Vanessa

VANESSA

David Lee Howells

Copyright 2013

Smashwords Edition

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 – TAPS

Chapter 2 – MOTHERS

Chapter 3 – ALLIANCES

Chapter 4 – 1 PM

Chapter 5 – 2 PM

Chapter 6 – 4:40 PM

Chapter 7 – ANNIE

Chapter 8 – MELISSA and MARY

Chapter 9 – RELEASE

Chapter 10 – EXPERIMENT

Chapter 11 – FRANK and ALLEN

Chapter 12 – IMAGES and REFLECTIONS

Chapter 13 – VANESSA

Chapter 14 – NATALIE

Chapter 15 – KLUKKERS

Chapter 16 – DAY 4

Chapter 17 – MADNESS

Chapter 18 – DAY 3

Chapter 19 – CHANGING ATTITUDES

Chapter 20 – ATTACK

Chapter 21 – RALPH

Chapter 22 – DAY 2

Chapter 23 – APRON POCKETS

Chapter 24 – RESURRECTION

Chapter 25 – COUNTDOWN

Chapter 26 – GOODBYE

EPILOGUE

Members Of The Tale

Meet the Author

Other Books to Read

Prologue

Atlanta, Georgia, was captured in September of 1864 by Union forces. In a move that earned him the most notable split of military admiration and revilement since the English and French argued regarding Joan of Arc, William Tecumseh Sherman abandoned his regular lines of supply and prepared to embark on his March to the Sea, setting his sights on Savannah. His army was made up of 60,000 infantry and 5,500 cavalry. General Sherman severed his connections to supply on November 12th, 1864. On the 14th and 15th, he set about the burning of Atlanta. On the second day, at Atlanta, he stated I can make Georgia howl, and set off for the sea cutting a swath of destruction 60 miles wide, burning mostly what they didn’t take for sustenance.

Orders were given by General Sherman to send out foragers who were to take what supplies the Army needed, but not to enter homes or damage private property. Some men were willing to disobey those orders. Some officers were willing to look the other way, often for a cut of what was stolen. These men were given the name: bummers.

What follows is a tale of sins unforgiven, of hatred undying, and of a family that formed to face a demon

Chapter 1 – TAPS

The long-forgotten foraging party of the Third Division of XX Corps sat on their dead but faithful frozen mounts in the gathering darkness that belied the fact that it should still be daylight. Soon it would be so black that you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. There would soon be no moon or stars to give light. So it had been every night for a century and a half. Private Elijah Cooper looked to the heaven of gathering pitch and prayed one more time for forgiveness for himself and his fifty-two comrades. Another in that party, separated from the others, seethed within his madness, swearing revenge would surely be his tomorrow.

That same evening, far to the north, were other players in the stages that would eventually follow. A minor player, for now, was Barbara Meissner; a student at RPI in Troy, New York. The hour was getting late for most people, but she had a long way to go before turning in. Keeping a grade average above 3.7 meant late hours, little sleep, and almost no social life. She leaned back and took in the smells and sounds of a student’s dormitory nightlife. Coffee, pizza, perfume and beer were the traditional aromatic essences in a woman’s dormitory, trading individual intensities and dominance according to the time of day, and which day of the week it was.

Since it was a Tuesday night, the smell of coffee led the pack and sounds were low key...except for Barbie Babe. Most female dorms had one, but this one really took the biscuit, as her great grandmother used to say. Melissa Banks was Barbie’s real name, the one most people used to her face. She had an unfair share of looks and her parents were mega-wealthy. Added to that, she had her hooks into Allen Hawthorn. This one would play a larger role in a grander game, but she didn’t know that, yet.

Barbara sighed. You think a Barbie would be happy, but nooooo. The sounds from the room beyond her wall confirmed that thought.

Barbara Meissner took a study break and launched a gossip-information recon. RPI was a technical college, but she chose a decidedly low-tech glass, placing it against the wall and settling her ear to the other side of it. Barbie lore was always good at the breakfast table for laughs with her friends.

This bites Allen, it really bites! This is mega-unfair of your mother! I had things all planned out. You’ll just have to call her and tell her to delay the meeting till next week. That’s not asking too much, is it? I’m going to look real foolish if you bail now!

Melissa, I’m really sorry. I feel bad enough about it already, so cut me some slack, will you? I’ll make it up to you, I promise, as soon as I get back. This isn’t going to take long, but I have to go. I gave my word and Mom is counting on me to keep it. Like I told you, this meeting is tied into the funds that keep me here in RPI. What good would attending my birthday party be if it meant I couldn’t be here next semester because I’m out humping jobs to pay for the semester after that? And I’ve got to hang there if I accept some kind of offer my benefactor is proposing till Monday.

Fine, FINE, leave already! Your mind is made up and there’s nothing I can do about it. Just don’t think I’m going to hang around the phone waiting for your call!

That was uncalled for, and kind of dumb, he thought. Melissa wouldn’t be waiting by the phone because she had her SatCom with her 24 hours, either in her purse or hooked on a belt clip. Still, he got the hint. Maybe it was just as well, for Allen didn’t feel much like talking to her for the time being. Things had been tense, lately. Melissa seemed so pre-occupied with things social, which meant little to him.

Sometimes, they were a perfect match. Other times, she was from Mars...or was that Venus? He might have been able to break it off (he’d thought of doing that once or twice a week), if she wasn’t so damned attractive. Allen Hawthorn left Melissa’s dormitory and stopped outside to look at the stars. His mother used to show them to him, when he was little, teaching him the constellations and how to tell a planet from a satellite from a star. His mother would live to see Allen’s star rise in a constellation neither had even dreamed of.

Rachel Hawthorn Gladstone sat in the dark at her dining room table, looking through the bay window at the stars. The re-heated coffee warmed the memories stirred by the sight of Pleiades. It was her favorite constellation, also called the Seven Sisters. It was a small star grouping that actually consisted of many more than seven, but only seven were visible to those who had named the cluster so long ago. She thought, Isn’t that the way of things? Things are always more complex than they seem on the surface.

A letter sat on the antique cherry wood table. She wasn’t extravagant, but what she had, she made sure was worth having. Her son had picked up on that quirk; what her husband, Frank, called the Hawthorn vanity gene. It was just as well that he was out with the kids at a charity baroque concert, for she really didn’t want to deal with him right now. Who gave charity concerts with baroque music, anyway?

Her terry cloth house-robe was another familiar touchstone from the past, like the Super Mom cup Allen had given her for Christmas twelve years ago. She took her coffee and the letter, walked over to the living room to her favorite reading chair and read it, again.

"Dear Mrs. Gladstone: Your son, Allen Hawthorn, will reach his 21st birthday on Wednesday, September 26th of this year, 2047. According to our agreement, his benefactor will be afforded a private meeting with Allen for no less than two hours. You will be provided with a live video stream of the meeting (no sound) as a token of his good intentions.

"The identity of my employer will only be revealed to Allen at that time. You and Allen both have the right to halt the meeting, temporarily, if either of you feel the need. My employer and your son may continue their conversation after the two hours only with the full agreement from all parties. Regardless, Allen’s college tuition assistance will continue until he will be graduated with no more than six years of full-time attendance. All of this is in your copy of the signed agreement reached after the unfortunate demise of your husband, Mr. Carl Hawthorn.

"The research on Allen’s paternal family tree must be brought with you on standard mini-disc (MiDi) format. This must be complete and reach back four generations. Pictures of each ancestor are recommended but not required. You have already informed me that this has been achieved and we thank you for your efforts.

"Also, recall that your husband, Frank Gladstone, and the children from his previous marriage, are not to be in attendance.

"If Allen agrees to terms proposed by my employer, he must be prepared to make himself available for an excursion that will last until Sunday, September 30th of this year. All expenses and arrangements will be arranged and taken care of by me.

Be assured my employer has Allen’s best interests at heart and that this meeting will represent a marvelous opportunity for his personal advancement. I look forward to meeting the two of you personally. Gustav Mendelssohn, P.C. September 17th, 2047.

Tomorrow was the meeting she had agreed to fourteen years ago. She had no more of a clue to what it was all about now than she did back then. The proceeds from Carl’s life insurance and shares of stock in the company he spent half his waking hours with had paid off the house and other debts, with a reasonable sum left over that she had invested most of. The rest, along with what she made part time, gave them comfort, but school tuition went up every year. Allen’s two scholarships also helped, giving her son the opportunity to invest some of the funds Mr. Mendelssohn sent into things like a reliable vehicle and a PC that was the envy of all but the snootiest of classmates; she laughed to think that most of them didn’t know what to do with their status symbols other than to download games and naughty pictures, probably.

Frank had his own children to plan college assistance for. He would have helped with Allen’s, but it wasn’t necessary. That likely saved a few squabbles on finances and responsibility. There were enough things to squabble about already. Yet, with all that, what really nagged her was that her consuming curiosity might never be satisfied as to the identity of their mysterious benefactor.

Not that she wasn’t grateful. When Carl died in that awful accident, her world fell apart. Allen was only four then and hardly remembers his father now, but she could recall holding him for nights on end. She remembered Allen’s unanswerable questions about when Daddy was going to come home, and that brought up the soft ache in her heart any thought of that time would bring. Frank had suggested she see a psychoanalyst to get her feelings out in the open. Maybe it would help her feel better, but she didn’t all that much want to feel better. Why was it that men tried to help, when it wasn’t help that a woman was looking for? Just a strong shoulder and some sympathy. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

Well, a two-hour chat for the person who anonymously stepped up and took care of everything from tuition to funeral arrangements is not too much to ask, either. She went to the ultrawave to heat up her coffee, again. (Sigh) But who could it be?

The following morning, far to the south, below the Mason-Dixon Line that now represented only a minor historical artifact promoted by roadside souvenir stands, Annie stood on the porch of her home. Annie was mad. She was also dead. That was a dangerous combination. Her children weren’t up yet, but the birds were singing. Today, the soldiers will come again, as always. Maybe today her Archibald will return and they can be a family again.

Southern sunrise also saw those same dead but never resting soldiers open their eyes to another November 23rd. It was always November 23rd. They awakened in their saddles, and some would halfheartedly curse the sun for rising again. Their commanding officer, Major Benjamin Covington, looked at his men and felt his heart ache for them.

Refuse it, he rallied, REFUSE IT, BY GOD! But his will was too weak to fight the unseen force that beckoned them on. Weariness beyond bone weighed upon the soldiers of Sherman, too fatigued to rage at their fate or to do anything but begin the Passion Play on yet another day. By 9AM, they had left Little River on the first leg of their journey of fourteen miles. There was no hurry. There was only one way, though each prayed for some other way, by habit. God wasn’t listening to their prayers today, as usual.

Meet the most ancient (living) member of the coming dance of the fates. Ryan David Fitzgalen half woke to that semiconscious state where memories had surprisingly clear details. His wife was out somewhere. He’d find out where when she returned. Today was the day he’d meet Allen Hawthorn, up close and personal. It wouldn’t be the first time, though. Ryan turned back the pages of time.

It was in the playground of Myer Elementary School in nearby Hurley. The yard was full of 1st through 5th grade students. Ryan watched, leaning against his 2030 Chevy Solar SUV in the shade of an old elm. The children were so full of energy and there was constant activity to catch the eye across a wide vista.

Kickball, swings, jump ropes and catch are all games that seem to stay the same no matter how many centuries pass. No one ever improved on the basic concept of the slide, with the minor exception of changing the surface to a type of plastic that no longer burned youthful thighs on sunny days (he smiled at that painful but sweet memory). Playgrounds were one of the few things he had seen stay relatively constant in a world fascinated with advance and gadgetry. There was one child his eyes kept coming back to. He saw the boy in the outfield in a game of kickball. He was a handsome young lad, healthy and full of piss & vinegar, as his mother used to say. There was a bruiser of a child stepping up to the plate and the backfield was moving further back in anticipation. Sure enough, mini-moose, who was a hand and a half taller than any of his classmates, power-launched the ball with a whump. The boy ran back as the ball stopped rolling ten feet away from Ryan’s feet. The boy ran up, grabbed the ball and executed a fine drop kick to get it back into play. The boy then turned around and looked at him. Ryan said, It’s not time yet, Allen, and got back into his SUV. As he drove off, the rear view mirror showed the boy standing there, watching him, until the shouts of his teammates brought him back to the game.

Then, that sweet voice from nowhere and everywhere softly whispered to him, That one’s going to break some hearts. That voice came from a soul named Vanessa. She was much older than Ryan. At least her spirit was.

"Give me a break; he’s only in 4th grade.

"They’re starting earlier all the time. You’re old enough to know that. I think he’s ready for the talk, if you know what I mean."

Ryan recalled shaking his head, signaling a left hand turn, and driving off to his next appointment. They loved each other enough to give each other the last word half the time.

The same sun also warmed the windows of an office building in Kingston, NY, where a secretary rose from her desk to personally greet two arrivals. Mrs. Rachel Gladstone and Mr. Allen Hawthorn. We have all been looking forward to your arrival. Please, come this way.

Mrs. Rachel Gladstone took a mental snapshot of the office, beginning with the secretary. She was attractive, but not stunning. Long, very dark brown hair and dark complexion. Mediterranean? Her voice was warm and her smile was genuine. The office reception area was cozy, but not cramped. There were enough diplomas on the wall to reassure, but not overwhelm. The furniture was pleasing to the eye, but not antique enough to fear placing a cup on a table. The whole picture, she thought, was a balance between comfort, hospitality and confidence. The secretary seated them in the lawyer’s office in comfortable (not plush) chairs and asked them, politely, to wait. The secretary smiled once more and quietly closed the door.

Mr. Mendelssohn’s office featured the familiar and traditional. Wood was mostly preferred over plastic. There was the typical desk, and the wall had the hallowed framed two-dimensional metal representation of what ancient mariners must have once thought the world looked like (a Navy man?). Then there were pleasant additions that reflected attention to detail and concern for clients: the quiet whisper of an air filter, oblique and full spectrum lighting. There was a tea and coffee service ready with porcelain cups.

Good morning, said a man, entering the room. Mr. Mendelssohn will be with you in just a minute. Don’t mind me, I just work here.

Mother and son both took stock of a mildly graying but sturdy man in a light tan sports coat as he walked over to a computer port and pressed his thumb on the recognition panel. The screen immediately came to life, responding to his obviously experienced taps on the finger pad. Though too far away to see clearly what was on the screen, one could see a lively series of transitions before stopping at a bank of pictures of people. The door opened again.

Please forgive me for keeping you waiting. I am Gustav Mendelssohn, at your service. Please, call me Gustav. I think familiarity will encourage our time here to be the most fruitful.

Fair enough, said Allen. Why don’t you start the ball rolling and tell us about yourself? We’re in the dark, so shine a little light, please. The man at the computer suppressed a smile. It was brief and subtle, but good mothers are observant creatures. Rachel Gladstone was a good mother. Allen missed the strange man’s smirk entirely. Rachel saw that as well and thought, One more reason that men will never be mothers.

(Good man. Gets right to the point, excellent.) Very well, I was graduated from Cornell University in Ithaca, NY, in 1998 in the top ten percent of my class. I preferred general practice for the first part of my career. I sold off my practice to devote full time to serving one client about twenty years ago. Mind you, this was not out of laziness. I’ve had to subcontract paralegals and farm out some of the issues to other specialty firms whom I have come to trust.

Rachel thought, He knows his limitations and appears happy with his station. Add that to the messages of the whole office and trust has taken seed, but mystery has planted it on rocky soil, as far as I’m concerned.

The lawyer continued. I am Snow Shoe, PA, born and bred. I moved to New York to take over a practice from a retiring lawyer. I was married and divorced twice, and have no children. I like sailing, skiing and classical music. Will that do, for now?

Pass-times are solitary and introspective, Rachel mused, ...which fits his profession. I like this man. No mixed signals, everything is consistent with his personality. Will that mean that I will like his employer? Twenty years of serving one person (man?); the two of them would have to be compatible.

The lawyer’s question had been aimed at Allen, who responded with, Sure, sorry if I seemed abrupt. So, what happens now? He refrained from mention that this meeting had created a lot of turmoil for him back in Troy. Though not as observant of his environment as his mother was, Allen had been brought up in an atmosphere of respect and good manners. This was not lost on the other two men in the office.

Well then, Master Allen, it is time you met my employer. I present to you, and to you, Rachel, my employer. Gustav said no name, but extended his hand to indicate the man at the computer station.

That man stood up, gave a smile and a slight bow, and said, Good morning. Please, call me Ryan.

Chapter 2 – MOTHERS

Unknowing of events going on in the hated North with Rachel and Allen, back in Georgia, the shade of Annie Edwards began her morning duties. There was always work to be done, always and forever, it seemed. The children awakened and once again her heart began to tighten and ache. Their eyes looked to her with a vestige of forlorn hope, but they could see that things had not changed. It had been going on too long for them to complain. They had given up on that a long, long time ago. And so, the children began another day of play, which was all they had to stave off the dread they endured.

Nodding, Annie turned to face her home. The house was kept wonderfully neat. The new help worked hard to keep it that way since the slaves had run off. Ingrates, she thought. She and Archibald had always treated them nice, hadn’t they? Better than any of her neighbors had treated their own slaves. By what rights did hers go and run off for, leaving her with all the work? And it was hard work for one lone woman with two little children. Well, they had good help now and she hardly lifted a finger to keep her home spotless.

Take a moment to turn back the clock. Fourteen years before Allen and Rachel met Ryan for the first time, Carl Hawthorn died. It was an accident; a moment of time that changed Allen’s and Rachel’s lives forever (Ryan’s too, they would find out). Carl pulled to the side of Interstate 87 to render help to a middle-aged woman who had her car’s hood up in the universal plea for help.

Over the police and fire scanner, which he always had on as a volunteer paramedic, he heard the call regarding a car stalled on the side of the highway two miles ahead. Carl turned on his dash and rear window mounted blue lights before stopping, then pulled off into the grass by the Interstate and stepped out. There was plenty of room for traffic to get by, so he didn’t double-check behind.

A sleepy driver’s eyes were drawn to Carl’s flashing blue lights. The driver didn’t realize that the attention shift also caused him to steer towards those lights, until it was too late. Carl’s last thought after getting out of his Dodge Packrat 4x4 was to try and recall where the parked Volvo’s bumper jack was supposed to fit. He felt no pain and left the world like a light that was simply turned off. The suddenly wakeful driver of the Ford Constellation II could only take in a confusing array of events: a loud thump, his windshield spider-webbing and reddening, a strike of metal on metal, his air bag deploying, and the rapid spinning of his car. Then, the very brief breath of silence after his car had come to a stop was shattered by the banshee screech of eighteen wheels that almost drowned out a diesel’s horn.

The Ford driver had less than a second to look left and see the Peterbilt’s grill that hit him broadside. From what was left of man and machine, only the VIN and NYS license identified to police and rescue workers the car’s make and the man’s identity. The lady standing by her Volvo was left without a scratch, but her subsequent years of nightmares required medication and long hours of therapy. Most of Carl’s body was found seventy-five feet away from the point of impact.

Rachel was home at that time. She had picked up Allen from pre-K at Winterbear, had dinner cooking and a portable phone conversation going with Allen’s future kindergarten teacher. She was a whiz at organization and was well known for being able to juggle half a dozen projects at once. The receiver gave a call-waiting beep. Her chat with Mrs. Eckert being mostly concluded, she excused herself from that conversation to move on to the next.

Allen had come in to show his mother his mastery of shoe tying and to ask when Daddy was coming home. Mom was at the oven, standing very still. He saw her reach forward and turn off the oven and two burners. Mom? When’s Daddy coming home? She turned to face her son. Mom, why are you crying?

Back in present time, Rachel asked, once surprise had a moment to subside, Is there a last name to go with that, or do I call you Mr. Ryan?

Just Ryan will do, Rachel, for now, he said while taking a closer chair. You deserve a few words from me before Allen and I have our time together. Your first husband and I were close. I have met many good people in my life, but he was one of the best. Carl respected my need for privacy because he knew why it was necessary, as I hope his son will do.

If anything would have guaranteed Allen’s complete cooperation and attention, that was it. His mother had striven to give life to his sketchy memories of his father and she did well, considering. Yet, here was a new source, a new perspective on the man who would have been Dad to him, had fate been kinder. Frank had been good to him, but there was a difference that could be seen with how Frank treated his own biological children. The scars of his real father’s involuntary abandonment were there. The therapist had pointed them out and did what she could to ease them, but few can affect full healing of such a loss.

Rachel still wondered about the secrecy. It was just more rocky soil that could spoil the seed of trust. Carl had been always honest and open with her, but he never mentioned this Ryan. How could she not know of a friendship that could spark a man like Ryan to finance a college education and spend who knows how many hours and how much influence during a family crisis, for people who didn’t even know him, and then continue to do so for seventeen years? Who WAS this man?

By telling you this, I have stirred up old memories, and curiosity. Rachel, I met Carl when he was attending Rhinebeck Elementary School. He was quite the athlete, even back then. Just like his son.

Click. Wait a minute, hold a second...you were the guy! I remember! Mom, I met, uh, Ryan, when I was a kid. Remember the guy you got all worried about when I was in, what, 4th grade? The guy at the playground! It was you. You said, It’s not time yet, or something like that. And you knew my name!

Rachel remembered. Mothers have very long memories. She had feared some pervert was ogling her child and reported it to the police. Nothing came of it. Years later, Allen sees this man...and remembers him? A man who only said a few words to him at a one-time meeting? All these thoughts tumbled through her mind in a few seconds. Her presidency of her high school debate club had trained her mind to be logical and quick. Her next natural action was to look the (potential) opponent in the eyes to deliver her response with greater impact. His eyes. Rachel thought, Mr. Bojangles. There was a line in that song about the eyes of age. Like those eyes. Eyes are mirrors to the soul. Those mirrors looked deep. What lies behind those eyes, Mr. Ryan? And how does my son figure into those plans that lay a few centimeters behind those hazel irises? All her senses were on full alert, but none of them picked up danger signals. Just mysteries.

Rachel, one could write a book on all that just passed in your mind. You might allow that my assistance in the past, with no request for return, says that I have nothing but Allen’s best interests in mind. Please, trust me. From what Carl told me about yourself, I believe you will be able to balance your natural maternal protectiveness in favor of affording Allen an opportunity few ever even glimpse.

Mother and benefactor locked eyes again and this time for more than a fleeting instant. Her impression was, He just buttered me up, or reassured me. Same thing, different agendas.

I will trust you, Ryan, for now. Allen is a young man now and his path is his own choosing. I stand by my son, not in front of him.

Even the eyes of age can be surprised. The grace of this woman met his expectations, and a little more. Perhaps there were still things to learn on this ball of mud. Ryan continued to gaze into Rachel’s eyes and smiled, not from winning, but from appreciation.

"I bet she burns the toast and snores."

Rachel saw Ryan’s face change. She had, for a moment, felt a deeper connection that had brought some peace to her misgivings. His attention had just been pulled away from her to, somewhere else. The look on his face; amusement?

While Ryan Fitzgalen turned his eyes to someone the others could not see, Private Elijah Cooper gazed at the mane of his chestnut mare, Freedom. Sometimes he would smile at the irony of riding Freedom in bondage. He thought that there must be worse hells, for here were no demons, pitchforks, or unquenchable fires. There was the occasional gnashing of teeth, bonded as they were to the saddles.

It had been a while since the last push. The Major had planned to lull their captor to sleep, so to speak; she never actually slept. Maybe, just maybe, some could break past that demon’s reach. Two had done it, but that was a while ago. Others had also made it a very long time ago, but she had gotten much harder to fool since then. How she raged at her losses and at their cheers. The men were hiding the excitement over today’s attempt. It wouldn’t do to have her sense their anticipation. She could do that, the witch.

Why do you have a room like this? Marianne Carbine set down a carafe of coffee next to the monitor while Rachel nested into the comfortable chair.

Mrs. Gladstone, Mr. Mendelssohn is a lawyer. Recorded depositions are still used in court, sometimes. People are more comfortable being recorded if the equipment is not obvious. There are three hidden camera set-ups in Mr. Mendelssohn’s office and a small parabolic dish-and-microphone set-up that can be aimed by remote control from here. That’s the control there, the joystick thing next to the volume control. That’s been disabled for the interview. I switched the cable for some music. You can use this earpiece if you like. That lets you hear with one ear what’s going on, with the music, that is, and use the other for whatever else you like. A phone call perhaps? You can use that videophone to call anyone you like at no charge to you. The bathroom is through that door down the hall. I took the liberty of purchasing recent editions of magazines similar to those you have subscriptions to. (They know that?) Will you require anything else?

Rachel thanked Marianne and declined further assistance. Fine, I’ve got a back-log to catch up on. This meeting took a lot of my paperwork time. I can do it now, bring it home, or just move in here. Just push this com-button if you need anything else. With that, Marianne finally left.

Rachel settled in with a cup of sweet and light coffee and watched the monitor. Ryan and Allen were on screen, looking like they were exchanging pleasantries. Each was speaking in equal turns, each in a relaxed posture. The big revelation(s) had probably not started yet.

Ryan was probably breaking deeper ice without Mamma around, man-to-man stuff. Sports? Cars? Girls? She set the spoon down on the napkin, rested both elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her palms.

OK, Rachel, see what you can gather from non-verbal clues. You’re good at this. Come on, use your mind. Rachel’s eyes took in postures, facial features and hand motions. There were three feeds on the video screen (didn’t Gustav say only one video stream?); a side view that took in both men, a second view focused on one speaker, a third on the other. The two individual shots were side by side on the top, the wider side view on the bottom. This was getting interesting.

Ryan displayed a posture of control and confidence. He showed no signs of being closed or devious. His eyes were not darting about in nervousness or burrowing in with zealousness. They were warm, with laugh lines bearing evidence of a man who finds amusement (there’s that word again) in life. Allen was leaning slightly forward in an attitude of attention. Classic teacher-student postures and, likely, nothing had been taught yet. The rules and roles are set and the play hadn’t even seriously begun. No jockeying for position here. Ryan, you’re good. Natural or learned?

Rachel, there’s an earring next to you on the floor. One of yours? Marianne had shaken Rachel from her concentration. She looked at the floor and saw the earring. She didn’t wear earrings. Odd.

She noticed, Wait. There, a few inches from the earring. In an office where everything is so tidy, a wire lead not connected to anything stood out like a zit on prom night. A look through the door showed Marianne at her desk, with her back to the interviewee’s mother. Then how did she know about the ear ring? A look down showed a standard audio jack.

The mind is a committee. At this meeting of Rachel’s mental parliament, pros and cons were being weighed in debate by Rachel’s Angel and Cat personae. Angel took the podium in winged glory, dwelling long and hard of the immoralities of cheating and other sins that Cat probably had in mind. Angel had to give it her best shot when the opponent was that darned Cat. Cats are nature’s embodiment of curiosity. Cats are deceptively soft and fluffy, hiding feral ferocity that lurks behind a front of calm wisdom. Angel finished, and then stepped down.

Cat stretched, padded to the podium, and spoke eloquently on maternal duties, then cloyingly of the wonders of wisdom to be gained. How can we be a proper mother if ill informed? As for being able to keep secrets, hadn’t we kept thoughts of Carl private even during those moments when our full attention should have been devoted to Frank? More than once we have avoided saying the wrong name at the wrong time. Angel blushed. Cat smirked.

Rachel put on the ear jack and turned on the music to a country and western station. Carl liked that. Frank preferred classical.

Angel tried for counterpoint. Rachel wondered what part of her mind was doing the ‘call to the podium’. Was there a part of the brain entitled Speaker-of-the-House, or perhaps Referee?

Angel began with, What good would our word be from now on if we cannot be true to it now? We taught Allen that one lie leads to many, which leads to entanglements from which there is no escape. Our honor is at stake. How can we betray a trust from someone, mysterious or not, who has been so good to us? (Cat waited patiently). God expects us to live our lives in sacrifice for greater good. Isn’t that what this is all about? Aren’t you putting your own selfish desires before the greatest good of our son?

Cat smiled her respects to Angel. My feathered colleague, you make some good points. Let us look at them from another angle and gain perspective. Have we ever given our word not to listen to this conversation?

Angel said, Well, not exactly, but...

And would hearing what is going on disable us or enable us to further the good of our only true son, keeping in mind that wise action must be guided by wisdom?

But what about your honor?

Bingo! Cat smiled when she heard the word your. It represented a surrendering of responsibility, as a parent does when he or she tells a spouse of what new atrocity their son or daughter had committed and what were they going to do about it?

Rachel tried the music jack plug. It came out smoothly. The music stopped, Cat did not. Cat suggested that Rachel take a quick peek at Marianne, which she did, cementing the result regardless of where the debate went. The secretary, true to her word (wince), worked diligently at forms, terminals, videophone connections and even with pencil and paper. How can she do that?

Cat went in for the kill. Let us consider honor. What honor is there greater than motherhood? Great honor confers great responsibilities. If we are to support Allen, then we must know how best to accomplish it. Do we know this man with no last name? Can we fully trust someone who would marginalize a man’s mother, whose wisdom and guidance has shaped Allen’s character and did it for years without the benefit of a father partner?

Angel sighed. She had lost again. The other jack slid in as smoothly as the decision Rachel had made. One more look at the secretary and her hand sealed the deal by gently learning how to manipulate the parabolic dish microphone joystick.

While Rachel familiarized herself with sound technology, Annie’s children were playing by the west gate. Her staff (she assumed) began to arrive and prepare to tell strangers all about her home. So many visitors every day, and Annie didn’t know any of them. Don’t they have any real work to do?

As two mothers watched over their young, Gustav Mendelssohn, J.D. sat at Dot’s Jury Box Cafe in his usual booth. Unlike everyone else he had to deal with today, he drank tea, herb tea at that, with honey. Dot kept a supply of his favorite tea, apple cinnamon, and honey packets.

He mused. So it happens again with Allen as it did with Carl. It will be good to have a fulltime hand at the wheel. The loss of Carl had put a strain on things for Ryan’s small but dedicated group. He smiled. There was a movie, a long time ago, which still makes the rounds once in a while: Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. He had told Ryan about it, who knew of the work (of course). An aging candy maker sought out a youngster who would take over the duties of managing a major factory. Wonka chose a child who would do things Wonka’s way, not an adult who would do things his own way.

There were parallels enough. The boy, Charlie, the one in the movie? He didn’t have a father, either. Wonka and Ryan both valued their privacy highly for similar reasons. But there were differences.

Allen was not a starry-eyed child and, while both Ryan and Wonka were eccentric but good men, Wonka lived a far more normal life and only had to find a protégé once.

Just over a quarter century ago, he had begun doing some work for Carl Hawthorn. He didn’t know the connection to Ryan then. It took time to realize that Carl had a silent partner that was never there, but was always there. He gathered early on that there was much under the obvious surface and it became gradually known to him, as he proved his reliability, that his duties included keeping what was under the surface from being generally known. The day Carl died was the day he had met Ryan David Fitzgalen. He had expected the call for an emergency board of directors meeting. He hadn’t expected to arrive at the office to find only himself and a man he had never seen before.

Gustav, the man had said after introducing himself, I want you to work for me full time. Sell off your remaining interests. You start today. I need all of you. Ryan nicely pulled the rug out from his scramble for excuses by telling him how much his time would be valued. What he learned about Ryan’s organization was just short of miraculous. What he learned about Ryan was not a jot or a tiddle less than a miracle. Well, time to get back to work. He asked for another tea in a to-go cup.

Chapter 3 – ALLIANCES

Private Jed Patterson’s eyes were black coals of hate. When alive, he had been a true bummer; a name that he had helped to make a part of the language that his descendents, if he had lived long enough to HAVE descendents, would speak as common slang. The creak of the leather of fifty-three sets of reins and saddles echoed in the dryness of his soul. That devil-bitch died once at my hand and, if it takes five hundred years, she will die again. That a dead woman could not die again was not something he could realize in his madness.

Allen, in the next two hours you will hear things difficult to accept. I ask you to keep an open mind. My proofs will come in proper order and you may choose to accept them or not. Ask questions and be critical, but not cynical. Think you can handle that?

Ground rules, easy enough so far. Cake, accompanied his best student-to-teacher smile. It worked on full professors, but not this time. Ryan’s eyes narrowed.

"Save the fake fronts for the tassel