The Don Quixote Sisterhood

By William Wresch

Executives at the IRS are under attack – by social media. Some group called the Don Quixote Sisterhood is making claims – supposedly backed up by an insider at the NSA. Calling herself Dulcinea, she releases information destroying careers and destroying any credibility of the IRS. The FBI is called. They quickly identify Dulcinea – Kat Johnson.
To shut down this Qanon variant and clear her name, Kat follows a woman from the State Department to Washington, Germany, and Moscow. Only in Moscow does she understand it is all a trap. She is to be used, and trapped in Russia the rest of her life. With no hope of ever leaving, she becomes a Russian wife and mother. Only then does she find a way home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Wresch
• Release date: Apr 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463429150

William Wresch

I have three sets of books here. The first is an alternative history of the US, envisioning how things might have gone had the French prevailed in the French and Indian War. That series comes from some personal experiences. I have canoed sections of the Fox, and driven along its banks. I have followed the voyageur route from the Sault to Quebec and traveled from Green Bay to New Orleans by car and by boat. My wife and I have spent many happy days on Mackinac Island and in Door County. The Jessica Thorpe series is very different. It takes place in the tiny town of Amberg, Wisconsin, a place where I used to live. I wanted to describe that town and its troubles. Initially the novel involved a militia take over of the town, and it was called "Two Angry Men." But both men were predictable and boring. I had decided to have the story narrated by the town bartender - Jessica - and I soon realized she was the most interesting character in the book. She became the lead in the Jessica Thorpe series. I restarted the series with a fight over a proposed water plant with Jessica balancing environmental rights and business rights. I put Jessica right in the middle of a real problem we are experiencing here in Wisconsin (and most other places). How badly does a tiny town need jobs? How much environmental damage should we accept? The third series changes the lead character. Catherine Johnson solves mysteries. She also travels. It took her to many places I have been. The last several books take place in Russia. I admit I have no idea what is motivating the current madness there. Catherine looks, she tries to help, she struggles. What else can any of us do?

Book preview

Chapter 1

Hank Goes to Jail

On a bright sunny day in June, Henry Trenton knew his career was over. He also knew how it was done – the death of a thousand paper cuts. He didn’t know why it was done. And he didn’t know he would be in jail by the end of the day.

He still had a supervisor’s office. He had a view out over several dozen cubicles. He still had a desk. He still had a computer. What he didn’t have was a reason for the office, the desk, or the computer. The only thing he used in the office was his chair. He arrived promptly at eight, and except for brief outings to a coffee pot, a rest room, and a lunch wagon, he used his chair until four thirty.

There had been a time. Over twenty years. He had been a rising star. A nice man. People called him Hank. Even the newly hired called him Hank. He was that sort of boss. Brilliant. Energetic. A guy you could talk to. And when he talked, people understood what he was saying. Not all that common in the IT world. But Hank never used jargon, always translated geek into English, and never made you feel uncomfortable with needing the translation.

He was the guy always assigned to the big system rollouts. The guy who could work with the software vendors. The guy who could manage the IT consultants. The guy who could always find people willing to work on his projects. Jobs got done on-time and on-budget. And if you were on his team, you shared in the credit.

Now? The annual Washington IT conference came and went. He wasn’t invited. In past years, he had presented. This year he was still waiting for his travel expense reimbursement from last year. An account number was wrong, or a signature in the wrong place, or it just got stuck in some in box.

New projects were assigned. But not to him. People in the cubicles that once reported to him now reported to people down the hall. The senior manager who once craved weekly meetings with him, now had a crowded calendar. The monthly meetings for people at Hank’s level were often moved or changed and somehow the email notifications never arrived for Hank.

But it was worse when Hank stepped out of his office. He was a ghost. People he passed in the hall seemed to be focused on their phones. If others were in line at the lunch wagon, they all needed to talk with each other, not with him. Out in the parking lot, his car was keyed, but the real problem was seeing people purposely wait some distance away until he was out of the lot.

That morning, the phone that never rang, rang. Gordon Chung. Hank couldn’t place him, but he mentioned a conference they had both attended a couple years earlier. Chung had attended Hank’s presentation and wanted to talk about some ideas from Hank’s talk. Was Hank free after work? Hank practically lunged though the phone. They picked a restaurant/bar near the office. Chung asked if Hank had an updated copy of the presentation Hank had made. Of course. Hank printed a copy and waited for four thirty.

Hank still didn’t recognize Chung when he saw him, but Chung came right up to him in the bar, and led him to a table. So happy to see Hank again. So interested in Hank’s work. So flattered Hank had time to see him. Drinks came. Talk continued. Hank took out the article he had printed, and pointed to one of the flow charts he had made. Business process improvements. He felt good to be talking again about using IT to improve business flows. Tax returns handled in 40% less time.

Another drink. Chung made an offer. Could Hank do some consulting? He wouldn’t have to travel, just review some of the work Chung was doing. Look for better processes and better ways of explaining potential improvements. No. Hank made it clear. Consulting was forbidden by the IRS. Chung persisted. Not even in the evening? Just look at some papers? Help Chung apply some of Hank’s ideas. He would pay in cash. He pulled an envelope from a pocket and slid it across the table. It was a very thick envelope. Hank smiled, thanked Gordon for the offer, and put two fingers on the envelope so he could slide it back across the table.

Half a dozen cameras took pictures of Hank with his hand on the cash. Four FBI agents and two local cops pounced. Hank was handcuffed. He spent the night in the Kansas City jail. Three days later he took his own life.

Chapter 2

Summer in Wisconsin

Kat enjoyed her weekend workshops. Four years’ experience had taught her which activities worked, and which didn’t. Those that worked not only got repeated, but got improved. Kayaking, for example. The Pike River had been the right river to use, and now she knew the best places to put in, the places to rest, and the places most likely to cause problems. She was confident she could lead an outing that would be exciting, but also safe.

She was also confident she had created a successful business. The first years had been tough. She had room for twelve weekend customers in her lodge. Years one and two, she was lucky to get six or seven. She also discovered the lodge, while huge and beautiful, was damn near impossible to heat. Large windows, high ceilings, all the things that made the place attractive also kept her furnaces (she had three) running full time, and the propane tank always on the brink of empty. Her military retirement pay was all that kept the lights on.

Things were somewhat better the third year, and then immensely better her fourth year. Suddenly she was full every weekend. And women came from much farther away. Where her customers were mainly from Milwaukee and Madison the first years, now they arrived from out of state. Many from Illinois, but some from as far away as Maryland and Virginia. She charged five hundred dollar per weekend, and her bank account – and propane tank – filled.

This June weekend all twelve slots were taken. All the women were eager and at least somewhat experienced. More importantly, all the women listened. Friday evening they sat in the great room of her lodge and watched her video of the river. She paused it; they asked questions. She explained the rhythms of the river – where they could relax, catch their breath, maybe even get a picture or two. And the places where a series of rapids and rocks would require complete attention.

Dangers? Two places where drops were substantial. She had shown that section of video several times, directing them to the best approach positions. She showed several women cutting a perfect arc to get in position and then taking the drop squarely. And she showed the women shouting and waving their paddle in the air after succeeding. There would be some risk on the river, but there would be excitement and celebration too.

She finished the video, looked around the room, and felt good about the group. One last thing to do before going in to dinner. Introductions. This was to be a social weekend. She wanted the women to know each other. It was an essential element of her weekends. Women could kayak anywhere. Here they would kayak in a supportive environment – and make friends in the process. Kat was certain it was the social aspects of her weekend workshops that were making them so popular.

Her process? She had women pair up, talk to each other, and then introduce the other to the group. She used the process every Friday before dinner. It always worked. It worked that Friday too, but in an odd way. She could hear one pair getting loud. One of the women was really excited by what she was hearing. Kat had given the pairs two minutes to learn about each other. This pair kept going. Kat finally had to interrupt them.

Ladies, maybe we should start with you. What did you learn that you want to share with the group?

She was a model. The woman doing the talking was mid-thirties. Attractive. Well dressed. Kat guessed she had a successful career. But she was looking at the other woman as if she was a movie star.

The other woman? Late thirties, early forties. Tall. Kat guessed she was five ten or five eleven (Kat’s height), with broad shoulders and a mass of light brown hair cascading down her back. She sat comfortably in a huge leather chair, looking like it had been designed for her.

Every head was turned in her direction. All waited for the woman to continue the introduction. Instead, the model waved a hand.

It was a long time ago, and just for four years while I was in college. Marie here is far more interesting. She pointed to her partner. She is an insurance underwriter and just evaluated a new ethanol plant outside Madison. Her site inspection involved climbing to the top of a hundred foot silo.

Thank you. But you should know that besides being a model, Anna was born and raised in Moscow, and now works for our State Department.

Thank you for sharing. Kat moved on to the next pair, but like all the others in the room, she found herself looking back at Anna. Ten more women were named and introduced, and pleasant things were said. But heads kept turning toward Anna. The tallest woman in the room (when she stood she turned out to be half an inch taller than Kat), and the most interesting.

Dinner was in the formal dining room. One more room built for the rich fishermen the original owner had hoped to lure to Wisconsin. Big mistake. But a beautiful lodge. The dining room had oak wainscoting, an eighteen foot table built from joined four by eights, and a deer antler chandelier. At the far end of the room, just above where Kat always sat was a massive musky. Usually the fish or the chandelier became the primary object of conversation. Not with a model in the room.

I played volleyball for NYU. New York is filled with designers, and they always need models. They don’t care if you are a beauty. They need tall and thin. Virtually every woman on our team worked part-time for one designer or another. My teammates lined me up with a small house. They taught me how to stand, and how to walk, and I was hired.

There were six women seated on each side of the table. Anna had taken the chair at Kat’s right hand. Kat could see volleyball in Anna’s shoulders, modeling in how she held her head. Always in motion. Always erect. Always directed at one woman or another. She looked, she smiled, she seemed to connect to each woman. Kat saw easy confidence. A woman who had charmed dinner tables for many years.

Eventually conversation moved on. Anna promised to demonstrate the model walk after dinner. She then turned the room’s attention to Kat. She asked about the lodge and about Kat. Kat described the overly ambitious fishing guide who had built the lodge modeled on the great log lodges of Canadian fishing guides, only to discover he wasn’t as famous as he thought, and Amberg Wisconsin was on no one’s bucket list. Four bankruptcies later, Kat had bought the place with her life savings and the help of her military retirement pay.

Anna persisted.

And the concept of the weekends?

My brother teaches at a nearby university. They have a program called ‘outdoors women.’ Mostly deer hunting. Some fishing. He suggested the concept. I developed it, expanding to a much larger range of activities for women.

I think it’s brilliant. Anna patted Kat’s hand, and the other women nodded agreement.

Kat thanked Anna. She noticed the hand stayed on hers. Dinner continued. Lois, the woman Kat hired to cater meals on the weekend, brought endless food, and several bottles of wine. There were multiple conversations around the table, Lois brought more wine, and dinner lasted well into the evening. Kat found herself looking at Anna. Anna always seemed to know when Kat was doing so, and she always turned and smiled.

After dinner all the women wanted to be taught the model’s walk. Anna showed them, and walked with them. After all the wine they had drunk, none of the women were too shy to try. Kat included. Apparently the head mattered, and the hips mattered. With the help of the wine, hips swung all across the great room.

Finally enough hips had swung enough times, and women took the open staircase up to the guest rooms.

Morning brought pancakes and kayaking. And a perfect day on the river. Yes, there were injuries. A long abrasion as a forearm caught a rock coming through a chute. Wounded pride as a woman was completely flipped coming over a four foot falls and had to go chasing down river after her kayak. A very black and blue shoulder as a woman leaned too far into her paddle as she cut around a rock, only to have the current slam her against the rock. Over all, nothing that couldn’t be managed by the first aid kit and Tylenol. And lots of white wine around the evening bonfire.

Saturday had been perfect. That came from experience. Kat knew how much river was enough river, and how much river was too much river. She knew where to place Lois, her driver and caterer, ready with food and dry clothes, but also ready with a camera to catch each woman midway through a rapids, paddle deep in the water, shoulders squared, face determined, every inch of her focused on that moment. Pictures that would be framed for walls, or used as wallpaper for laptop screens. Pictures that would be treasured.

There was one moment. After the excitement of the day and the happy chatter over food and wine and the bonfire. After the quiet that finally comes when the sun has set and the women have sung a dozen songs and told yet another story about their day. When the day is done and the women know it is time to go back into the lodge and up to their beds. But the day has been beautiful, and it feels a special kind of pain to end it. That moment.

At that moment Anna had walked up to Kat and kissed her. No preparation or hesitation. She had just walked up to Kat and kissed her on the lips. Big smile and a thank you and she led the way back into the lodge. The other women followed her example – no kiss on the lips, but hugs and cheek kisses, and many more thank yous. And the day ended. Kindness, gratitude, tenderness. It was a special moment. The end of a special day.

Her bed felt really good that night. Kat was as tired as all the other women. But she woke when she heard her front door open. While guest suites were on the second floor of the lodge, her room was on the first floor and near the doors. And, courtesy of multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, it took very little noise to wake her. There were lights along the front of her lodge, so she had no trouble seeing a woman walk across her lawn, over the lake road, and to the pier jutting out into her lake. Time? A bit past midnight. A woman having trouble sleeping? Odd. Kat had assumed all the women would be just as tired as she felt. Apparently not this woman.

Kat stood at her window and watched. The woman did not seem to be in distress. She seemed to wander to the end of the pier, look around her, wander back a few steps, then return to the far end of the pier. Not quite the movements of someone pulling guard duty, but similar. Back and forth. Stop, look, walk again.

A woman working out a problem. That was Kat’s best guess for what she was seeing. Should Kat go out and join her? Ask about it? Try to help? Or give the woman the space she needed? Kat stood at her window for ten or fifteen minutes. She reminded herself these were grown women. The woman didn’t seem to be in distress. Not an easy conclusion to reach at this distance and with limited light, but nothing in her body language seemed to suggest pain, anger, or despair. Just a woman standing on a pier, looking out into the night. So Kat went back to bed.

Kat was up at dawn. She heard her front door again. The woman coming back in. Kristi. They looked at each other. Just a glance. A quick smile. Then the woman walked back through the great room and up to her suite. Her expression? Complete calm. No sense of fatigue. A hint of satisfaction. Whatever puzzle she had been exploring out on the pier, she seemed to have resolved it.

The rest of the morning had gone well. Sunday mornings always did. Lois, the lady who catered for Kat, made blueberry pancakes. Women came down from their rooms and filled the formal dining room. They ate far more pancakes than they would normally touch. They talked about the kayaking of the day before, and they joked about their future as models.

Breakfast lasted forever. There were stories to tell and pancakes to eat. The punchline of the morning was, well, maybe, just one more. There was always one more pancake, and always one more laugh.

When that weekend’s women finally went out into the sunshine of that June morning, Kat presented them with no agenda, but plenty of options. As was often the case, the group split. Four women wanted to walk around the lake. Not a real challenge. The lake was about eighty acres in size. The road circling it was about a mile in length. An easy walk, and an opportunity to get out their phones and take pictures of the lake and of the lodge. And pictures of each other as they walked and talked.

The other women wanted to get back in their kayaks, but they would take the lake rather than the river. Kat expected them to paddle to the other end and back, but instead, one thing led to another, and they danced. It was hard to know what else to call it. Anna and another woman started it by curving out from each other, completing a circle, and meeting together again. A pattern was set. Then, without a word being said, the rest of the women turned circles, met, turned away, circled again, and met again.

Kat had her phone with her, and captured what she would later call a kayak ballet. It started with circles, then moved to intertwining spirals, then circles inside circles. The movements kept getting more elaborate, but also more graceful. Arcs within arcs, gradual flows in one direction then another. Kat wondered if they were attempting to create a daisy. There was laughter, and a cheer as a complex shape seemed to evolve and then explode out into more shapes. It was beautiful, and fascinating, and it went on for over an hour. Kat captured as much as she could, knowing after she texted the file to each of the women, it would go straight to her Facebook page.

Lunch was sandwiches on the beach, and then the women left – eventually. There were bags to pack upstairs, and kayaks to strap into frames on rooftops, and new friends to hug, and pictures to text, and more women to hug. Kat helped with the loading. At five eleven, she was great at heaving kayaks up into frames. She also texted, and hugged, and talked. It was around one when the first woman brought a load out to a car, and well after two before the first car actually pulled out of the lot. Pretty standard for Kat’s weekends, and, from Kat’s perspective, a great indication that one more workshop had been a success.

As Kat waved to one more set of taillights, she felt a hand in hers. Kristi. Wearing a yellow cotton sundress and a smile.

I want to thank you for this weekend. It was everything I hoped it would be. She hugged Kat with such intensity a smaller woman might have been hurt.

I am glad it worked for you. You seemed to handle your kayak well. Kat submitted to the hug, but straightened herself, slowly pulling herself away from the smaller woman.

That was important. A test. A beginning. Last night was important too.

I saw you out on the pier last night.

It was my vigil.

Your vigil?

I think you know. Kristi hugged Kat again. This time she whispered in her ear. I won’t let you down, my Dulcinea.

Kat wasn’t sure if she had heard that final word correctly. Dulcin something? She would have asked Kristi to repeat it, but Kristi was gone. Big hug, quiet whisper, off to her car. Quick wave, big smile, and the car was already out of the drive.

Kat waved a final good bye and wondered. What had she heard? She repeated several variants of the word, but none of them made sense. The closest she could come to a real word was Dulcimer, which she thought was a musical instrument. Or had the word been sin? Some special kind of sin related to her vigil? How did that make sense?

Kat watched the car disappear onto the town road, off to Highway 141 and all points south. Whatever the woman had said, well, life had mysteries and this one would be added to her list.

Anna was last to leave.

I knew this weekend would be fabulous, so I have also signed up for next weekend. I will see you again on Friday.

It seemed odd for Kat to stand opposite a woman as tall as herself.

I hope you will teach the model walk again. It was a real treat.

I will.

Suddenly Anna’s arms were around Kat neck, and her mouth was on Kat’s. It was a gentle kiss. Long. As if the women had kissed many times before and were completely comfortable to stand together in each other’s arms. Kat was unsure how to respond. She put her hands on Anna’s sides. She neither pushed her away, nor pulled her closer.

I hope you don’t mind that I did that. Anna kept her face close to Kat, her voice low. I am such an admirer of yours. You have done so much, and do so much. No wonder women flock to you.

Anna, it’s just a fishing lodge.

Of course. Anna smiled, kissed Kat again, and this time pressed Kat with her hips. It was just a moment. Just a touch. Then Anna was gone. Back to her car and off to her home.

Kat watched the final set of taillights head south. It had been a good weekend. A very good weekend. But it had also been confusing. Dulcinea? And Anna. Coming back for another weekend. Kat could feel where the woman had pressed her hips against her. Would there be more of that on Friday? She knew she wanted more. She was not confused about that. She wanted more.

Chapter 3

A Barmaid again

Wednesday Kat tended bar. Kat’s lodge was a few miles outside Amberg, Wisconsin. Amberg was a tiny town in northeastern Wisconsin, just ten miles from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Northeast Wisconsin and the UP were in a race to see which could lose their population fastest. Amberg was winning. Once a much larger town, it was now down to twenty homes and three businesses. The three businesses huddled together on one side of Main Street, surrounded by empty lots and across from an abandoned rail line.

Kat’s bar was one of the three businesses. And it was the newest. The former bar had lasted for nearly a century before being smashed by a girl in a car. The new bar was the same size and same design, but the insurance payout meant this version had plumbing and wiring to code. Toilets always flushed, and the toaster oven no longer popped all the circuit breakers.

Kat worked Wednesdays three to ten. Not for the money. Jim (son of the bar owner) paid her nine dollars per hour plus tips. Since she averaged about fifteen dollars in tips each Wednesday, her income for her day was pathetic. So why work there?

The bar was the social center for the town. It stood adjacent to a tiny restaurant open for breakfast and lunch, and a party store open when the owner was bored sitting at home. The bar was where you stopped after work, or where you watched a game on TV. The town school had closed half a century earlier, and the town church had been gone over a