Skinware

By Wade Powers

Skinware is a thrill ride of epic proportions.  Jared Cross is a man that is trying to run from his past.  Trying is the operative word as Jared, ex-college professor, seeks to distance himself  from his problems by working for his uncle in the last great frontier of Alaska.  His uncle, Albert Hiller, is a powerful oil man at war with a conservationist as he seeks to start drilling for crude in Denali National Park.  The conservationist, Joseph Daniels has his own conflicts, least among them is finding his Father's murderer.  Haunted by tragedy and an impending divorce from Madeleine, the love of his life, Jared meets up with William Posely who has baggage of his own.  Being a recently deposed pilot from the United States Air Force, as well as having a disgruntled personality, William is unlikely as a candidate to become Jared's best friend.  However, the two share a chemistry and passion that immediately seals them as friends and brothers.  Amongst a host of unforgettable characters Jared stumbles into science fiction becoming science fact: someone is cloning people in the outback of Seward's folly.  Jared makes the discovery by running into a carbon copy of Madeleine and falls into the adventure of a lifetime all the while exorcising his own personal demons.  The action and suspense are non-stop as the creators of life seek to end the life of Jared and his cohorts.  Can the good guys get the goods on the cloners and have them exposed before it is too late? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 8, 2008
• ISBN: 9781467835008

Wade Powers

Wade grew up in Lancaster, California with a love for the written word. What started out as simple poems and predictable short stories has evolved into novels about struggles, conquest, love and death. Wade has published two other novels, "Specter of an Accident" and "Skinware" and has completed the writer's version of the hat trick with the completion of "The Resurrection Factor." Wade has also written "The Covenant Divorce Recovery Leader's Handbook" which is a tutorial for starting divorce support groups for Christians. "The Covenant Divorce Recovery Student Workbook" was written as an aid for the members of said groups and allows a measure of accountability for the students as they follow along the fifteen week course. Wade has written two books of poetry, "To My Annie" and "To My Annie Book 2" and all of his works are available at online bookstores. His website is www.yellowriter.com and he lives in Port Angeles, Washington with his wife, Annie.

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© 2009 Wade Powers. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/17/2022

ISBN: 978-1-4343-7319-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4343-7318-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-3500-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008902040

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Of Dreams and Demons

The Journey North

Picking Up A Pilot

Seeing Double

Three’s A Charm

A Room Mate

A Very Friendly Place

Hope For You Yet

The Runaway

Covering Tracks

Waiting For The Master

Family Reunion Long Overdue

A Symbolic Toast

Going Down

California Here We Come

Swing the Hammer

A Skinware Problem

This book is

dedicated to Ray Bradbury, who taught

me that there is a bit of mad scientist in all of us.

Special Thanks to Janice K. Hooker, my chief editor

Of Dreams and Demons

"Skinware, Professor Cross. It’s a skinware problem," the slim brunette that worked in payroll explained.

Skinware? What the heck is skinware? the educator asked.

Slang, Dr. Cross. You know, there’s hardware and software; when somebody screws up, it’s skinware, she replied.

Who screwed up? My paycheck has been obliterated! Who screwed up? the angry man railed.

You did! He was startled by the sultry voice from behind him. He turned to view the flustered face of Shannon Grimes. She was a stout black woman with a robust sense of humor that was balanced by a volatile temper.

Jared, I put a note in your mailbox three weeks ago. How often do you check your mail? Shannon asked.

Almost never. Sorry. What’s this about? the confused professor inquired.

Jared Cross was a lean man with dishwater blonde hair and blue eyes. His pencil thin mustache and high cheekbones gave him an almost glamorous profile. He was very popular with the female students and had resisted the temptation to use his position as professor of literature for personal gratification. He raised his hands in apologetic fashion and said, I’m sorry, Shannon, I’ve been under a great deal of stress lately.

It’s all right. I’ve been divorced too, remember? Shannon replied.

I’m separated, Jared pleaded, while bending at the waist in an animated fashion.

Sure, honey. I got ya, Shannon said with a wink.

Jared shot an embarrassed look to the other woman and turned to go. He headed down the corridor to the faculty mailroom on the campus of Cal State Northridge. One of his gifts was the ability to repair electronic and mechanical devices. Jared knew instinctively how things worked, but making a living with his hands never would have been his first choice. He had flirted with pursuing a career in music as a younger man; he much fancied the idea of being on the road performing. He had begun taking piano lessons at the age of seven, and over the next ten years had grown into a very accomplished musician. His guitar recital his senior year had even attracted the attention of some old-time classical guitar legends. However, the month after high school graduation, a freak accident ended his musical dream. While helping his mother move her antique Frigidaire refrigerator, young Jared got his left hand wedged between the fridge and the dolly. The pain was excruciating and the result was a crushed hand that would never heal back to its original form and feel. He shook his hand as he walked into the mailroom. It was going to rain. The ruined tendons in his hand ached when the humidity rose above normal. What he got in exchange for a damaged appendage that would forever keep him from being the musician he longed to be was a literal, hand-held barometer. It was his way of predicting a downpour. He could feel a storm coming, his hand the prophet.

Hi there, a friendly voice chimed.

He turned to look at his friend, Shelly. She had begun teaching Shakespeare the year after Jared came to the University. She had a love for seafood, classical music and the Lakers. Jared enjoyed talking to the junior professor, at least a junior to him. They had been comrades for years and there was no pressure because there was no spark. Shelly Simons had recently married and become Shelly Simons-King. Her husband was a likable man, but was far from her intellectual equal. In previous days, Jared would share secrets with his friend and she would reciprocate, but this past year had been hard on Jared. It probably would be best to talk out the pain, but the secrets refused to be revealed. He suffered in silence. Even Shelly could not get him to open his heart.

Hi. Hey, look at this, he replied, handing her his pay stub.

Wow, I didn’t think Madeleine would stoop to this, Shelly said cheerfully, as Jared pulled a stack of papers from his overweight mail slot.

What? It’s a screw-up, that’s all, Jared protested.

No, it’s not. See that code with the asterisk beside it? Shelly asked as she pointed to the bottom left-hand side of his pay stub.

So?

You’ve been garnished. Check the code list on the back. You should have paid up, Shelly advised.

Damn it! How could she? She knows I’ll pay her eventually, Jared raged.

She needs money for her, shall we say, business venture? Shelly inquired.

Oh, that. That will never fly. She is just milking me. All this after what she did, after what she didn’t do, Jared muttered, his voice trailing off, as if he were suddenly fascinated by the clouds that he saw out the window. He always thought about the clouds when his mind turned to her.

Read me a story, daddy, she pleaded. Her blonde hair and pouting little lips usually could sway him from whatever he was doing. Jared turned from the computer that occupied a corner of the living room. The two bedroom apartment was small, but functional. The main advantage of the bottom floor dwelling was that it was only a block from Cal State University Northridge. Because of the locale, Jared walked to and from work each day, thus avoiding the purchase of a second car. He hated raising his daughter in an apartment, but knew the creature comforts would suffer on an educator’s salary.

Honey, you know I’m busy, he replied to the four-year-old con artist.

Never too busy for me. I’m your darling angel! She looked at him with puppy like eyes and shone a smile that still lacked some teeth. Okay, but only one, and then tell mommy to tuck you in, he said as she climbed on his knee.

But mommy doesn’t know the song, daddy! she protested.

Sure she does, honey, Jared replied.

But I like the guitar. Play the guitar and sing me to night night! Her little voice became insistent and tears formed in her eyes.

Okay, Kenz, Jared said, as a specter like figure entered the room.

I thought we agreed not to call her that. Her proper name is McKenna, the voice of the shadowy goddess broke in.

I know. But, it reminds me of your cousin; that’s her name. Can’t we call her Kenz to avoid the confusion?

Yeah, no more fusion, McKenna echoed.

We’ll talk later. Are you putting little miss lawyer to bed? the delicate woman asked as she strode into the light of the computer monitor. She was beautiful, in a mythical kind of way. Her soft brown hair flowed back as it graced her smallish shoulders. Her eyes were in a perpetual hazel conflict, not able to decide between green and brown. Her slight pug nose and radiant skin give her an aura that no artist could constrict to canvas. Jared had loved her the moment they met. When he told her this on their fifth date, she had replied, You’re just letting all of that classic literature you teach get the best of you.

I suppose I’ll sing the McKenna song, he said.

Weeeee, McKenna sang in her own child like fashion. The woman then kissed the child on the forehead and the man on the mouth.

What was that for? Jared asked, suddenly wanting more.

For being such a good daddy. And because I love you… she hesitated.

And? the animated soon to be story reader inquired.

Maybe someday you’ll write a song about me, she said, flirting with her wavering hazel eyes.

Maybe, my love. You can inspire me later, he said, giving her his best boyish grin, innocent with a hint of mischief.

Jared. Hello, earth to Jared, Shelly quipped.

Oh Shelly, I’m sorry. Guess I’m just a little distracted, he explained.

Madeleine is just trying to start a new venture. You were married for eleven years. You could at least pay her alimony, Shelly reasoned.

I tried. I can’t. It’s almost unethical.

Jared, did you make an appointment to see my friend? Shelly asked in a concerned voice. Jared just shook his head as three members of the faculty walked by on a mission to check their mail slots.

No, I’m not ready. It’s all about right and wrong… Jared began, but was interrupted.

No, sir! It is about forgiveness. The past is the past and will never be again.

Don’t lay your psycho babble on me, Shell! The past will never be the past until I allow it! Jared growled.

He could see by his friend’s expression that he had hurt her deeply. She blinked in rapid succession, a trick she used to keep from crying. Instinctively he reached out to hold her.

I’m sorry, Shell. I’m so sorry, he whispered.

It’s okay, she replied, Better let me go or people will start talking.

Yeah, and your huge husband will put a hurt on me, Jared laughed.

That reminds me. He wants to know if you want to go with him to see the Lakers tomorrow night. He got his boss’s tickets.

I’m afraid I couldn’t even afford a hot dog at the game, Jared replied, looking at his meager pay stub.

Call me tomorrow, Shelly said, patting him on the shoulder as she passed. He turned to look at her. Being an only child, he had never had a sister. Shelly was the closest thing to a sibling he would ever know. He tried to think positive and meditate on the good in his life. All he could find was emptiness. The garnishing of his check had added insult to ultimate injury. The melody of the song began to play in his head.

These tulips just refuse to show themselves, the aged gardener cried.

Just give them time, Bob. This Los Angeles soil is hard on plants. You know that, his graying wife and partner replied.

I guess you’re right. You always are. Why couldn’t we be like normal old farts and retire in the Midwest? Bob asked.

Because you hate the Midwest. Anyway, we would never see our son.

Oh, him again. The boy has no drive. He won’t get involved! he railed.

He’s not from the 60’s, honey; he’s a dreamer. Anyway, being a professor at thirty-five is pretty darned good I’d say. It worked for us, she commented.

Yes, I would have to agree. I suppose what’s really bothering me is Madeleine. I love that girl. Jared is an idiot for splitting up with her! Bob raged as he plucked a weed with his wrinkled left hand.

He is in pain, Bob. He needs us to support him, she replied.

Damn it, Amanda, asking us not to contact her is just plain cruel. She doesn’t even have parents, Bob said.

Well, you best cool down, Amanda said.

Why is that?

Because Jared just drove up. Let’s go wash, Amanda said.

Okay, but I’ll put on my Doors CD first. He hates that one, Bob said with a grin.

Amanda was just toweling her hands when her son walked in. She often thought of Jared as the one part of her life that gave her balance. She had been living with Robert since the early 1960’s while they both were professors of political science at Berkeley. The entire nation focused on the rallies and protests that seemed to change the entire culture. One night there would be a meeting to end the war in Vietnam. One night would be with the bra burners spouting womens’ liberation. Another day would bring another cause, be it civil rights, gun control, or Zero Population Growth. The Z.P.G. movement had been her favorite. Her philosophy was that every problem in the world could be traced to overpopulation. She had made a vow in her heart to never bring a life into this world. It was a vow she broke, and had never regretted it. Jared was the joy of her life. She loved Bob with all her heart, but Jared was a gentle spirit, like her father had been. She had grown up on a Nebraska farm and had to learn to work at an early age. She still remembered the day when her father was killed. He was only forty-one at the time of his untimely death. He fell asleep at the wheel of his tractor, fell off and was cut to ribbons by the plow in tow. The mess was considerable, or so she was told by her angry aunt, a biddy named Gertie.

Fool, should have got some rest, Gertie said after the funeral.

Amanda never had forgotten the pain in her youthful hand as she slapped Aunt Gertie’s surprised, puffy face in front of the entire family. The woman fell to the floor quickly and ended her descent harshly, striking her head on the church piano bench. With a quiet family gawking, the fifteen-year-old stood over her mother’s sister and snarled, You piece of shit! You’re not worthy to utter his name and if I hear you say anything else about my father, I’ll kill you, bitch!

She ran out of the church, but held her tears until the parking lot. They’ll never see me cry, she thought as she sat in the gas station alley and wept for an hour. When the tears were dry, she knew the farm life chain had to be broken. She waited until after she graduated high school and left. She never returned.

Hi Mom, Jared said, squeezing her fragile body against his.

Hello son. You look down, Amanda said.

I am. Is dad here? he asked. The gray haired man walked into the kitchen where the rest of his family was standing.

I’m here, Jared. What’s up? he asked.

Bob Cross was tall and lanky. His prickly beard and rosy cheeks caused him to fit the stereotype of an aged college professor nicely. He was the son of a Navy man and had spent the bulk of his childhood being raised by an impaired mother. Drinking proved to be her undoing and while his father was away at sea, he buried her. He was only sixteen at the time, but even now he remembered the gruesome task of having to write his father to inform him of the premature death. The money to pay the funeral director never came, so young Robert had worked and lived with the generous undertaker until he had graduated high school. He never heard from his father again. He had met Amanda Hiller while a graduate student at UCLA, and soon afterward they both secured positions at the prestigious Berkeley campus in the fall of 1960. It was an exciting year. The Kennedy-Nixon debates were the talk of the nation and Robert rejoiced when the man from Massachusetts won the presidency. It was a glorious time to be young and in love. He had argued vehemently for Amanda to get an abortion, continually referring to her stance on zero population growth. In the end, he lost. In the end, he won, as he stared at the articulate educator before him, his son.

Hi, dad, Jared said.

Howdy, son. More Mattie problems? he asked.

She prefers to be called Madeleine now Bob, Amanda corrected.

Whatever, he replied.

As a matter of fact, yes, more problems. She’s garnished my wages, Jared complained.

You should have paid the amount the judge ordered son, Robert reminded him.

I can’t, dad, Jared replied.

Yes, you can and by God, you will son, Bob said.

Jared, we love Madeleine. She is more like a daughter than an ex-daughter-in-law, Amanda said.

She’s not my ex yet. Mom, we still have some time left before it’s final.

Son, you started this. You left her. You filed the paperwork! Bob said in a raised voice.

I know. I know. But I just couldn’t go on living with her, Jared cried.

Son, we know you still love Madeleine, Amanda said.

Jared sat down at the kitchen table and handled the salt shaker, suddenly feeling twelve-years-old. He had been scolded in this same manner many times as a boy.

Son, we’re confused. We’re very confused. It was an accident, his father said as gently as he could. Jared sat and buried his face in his hands.

I know, but I’m confused too, he replied.

What are you going to do? Amanda asked.

Two things. One is to go and talk to her, Jared said, lifting his head.

And the other? his mother inquired.

Ask you for a loan for two hundred dollars.

No problem, son. I’ll write you a check. Let’s make it five, Bob said, which brought a smile to their son’s face.

Maybe you need a change of scenery son, his mother said.

Maybe. A vacation would be nice. Sometimes I feel like I just want to run away, you know? he asked, as Bob reappeared with the checkbook.

Ever think about going up to Anchorage to see that capitalistic, materialistic brother of your mom’s? Bob asked, as he signed his name.

Alaska is a little too cold for my blood. It’s February, Jared said.

Not now, son. How about in the summer? He said he would love for you to visit, Amanda said.

I’ll think about it. Is he still working for that oil company?

Yeah. He’s trying to get into Denali Park now, you know, the wildlife reserve! The bastard claims there’s oil in there! Bob railed.

Maybe there is, Jared proposed, looking for middle ground as usual.

So the hell what? We are pillaging the land, son! He’s a sellout, Bob said.

He’s still my brother dear, Amanda said, pouring some water in a cup to make some tea.

Maybe I’ll gave him a call, Jared said.

Good, let’s have some tea. It’s peppermint, Amanda said.

None for me, mom, Jared said.

C’mon son, cheer up, Bob said.

The part of this whole garnishment thing that bugs me is that if I don’t comply, I’m guilty of contempt, Jared cried.

So? You look good in orange, his father joked.

Orange? Jared asked in a surprised tone.

Yeah, they always dress the convicts in orange when they’re doing work on the side of the road, he said with a chuckle.

That’s not funny, Jared whispered as he stood from his chair.

And son, I’ll bring you lots of cigarettes so you won’t have to be anyone’s bitch, Amanda piped with a smile.

You two aren’t helping, Jared said, rolling his eyes.

Lighten up, Jared. It will be all right. Here’s five, what do they call them? Benjamins, to hold you over, Bob said, handing him a check.

Thanks. I’m going to see Madeleine, Jared quipped.

Give Madeleine our love, Amanda said, as Jared opened the door.

I can’t even give her mine, mom, Jared replied as he gave a pathetic wave.

The drive from his parents’ house in Thousand Oaks up the 101 freeway to Ventura was gorgeous. Madeleine had secured a one bedroom apartment there a month after he served her with the divorce paperwork. He had intended to stay in their two bedroom place on Zelzah Avenue, but moved for two reasons. One reason was money; he needed to be on a strict budget. The other reason was memories. He could not stay in that same place. He swore he could hear his daughter laughing. He had spent hours just sitting in her room, remembering. He hummed her song as he drove. It was McKenna’s song. He thought about the studio apartment he had moved into. It was quaint, which is a euphemism for damn small. It served his purpose, however, and was very close to the campus. He rolled down his window and let the cool winter air flow into his Ford Escort. The radio was rarely on and he often enjoyed listening to the wind blow through his poorly insulated windows. Most people would be annoyed at the whine of wind seeping into a moving vehicle, but to Jared, it was a welcome distraction. A painkiller of sorts. The salt smell was heavy and the sun glistened off the water to his left as he cruised north. He thought for a moment that he spied some dolphins leaping out of the water and then dismissed it as a mirage. He didn’t trust his senses these days. He didn’t trust anything. He turned off the highway, and in a matter of minutes pulled to a stop in front of the Bell Garden Apartments. They were aged and broken down, a condition with which he could identify. The Spanish roof had many of its rust colored tiles missing and the lawn in front of the ancient building was mostly a haven for dandelions. Madeleine was working in her second story, one bedroom villa; he could see her silhouette through the window. She would sit for hours at her computer, planning and designing. Madeleine had studied fashion in college. They had been introduced by a mutual friend and had married a little more than a year later. He thought about their first date as he shuffled toward the staircase that would ultimately lead to her door. He had acquired two tickets to Evita, which was playing at the Shubert Theatre. It seemed that Jared always had tickets to a musical. He was passionate about the theater, and when he saw that Madeleine loved the singing and acting as much as he did, Jared began to think that this exotic brunette could be the love of his life. They shared so much. Jared often thought it strange how close they had become. He had had the pleasure of growing up in a house where his parents genuinely cared for one another. His folks were offbeat, to be sure, but he had never doubted their commitment to one another. All he had for Madeleine now was doubt. He loved her still, but could not act on his love. Shelly was right. He could not, he would not, forgive.

Who is it? the tender voice called from the other side of the door. The paint on the door was flaking off; it had seen better decades.

Jared, he replied, somehow in pain at the expressing of his own name.

Oh, just a minute, Madeleine exclaimed, her voice sounded somehow different now. She opened the door, and for a brief instant, everything made sense. They loved each other. They had a daughter. They were family. The image faded as he opened his mouth to speak.

May I come in? he inquired.

Madeleine opened the door while surrendering a faint smile. He eyed the place as he made his way to the couch. He saw no evidence of another man, but then chastised himself internally for even conducting the investigation.

If she has a boyfriend it’s no business of mine, he said in his mind. He reclined on the sofa with a folder in hand.

I see you got the paperwork. I received a check from the university payroll office. For what it’s worth, thank you, Madeleine stated as she sat across the room in a hand-me-down Lazy Boy chair.

Garnishment, Madeleine? Isn’t this a bit extreme? Jared asked as he waved the paperwork with his left hand.

It wasn’t my idea, Madeleine countered.

And the threat of being charged with a felony?

Not my idea either. My lawyer is calling the shots. I told her to go easy, but she’s a fighter.

She’s a shark, Jared said.

That’s harsh. A barracuda, perhaps, Madeleine joked, trying to ease the tension.

Jared just sighed and looked at the floor.

So can I offer you a cold drink? I just bought some cream soda, she said, knowing it was his favorite.

Sure, he replied.

She stood and flipped her head to one side, a habit she had when not at ease. Jared studied her exotic features and trim thighs as she walked to the small kitchen. Her plaid blouse and black shorts were casual, but did the trick when it came to displaying her toned body.

You working out? he asked.

Yeah, she shouted from around the corner that separated her kitchen from the rest of the tiny dwelling. In a moment she reappeared with a cold drink in hand.

Are you seeing any one? she asked, plopping back down in the chair.

No, you? he shot back.

No. Not that there haven’t been offers. I’ve been spending all my time trying to get investors for my business. I’m close to picking up support from a company in the East. They like my ideas anyway, Madeleine beamed.

Good luck. I mean that, he said, raising his cold can toward his soon to be ex-wife in a quasi toast.

Thanks. When I get on my feet I plan to discontinue the spousal support. Maybe I can pay you back, she suggested.

It’s okay, Madeleine. I was just a little hot under the collar. My dad gave me some cash to tide me over, Jared retorted, before taking a huge gulp.

Your parents are all right, aren’t they? she asked.

Yes, fine. They’re pissed at me because I asked them not to have any contact with you.

Jared Cross! How could you? I love your parents! Madeleine cried.

It was pretty dumb on my part. I’ll call Mom and tell her the moratorium is over. Fair enough? he asked as he stood to leave.

Taking off already? Let me show you my latest addition first, Madeleine said.

She smiled and sprinted to the bedroom. A minute later she returned radiant. The red and white Japanese kimono fit her beautifully.

You like it? I’m into Asian wear now. I finished the African garb last week, she said.

"It’s very pretty. Do you think that there’s a market for ethnic clothes? Jared asked.

I’m counting on it. My goal is to cross cultures. A black woman in a smart kimono. White men in African robes. You get the idea, she replied.

Well, I hope it flies. What do you call your company? Jared asked, turning away to cool his desire to hold her.

‘A Wear of Culture.’ Cute, huh? she beamed.

Yes. Very. Well, I’ll see you, he said, heading for the door.

Bye, she replied.

Thanks for the cold drink, he said, suddenly aware of her hand on his shoulder.

Jared, we can stop this. I’d say I’m sorry again, but my therapist told me it’s counterproductive.

It’s not you. It’s me. I’d like to say that I can put what’s happened behind me, behind us, but I can’t, he said with tears welling up in his eyes.

Jared, you love me! I know you love me! Madeleine exclaimed, as her cheeks became wet with tears.

Yes, I do. But it’s simply not enough anymore. It’s cruel, really, to think that sometimes love is not enough, he said as he walked through the doorway. She heard the sound of his footsteps diminish down the rickety stairwell and realized he was gone. It was the first time that she truly believed that her marriage was doomed. She gently removed the kimono and cried for hours.

The hulking man with thinning gray hair looked concernedly at the papers on his desk at the Carlin Oil Company. He was popping his knuckles as the tall portly man in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt entered his office. The visitor had huge feet. The older man peered over his glasses while cocking his stern face and gazing upward.

Not good news, boss, the potbellied intruder began.

Specifics, Plew. I need specifics, the seated man replied.

The rally was gonna be some piss ant thing, but out of nowhere comes a bunch of money from that Pasadena punk. You know the guy, Plew said, pouring himself a bourbon.

That brat really does stir the shit. Daniels, that’s his name, Joseph Daniels. I was hoping he wouldn’t get involved.

Well, Mr. Hiller, from what I’ve seen he gets people organized, Plew said as he took a hit from his glass.

What’s his plan? Hiller asked.

Not sure yet. I’ve got the word out on the streets of Anchorage. The so-called Reverend Daniels has a small place downtown by the train station on Second Street. Where the hell does he get all of his money? He has houses in three or four places in the lower forty-eight too.

Inheritance. I’ve seen his place in California. Pasadena is not a cheap place to live, Hiller said, rising from his chair to glance out at the sullen wintry landscape as seen through his ninth story office window. For a moment he thought about Alaska. It truly was the last, and in his estimation, the greatest frontier. He had hired on as an Oklahoma roustabout right out of high school. The farm life in Nebraska just wasn’t for him. After six months in the Sooner oilfields, the company asked for volunteers to build a pipeline in the frozen tundra of Alaska. He took the job and never looked back. Thirty-five years later, he was the top man in Alaska, and that’s just the way he liked it.

"When was you in Pasadena? Plew asked, eyeing the bourbon bottle and hoping for a refill.

Last year. My sister lives out near there, he replied.

Ain’t she that professor that used to burn her bra, the flag, and some marijuana, amongst other things at Berkeley? Plew asked, crunching some ice as he spoke.

Yeah, I suppose. She is retired and lives with her pain in the ass husband out there in Thousand Oaks. I guess I should get down for a visit. She’s the only family I still talk to, Hiller said, his voice drifting.

Well, I ain’t got no family. I like it that way, Plew said, rattling his glass as if the gesture might induce an offer for more booze.

Stir up some trouble for Mr. Daniels. He’s bound and determined to throw a wrench in the Denali deal. I’m very close to getting a bill signed by the governor and no silver spoon up his ass environmental kook is going to stop me! Hiller said, his tone becoming sharp.

Suddenly the drink was not important.

I’ll get right on it. I’ll use the usual suspects, Plew said, standing to leave.

Hiller just gave a slight nod of his head. The door shut two seconds later, leaving the busy oilman alone to plan his attack. Hiller was a recluse. Even as a child he had kept to himself. The only sibling he could stand was his older sister, Amanda. That girl had spunk. He still remembered the time she had cold-cocked Aunt Gertie. He had lost touch with his one brother and other three sisters, but maintained a lifeline to Amanda, and her husband, Bob. He liked their son, Jared, their only child. Albert Hiller had never married and had no children. Jared was his favorite nephew, the only nephew he knew. As far as he knew, Jared was teaching high school, or maybe college. He folded his huge hands across a broad chest. His farm boy body had assisted him during his early years of working in the oil business. He was six foot one and weighed 245 pounds, having taken after his mother’s brothers in the dimension department. He thought about his father for brief moment. His dad was a diminutive man with an almost too agreeable temperament. He also had possessed a will to work, Hiller reflected. The accident that claimed his old man’s life had changed his own. He was sure that, had his father lived, he would have eventually talked his then seven-year-old son into taking over the farm. Instead of steer manure, however, Albert Hiller had smelled crude oil. It was an altered life all because of a gentle farmer falling off of a John Deere tractor.

The intercom buzzed, jolting him out of his daydream.

Yes, he said as he pushed the press to talk button.

Mr. House is on line one. They need a replacement for the men who are missing from the site. You know, the laborer and the handyman? asked a female voice.

Yeah. I’ll pick it up, Hiller replied. He gave a sigh as he punched up line one. He hated dealing with the Human Resources Director. It meant that the site was not properly staffed. This affected production.

Hi Clarence. No joy on the fix it guy? Hiller asked.

No, and we need someone pronto. That Taylor fellow has been missing for over two weeks. We’ve got three repair jobs that are on hold. What did your spies say about the two prospects from the employment agency?

Spies is such an ugly word, Clarence. They’re investigators, Albert protested.

Whatever. What’s the verdict? Clarence persisted.

My sources say one has a gambling problem and the other has been known to meth-out on speed. Both of them are bad risks, Albert replied.

Well, I need a body in the next week. Also, we need to add another pilot soon, Clarence explained.

I’m on that. I already ran an ad. I’ll give you a buzz tomorrow, Hiller said ending the call.

He stared out the window at the February freeze. The days were starting to get longer. Soon the land of the midnight sun would live up to its billing. In the meantime the work at the site would suffer until he pulled in another fix it man. The other man, Miller, was good at his job, but nobody had seen him or Taylor in about fifteen days. Two weeks disappearance in a land the size of Alaska was serious business. Scores of people simply disappeared each year in the frozen place. Most people didn’t realize that the 49th state was roughly one fifth the size of the contiguous forty-eight states. It was an enormous place. A place where getting lost usually meant staying that way. He rubbed his neck with his massive right hand. He was sure that he needed a vacation, but the demands of being in charge would not allow that. He thought of Joseph Daniels and wanted a drink. He would resort to whatever tactics necessary to stop Daniels. The young revolutionary had successfully shut down a nuclear power plant in New Mexico and had created such a ruckus at UCLA one year that he had made the cover of Time Magazine. He was dynamic, energetic and smart. Hiller did not want to use violence, but if push came to shove, he’d do what he had to do. The Denali project was too important and profitable to allow a snot nosed meddler to screw it up.

The intercom buzzed again.

Yes, he said, repeating the process.

A woman on line three. It’s your sister, Amanda. I love talking to her! the female voice declared.

Because she’s like your sweet old employer? Hiller asked his exuberant secretary.

I’ll take the fifth…and keep my job in the process. She’s on line three.

He punched up the third line and in a few short seconds Amanda’s voice came through loud and clear.

Hello, little brother, she began.

Hi sis. I was just thinking about you, Albert said.

Al, we must have some sort of psychic connection, she mused.

Maybe. How are things in sunny California?

Okay. You heard that Jared and Madeleine split. You know that they were having problems? Amanda inquired.

Yes. Their daughter was four, right? he asked back.

Yes. That was over a year ago. Jared has a hard time adjusting, Amanda said.

Maybe he needs a change of scenery. Does he still fix appliances and such? Albert asked in his boss voice.

Yes. You know, that son of mine can fix anything. Anything except himself, Amanda said, her voice trailing off in a melancholy manner.

Tell him to call me. I’ve got a job for him if he wants an adventure, Hiller said, interested.

Doing what? Amanda asked.

Repairing equipment and electronic junk. Tell him I’ll pay him twenty percent more than he makes now and that I’ll fly him up here, he offered.

I’ll do no such thing! He has a good job as a professor of literature at the university. Anyway, he needs to stay here and work things out with Madeleine.

Have you heard that absence makes the heart grow fonder? Albert said with a laugh, happy at getting his older sister’s blood pressure to rise a bit.

More like, out of sight, out of mind, Amanda replied.

Have it your way, Hiller said.

They talked for another twenty minutes before Albert told her he had to go. There was trouble at the railroad station. He was sure it was Daniels.

She had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him to get home, and had that dream again. Their place was remote and small, but it was all she knew. She had checked out books from the town library on amnesia and had read them all. Images now danced in her unconscious mind. A voice inside of her rebelled telling her to challenge the stories, but she didn’t have the courage. The images came, but she never talked about it to anyone. Who was there to talk to anyway? Randall forbade her from speaking to anyone. She had no friends, no family and no outside contact. In a very real sense she was imprisoned. Randall had taught her to drive, but she had no vehicle of her own. Twice she had gained permission from the man to go to the market in Glennsville. She rented the videos he wanted and bought some beer he liked. Driving was something she craved. It was the only time she felt free. Once she thought about leaving and never coming back, but Randall would find her and then the punishment would be severe. Driving by herself brought a wonderful feeling of independence. The images were clear on those occasions. After those times of driving alone, she would dream vividly, and in color. She could almost feel the surroundings in her slumber. But the afternoon nap had caused the dream to come again. Randall will be home soon, she thought as she fought to break out of her haze. It was Tuesday. He demanded leather on Tuesday. She would dress in the outfit he had ordered from Frederick’s of Hollywood and meet him at the door with perfume on, holding a cold one. After sex, he would be served dinner as he turned on the news. Sometimes he would get angry, and accuse her of thinking of someone else during the sexual part.

How could I? You’re the only man for me, she would spout, more like a machine than a beautiful twenty-five-year-old woman. She feared the man she lived with and could never confess to him how she truly felt. She once told him how sad she was feeling, and he had responded by screaming, You’ll feel like I tell you to feel, bitch! Now, get me a beer!

She glanced at the clock as she pondered the dream. In it, she was walking in the forest. The smells captivated her senses. The pine scent was so thick that she felt sure this had to be real. The birds flew from branch to branch, engaging in song. She gently moved the branches that had grown over the path. A familiar path. She had walked this path many times before. She came to an opening where a waterfall dropped into a crystal pool. She sauntered to the edge looking for fish in the clear water. The shrill cries of a bird caught her attention. It was the waterfall. She knew a baby bird was trapped behind the waterfall. She moved in her methodical manner toward the cascading water. She shuffled with caution, inching ever so closely to the falling stream. She could hear the baby bird clearly now. It was distressed. She reached to put her hand behind the waterfall, but stopped. She was being watched. She was sure of it. She abruptly turned, as quickly as humanly possible, to spy a woman in the distance looking at her. The figure was too far away for her to make out who it was. Then the woman disappeared. The waterfall stopped and she was alone. A song began to play. It was a melody. Was that a man’s voice I heard? she asked out loud, but nobody answers. No one ever answers. When she awoke her brow was damp, like it always was after the dream. Her goal was to look behind the waterfall in the dream, and help the bird, but she always ended up chasing the elusive woman instead.

Who was this woman? My mother? No, she’s too young, she pondered, Perhaps an older sister or a close friend calling to me.

She put aside her thoughts for a moment and went to the kitchen for some iced tea. The clock over the stove was ticking. She did not have much time to don the Tuesday uniform. Once she had not been ready on time and he had hit her in the face and stomach. She wanted to be ready. She prayed that he was in a good mood, as she pulled on the black leather gear and stepped into the fish net stockings, the ones he especially liked. She sat on the couch and waited, smelling the wet fragrance of perfume as it dried on her breasts. She could hear his truck. She held the cold beer in her petite hands. The melody from the dream still played in her head.

They’re right behind the bench man, the voice on the phone bragged.

All right, thanks. I’ll be there around six fifteen, okay?

That’s fine. I’ll see you then, the voice said.

Jared hung up the phone thinking Shelly had done well. Don King was a peach of a guy. Tomorrow he would treat Jared to a night of Lakers’ basketball. The money that his father had given him provided Jared with the wiggle room he needed to make it until next payday. What about the two weeks after that? It was a no-win situation. He wanted to disappear. His life was so vastly different from what it had been just two years ago. He looked out his studio apartment window at the swimming pool. It was not covered. People in California wanted to swim the entire year. If this were the northern part of the state that thing would be covered. If this were anywhere else people would take precautions so that swimming pools would be covered. If this was anyplace else McKenna would not be… he stopped thinking. The process was always the same. A smell, a pool, a song or something else always led him down that garden path. Jared wanted a drink. Usually he talked himself out of this desire, but today he was in no mood for self negotiation. He walked to the cabinet and took out a half full bottle, (or was it half empty?) of Jim Beam Whiskey. He poured it over ice and then downed the contents. He then repeated the drill.

First garnishment, then my whacko parents, then Madeleine in a kimono, he sighed between gulps. She had looked mighty fine in that little bit of Oriental garb, he thought. He noticed his own heavy breathing as he raised his glass. The image of Madeleine disrobing and making love to him on her apartment floor made a small fog develop on the outside of his glass. He took a deep swig. There would be none of that. It was a fantasy, only a dream. He had lost his sex drive the year before. He looked at the swimming pool and then turned away.

Not today friend, he said to nobody.

He wondered about Madeleine’s business venture. She wanted to dress America cross culturally. Jared had been against the idea since its inception two and one-half-years ago, but now he wasn’t part of the team. Madeleine was making her own decisions.

The more we tribalize America, the more we trivialize America, Jared had argued.

But that’s the beauty of it, honey! We get to share, at least fashion wise, in other cultures. I think this will work! Madeleine argued.

I’ll believe it when I see it! Jared retorted, unwilling to see her point of view.

You’ll believe it when I’m driving a Jaguar and you’re getting a new engine put in the Escort, Madeleine teased.

Do you think that maybe I could get a loan? Jared had asked, with a boyish smile on his handsome face.

She giggled and held him. The baby was asleep, and they had made love until McKenna let them know that nap time was over. It was a magical day. Jared rolled over to see Madeleine’s naked body as she scurried to put a bathrobe on. He looked out the window and saw the clouds billowing across the blue California sky. He sat up and began writing a song. It came to him instantly. That night he had played it for Madeleine and serenaded his infant daughter to sleep. He hummed the tune as he finished the whiskey in his glass. The phone rang, snapping him out of his daydream.

Hello, he said in a daze.

Dr. Cross, this is Shannon, the voice said.

Oh, hi. What did I forget this time? the professor queried.

You were supposed to fill in for Professor Reanduex tonight. There are two students waiting in the Guidance Center, Shannon scolded.

On my way, he yelped hanging up the phone and bolting for the door. It was actually quicker for him to walk to campus versus driving. Since the Northridge earthquake, the place was a mess. Classroom space was limited and most of his teaching had to be done in mobile home like units that now decorated the shaken area. Only two of his daily hours of lecturing were done in classrooms of the static variety. The real crunch, however, was parking. He had access to the faculty parking lot, but so did the students. That meant it was virtually impossible to find a spot to park his Escort. The trip would be faster to jog the half mile to the institution.

Jared could feel the perspiration beginning to trickle down his brow as the Guidance Center came into view. He chewed on some breath mints he had stowed in his jacket pocket to cover up old Jim Beam. The center was a blue and gray mobile unit in the middle of the campus. The windows were barred with a donated security system. The place certainly did not look like much, but it housed some very expensive computers and associated hardware. The administration was huge on security, and the night watchmen could be seen circling the structure like a band of Indians encompassing a wagon train. Dr. Reanduex was the head counselor and had recently accepted a grant to study some particular of his discipline. The sabbatical was to last three months, but had been extended to five. When Reanduex called from British Columbia to ask Jared to cover a couple of nights, the jogging man simply could not say no. He stopped short of the doorway, wiped the perspiration from his forehead and took a deep breath. His eyes met Shannon’s as he strode into the mobile.

Sorry I’m late, he said to the waiting students, Who’s first?

That would be me, a gaunt red-headed woman of twenty replied.

I’m Jared Cross, he said.

Everybody knows who you are. You’re pretty popular… for a teacher, I mean, she retorted lamely.

And you are? Jared asked while shaking her hand.

Gilda Sims. I’m a psych major, she replied as she pumped his hand a couple of times, more like a farmer than a future shrink.

Please come into the office here, Jared said awkwardly.

The counseling office was an anomaly of sorts, outlaid with broken down furniture and a desk that was older than the counselors that worked there. Prints of Monet hung on a dirty wall amongst the ruins of what could only be called the garage sale from hell. The dreary secondhand room made anyone with any sort of taste who entered curse the creator of such a decorating disaster. In the middle of this trash loomed the latest in the way of computers and printers. It was like drinking a fine wine from a filthy Mason jar.

Well, Gilda are you scheduled to graduate in May? Jared asked as he clicked on the computer that sat on the desk.

Yes, Professor Cross. I plan to start on my Master’s as soon as possible, but I’d like to get some exposure to the field, Gilda replied.

I see. Well, let me bring up the job listings on the computer and we can see what your options are, Jared said.

He liked this part of career counseling. When the students were in a fog and reluctant to make career path decisions, the computer based job placement was wasted time. Gilda, however, was almost finished with her undergraduate work and had a distinct plan of action. The jobs filled the screen. Jared turned the monitor so that Gilda could view the results.

Anything interesting? Jared asked.

Gilda peered over her gold rim glasses. The spectacles made her red hair resemble a campfire by contrast. She wrinkled her nose and studied the list with her mouth slightly open. Her rosy cheeks glistened as her green eyes moved methodically down the screen.

The PRISM Institute in Camarillo, she said, pushing her glasses back toward her alabaster forehead.

The mental hospital? Jared asked.

His mind shot back in time to Madeleine’s stay at that very place. It had been a most difficult time for both of them. He had come dangerously close to a breakdown himself, and was a bit hard on his wife for not being strong enough to keep from losing it. He had reasoned coldly that she should be able to get by without therapy and drugs. After all, it was her fault that Kenz…

Helloooo… Dr. Cross. You spaced out a bit there. As I was saying, I plan to specialize in the criminally insane. Positions are available? Gilda persisted.

There are two administration jobs available and one research assistant position. I’ll print them for you. Like to see anything else? Jared asked while trying to force the images of Madeleine in a straight jacket from his already too tortured memory.

Not really. Thanks Dr. Cross, Gilda said as she picked up the paperwork, generated courtesy of the LaserJet printer.

You’re welcome, Gilda. Would you be so kind as to send in the other student? Jared asked with a weak smile. He was still thinking about the mental hospital in Camarillo.

Jared swiveled in his chair to look out the window. The night sky had invaded the horizon and bright stars twinkled in the distance. The early February evenings grew cold quickly. Jared yearned for longer days and summer. The California winter wasn’t much of one, but still he hungered for the hot days and lazy, breezy nights. He began to hum a tune that he had been working on in his spare time. Teaching was simply a means of making a living. Ever since Jared was a teenager, he dreamed of writing songs for stage productions. The work in progress was a play he had begun while still in college. One of his favorite movies was The Ten Commandments, and his all time preferred performer was the king himself, Elvis Presley. Jared thought it would be unique to make a musical out of the Israelites’ trek across the desert and have an Elvis like character play the part of Moses. He had spent years writing the clever lyrics and was in the process of finishing the last song in the play. The dialogue was brisk, and the characters were mimics of famous folks. Miriam, Moses’ sister for instance, was a type of Bette Davis character constantly waving a cigarette and rolling her big eyes. The bald headed clown, Curly of the Three Stooge’s fame, would portray the part of Aaron, the brother of Moses. It seemed witty to the professor to have conversations initiated by Curly to Moses begin with the phrase, Hey Mo! It would be slightly outrageous to have Elvis, clad in a sequined jumpsuit, with Davis and Curly on the same stage. Outrageous seems to work in the entertainment industry. He was satisfied that it was fun and sharp. The music was excellent except for the last song, which continued to baffle Jared. He hoped to send it away to a friend of his, who was in the business, as they say and have it become a smash hit on Broadway. This was a dream that stopped the pain. While he worked out the details of Moses shaking his hips and singing his way to the Promised Land, the pain was gone. He could not hear singing in the distance. He could not feel the bitterness that had permanently taken up residence in his heart. He could not alienate Madeleine. He only heard the music he was creating at the moment. This was his private slice of sanity.

A knock on the door broke his early evening daydream and he went back to work. Four additional students came in, one by one, but none had the resolve of Gilda Sims. They seemed to be like lost sheep, their fresh faces and clear eyes begging him for guidance. In the end, appointments of a follow up nature were made and the kids were gone. Jared began to flex his left hand. He was sure more rain was coming. The barometer that doubled as a home for five fingers told him so. Shannon popped her head into the office.

You’re still here? What about your social life? Jared teased.

How can I have a social life while I’m wet-nursing you rambling educators? Shannon asked with a smile.

Good point. I’m sorry I forgot... he began, but was cut off.

We’ve been through that. Lock up for me, would you?

Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jared replied with a wave.

All right. You sure you don’t want a wake-up call? Shannon quipped.

Go home, he ordered in a benevolent fashion.

He had actually laughed a little as he spoke, and it felt good. He had not laughed much in the past year and a half. Not since that August day. He fought to force the image from his mind.

Don’t stay too long, Jared; it looks like more rain, Shannon advised, as she closed the door to the mobile unit.

Jared was alone with his thoughts once again. How does life get so crazy? he thought. A year and a half ago, life seemed more like a rerun of a sitcom on television. Money was tight, but the atmosphere of love and family had made life good. He now wondered what was next. He pondered a change of scenery. He needed to get away. It was kind of Madeleine to offer to pay him back, but why was she getting the garnished wages in the first place? He became angry in his thinking. The damned telephone was more important than McKenna, he fumed. God, or whoever you claim to be, why do these things happen? He thought about the joy of having a daughter. Jared remembered how his chest seemed to stick out, filled with pride, as he held her. Even his tough nut of a father had wept the first time he caressed his new granddaughter. That was a time when the world was right. The poet, Robert Browning had hit the nail on the head.

"The year’s at the spring,

And day’s at the morn;

Morning’s at seven;

The hillside’s dew-pearled;

The lark’s on the wing;

The snail’s on a thorn:

God’s in his heaven-

All’s right with the world!" he said aloud.

The clearing of a throat caused him to fight to keep from falling backward.

You always quote poetry in the dark, professor? the nasally voice from the darkened doorway asked.

Jared leaned forward and flicked on the desk lamp to his left.

No, not always. May, may I help you? Jared asked, searching to gain his composure.

Sorry if I startled you, Dr. Cross. I do that a lot. My Mom says I’d make a great cat burglar, but I never saw a cat worth stealing, the stocky bearded man replied with a toothy grin. Jared gave a nervous laugh.

Am I too late for counseling? I usually talk to Dr. Reanduex, the man inquired.

Professor Reanduex has been on sabbatical in Canada for almost four months, Jared replied.

The man of twenty-five pensively rubbed his black beard.

I remember him telling me something about that now that you mention it, he answered back.

So, who are you? Jared asked. The man seemed embarrassed for a brief moment and then took two steps forward.

My name is Eric Carroll. I’m an engineering major, the man exclaimed sticking out his hand. Jared stood and shook his