Whole

By J L Wilson

Alice Little and Asa Hatterly, both child geniuses, were barely teens when they met in college and fell in love. War tore them apart when Asa went into the Army as a sharpshooter. They reconnect years later after Asa spent time in prison for a crime he's not even sure he committed.
Did he really shoot a man or was he duped into believing he did? Did someone manipulate the evidence to point to Asa?
Only Alice can help him find the answer. They're pulled into a world of twisted identities and political alliances involving the FBI and an ambitious Senator. When the candidate is attacked, they go into hiding, afraid Asa might once again become a convenient victim.
But now those old events have resurfaced. That's when they discover who's a friend—and who's using them to get revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Dec 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781509228836

J L Wilson

Want more info? Check my web site. That will tell you where my books are in print, what I'm working on next, where you can find me and other gory details. Or just check my books at https://bit.ly/JLWbooks. They'll tell you a lot about me!

Book preview

Inc.

Someone jerked me to my feet so hard I was sure my arm was broken. The blond guard shifted his grip to my hair and pressed a gun to my head, his eyes fixed above us where Asa stared down, rifle on his shoulder.

I'll kill you, the guard said, tugging my head back, exposing my neck. Call him off or I kill you.

I tried to pull away but his hold was tight. When I shuffled my feet, they touched some obstruction and I realized it was Chessy's body. My stomach lurched and I longed to be sick, longed to drop to my knees and puke. Instead I drew in ragged breaths, trying to form words.

Tell him, the guard said. Tell him. He inched backward, his eyes focused upward. The gun didn't shift an inch from where it pressed into the side of my forehead.

I hazarded a glance at Dodge, who was frozen in place, his eyes on me. His gun was in his hand but he didn't have a shot.

The blond guard holding me pulled his gun away slightly so he could whisper in my ear. He won't shoot. He won't risk you.

I stared into Roberta's eyes. I think she saw my answer before I spoke. It isn't a risk. I smiled at the house and managed to tilt my head slightly to the left. Take the shot.

Whole

by

J L Wilson

A Remembered Classics Romance, Book 6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Whole

COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Jean Wilson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2019

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2882-9

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2883-6

A Remembered Classics Romance, Book 6

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To the Ladies of the Turtle,

who help me find these stories

Chapter One

I walked onto the screened porch of our house and peered at the dock in the distance, one hand shading my eyes from the sun glinting off the water. Mike had called from the lodge to tell us a visitor was here.

I glanced at my husband who sat with his long legs propped up on the hassock, his laptop balanced on his knees. Company coming.

He frowned at me. I told you I don't have anything to say.

And I told you that reporters would probably find us, sooner or later. We should talk to this one, tell the whole story.

He shrugged, one shoulder lifting his faded red T-shirt. I've known him most of my life, and he's always appeared deceptively thin, at least until you saw his muscled arms and strong thighs. I have always envied him his tall slenderness because I'm short, barely five-feet tall to his six-feet. In my youth I was thin, but time and gravity have taken their toll and now I was a somewhat plump and matronly sixty-six-year-old with graying brown hair and a few more wrinkles than I liked to see.

You're perfect just the way you are.

I was startled out of my musings. How did you know what I was thinking?

He took my hand and rubbed it against his neatly trimmed gray goatee. You get that funny little frown, the same one you get when you stare at yourself in the mirror and you don't like what you see. He pulled me to him and our lips met in a lingering kiss. I love what I see.

I straightened, running my hand over his thick gray hair, tied back today in a pigtail that snaked down his back. You always know the right thing to say.

He peered beyond me, to the expanse of lake beyond the screened porch. I have no idea what to say to her. I think I'll let you handle it.

I didn't blame him. We had successfully evaded reporters for twenty-plus years mainly because we were recluses here on our private Minnesota lake. We bought the lake, the island, and the lodge when we fled the Twin Cities in the late 1990s, and we settled in as wealthy early-retirees. Our friends knew, but they wouldn't tell. We kept their secrets and they kept ours.

Be careful, he said. She might be cleverer than we think. He snapped his fingers and our French bulldog, Dina, raised her head. As always, she sat not far from him, in a spot where she could keep an eye on his comings and goings. Take the hound with you. She'll protect you.

I doubt I'll need protecting. Still, it might not be a bad idea. Dina was deceptively petite with mostly white fur and fawn-colored splotches on her sides. She had the typical fawn mask on her face with white jowls and chin and big ears that pricked toward me now. Come along, Dina. I can use the company.

She sprang to her feet and trotted to join me. Although only a foot tall, she was solid and compact with thick muscles and an air of firm determination. She put on a good front, but only we knew what a clown she truly was. I'm not worried, I told him. I trust your instincts.

My instincts haven't always been right.

I squeezed his shoulder. I'm sure they're right this time. Don't worry. I'll be very careful. I'm not going to let anything keep us from our well-deserved retirement. I kissed him quickly and started out the porch door.

Take your gun.

I stopped. I'd rather not.

I'd rather you did.

I didn't argue. I knew that tone of voice. I reached into the wicker basket near the door, the one that held my garden gloves and my revolver. I tucked the small Smith and Wesson into the specially designed pocket in my denim skirt and left.

I walked onto the deck then down the steps leading onto the stone path, which in turn led down the hill to the lake. The lawn on either side of the path was starting to green but it was still early in May and often cool overnight. The morning sun was beginning to banish those white spots of frost on the lawn. I tugged my blue sweater to cover my red-striped knit top, fighting the chill.

Dina trotted ahead of me, staying close as per her training. She wouldn't dash away unless I gave her permission to do so. Not only was she a marvelous pet, but she truly was a good guard dog and had been trained as such.

Our house sat on a hill on our small island, several acres large. We had built it so either a deck or a porch was on all sides of the house. This gave us a view of the entire expanse of Flamingo Lake. It was so named because of its odd shape, with one big fat bay where our island sat, two long narrow channels on the south end, and a single undulating channel at the north end. I've seen the lake from the air when we came in by plane and it does appear somewhat like a big bird, if you squint hard enough.

Flamingo Lodge was situated on the south end of the lake. It was small, catering mainly to fishermen who could afford the stiff price Mike Butterfield, our manager, charged for a week of getting-away-from-it-all. At peak season, twenty guests could stay in the ten rooms in the big log cabin. The place was booked years in advance because Butterfield provided amazing amenities, including gourmet meals that he cooked himself. His wife, an Ojibwa native, was also an exceptional cook and her brothers were guides to the best fishing spots on the lake. Mike's two sons were attending college in the Twin Cities, majoring in Hospitality Management. They planned to return here and take over the business when Mike retired.

The guests at the lodge had strict orders not to bother us on the island, and usually they obeyed. Of course, it helped that we had a motorized dock that was kept raised most of the time. There was a thirty-foot drop-off all around the island except for one small beach area on the south side. Anyone who tried to dock there had to work a boat through large rocks that could tear out the bottom. Often the only sign we saw of the guests were the boats puttering past on their way to the prime fishing spots at the north end of the lake.

Dina and I stopped by the steps and I tapped in the security code for the dock. With a faint clink of meshing metal below us, the walkway inched downward. It was an ingenuous system, a combination of gangplank like those used on cruise ships with a simple winch and pulley. The base was sunk into the bedrock of the island and the gangplank swung out over the water. Mike's launch was equipped with a platform where the gangplank was secured.

When we first built the house, we had a conventional dock to make it easy to unload building materials and supplies. But once construction was completed, we destroyed the old dock and installed this simple gangplank system.

Let's go, pup. I gestured and Dina went ahead of me, pausing now and again to sniff at something in the vegetation on either side of the wide wooden steps.

Despite what I said earlier, I was still nervous. It's not everyone who can run away from their past, but we did it, making new lives for ourselves here in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, or BWCAW as locals called it. We were on the border between Minnesota and Canada and surrounded by forest, lakes, and wildlife. The nearest town, population one thousand, was about six miles away and the only way to the lake was via a twisting paved road through dense pine woods, unmarked and unmapped. Lodge visitors and delivery people knew the way but otherwise we stayed private.

Until now, of course. I watched the boat approach from the middle of the steps, a mix of apprehension and excitement making me shift nervously from foot to foot. Dina looked at me over her shoulder as though to say, Enough already. I have this handled. I leaned over to touch her head and her butt quivered in appreciation.

Mike slid the boat into position and soon he hopped out, the boat swaying with the movement. He's a big man, so he displaces a lot of water. He helped a woman out of the boat and they walked along the dock to the stairs, the woman ahead of him.

I came down a couple of steps to meet them. How do you do, Miss Lewis, I said, extending my hand.

The woman facing me appeared like any typical newsgirl with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, blue eyes, a flawless complexion, and a slender, athletic figure. I knew quite a lot about Carol Lewis because when she requested the interview, I had Chessy research her for me. It was exactly the sort of job Chessy loved. She was my private detective for twenty years and she had amazing contacts scattered throughout Minnesota and beyond. I also guessed that Chessy had a special interest in this woman given our convoluted past.

Carol Lewis was twenty-seven, an ex-cop and new to journalism after a stint in print journalism in Chicago. She was dating a professional football player, had a dog named Dodo, and lived in a trendy loft in St. Paul in a part of town I used to know well. She was tall, almost as tall as Mike, who was six-foot. I silently applauded Lewis' apparel of jeans, sneakers, and a loose summer-weight sweater. It struck the right note of casual professionalism and practical wearability for someone visiting a lake-front home.

Thank you for meeting me, Mrs. Hatterley. I appreciate you taking the time. She shook my hand then released it to steady the heavy messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Your letter was clever. It intrigued me. I saw Mike watching us with his usual hawk-eyed gaze. We'll call you when Miss Lewis is ready to return to the lodge.

Sounds good. He ambled back to the launch, pausing once to wave at the house.

Miss Lewis looked at the hill above us. Is your husband at home?

I went up the steps and she followed, Dina scampering ahead of us. He's busy right now. I'm afraid only I'm available to chat. I walked to the grouping of wooden chairs painted red in the grove of trees on the hill below the house.

She fell into step beside me. You two have been together a long time.

Well, that wasn't a secret. Anyone who knew anything about us knew our history, but I didn't mind reiterating it. Yes, we have. We met in college, in the late 60s. We were both teenage prodigies. He was sixteen and I was fourteen when we met. We both attended M.I.T., majoring in Applied Mathematics. I smiled faintly. "We had our picture taken for Time Magazine, as I recall."

Then your husband murdered a man. Lewis paused as if she expected me to contradict her.

He wasn't my husband at the time. And he was convicted of murdering someone, I corrected. Convicted on largely circumstantial evidence. But please. If we're going to talk over old history, why don't we get comfortable? I moved to one of the Adirondack chairs facing the lake. Trees would shade the chairs in the afternoon, but now they sat in the May sunlight, a gentle breeze drifting over us when we settled down in the seats. The sunlight was welcome. The ice had gone out on the lake only two weeks earlier, an annual rite of spring in the North.

I'm curious. What led you to us? I crossed my ankles on the wooden footstool in front of me and draped my denim skirt over my calves, making sure my gun remained securely in place.

The senator's papers were recently transferred to the University of Minnesota. The girl sat after a quick glance at the seat, probably confirming it wasn't used as a bird roost. I once again applauded her intelligence regarding outdoor living. I was doing a retrospective about her and I decided to go through some of her correspondence.

I smoothed out a wrinkle in my skirt. That wasn't what I meant. How did you find us? I waved a hand at the pristine wilderness around us. We aren't exactly in the mainstream.

You were hard to locate, she admitted. There were no phone records, no utility records, no deeds or property transactions.

I glanced at the wind turbine in the distance, not far from the lodge. A smaller version sat behind our house and we also had solar panels as backup. We're off the grid here. Our own well, our own power supply. And as for phones . . . I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and held it up for her to see. We're not completely out of touch with the world.

She frowned. I couldn't find any record of a mobile account.

I tucked the phone back out of sight. Don't forget. My husband and I either designed or assisted in the design of most mobile computing technology. It's rather easy to modify and mix signals. Almost as easy as it is to manage other electronic records.

Understanding slowly dawned in her baby blue eyes. You hacked the system, she said with a grin.

I lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. Somewhat. We're still very active in certain computer forums and on various social media sites. And my husband is an avid video game player and is quite well known in those circles. While we're unknown, we're just not known as us, so to speak. I let my hand drop over the side of my chair to touch Dina's head where she sat next to me. You said something about Senator Hart's papers. What did you see that led you to us?

Lewis leaned near me, her ponytail swinging with the movement. There's been a lot of speculation about why the senator abandoned her run for the Presidency. She was popular with Republican voters, she had an excellent record in the senate, and she appeared to be well liked by many people. Granted, that was a decade or two before women became a mainstay in political office, but she had the funding and the backing. Why did she drop out of the race decades ago? Lewis shifted position in the chair so she could face me.

I shifted my attention to the trees in front of the house. He stood on the deck, watching us. Lewis couldn't see him from her vantage point, but I had a clear view of him. Are you asking me for my opinion? She was wounded when someone shot her in Rice Park. Isn't that reason enough? Or perhaps she didn't want to undergo the rigors of a bid for the Presidency. Perhaps she didn't want to subject her family to such an experience. I was hard-pressed to say that with a straight face. Senator Roberta Ruby Hart would have sacrificed her children to Satan for a chance at the Oval Office.

You owned a house in Richmond that burned down. For a short while it was thought you died in the fire, but it happens that the man who died in the fire was an employee of Senator Hart's. I remembered seeing your name in association with your software company, so I did some research. Carol kept her eyes fixed on me, a tactic which I suppose was meant to make me self-conscious if I decided to try to evade any questions. What she didn't know was that I had no qualms about spinning a whopping big lie and throwing it right in her face.

And what did your research reveal? I tilted my head to the sunlight.

It didn't make sense. What connection could there be between someone like you—a liberal woman who ran a cutting-edge software company—and a woman like her? She was conservative, somewhat reactionary in her viewpoints. She was opposed to the social platforms you supported. Why would you two be associated in any way?

Perhaps it was coincidence, I pointed out.

Lewis shook her head. I don't think so.

What then? I prompted.

I did some more research about you. Your name was linked with Senator Hart's in a roundabout way. Then six months later, you married your husband, the charges against him were expunged, he was awarded a million-dollar settlement from the state, and the senator abruptly retired, essentially going into seclusion. Her records were sealed for twenty years and recently released to the University. Lewis leaned on the arm of her chair, staring eagerly at me. What happened, Mrs. Hatterley?

Logic warred with common sense and caution. Lewis appeared so young, so eager. I leaned my right elbow on the arm of my chair and propped my head against my hand. That allowed me to hear the tiny radio in my ear more clearly. I don't know, I said for the benefit of my husband who watched us from the house. How much should I tell you?

He laughed softly. Go ahead. It's a good test. Tell her everything. We've got eyes and ears all around the island. If she's the advance guard, we'll know it soon.

Please, Lewis said, unmindful of this one-sided conversation. I admit, I want a good news story, but I'm also curious. She smiled, the picture of innocence.

Well, I suppose you're right, I murmured. What can it hurt to tell?

He laughed again. I have you covered.

I straightened and smoothed down my skirt. Please. Call me Alice. I glanced at the deck behind us and waved. He waved back and disappeared into the house. From there he'd probably go to the cupola where he had a clear view of the area. That's where most of his guns were stored.

Madison and I were together when we were in college, but we were so young then. I was sixteen and he was barely eighteen when we became involved. I suppose you could say our story started then, but I think it really started when we met again, years later, I said.

Chapter Two

In 1998, a ghost walked into a gymnasium to stand in front of me. Hello, Alice.

I stood, not sure my wobbling legs would support me. I was seated at the intake area, a series of four six-foot long tables forming a simple barrier at the entrance into the gym. Military veterans had to stop at one of our tables so we could gather some preliminary information and give them the questionnaire everyone filled out. We were in the last day of a three-day Stand Down and new arrivals kept trickling in, attesting to how many homeless vets needed help in Minneapolis/St. Paul.

Where have you been, Madison? I've been searching for you for years. I said the first thing that popped into my head, probably because it was true.

Your hair isn't blonde and curly anymore. He tilted his head as he regarded me. When did it change to brown?

I self-consciously touched my light brown hair, cut into a simple bob that brushed my chin. In my twenties. I colored it blonde for a while but then I got tired of coloring and curling.

Oh. He smiled faintly.

I barely recognized him. I'd been seeking him for five years, my search beginning a few years before I sold my company in California and moved back to Richmond, Minnesota, a small town south of the Twin Cities. The detectives I hired couldn't turn up a recent trace of him, but six months ago we got a lead that he was in the Twin Cities, living among the other nameless, homeless people who eked out a living on the streets.

He didn't appear at any of the homeless shelters during the brutal winter and I gave up hope that he was still in the area. I volunteered for this May Stand Down event held in Bloomington, centrally located south of St. Paul and Minneapolis. I envisioned what I'd do if he appeared, somewhat careworn and tired. We would sit down and talk, I would give him the money I set aside for him then I'd put my guilt behind me and get on