “


    She heard nothing more as he walked several yards down the hallway.  Then she heard his footsteps as he returned and resumed pacing.”


    “Mariposa… and the son… No, no evidence that he’s involved in shipments down here and I have no idea how they are managing the refrigeration…  I gotta go… I’ll get back to you.”


    He stepped back into the room and as he did, he looked at her for just a instant and his eyes told her something.  She had a peculiar suspicion that he had intended for her to overhear his conversation.  She looked back at him inquiringly, but he re-assumed the professional bearing he had before he left the room.  He continued questioning her, very blandly, asking her questions that he didn’t seem to particularly want answered.  Then suddenly he was finished.


    “Thanks for coming up here today, Cara.  Can I call you that?"


    "Sure," she replied.


    "Good.  Do you mind if I contact you again if I have any more questions?"


    "That's fine."


     "Good.  If you don’t mind, I’ll walk you out to your car.”


    Together they walked out of the front door and across the ludicrously hot parking lot to her jeep.  She got in, put the keys in the ignition then looked up.  He stood at a distance, looking uneasy as if contemplating his next move, then walked to driver’s window and looked intently at her.”


    “How much do you know about Miguel Mariposa?  You're seeing his son, Miles, aren't you?


    She nodded indecisively, unable to manage an audible response.


    "... and you know that your father is an associate, or former associate, of Mr. Mariposa, right?” 


    He stopped suddenly, carefully, as if calculating a risk.  “I’m sorry, don’t answer that.  You have my number.  Be extremely careful.”  Another pause.  “And call me… anytime…  if you need anything… anything at all…”

Over There - or - Somewhere South of Victory

On a Lee Shore 10 - The Doomed Village

  Jose Vasquez Mirobal lived in the small village of Guasimalito hidden in the northern Andean foothills, 150 kilometers south of Medellin.  He was 84 years old.  His family had been here as long as any of them knew and life had not changed as long as any of them could remember.  They owned a small swatch of land, carved out of the rugged, wooded slopes, where they grew coffee, by hand, hiking the five kilometers up from the village each day during the growing season to tend the plants and carrying the yield down on their backs at harvest.  With his craggy, brown skin and stooped posture, Jose looked like he had been whittled from the stock of one of the plants he tended. On Sundays, he went to mass at the village church, Nuestra Senora de la Asuncion, lit candles to the Virgin and prayed to be blessed with favorable weather.


    At his age, Jose couldn’t help much on the farm - and nobody expected him to.  Still, each day, while the coffee was maturing, he would hike up to the fields and walk among the plants and inspect their progress, picking a bean here and bean there, rolling them in his hands and pressing them to his face to inhale the aroma.  Whatever opinion he formed of the development or quality of the crops in the course of his inspection, he never passed it along to anyone.  In fact, he never spoke at all.


    On this particular day Jose, taking his cue from the sun low in the sky, began his journey back down to the village.  Through the woods at the south end of the fields, he picked his way between the rocks and trees and fallen moldering branches and leaves splashed by the late day sunlight, the steamy aroma of rain and flowers strong in his nostrils, vines like snakes reticulated in the green-draped canopy overhead.  At the clearing, he could see down the hill to the village set against more lush hills and far in the distance the mountain peaks, snow-covered even at this time of year.  He removed his cap and mopped the sweat from his forehead.  Smoke from a hundred cooking fires spiraled up and hovered low over the houses of the village and in the tall trees nearby.  He hobbled on, down a path worn in the wildflower-laden grass, to the stream.  The stream was the last obstacle before the village road and he crossed it each day with care.  The year before he had fallen at the ford and split his head open on a rock, forfeiting the next day’s trip up to the groves.


    While it may be tempting to find his life appealing in its simplicity, Jose and his fellow villagers live hard, almost unbearable, lives.  Beyond the threat of disease and injury common in their environment, many endure dull pain from toothache, parasitic infections and bones and muscles ground down by the constant work required to survive.  Then, of course, there were the troubles that seem to punctuate the entire history of their country.  When Jose was a young man he had lived through the series of civil wars known as La Violencia, that took his father and an uncle, and later the reign of the cocaine cartels, first Medellin and then Cali, each taking the lives of relatives, the former his only son.  Like rural peoples in similar areas of the world, the villagers of Guasimalito don’t look to science or sociology to explain their problems, they find more satisfactory explanations in religion and the secret wisdom of their cultures.  And so it would be with the new trouble about to start.


    Jose shuffled his way down the main street of his village and stopped outside the public house where the men of the village gathered at the end of the day.  All the chairs on the patio outside were taken so he took a seat on a wooden crate on the dusty outskirts of the gathered group of men deep in conversation smoking and sipping beer and aguardiente.


    “Good evening, Jose,” someone said.  Jose looked up and smiled but did not reply.


    “It was as if whatever did it wanted those parts in particular.  I hear they were removed as if by someone who was very skilled with a knife.” 


    “I’m telling you… those are the most beneficial parts to eat.  The liver and the heart.  It’s sure to mean that whatever did this, did it for sustenance.” 


    “So we’re supposed to believe they were eaten?”


    “How else is it to be explained?”


    “You are the most extraordinary ghoul!  Only a madman could speak this way.  Eating the remains of the dead!  One should be more delicate when discussing such matters.  Remember that the family are old friends of my family.”


    “But there are evil spirits in the forest.”


    “Certainly.”


    It was the same topic as the night before and the night before that.  Jose settled into his seat, reached into his pocket and retrieved a wad of paper folded around several leaves of his beloved Nievo tobacco.  He rolled a cigarette from a portion sparingly chosen, placed it in his mouth and lit it.  


    “To me, it’s clear that this was done as a warning or a punishment, by the cartels or the revolutionaries.”


    “Nothing has been heard from them in this area for years.  But I have heard that one of the victim’s mother was a fortune-teller.  Perhaps a witch and a whore.  Although I don‘t know what man would want a whore that looks like her.”


    “I would want a whore that looks like Maria Estelle…”


    Some of the men laughed.   Most remained disdainfully quiet, causing the young man who made the comment to blush deep red.


    “Didn’t I hear that she could be hired to make incantations on people as revenge?”


    “It is sad. Young people always suffer when their parents become involved in such things.”


     “Foo!  The buñuelos here do not taste as good as they used to.”


    “And besides that village did not contribute as it should have to the fiesta of St. Fermin.  In general, their young people do not attend mass and several of their groves were hit by the blight last year.“


    The young daughter of the man who owned the public house brought a glass of beer to Jose.  He gave her a coin.


    “But what about San Esmeralda?  They had a victim there and they have the most beautiful church in 100 kilometers and their priest lives like a rich man.”


    “A priest should not live as a rich man.  That’s a sin in itself.”


    Jose took a deep draught of the beer and a deep drag of the Nievo.


    “A priest should devote himself to doing good, organizing the fiestas and visiting the sick.  So that men like us can concern ourselves with making money.”


    “I‘m suspicious of ordinary men who ‘do good‘.  Look at the missionaries who came to the village this morning.  Spending their own money to give the children injections of medicine and taking blood from so many people.  Just to study them?  To prevent sickness?   There is nothing free.  What is the real reason they do this?”


    “There’s not much money in what we do anymore.  The big coffee plantations hog too much of the market and the politicians line their pockets with the profit.”


    “You say that every night.  Stop talking about it and light a candle to St. Fermin at the church.  That will keep your crops healthy.  Is that not true, Jose?”


    He’d heard enough.  Jose got up, smiled, put his glass down, wiped the corners of this mouth with the back of his hand, placed his cap back on his head and started toward home.


    “Good Night, Jose.”


    In the morgue at police headquarters in the city of Medellin, Detective Lieutenant Lino Pinzon, stood next to the city coroner over a slab holding the cold body of a young man.  The young man’s body had been opened neatly from crotch to throat.  He’d seen violent death before but he knew this was different.  This was the ninth victim he’d seen in this condition.  How many more were there that hadn’t been found?  People were always disappearing in this country and  lately, the blame had been reflexively placed on the revolutionaries using terror tactics to keep potential sources of intelligence to the police quiet.    


    He stood lost in thought.  There were two central facts in the case that he hadn’t put together yet - mostly because there were few people who would talk to him and the ones that did gave him the same distraught tales of forest demons and unlit candles.   The two central facts were:  a group of missionaries would visit a village providing medical care and testing to the villagers and then young people would disappear and turn up in the same condition as the young man lying before him. 


    By the time he put the two facts together, it would be too late for Jose’s village.