"Nothing's wrong. I just need a few minutes at my desk before I join you. I have an early morning tomorrow, too."
"All right. But don't take forever," she answered with a come-hither smile.
Frank Werner turned off the lights in the living room and walked down the hall to the small study where he kept his books and papers. He reached into his desk for a bound notebook and opened it on the desk. Its pages were filled with names and addresses, listed alphabetically, along with notes about each person.
He turned page after page between sips of rum, pausing occasionally to jot a word or a name on an index card. When the card was filled, he crossed out a third of the entries and wrote another list on a new card.
This card he took to the window and studied its contents while finishing the rum. When the glass was empty, he tore the card into small pieces and stuffed them into the glass. Then he turned out the light, brought the glass with him into the bathroom, and closed the door.
CHAPTER 3
Flashback: Friday, March 30, 2029
Brookline, Massachusetts
Frank Werner stood at the bar and, like a stage magician, removed the bottle of vintage California champagne from the ice bucket, dried it with a starched linen napkin and displayed the label to Carol and her guests who were seated on sofas in the center of the living room.
"Domain Chandon Brut 2012, the last of the best."
He uncorked the bottle and poured it into six fluted glasses and handed them to the guests while Linda's music system played a song by one of those gravel-throated French singers of the Fifties like Aznavour or Montand. Though Carol denied it, Werner considered it a throwback to Carol's childhood in French-speaking East Beirut. On occasion, when he wasn't around, she even played the occasional ballad by Fairouz.
Carol and her close friend Linda Holt received the first two glasses of champagne, followed by Mary Steen, the wife of Carol's longtime coworker at the hospital, Paul Steen, and Linda's escort for the evening, John Worthington, a retired professor.
Linda, a semi-retired anesthesiologist and pain specialist in her early seventies, had been a friend since Carol was a junior resident at Children's Hospital. Though nearly fifteen years Carol's senior, Linda seemed to play the role of an older sister to her. After losing her husband to a bicycle accident years before the Events, Linda had continued to practice medicine. Now she maintained a part-time schedule at the Boston Medical Center while also working several days a week at a hospice in Chestnut Hill supervising the dispensing of painkillers to the terminally ill. Despite the grim nature of her work, Werner found that Linda could always be relied upon for a warm smile, a kind remark, and a sympathetic ear. She was the most youthful seventy-something he knew.
Werner had met the Steens only twice before, and had only a superficial acquaintance with Professor Worthington after a couple of theater performances the man had attended as Linda's escort.
Tonight was ostensibly a dinner to celebrate Carol's fifty-eighth birthday, but it also marked the one-year anniversary of the day when Carol had invited Werner to move in with her. Not long afterward, Werner learned that Linda had wielded an important influence in Carol's decision. Though this alone would have been sufficient to ensure Werner's enduring loyalty, he had also come to know Linda as a delightful personality: a most educated and cultured person, and someone whose judgment and intuition were rarely off the mark.
When at last Professor Worthington received his glass, Werner raised his glass for a toast.
"Wait a moment, Frank," Carol interrupted. "We really should pour a glass for Harriet. I'll call her in from the kitchen. Is any left in the bottle or might we open another?"
Werner lowered his glass and nodded indulgently.
"Of course we can open a second, dear. I planned to open one in a moment."
He replaced his glass on the sideboard and removed the second bottle of champagne from its ice.
A few seconds later, Carol reappeared with Harriet Waterman in tow. Though Harriet was only three years younger than Carol, her life had taken a far different path. Born near Camden on the coast of Maine, she had married a lobsterman the summer of her high school graduation and had given birth to five children, of whom only two lived.
The Maine Coast had been hit by disaster after disaster over two decades, including hurricanes, a tsunami, recurrent flooding, and massive forest fires, and had shared in the country's pandemics, famines, and civil unrest as well. Harriet came from one of Maine's largest clans and, when the troubles arrived Down East, her relatives called upon her early and often for help. Until her husband died in the Saigon Flu epidemic, she had been able to help on many occasions, taking in a family for a week or a month while they found work somewhere further south. But without her husband's earnings, she had been obliged to seek hourly work from her tenants as a housekeeper or cook.
Werner found a seventh flute glass, though not a matching one, and filled it for Harriet. Her eyes widened with delight, as sparkling wines had become a rarity even among those for whom it had been a casual pleasure before the Events.
"We give thanks to Carol for enriching our lives this past year and may she have her best year ever in 2029. Carol, we wish you a very happy birthday!"
To that, the seven raised their glasses and drank.
Carol immediately set about opening the presents arranged before her on the coffee table. From Linda she received a crystal pendant, from the Steens a framed print, from the Professor a book of poetry, and from Werner an embossed antique silver bowl with hand chasing.
When the presents had been admired by all, Werner doled out the remaining wine and found a seat beside Carol on the sofa.
Professor Worthington thanked Werner for the champagne, then asked where he had found the silver bowl.
"Cambridge," was Werner's response. "A woman lost her house in the flood and was selling some of the valuables she was able to rescue. She had a beautiful silver collection. Most of the pieces were beyond my budget, but this one was reasonable enough."
"My wife kept heaps of silver in her day," Worthington mused. "Her housekeeper spent a day each week polishing it. I suppose it must be a glut on the market these days, no? Was she offering it through a dealer?"
"Not at all, Professor. I met the seller at a flea market. I make the rounds several times a week. It's where I find leads for much of the pre-Events wine and spirits that I trade in."
"Really?" the older man questioned. "And you find it safe to do business at flea markets? I've read that those places are teeming with thieves and pickpockets and dishonest characters selling counterfeit goods."
"Not so at all. Most of the sellers are ordinary people," Werner declared. "Some them are former shopkeepers who can't afford rent anymore and continue to buy and sell in the open air. Others come only when they need to sell something to keep food on the table. These people aren't stupid, Professor. They set up in fenced-off areas like schoolyards and vacant lots and arrange for their own security. Some even bring armed guards if they're handling a lot of cash. It's the way people have traded across most of the world since time began."
"I do see your point, Frank," Worthington conceded. "It's been so long since I've traveled outside the country that I've nearly forgotten all those charming bazaars and marchés and mercados my wife used to drag me through."
"Frank," Mary Steen chimed in, "Carol mentioned that you spent some years out West before returning to Boston. I'm so curious what it's like now. Since the government declared so much of it a Restricted Zone during the insurgency, it seems there's hardly a mention of it in the media."
"Frank was a government contractor out there, Mary," her husband interrupted with a nervous smile. "Not everyone knows this, but anyone who works in a Restricted Zone is required to sign a nondisclosure agreement. So Frank may not be at liberty to talk to us about it."
All eyes turned to Werner.
"Oh, no, it's perfectly all right," Werner replied genially, emptying his glass. "Mos
t of what I can tell you about the west dates back to before the Events. Our family moved to Salt Lake from New York in 2006 and came to Boston in 2016, after things had already gone downhill."
"But I understand you went back to Utah more recently and returned a year or so before you and Carol met," Mary Steen persisted. "Can you share your impressions of what's changed out there? Mary said something about your volunteering to go back to help rebuild. It sounds fascinating!"
Werner smiled weakly at Mary Steen. She had no idea what she was asking. If he answered truthfully, she would never believe it. And if she did believe it, it would traumatize her. So he gave her a short version of the answer he gave to everyone. To avoid tripping himself up with a tangled web of lies, he had decided long ago to craft a cover story that was as close to the truth as he dared get.
"I went back to Utah in 2022, during some very difficult times, as we all know. I spent a little more than two years in Utah, at a remote site working on reconstruction and recycling of war-torn areas, mostly in the mountains. Then I was transferred to the Yukon for just over a year where I worked at a mining site before being recalled to Utah. When my commitment came to an end, I decided to come back East.
"Not a very exciting story, really. Utah is as physically beautiful as ever, I can happily report, and the people there are determined to lift themselves up by their bootstraps. I may even go back there one day."
Carol cast a concerned look in Werner's direction. He sensed that Linda saw it and knew what was going on in Carol's head. The topic of Frank's possible return to Utah had become a sore spot between him and Carol. He had asked her more than once to consider moving back to Salt Lake City with him. A board-certified oncologist with her credentials could walk into any hospital in Utah and be offered a position on the spot with a generous housing allowance, no questions asked.
But for Carol, this was far too big a change. Though she had visited Salt Lake City for conventions, skied at Alta and Snowbird and Deer Valley, and visited the national parks at Bryce Canyon, Zion, and the Grand Canyon's north rim, Utah was not a place where people like her could possibly consider settling down to live. Her job, her friends, her apartment, and her culture were all in Boston. That she had been born in Beirut, Lebanon, and did not come to the United States until she was seven years old was beside the point. She was a product of Winsor, Harvard, Tufts Medical School and Children's Hospital Boston and, having earned her slot in Boston, could not conceive of giving it up.
Werner's arguments in favor of a move had failed to score many points. For one, he loved Utah for its mountains, its wide-open spaces, its youthful population, its dry sunny climate, and the opportunity to be physically active despite his advancing age. He was confident that he could make a living there connected to wine or spirits, whether as a bootlegger, bar owner, or perhaps someday as a legally sanctioned distributor, now that the Mormon-inspired laws restricting the sale of alcohol in the state were no longer in effect.
Werner also possessed a residence permit for Utah. In fact, his residence permit was not valid anywhere else but Utah. He had neither a travel permit nor a residence permit for Boston and would almost certainly never be issued one. He had come east only to search for his missing daughter and had intended to return in a few weeks or months.
Sadly, however, the search for his daughter had taken longer than he had imagined. He had come across tantalizing hearsay from former classmates and friends that she had traveled or moved or emigrated but never a phone number or an address. He knew that the longer he stayed in Boston, the greater the risk of exposure and possible re-arrest. And unless he found her soon, he planned to leave the East and continue his search from Utah.
"You mean go back as a private citizen?" Paul Steen interjected. "But isn't Utah still a Restricted Zone? I thought that you had to be out there on military or security business before they'd even sell you a ticket."
"In most instances, I suppose," Werner admitted. "But I expect I could find a way. At the moment, it's just something I like to think about."
"You know, I wish I knew how half the people in the shantytowns around here got their residence permits," Harriet Waterman remarked, emboldened by her second flute of champagne. "Most of the homeless you see around here aren't from Boston, that's for darned sure. Half of them are down from Canada. Especially the squatters. Why, I heard them speaking French Canuck to each other when they demonstrated outside the building last week."
"You've had trouble with squatters here in Brookline?" Mary Steen asked in a concerned voice. "Cambridge has been swarming with them. Now they've taken over some of the more habitable buildings in the flooded neighborhoods along the Charles. I'm told they're even moving into some transitional neighborhoods. The police don't seem able to do anything to stop them."
"The police look the other way, ma'am," Harriet replied knowingly. "If they knock heads, they get in trouble with the radicals on the City Council. To tell the truth, it wouldn't surprise me if somebody was getting paid off from this. What I hear is that, when a squatter gang takes over a building, they charge rents to the poor people they bring in to live here. That's how they can afford to bribe the police and the crooked politicians."
"That's so interesting," Mary Steen continued respectfully. "I read in the Herald this morning that the squatters are a major reason for this new FEMA relocation project. Unless FEMA and the Housing Authority can come up with some way to house all these refugees, we could be facing housing riots like the ones in Philadelphia and Cleveland."
"Well, they'll need to break ground soon if they're going to build enough units for all of the people who need them," the Professor observed. "The summers around here aren't as long as they used to be. FEMA may have to bring in tents they way they did after Hurricane Michele."
"That's what the Mayor wants, but FEMA says they've run out of tents and don't have money for more. What they want is for the Housing Authority to crack down on exempt and grandfathered leases so they can cram more people into the buildings they've got. Can you believe them measuring our apartments and telling us how many square meters we're entitled to have and bringing in strangers to live with us if they think we have too much space? Over my dead body!"
With that, Harriet looked up and saw Carol Dodge tidying up the glasses on the coffee table.
"Oh, the dessert! I nearly forgot about it!" "Never mind, don't you worry, Mrs. Dodge, I'll start the coffee and bring it out with the cake. Anyone prefer tea?"
She saw no takers and retreated hastily to the kitchen with Mary Steen following behind.
Paul Steen took the opportunity to consult Carol on a medical question and the Professor excused himself to find the bathroom.
Linda Holt left the sofa across from Werner and took a seat beside him.
"Frank, you mentioned last week that you were ready to have me do a reading for you. If Carol has no objection to our being away for a few minutes, would this be a good time?"
Werner was taken by surprise, but since he had indeed made such a request, he assented. Linda spoke a few words softly into Carol's ear and led the way to the den. There she wasted no time clearing the desktop and seating herself behind the desk. She motioned for Werner to pull up a chair on the opposite side of the desk.
"Since we only have ten minutes or so, there will be no time for formalities. I trust Carol has told you a bit about how I work. I am what some people call an intuitive. When I lay out the tarot cards, I get mental impressions related to the questions that have been asked. Sometimes they take the form of pictures, or voices or words on a page, or even smells or feelings. I do my best to make sense of them and convey them to you in a way that provides useful guidance. Am I making myself clear?"
Werner nodded.
"Good. Then what are the questions you would like answered?"
"Wow, Linda, you caught me a bit off guard. I suppose the biggest question is whether you can tell me anything about where my daughter Marie might be. I do believe she's still alive
, but my best guess is that she emigrated three or four years ago. That means she could be anywhere. And related to that, am I doing the right thing by staying in Boston looking for leads to her? Then last, in my heart I feel as if my place is in Utah. And I believe I'm ready to go back now. But Carol doesn't want to leave Boston, and I don't want to hurt her by leaving. At this point I feel like something has to give, so where do I go from here?"
Linda Holt closed her eyes, lowered her head as if in prayer, and set the tarot deck in front of Werner.
"Cut the deck, shuffle it thoroughly, and put it back face down on the desk," she told him.
He did as she said. Then Linda dealt the cards in rapid succession, laying them in rows and pausing only occasionally to turn them over or arrange them in groups. When she finished, though nearly all were face up, Werner could discern no meaningful pattern. Nor did he know what any of the tarot images signified.
"I am receiving some very distinct impressions," Linda began. "First, someone from your past will be coming back into your life, bringing important unresolved issues to the fore. The nature of these issues is not being revealed to me, but I get a very clear sense that you will recognize this person and will understand what the issues will mean for you.
"Next, I am picking up the presence of three females, one of them a mature woman, a mother perhaps, and two of them younger, perhaps the woman's daughters. The woman and the older daughter have passed to the other side. The younger daughter is still on this plane, but further information is being withheld from me. The message is coming through that, before you can learn more about your daughter's situation, there is some business here in Boston that you are required to complete. The same blockage applies to communication from the two women who have passed over. They are asking to come through but something is blocking them until certain tasks are underway."
Werner sat alert in his straight-backed wooden chair, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.
Star Chamber Brotherhood Page 3
