This is a residential tower down at the Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia, with every apartment on the beachside overlooking the ocean.
There could almost be a Die Gard scenarion going on here, but I like the idea of a drama unfolding in the penthouse, like
The husband comes home and finds the wife with her personal trainer, who is getting too personal, and he is about to thrown him over the balcony. That’s a long way down.
Uber eats arrive at the door, but it’s really two wannabe ransomers who take the daughter, tie her up, then start making absurd demands, and the daughter almost throws the two of them over the balcony.
But, not one to miss an opportunity, or get her stepmother, who is younger than her, into all sorts of trouble.
The brother of the owner, a single father is killed in a freak accident, and his son has to be taken in, brought back to the penthouse, and thinks he’s struck it rich. The conniving brat is about to be taught a lesson he’ll never forget when he discovers all is not what it seems.
Or my absolute favorite, I win the lottery, move into the apartment, and so do the other 27 layabout members of my family.
The view in the front of me, and everyone else, didn’t change. I didn’t expect it to. It was dark and sometimes eerie out in space, and like us, eventually, hurtling towards the unknown.
But, that was yesterday.
That all changed a little over an hour ago when we made the first contact with another race. Admittedly it was not the ideal way to start a new relationship, but it was a start.
I had no doubt the diplomatic team was hard at work coming up with ideas on how we were going to approach these new people.
But in the meantime, we were, quite literary, hurtling through space faster than any human’s had before.
The chief 3ngineer was right when he said the problems were fixed, and the main drive was online and ready to go.
At first, it seemed like nothing had happened when Mr. Saville pressed the button. Then, gradually, the speed indicator moved, from 3.5 to 5, then to 7, and finally, 9. Nearly three times faster than anyone before.
Which brought a new set of issues. We would be arriving at the two ships, apparently waiting for us, a lot quicker than the original estimate of 7 hours.
It was now down to about 45 minutes, and we were going to need a plan of action.
There was a platoon of special soldiers on board, an odd addition to what was supposed to be peaceful exploration, but their inclusion was non-negotiable. I knew the previous captain was not very happy with them being on board, and the one conversation between the captain and their leader was quite acrimonious.
I hoped to improve relations and stepped off the bridge to go visit the commander.
They had a separate section of the ship, where they had quarters, training, and planning facilities. The commander, Lieutenant Colonel Baxter, had an office, and his 2ic met me at the elevator and escorted me to it.
“Not the best was to become captain of a ship,” he said.
“If I had a preference, no. I assume the Admiral had spoken to you.”
The Admiral seemed to have spoken to everyone, perhaps to ensure that I would get the support I needed. Captains were generally a lot older than I was and commanded respect through years of service and experience.
Though I didn’t lack years of service, I did lack experience in running a ship like the one I was now on. But, I told myself, I would not have been made number one if I didn’t merit it.
“We’re going after the people who took the captain and one of our scientists, yes. I see we’re about a half-hour before we encounter two alleged sentry ships.”
“Possibly. But you will need to supply a four-man team in case we have to go off ship, for security purposes only.”
“And if diplomacy doesn’t work.”
His shoot first and ask questions later policy was not going to go down well, it certainly didn’t with the previous captain, and it wouldn’t with me either.
“I’m sure we all know what that will mean when the time comes. The official book on this vessel doesn’t mention anything about armaments, but if I know anything about the military, I’m sure there are defensive weapons installed. I know you told the captain that there were none to your knowledge but we both know this ship would have never left the dock without some form of defenses.”
I could read between the lines. I had a lot of spare time on those interminable cargo runs and read a great deal about the space program, and the hopes and aspirations of a lot of countries in exploring, but not with the means to do it on their own.
Where sport was once the means to unite the world, now it was space, and I had wanted to be a part of it.
In all that reading, it was the obscure references that told the real story. Nothing could get off the grounds without military cooperation, and to get that, some concessions had to be made.
Like Baxter and his men. And for the installation of a host of new weapons, specifically for space. A little further reading showed the advances made in adapting laser technology, and I suspect this ship had a few, as well as other weapons. I hadn’t seen any ray guns, but there were prototypes, and they’d been around for several years.
“I couldn’t say, even if I wanted to. You know how it is.”
“Well, let’s hope your desire for secrecy doesn’t imperil the mission because if it does, you’ll be the first visitor in the brig.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. That’s just a fact. Now, once more, is there anything you need to tell me, that will be useful in any negotiation with the two ships we were about to encounter.”
He looked at me with what I would have guessed was contempt, but that was how he viewed everyone. There was no doubting his capability, his service record, or his loyalty. But space was different to anything else he’d encountered.
“If they give you any trouble, you let me know. That spare console on the bridge, it controls the ship’s defenses.”
I was smart enough not to ask what those defenses were. We’d all find out soon enough if it came to that.
“Then you’d better send someone up. We might need him.”
“Her actually. Gunnery Sargent Walker.”
Going back up in the elevator I looked at my hands and they were shaking. The first day out, and I was all but ready to go to war.
Not expected, not wanted, but sadly a fact.
When I stepped onto the bridge, the viewing screen showed the two ships, very close, and very detailed.
The second officer was saying, “We arrived early, and if I may ask, why didn’t we just go around them?”
“I’m curious about what they might have to say.”
“And if they shoot at us?”
“I’m sure Baxter will have something to say about that. Is the spare console manned?”
“Yes. By a Gunnery Sargent, part of the military team on board.”
“Good. Now let’s see if we can strike up a conversation.”
I write about spies, washed out, worn out, or thrown out.
It’s always in the back of my mind, sometimes fuelled by a piece in the paper that has a sense of conspiracy about it, and from there, an idea starts turning into words that need to find their way to paper.
Then, if that’s the extent of the first draft, sometimes it goes into the ‘I will come back to this later’ folder and, sometimes, it’s gone and forgotten.
Until I wake up suddenly in the middle of the night, an old story with a new idea fills my head, and I have to get it down.
Then, it will bother me over the next few days, until I give it the attention it’s calling out for. This will often lead to more writing, but planning leading to a synopsis.
The first sentence of a novel is always the hardest. Like I guess many others, I sit and ponder what I’m going to write, whether it will be relevant, whether it will pull the reader into my world, and cause them to read on.
And that’s the objective, to capture the reader’s imagination and want to see what’s going to happen next.
The problem is, we have to set the scene.
Or do we?
Do we need to cover the who, what, where, and when criteria in that first sentence? Can we just start with the edge-of-the-seat suspense, like,
The first bullet hit the concrete wall about six inches above my head with a resounding thwack that scared the living daylights out of me. The second, sent on its way within a fraction of a second of the first found its mark, the edge of my shoulder, slicing through the material, and creasing skin and flesh. There was blood and then panic.
Milliseconds later my brain registered the near-miss and sent the instruction: get down you idiot.
I hit the ground just as another bullet slammed into the concrete where my head had just been.
It can use some more work, fewer commas, and perhaps shorter, sharper sentences to convey the urgency and danger.
Perhaps we could paint a picture of the main character.
He tentatively has the name Jackson Galsworthy. He has always aspired to be a ‘secret agent’ or ‘spy’ and but through luck more than anything else, he was given his opportunity. The problem is he failed his first test and failure means washing out of the program.
What had ‘they’ said? When the shit hits the fan, you need to be calm, cool, and collected. He’d been anything but.
Maybe we’ll flesh the character out as we go along.
OK, I just had another thought for an opening,
Light snow was still falling, past the stage where each flake dissolved as it hit the ground, and now starting to gather in white patches.
It was cold, very cold, and even with the three layers I still shivered.
What surprised me was the silence, but, of course, it was a graveyard beside an ancient church, and everyone who had attended the funeral service had left.
It was a short service for the few that came, and a shorter burial. No one seemed keen to hang around, not with the evening darkness and the snow setting in.
I stood, not far from the filled grave looking at it, but not looking at it. Was I expecting it’s occupant to rise again? Was I expecting forgiveness? I certainly didn’t deserve it.
The truth is, I was responsible for this person’s death, making a mistake a more seasoned professional might not, and the reason why I was shown the door. I had been given very simple instructions; protect this man at all costs.
It was going to be a simple extraction, go in, get the target, and get out before anyone noticed.
A pity then I was the only one who got that memo.
It’s a start, but with the TV going on in the background, Chester complaining about something, and the weeds in the yard are getting higher, there’s too much else going to consider this even a start.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
It was only an hours’ worth of skimming newspapers, for the dates I’d discovered at the cemetery, and the month around the time that Boggs’s father had disappeared, because the date of death for Friedrich Ormiston had a familiar ring to it.
They’d both apparently died in the same year, within months of each other.
Of course, there was a twist.
Neither of the two men’s bodies had been found, and both missing person’s cases had remained open for the specified period before being declared legally dead. I knew that to be the case for Boggs’s father, but I had not really known the details of the circumstances.
The paper had played up the disappearance of both men, pushing the Treasure hunt aspect knowing it would bring in readers, and perhaps get picked up by the big city papers. It had got a television crew down briefly, I remembered that much, and the fact Boggs had wanted nothing to do with it.
The story, though, was interesting, that everyone remembered that fateful night in the bar when he had been telling anyone who would listen that he had found ‘the’ clue to the treasure’s whereabouts, and the drunker he got, the more outlandish the story.
A number of people who were visiting the town because suspects simply because they were out of towners, and subsequently cleared in the ensuing investigation. What had turned up was the fact he owed a great deal of one to loan sharks, and one in particular, who was in town to collect on a prior loan for a fruitless search, and who was a prime suspect.
In the end, the price of his freedom was to forgo the collection of the debt.
Yet another was unmasked as a fellow treasure hunter with a dubious past, having been jailed for earlier transgressions of stealing other’s finds, but he claimed he was not a legitimate treasure hunter, and that he was in town at the request of Benderby, to oversee the dredging of a part of the bay for more coins. It had been a fruitless endeavor.
But despite his assertions, no one really believed Boggs’s father’s claims and had dismissed it as the usual ravings that had become his mantra for many years. Only his son believed him.
Boggs himself had made the newspaper, a photo of him by the grave where his father’s spirit rather than body had been buried, vowing to prove his father right.
What added to the legend was the disappearance and apparent death of Ormiston not long after. The story of his search for the treasure was long and fruitless, one of dissipating the family fortune in search of another.
His disappearance was attributed to the fact he had become erratic and forgetful, the town doctor at the time telling the coroner’s inquest that he had early onset dementia and was prone to wandering off. This time it had been his downfall.
A search had been mounted and all the cave systems were checked, known to be the places he frequented the most, and when a new rockslide was discovered in one of the caves, it was assumed he had ventured too far and been trapped. Several attempts were made to clear the way, but the fall had been far too extensive and had to be abandoned.
Every few years the paper revisited Boggs’s disappearance, but there was no new information, and after ten years nothing more was written. It seemed that Lenny had a continued interest in the Treasure hunt because he had filed a number of newspaper reports, making it easy for me to get the gist of the story.
Then, several months ago, he had written a new story, a small piece that I had missed, reporting on Boggs’s discovery of a new map of the coastline, one that suggested that the site of the ill-fated mall was, in fact, an entrance to the cave system where the treasure may have been placed. It referenced a survey that had been made before the second world war, one that hinted that the cave system was much larger than originally thought, and quite likely went all the way to the mountains, the origin of an ancient underground river.
The fact the mall site had been the victim of flooding made that seemed to make that assumption plausible, but apparently, no one else had seen that particular map, and Boggs had not been forthcoming in sharing it with the reporter.
But aside from those few paragraphs nothing more was said.
It explained what Boggs was doing when we went to the mall site.
All of that was condensed into a page of notes in my notepad, where it would have to stay for a day or so because I had to go home, change and go to work.
Perhaps tomorrow I would get to talk to Boggs about it.
As luck would have it, I ran into Boggs just up the street where he was coming out of the hardware store with a skein of rope slung over his shoulder.
“Just the person I’m looking for,” I said.
His look told me that I was the last person he wanted to see.
“I’m busy, Sam. Can we do this another time?”
“Planning a lynching?” My eyes went from him to the rope, and back.
“Climbing. I’m going away for a few days, get away from everything, and do something other than think about treasure.”
“Probably a good idea. I’m sorry I haven’t been much of help lately, with work and stuff.”
“How’s Nadia?”
It was a pointed question, and I knew he had seen me with her. I had thought it might be Alex.
“Being Nadia, leopards don’t change their spots, and I’m trying to keep the enemies close so I can track what they’re up to.”
“There’s close and then there’s too close, Sam.”
“True, but it’s not what you think.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. Let’s just leave it at that, and I’ll call you when I get back.”
I knew the tone, and I could smell a burnt bridge. Maybe it was time to give him some space, and I could get on with a bit of research and bring it to him when he was in a more receptive frame of mind.
On a night that most attendees would hope simply pass by without any fanfare, there proved to be more than just the usual rubbing shoulders and an opportunity to reacquaint themselves with the other movers and shakers in Marin County.
Yes, this year, there was a new theme, one that harled back to the mid-nineteenth century when the Gentry held balls, and there was dancing.
There was also a slight break in tradition when not all attendees were from the same social set, and finally, after many years of lobbying, certain residents of Cedar Falls were invited, one of who was our own, and rather well-known, William Benjamin Oldacre.
The Oldacres have been living in and around Cedar Falls for as long as anyone can remember, in fact, since 1807, nearly 19 years before the first vestiges of a town appeared. They were here long before the Reinharts, they have a school named after one, a street, the public library, and several buildings.
And, yet, no one received an invitation to the ball, or any of the fundraisers, until now.
Be this as it may, I mention this for only one reason, it brought about a change to proceedings, and the dancing and this reporter will bear witness to what was an excellent rendition of the Viennese Waltz in the first instance, led out by none other than William Oldacre, and the second daughter of James Edward Rothstein, Emily Rothstein.
Such was their flair and artistry one could almost assume they were an item. Watch this space if there are further developments.
The article went on the tell everyone how much was raised and where it was going, though tongue in cheek I got the impression it was not where most wanted it to be directed.
It wasn’t quite the hatchet job I was expecting, but it was an interesting touch to highlight the longevity and renown of the Oldacres in the area versus the new kid with all the money.
Our family just wasn’t good at taking over or making buckets of money.
I know Dad left the paper on the bench open at the page, and I could see his expression, when he read it, one of mock indignation. He preferred that no one remembered the Oldacres’ part in the town development. It wasn’t quite what everyone imagined it to be.
Darcy appeared, still in pyjamas and; looking sleepy. Her life had changed since the ball, a girl now in ‘demand’ as she put it. It was a notoriety she didn’t need.
“You’ve seen the assassination?”
“How do you know what’s in it?”
“Taylor rang and told me. You got a mention, liked infamously to the one and only Emily. That cat is well and truly out of the bag now.”
“We danced, that’s all it said.”
“Maybe but what it really says, between the lines, is that you two are an item.”
“It said ‘one could almost assume’.”
She shook her head. “Semantics, again, Will. We know differently, don’t we?”
I was off to the library to do some research on the Oldacre family, fired up again after reading Angela’s piece, just in case a rebuttal was needed.
I made it to the street when a very familiar limousine stopped, and Genevieve got out.
“Mr Oldacre.”
“Please, that’s my father, I think we knew each other well enough to use first names.”
“William.”
“Genevieve. What do I owe this honour?”
“Miss Emily would like to see you?”
“Would she now. Well, as it happens I’m off to the library. I might not be, if she had called and told me, but she didn’t, and I’m not going to drop everyone when she summons me. This is me telling you to tell her there is a way to do things properly.”
I thought she would get annoyed, certainly, her expression changed from bright and sunny to somewhat clouded.
“My thought exactly, and I did tell her, equally as politely.”
“I’m sure you did. Now, I’m going to start walking in the direction of the bus stop. If you choose to tell her my sentiments, that’s fine, otherwise I’m sorry you were sent out on a fool’s errand.”
She smiled. “I’d rather be here than there.”
I could understand that sentiment. She got back in the car, but it did not drive off. She was calling Miss Emily.
I made it to the bus stop before my cell phone rang.
“William?”
“Emily.”
“Genevieve says you’re being petulant.”
“No, Genevieve did not say I was being petulant. If you are going to paraphrase what people say to you incorrectly, Emily, I will hang up.”
Silence for a few seconds, then, “You’re going to be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m being me, and if you want to talk to me, call, we’ll arrange to meet, and then we’ll talk. You do not summon me by sending a car and an assistant. It’s a waste of resources and manpower.”
“I want to see you now.”
“Then you have to call and then we meet. If you’d called last night, we would be meeting now, if you get out of bed before seven.”
“I didn’t know last night. I just read the paper. She’s not very nice.”
“I thought we dodged a bullet.”
“We’ve become an item?”
“Assumed to be an item. There’s a big difference. People ask, you simply say it’s a work in progress.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly. Now if you want to meet this morning, then call me in an hour and I’ll tell you where and when.”
“This is not going to work.”
“That’s your call, Emily, not mine. I know you can be the girl I know and love, you just have to realize who that girl is. My bus is here. We’ll speak later.”
An hour and a half later we were sitting in a booth at the café near the library. It was one of my favourite haunts, it had a jukebox and all the old 50s and 60s hits. I had offered to buy it when the current owners decided to retire or sell.
It was playing ‘Irresistible You’ by Bobby Darin when Emily came in.
She smiled as she sat down. “Did you play that for me?”
“No, someone else put it on, but it is appropriate.”
“God, you are going to drive me nuts.”
“Isn’t that your job, to drive me nuts?”
She shook her head. “You made me think before nine William. Not happy.”
“Then you’d better get used to it. I don’t like wasting the day.”
I could see a retort forming in her eyes, and then she parked it at the back of her mind. I suspect I had an inkling as to what it was, she was going to say, and certainly what she was thinking. The same thought passed through mine, and it surprised me.
“Now,” I said, “What do you want to talk about?”
“The article in the paper. It was a bit nasty.”
“Semantics, Emily. Down among the common people, it is viewed as an elitist affair. I don’t agree about the stuff on the Oldacres. We may have been here since God created the earth, but we did nothing of note. If we had, the place would be called Oldacre Falls, not Cedar Falls. It’s just Amanda venting.”
“I thought journalists were supposed to report “the news, not comment on it.”
“You live in a different world.
“Daddy owns the company that owns the paper. He says the news is what he says it is.”
That was just a little scary. “You have heard the expression, don’t shoot the messenger, haven’t you?”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“And why is that, Emily?”
Dorothy, my usual waitress, came over with the coffee pot to give me a refill. Most mornings I usually stayed for three. This morning, I was considering adding some bourbon.
She looked at Emily with something akin to surprise. This café was hardly a place the Rothstein’s frequented. “Coffee, Emily?” She was not going to call her Miss Rothstein.
“Yes, thank you.”
Emily, on her best behaviour. Or perhaps because she was not with her friends. They had something of a reputation when visiting local stores.
Dorothy collected a cup and saucer and brought it over, then filled it.
Dorothy looked at me. “I read the paper.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
Emily frowned at me.
“I’m still waiting for my invitation,” Dorothy said, a smile forming.
We always said that the world would stop spinning on its axis if one or other of us got invited. Exactly the opposite had happened to me that night, the earth moved. I was not going to tell Dorothy that.
“Perhaps,” Emily said, “we should make the next more town centric.”
Dorothy looked puzzled so I translated, “Ask more of the town’s folk along. It’s a good idea.”
“Good idea.” Dorothy had to go; another customer was after more coffee.
I looked at Emily. “I have a great idea. It’ll kill two birds with one stone. If you are thinking of joining your father’s company, perhaps you should ask him if you could work in the charity functions area, as an organiser. Even better, since the company doesn’t specifically have a department to handle that, tell him to create a foundation, and ask him if you can be in charge. That would be a real job, and I know you can organise.”
“You mean work in an actual role?”
“It might actually work in your favour, showing Amanda you’re not the person she thinks you are, and if you impress her… What were you planning to do after Uni?”
“Go away with friends, like a graduation thing. Surely, you’re going away, like, to celebrate freedom after all that school stuff.”
“Some of us have to earn a living, we don’t all have rich fathers.”
“You could come with me.”
“With your current friends, Emily? You are so much better than they are. You just need purpose, and with them, it’s about being entitled and delinquent because they can. I know you’re better than that, and I think you do too.”
“I think my head hurts talking to you,” Emily said, standing. “I’ve known them all for a long time, William, and we have plans.”
“And I don’t expect you to change them on my account. Just think about it. If you want to be seen differently, and with respect, then you’re the one who has to make it happen.”
“Whatever!”
There was the Emily of old.
I watched her leave, as did Dorothy, who came back after she left.
“The course of true love…”
“Never quite works out when there’s a huge chasm between the social strata. I believe she can change; I just think at the moment she doesn’t believe in herself.”
Perhaps she saw my wistful look as I watched her cross the road.
“At least it was one tick in a box, the Viennese Waltz. The lessons paid off?”
“They did. It was like dancing on air, she is that good.”
“Perhaps it’s more than that, Will, she had the right partner. Don’t give up on her.”
I shrugged. She was the most vexing girl I’d ever known.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
Joanne let me get away far too easily.
When I got back to my car, I ran the scanner over it. One tracker was easily found, another that took a full half hour to find, and some very strange stares from people on the sidewalk.
I put them both on another car and then went back to the safe house. Knowing O’Connell was just a pawn meant there wasn’t a hurry to find him. Anna had everything she needed from him, and now he was of little use to her. The only question was whether he was still alive.
Jennifer had taken my pyjamas and my bed in the master bedroom, so I was relegated to the spare.
Not happy.
We needed a plan. In all the excitement I’d forgotten O’Connell had three places, the original apartment with Herman, his mother’s house in Peaslake, and the apartment in Bromley.
I was up before Jennifer, making coffee, when she came out.
She made my pyjamas look good. And there was the distraction factor Maury was prone to banging on about.
“How did it go at the office?”
“Turns out Anna Jakovich, the apparent seller of the USB, is a biochemist herself, one who was involved in a laboratory disaster, and discharged as part of the problem. Make of that what you will, but it looks like her husband was just the fall guy.”
“Of course, it all makes sense then. Gets the husband to steal the data on the pretext they’re saving the world, then kills him, and pins the blame on him if anything goes wrong. gets us to stump up several million pounds, then ditches O’Connell and runs with the money, and the USB, to bilk another unsuspecting government, like the Russians, or the Chinese.”
“Can you read minds?”
“No. Got a call from Dobbin, though I have no idea how he found my number since it’s a burner. Seems he finally found the file on Anna, presumably the same one you got.
“He doesn’t know you’re involved.”
“He does now. He figured you’d seek help from your classmates that were still on the books. There’s two of us, me and Miss Desirable, Yolanda.”
“Didn’t she leave the Severin School of wannabes before qualifying?”
“And went straight to the city office of the department and offered up all details on our once fearless leaders for a second chance. On the books, and back in training, training we might be able to use.”
“Possibly. The question is, of course, whether she knew what they were planning…”
“Dobbin says she was fooling about with Severin, or perhaps that was Maury…”
“Then Dobbin or Monica or both knew in advance what was going to happen and could have prevented a tragedy if that was the case. I don’t think she quite knew everything.”
“Well, what I know now is that we’re simply pawns in a much larger game, dancing to a tune that is completely out of key. Makes things all the more interesting, don’t you think. By my estimation when we complete our mission, we’re likely to end up like Severin, we just have to work out which one it is before we reach our expiry date. That coffee smells divine, by the way. We’re not going anywhere until I’ve had a cup.”
At least she hadn’t decided to go back to her old life. Not yet anyway.
We tackled Peaslake first. It was a free-standing house, and we had reasonably covered access that gave us entry to the property with minimal chance of observation.
When we were close, I was nearly run off the road by a fire engine, in a hurry. Closer still we could see a plume of smoke rising from behind the trees, and when we reached the top of the street, we could see where the fire engine was going.
O’Connell’s house was on fire.
I parled the car and we went to join the throng of nearby residents, all with nothing better to do.
“What happened?” Jennifer asked one of the residents.
“There was an explosion, a fireball, someone said they thought it was a gas tank, and then a fire started. It was fully ablaze by the time the first fire engine arrived.”
The firefighters had most of the blaze subdued, and we could see the house was destroyed.
Was it Anna or O’Connell, or both covering their tracks? The house had become compromised when Jennifer and I turned up.
Five minutes later the Detective Inspector and her Sargent arrived.
“Should I be worried now you’re here,” she asked when she saw me.
“It belonged to the mother of one of our officers who is involved in the case I’m working on.”
“He has the information?”
“No, or maybe. We don’t know. We do know there’s a woman involved who was working with our agent.”
“Oh. I’ve been told there are two bodies found inside, one man and one woman. Nothing else yet, but I’m going to talk to the forensic team waiting to see if they know any more. Don’t go anywhere, I may need to talk to you.”
“Just a question. You didn’t let Jan out, did you?”
She looked puzzled. “Jan?”
“The girl who shot Severin.”
“Oh, her. MI5 came and took her away the moment my back was turned. Why?”
“She probably did this.”
“You might have told me she was dangerous. Who is she?”
“An MI5 assassin.”
She sighed. “You people are a law unto yourselves. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back.”
We watched her stomp away.
“Well,” Jennifer said, “that just made our life a little more difficult.”
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
My brother always lamented that we did not deserve what happened to our family as a result of a bad decision our great, great grandfather made.
To me, it was just another example of one businessman being smarter than another. The fact he lost the family fortune was terrible, but he had no one else to blame but himself. That old saying you have to speculate to accumulate may well have worked, if he had speculated correctly. He didn’t.
I had no idea why so many of us failed to accept the reality with each new generation, carrying the loss like a badge of honour, and choosing to be bitter, especially towards the family of the so-called villain, Angus McTavish. From everything I’d read about him, he was ruthless, friendless, the sort of man who would swindle his own mother. Why would he draw the line at his business partner?
At any rate, it was one of the reasons why I left home and the country, to get away from all of it.
Five years of bliss passed, and it was only the death of my father that brought me back home. He had carried the grudge from his father, like his father before him, and it had passed to the son, my older brother Ken. I was sorry to see him go, but not surprised that bitterness had eaten away at his soul, killing him before his time.
It was going to do the same to Ken. It had destroyed his marriage to what I thought was the most patient woman in the world. It turned his children against him, tired of him going off looking for evidence of the swindle. Our father had never found any, there was no reason why he should.
And it was a surprise that he came to the airport to pick me up. I hadn’t sent a message, only that I was returning for the funeral, and after a 20-hour flight, Ken was the last person I wanted to see.
When I saw him in the area where relatives and others waited for the incoming passengers after going through immigration, I groaned. He saw me, waved and then waited until I reached the terminal proper.
“You didn’t tell me when you were arriving, which is disappointing. After five years, Ethan?”
“You know why. I hope you’ve finally got past it. With Dad gone, you no longer have to appease him anymore.”
“But that’s just it, he died before he got the good news. I’ve got the evidence.”
He was almost like a dog with a new toy, and it was disappointing. I should have realised he was never going to let it go. “What good is it after all these years? It isn’t going to get the money back. What he did was ruin both our families, Ken. They, at least, managed to get over it.”
“You’re wrong. They didn’t. He invested the wealth in bonds and locked them away in a secure location, and pretended he’s lost it all in the stock market crash. He was a wily, cunning bastard, and those McTavish’s know exactly where it is, and have been living off it for years.”
Last I’d heard, most of the family were all struggling to live, much the same as everyone in the post-pandemic world. In fact, I’d met up with Adrienne McTavish in Boston only a few weeks ago, quite by accident, and we had talked about the feud, the bitterness and hate on both sides and the utter waste of time and energy being expended.
She had also mentioned the rumour that Old Man McTavish had supposedly invested the funds in bonds, none of which had been found, and her investigation had shown, money came in, and money went out, and when traced to the bank, showed it had gone to an investment company, that subsequently filed bankruptcy soon after the wall street disaster. The money had simply disappeared. The idea it was bonds was someone’s fanciful extrapolation of the facts.
“Not the McTavish’s I know, Ken.”
“They’re cunning liars, Ethan. As I said, I have the evidence, and I’ll show you when we get home.”
I made a mental note to move up my return flight to the day after the funeral. If this was the state of affairs, I didn’t want to stay a minute longer than I had to.
I made a mistake in agreeing to stay with Ken. His apartment was a disaster area, much worse than it had been before.
A quick look on the kitchen bench showed every one of his bills was overdue, and he was close to eviction. The obsession had so overtaken him he had lost sight of reality.
“Sure you in financial trouble?”
He’d seen me looking at the unopened envelopes on the bench and was gathering them up.
“It’s temporary. The company closed down, and couldn’t recover after the pandemic. I’ve got an interview next week, but it might not come to that.”
I didn’t ask. He always spoke in riddles. “Do you need some money to ride you over?” He might be a pain, but he was family.
“Might not need it. I have a plan to make things right.”
He made coffee, I wandered down to the other room where the obsession had come to life. The wall of shame as he called it had got much bigger, and the files were stacked on the desk, rather neatly instead of the normal mess.
He came in as I was looking at the montage of documents and Post-it notes that covered almost the entire wall, all closing in on one spot in the middle where a piece of paper had
Meeting, Empire State Building, August 7th, 1929
“That meeting was where McTavish executed the con that swindled our great grandfather with promises of untold riches. It could have Bern true the way the stock market was at the time, but I suspect McTavish knew it couldn’t last, and had lined up a dozen prospective suckers. Ore great grandfather was the first, trying to see if it worked on him, then use it as bait for the others.”
“There’s more people involved?”
That was news to me. We had always thought McTavish had only taken advantage of his business partner.
“There’s depth to this man we haven’t even scratched the surface. Dad got the idea when another name popped up on the documents that were signed. Yes, we now have copies of the investment documents he signed, and several more people who were involved. It led to discovering another 22 families who had been destroyed. They like us thought it was just bad luck when the stock market crashed on the 28th of October 1929, but no. He swindled them too.”
“But that doesn’t mean he put all of the money into bonds, or that those bonds didn’t lose all of their value in the crash unless they’re government bonds.”
Ken rifled through the files and found the one he was looking for. It appeared empty but when he opened it there were two sheets of paper in it.
He handed them to me. US Treasury bonds, one dated 1929 and the other 1960. Neither had a name on them.
“What am I looking at other than a photocopy of two treasury bonds.”
“Proof McTavish invested all of the swindled money in bonds, then one of his relatives converted them into new bonds which means they all knew where the money went “
Two random copies of conveniently dated bonds were not proof in my mind’, nor a court of law either which would be the only place he could get any sort of redress. If the statute of limitations didn’t make it impossible anyway.
“Hardly what I would call proof. Where did they come from?”
“A spy in the McTavish’s camp.” He said like it was the answer to all the world’s problems. “That’s what I’ve been working on for years, and finally it’s paid off.”
“Who?”
“Need to know Ethan and you don’t. I can’t trust you.”
No surprises there. I could understand why he wouldn’t tell me, I’d never been sympathetic to the cause, but spies. How far was he willing to go?
“All you do need to know is that tomorrow it’s all going to be sorted.”
“How?”
“Again, need to know. You’ll just have to wait and see.”
To say that I was worried about his frame of mind was an understatement.
After being borderline manic depressive, this sudden onset of euphoria was concerning. I was hoping something hadn’t snapped.
At dinner with other members of the family, all equally invested on the search for retribution, the only subject up for discussion was my absence and everything that had happened while I was away.
Aside from people aging five years, life for them was the same.
Life for me was different, but no I had not found a wife, had children, had no one special, and had no ambitions other than to just live as comfortably as I could. I didn’t tell them I was now a journalist in a rural city, that was facing redundancy as the internet was more popular than print.
That was something I would have to face when I returned.
It was an interesting, if uneventful evening.
The next morning, I woke up early and went to look at the wall. I was looking for clues about what he was going to do today that was going to make a difference.
There was, on a side wall the McTavish family tree from the old man down, and I traced Adrienne’s lineage back.
I looked at the dates filled in from birth to death. The bloodline had been secured in 1928 when the last of his children were born, that being the direct descendent, her father.
Something I hadn’t realised was the date old man McTavish had died, and that was three days after the stock market crash, 31st October. I thought it had been years after that.
Beside the dates was a newspaper article, about the death and apparently, he had been hit by a car after stumbling on the sidewalk and killed instantly.
My mind then jumped to a conclusion, had he told anyone about reinvesting the swindled funds before he was accidentally killed. If he transferred the funds to bonds. And if he did, who would he have told, if anyone. In his place, given what had just happened at the time you’d be reluctant to tell anyone about what amounted to treasure.
No. Now I was getting wrapped up in Ken’s conspiracy. If there was a spy, perhaps they were simply feeding his fantasy.
Then my eye caught another item, tucked way down the bottom, at the end of a red piece of string coming from the meeting date of when Ken assumed the swindle took place.
A closer look at the card showed the words, “Do you wish you could go back and change the past?” That was all it said, with a phone number.
I could feel rather than hear Ken come into the room.
I turned. “This is some montage. How long has it taken?”
“It’s not all mine. Dad had most of this already, but he hadn’t connected all the dots.”
“And you have?”
“Enough to know precisely when the damage was done.”
I had only a few moments to decide whether to bring up what I’d read on the card. If I was not mistaken, it was suggesting time travel was possible, and if my brother thought it was, then I had a lot more to worry about.
“I followed the red line, Ken. That doesn’t mean what I think it does?”
“I don’t believe it either, Ethan, but a friend I’d mine said he tried it, and he was given the opportunity to change one mistake, and now his life is so much better.”
Of course, that could have happened for any number of reasons, most of all, the human mind can be tricked into believing something happened, even if it didn’t, or that it was simply the power of positive thought.
“Perhaps they simply suggested very powerfully that he change his ways.”
“Or something else. I’m going there at 10:00. I need a fellow sceptic, just so I know it’s not possible, because if it is …”
“You can change the course of history. You know that. If it was possible, which we both know it’s not, it’s possible you might erase us from existence. One innocuous and seemingly innocent interaction could have catastrophic unintended consequences.”
“Which is moot since it is impossible. Up for the challenge?”
If only to put the myth to bed and stop the people running this hoax from convincing him otherwise.
I nodded.
Ken had already made the call and had the address to go to. It was, when we arrived, a rather dilapidated warehouse on an industrial estate that was no longer in use.
At least that was my first impression. The building looked like it was about to fall down. Outside, a dozen cars were parked sporadically in an overgrown car park, giving an impression they had been dumped there.
It was a very elaborate illusion. When we got closer to the front entrance the doors looked rustic but solid and when we were close, slid silently open.
Stepping across the threshold was like stepping into another world. A woman in a white lab coat appeared from the side.
“Mr O’Reilly?”
We both were, but it was Ken she was referring to.
“Guilty.”
“Everything is ready. You have the documents we discussed to sign and then everything is ready to go.”
“You aren’t seriously suggesting that you can send people back in time,” I said.
“That’s precisely what we are doing. You are?”
“The sceptical brother.”
“Well, sceptical brother, let me assure you this has been tested and used successfully. However, we can only send one person back. You will be required to wait in the anteroom for the duration.”
OK, she certainly sounded serious, and as though she believed that time travel was possible, so I had to wonder just what happened. I had been hoping to see the process.
Perhaps I should just play along. “You are aware of the consequences of meddling in the past. One subtle change can have drastic consequences.”
“We are very careful in selecting candidates. And yes, we are very mindful of consequences which is why we can abort the process at any point. Now, if you don’t mind…”
Another woman in a lab coat came out to usher me to the anteroom room, much the same as a frequent flyer lounge with comfortable chairs, a buffet and both TV, playing Quantum Leap episodes, not without irony, and dated newspapers.
Ken was taken away and I only got a glimpse of the room he was taken, a curious deep blue light within.
“How long will this take,” I asked her.
“As long as it takes. Make yourself comfortable.”
When I woke, I was on unfamiliar surroundings, and only vaguely aware of what had happened.
It involved Ken, that much was clear, but not why, where or when.
I remembered being in a departure lounge.
A minute later I felt a hand on my shoulder gently shaking me.
“Wake up sleepy head. It’s time to go.”
It wasn’t Ken shaking me, but a woman. I blinked a few times trying to bring objects into focus and then recognised the face.
Adrienne McTavish.
“Adrienne. What are you doing here?”
She smiled. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
I had no idea if I had forgotten anything, except why I was here and why she was with me.
“I have a bad habit of doing that, don’t I?” It was one of my faults, absent-mindedness. I remembered that much.
“You do. We’re going to stay at your grandfather’s so you can convalesce. The boys have been looking forward to exploring the mausoleum as you call it. Come,” she held out her hand and I took it.
Standing nearby was a girl, almost as tall as her mother and the spitting image of her, just along from me with two boys, twins. On her finger was a wedding ring which I assumed was the one I gave her.
What the hell had Ken done?
“Oh, and happy anniversary Ethan. Thank you for this.” She must have noticed my puzzled expression. “Are you alright? The doctors did say they didn’t expect any further loss of memory or hallucinations, but the great news is they got all of the tumours. You’re going to be fine.”
You would think that going away for a few days, you would be able to drag yourself away from writing.
You would think, after doing it every day for the last six months, it would be time to take a break. But, the trouble with good intentions and being in a different place, there’s a ton of new and different places and things to write about.
We are away primarily for a wedding, with part of it being a Chinese Tea Ceremony, and at course I’ve been reading up on it, and there is any number of descriptions, making it difficult to get a clear idea of what happens.
I guess I’m going to have to wait until the day, next Friday.
In between, there will be a dinner that will have as the centrepiece, Peking duck, my absolute favourite duck dish.
I had it last in Hong Kong two years back before the riots at the restaurant in the Peninsular hotel, and it was exquisite.
Then it’s my brother’s 70th birthday. As he is working feverishly on the family history, and having jetted off many times overseas tracking down the long lost relatives we knew nothing about, it’ll be time for a progress report.
I must admit that some of those relatives have roused my writer’s curiosity. When I helped clear out my parent’s house after they moved into a retirement home, we found a great deal of ancestral material, the most interesting of which is, would you believe, was about my mother.
We have found a whole lot of letters she received from her first boyfriend and then from my father. It shows a side to her I never knew about, and a side to my father that given what I know of him, is totally out of character.
There will no doubt be more on this subject later.
And finally but not least there was a baby announcement, always a subject of much joy and happiness.
This is only day two. There is definitely more to come.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 