The Resurrection Pact (Winston Casey Chronicles Book 1)

by Jay Smith

  Vivian Kline worked out of a medical office building attached to the Children’s Cancer Center of Central Pennsylvania. The office was one of a few spaces she kept to do business. She chaired the Board of the Kline Children's Foundation raising funds and developing programs to help people – mainly children – suffering from…well, suffering. The foundation focused on childhood disease treatment and research, but also involved itself in at-risk youth; children in abusive households or runaways, like the Dirty Kids. The office at the "4CP" was where Vivian spent most of her time, especially after King Kline’s suicide. Mrs. Kline's other offices were strategically located for access to key business and government contacts but for the moment neither group was willing to see or be seen with her and wouldn't so long as King Kline’s reputation was being destroyed in the media.

  But the work continued. I had an appointment and half-expected it to be cancelled. But on the day of, I got to the center early and decided to pass the time in the commissary with coffee while trying not to appear nervous.

  I just happened to recognize a short, full-figured Hispanic woman who I didn’t know right away but my mind and body told me I could trust. Maybe it was the bright but weary eyes – or the Adventure Time scrub set. She smiled at the cashier as she balanced her salad and pasta tray with her purse.

  "Adelina? Adelina Vasquez?"

  She turned like I might be a process server, nearly losing her pasta bowl in the process. I helped steady it and apologized for starling her. Seeing her sudden smile was like being recognized by an old, favorite teacher.

  "Winston, right? Winston – Carrey?"

  "Casey, but Wow. Hi. Can I help..?"

  It was so good to see her face. So many nights, when I woke up not knowing where I was or if I would slip back into darkness forever, Adelina’s face over me became an anchor. The pain or the nausea or whatever else would pass.

  Her purse was in an odd position so I took her tray and followed her to a quiet spot off in a corner of the lunch room. "Winston," she repeated. "What bring you here?"

  "I have a meeting but I saw you and – I don’t think I ever thanked you."

  "For what?"

  "Saving my life. Being there. You know – the everyday miracle that you call a job."

  When I see a nurse – particularly one that kept me alive – I tend to fanboy. After an awkward moment things settled down. Adelina landed a job at 4CP shortly after I left rehabilitation. It was a wonderful opportunity to work with kids, she said. Stressful. Heartbreaking. But every victory was fulfilling. It was clear that she didn’t remember much about me or my case. I had a lot of nurses dealing with me. But she remembered me most because I was so alone during the process.

  "What brings you here," she asked, pushing away the pasta she barely touched.

  "I'm meeting Vivian Kline."

  She smiled big. "Oh, she is such a sweetheart. She visits the wards every week and talks with the staff. We call her Viv and she knows us all. We get Christmas cards. Are you looking for work?"

  "No. I –" wasn’t sure how to put it. "Just a thing for my new job." I hoped she wouldn’t pry and she didn’t.

  She asked if I wanted to see the ward. There weren’t that many full beds and as an "alumni of the school of chemotherapy" I might help some kids to know it’ll be okay. I agreed and followed her back to the secured area. I signed in for a mask, checked my watch to see I still had twenty minutes before the meeting, and followed Adelina inside.

  ~

  My time inside what I'll call "The Prison of Me" was tough. I spent the holidays being moved to avoid bed sores, fighting the sickness and the fear. But I was in my late thirties and well into that part of life when one understands that it can often be miserable and unfair. These kids were getting an advance course in how life, with its grand opportunities and potential, makes no distinction between young and old, rich or poor when it comes to pain and misery.

  The ward was full of tough, relentless courage in packages too young to know much more than Kindergarten lunch envy. Where my ward at UPenn was gray and dim, this one burned away The Shadows with bright colors, smiling faces and an infectious energy that told The Shadows and the Monsters: "Fuck you. We're ready to fight."

  The look on those faces. Fierce. Heroic. Tired. Lost – all the major emotions sometimes all at once. Poster boards with family photos. Bright colors. Symbols of love and hope so bright and sincere that I admit feeling a little jealous. All of this joy was light keeping The Shadows away, breaking up the sterile and robotic looking machines pumping fluids into their little bodies.

  The little ones were tough, tougher than I ever was. None of them needed pointers from an old coward like me. These kids had families and friends – whole communities pulling for them. We turned a corner before I could look in on the room with cribs.

  "Viv makes sure families have a place to stay. She works with national charities and government programs. She gives them access to attorneys through…" she paused. "Well, until her husband passed away God rest his soul."

  "That was a hell of a thing, huh? Think it’s true what they’re saying about it?"

  Adelina hit me with that look I remember meaning ‘I’m tired of your bullshit, mister. Stop.’ And replied, "Makes no difference to me. Not my business. This…" she twirled her finger in the air to note the cancer ward, "THIS is my business."

  "How – how would this business be effected by this scandal? The funding, the support?"

  Adelina tried again to work out why I was asking, peering into my eyes a moment before answering. "We'll lose beds. We'll lose doctors. Equipment. Everything will scale back, I guess. We're told not to worry about it but there's already talk of dropping the number of accepted patients to save up what resources we have. Beyond that – I don't know. Is that why you're meeting Viv?"

  It didn't occur to me until I said, "I'm going to find a way to fix it." I checked my watch again and made an excuse to head up to the office for my appointment. I earned a hug and a smile and was left to walk out alone. On my way, I couldn't help but envy the ones who had family with them in that moment. I knew the others probably had their families there between shifts at work or whatever, but it solidified the important point of my mission.

  This was their business. This was who Grant Parker died trying to help. This organization and the foundation run by Vivian Kline. These children, the Dirty Kids, the lost and the forgotten – they were our business and it was my job to pick up the flag and continue the march.

  ~

  I was escorted to a large office behind a small reception area.

  "Mrs. Kline will be with you in a moment, Mr. Fletcher."

  I picked a fake name because I presumed someone in the office worked for Alan Horus. My arrival might have started a countdown with someone recognizing my face. I considered a fake mustache right before I left for the meeting.

  The young woman caught my attention again. "Mr. Fletcher?"

  "Sorry, yes?"

  "I asked if you wanted something to drink."

  "Thank you, no."

  "Very well. Please have a seat." At some point, she left. I can't remember when because I was busy staring at the blank walls trying to calm myself down.

  The space did not look broken in and still had the smell of fresh, cream paint on the walls above the mahogany wainscoting. It was a space designed to conform to power, but the occupant wasn't having any of that nonsense. Her desk was a small glass and steel affair, uncluttered with a big black chair right from the Staples office catalogue. In front of the desk she arranged a circle of four black chairs that looked comfortable enough for long discussions or negotiations. Magazines on medical research and triumphs over adversity covered the small coffee table in the middle. Oddly, there were no personal photos or effects in the office aside from two Masters degrees in frames behind the desk proclaiming "Viviane Tivka" as recipient of all the rights and honors of a Master of…

  The rear door to the office opened and a blur in a bl
ue blazer and black skirt crossed the distance between it and me before I could focus. The flutter of nerves returned.

  Something about her put me on my best manners. She was at work velocity and checked her iPhone before giving me her full attention. "Mr. Fletcher. Thank you for waiting. Did Glessa offer you anything?"

  "Yes and – no thanks. No thank you." She caused me to use my best manners, dusty as they were.

  She looked at me as she tucked her phone into her blazer.

  Vivian Kline was just a hair under six feet and full of potential energy. She had a strong presence, sharp blue eyes and thick raven hair with the color and shine of a shampoo commercial, but the skin of a woman who spent a lot of time outdoors, not the porcelain face of someone fighting to keep her teenage complexion. She extended a hand.

  "Viviane Kline."

  When I returned her hand, she gestured to the circle of chairs in the middle of the room. "Please." She pointed to my chair and I sat like a well-trained collie.

  "Thank you for seeing me." I wanted to offer my sympathy, something to express that I'd been following her ordeal and was on her side, but nothing I came up with sounded comforting, more like poking at a well-dressed wound. The widow-in-mourning did not exist here or if she did she was under thick armor. I took too long to make my opening remarks.

  "So. Glessa noted on your appointment that you are an advocate for the runaways we support, particularly who travel the rails?"

  "Yes, the Dirty Kids."

  She wrinkled her nose as she crossed her legs. "I don’t use that term, Mr. Fletcher. It is derogatory and strips them of their dignity and potential." The way she said it was a simple flick of a wrist with the sharpest of blades. My embarrassment didn’t arrive for several seconds.

  "Of course. That’s how they address themselves and I – well, you’re right. It’s wrong."

  Vivian nodded, patience tested. "What can I do for you, Mr. Fletcher?"

  "First, I wanted to thank you. I mean for something else. I am a survivor of AML leukemia. Your organization donated time and money to help train my nurses – well, the nurses, innovative ways to deal with challenging patients – like me. They saved my life with tools you provided, so thank you."

  A complete change washed over her. She smiled at me and patted my knee like that connected us in some way. "I'm so glad to hear that. You look well. Full remission?"

  "Well, I'm back to having some tests run, but right now the monster hasn't returned."

  "The mons-? oh, yes. Our foundation focuses on pediatric oncology, but our research goes everywhere. You can't imagine what it's like for a child to come into this kind of place and fight the same fight you did. Children shouldn't have to endure that. Their families – oh, Mr. Casey – their lives are destroyed. They try to help, but what do you say when your babies are dying with chemicals pulsing through their blood."

  I mentioned my tour and Adeline "They're braver than I was. Clearly."

  "I have to ask: what does this have to do with runaways?"

  "It has to do with them, the database you used to track them, and how that information was leaked."

  Her smile faded. In its place was that mask of stoicism, a Vulcan's resting bitch-face. "I don't understand."

  "I'm also here about Grant Parker."

  Her expression did not change, but she shifted in her chair like her first instinct was to stand up. He put her hands on her knees and straightened her back. "I haven't heard that name since the funeral. His, I mean. I thought you looked familiar. You were a friend of his?"

  "I am. And I have to apologize. My real name is Winston Casey. I gave a false name so I could meet you in confidence."

  "Winston Casey." She spoke my name like a cancer diagnosis.

  "Yes. Grant Parker was investigating something in the organization your husband worked in with Alan Horus. Out in Vegas."

  "The Aeternus Foundation." Vivian looked as nervous as I felt. Nervous didn't seem to be an easy expression to conjure on her.

  "Yes. I discovered some scary things recently; a whole other world that I found very hard to believe."

  "Mr. – Casey. If this is related to the charges pending against my husband, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to …"

  "No. It's bigger than that."

  She tilted her head and raised her left eyebrow slightly.

  "…and some bad people who don't care if what they do destroys the work you're doing. Your foundation's outreach for at-risk youth has a database of abused children and transients who rely on you for medicine and psychological services." I took a breath. "So quite a lot of kids, really."

  She cleared her throat and shifted. As uncomfortable as I made her with the topic, she wanted to hear it.

  "Look. There's no doubt in my mind that you're doing great work, honest work and I’m not here to jeopardize that. I believe your outreach database was stolen by the same company your husband hired to provide security. He hired them because he was forced to. Park discovered this, reported it to your husband expecting him to report it to the board of trustees. Unfortunately, Parker was killed soon after and your husband – well, he was blackmailed."

  "What did they want in our database? Our financials are managed by a different securities company."

  "They wanted access to the children. Those kids on the rails, the ones who live out there in the wild. They are prime targets."

  She eyed me suspiciously. "You said this wasn't about my husband."

  "It's about a lot of people. Your husband was coerced to release information on all the kids in the program. I'm not saying he was a perfect man, but he sure wasn't a pedophile or involved in sex trafficking."

  "I know he wasn't."

  "So you understand there is a huge machine working hard to make that the truth."

  "Mrs. Kline," I continued, "You don't know me. But I'm trusting you with a volume of information. I believe this information came from your husband and he intended to come clean about everything in here. Give it to your lawyers, read it yourself. You'll be surprised who was involved in keeping this information from you and the public."

  I pulled a USB drive from my pocket and laid it on the coffee table between us.

  She took the USB drive and held it up, perhaps looking for clues that this was all a trap. "What did they want with the children in my database?" She was more afraid to ask the question than she expected. The words started strong but ended in a whisper.

  "I highlighted four kids in the program – the last ones to disappear. Dennis Reilly was their sponsor. He tracked them like tagged sharks across the country. Look at their files. One, nicknamed Kit, was beaten on the railroad so bad he spent a month in a hospital. One of his companions was found dead and another is still missing. When Reilly found him out near Pittsburgh, he got the kid bumped from a shitty county bed to a private room at one of your sponsor hospitals here in town. Two weeks of rehab, he was discharged and vanished."

  "I know Kit. He needed hormones and some other medicines. He's missing?"

  "Off the grid."

  "What do you suspect?"

  "You probably know more about the trafficking network than I do. The network leads to drug running, soldiering, labor camps, and prostitution."

  "I don't understand why he wouldn't tell me."

  "Who? Reilly?" There were about a million reasons.

  "No. My husband."

  For him, there was only one important reason. "He didn't want to see you dropped out of an airplane."

  "Excuse me?"

  "He was in with some bad people who should have been very good people but..." The light caught the first sign of a tear and so I stopped. "The organizations involved are in this folder."

  She said nothing but stared at me, fighting to keep her composure. I could have gotten lost in those eyes if they were meant in any other way other than controlled, undirected rage.

  Finally, she asked. "What is your role in all this? What do you want?"

  "The same people who are
hurting you are hurting me. Unfortunately, I'm not in a position to hurt them back. You might be while you make things right for your husband. This drive references evidence I can't access. No one can except you. It may explain why your private network fell under attack three times in the last four months. I believe Mr. Kline was smart and hid things that only you have access to."

  "This information will help you?"

  "No. I don't want access. I want you to have your own security look over the USB that's in the packet. The only warning I have is not to rely on Mr. Kline's associates, especially Dennis Reilly, no matter how close they were. When you come to whatever conclusions you reach about this information it should be clear who to trust. All I ask is that you review and consider it for the sake of your foundation and the people it helps."

  She stared at me a few moments longer. To a lot of people, Vivian Kline was the hot trophy wife of a millionaire lawyer or dismissed as a pretty thing in a tight sweater pointing at weather graphics every morning. Most weren't aware that she was a successful print and television journalist with two graduate degrees: in Meteorology and Human Services.

  At some point, Vivian decided that if she was going to keep people’s attention, she would show them things that they should pay attention to: the poor, the uninsured, the abused and neglected – the castaways of society. She could do the weather, human interest stories, and be a social activist without risking her journalistic integrity.

  Her partnership with King Kline was based on mutual respect and desire to "do great good" as King used to say. He told people that Vivian’s great gift was the ability to make people underestimate her and share their secrets. She could smell greed and bullshit where others sensed only roses. She knew more about most subjects related to business, politics, and science than the so-called subject matter experts. Keeping her attention this long was a good sign. If not, I would have been in the parking lot on the arm of a security guard shortly after mentioning Parker’s name.

  "You understand that I assume you're either fighting some kind of trouble yourself or you have some selfish motive."

  I nodded. "Follow the evidence. Question it. That’s what you do. Whatever the missing pieces are, that's what it is. I just want to see the bad guys lose. You can contact me through the service listed in the folder. I'm going to lay low a while."