Trial of Silence: Part Iii Trial by Combat

By Diane Haun

PART III

TRIAL BY COMBAT

Seans list of things to do before going into space:

1. Avoid being overbearingly happy.

2. Keep tabs on NASA & Holbrook.

3. Tell the kids were going.

4. Find the Rose before she kills again.

5. Entertain, royally, hardnosed UN Reps during tunnel trip.

6. Get Kyles opinion on # of kids for pilot groups. (Tunnels & Space)

7. Check on those bloody cave-ins.

8. Zachariah: kill or not.

Iriss List of things to do before going into space:

1. Convince Sean we shouldnt go.

2. Tell Brenda to ignore Fitzgerald calls.

3. More bodyguards for kids until the Rose is neutralized.

4. Muster enthusiasm for tunnel visit.

5. Dont blame Zachariah for Phyllisthe pick wasnt his.

6. Fitzgerald: divorce, forgive, shove down stairs, elevator shaft?

7. Cavern ventilated?

8. Block out 21 cavern hours.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491765487

Diane Haun

Diane Haun has a Ph.D in theatre from the U of Utah. This is the 4th book of the TRIAL OF SILENCE series. Four of her plays have been produced. She has lived in interesting places: Catalina Island (Artistic Director of the Avalon Players, Gregory Harrisons launching pad), housewife in L..A., and English teacher in Sevilla, Spain, now retired in Albuquerque, New Mexico. One of her two daughters lives near Monterey, Ca, the other one nearby in ABQ.

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TRIAL OF SILENCE

PART III TRIAL BY COMBAT

Copyright © 2015 Diane Haun.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-6549-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6548-7 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 05/27/2015

Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

TO FAMILY

Adrain Reed Gibby Sr and Marjorie Allen Gibby raised eight children:

Marjorie Elaine Mannes (Bruce), Sharon Dell Alexander, Diane Haun, Irene Daniels (deceased), Adrain Reed Gibby Jr (Barbara), Lowell Bruce Gibby (Haydee), Michael Gordon Gibby (Barbara), Douglas (Buzz) Allen Gibby (Carol)

Marriage brought me three ready-made kids:

James Michael Haun, Christopher (Chris) Roland Haun, Caroline (Carol) Louise Haun

Three with the marriage:

Catherine Anne Haun, Matthew David Haun (deceased), Elizabeth Elaine Shelley

Finally, three adopted Andaluz Daughters:

Mercedes (Merchi) Atienza Ruiz, Inmaculada (Inma) Domene Nuñez, Immaculada (Inma) Telaez Rodriquez

If it is said about these folks there is no one in prison or rehab or homeless, but among them are a pile of University years and degrees, work and financial successes it might sound like bragging. Well shucks …. There was abundant feminine beauty and the men were good-looking. Was/were? The siblings are all over sixty, some of us well over, so beautiful and good-looking are not necessarily physically exact, one might say instead distinguished, regal, dignified. Those on the family tree under sixty are beautiful and good-looking, some are incredible.

It is a pleasure to dedicate a book written with love to some of the people I love.

Also by Diane Haun

Novels

TRIAL OF SILENCE

Part I

PRE-TRIAL

Volume 1

TRIAL OF SILENCE

Part I

PRE-TRIAL

Volume 2

TRIAL OF SILENCE

Part II

TRIAL

TRIAL OF SILENCE

Part III

TRIAL BY COMBAT

Plays produced

LORNA’S PLAY

SPIRALING

INFIDELS IN SPAIN

BRIGHAM’S DAUGHTERS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As this incredible journey winds down mixed feeling surface. The negative aspect being fear someone might be forgotten, the positive being the opportunity to thank those who were generous with time and expertise.

At this point usual suspects come to mind hence the repeated names from the other books.

INMA DOMENE NUÑEZ for the cover and JO JANNSEN for listening to some new stuff.

MICHAEL CRAM, the prompt, deft, dependable young man that maintains the computer corner, keeping me from throwing something off the balcony.

Lively, funny PATRICIA MCELRATH for help with medical info and a doctor that has called after her busy day to help with non-medical decisions.

Delightful KATHLEEN WADE, another whose appointments I continue to look forward to and who also calls when needed.

I wish to add DR. KAREN WILLIAMS, for medical info and for making delicious green-chili turkey gravy and her husband RICHARD (RICK) WILLIAMS for great Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. They set lovely abundant tables. (They alternate the holiday dinners with Art and Catherine.)

FLORENCE PAPAGEORGE, Farr West, Utah, a long ago middle-school friend that invited me to family Sunday feasts the likes of which I have not seen since. The whole delicious animal (pork or lamb) impressed but it was the huge scrumptious braided bread I couldn’t see over while sitting at the table that I can still taste.

The castle food in Chapter I is a combo of the WILLIAMS-HAUN-EDWARDS-PAPAGEORGE spreads, if not literally certainly in spirit.

Heartfelt thanks to WESLEY MEBUST for his illustrations. An imaginative young man, a student at UNM, Wesley works at Hastings, looks about fifteen, sounds middle age on the phone and has a sense of humor that will amuse me every time I think about his cows and how they came into being.

ARTHUR EDWARDS and MARK SHELLEY, physicist and filmmaker/organic farmer, remarkable men that have sparked thoughts in many areas: politics, space, earth and sea, sometimes reflected in what I write.

PROFESSOR RICHARD RAND, Department of Physics and Astronomy, UNM. The heavens look different since our brief exchange.

DR. MOHAMED ALI, lecturer in African Studies at the UNM. Professor of Egyptian and African Literature and Arabic Language classes. He is a certified court Arabic Language Interpreter for the State of NM. He started the Arabic Language classes and Arabic Studies Abroad at UNM. And he helped me.

BOB AGNEW, from Old Car Garage, a delightful, knowledgeable man that enjoys his work. I would give a lot to hear more of his old car war stories.

JAY from Charlie’s Sporting Goods.

CANDIE ROSS and DR. KONDEK VCA Pet Care

DEVON ABQ Pet Care

Candie and Devon were lively and eager to help and they did, a lot.

RUBEN for security tips and vocabulary. A friendly Albuquerque type.

MATT ESCHENBRENNER from ABQ BioPark Zoo, for important, fun and fascinating details about snakes, birds and primates.

Warm thanks to cousins JAY EDWARDS and LUCY SHELLEY for input on present day schools.

HENRY EDWARDS and MARY SCHOENBACH porque sí (just because).

A special thanks to Detective CHRISTIAN BAKER, APD, to whom I promised I would say something nice about Albuquerque Police. Yes, well … uh … er … Detective Baker, an extremely busy man, gave me a delightful hour of his time, not long enough when you’re having fun. He helped pull together some vital loose ends for the story. The man has a quick interesting sense of humor. He’s a nice man.

ALBERTSON’S: at Lomas & Juan Tabo has been an amusing source of information. To mention a few specifically:

RICHARD DENTON, in Dairy who made a brave unsuccessful effort to get one particular item sold at Albertsons so I didn’t have to go to Walmart’s’ for it.

AMANDA GARCÍA-MADRID, Bakery, an attractive agreeable young woman.

MICHAEL RICE AND CREW, Produce, an agreeable, always helpful guide to what’s the best of its season, can talk about everything and picks cantaloupe and watermelon to die for.

MICHAEL CASNER, Grocery Manager, a witty, friendly, attractive man. To think about his kindness makes one warm and squishy inside. I am in awe of his definition of extra miles….

JACOB SPENCER, Jack-of-all-help, always personable, knows everyone that walks in the sliding glass door of the huge market.

Pharmacy (Sav-On): SARAH ORTMANN (retired), TROY RUSSELL, RANDALL SOBIEN, DEIDRA ANAYA, BEN GALLARDO, SHERI MARTINEZ an exceptional group of kind folk in a place of pleasant service that have at times gone an extra mile for me.

The MORENO MARTINEZ-ANGELINA family, students in Sevilla that taught me a bit about life while I helped them with a bit of English. The parents Francisco and Salud were generous interesting people and la Abuela (Salud’s mother) had hugs and smiles for me. Generally I have serious doubts that Facebook is worth the time it takes to scroll through it … the exception being for ÁNGELES, INÉS, EDUARDO and BALEN, what they look like now, what they are doing and what they post. They are some of the many to whom I was unable to say goodbye and thank properly when time and health were a problem and I had to leave Sevilla.

RAFAEL GARCÉS MANCHEÑO and LOURDES LÓPEZ-ALONSO GONZÁLEZ

Rafael and Lourdes were my first English students. I knew 14 words of Spanish when we started so there was miming, drawings, gestures etc. to communicate. They taught me a lot of grammar, discussing it between them, figuring out what I couldn’t explain yet. In spite of me they learned to speak English. Rafael, a Ph.D. in Genetics, worked for three years at Syracuse University before settling in at CSIC to do important research on seed liquids (sunflower, olives etc.) testing & producing healthful edible fats. He sent a letter from NY saying that when they spoke English there people understood them. (So there!) Lourdes taught me how to make good coffee. I mean really good. I don’t prepare it her way every day, save it for special moments. When I do treat myself to the best coffee in the world I think about that beautiful fiery young woman. Rafael and Lourdes made gorgeous children. The two of them were generous beyond anyone’s norm and I lament that time ran out on me when I left Spain and circumstances were against being able to say a proper goodbye and thanks. And I must thank them.

MIGUEL GARCÍA GUERRERO, Catedrático de Bioquímica y Biología Molecular, heads CSIC. Finding Miguel on Google made me wish I knew more about Microalga’s Biotechnology. Over the years his movement around responsible State positions made path crossings infrequent on campus and in the Reina Mercedes barrio. We always stopped for a chat at the crossings, a delightful, soft-spoken, gentle, man, I loved talking to him. I was well into TRIAL before realizing that Miguel had given me the UN for the book. He told me about a UN project he worked on that sent experts with big machinery into 3rd world countries in selected places long enough to teach locals how to grow food from primarily difficult lands (salty or metal infested for example) and when accomplished, the UN group went to the next assignment, leaving the know-how and the machinery in place. That use of power impressed me as being quiet workings in the shadows for an unequivocal good cause. I’m sure there are records of the project and many had to know, but I have never once heard such a UN tale on the news. I envied Miguel his work that day. He helped me get rid of a stupid gambling habit.

FELIPE CORTEZ-LEDESMA, Catedrático de Cell Biología, CSIC connected, working on Molecular Biology, Genetics and Genealogy, among other ologies It makes one dizzy reading his Google exploits, a man with his feet on the ground who doesn’t tolerate much nonsense, if memory serves. I loved chatting with the Felipe, had an appreciated sense of humor. Another I wasn’t able to tell a proper goodbye and thank you. I miss Felipe.

FRANCISCO JAVIER CEJUDO, Catedrático de Bioquímica & Biología Molecular-CSIC and wife, TERESA TELAEZ RODRIQUEZ, Profesor Microbiología. Early students, interesting people. Javier told me a civil war story that would break a heart. It’s not mine to repeat but his immediate family survived with dignity and integrity. Javier has a charming smile and a delightful laugh that I still hear in my head.

A group in the Plant and Ecology Department at the U of Sevilla have labored for over twenty-seven years in Ecologia de los Peces, working with fish in different water systems around the country, one of them waters used to cool Nuclear Power plants. They have made substantial strides in fish management and conservation for the Iberian Peninsula, influencing, of course, Atlantic and Mediterranean waters. Hats off to this simpatico group: CARLOS GRANADO LORENCIO, group head and a department Catedrático … LOURDES ENCINA ENCINA (Not an error. Her parents had the same surname.) and DORA RODRÍGUEZ-RUIZ. I’ve never seen a group work harder, up before the sun and in icy water for hours marking fish and collecting data (It could also be long hours in bright hot sun reflecting off mirrored water) and later in the lab longer hours of classifying. Lourdes and Dora’s dissertations were thick, heavy and with a CD inserted to accommodate their data. They were remarkable, good-looking folk that knew how to play while working. Details in Trial I saw in this group. A belated love and thanks to them all.

U of Utah contingent:

GENE FITZGERALD, Russian Lit professor, a great sense of humor, allowed me to write plays for his classes rather than papers. On a visit to Utah from Spain he let me sit in on a class while waiting for my son and to my pleasure I found him as good a lecturer as I remembered from the classes I attended when a student. He gave me Sean’s surname for the book. I had to rewrite after 9/11, Gene and wife had to do some rewriting as well and they did it right.

KENNETH WASHINGTON directed Brigham’s Daughters just before I left for Spain. He asked me to come to rehearsals and we were still speaking when the play closed. Kenneth was a principal acting professor for the department and asked a special favor. He had a student, university age, of course, but looked a cute twelve years old; consequently, she had serious problems being cast in plays, her appearance so totally limiting. One of the characters in BD’s was a nine-year-old and Ken asked me to split his lines with Tracy. I handed him 20 pages the following day to an already long script. I did not split the boy’s part but added hers. Tracy was an enchanting addition, the brother and sister interaction was amusing and she made possible a previously unplanned, workable, final, closing scene. Her character remains in the play. (See Preface for an update on Ken)

If you Google DAVID KRANES you have to imagine a human machine moving in 40 directions with the speed of light. I was in one of his plays (Fugue) at the U, a memorable experience. His classes were great … I suspect I drove him up the wall in every one of them. He chaired my Ph.D. committee. An interesting, funny, caring man is David and I owe him a lot for his generous help. I’m glad for his well-earned accomplishments … that are legion.

ROBERTO POMO, another that makes one breathless to read about on Google. He and I were fellow Ph.D. candidates and finished classes the same year. We worked together on several projects: he directed the 4 for David Jones’ undergrad scenes (See Preface). I was in his Blood Wedding, an incredible experience. I’ve been fortunate with directors and I have to say that if Roberto was not the best he was tied for it. I loved the way he worked. I’m happy he’s had the success his talents deserve. Hopefully our paths will cross again.

Two old friends, literally and metaphorically, both having influenced in different ways. One friendship vanished for many years, now is tenuous and kind of iffy, the other intact for many years, now possibly lost: HELEN LAYTON and FLORENCE WEINBERGER. Florence’s poetry speaks to me as wife, mother, daughter … woman … and reminds me of cherished Jewish friends in LA, most of them gone. We met in a writing class at Every Woman’s Village in the San Fernando Valley, where I wrote the first scene of Brigham’s Daughters, which fourteen years later won the U of Utah playwriting contest.

VAL CHRISTENSON, Weber County High School President the year I was vice-president (Class of 1953). We’ve touched bases a time or two over the years and a renewal of friendship recently has been sweet. I’ll never forget the opening line in his campaign speech (I need to qualify: he was from Hooper, a very small village and I had lived in Roy, a larger village between Hooper and the main Highway (Utah 91 before the freeway). He introduced himself and said he was from Hooper, the town that kept Roy from sliding into the Salt Lake. It endeared him to the student body and may have won him the election. I thought it was hysterically funny. (Sean does a similar old joke to win UN hearts.) As a young man in high school Val had a maturing sense of self for the time and place.

CAROL SANCHEZ keeps my place livable and does a little shopping for me. She is a special lady, a friend/sister I’m glad I’ve met. Without her I would have to worry about dust collecting, which would make writing uncomfortable.

RANDA YAZBECK is a lady with a sneaky sense of humor in the sense that you don’t expect it, but it’s there. Along with Carol they keep me in necessities: strawberries, bananas and sugar free whipping cream. Special warm thanks to Carol and Randa.

Enthusiastic thanks to the RIO VISTA MUSKETEERS: three simpatico hard working fun people who often dodge bullets (well, dirty looks and naughty words) working for and with the inmates of Rio Vista Apartments:

MARY MIRANDA, as manager carries an incredible burden keeping up with the needs and demands of an endless diversity of people living in the seventy-five apartments. She does it with grace and good nature. And no matter how trivial the problem, the lovely busy lady has time for it.

KATHLEEN FINCHER, the tall sparkling service coordinator, has her work cut out for her encouraging folks to take the right meds, having learned to Sign to communicate with some of the tenants and arranging meaningful gatherings for entertainment and for the beneficial.

LAWRENCE ARAGON, the maintenance gentleman, fixes everything quickly, efficiently and without fuss. A big teddy bear of a man, agreeably scatters a spicy wit (He is really funny.) while rushing hither and thither keeping Rio Vista comfortable, pleasant and presentable.

Gratitude, best wishes and big wet kisses to iUniverse, AMY MCHARGUE and RICKIE GOULD (another one I probably drive up the wall) and especially TRACI ANDERSON the lady with quick sensible answers to seemingly bottomless problems. Always feel better after talking to Traci. If I should ever muster the energy to put into written form one of the many ideas floating in my head, I will most assuredly seek iUniverse to make it tangible.

PREFACE

There are three men whose names I would like to call attention to once more.

Utah State, Logan, Utah (1955-56): The University was short a teacher for their Winter Quarter Shakespeare class and called Dr. N. A. PEDERSON from retirement to teach it. Shakespeare had been his specialty. He loved teaching, he loved the Bard and it was my first Shakespeare class … and his last … a rare lucky combo for me. Dr. Pederson had a way of talking about characters in the plays using known people and incidents to illustrate, with humor, the intentions of Shakespeare and his people. An example I remember went something like: Othello didn’t want power any more than I want to be bishop of the 5th Ward. A renegade Mormon at a University in Cache Valley, Utah in a class of primarily local students, everyone knew immediately that Othello was not one to seek power, making the irony of Iago’s fear of the man clearly dramatic and tragic. I still get goose bumps when thinking about that class I never wanted to end.

Welch born PROFESSOR DAVID JONES taught Theatre History among other assignments at the U of Utah (1975-78) in Salt Lake City. I took his History of Theatre, Shakespeare’s Women and Hamlet classes and worked with a group of four actors that performed scenes for department undergrad classes. Preparing for a visit to the States from Spain several years later, I had a bottle of good Spanish red wine sitting on the table scratching my head over where I was going to pack it so it wouldn’t get broken. It was for David. I simply had too much to carry and finally said aloud to myself, I’m sorry, David, next time. Shakespeare mentions Spanish Sack in his plays and I had asked David about it. I planned to set it on his desk and say something clever like: Anyone for Spanish Sack?

When I arrived in Salt Lake my son, Matthew, told me David Jones was dead (massive heart attack). He was fifty-seven. Everyone in the Theater Department said exactly the same: I suppose you’ve heard about David? Then they would look away and changed the topic. No one could talk about him without tears. Nor could I and I still can’t.

Someday I hope to put on paper personal memories of David Jones. For now, I can say he was an honest man, a great teacher and, along with his family, he loved Hamlet.

A 10th grade English teacher (Weber High, Ogden Utah, 1951) ruined Shakespeare one day for those in the class who were not asleep; consequently I avoided anything to do with Shakespeare until I signed up for that class at Utah State (3rd year University) on the recommendation of two Profs in the Theatre Department, both saying that a class with N. A. Pederson was a good idea. After Professor Pederson I was still cautious about Shakespeare classes—how could anyone touch him—until meeting David Jones while working on the Ph.D. I am most fortunate to have known those two men and to have experienced Shakespeare through their love and knowledge of his work. I mention Shakespeare but they were both much more than university professors.

The last weekend in November (2014)—with plans to send the book to the publisher the 1st week in December—I Googled KENNETH WASHINGTON to see if I could get an e-mail address so we could reconnect. He died that previous Wednesday, at 68 with a liver problem, scheduled to start dialysis the day I Googled him.

I was surprised when Ken asked me to attend Brigham’s Daughters rehearsals—I’d heard the tales about director/author disagreements and dislike/hatred by the time a play opens. We were almost strangers and I was not easy to get along with in those days. Ken was as tuned into the play as much as I was. A typical example was at the final dress rehearsal. I thought that Jacob should take off Julia’s hairnet in their final scene. The second the lights came up Ken turned to me and said, I’m going to tell Jacob to take off her hairnet. And I said, Good idea.

The cast, most of them Ken’s students, loved ken and loved working with him. I use the word selectively, another word doesn’t say it.

I attended every rehearsal and treasured every minute of it. A special treat was the phone calls after rehearsal. Those late night calls in the silence of a sleeping world were singular and I still celebrate the beauty of them. It was as if Ken and I had to be together those moments to share what had happened, how the actors were doing, what to do about this and that. I don’t remember a night during the weeks of rehearsals that one of us didn’t call the other, the call always welcome. I supposed it had to do with the adrenalin high theatre folk live on while putting a play together, when you are exhausted but can’t sleep yet. The sharpest memory of those calls is the laughter. I would not be able to come up with one specific but it was joyful and it was cleansing and if foibles were discussed they were ours. The man had a lethal sense of humor. I am lucky and humbly grateful to have been able to work with Dr. Kenneth Washington if only that once.

Diane Haun

Albuquerque, New Mexico

March, 2015

PROLOGUE

Sean Speaks:

If this were an Ice Age Chronicle the combat would be with clubs on the edge of flaky cliffs a swift moving river below to carry the battered body—bodies if combatants were evenly matched—to the sea. A thousand years ago if we were Nobles, or thereabouts, it would be with armour on a caparisoned mount with lance and backup broadsword, a lady’s scarf tied on somewhere floating around and if the knight had good fortune it would not blow across his eyes at the moment of fixing aim. An 18th Century Gentlemen’s heirs would retain a sharp cutting edge on rapiers and keep pistols clean and at hand. Lowborn desert terrorists at the end of the 20th Century settled individual differences with knives in the sand rather than waste bullets that were not always readily available. All of the above in the presence of a vociferous bloodthirsty cheering section. Now, in a civilized part of the world—New York City, for example—it will be in front of no one, something silent, subtle, no clubs, knives, swords, lances or pistols … something more painful.

There are moments I’m sure I am wrong. An impartial observer would say as much. The thought has crossed my mind to alert Iris, seriously. She would probably not believe me and I’m reasonably sure I would not be able to convince her otherwise. The occasions I’ve warned that he is dangerous were tepid self-reminders of what I had set in motion. Down to the wire the expectation is that friendship will invalidate what I did.

I know better … if it gets to the wire.

He was unmistakably in earnest when he shaved off an effective cover. Zach with a beard evokes images of a rather alarming woolly mammoth. It’s impossible to guess at the angles of his face. Shaved, people stare and try to memorize, few women can say no to that face. He used to complain through his beard that it was easier for me to get someone to bed, and it was where we were. I was the exotic fair novelty in a land of primarily dark people. I told him we could go to Scandinavia where it would be easier for him. I couldn’t have cared less, which was when he began calling me a cold bastard. Frequently, when he came up with a couple of possibilities I left him with both and went to the cinema. Not because the women were unappealing, on the contrary, Zachariah had talent when it came to finding attractive women. The following day he’d thank me for leaving then tell me I was insane. I’d give him my stock, Yes, well, the film wasn’t much, should have stayed to help out.

He didn’t understand, nor did he try.

I disliked female diversion when planning raids. We were always into something and I had priorities. I sat through films to get lost in my head and always walked out with a plan. (Had to be a walk-in cinema with buttered popcorn, a Hershey bar with almonds and a medium coke: shades of teen years plotting against parents and Brits.) When making love I had to pay attention to what I was doing, more particularly to what I was saying. Female terrorists and undercover policewomen were assigned to pump me for information while I returned the favor for carnal pleasure. Consequently, the role I played was just passing through with a secretary, waitress, bank employee, shop attendant, student, whatever was uncomplicated … complicated if I wanted info on a target. I might have been less indifferent if sex had not been so readily available. I have wondered about those women that asked little while speaking in a future tense. I hope they found what they deserved, not what they wanted. It was apparent to me fairly young that it was usually women who fancied marriage but the institution more often than not was a man’s feather bed and, in spite of headway with social equality and the rest, it was still frequently a woman’s iron maiden.

Then one rather annoying day Stone Face Stuart stepped into an elevator smelling like a West Coast Irish breeze. Christ, she had a body a man thinks about in idle moments and she made me laugh for the first time in a year.

Zachariah thought she was merely the next one. I should have told him hands off. According to the rules she was mine—I met her first. I do have a rather bad habit of testing people, especially those close to me.

I made sure he found me the way he had left me when he went down to her apartment: sitting in the reading chair reading, the telephone—everything turned off but the flashing red light announcing a call—was on the floor just out of sitting-down reach. I did that so I didn’t automatically answer the bloody thing, had to decide each time it rang if I felt like getting up. Calling was not casual either. Zachariah knew the routine. Cardhu was on the table beside the chair. While he was shaving I settled on calling her. I could well enough imagine her waking up, seeing his handsome face and reaching for him. When he returned too soon, I gave him the ready quip: Ms. Stuart likes quickies? I managed the casual voice but I sure as hell shot myself in the foot, metaphorically speaking. We never discussed women! Never. It had always been, Who is she? How do you know her? Prudent paranoia of hunted men.

He poured a drink, refreshed mine, and sat on the nearest bar stool. Ask her if you really want to know.

His eyes flicked to the phone then to my face. He started talking about the Junta meeting we had attended earlier cutting off any follow-up on Iris. When he stood to go to bed he pulled the two pieces of straw papers from his shirt pocket and set them on the bar. I looked at them on the way to bed. One said Zach, the other Fitz. He wanted me to know the draw had been authentic.

It was also a warning.

We drew his fair straws and he won. Since I had not previously claimed possession that straw should have been the end of it and would have been except for several loose ends: there was the possibility she would not forgive him for hurting her in spite of his handsome clean-shaven face and if I disappeared she would have been lost to both. What a cock wants is not always what’s good for it, or what it gets, so I theorized that if things didn’t work out with me then perhaps Zachariah could step in.

I tried evasion after Algeria. An interesting self-deception I took myself through because the tiny—I mean tiny—soft, protected, fragment of my Irish heart, the piece that ached to love, palpitated quietly, steadily on the walls. Too late. Too late. Too late. What happened on that desert mesa was heart-wrenching. I had taken stainless Iris there to punish what had seemed like arrogance. I wanted it dirty and she bloody well knew. She turned it into … something else. Lila’s blood-rite ceremony was plethoric. The wedding had been celebrated on that mesa.

One complication was Iris herself. Always talking then about the Comodín, she was the wild card and neither Zachariah nor I understood how the scope of the game would evolve with her in it. We still don’t. Prior to Algeria I was under the impression she always won the pot. Another justification for the call was that I had told her more than once he was too Eastern for her. Generally, I still believe that. One significant circumstance against them pairing up was that at the beginning of Zach’s UN tenure Kyle wanted him in the desert and me in New York, which meant seeing her every day, an unfeasible situation if there wasn’t leeway for eventual intimacy.

Plus, Zach had been in love numerous times so I figured it was no big strain to do it again. Falling in love for me was next to impossible. After the big mistake, energies went into blueprinting a war with the UN, less complicated and I held it had more chance of success.

Incongruously, I knew one day if my life was to have meaning it had to be with Iris. I craved her like an addict unable to admit the addiction. I didn’t want children, the idea of marriage was laughable; yet, in my mind I saw us together … for … ever….

What I didn’t know had to do with a choice Iris made. What she didn’t know was that the game was essentially to prevent what I would have done about losing her. I have no idea what that might have been save it would have been hideous.

There are moments in the silent hours—satiated for the moment, her forehead touching my shoulder, a leg against mine, listening to her sleeping breath—that I wonder if she would have been better off with him. Zach married is a woman’s dream of fidelity. After Algeria, I could have happily been committed … except I was afraid of becoming an unreasonable … possessive … smothering … jailer … of losing control, of losing myself somewhere in the morass of an untested relationship with a woman I didn’t know well but couldn’t get out of my head.

The others kept the cock crowing and my head self-possessed.

I have spent a fair amount of time balancing the Zachariah-Fitzgerald columns and always come up with the same results: sod the total, she’s mine.

If it comes to the wire I’ll find a club.

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CHAPTER 1

First week of October. Somewhere in a North-Central New Jersey woods—quite central and a bit north.

A monitor in the guardhouse showed the appropriate face at the open window of the long black Mercedes-Benz limousine. The wide gate split and slid open, the machinery all but soundless. The 20 x 20 (m) ivy-covered stone room was heated in winter and air-conditioned in summer to protect the state of the art computerized equipment, there to serve and protect the estate. At the moment the balmy weather made both unnecessary. The top part of the half-lite door, located in the estate-side wall, was open. On the driveway-side, behind the bullet resistant window, a silhouette signaled the two-handed code of the week that gives permission to enter the estate, acknowledging the chauffeur’s half-hearted hand signal as he rolled the Merc under the wrought iron gate frame into the large private estate feeling stupid as usual about the asinine James Bond nonsense the boss insisted on so he can sleep nights, he said. First time the chauffeur heard that he thought: Yeah, read that feel important.

The driver, Trip Bronson, held to a slow 10 m/h up the long, young-aspen-lined, colorfully lit drive, entering the circular drive from the first left off the paved driveway that continued straight to the rest of the estate. Friends, business associates—the invited—take the second left to a paved parking area in front of the house. The third left puts those who serve the house behind it where they park or deliver. The first left, going the long way then the wrong way brings the man in the dark suit to the front door of his home. He only has to take three steps from the left side of the limo to be on the first step of his castle.

The dark-suited man has a mantra—Wrong Works, Walk On—that evolved from starting his career on the wrong side of what the genteel society he married into considers right and proper. Because of his phenomenal business success the mantra reminds him not to stumble off course. His wife’s parents also have a mantra, about his sense of humor—Ignore, it might go away—and each of his children at various ages caught—like measles—the maternal grandparents’ appraisal of what their father deemed worthy of a chuckle.

Grace, his wife, ignores her parents’ attitude toward him and forever sees her children as the adorables everyone is supposed to cosset. Opinions the darlings might verbalize are listened to, thought cute and habitually ignored. Attractive Grace was not the beauty she was supposed to be. She was annoyingly free with opinions and more intelligent than good taste preferred in her parents’ social circle for its women. Fortunately, her socially powerful father doted on her and did his best to spoil her, not a particularly successful endeavor. The intelligent, witty, independent, self-possessed replacement for the son fate had denied him could be willful but patently not spoilable.

The family home was indeed a castle, three-story stone. If it had been constructed of brick, frame, or stucco, even clapboard or log, it would look like what it was: an enormous mansion. The result—as a castle—was the appearance of a dumpy stone after-thought supporting four symmetrical towers. Built in a wooded area, this symmetry stands unappreciated since the only place it could possibly be seen would be from a helicopter hovering above the fortress. Otherwise, there was no angle from the ground one can see more than two towers, both distorted by perspective, along with the distant tip of a third briefly glimpsed when entering the front gate. Generous friends claimed the castle somewhat resembled what was seen at one Disneyland playground or another, larger and, of course, in much better taste.

Trip once said to his boss, All it needs is a moat.

And got from him:

Trip, I do not tell you how to drive, while thinking, God, where do these people get their nicknames?

He liked Trip and would have preferred explaining to the man that Grace in her typically feminine approach to a masculine world, ignorant of how dimensions noted on plans would translate into a standing building, thought the architect’s far too expensive drawings Just fabulous, darling and Ok’d the plans before he had an opportunity to look at them. He, in his If no one is bleeding don’t bother me position as head of household didn’t check anything prior to a healthy start on the second story when it became abundantly clear something was appallingly amiss. As long as the building stands, from any distance, it will look squatty.

They were saved from the mosquito-breeder because Grace occasionally listened to Geoffrey their eldest son—the law student cum ecologist—and his comment Stupid use of water influenced her to tell the builder to scratch the moat even though they had permission from State Planning to divert a local creek around the castle, an inordinately expensive non-refundable bribe. Neither parent dared tell the little dears how they got permission for the moat that was never dug.

The man would also tell Trip that two of his children—one male and one female—didn’t speak to either parent for weeks after first sight of their new address. The dissident daughter took a crash course in Landscape Design to learn how to hide the future white-elephant as quickly as possible from the short stretch of country road where it’s visible. Fast growing detested oleander shrubs were inevitable rather than waiting for the beautiful—closer to the castle—native white pines, hickories, larches, oaks and sycamores to grow tall enough and with canopies thick enough for the concealment. She also planted shrubs and climbing ivies tight against the building expecting them to flourish quickly in the grand plan to hide the monster. More than a hundred years will be necessary to accomplish an artistic wooded distraction from the castle. The first words to her father in months were: By the way, as she handed him the bill for the expensive seedlings, if you had to build in New Jersey, why not near the Keeler Oak or the Washington Walnut, perhaps?

He had answered, The Keeler’s wouldn’t sell, as if he had asked. He had not. Land that long in a family—what was it, 300 going on 400 years?—would not sell for any amount offered. He had to let the charmer know he was not ignorant of the trees tossed in his face.

The young lady finally decided she should be a little tolerant of her parents’ bad taste and began including them in conversations again. The seedlings were for the two children she planned to have who will visit grandpa & grandma for a weekend at the castle and be there for the holiday feasts. None of hers will have to be embarrassed by living in it because she was leaving the howler as soon as she had a workable independence. So, there it was, in full view when one entered the estate: the stunted castle with its barely conspicuous, struggling, artistically arranged, native plant life with an almost negligible bit of green lining walls and creeping up the citadel here and there.

The back of the stronghold through groves of trees cannot be seen from any road, foliage even hides it from Google Earth.

Geoff, the primogenitor, the child with his paternal grandfather’s spectacular good-looks, the brilliant one, the one breaking his heart—flat out refused to follow his parents’ business footsteps—said to him when seeing the castle for the first time, Relieved you didn’t built in New York, dad, where good taste is fashionable?

The man grew up on a modest dairy patch in the black dirt region of upstate New York where the wolf was forever two steps from the door until the farm was finally bought by a large national company that makes tasty no sugar added ice cream. The sale made it possible for him to go to university. He now takes generous care of his parents and has an open wallet for numerous siblings when they need encouragement.

His other children—another male/female pair—yelled then pouted as they drove to the castle for the first time. Cows grazed leisurely in pleasant green fields that were just too close to the castle. COWS! For cripes’s sake. They had thought that kind of bucolic setting was only in old TV series, House, for example. To have to see the wacky creatures—nothing on earth uglier than a cow in their opinion—from the school bus twice a day five days a week was beyond the pale of the acceptable. Oh yes, that school bus! A serious come-down in school transport from a brief limousine ride in Manhattan to an hour coming and going looking at cows in the wilds of New Jersey. It was mortifying and neither parent could be emotionally blackmailed into letting Trip drive them to and from school or someone like him if he could not be spared, which was not apparent why not since he was not one of the helicopter pilots that flew the parents to work in Manhattan—granted he often had to drive into the city to chauffeur one or both of them to meetings and luncheons. Fortunately, a scattering of horses in fields along several miles of the drive to the castle, on the other side of the road, was proper in context of being near the castle and were, thank God, aesthetically pleasing. That pair of siblings fell in love with the castle at first glance but will never forgive the cows.

The family business address was on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan a bit south of the Library, still north of the Empire State, not far from the UN Center located a few blocks over on the East River. And not far from where they used to live—a couple of blocks toward the East River on Park Avenue South. After many midnight discussions the parents decided not to keep the adored Park Avenue apartment. They knew the children would prefer living in New York City to anywhere in New Jersey and retaining the city property meant they would never get the children anywhere near the country. They truly wanted the darlings to get a taste of country living, limited as it might be from castle towers and the semi-clean school bus windows.

The children would not go near the vegetable patch of the estate. Neither would they have anything to do with the animals thriving in the far corners. They were enthusiastic about the cold fresh milk, the daily separated coffee cream—whipped if desired—the sweet salted butter, the homemade cheese and fresh from the roost eggs, especially those with double yolks. They all learned how to make delicious chicken soup and as youngsters they were underfoot in the kitchen on days the cooks fried chicken Kentucky would go to war for. Everyone living on the premises or working for the family benefited from the mini-farm and gratefully accepted gifts of limited castle extras and were more than willing to return favors if asked, resulting in dependable unpaid sitters to watch or play with the children without adding to the castle staff workload if both parents had business obligations out of town at the same time.

Not being seen from the road the food producing animals were tolerated and the two cow-haters until they were parents were always first in line for the homemade ice cream. Not one of the four children wanted a horse. They took riding lessons and were accomplished equestrians, but they knew that owning a horse entailed being friendly with it and taking part in its care. Intelligent and motivated, homework was a snap; consequently music, dance, art and drama were the extracurricular time-fillers. They each excelled where particular talents developed.

Surprisingly, they were likeable young people, popular at school/university and among the business associates invited to the castle for Thanksgiving when four huge homegrown turkeys, too heavy to carry, were wheeled to the long table on four separate carts. Roasted in four ovens approximately fourteen hours, wrapped in brown paper soaked in olive oil, at a low temperature, they were carved at the table to give everyone the favorite piece of delicious moist turkey set on large plates laden with mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, several vegetables of choice and spicy stuffing all of it covered with gravy made from pan drippings, if desired. Cranberries and a variety of cold salads were placed at each setting on separate small plates.

The length of the table called for two large centerpieces: braided Greek bread surrounded by butter squares and a variety of jams and jellies—made on the estate—that no one wanted to slice into … except the bread was too delicious to leave intact. Later, and the following day, it cushioned and covered turkey sandwiches of as much homemade mayonnaise as desired, red onions, pickles and tomato, all sliced thin along with a choice of greens: four kinds of lettuce and baby spinach—no bacon, cheese or chocolate. If one was bored with turkey the following day peanut butter and jelly were also on the counter.

Pies for the big dinners were to cry for: apple, cherry, blackberry, blueberry, mixed berry, strawberry-rhubarb, banana cream, coconut cream, lemon with meringue or whipped cream and, of course, pumpkin, with or without whipped cream. None of them fancy—or French—but delicious enough to talk about away from the long castle table.

Grace has a hand-picked international kitchen staff, chefs collected from business trips, including US regional cooks, Cajun, Southern, Mexican, men and women who like the kitchen, which Grace does not. She enjoys the planning and organizing and the kitchen staff appreciates working with her, never annoyed when she popped in to taste. Of the twenty holiday kitchen staff eighteen are employed elsewhere with the arrangement that when Grace calls everything is dropped to work at the castle for as long as the occasion requires.

Possible because they owned restaurants, cafeterias, cafés, hole-in-the-wall fast food snack bars, establishments Grace gave them as enticement to live in New Jersey. These places were experimental labs for food and presentation she wanted to use at the castle, dishes and style that bring fame and fortune to the Labs and fame to Grace’s table.

An invitation to dine at the castle, by the way, was an enviable tri-state status summons. Everyone that knows Grace has a healthy respect for her organizational abilities—knowing who to invite when and how often—and for her far reaching sources of information—no one more than her husband.

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The castle family was lucky. They had straight teeth and minimal health issues as well as uncomplicated thought patterns within gifted brains. When prosperity was assured, the parents negotiated for space in the South Tower of the World Trade Center above Cantor-Fitzgerald. From laziness and a soft spot for the Fifth Avenue holdings they let the deadline to sign the contract slip by, saving their lives and significant damage to several of their companies. They definitely had a few important financial glitches immediately after 9/11 that were adroitly weathered and by 2020 no one except those in Accounting would know they had ever experienced a setback. By 2030 the couple was riding a crest even they had not imagined. They had reached a point of toying with the idea of buying a presidency. A flip of a coin—from her inherited collection—would determine which of them would be the family politician. They have been lazy about that as well and, in fact, were on the brink of losing interest. The increased UN role—especially Junta—in world power has gradually taken away much of the savour of being US President.

The man let himself out of the limo and closed the door carefully. Slamming car doors annoys the chauffeur-bodyguard. He isn’t exactly afraid of the armed crack shot, karate black-belt—he signs his generous checks after all—but he doesn’t like annoying anyone over trivia and the talented man takes excellent care of his cars. Trip has also saved his life exactly three times, taking a bullet for him once. The man with the flattened nose smells danger, likes a good fight and is categorically a poor loser.

Trip asked from his open window, Going out later?

I’ll take the T-Bird.

Bob just got back. I’ll make sure he’s had time to work on it.

The car was a classic (1964) along with two others in the garage, which meant they sometimes had to hunt for needed parts. Bob, the estate mechanic, had serous talent when it came to finding parts no longer manufactured. He could be driving through farm country in Kansas, for example, and stop at a farm to look in someone’s attic, a cracked-paint garage, a barn waiting for the next wind to disappear, always leaving with treasures. The farmer frequently said when Bob put his hand in his pocket, I don’t want nuthun. Glad to get rid of it. Clever Bob insists, pulling out an ostentatious roll of fifties and pays generously for the items he hauls away, initiating a fresh chain of supply: Say, you might talk to my cousin, lives down the road a piece, always needs cash, used to have two or three old cars on blocks as I remember. The wife chimes in with, The Bensons, tell him about Arni Benson. The farmer snaps his fingers at himself for forgetting old A. B., says, Go down that road about three miles, take a left for about four miles to the bend then go north about ten minutes. Got a regular junk yard of old cars can’t miss it. Don’t worry about the dog, miserable s.o.b. barks but don’t have enough teeth to bite much but I have to say the look of him’ll scare the bejesus outtaya.

Bob enjoys the hunt for old car parts. He can keep any make of car running and when he works on a car you can’t hear it coming.

If he hasn’t had time, I’ll take the Jag. In any case, I’ll drive. He was aware that Trip knew where he was going. Both were being discreet, always guarding what they say every-where about any-thing, not because of Industrial Spies, the IRS or the FBI; it seems the lady of the castle has ears all over the East Coast.

The chauffeur drove the car back to the main driveway and swung to the left, heading for the garage standing some distance from the back of the house. It was supposed to look like a stable. The six wide doors announced garage. One door remained open. He pulled in, lined up the limo with the other five cars and let the motor idle while switching off the radio then headlights, finally the ignition. Because of light spill from the dash lights then the door bulb, accompanied by the distraction of planning his own evening, he didn’t notice it was dark in the garage until he was standing beside the car. He hadn’t shut the garage door. It was, however, closed.

One chore no one had told Trip to do was to keep the garage doors oiled and soundless, like the front gate. Good God! Something was not right. When he heard sounds behind him and on both sides it was more than not right, it was wrong.

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The man in the dark suit unlocked the front door, with a key, assisted by light from a small candle-shaped bulb embedded in the wall near the lock. A design oversight was a missing keypad to open the front door. It was not the only remodel of the castle. It was the most embarrassing so the architect paid for that remodel along with one or two others. The added bulb was switched on/off and changed from the outside.

The man whistled through his teeth while entering his castle, a lively ditty to accompany his jolly mood. He had closed a deal on a chain of women’s dress shops that morning for what he announced later to the board as practically nothing, causing a few eyebrows to knit, practically nothing being relative. The board members finally applauded an excellent investment of a few million, AND, his wife and cow-hating daughter, Marilyn, were away visiting his wife’s vacationing parents in Paris for the week doing the last minute shopping for the girl’s splash into university. Marilyn was the only child presently in residence at the castle; the brothers were traveling: Mark, the other cow-hater, was exploring India—of the sacred cows—and threatening never to return, relieved to see his goaded mother’s Don’t be silly! E-mail. Geoffrey was incommunicado in mountains somewhere in South America and the dissident sister, Luisa-Fey, employed by the family, shared an apartment in Manhattan with a girlfriend and occasionally showed up for the weekend arriving at dinner time on Friday evening. No one would miss a castle meal if unavoidable. The man had worked late the night before and tonight, Saturday, he was going to call his expensive girlfriend. He grunted. Girlfriend? His … dama de noche!¹ She was beautiful and good at what she does. A man can’t expect more. He does not keep her—Grace maintains a sharp eye on their personal accounts—but he buys her when he has time. His pocket change is his business. If Betsy is busy he has other numbers in his gold plated iPhone.

The comforting smell of dinner wafts through the entry. When alone, he prefers eating at home so he can work during the meal and not be distracted or rude. He cannot tell acquaintances at his club not to bother him and his cultured, not so beautiful wife wants attention when they eat at the same table, which is not often enough to be trying. In fact, he enjoys conversations with his partner of twenty-five years. Between them they have made inspired business decisions, starting out with her capital and her small already blooming business. He even enjoys making love to her occasionally, although there is a suggestion of duty for both. He would like her to do what the other one does—impossible on her part and if he led she would surely want to know his inspirational source since she knows his energies are focused on their multi-international businesses. He has never been suspected of creative sexual discovery.

He heads for his study to leave the briefcase on his desk prior to letting the cook know he will eat in half an hour. He will choose what to work on while eating before seeing the cook. After his children, the softly lit entry is his pride and joy. He paused at the study door. Something was … different. He glanced around the enormous three-story foyer. Antique suits of armour guarded either side of the wide stone stairway, another was centered on the landing, a fourth and fifth at the landings of the split stairs, each split leading to a different wing of the castle. The suits were all in place. The priceless marble pedestals, Roman busts and Greek vases—second only to the Hurst collection—were all there. The medieval paintings and tapestries were accounted for, the door to the dining room was closed and the door to the kitchen hall under the stone arch was open. Nothing was out of place and the light intensity was just right. He went into the study returning to the entry immediately briefcase still in hand. He slowly, carefully, checked every item again before going back into the study puzzled by the difference he felt in the space that appeared undisturbed.

A series of doors must be open somewhere in the castle causing a draft to close his study door. He had left it open to help light his way through the huge room to his desk—he switches on and off, opens and closes everything with his favorite fetish: RC-Remote Control. A few steps in and suddenly it was pitch black. That or he was suddenly blind; there was always dim light left on somewhere in the room. He swore and walked slowly toward where he thought his desk stood, holding a hand out in front in case he crashed into someone. No, not someone, something! He froze. He was not alone. The difference he had sensed in the entry was that the Rottweilers were not barking anywhere on the estate.

Their silence was ominous.

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Light, coming from where there was no source, faded in slowly, a spot aimed at his large leather desk chair, the back of it rather. He never leaves it with the back toward the desk. No one would do that! A comparatively small hand with long fingers ending in perfectly manicured bright red nails slid into view and seemed to take hold of a chair seam, like preparing to stay.

Who—

The chair was already in motion. The elbow belonging to the parked hand was sighted, hiding a profile. Wild black hair was suddenly visible. Slowly a woman showed full front. It looked as if the chair had floated her around not moved by her effort. She was wearing a white blouse and black jacket. She had on heavy black eye makeup, two lines painted upwards at the temples making of sort of cat half-mask. Good-looking woman, God help her if she was here to rob or blackmail or—

Good evening, Mr. Morrison. She smiled sweetly.

He didn’t return it. Since you know who I am, mind telling me who the hell you are?

Before we get to that, I must tell you we are not here to harm anyone. He slid the fingers of his right hand into his jacket pocket. Or be harmed. His hand went deeper into the pocket, Not tonight. If we have to return you will be hurt. She spoke with an unrecognizable accent. Leave the two-shot Colt where it is. He looked down for only a second and when he looked up she had a gun pointed at his face. Take your hand out of your pocket … please. Her cold eyes convinced.

"Are you going to