The Chardon Chronicles: Season One -- The Harvest Festival (13 page)

“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.”

Robbie propped his feet up on the library
table. He had a video chat going. 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.”

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.

Flashback to Four Years Ago.

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.

“Oh man…” his head was floating away on an
electric sea. She did it again, and started pulling him closer. He
grabbed her butt and she started to pull his shirt off, and pulled
him onto a futon.

The futon sheets were covered in cat hair and
were a little ripe, but he ignored it. She was on top of him, and
the world was just her face and dark hair, and the sensation of her
moving up and down.

When they finished she curled up against his
shoulder. “Wow.” she said. “I liked that.”

“I wasn’t expecting that at all.” he
laughed.

“Want to know a secret?” she said.

“Sure.” he put his arm around her.

“Well, believe it or not, that was my first
time.”

“Holy shit, no kidding. Well, wow. You were
aggressive.”

The bell on the storefront door chimed.
“Customer!” She threw a dress on over her nakedness. “You gonna
stay?”

“Sure, if you want.”

“Of course.”

He lounged in the bed while customers came
and went. The pot buzz started to wear off. He sat up in bed and
started getting dressed.

Finally, she returned. “You going?! Sorry I
took so long. I just closed up shop.”

“I’m a little restless. Want to get some
dinner?”

They walked across the crowded street to a
restaurant with tables outside. A band was playing inside at the
bar, but the music poured out through big garage doors that were
rolled up. She shook her head and danced in her chair to the
beat.

“They’re great!” she enthused. He nodded.

“Geez. What’s your name? I’m Johnny--two
n’s--Johnny.”

She laughed and put a hand over her mouth,
feigning mock opprobrium. “Oh mah goodness. We weren’t properly
introduced. I’m Dana. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” she shook
his hand. “And yours too.” she reached under the table and gripped
his dick and made a handshake motion.

He laughed, and nervously looked around.

Her face turned a little cross. “Oh man,” she
said, “When you came into my shop. You opened up. I saw a glimpse
of your true face today--don’t you dare go back on me.” She tapped
his chest.