Free The Overseer by Jonathan Rabb

sounds of sirens, fire trucks, ambulances. Different scenes, all portraying the same confusion, the same controlled mayhem. National Guardsmen in evidence at every site. “You’re looking at Washington, Dr. Jaspers.” He slowly sat. “Not a pretty sight, is it?”
     
    L URAY, V IRGINIA, F EBRUARY 26, 8:17 P.M. Searchlights cut across the thick wood of the barn, glaring white against a backdrop of open field, streaks of red and blue from police cars encircling the lone building. Intermittent pockets of steamed air floated into the black sky, men with rifles waiting for their prey, newsmen with cameras waiting for the latest installment from a night unlike any they had ever seen.
    “I’ve just been told that all three of the Dutch diplomats are alive,” blared a voice through the bullhorn. “Critical, but alive. Which means it’s not murder. You still have a chance if you come out now.” Silence. The FBI man turned to the agent next to him. “Are we set in the rear?” The man nodded. “We give him three minutes; then we go. And tell these reporters to move way the hell back.”
    From the darkness, a crow swooped down and settled on the frozen ground between barn and police. It stood quietly, head cocked to the left, drawn by the powerful beams. Half a minute passed before the sound of a hinge creaking broke the silence; the bird turned. A stooped figure appeared at the barn door, lost in shadow. The bird suddenly began to run at him, flapping its wings, the man at the door confused, his hands up to his face to shield the light as he tried to run.
    A single shot rang out. Eggart’s head snapped back; he dropped to the ground.
    “Who the hell shot?” screamed the man with the bullhorn. He ran toward the body, two others in suits with him. “Jesus,” he said under his breath, “I hate these local guys.” The three men arrived at the body and flipped it over. The man shook his head and stood, then turned back to the lights. “No one’s going anywhere. I want to know who fired that shot.” One of the agents pulled a note from Eggart’s pocket and handed it to the man standing. He unfolded it and read: “For the sins of all Sodomites and those who protect them. Our wrath shall be swift.” He recognized the insignia at the bottom of the page. Another militia-inspired lunatic. “Seems he didn’t like the fact that our Dutch friends came from a country that tolerates homosexuals.” He placed the note in a plastic bag. “We’ll see what the lab has to say. See if it connects to the rest of today’s insanity.”
    Another pair of suits approached, these escorting a state trooper, a man in his late forties.
    “Is this Trigger-happy?” asked the man. Both nodded.
    “Grant, Thomas. Virginia—”
    “All right, Mr. Grant, Thomas. What the hell happened?”
    The trooper said nothing. Sacrifice, my government friend. There must always be a place for sacrifice.
     
    Sarah had moved to the fridge and was refilling her glass. “At last count, eight distinct acts of terrorism. The city’s been turned on its head—”
    “Hold on a minute,” Xander cut in, the last few minutes clearly having taken their toll. “In an alley ? Did they … hurt you in any way?”
    “No, they were professionals.” She dropped the bottle into the trash.
    “ Professionals ?” He shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on her back. “I’m not sure I understand … professionals ? How does that relate—”
    “Exactly my question.” She turned to him. “Why would they describe the chaos on that screen as a ‘ first trial ’?”
    “They called it a first …” A sudden recognition crept across his face, his words following of their own will: “First trial of conjecture by experience.”
    “What?” she asked.
    He looked up, his eyes still distant. “It’s the way someone in the sixteenth century would have explained experimentation.”
    “In English, Professor.”
    He turned to her. “A dry run. Something to test the