That first meeting with Ned had been charming. Our eyes met across the crowded room. He seduced me with experience and moves that dazzled. I was putty in his hands. Why? Because his public persona, as the bad boy of environmental lobbying, was so at odds with this sweet-tempered, kind, thoughtful lover. It was only after I was hooked that his mask began to slip away. And as it did, I began to resist the darkness. He changed and expected me to go along for the ride. I resisted and was punished for it. Black was white, white was black. Even as I fought the mind games, a little part of me wanted so desperately to acquiesce, to make the nice Ned come back again. I wanted things between us to be like they were at the start. But what if the start was all a ploy, to seduce me?
That line of thought brought me to the issue of Bur and his troubled history with women. When did that start? Looking back, I was shocked to recognize the truth that was staring me right in the face. As much as I liked to think that Bur was always a jerk, the truth was that up until he and his first wife split up, he was always a solid family man.
He never did tell me why he and Chapman’s mother went their separate ways. What if they were pried apart by Ned Sorkin’s gang? Kris moved to Denver after the divorce. She didn’t want to have anything to do with the Wilson family. Why punish all of us? What had we done?
Go back to Kris and Bur, Miz Scarlet. What happened with them? The couple had been having trouble off and on for several months. We all noticed it at family celebrations. She and my mother had been close, and when she began to pull away, it really bothered Laurel.
“Your brother’s marriage is falling apart,” she announced one morning, on our way to a doctor’s appointment in Hartford.
“What do you mean? Did Bur say something?”
“No. And neither did Kris.”
“Then how do you know?”
“They’ve stopped talking to each other like husband and wife. They’re strangers to one another.”
Sure enough, six months later, Bur moved out of their Avon manse on the hill and into a condo in West Hartford. He threw himself into his recovery from the disastrous marriage by grabbing onto the first sweet young thing who batted her eyes at him. A year later, the earth opened up unexpectedly and our family trust was swallowed whole.
On the timeline, it came after Bur got Teddy Van Erk to take on that consulting job at Leland Hardwoods. Bur was already a target in the environmental lobby’s crosshairs. Maybe it wasn’t just the history of Four Oaks Pressboard that stuck in Ned Sorkin’s craw. Bur worked for a well-established company that made millions of dollars off forestry products. My brother wanted to bridge the gap between the logging industry and the green lobby. He also was a consultant on potential semi-green energy technology, using his contacts to keep companies abreast of the latest developments designed to overcome environmental compliance issues. What if that’s what made him a target?
Enter the soon-to-be second Mrs. Bur Wilson. Barely six months after the final decree was signed, Bur eloped while on a business trip with the new honey. Their whirlwind affair blew in too fast for the rest of us to take shelter in the root cellar. The ink was barely dry on the marriage license before Lucy got herself all tangled up in a scandal that just about knocked our socks off. And it came along about the time that the Wilson family trust was ravaged. What if she was the insider in Bur’s world, doing her part to take us down?
Looking back, Lucy was mad after she got caught with the dentist. She actually thought my brother would stay with her, to avoid a nasty second divorce. Maybe she planned to steal his money before taking off, but Bur beat her to the punch. He booted her out of his life, cutting her off completely.
One of the things about being a high school teacher is I have no problem peppering people with questions, because I always have so many of my own. Provoke students to think for themselves and they will. When it comes to students, I want independent thinkers who develop their critical thinking skills. That way, they’ll be less vulnerable to the propaganda of any organization and more likely to recognize they’re being played by manipulators.
Worse thing in education today is the politicization of teachers. It doesn’t matter what my political views are, any more than it matters what my colleagues think. Bias is bias. Who are we to think we know what’s best for the country, for the world? We’re teachers. We teach people how to learn. We’re supposed to use the curriculum set by the school district, but over the last couple of decades, I’ve seen teachers toss all that out the window and decide that their views are the only acceptable views on current events. Ridiculous, if you think about it. Why would teachers know more about what’s going on in the world than anyone else? Doesn’t your perspective depend on what kind of information you have at your fingertips and how reliable it is?
Look at how the news is presented these days. Opinions become facts when they’re delivered by an emotional newscaster who has a political spin of the event he or she is reporting on. We mistake feeling for truth and treat it like it’s evidence, proof that our side is right and the other side is wrong. The louder and more strident the voices, the greater the impact on public opinion. Opinion spun as if it is fact, repeated often enough as evidence of the truth, soon shapes the political landscape. And the unpopular view always remains an albatross, even if it’s more accurate. That’s the bully mentality. Any wonder kids are ruthless these days? It’s what we’re teaching them to do. It’s how we govern on both sides of the aisle and everywhere in between.
The sad thing is we’ve forgotten how to teach real lessons to impressionable minds. Adults have come to assume kids intrinsically know right from wrong, as if that learning is transferred simply by proximity, the way our Smartphones transfer files with a brush pass of the wrist. Swipe it and it’s done. Real learning is far more involved and complex than that. We human beings weren’t built to absorb information instantly. Learning takes some doing. It has to be reinforced until the brain absorbs it.
Of course, there I was, sitting in the dark with another victim in this devious plot, while my oppressors were no doubt upstairs, demonically dreaming up ways to destroy me. Pinch me and tell me I’m dreaming. Alas, I reminded myself, it was not a dream. It was all too real.
And that’s when it struck me. I am what I am -- a teacher. Maybe that’s why Ned and Jere came after me. As a tutor preparing students for college, I had some influence on developing minds. Some of my students were the daughters and sons of some pretty prominent people. And as a curriculum developer for the school district, I had written several educational lesson plans throughout the years for teaching critical thinking skills. Last year, trying to bolster my sagging financial situation, I published the first of a series of digital guides for parents. My Teach Your Teenager to Think Straight was in the top ten at Amazon and Barnes & Noble for nine weeks.
But how did that fit in with the kidnapping of the Jordan family? Jim Jordan was a hacker with a national reputation, and yet he set up shop here, too. Why? What brought him here? I had to ask.
“I was assigned here,” was his explanation.
“By whom?”
“The company I work for, Nebo Networking. They sent a headhunter to LA to convince me to take the job. They offered me a boatload of money.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say Nebo Networking?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Do you know who owns the company?” I pressed him.
“A conglomerate formed by two hedge fund managers from London, who registered it in the Caymans.”
“As a front company?”
“You have to understand. Most hackers hide behind false facades. People like me, who track them, also have to hide. It’s just the nature of the beast.”
“What can you tell me about Nebo Networking?” Turning my attention back to the company, I pushed him a little harder. Jim didn’t know it, but the name Nebo was a big deal around here. There had to be a local connection.
“Not much. I met the bosses in New York, at their corporate
offices.”
“Why did you move here?” I needed to understand. “Why Cheswick?”
“The company thought it was a good idea, another layer of protection from detection. They thought I would be able to do my work with less interference.”
“Didn’t you need special equipment, wiring...technical stuff? Above and beyond the usual fiber optics? Who did the installation, the maintenance?”
“The company took care of all that. They sent a crew whenever I had issues.”
“Did they also provide some kind of security system to protect your operation?” I probed. Jim took in a breath and held onto it. I took that to mean I had hit a nerve.
“You’re suggesting I walked into a trap?” The self-loathing in his voice was deep. This man hated himself for what happened to his family. He never saw it coming. Just like Bur and I never saw it coming.
“No, Jim.” I made my tone as soft and kindly as I could, wanting to reassure him that there was still a reason to hope. “I’m telling you they brought you here for a specific reason. Your family is still alive because they need you to finish us off. You heard them. They’re not done with me. That means we’ve still got time.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better about what happened, because I can tell you, lady, I’m never going to be okay with all this.”
“When you speak to your family by Skype, can you see anything in the background, something that might be a clue as to where they’re being held?”
“What good does that do? I don’t know the IP address. It doesn’t give us a location!”
“Maybe it does!” I shot back, my frustration cutting through the darkness. “Stop thinking all the answers are on the Internet. This may be a digital world, Jim, but there’s more than one way to get answers. We’re offline now. No available connections. Tell me what you saw when you looked at the screen. Think with your human brain, man!”
“Dark wood interior. Looks like a cabin of some kind.”
“For that Skype service, what would they need?” A landline? A hot spot? A cell tower?”
“You would need a really strong signal that can deliver the right amount of bandwidth.”
“In other words,” I suggested, “if you didn’t have that, you’d get a poor signal? Is that what you saw?”
“Hell, no. The picture is high def, state-of-the-art, which,” he said thoughtfully, “means they have at least a 4G network connection. And that’s something usually only available near the bigger cities.”
“Interesting.”
We kept at it as the minutes crawled by, trying to find weaknesses in the situation, something that would give us a look behind the curtain of deception. At some point we got on the subject of poor reception recently when the local telephone company was upgrading the wires in the neighborhood a month earlier.
“It was maddening. Every time I tried to send an email, the screen froze.”
“I remember that day. The Skype service kept cutting out and I thought they were conning me about Julie and the kids being okay.”
“So, that means we both had AT&T as the Internet service provider and you also had trouble when they were working on the upgrade.”
“Yes. Why does that matter?” Jim wanted to know.
“I don’t know. What did they do about it when the Skype call was less than successful?”
“They boosted the signal.”
“How?”
“With an amplifier,” he replied.
“Which they had handy? How convenient,” I commented, skepticism in my voice.
“That doesn’t make sense.” Jim sounded doubtful.
“What doesn’t make sense?”
“If the service was interrupted because they were installing the new 4G network, it should have been interrupted coming and going.”
“Okay, so?”
“I...I....” Jim was stuck on a memory that he tried to drag into his conscious mind. I waited, knowing that for the last few months, his only conversations had been with his kidnappers. Finally, he spoke again. “There wasn’t a Skype symbol on the screen that day.”
“What does that mean?”
“It wasn’t a Skype call at all. I think it was closed circuit TV.”
“You think they’re holding your family here, in the house?” I could feel the pounding of my heart. Could it really be that simple?
“No, but they have to be close. Closed circuit TV signals don’t travel that far.”
“You think they’re in the neighborhood?”
“They have to be,” he insisted. I could hear the excitement in his voice. “They have to be within a certain range for the picture on the monitor to be that clear. In fact, it was clearer that day than it was normally.”
“Better than the normal Skype calls?”
“Absolutely.”
“Keep talking to me,” I instructed him, as I wracked my brain to figure out where in this area Julie and the kids might be. “How much interference would there be from White Oak Hill, say, if your family was on the other side?”
“They’d have to run a number of boosters or amplifiers to get a CCTV signal to the other side of the mountain if they used wireless equipment.”
At eight hundred feet, White Oak Hill didn’t technically qualify as a mountain, but this was neither the time or the place to debate the appropriateness of the noun. Call it a mole hill, call it a mountain. What mattered is that the Jordans weren’t likely to be on the other side.
Chapter Twenty --
“What would they need to pull off a closed circuit TV system, Jim?”
“For the best picture? Siamese cable and a DC power supply. Wireless reception tends to be iffy, especially in this terrain.”
“Sweet baby Jesus!” I was stunned. Absolutely, positively, breathtakingly stunned. “I think I know where they’re holding you family!”
“Where?”
“The boathouse on the upper pond. It’s got heat, electricity, and even running water. It’s all connected to this house!”
“Do you think...is it possible...that they’re still alive?”
“Let me call Kenny and tell him to check it out. If we can get them out safely....”
“Hurry!”
Kenny picked up on the third ring. He sounded frustrated.
“Scar, we’re working as fast as we can, but so far we’ve got nothing to go on.”
“Kenny!”
“You just have to be patient and....”
“Kenny, shut up and listen to me!” I hissed. “Uncle Toms’ cabin in the woods!”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“The Jor....” There was a sudden noise at the door. Someone was unbolting it. With only seconds to spare, I hit the button and shut off my cell phone, shoved it under my fleece top, and averted my eyes, remembering what Jim had advised.
White light, brighter than a virgin in a brothel, illuminated the room. Through narrowed eyes, covered by a protective hand, I saw the epoxy-covered gray floor of the storage room. It was shiny.
“Bathroom break!” announced Jere maliciously. “Let’s go, Sweet Pea, before you wet your panties.”
Please, Kenny, remember Uncle Toms’ cabin in the woods! It’s where we used to play when we were kids. Mr. Toms used to make us hot cocoa when we went ice skating there.
Without a word, I walked towards the impatient man, my eyes still adjusting to the brilliant light. I was a foot from him when I caught a sudden movement out of the corner of my eye, just as a bitter swipe came my way and sent me flying across the room.
“That’s for embarrassing me at the pub!” he screamed, his voice two octaves higher than normal. “Don’t you ever talk to me that way again, bitch!”
The pain from the blow was mind-boggling. Even as I reeled around, rocking to and fro like a drunken sailor, I fought to stay upright. Jim started towards me. I saw his arms reaching out to catch me, but Jere uttered one word.
“Don’t!” In that moment, I realized who had all
the power in the room. There were four hostages out there, hidden away somewhere. Jim couldn’t risk helping me if he wanted to save them. I was on my own.
With a hand on my cheek, I dared to sneak a glance at my assailant. I could already feel the contusion beginning to swell.
“Move!” he commanded, his voice still tinged with a touch of melodramatic hysteria. Jere always was a bit of a drama queen. He also had a rather dark side, which made him dangerously unpredictable.
Carefully moving past him through the open door, I stepped into the garage. Hesitating, unsure of what he expected of me, I paused, only to find myself propelled forward by a rather rough shove to the back. I saw an open door and went through it. The party room. It had to be at least forty feet in length. Bar area. Foosball table. Pool table. Sectional sofa bigger than my sitting room. Projection TV the size of Cleveland. “Hurry up. Stop looking at the scenery!”
Another door to the left with a light on. Silver-leafed walls, a pair of silver crystal sconces, and an antique chest with a white marble vanity sink. Easy enough to identify it as the bathroom. To my right, there was a shower big enough for a party of five, with rain heads galore. A tiny room tucked into the alcove had a private toilet. Jere stood there, by the sink. Oh, goody. The hall monitor was on bathroom duty. Did he expect me to announce if I had to go number one or number two?
I entered the small space and, as I turned, I raised my eyes, intending to shut the door. The sight of the pure loathing etched on his face was shocking. Jeremiah Wellstone actually hated my guts. With a trembling hand and a stomach that felt disemboweled by that glare, I managed to push the door shut with my slumping body. I sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, so numb, so uncertain, I didn’t think I would be able to relieve myself. My fingers shook uncontrollably as I pulled at the waist of my fleece pants. It took all my concentration to force myself back to my feet, to lift the seat lid, and sit down again.
Miz Scarlet and the Imposing Imposter Page 17
