“Alright, see you later.”
“Bye! She rapped on his head with her knuckles.” he ducked out of the way and waved over his shoulder. “Bye Perry!” she slapped the dog’s side. After she got dressed for school and was out the door, the world seemed to tremble and pulse with a new type of energy and life.
Chapter Fourteen
When she got to the parking lot, she saw Chloe Marte by her new car. Chloe was chatting with a group of kids. Tracy felt like she was stepping into a nice warm pool of familiarity, back into the world she knew and took for granted. She got out of the Austin Healey and walked over.
Tracy asked, “Oh man… is that??”
Chloe hopped a couple of times and gestured at the car in spokesmodel style, “It’s a brand new car! Well, a used car.”
A group of boys stopped by on their way toward the building. Two of them wore letter jackets. “Whoa, Jetta. Nice.” one of the guys said. He had short buzzed hair, and coffee colored skin and hazel eyes. “I got a Golf GTI…” he pointed toward the back of the lot. “It’s probably the same year.”
“I like that GTI.” Tracy said.
“Nobody’s got you beat though.” the other boy said, and pointed with studied casualness at the Healey. “I’d love to take a ride in that sometime.” He was tall and had wavy blond hair and was tan from being out all summer. He was the tight end of the football team and was the only kid in the school that surfed. He actually went up to lake Erie in the fall to surf in his wetsuit in the frigid water, but he modeled his personality and look on the people in surf movies, like Endless Summer.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your gentlemen friends?” Chloe smiled and nudged Tracy.
The boys looked around, the buzz cut said, “Gentlemen? You mean us?” they laughed, “I’m Roberto Marquez--people call me Berto.”
“Richard Golden.” he shook hands with both of them. They started heading toward the building.
“Where you from?” Berto asked Chloe.
“Well, here and there--mostly LA then Nashville.”
“A lady of the West, Nice. I got a cousin in Nashville. I was there last spring break. Oh man we partied. That was a cool town.”
“Yeah, we just moved here before school. My dad’s from Chardon.”
“Oh nice. Nothing like coming home.”
“Where you girls headed?” Berto asked. They stopped at the main stairs.
“We’re upstairs in Calc.” Tracy said.
“Tracy’s a brain since 5th grade, bro. But she’s cool… We’re gonna go with the other glue eaters and sit in study hall.”
“You busy after school?” Berto asked. The girls looked at each other and shrugged.
“No, I’m not.” Tracy said.
Chloe added, “Me neither.”
“We’ve got practice ‘til 4 today, but after that?” they nodded.
“Yeah, I’m on twitter. Check me there.” Richard said.
“Me too.” Berto said.
Chapter Fifteen
The clerk poked her head into Ralph’s office. “Judge, there’s a courier here. Needs your signature.”
“Be right there!” he said. He received all kinds of things during the week--the vast majority of it was court correspondence. He trotted down the stairs to the front desk. A young man in a red vest and a red baseball cap waited. “That for Judge Ralph?” The man looked at the label.
“Yup. I need your John Hancock.” He gave the judge a bulky electronic pad. Ralph scribbled on it with the stylus then walked back to his chambers. It was a flat stiff envelope. A red rubber stamp was on the front. “Pb”.
He closed the office door and opened the package with a knife. There were two photographic prints that had been culled from the images taken at the Wells farm. Each one had side-by-side images. One zoomed out with an arrow pointing to the shelf location, the other zoomed in. One showed the spine of books. One of the books was circled in red. “That one.” had been written by some unknown hand on a computer screen somewhere, then made into a print. The other print was similar, except two items, a book and a notepad were highlighted. “ASAP. We’ll be in touch.” was scrawled on the front in red marker and underlined twice.
He got out the burner and texted “Court ASAP” to Fonzi.
The reply from the Sheriff was immediate. “OK. There in 10.”
He folded up the prints and put them in a “Thank You” card from a local Scout troop and went outside to meet Chuck. They met in the middle of the lawn, “I wanted to show you this.” he said and unfolded the card.
“Really? That necessary?”
“Can’t be too careful.” Ralph said.
Chuck pictured Jerry cartwheeling in the night sky. “Yeah you’re right.” He looked at the pictures and breathed a sigh of relief. “This will be much easier than we thought.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves--who knows what they’ll want tomorrow or five minutes from now. Got this covered?”
“Yeah, I’m on it…” Ralph started walking away. “Hey wait…” he turned and came back.
“What?”
“The books--or copies good enough? We could ghost in make a copy and ghost out.”
“Shit.” the judge said, put on the spot to decide. “Better to take them. Who knows what they really want--the information or maybe the physical book. Besides, you think anyone’s going to miss those?”
“Guess not. OK. It’ll get done, leave it up to me.”
Chapter Sixteen
Keith sat at his office desk with a notepad on his lap and a three ring binder propped against the computer monitor. The binder had detailed background reports on the Cantoe family. He’d been pretexting records for several days and had amassed a pile of paper in the binder. He made notes and flipped back and forth among the pages. He tapped his chin with a pencil eraser.
He saw Sarah Cantoe’s network was her Sister, her kids and a couple of friends based numbers that she called regularly in months leading up to the accident.
He spent some time wading through bills and bank statements. He started to feel some sympathy toward Sarah. Her bank account regularly became overdrawn and she paid hundreds of dollars in fees. She scrambled from job to job over the years. When she won the lottery she opened a bank account at Hartsgrove Union Bank--a name he didn’t recognize. There was only about $57 grand in the account--probably what was left of the $100k after taxes. Each of the Hartsgrove Union Bank statements showed the same amount and no withdrawals or charges.
“Geez they take a chunk…” he muttered, then slapped his forehead. Keith picked up the phone and called Rich. “So what happens when the Rice family sues Sarah Cantoe? They’ll take everything… All $57,345 at Hartsgrove Union Bank. Why will she keep quiet, then?”
“Yeah, good point.” he conceded. Keith could hear Rich’s office chair squeaking over the speakerphone. “On the other hand, do you believe she would think that far ahead?” Rich countered.
“Probably not... She was living day to day. But wouldn’t her employer think that far ahead?”
“Yeah, I can’t argue with that logic… Did you say ‘Hartsgrove Union’?”
“Yep. Why? Know someone there?”
Rich laughed. “I wish. Nope, Wills and Divorces pay the bills, but I don’t have that kind of salad... I’ll be right over.”
A couple of minutes later Rich came in a little out of breath from jogging across the street. “Hartsgrove Union is a private client bank. I doubt you could get in the door with $57 grand. And it’s not like they advertise.”
“Yeah that’s very interesting. Do we have the budget to bring in someone to help with surveillance? I’d love to just have someone sit on the bank for a while. I am going to chase down her two friends.” he tapped the binder.
Rich grimaced. “Yeah, we can do that. Seems like we’re onto something solid with the bank.”
Chapter Seventeen
Robbie propped his feet up on the library table. He had a video chat goin
g. The thin, tanned face on the screen had a fuzzy biker beard and long blond-red hair. The cabin of a spacious vehicle framed his head.
“Hey Johnny, I’m settled in up here.” Robbie said.
“Back in Ohio? What’s that song--’Hey, ho, way to go Ohio’”, he tapped the table.
“Yeah, Chrissy Hynde out-of Akron, if I remember rightly.”
“Oh yeah, that’s it--I’m gonna listen to that later.”
“I pinged you earlier this week because someone was poking around in the house here. I sent you the article. Could be nothing… but I thought I’d see if you know about anything going on up here.”
“Well, man, there’s some shit going down with the Brothers. Did you see this story?” he forwarded a link to a video.
Robbie watched the clip. It was Seth Kaswhetski--he still had the black eyed susan flower in his lapel, and he was being interviewed by a financial network anchor. Kaswhetski was the CEO of an investment bank, but rarely went on air. The anchor asked the usual questions about business conditions and estimates of future corporate earnings, but the old man gave a cryptic non-sequitur answer.
“I’ve long been a student of the motions of the lead market. The lead market is a very subtle indicator of things to come. All those who follow lead must know the time is come for some major changes.”
Robbie closed the video window. “As the kids say, WTF!” he stuck his arms out wide.
Johnny laughed. “No shit. Man, sometimes I get sick of trying to figure out what these dudes are up to. But, habits being habits, I keep collecting the data. Obviously, this was some message to the minions.”
“No doubt. But well, that was pretty… obscure…” he cocked his head and smirked. “Anything local?”
“Well, Jerry O’Sullivan tried to become one with a bridge abutment. Could be something going on there…”
“Yeah, I saw that. Well, do you think you could get some info on the Judge here?”
“Sure. He’s new on my radar. He typed a few notes into his database. I’ll get back to you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Robbie heard a car on the gravel outside. It was a Sheriff’s cruiser. He started his cellphone recording video and put it in his front pocket so the lens was facing out. He walked outside.
Chuck got out of his car. “Are you the property owner?” he asked.
“Yep. Robert Wells.” he shook hands with the Sheriff.
“Sorry to bug you on a day like today. This’ll be quick.”
“You caught me in the middle of some work, but no problem, what’s up?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but there’s been reports of a brown bear in this neighborhood.” he made a circle motion with his finger.
Robbie smiled and rubbed his beard. “Thanks, sheriff. That’s really good of you to stop by yourself.”
Chuck laughed and smacked his hands together. “Yeah, I heard this one on dispatch and decided to handle it myself. Anyway, we’re warning residents because the warden and some deputies might come through later today and they’ll be armed. I’m requesting residents stay inside while the warden is on the premises.”
“I hope with tranqs! Poor bear.”
“Yeah, we’ll do our best to get him home safe and sound.”
“OK. I’ll let you know if I see anything. Guess I’ll keep the dog inside.” Robbie laughed.
“Time to make the rounds. Nice to meet you Mr. Wells.”
“Call me Robbie.”
The Sheriff pulled out of the drive and went across the street. Robbie shook his head. “Bear…” and went back inside.
EPISODE THREE -- Meet The Parents
Flashback to Four Years Ago.
Chapter One
For much of Johnny’s adult life, he worked as an intelligence analyst and was a dutiful servant of the United States government. His hair was close cropped, like a soldier’s, and he wore khakis, loafers and a polo shirt almost every day of the week.
For five years, he made a lucrative salary as a contractor at an inside-the-beltway glass building in Maryland. Each day on the job he collected information and wrote detailed reports that were, more and more frequently, sending unknown men, women, and children to an early violent death. Now, in his mid thirties, he perceived an inarticulate, but strong force pushing him and bothering him, but he couldn’t interpret the sensation. It was sort of like a dog sitting by the door, wanting out.
One Monday afternoon, he started to attach a collection of news photos to a database entry about an assignment that culminated in an airstrike. He opened the collection, and clicked through the images: the bomb struck near a city square in a far off desert country. One photo showed a small boy, maybe 10 years old, attempting to guide an injured donkey away from the devastation. The boy’s face was a mask of anguish and the donkey was bewildered and afraid. Johnny broke down and wept uncontrollably. He covered his mouth with his bicep so he could wail. He managed to pull himself together sufficiently to send an email to his boss saying he had food poisoning, and he left the office.
He was profoundly disturbed. He started to drive for home, but the idea of being alone in his spartan apartment seemed toxic. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the kid’s face. The company made a point of informing the staff that free, anonymous psychological counselling was available 24/7. He considered calling, but worried the doctor would just prescribe him some happy pills that’d let him get back to work as an automaton. Instead, he stopped the car in a funky neighborhood where he liked to hang out on weekends. He noticed that a crescent moon was out, even though it was only about 5PM. On a whim, he walked into a storefront that said, “Psychic Readings”.
The psychic was a short, slightly plump twenty-ish girl with hipster glasses. She was wearing cowboy boots, and had on a short dark blue dress with white polka-dots. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bandanna from her pale white face. “Can I help you?” she asked with a polite smile.
“Um, I don’t know. I was hoping you can.” he sat down across from her in a comfortable, but well worn and creaky chair; she’d actually pulled it from a dumpster a couple of weeks prior.
“Would you like a reading?” she pulled out a deck of Tarot cards.
“Well, no, I don’t think so. Really, I’d probably just like to talk.”
She nodded. “That’s fine. I can see you have a lot on your mind.” She pulled out a cigar box with a bag of pot, some rolling papers, and a few pipes. “Do you mind?”
“Uh no… no problem.” he sat quietly while she started loading an old carved pipe.
“Don’t wait for me. Go ahead honey, what’s on your mind?”
She took a toke and held her breath. He started to lean forward, half ready to leave. Then he just let go and slumped back in the chair. “Fuck it…” he said. He continued on, “Short version. My job’s about killing people… we’re supposed to believe it’s for reasons--the greater good, national security, or whatever. But, it’s just murder. I’m that guy pulling the lever on the fucking death star laser. Today, I saw pictures. This poor kid and a donkey…”
She breathed out. “You are way outta your zone visiting me, aren’t you.” He nodded. She handed him the bowl. He toked it and held the smoke. It burned. He coughed violently.
“If you don’t cough, you’re not doing it right.” she said and smiled.
He felt it go to his head right away. He leaned back in the chair. “Wow… been awhile.” he said.
She spoke, “So here’s your problem,” She made a cup gesture with her left hand and pummelled her fist into it. “You’re at the end of your current path... You’ve outgrown your skin.”
She said matter of factly. “People like you,” she gestured broadly. “I mean people that live in your world don’t have much awareness. So as this thing happens, you don’t know what to do and it feels uncomfortable.”
“Right… Right…” he pointed at her. “That’s so right.”
“Usually, people like you, instead
of shedding that skin… they actually just die. Figuratively I mean. The inner light just goes out. Poof.” She snapped her fingers. “This is a huge day for you.”
“Hmmm. It really is.” he answered.
She smiled sweetly.
“What you’ve discovered is that you’ve got a soul.” she put a hand on his chest and patted near his heart. She took another big hit. “Wow, that shit is gooood.” He took another draw. His head was swimming.
“A soul?” he said. “I felt it....” he said in recognition. “I felt this thing… this presence.”
She nodded and stood up. She grabbed his hand. “C’mon.” she said, and pulled him toward the back of her shop. She pushed a cheap hollow-core door marked PRIVATE with her foot and pulled him along and led him into her attached apartment. She was so short compared to him that he had to lean over to keep hold of her hand.
She took a deep draw on the pipe and pulled his face down. “Open… mouth…” she grunted. He did and she started to blow smoke in. He breathed it and she started kissing him. He held the smoke in for a long time until he had to pull away to exhale.
The Chardon Chronicles: Season One -- The Harvest Festival Page 9
