by Robert Graf
The mess Isaac had left —unmade bed, towels on the floor —annoyed her. She expected a Jesuit to be neater. Still, Jon had kicked him out in the middle of the night. The ding-dong from the door bell startled at. Must be the cleaners? She hurried out and opened the door.
Two young men in tan overalls with shoulder patches displaying a broom crossed with a lightning bolt stood, smiling politely. A brown van emblazoned with the same logo was parked in front. "Mrs. Grey? I'm Tim and this is Allen from SafeClean. Would you show us the area to be cleaned?"
For an instant she thought of Jon's kidnappers, then dismissed the idea. That was too paranoid. She motioned them inside and pointed to the damage. "Over there."
The pair studied the blood-stained, blast-damaged carpet and table. "The table will have to be replaced, but we can get most of the carpet in shape. You'll want to replace it later."
"You really can clean that mess?" she asked, holding her breath at the foul odor.
Tim answered. "Yes, ma'am. We've cleaned worse, much worse."
She didn't ask and left them to work. A loud droning sound from the van and hissing noises from the living room indicated they had started. She finished tidying up Isaac's room and noticing the time, went to the kitchen and heated left-over lemon chicken.
The clock ticked over to 12:30 as she finished washing her dishes. Better put on something appropriate to meet with the security guy. In the bedroom she changed into comfortable slacks and a blouse and loafers and brushed her hair. She regarded her reflection in the dresser mirror. Dark patches under her eyes didn't help. There was little she could do about makeup, too many bandages.
The door bell rang again. She edged past the busy cleaners to the open doorway. A fortyish, crew-cut man in a dark blue suit, carrying a briefcase smiled at her. "Dr. Grey? I'm Nathan O'Connor, district manager for Behrendt Associates." He held out a leather wallet and flipped it open. "My credentials, please read them."
Credentials? Of course, this was an executive protective firm. She took the proffered wallet and compared the picture with the man: narrow face, intense brown eyes, it matched. "You appear to be who you say your are, but how would I know?"
He nodded approvingly, "Very good. At some point we have to trust each other. If you have any doubts please call anyone you wish to verify my identity."
She felt foolish. "Please come in, and excuse the mess." She led the way past the cleaners into the kitchen and sat at the counter. O'Connor took a stool at the end and removed a tablet from his briefcase.
"First, please accept my sincere condolences on your husband's death." He smiled at her startled reaction. "We perform background checks on prospective clients; it saves a lot of misunderstandings. I also read about your unfortunate incident Saturday. Is that the reason you wish to hire us?"
"The letter bomb is just the latest." She summarized the events of the last few weeks and the fact-checking ability, but left out Isaac and the episode in Yreka. During her recitation he typed on his tablet, encouraging her when she faltered.
She stuttered to a stop. "Does that give you what you need?"
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. "Oh my, yes. Truth checking, no less. What I think is irrelevant, what matters is your enemies believe it. Your husband's kidnapping isn't public knowledge, and there is a missing person bulletin for the engineer. I'm surprised your company doesn't provide security."
"The security head, MacDougal, said he didn't have anyone with the right training other than a special group dedicated to the CEO, and there’s no budget for outsourcing." She tried to not sound bitter.
“What you need is around-the-clock in-house bodyguards, an up-to-date security system, and plainclothes guards for travel."
"Sounds like the Secret Service."
"Your needs are similar to the President's, though nothing of the same scale."
“My friend will be staying here for a couple weeks while he recovers from his injuries. I'm uncomfortable with the idea of armed strangers living in my house."
"I can appreciate that, but that's my professional recommendation. To state the obvious, someone is seriously trying to harm you."
"What about a uniformed guard parked in front, instead of the in-house guards? The other recommendations I can live with, I guess."
"It's not my first choice. Is there another entrance to your house?"
"Two, the garage and a door to a small back garden."
He studied his tablet. "A networked security system comprising a computer, door and window locks, and webcams. will run about $5,000. A 24/7 uniformed guard in a van, $2,000 per 24 hours, whether you're home or not, and he will x-ray your mail; plainclothes guard when traveling, $1,000 per guard per day plus expenses. We provide a $5,000,000 blanket liability policy and a free funeral if we fail. We haven't paid for one yet."
He looked up from his tablet. “If your company can't afford an outside firm, can you? We ran a credit check. Frankly your finances seem rather limited."
The numbers shocked her, and their digging into her finances was upsetting. "I didn't say they couldn't, I said they wouldn't. As for my finances, that’s about to change."
"Like that is it?" He gazed at her, tight-lipped. "That attitude is too prevalent these days. I don't mean to be presumptive, but we provide first rate service and are expensive."
Okay, let's see what they’re really made of. "My husband was kidnapped from this house in the early morning. The only evidence the FBI found was the front door lock was forced. Say the system alerted you and the police. How long before someone got here? Would what you're suggesting have prevented that?”
O'Connor's expression grew thoughtful. "Time? Minutes. As for the outcome, impossible to say. Our security would have made it more difficult."
"Then why should I hire you?"
His gaze bored into her. "We minimize risk, we do not eliminate it. Our employees take on your risk of being kidnapped or injured or killed. We're very good at what we do. What does Mr. MacDougal think?"
"He’s convinced there are two groups, one wants to destroy the EntComs, the other use them."
O’Connor tapped his fingers on the tablet. "I agree with that assessment. Assuming your engineer was kidnapped because of the prototype, could he repair it?"
Could he? "Farid is very sharp, if it's an electronic problem, certainly, otherwise I doubt it."
"You're doubly at risk."
He’s pushing. "I need to discuss this with my friend, though I agree to the home security system."
"Good, we'll start first thing tomorrow; don't wait too long deciding on the other. For the home system we'll bill you. If you decide on the other options, we'll want the 24/7 guard paid each week in advance, the plainclothes a $5,000 deposit. Please understand, you, the direct client, we call primary. If anyone else is to be guarded, that's extra." He shut off his tablet and stood. "Dr. Grey, it's been a pleasure doing business with you. And a personal observation. For someone who's just survived an assassination attempt, you're in remarkably good spirits."
Ann escorted him to the door.
He paused to watch the cleaners vacuum up filthy liquids into a large wheeled drum. "You're very lucky, could have been much worse." With that he walked down the path to a non-descript hybrid, got in and drove off.
Ann returned to the kitchen. She'd visit Alex as soon as the cleaners left. But first housework and the memorial service.
She was so absorbed in hunting for a decent photo of Jon she didn't notice the sudden quiet until a soft, "Mrs. Grey?" interrupted her. She glanced up to see Tim standing in the kitchen archway.
No droning noise. "You're finished?"
"Yes, please see if you're satisfied."
She followed him into the living room and sniffed; the foul odor was gone, replaced by a faint flowery smell, better than some motels. The black splotches of dried blood were gone; a bare discoloration on the rusty-colored rug was the only indication. The coffee table still bore black scorch marks and gou
ges. "I'm amazed, that's wonderful."
"You may be able to dye the rug without replacing it, but wait a few days to see how it looks. Is there anything else we can do for you?"
"No, do I pay you now or can you send a bill?"
"Your preference."
She didn't know what was in her checking. "Please bill me."
"Yes ma’am. Have a good day." He closed the door behind him.
What was the time? The wall clock ticked over to 4:00. Time for Alex.
At the hospital, Ann parked and entered through the back entrance and made her way upstairs to the recovery floor. The nurses glanced up from their station counter and smiled. She stopped at the door to Alex's room and composed herself; she entered with a big smile.
He lay propped up, hooked to monitors and a bag of clear liquid. His eye was shut in a bandaged, haggard face, and his damaged arm, wrapped in its blue cast from elbow to fingertips lay on a pillow
"Alex?" she asked softly, taking his good hand in hers, careful to avoid the plumbing.
His good eye blinked open, and he smiled. "Ann, you're looking better, not so pale."
He looked like shit. "I feel much better, you?"
He gently squeezed her hand. "Tired. The doc said I can get out of here tomorrow. Your invitation still open?"
"Absolutely, I just had the living room cleaned."
He straightened up a little and winced. "Ribs aren't broke, though mighty sore. I'm not going to be much company for a few days."
"If you think you're just going to lie around all day, forget it, you'll earn your keep." She gave him a wicked grin. "If not now, later."
His half-face not covered by bandages twitched. "That's a date." His eye pinned her with a sharp gaze. “Who did it and why?”
“FBI thinks there are two groups. One that destroyed the lab and a second that stole my prototype. They prefer the first, but they haven’t identified anyone. Motive?” She shrugged helplessly. “It must be the EntCom and fact checking.”
Get him thinking about something else. "I talked to an executive protective outfit today. They’re going to install a security system tomorrow, locks, alarms, and connections to police and their company. We have to decide whether to have bodyguards at home and when we travel."
"Jesus, Ann, that's expensive."
"The FBI thinks its necessary, but that's not the main reason." She held back her tears. "I don't want to lose you, Alex Baxter, and Saturday I nearly did. I can't bear the thought."
“I'm not going anywhere." He paused. "Would the guards live with us?"
"I don't want that and asked if one could be stationed in a van in front; the rep agreed. He'd even x-ray the mail."
"But the cost?"
"Jon's life insurance will more than cover it, and I don't expect to need it more than a few months."
"Why do you say that? You can't possibly know."
She could hope. "Look, this is all about fact checking. Once it's spread across the Web, the attention will be off me. It won't be long." She prayed that was true.
"You’re dreaming. We have no idea what will happen."
The nightmare that keeps on giving. "Yeah. I’m going to learn how this works, so when you're better I'll offer to collaborate with NASA and use their EntCom. At the same time I'll start building another device, I don't know where yet, maybe in the spare bedroom."
He focused his eye on her. "The doc says rehabilitation will take weeks after the cast is removed. I've contacted the office and told them my situation. They've agreed to my taking an extended medical leave; however there's no guarantee I'll get the exact job back. Anyway, that's down the road and nothing I can do about it now."
She felt guilty, but that was nonsense, she wasn't responsible for homicidal wackos’ actions. "In the meantime you can help me, and speaking of that have you told your daughters?"
"Not yet, I'm waiting to get out of here." He grimaced, the bandage making his expression lop-sided. "They'll raise hell and demand to visit, they're very insistent; are you prepared for that?"
Oh, lord, was she? "No problem. Will you call your lawyer-daughter and introduce me so I can ask her about the NDA?"
"As soon as I'm discharged."
"What about the security? Can you put up with it? It'll mean armed guards tagging along wherever we go, even shopping."
He stared at her with his good eye. "I don't want to lose you either, if it's affordable, do it."
"I will. Call me when they release you, and I'll pick you up."
He squeezed her hand. "It'll probably be in the afternoon. One thing, my clothes were declared bio-hazards, so could you bring my overnight bag? I don't want to go out in public with just the hospital gown."
"Sure, we'll go shopping when you feel up to it." She kissed his forehead, released his hand and left. Tomorrow promised to be interesting.
[Tuesday, Sausalito]
Ian MacDougal stared at the Guardian's bold headline above a picture of Swales addressing Parliament. "MP IMPLICATED IN CIVILIAN ATROCITY COVERUP DROWNS" it screamed. He scrolled down the pages, not really reading, until he came to photos of the Security Documents. He stopped, his heart hammering so hard he had to sit back and take a deep, shuddering breath. It was all there, finally, out in the public eye, and yet that fucking Swales had cheated him out of his revenge. He wanted to scream in frustration.
How was he ever going to discover who Swales had told? It was an absolute certainty that Swales had left no incriminating evidence; the scheming bastard was too thorough. The only reason the dispatches even existed was simple bureaucratic inertia. Patience, he tried to reassure himself, your chance will come.
[Tuesday, Petaluma]
Ann sipped her coffee while she read the Independent Journal e-edition. JUPITER SHIP RESCUED the headline trumpeted. Thank God for some good news. Pratt Whitney's experimental ship had rendezvoused with the Jove Explorer, and the crew made a temporary fix to one of the damaged engines. The bad news was it would take weeks to return to the moonbase. The rescue ship would be towed back. If that proved difficult, it would be abandoned.
She drank the last of the coffee. So, the pressure's off the EntComs. With an engine working she assumed the RF system was functional. Now’s the time to approach NASA about a collaborative effort. But first finish that resignation letter and submit it.
The doorbell's 'ding dong' startled her. She glanced at the wall clock, 8:15. Who? Must be the security folk, and her in a bathrobe and barefoot. “Shit,” she muttered, hurrying into the living room. Through the parted drapes she saw a man and woman in light blue overalls. She opened the door partway. "Yes, who is it?"
"Good morning, Dr. Grey," the woman answered, "I'm Helen and this is Raoul from Behrendt Associates. We’re here to install the security system."
They seemed legit, but..."May I see your ID?"
"Certainly." They produced badges similar to O'Connor's. She carefully examined them and handed them back. "Fine. I need a moment to get dressed."
"No problem. Say in fifteen minutes?"
Her shower would have to wait. "I'll be ready," she answered and shut the door.
Dressed in jeans, a denim shirt, and barefoot, she opened the front door. A pile of boxes, spools of wire, and tools sat on her stoop. Out at the curb the security guy was unloading a ladder from a white van.
"We're ready to begin, Dr. Grey," the woman announced. "We'll try not to disturb you."
"How long will this take?"
"We should be done by noon. We need your keys for the deadbolts."
She hurried back to the kitchen, found the key and returned. "Here you are, one key fits all, do what you have to."
Ann retreated to the kitchen and started another pot of coffee. While it brewed, she reviewed up the resignation letter on her tablet:
Mr. Roger Hooper:
This letter is to inform you of my decision to resign my position as Research Physicist with Global Communication effective one week from this date. This was a diff
icult decision to make, however the events of the past several weeks have taken their toll.
Working on the EntCom project has been exciting and fulfilling, and I'll always be grateful for Global's support. I wish you and the company success in future endeavors.
Sincerely, Ann Grey.
Short, to the point, polite, acknowledged the company, no recriminations. Yes, that should do it. How to deliver it? Snail-mail for backup, and emailed it. Weird, she didn't feel any emotion about ending a huge chapter of her life. Other events had numbed her. The letter did convey her present condition, it just didn't tell everything. She smiled grimly, another fork in the road and another path chosen. Where would it lead?
Now the eulogy. She gazed at the wall clock, not seeing it. I can't do this, she despaired. Be honest, you don't want to, but it's your duty. Step aside, be an actress in a play that's not about you. Remember Mark Antony? She began to type:
"I want to tell you about a young man and what happened to him and what he caused to happen and the people he met along the path of his life and how they affected him and he them. I am one of those people, fortunate/blessed/thankful to have been part of his life these past twenty years until he was taken from us."
She stopped, tears welling up as she contemplated her words. Add a few, very few, examples of events and people, an amusing anecdote, and finish with "And we shall miss him." She put her head down on her arms and cried.
Shrill sounds of drilling and occasional banging from the living room shook her from a deep funk. She lifted her head, wiped her eyes and blew her nose on a napkin. Wouldn't do for them to see her like this. No more eulogy today.
"Dr. Grey, may I have a word with you?" a familiar voice asked.
Ann swiveled around to see Agent Winslow, in her government-gray suit, standing in the kitchen entrance. How did she get in?
"I didn't mean to startle you, but the front door was open. If this is a bad time, I can return later."
