The Guardian's Wildchild (3 page)

“There you have it — the sun crystal,” she said.

It was magnificent — a multifaceted blue green crystal encased within a clear crystal.

“It will power our machinery, grant unending summers, and transform water to wine. And you, my dear scientists, with the assistance of Admiral Garland, are going to unleash the crystal’s power.” She paused and snorted. “Too bad that miserable tribe died with their secrets.” Tossing the crystal across the table, she announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the kingdom of the gods is within our grasp.”

One year later, on a cold spring evening, the scientists stood in breathless silence. Deep within the admiral’s New Seattle Base, their laboratory still glowed from the light which had emanated from the crystal. The glass of water resting on the counter was now sweet red wine. Captain Butchart smiled and slipped away.

3. Seduction of the Rule Book

August 7, 2040

Samaru Waterhouse held his young wife’s hand and wondered if she was aware that he was terminating her life. Brain dead, she’d never wake to speak the name of the man who had struck her down with his vehicle at a crosswalk, then dragged her body for nearly a block. With the flick of a switch the hissing of the machine stopped. The rise and fall of Joy’s chest stopped. For a long, breathless, eternal moment, time stopped. He watched intently for any sign of a struggle from Joy — any movement at all. There was none. He realized he’d forgotten to say goodbye to the woman who was the wind in his sails while she still could have heard him.

“Joy!”

Throughout the sterile intensive care unit, down the shadowed hallway, and out beyond the windows to the empty night sky they heard him cry out. Someone dropped a tray; then a quiet fell upon the entire ward. For a moment it was all a part of his exploding, inconsolable grief.

Waterhouse couldn’t bear to look upon his wife’s lifeless face. He turned away and stiffened his posture in a hopeless effort to dam the flood of tears. He stumbled to the waiting room and let his grief flow. It took nearly an hour before he was composed enough to make his way out of the ward. He glanced around, watching medical staff continued their routine, ambling down the hallways, chatting with visitors, moving equipment from one room to another. He heard the sounds of a couple sharing a laugh, saw them touching. A janitor removed some trash and carried on without lifting his head to make eye contact with Sam, as though he wasn’t there.

Life continued on. It did a dance around him but didn’t invite him to enter its rhythm or pleasure. As grief took root, his connection with his higher wisdom began to detach itself. In place of his Japanese mother’s Buddhist mantras, his military training set up a protective barrier and the door to his heart slammed shut.

His military code of conduct provided a measure of comfort. It gave him motivation to sustain his control. He had Joy’s murderer to capture, two sons to protect, schedules to keep, and, above all, the decorum of a high-ranking naval officer to maintain.

Waterhouse needed answers. The day after Joy’s death, he went to the naval base administration office. The staff fell silent when he arrived at the admiral’s reception floor. Entering Captain Butchart’s office, he approached the officer, who was seated at his desk.

“Lieutenant Commander Waterhouse reporting, sir.”

Captain Frank Butchart, Chief of Internal Affairs and Security, glanced up and began to rise from his chair.

“At ease, Lieutenant Commander. Did you say Waterhouse?”

Waterhouse relaxed slightly. He’d never met Captain Butchart before but had heard about him, enough to know they had little in common.

“Yes, sir. You probably knew my wife, Joy. I’ve come to pick up her personal items.”

Butchart continued to simply gaze at him as if transfixed by some new thought. He nodded. “My condolences, Lieutenant Commander,” he said with the appropriate amount of sincerity and began to walk away. “I’m due for a meeting with the admiral. See Celine with your request.”

Waterhouse followed him. “Sir, Detective Flanders from the police station believes Joy was deliberately struck down, perhaps by someone from this base.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that’s his theory.” The muscles in Butchart’s jaw flexed. “Quite impertinent to question me.” Again, Butchart believed the discussion was over and turned away.

Waterhouse was becoming annoyed with the captain’s obvious arrogance. “Sir, if I can assist you in this investigation … ”

“Not necessary, Commander. I’ve reviewed your wife’s personnel file and other related files. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. No indication that anyone was threatening her life.”

Waterhouse used his six-foot body to hinder the captain’s turn into another hallway. It was an aggressive move, but he wasn’t going to let Butchart off the hook. The captain, seven years older than Waterhouse, must have known Joy in the ten years she’d worked for the admiral.

Surely
, Waterhouse thought,
a man with that maturity would have more personal regard for someone who’d assisted both him and the admiral.
“What other investigations are being conducted? Interviews? Who was away from the base at the same time?”

“Captain Butchart,” roared the admiral, standing at the door of his office. “I expected you five minutes ago.”

Lieutenant Commander Waterhouse and Captain Butchart snapped to attention.

“Yes, sir,” replied the captain, unmoved by the admiral’s impatience. “Lieutenant Commander Waterhouse was inquiring about the investigation, sir.”

The admiral turned to Waterhouse. “At ease,” he ordered. “Frank, see to it that Mrs. Waterhouse’s personal belongings are boxed and given to the Lieutenant Commander. Commander, you’ll be provided with a copy of our report at the conclusion of our investigation. Is there anything we can do to help you and your boys?”

The offer sounded genuine. Waterhouse gave the standard reply. “Sir, your offer is appreciated, but we’re going to be fine, sir.”

“Good. Captain Butchart, let’s get on with it.”

The next day, Sam searched for options as to where he could place his sons while he was on duty in the Pacific as the operations commander of an aircraft carrier. The U.S. naval forces, still suffering shortage of manpower since the Great Quake, wouldn’t release him from his contract for another four years. With no relatives or close friends, he kept running into empty options and brick walls.

On the third day, Waterhouse and his sons returned home from the funeral to find an envelope on their doorstep. After sending his boys to visit their friends, he opened the envelope. The message on the single page was clear. He was in grave danger.

The following morning, Waterhouse arrived at the New Seattle Police Station and waited for Detective Clay Flanders. The threatening letter was tucked inside his breast pocket. During the investigation of the “accident,” he’d gained a trust in the detective’s “good old fashioned horse sense” approach to getting to the truth. He’d told the detective that Joy had inadvertently accessed a confidential file belonging to Admiral Garland. But he’d carefully omitted information about her involvement with underground civil rights efforts.

“Hi, sailor. Doing okay?” said Detective Flanders, approaching from behind.

“Oh, hello, Clay. Got any news from your investigation at the base?”

“Just enough to make my skin itch.” Clay spotted an empty table in a corner of the station’s cafeteria, and the two men sat down with their simulated coffee. Clay shook his head. “God, I swear I’ve never seen a more nervous bunch of people. Like a bunch of rats in a science lab. When I asked to talk to security staff about Joy Waterhouse, they just plain disappeared, clean out of sight.” He waved his hand up above his head. “A secretary said the Chief of Internal Affairs and Security wasn’t available, and then she disappeared.”

Clay leaned back in his chair and considered the value of his findings. “I talked with the admiral’s staff. Military personnel are the worst, no disrespect intended. They clam up tighter than a bullfrog’s ass. I decided to nose around a little. I could tell the security staff was hoping I’d leave. Made a real pain of myself. Finally got word this Captain Butchart fella would give me a few minutes. Sure the hell didn’t like being questioned about the base activities. Quite arrogant. Is he that way normally?”

“Can’t say. He basically refused to discuss the case.”

“Right, right. Apparently on the day of the ‘accident’ the admiral had sent Joy downtown to pick up a present for his grandson. I told the captain he’d have to produce Joy’s records — everything from her work records, computer access records, grievances, complaints, and such.”

“Is he going to cooperate?”

Clay smiled. “The murder took place on my turf. He
has
to cooperate. Shit did he ever turn six shades of purple when I explained that to him. Well, Butchart doesn’t agree that it was deliberate. If he and his staff are clean, I’ll get all her records. If not, I might spot some tampering with her files.”

Waterhouse handed the mysterious envelope to Clay.

The detective took out the sheet of paper, which had an imprint of a kiss in red lipstick. “Sam, I suspected this. Smells of underground stuff, specifically an ice woman who goes by the name of Madame. If I were you, I’d pack up the boys and disappear.”

“Not the sort to run, Clay.”

“Uh huh. I didn’t think so. Well, Sam, this file will remain open, but I can’t spend much more official time on it. From now on, watch your back.” He waved his finger at Waterhouse. “You let me handle this. Understand? Don’t go and get deeper in this shit. If the culprit makes a mistake, I’ll get him. Agreed?”

“Sure, Clay. Keep in touch.”

Waterhouse left the police station frustrated. The idea that his wife’s murderer might not be punished tormented him. But there was one man who’d certainly know more than the police — Joy’s underground contact, Badger. Even though most civilians, as well as many military personnel, had dealings with the underground to some extent, Sam never thought he’d personally contact them. Joy, on the other hand, had long been active with the organization’s more mainstream, benevolent activities that sought change in government policy regarding children’s rights and educational access. Though Sam didn’t necessarily like her involvement, he’d let her follow her own path.

He’d never met Badger, but Joy had commented once that he was a cold and calculating man, always looking over his shoulder. Finding a public comlink, he gave in to the temptation and keyed in Badger’s numbers. It gave him an uneasy feeling, as though he was sailing into uncharted waters.

The tone of Badger’s voice was uninviting. “Yes?”

“Gypsy’s down.” Waterhouse used Joy’s code name.

“So I hear.” There was no expression of concern.

After a moment of silence, Waterhouse asked in code, “Any info on the market?”

Badger hesitated before giving a short, coded response. “Rat’s in the bunker. Bonds are flawed. Watch for the gold shield and dive.”

Waterhouse understood. “What’s the risk?”

“
Thy Kingdom
.” The connection was suddenly gone.

Waterhouse understood the coded message. People were painfully aware of the government’s practice of listening in on private conversations. Nothing was considered sacred. Many adjusted by talking in code. Joy had created a game with the boys using the code words she’d learned. It helped her remember the secret codes so she’d never make a mistake.

The brief conversation with Badger indicated trouble in the underground. Their ranks had been infiltrated by someone with power. Badger’s advice to Waterhouse was to disappear. Badger had even dared to mention
Thy Kingdom
, the confidential file Joy had discovered, and implied significant danger in connection with it.

Sam was overwhelmed. Apparently his wife had provided Badger with the admiral’s secret file. Driving home, Waterhouse considered his options. Twice he’d been advised to run.
What were the implications of that damn file Joy gave to Badger?
Why had it led to her murder?

For a decade Badger and his sort had fought the government’s closed door policies. They were particularly lethal when it came to the military leaders’ often violent protection of social order and national security. Now Sam found he was almost dead center between the two adversaries. He had the feeling that if he made any sudden moves, regardless of the direction, a bullet would be fired into his brain.