by S L Shelton
Which is worse, Guilt or sadness?
I shook the unpleasant thought out of my head and then reached under my pillow for the Glock—the one I slept with each night since the attack in my condo. John Temple had been kind enough to loan it to me after the assault, and I planned to hold on to it until he asked for it back, secretly hoping he would forget about it.
I opened the drawer of my nightstand before reverently setting the gun into its space. A stared at it listlessly for a second before sliding the drawer closed again.
As I went through my morning routine, I wondered if I were truly going insane. I did, after all, have a voice in my head that I hadn’t heard before all this began.
I was always here, my second voice whispered into my ear as if on cue.
So much for things returning to normal, I thought as I shouldered my canvas messenger bag and treaded downstairs to the front door, letting its squeaky hinges remind me of other things that remained undone.
On the drive into work, I began to focus on my biggest task for the day at my job: helping the CIA find the two remaining nuclear devices that had been stolen by the Bosnian Serb mercenaries…the same group that had kidnapped Barb and the other diplomats.
As my mind wandered over the tracking data I had accumulated, my phone chirped. It was Bonny “Bonbon” Little, my friend and co-worker—actually, she was my employee now that she worked in the new section.
“Morning, Bon,” I said after touching the speaker button on my phone.
“Hey ya, Scottmeister,” she chirped. “Are you on your way in?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in a few. I’m running a little behind.”
I avoided the obvious joke opening she gave me about ‘running a little behind’. She was funny like that, but I wasn’t in the mood to play “my innuendo, your innuendo” this morning.
“’kay. See you in a bit.” I replied before ending the call.
Bonbon was still trying to play mother hen to me though her efforts had become more passive than aggressive over the past few weeks. She seemed to finally understand that things were different now. She was doing a fairly good job not being intrusive—with the exception of her morning calls under the false pretense of updating me as to her status.
My mind immediately returned to the movement data on the Serbs. The CIA was trying to track their movements based on conventional arms sales after the transactions had been completed. It was only their contact with the buyers that was showing location—the Serbs were doing a good job at staying hidden otherwise. John Temple’s group at Langley had fed that information to me in the hope that I could find a pattern.
Updates on the Serb movements should have come in last night, I thought to myself. Which way did you go this time?
But the memory of my vivid dream about Kathrin was distracting me a bit—or maybe I was just letting it distract me.
When I arrived at the TravTech garage in Reston, I was so caught up in the memory of Kathrin's touch that I almost forgot my bag. As I leaned back in to grab it, I got a pleasant déjà vu sensation, and I was reminded of the morning Kathrin had dumped its contents on the ground outside my hotel and handed it to me. I touched the initials with my finger at the corner of the flap written in black marker: K. F.
What are you up to today, Kathrin?
I looked at my watch and saw that I had time before I had to be in the office, so I closed the car door for some privacy before pulling up Kathrin’s number to dial. Just as I was about to hit her number, the phone rang—John Temple, CIA.
“Shit,” I muttered before answering. “Scott Wolfe.”
“Morning, Scott,” John said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, John. How are you?”
“Good,” he said abruptly as if our greeting was a dirty dish that needed to be taken off the table. “Listen. I’ve got someone on the other line who needs to talk to you about your clearance. Your new training status requires a little deeper look, and there’s a question about something.”
A sudden tension crept up my shoulders.
“Is there a problem?” I asked cautiously.
“No, no,” he said reassuringly. “Just a question about finances. They have to account for all sources of income and asset interests before they can issue the clearance for training.”
“Oh, whew!” I exclaimed. “For a second there, I thought you were going to tell me they discovered the ten million in gold I keep under my floor boards.”
“Not funny,” John muttered, but I could tell he was amused.
“Okay. I’ll answer to the best of my ability.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Hold on, I’ll transfer you.”
There was a click on the line then the sound of ringing.
“Clearances, Corey Dewer,” came a woman’s voice.
“Ms. Dewer, hi. It’s Scott Wolfe… John Temple said you needed to talk to me?”
“Yes, Scott. I had a question about the trust set up to pay for your mother’s long-term care,” she said. “I didn’t see any indication that you have a controlling authority on it, but I had to be sure since, as an immediate family member, her funds were scrutinized for your clearance.”
There was a lot of information in that statement that took me off guard. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t even know there was a trust,” I replied. “Who’s the signatory on the founding documents?”
“Let’s see,” she said as I heard papers rattling in the background. “The trust was funded with a private policy paid out by your father’s employer…GGP labs.”
Whoa! More new information.
“And the signatory is…just a second,” she muttered, and then after a few seconds’ pause, “It looks like a Roger Gallow from GGP signed the payment over to the trust. It looks like it was a pretty substantial policy.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” I replied, my head spinning at the new information.
“It floated to the top of the pile because funds were transferred recently. It looks like the accounts are scheduled to be funded annually on her birthday,” she said. “So you don’t have oversight or power of attorney on the account?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said innocently, my head spinning from the disclosure. “But I can check into it.”
“That would be great,” she said. “Just let me know what you find. It’s not a big deal, even if it turns out you have signature authority on the account, it just needs to be claimed so we can keep tabs on it.”
“Understood,” I replied absently, trying to decide how best to follow-up on the new information.
“But I don’t see a problem with putting your package through,” she said. “Just update your holdings record if you find you have signatory.”
“Okay. Will do,” I assured her mechanically, ready to hang up the phone and chase down the new lead.
“Other than that, you’re all set. Your clearance should be in place before you get to your destination.”
Destination?
“Thank you,” I replied as I hung up the phone. It didn’t dawn on me until after I had ended the call that I hadn’t said good-bye or waited for her to do so—my mind was swimming in new information.
“Wild,” I muttered.
I pulled up the web browser on my phone, quickly found the number for GGP Labs in Maryland, and then dialed.
“GGP Labs,” The receptionist answered. “How may I direct your call?”
“Uh,” I sputtered, suddenly wondering which department I should ask for to get information about my dead father and institutionalized mother. “Human resources please.”
The phone clicked and I was placed on hold to enjoy the Muzak version of “Oops I did it again.” Eh.
“This is Patricia Jones.”
“Ms. Jones. My name is Scott Wolfe, and I’m looking for information on a former employee,” I said, not quite sure about how to approach this. “My father—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wolfe, is it?” she in
terrupted. “Employee records are confidential. If you need information about your father, you would have to get a release signed by him or—”
“I’m sorry,” I inserted quickly, trying to shut down her institutional boilerplate response to personnel disclosures. “My father has been dead for several years, and there is a question about a policy he had for my mother…who is in a home.”
Home…the polite word for loony bin.
“Ah,” she said sounding rather uncomfortable. “I see. Well, I still wouldn’t be able to give you any information over the phone. You’d have to make an appointment to come in.”
“Okay,” I replied. “I’d like to do that.”
There was a short pause while she was presumably looking at her schedule—or perhaps she was just taking time to swallow her agitation at my insistence.
“I have a short window of opportunity tomorrow,” she replied finally. “But after that—”
“Tomorrow is fine,” I said quickly. “What time?”
“10:30 a.m.,” she said tersely—maybe I had been too abrupt in my response.
“Great,” I replied warmly. “Is your office at the main facility in Potomac, Maryland?”
“Yes. Just park in the visitor lot and come in through the main lobby,” she said, her response softer. “When you check in at the reception desk, they’ll call for me.”
“Thank you, Ms. Jones… I appreciate your help with this.”
“I hope I can help,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Bye.”
I sat back in my seat and took a deep breath, my chest suddenly filled with tension.
Okay, Mom. How about a birthday visit today?
**
3:25 p.m. —Granger Psychiatric Hospital, Loudoun County Virginia
I checked in at the desk with only about half an hour left before visiting hours were over. I had left work early, only telling Jo that I had a personal matter to deal with in Loudoun.
“She’s having a good day,” the nurse said as I followed her down the hall to my mother’s room. “You picked a good time to visit.”
“It’s her birthday,” I muttered.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “We’ll have to make sure she gets a cake tonight for dinner.”
I reached into my pocket to pull out some money to help offset the cost a bit.
“Here,” I said, handing her the cash. “For the cake.”
She shook her head with a smile. “That’s not necessary, Mr. Wolfe,” she replied, holding her hand up. “Your mother is quite well-provided for under the terms of her residency. Her expenses are far below the granted allotment.”
I shrugged and tucked the money back into my pocket. I had to wonder how much the allotment was—Granger wasn’t a cheap place to commit someone to. I had checked into the cost on other occasions and was surprised to find exorbitant fees—and it was no wonder. The property looked more like an old English manor than some sterile psych facility.
But on the couple of occasions I had inquired about the funding for my mother, I was told that payment matters could only be discussed with guardians—and Mom was a ward of the state…according to Granger anyway. I never had any reason to question that before. But with the discovery of a trust fund, I had to wonder if that was truly the case.
When we reached Mom’s room, I found her sitting at the table in front of the window. She had a pot of tea next to her and was watching the park-like environment out the window. She smiled as she saw two patients burst into a spontaneous game of “catch me if you can”.
“You have about thirty minutes,” the nurse whispered before turning to leave. Mom heard and turned around to see who had come to visit her.
She smiled broadly, an expression of recognition and genuine joy.
Do you know who I am today? I wondered.
“Hank!” she exclaimed as she tried to pull herself out of her chair.
Nope. You still think I’m Dad.
She had also forgotten that her legs didn’t work so well.
“Happy birthday,” I said as I hurried over to take her arm.
“Lord have mercy,” she muttered as I helped lower her back in her comfy chair. “My legs have gone to sleep again.”
Her speech, as usual, sounded very much like she was drunk. I knew that wasn't the case, but sometimes I had to consciously stop myself from speaking to her as if she were a child.
As soon as she settled back into her seat, I sat in the chair next to her, checking her teacup as I leaned back. It was empty, so I poured her another.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said softly as she relaxed before shooting me a sudden curious grin. “Did you say happy birthday?”
“I did,” I replied warmly, wrapped in the contentment of her calling me sweetheart—even though she thought I was Dad. “I brought you something.”
I handed her two expertly wrapped gifts…wrapped by the checkout clerk at Stein Mart. Mom eagerly took the gifts, smiling at me as she began unwrapping them. The first was a cashmere scarf. I remembered mom being very fond of cashmere when I was a kid, though I couldn’t remember any particular article of clothing she had—victims of the black hole that all memories from my childhood had been sucked into, no doubt.
“Oh, Hank!” she exclaimed. “You shouldn’t have. It must have cost a fortune.”
“You deserve it,” I replied, ignoring the reference to my father. “Besides. I don’t get out to see you often enough. Consider it a down payment on a little guilt as well.”
“Nonsense,” she said as she started to unwrap the second gift. “I saw you just a few days ago. If we aren’t careful, people will start to suspect these are conjugal visits.”
Ew! Thanks for the disturbing imagery, Mom.
“Oh, this is too much,” she said as she opened the second present—more cashmere, in the form of a half-round shawl. “You have to take it back. I know you can’t afford it now that you’ve left the company.”
GGP? That company?
“Don’t you worry about it,” I said, trying to ease her mind. “I mugged some rich lady on the way here…didn’t cost me a cent.”
She shot me a surprised grin. “Hank,” she said, disapproving of my joke. I just smiled.
She sat back, smoothing her new shawl across her lap and smiled before closing her eyes with a content look on her face. For a moment, I thought she had gone to sleep until she reached over and picked up her teacup.
“You need to stop acting out of guilt,” she said to me softly with a slight slur of her words. My heart jumped at the comment. To me, it sounded like a completely coherent reading of my mood and actions—even if it sounded like it was coming from a functional drunk. “Scott will be fine. You said yourself he was doing better.”
What are you talking about, Mom?
I decided to move cautiously.
“What do you suppose turned him around?” I asked, leading her.
“You know,” she said slyly as she turned her head toward me and grinned. “Don’t worry. I know I’m not supposed to talk about it. Roger mustn’t find out—I remember.”
Roger…? Roger Gallow. I thought. So you knew him.
“It’s okay.” I comforted her. “We’re alone.”
An expression of relief came over her face. “Good,” she breathed. “I was never any good at keeping your secrets. I’d feel terrible if I got you into trouble.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said dismissively. “What do you think will happen if Roger finds out?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a devious grin. “It’s a secret.”
“Right… I just can’t remember how much I told you.”
Ask her who Roger is, my other voice whispered with a sly edge.
Shut up! This is my mom!
She looked at me for a beat and then squinted her eyes. “They’re still talking to you, huh?” she asked, but it was pity in her voice.
The jolt of fear that simple question sent through me was palpable. She had
seen something on my face that told her the voice was talking to me.
My insanity is real and inherited from my father.
I looked at her questioningly.
“I know that look,” she whispered, and then she smiled. “But it’s so much better now since…you know.”
“Since what?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It’s okay, Hank. Scott will be fine.”
Stop telling me I’ll be fine and tell me what I don’t have to worry about…because obviously I DO have to worry about it.
“Who’s Roger?” I asked, caving in to desperation.
She looked at me questioningly though droopy and suspicious eyes before letting out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t let them hear you talk like that.”
“I know,” I replied with a grin, patting her hand. “I’m only playing with you.”
A raspy, tired chuckle slipped from her throat. “You are such a joker. Don’t worry. Now that you’re well again, I know the only thing that the kids will remember is what a loving dad you are.”
I was dumbfounded. How could she say that? After everything he’d put us through with the rages and the screaming at imaginary people.
So, Dad was loving and funny? And Mom could tell when the voices were talking to him…and me, apparently.
“My gifts are beautiful, Hank. Thank you,” my mom said, shifting the subject quickly before a sad expression washed over her face. For a second I thought she might cry.
“I miss the farm,” she said after a few seconds.
“I know,” I replied sympathetically.
“One more week,” she said looking at me with a sad smile, that look you get when you are trying to be optimistic in the face of overwhelming bad news. “One week and I’ll be back to making dinner for my beautiful family.”
“That will be nice,” I replied soothingly, unable to bring myself to correct her…she wouldn’t remember it anyway. That line of talk was more familiar—she had said the same thing each time I visited her for the past fourteen years.
Mom had not made a meal for me in almost fifteen years. She was locked in a perpetual memory loop, trapped in her own mind of the last few weeks around the time of my dad’s death—September of 1996.
