Angels Mark (The Serena Wilcox Mysteries Dystopian Thriller Trilogy) (6 page)

Paul made Martha an offer for the building. She didn’t hesitate to sell it to the promising young man, so enterprising and energetic. Making something new out of something neglected? Her father would have appreciated such idealism and work ethic. How wonderful to be out from under the Handley building with a sale she could feel good about. Secretly, Martha was, above everything else, pleased that she no longer had any association with the
Handleys, which was precisely what Clyde expected.

What Clyde also knew was that Morris was in debt, a deep dark abyss of debt that Morris would never be able to repay, even if he worked hard for the rest of his life. His shrew of a wife had overextended their credit cards, again, and the
Handleys were in serious danger of losing their house. The poor chump couldn’t even declare personal bankruptcy because he had already done that all too recently. There was no more recourse for Morris and Clyde knew that Morris would not be able to hold on to Handley Sweep & Repair if the rent was, say, triple what he was currently paying.

As per Clyde’s instruction, Paul promptly changed the rental agreement. The original contract had long expired and had no legal standing, so there was no barrier in the way of immediately raising the rent to what the current market would bear. Eventually Morris would fall so far behind in payments that eviction would be the next step.

During the planning stage, Paul had asked, “But why bother with any of this? I can just quit Handley’s and get a different job.”

Clyde scowled, “Paul, you can’t let him run you off. You have to take back your power.”

“You’ve been watching too much daytime TV,” Paul scoffed.

Clyde didn’t crack a smile. “This isn’t something to play around with. You let this rodent squeeze you out, and you’ll be under someone’s feet the rest of your life. There will be another Morris right behind this one.”

“Why don’t I just kick him out right away? Why wait months?”

“Patience, little brother.
Watch him squirm. Revenge is sweeter when it takes time to unfold. And when it does, you can throw away your cheap polyester suit.”

After three years of selling vacuums, Paul was done with that forever. And Clyde was right; it was a sweet victory to watch Morris beg for extensions when the rent came due each month. Paul stretched out the enjoyment by allowing extensions, with interest, for over six months. Then Paul sent Morris’ account to collections. Finally, nine months after Paul had purchased the Handley Sweep & Repair building, he evicted Morris.

Paul, at twenty-one years of age, knew that his revenge marked the last time he would ever answer to anyone. But after his revenge on Morris was complete, he was stuck with Morris’ old haunt. What to do with it? Lease it, sell it or use it? He turned the matter over to Clyde.

Clyde needed no arm twisting. He was waiting for Paul to finally realize that something would need to be done about the building now that it was vacant. He offered, helpfully, to partner with Paul, and he was quick to spin the situation until his younger brother believed that Clyde would respect Paul as an equal, or even, laughably, as a senior. It amused Clyde that Paul was so easily manipulated that Paul was actually seeking him out for help, without a clue that Clyde had been “helping” him all along. Clyde cursed the fact that Paul was not a twin, and was not even a full brother, but Paul was as close as Clyde would get to an alter ego. Messing with Paul’s head was child’s play; he was a soft lump of clay that was no challenge for a skilled potter. After all, the conditions were ideal: Paul was a vain conventionally-handsome boy who had been flattered from birth. He would never believe that anyone could hate him or want to do him harm.

Yes, Clyde would go into business with Paul. He would be a silent
senior
partner: secretly spinning webs and twisting Paul’s thoughts until Paul himself believed that Clyde’s ideas were his own. That’s how it had always been, and how it would always be. As for this latest development, Paul didn’t come up with the Handley takeover. Of course it was Clyde who had filled his head with ideas, so naturally Clyde thought of the building as his own from the start. If Paul hadn’t come to Clyde with the partnership idea on his own accord, Clyde would have spun a web to draw him to what he wanted, but Paul made things easy for Clyde, as he always did.

The two brothers agreed to hold their first business meeting at their parents’ kitchen table. Catsup, two plates, two mugs, two forks, and two paper napkins were already on the table before Paul came downstairs. The smell of cooking oil greeted Paul when he entered the kitchen, reminding him that he was hungry. Without a word, Paul sat in his regular chair while Clyde fried the sliced baby red potatoes he had boiled the day before. A few moments later Clyde served up the potatoes and the coffee. Then he sat down opposite Paul.

“The old Handley building has real potential,” Clyde began.

“I handled that slick, didn’t I? I have to make money fast though. I burned through all my savings on the down payment.” Paul
drizzled catsup over his potatoes. Fried potatoes like Mom used to make, Paul’s favorite.

“You don’t have much time to find a new job.” Clyde’s eyes were full of concern. Clyde had practiced that particular expression in the mirror until he could do it on command. He could have been an actor in another life, a character actor though – he was not good looking enough to be a leading man. Paul would be the man for that job. Clyde broke free of his own musings and realized that Paul was talking. How amusing, little brother was defensive.

“I don’t want a new job. I want to be my own boss,” Paul bristled. Paul was amazed sometimes at how little Clyde understood him.

“You don’t have time to grow a business.” Clyde took a bite of potato and slowly moved his eyes in thoughtful contemplation.

“What are you saying? Go into business or not? I need money now, but I want to do this. What should I do, Clyde?”

“Too bad people wouldn’t just give you money, tossing dollars into an offering plate just to see you talk.”

“I could be a preacher,” Paul snorted.

“Now that’s an idea worth considering! The old Handley building is in an excellent location for a church. The people will pack the pews. Magnificent!” Clyde jumped up from his chair and began clearing the dishes. Every movement he made was with great gusto: Stack the plates with a clatter, clatter. Scrape, scrape the scraps into the bin. Slip it all into the sink with a satisfying plunk into the soapy water.

“I turn it into a church? You’re not serious.” Paul twisted his body in his chair to follow Clyde’s movements as he whirled about the kitchen.

Clyde sat back down. “Sure! Start up a new church. People will pay just to hear you speak.”

“I don’t know, you think so?” asked Paul.

He leaned forward on the table and hid a snide grin behind pious folded hands. Paul was warming up to the idea, his ego responding to the idea of people hanging on his every word.
Soft clay was never a challenge for a skilled potter like Clyde.

6

President Ann Kinji typed the word “Cologne” into the online shopping search engine textbox.
She was relieved to find only a dozen choices. She ignored Old Spice, which conjured up a fond memory of her grandfather, and anything that sounded like a teenage boy’s scent. That left her with only two options. Of the two, she chose the best looking bottle, the one with the best reviews.
There, done!
 

She knew it wasn’t the most personal way to shop, but she was proud that at least she was doing her own shopping for her husband instead of delegating the task to one of her assistants. Ann had a perfect record of never missing their special occasions, regardless of how busy she was. It didn’t matter if she was an overloaded college student or one of the first two Presidents of the formally-known-as United States, she had always found the time for her best friend. However, with Ted’s birthday not quite two weeks away, it was too close for comfort. At least that was how it felt to Ann, who was always light years ahead of schedule. It was a telling sign that she was dangerously close to being sucked into the office; her former life a shadow.

Ann was determined to hold on to the person that she was, but that noble intention was proving more difficult than she could have imagined. The presidency had blindsided her and she was feeling unsure of herself for the first time in her life. How does one go from normal person to President? Never in her wildest dreams had she held such extreme ambition, or even the slightest expectation that a woman would become President in her lifetime, let alone an Asian woman, let alone herself!

Ann wasn't ungrateful. Her awareness of her unique place in history, her extraordinary influence in this unprecedented time of turbulence, and her power to alter fate for a nation, no, the
world
, was acute. And yet, she didn't ask for this unquantifiable responsibility. In her spirit, Ann was still that little girl sitting in the front of the class; assigned to the power seat by one teacher after another, never seeking attention for herself, but attracting it anyway. The only thing that Ann set her sights on was the pursuit of excellence in everything she did. The awards, the accolades, the acclaim – all of these were the cherry on top. Intrinsic rewards were always enough to keep her going.

Naturally, she was a teacher’s dream: smart as a whip, creative, and talented, without a hint of arrogance. She was a model citizen, popular with her peers without ever joining the “in” crowd, or wasting much energy on worrying about what other people thought of her. She just did the right thing in every situation, and she worked very, very hard – joyfully; she was a ball of light. She moved as if she had the energy of the sun fueling her on, her steps as light and effortless as a flower fairy dancing in the morning light.

It was that way for Ann from birth. She was blessed to always be at the right place, at the right time, for each golden opportunity. So it was without effort that she found herself wearing a virtual crown, despite never playing political games and never compromising her moral code, not once in her twenty years of public service, not ever.

Ann was a living example of “work meets opportunity”, an anomaly in politics; someone who had no connections, no family money, and not a devious bone in her body. No, she was just a very smart girl who worked her way up, up, up, -- up and out of her hometown of Warsaw, Indiana -- until one day important people tapped her to solve the world's worst problems in modern day history.

Her run-in with Paul had conjured up memories of Warsaw; walking after school to the library, waiting for her father to pick her up after work; going to Pizza King after a basketball game and giving her best friend a kick under the table to signal it was time to get away from her annoying date; buying a new dress to wear to the Snowball; feeling left out when kids told stories of cow-tipping and barn parties, even though she didn’t really want to be the kind of girl who got invited to the secret parties where alcohol, and other things, flowed freely; riding with her boyfriend through the corn fields; swimming at Winona Lake and getting stuck in the seaweed.

Her mind rested on the Winona Lake story for a few minutes. When she had shouted for help, her father told her to relax, don’t panic, relax. She did, and the seaweed fell away, drifting around her in a swirl of harmless green gunk. She easily swam back to the pier.
Life is like swimming in seaweed,
she mused.

She was a long way from Warsaw, where basketball was not a mere game or sport, but something as revered as a church service. She had never quite understood the love of basketball, nor did she ever really become a Hoosier – her family moved to Warsaw the summer before she entered fourth grade – but she grew up well there. Watching “brat pack” movies with her friends, attending both proms,
  tying for first place in the high school talent show, making the honor roll, even taking special classes for “gifted and talented”.

Yes, she was still that girl, the charmed fairy princess, but her ball of light was fast dimming. She couldn't remember the last time she had really looked at her face in the mirror, beyond the face to the spirit within. She saw only what she needed to see to pull herself together each day; the blemishes to conceal, the curve of her lips to paint, the uneven complexion to smooth, the new lines on her face to mask.

In her reflection, her dark eyes stared back at her, awaiting the insertion of contact lenses and the framing of her lids with makeup, but there was no gleam, no spark of life, no glimpse of her soul. She was being eclipsed by the office she held. At what point would she disappear altogether?

Ann sensed that her husband could feel her slipping away. She hoped that her thoughtfulness on his birthday would reassure him, and she was confident that it would, for now. Ted was an easy man to please. He appreciated the simple things in life. He was also a patient man. Yet Ann knew that no marriage was immune from strain, growing apart, and ultimately ending. How long could Ted wait for intimacy to return? What was his breaking point?

Ann’s moments of brooding were fleeting, but in recent days had become much more frequent, and more regretful and wistful in nature. A reoccurring theme was her longing to be a mother, which always resolved itself with the reluctant thought that her inability to conceive a child was a blessing in disguise. If she was struggling to hold on to her own identity, could she have nurtured a child?

No, she answered herself, the office consumed her; she could not have put a child first. Not only did she not have time for a theoretical child, she knew that if she didn’t figure out how to get a grip on herself, she could lose her marriage by the time this was all over. But of course, maybe her destiny included making such personal sacrifices for the greater good. When put into that framework, how could she not rise to the occasion, regardless of the toll?

"President Kinji?"

"Yes?"

Breyana Robertson, in a magenta pants suit today, rapped gently at her open door, as was her ritual. “Paul Tracy is back.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Ann’s shiny bob waggled, giving away the angry shaking of her head.

“Sorry. I could tell him you’re not available?” Breyana suggested, all the while knowing that Kinji would never back down from a challenge.

“No, send him in please.”

Paul strolled in front of the Democratic Union seal, looking smug and mysterious. “How are you and the New Liberals getting on?”

“Democratic Union.
Get to your point.”

“Harsh, especially after what I offered you.”

“I don’t know anything about an offer, and I don’t see any reason to talk to you. I allowed you in here for the sole purpose of telling you face to face that I don’t want you to contact me again.”

“You didn’t get my package?”

“I disposed of it without opening it. I do not appease bullies.”

“That’s how you see me?
A bully? Why, Ann, I’m offended.”

“Look, Paul, I am not a game player. I do not have any skeletons. There is nothing to blackmail me with. You have no bargaining tools. I’m asking, no,
telling
, you to leave.”

“You should have opened the package, but that’s okay. I have copies. You’ll want to see what I have to offer.”

Ann picked up the phone, but Paul flipped the stack of papers around before she could punch anything in. And the face she saw gave her pause: It was Ted.
Her
Ted. With a little girl. Walking hand-in-hand. Clearly, obviously, this child had a bond with Ted. Clearly, obviously, Ted was likely her father. Clearly, obviously, Ann did not know this child existed, nor did the rest of the world.

“I’m offering you my silence, in exchange for a job.”

“I don’t give in to terrorists. Not even when my personal life is at stake.”

“Oh I know you don’t. But you won’t stand on principle at the expense of a little girl’s life – think of how that child will be exploited if you let my people go public with this.
  I know you’ll think this through, and then you’ll call me. And when you do, you’ll accept my offer.”

He set the stack of photos on Ann’s desk. As he turned around to leave, he said, “Looking forward to working with you, Ann.”

“Get out.”

“You’ll call me. I’ll give you 24 hours.” And on that note, Paul spun sharply on the heels of his $700 shoes and left the office of the President of the Democratic Union, with Ann’s dark eyes burning holes into his suited back.

Paul worked his way through the maze of the building, leaving the marbled-floor hallways far behind him. Fifteen minutes later, he was finally in the parking garage and searching for his beloved Porsche Carrera GT, a supercar with a top speed of 205 mph+; and, as he’d tested the claim for himself, he told anyone who would listen that it could reach 0-60 in 3.9 seconds. He’d spent $428,000 on the car, a bargain.

The economic downturn brought about opportunity for the newly rich like Paul. He loved his silver baby, and hated leaving it unprotected in a common parking garage. That was why he parked it as far away from the entrance as possible, where he was the most likely to be able to take two parking spaces for himself, a move that he regretted today.

He was all alone, on the far opposite of the highest parking ramp exit, where no one could hear him if he screamed – a thought that occurred to him when a large beefy hand grabbed his mouth shut from behind his head.

Paul tried to twist his head to see the man who held him captive, but he felt such strong resistance that he feared his neck would break if he dared try that move again. He advised himself not to resist his captor, and to wait for his chance to run.

He spied his Porsche just yards away. The sight of his car gave birth to anger, more anger than fear. Paul bit the beefy hand.

“
Sonnofa…” bellowed the six foot six man, who released Paul instantly.

“Grab him,” yelled another.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said a third.

For the first time, Paul understood that he was grabbed by official thugs, not a mugger. Secret Service it looked like. So Ann had made good on her threat then? She was really going to toss her husband’s illegitimate love child to the wolves? Heartless shrew! Paul had underestimated Kinji. And yet Clyde had been so sure that Ann would crumble.

“Sweet ride. I’ll drive,” said the possessor of the beefy hand.

Startled, Paul gulped, “No you won’t!”

“You bit me. I drive.” The giant stepped into the car and glared at Paul. “Keys.”

“Get in,” the second man growled as he pushed Paul closer to the passenger’s door.

Beefy Hand drove Paul in the Porsche while the other two men followed in a black sedan with government plates. They traveled through heavy commuter traffic, sometimes at a stop-and-go pace, without exchanging a word. Paul tried to initiate conversation, but his attempts were answered with a silent glare. Not that he could see the man’s eyes behind the dark glasses, but he could feel them. An hour and forty-five minutes later, they arrived at a private airport where a small jet awaited them.

Beefy Hand snatched Paul’s coat jacket and yanked him around like he was a marionette. He propelled Paul up the narrow metal steps to the jet’s open door. Once Paul was inside the plane, Beefy Hand released him and turned outward to face the tarmac. He stood guard.
Against what?

Paul blinked his eyes to adjust to the difference in lighting, and walked slowly down the small aisle of, what he now recognized to be, a luxury jet. And there, two feet in front of him, sitting in a leather chair, sipping coffee, was none other than President John Williams. Paul stopped in his tracks. He feared his mouth
had fallen open.

“Take a seat, Paul.”

The leather chairs were positioned to face each other. There were two chairs on each side. Paul sat directly opposite the President, as that was the chair that President Williams was gesturing toward. Paul’s mind was racing. Had he done anything to flag himself as a potential terrorist? What could the President want with him?

“Nice work
today.”

“Sir?”

“That’s Mr. President.”

“Sorry. Mr. President, I don’t know what you are referring to. How do you know me?”