I. "A Sense of Insufferable Gloom"

Part Three

Agent Wyatt Douglass of the Environmental Protection Authority sighed as he listened to the voice coming through the receiver of his cellular phone. It was his most immediate superior. The man had long earned Wyatt’s respect. But at the moment, he was grating on Wyatt’s last nerve. A moment to speak at last presented itself. “Too many questions? What was the point in me coming here if I can’t ask questions?”

Wyatt paced in front of the farm house. He was mostly alone here, the majority of the other agents and investigators were either still inside or gathered near the back door. Wyatt squinted into the late afternoon sunlight angrily. “The right questions? How do I know which ones are the right questions without asking as many questions as I can?...Well, who are these guys?...Why do they have the...Oh. Well, that’s a bunch of crap, isn’t it? So why am I here?...Public relations, basically, right? Wow. How embarrassing for me...Huh? No, I haven’t found anything yet.”

That was a lie. While the man on the other end of the call had Wyatt’s respect, he did not have his trust. No one had that. There didn’t seem to be anyone truly left in the world to give that away to or allow to have. Wyatt ended the call, thinking of things he had found today. A picture of what had taken place on the old farm was forming in his mind. Wyatt had read the report taken by the first responders who had arrived on the scene apparently minutes after shooting erupted in the farm house centered in Wyatt’s gaze.

According to those initial statements, now being treated as holy writ to avoid any kind of real investigating, the agents representing the Environmental Protection Authority-along with their two escorts from the local sheriff’s office-fell under attack almost as soon as they arrived on the property. The surviving deputy moaned and groaned his emotional trauma as he had been carried by stretcher into an awaiting ambulance. “They led us...into...a trap...They...had it all set up...Oh, God! Why were they so...crazy?!”

Wyatt stared at the vehicle driven by his fallen peers. It sat silent and useless at one corner of the long gravel driveway. Twenty yards ahead of the bullet-scarred hood was the side of the farm house. The back door Wyatt had first entered was at too awkward an angle to cause the damage tattooed over the grill and fiberglass. Wyatt’s foot glanced off the deflated rubber of the left front tire.

Wyatt shook his head. It was not sitting right with him.

Inside the farm house, it was the small things that caught his attention. It was the things in his mind he imagined should have been one way in a place like the old house on the flat plains of the geographically centered state. Where were the family pictures? They seemed to be missing or scarce in number while antique store and flea market prints of various paintings and wall hangings still held to their nails in an unassuming decorative style. In the bedrooms, name plates were missing from trophies. Book bags were light and empty except for the forgotten loose change, the small bits of lunch money never to be used or taken again. The homework and school papers, report cards and permission slips to be signed by mom and dad were all missing.

Wyatt considered the crumbling barn outside, still smoldering and breathing out a gradually thinning column of charcoal gray smoke. He was staring at the red embers, feeling the sharp waves of heat radiating upward into the cold, winter air when he heard the anxious steps of Gordon Parks approach behind him.

“They’re just about ready to close up the scene, sir,” the bureaucratic wet-nurse said after clearing his throat.

“What about this barn?”

Gordon blinked as if noticing the collapsed remains of the charred structure for the first time. “Someone will be posted here...from the sheriff’s office, that is, all night. I’m sure it will be fine.”

Wyatt didn’t say anything. He didn’t turn around or make any motion to leave the spot he was standing on. Gordon Parks either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Where are you staying tonight?”

“Ardmore,” Wyatt said simply, staring into a red hot coal that had once been a support beam.

“Oh. Good.”

A long, awkward moment persisted when Wyatt made no sign of movement. He could feel Gordon Parks’ eyes staring at him, into him, trying to figure Wyatt out. “Umm...Agent Douglass?”

Wyatt noticed the sky, slowly beginning to darken above the crisp orange and crimson bands surrounding the setting sun. “All right, Mr. Parks. Lead the way,” he said with a sigh, stepping in hesitant time behind the younger man already walking with relieved glee toward their cars.

* * * * * * * * *

Mark LeVine stared at the empty blue sky hanging above him and the mostly empty parking lot surrounding him, spread out as if it were nothing more than a gray, lifeless plain. The afternoon sun had already begun to warn the hood of their beat-up sedan, warn down by the merciless miles of neglected road ways. The red paint was once glossy but now could barely hold a sheen on the best of days. It was dirt stained with random patterns of grease that had long ago bonded under many passing seasons to the faded detailing. The headlights were cracked and the tires were out of alignment. Mark took a deep breath, feeling the rough layer of dried-out paint underneath his fingertips. He did love that car, though. All things considered, Mark had little doubt it would be the last car he ever owned.

“Are you just going to lay there the rest of the day?”

Mark shifted his eyes, startled by the surprising sound of Zach’s sweet voice. It was even and casual, off-putting and disarming all at once. There was no hint of the stress simmering just under the calm demeanor of the twenty-nine year old blonde-haired man from rural Virginia. He was smiling at Mark, the subtle dimples on his cheeks more prominent in the cold sunlight. His green eyes stared up toward Mark’s, mercilessly locking onto his gaze. Zach was waiting for an answer.

Mark grinned. It was the only thing he could do under the weight of his boyfriend’s eyes, the glow of the lightly freckled face, and the embrace his presence alone provided. “No.”

Zach leaned forward against the car. He was tying to look extra cute. He had no doubt just by watching Mark he was succeeding. “Is there room for one more up there?”

Mark glanced down the length of the hood and pretended to sigh. “Oh, I think we could squeeze you in.”

Zach waited until he was laying comfortably beside Mark to ask, “What are you thinking about?”

Mark looked over at Zach. He felt his grin become a smile when Zach laid his head against Mark’s outstretched arm, the back of his neck snuggling Mark’s right biceps. “I’m just...trying to figure all of this out, I guess. I want to know why it happened. I want to know what we did.”

Zach shrugged his shoulders. “We’re not part of a union.”

“But we’ve never been part of one. The bakery’s been open for almost six years. Why, now, do we suddenly get...ransacked?”

Zach had no answer, no words he could think of to calm Mark’s racing thoughts. He squinted through the sunlight radiating down onto them. A woman was pushing a covered stroller up the cracked, barren sidewalk hugging the outside walls of the quiet shopping center. He watched her, suddenly thinking back to a recent event in the boys’ lives. “What about the adoption application?”

“What about it? And which one?”

A month before, Mark and Zach took the first bold step on a journey they had hoped would eventually lead them toward starting a family. There were at least two primary sets of forms they had to submit in order to just determine their eligibility to adopt a child and expand their household. New local equality directives required a couple to first report to the office of their local district Housing and Community Bureau. There, they would learn if there was room in their residential district for their family to expand. The availability of resources had to be accounted for and confirmed. The livelihood of everyone around them was at stake, after-all. At least, that was what had been taught to the public over the last two years. The first application was four pages and was to be followed by no less than a six week waiting period. The boys had gotten lucky. An elderly couple two blocks from their house had died the week their application came up for review.

“Either one,” Zach replied. “Both.” He turned his head, his eyes finding Mark’s. “Was there a question about union affiliation on either one?”

Mark quickly searched back into his mind, recalling the endless lines of questions. He sat up as he remembered, barely feeling Zach’s head lift away to free his arm. He answered, softly, his voice a coarse inflection of the sudden wave of fear and anger rolling through him. “Yes.”

Mark could see the question, the wording almost identical on the two different documents. He remembered his answer on both, his wording a perfect match. NO.

Zach turned his head away again, staring across the deserted parking lot. At the far end of the asphalt field, past the uneven and faded lines of parking spaces, two vehicles sat alone amongst the emptiness. He shifted his gaze for a moment, taking in the scene in front of their bakery. Even with the glass of the window and door smashed in, the interior of their store wrecked and marred by the spiteful, juvenile bitterness, a line of five vehicles were parked closely together. He could just barely make out the forms of the drivers standing in line for the few items available to buy.

“I wonder how they stay in business,” Zach asked, turning his attention back toward the far side of the plaza. “Are they in a union?”

Mark didn’t answer him, not at first. When he did, it was without words. Zach felt Mark’s weight shift and then heard his feet on the pavement. Zach looked at him cross his field of vision and asked, “Where are you going?”

Mark was already several steps away when he replied over his shoulder, “To find out.”