The Briefcase

By Norman L. Chapa

Laughton Donnell Fairchild, Donnie, is a family man, a decorated war veteran, and he wants his past to remain where it belongs. He is CEO of Fairchild Interests Ltd., the rising star of the high-tech industry world, but his jealous joint venture partner, David Street, a mathematical genius, wants to literally destroy him and steal some long-lost enigmatic documents Donnie has. Mercenaries hired by David fail to kill Donnie and his wife, so on a fateful day two years later, David tries again, this time using a renowned assassin who also wants personal revenge against Donnie. A murderous consortium which is led by a corrupt, power-hungry politician wants to nationalize Donnie's company to get exclusive control over those documents for herself. Blinded by hubris, lust for revenge, and greed, these formidable enemies act with impunity and will use anyone and anything to achieve their goals.

To the rescue comes Alessandra Gabrielle, Alexa, the extraordinarily gifted granddaughter, who decides to take matters into her own hands, innocently believing that giving up those documents could actually save the family. Unfortunately, her actions bring her grandfather's and her life to the point of death. When Donnie is wounded and exposed, Alexa transforms from mere college freshman into a deliverer of instant justice.

Now they must make a final stand to protect and preserve the family and its legacy. With so much at risk, Donnie knows even his deadly talents fall short. He hatches an intricate plan that requires putting Alexa at the forefront, but it's not enough. He knows she can't do this alone. Enter three people whose own redemption came at the hands of Donnie. Three people he once wanted to kill

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638601395

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Copyright © 2021 Norman L. Chapa

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2021

ISBN 978-1-63860-138-8 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63985-126-3 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63860-139-5 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To Leticia

I love you forever

Contents

Chapter 1: End of the Beginning

Chapter 2: Darkness of Reality

Chapter 3: To Threaten the Devil

Chapter 4: Footprints of Evil

Chapter 5: Clouds of Obsession

Chapter 6: Past Is Present

Chapter 7: A Natural History

Chapter 8: A Lone Wolf

Chapter 9: Contract to Kill

Chapter 10: Two Minds Alike

Chapter 11: Soul of Greed

Chapter 12: Arrogance Is Ignorance

Chapter 13: Lives Lost, Lives Found

Chapter 14: Intersecting Lies and Truths

Chapter 15: Bonds of War

Chapter 16: No Words Speak

Chapter 17: Shattering Innocence

Chapter 18: Transforming Ghosts

Chapter 19: To Retrace Steps

Chapter 20: Unexpected Ending

Chapter 21: Same Means Same

Chapter 22: The Reverse of Reverse

Chapter 23: Infinite Karma

Chapter 24: Construct of Vows

Chapter 25: A Reckoning

Chapter 1

End of the Beginning

He stepped out onto their home’s back veranda, enormous in size. And despite single-digit temperatures, folded a heavy wool blanket on top of a leather-upholstered ottoman, its warmth and comfort discarded. Spring was one day away, he realized, yet Old Man Winter refused to submit to the natural order of things. Frowning at what suddenly felt like pangs of introspect, he closed his eyes.

He was a man with a hard-lived past. Laughton Donnell Fairchild, Donnie to very few, awoke at four thirty every morning. A routine since the military, his early rise helped him focus. Feeling prepared to write the next three chapters of a new manuscript begun some months earlier charged him with a good feeling. But that diminished quickly.

When dawn finally broke, he looked out to see spears of sunlight here and there slashing through the dark grayish forest surrounding their estate. He stretched his rugged six-foot-two-inch powerful frame. He weighed 205 pounds, having gained only 10 pounds throughout his married life. Never a stranger to strenuous exercise, he ran, sprinted, jogged, and lifted weights. The limited number of those who called themselves his close friends casually noted that beneath his clothes, he must have steel cables wrapped around iron muscles. Whatever that meant, Donnie didn’t bother with, but he did secretly keep up with an extremely difficult, lethal martial arts routine his wife of forty-five years had never seen him perform. Sadly, she never would.

He involuntarily shivered. Now what, fever? He put it out of his mind to reminisce for a moment to soften his outlook. The family owned a successful business, with three straight decades of positive earnings, and was on the verge of new and amazing breakthroughs. He publicly and privately gave his wife full credit because she deserved it. She meant everything to him, and the thought made him tremble slightly. Don’t dwell on it. She’ll be all right, he muttered, stepping off to walk toward a large kitchen window set about one-third into the length of the veranda. That large kitchen window looked out onto their well-maintained, expansive backyard leading to the forested part of their seventy-five-acre estate.

Tippy, I’m going out! Donnie said it loudly so that his wife could hear him through the fiberglass-reinforced, bulletproof breakfast room window. The view from inside their home looking out was gorgeous. However, by design, for someone trying to look in through that same window, it was blurred, but he could see her silhouette.

Tuppence Alessandra Morgan Fairchild, Tippy to everyone, was in the kitchen. Her bright-eyed loveliness always a shining light for him, and he constantly told her.

Oh, stop, she would protest, but only lightly. She chided him on being such a good liar but inwardly relished his flirting with her, even with those well-worn compliments. She slowly ran her eyes over the backyard that ultimately melted into the forest’s tree-lined edge. The Fairchild’s residence was grand in a mini mansion sort of way, and the surrounding landscape was vast, lush, green, heavily wooded, and reclusive in the sense that only the Fairchild’s few closest friends, aside from family, knew where they lived.

Their neighbors, the Merriweathers, had purchased one hundred acres of horse farm next to them just months after Donnie and Tippy bought their property. On occasion, Donnie would tell her that he’d seen Mr. Merriweather where his horses congregated at an adjacent fence line. Unbeknownst to their spouses, Mr. Merriweather and Donnie knew each other from when they were soldiers during the Vietnam War.

Dealing with her husband’s moods, she never misunderstood why he needed to go out. Her insight was extraordinary, particularly as to things about him. They’d been happily married, forever it seemed, and when he wanted privacy, it was because he had to release some internal pressure he felt. As far as Tippy was concerned, that was a good enough reason.

Noni, did you hear? Popo said he’s going out for a while, their granddaughter’s voice traveled from a large wooded paneled study nestled about forty steps from the kitchen.

Tippy smiled warmly. Their granddaughter’s relationship with Donnie was loving and trusting. She arrived early to their home around seven thirty, prior to getting to school, and went through a routine of reviewing paperwork Donnie deliberately set aside for her, acting as if he had no time for it. Tippy saw how Donnie nurtured that bond, held it sacred, and protected it without regard to who had anything to say about it.

Alessandra Gabrielle Taylor, nicknamed Alexa, was seventeen and allowed to sit at her grandfather’s exquisitely appointed dark mahogany desk. She read his notes and corporate mail. She was a senior in high school and into her fourth year being a researcher for Donnie’s manuscript notes. She was a fledgling critic of one of his previous books too. While her attempts at editing were obviously amateurish, her abilities had improved.

As far as the Fairchild’s family business was concerned, Alexa showed an interest in the company’s technology developments at a young age. No one else in the family tried to or wanted to learn why the premise of quantum physics vis-à-vis quantum mechanics had difficulty with applied mathematics when blending data to be used for a secret enhanced biotechnology that portended awesome discoveries, but she did.

It was not overwhelming for Alexa when Donnie went through some brain teasers to explain it during dinners to bored-looking family members. Yet everyone looked on in fascination as Alexa nodded and probed her grandfather on mind-bending theorems like spatial coherence. Her abilities to absorb the material made even Donnie wonder.

The company’s latest innovations took years in the making, and Donnie’s scientific team had laboriously completed manufacture of some early prototypes. His company also filed patents on these developmental processes as they progressed toward commercial manufacturing. He happily declared six patents on just a single product were approved. He referred to that product as a biomechanical matrix keyboard. He continuously instructed Alexa on its scientific genesis as it went through its various stages. Getting this technology commercially ready was an immensely painstaking and expensive task, he told her.

Sitting on the veranda with her, he’d opine, The full line of patents stemming from these innovations could be worth a fortune of a fortune, something well beyond what the company is already privately worth. Then he would wink at her. I guess somebody gets to go shopping with Noni. Alexa’s return smile filled her grandfather’s heart.

While her only older cousin, Mason, was literally born for the gridiron, Alexa possessed an innate gift when it came to her comprehension of her grandfather’s core business. All this work and enormous expense, she understood from Donnie, in a relatively newly birthed industry of computerized transcreation was what the future was all about. He nodded in agreement, smiling, cognizant of her aptitude.

I’m sure you inherited your smartness from your mom, who got it from Noni.

Alexa precisely repeated the fundamentals of the technology back to him. She said, It’s a transliteration because the basic processes for using the alphabet for words long ago turned into the language of numbers. For our research and development purposes, the two represent the same thing, only that it is in a differing hybrid language. This hybrid language serves as the architectural framework for interconnectivity within a human being’s neurons and an advanced encryption standard [AES], which results in a specific sequence, thereby allowing for biometric capture.

Bravo, Donnie responded. It’s where the new value lays, commercially speaking, but more importantly, it’s of tremendous national security implications and truly cutting edge.

He closely watched Alexa’s reaction, mindful she could get overtaxed. She was the carbon copy of her grandmother: intimidatingly beautiful, same height, dress size, luxurious hair, and complexion; but most importantly, possessed an equally superb intellect. Staring at diagrams, schematics, and notes, her mind working, she’d suddenly stop. Why are you looking at me, Popo? Her smile was contagious and grew wide, especially when Donnie told her why. It was amazing to him that her general understanding of the various concepts was instantaneous. He told Tippy that she would one day turn the world on its head…once she was ready to take over the family business.

She’s so young, Donnie. Don’t expose her to too much all at once. Remember, she’s not you, Tippy added with a slight smile.

There are bad people out there. Standing with Tippy, and Alexa, he’d point in the direction of the city’s night lights, and Alexa would frown. Most bad people will want to take things from you or cause you to suffer. Never let this happen. Be on guard and act without any emotion when protecting our family and the company, you understand me?

Noni, did you hear me? Alexa was louder this time.

Oh yes, dear. Tippy still stood in the kitchen, looking out, watching Donnie as he easily loped about two hundred and fifty feet of open space to get to the forested edge. He disappeared like a wisp of smoke. How can he just do that even after all this time? she said it to no one. Then she shook her head, eyes misty, knowing full well the similar surroundings of canopied, heavy woods gave him release for his repetitive routines of reconnaissance, something he practiced even to this day. And I need to ask myself why. Her smile didn’t quite make it completely as a melancholia overcame her.

He’s been quieter lately. Yes, she thought, he’s upset. There’s nothing in his repertoire of skills to use against my illness, against this damnable thing that dares to stand between him and who I am today or who I might become tomorrow. Tippy stared at her reflection in the kitchen’s large window. Throughout their married life, she’d remained a strong-willed woman, and her family’s genetic inheritance gave her movie star beauty, the attention which often caused her embarrassment. She remained in the same dress size as when they’d married and kept Donnie madly in love with her by being exactly what he expected: a dazzling woman with a quick temper, someone with a hot passion for life, and heartwarming the way pageant winners are for some reason destined to be their entire lives. In his eyes, without condition, she was his equal, and she loved him dearly for that. And she knew that he loved for her to tell family stories too, because he was always asking her to do that at dinner parties. Donnie would smile, nodding when she began.

Well, she would start, once upon a time… And all who heard would grin because this was how Tippy always started any story about her mother and father.

A twenty-eight-year-old English military officer fell madly in love while he was stationed at a Northern Italian region called Liguria during WWII. The story goes like this. A sixteen-year-old Italian beauty, my mother, Gia Francesca, was a local Red Cross volunteer. Gorgeous and innocent, she flashed a smile, and he fainted…

She gave a short laugh at the memory then became startled when she looked around. She was sitting in the living room, facing a tall two-story window with a view out to the front of their magnificent estate. How did I get here? Her graceful contestant’s pose then stiffened. On a subconscious level, she knew what was happening, as one of the symptoms of her debilitating disease caused a temporary paralysis even while remaining alert. Like a frigid wind, it spread, and as other times before, the immobility crept down her body, unrelenting in its course as it gripped her limbs, but her eyes stayed alert and focused.

Sunshine behind the window caused its panes to shimmer and shine like a silver screen, and it was onto this glassy landscape she uncontrollably projected various hallucinations from her past. Each one that came up promoted stirs of nostalgia, yet she remained physically frozen as her mental synapses flashed the equivalent of disconnected film clips with voices onto the window.

In one scene, she was having a phone conversation with Donnie’s publisher, Franklin J. Dunkirk. She couldn’t understand why there was a weird tone to his voice on the phone. Tippy, hello, are you still there? Hello? Her retina tracked a beam of light where a voice-over of her parents’ love story sounded. She imagined herself rising as if to hear the words better but subconsciously knew she was motionless. However, like a morning’s mist touched by sunlight, that beautiful moment dissipated as her mother’s heavily accented voice trailed away. Because it was something Tippy had repeated so many times, her body reacted, and those emotions surged with tremendous velocity. Responding like this, the disease’s catatonic grip broke.

Tippy autojerked like a tangled-up marionette. She slumped over. When she recovered the use of her body, a familiar severe pounding hammered at her temples. Everything around her seemed strange, out of place. Then she recognized a voice speaking. It was hers. Donnie? Where are you? She lifted her head and turned to the living room’s large window. She saw the mixed hues of dusk splayed across the rustic long front driveway tiles. Oh no, how long… She raised on wobbly legs and walked to their bedroom, where she fell asleep immediately.

Chapter 2

Darkness of Reality

That next morning, Donnie was outside again. A much colder overnight freeze than forecast caused his cheeks to chap. Tippy walked to the kitchen, and as usual, the cooking spaces and appliances were crisp, clean, and with a shininess unfortunately credited to less and less use. Donnie didn’t want Tippy laboring over large meals anymore. He wanted her to relax. A maid service came in twice a week to do meal preps for her and him. He was adamant about Tippy enjoying each day, not preoccupied with mundane tasks. But Tippy loved her kitchen and had cooked thousands of superb meals throughout their marriage. That part of their social lifestyle had given way, grudgingly she lamented, to more efficient meal preparations. Those were her daughters’ wishes also, and of course, she couldn’t argue about it, especially not now, not with what her doctors had declared many months prior.

It’s called locked-in syndrome or LIS disease, Tippy. Many patients show improvement all the time. Of course, there’s no way for any of us to know, so we’ll just take it step-by-step. Her team of physicians tried to sound upbeat. Donnie wanted to find new doctors.

Tippy wanted peace. I’ll be fine, Donnie. My doctors are good people. Don’t get upset.

He looked like a wall of granite sitting in the examination room. But at home, he constantly hugged her, whispering, Don’t say you’re useless. That’s nonsense. I need you desperately. With his strong hands moving over her body ever so gently, the twinkle in his eye still caused her moments of arousal.

Right now, she could clearly see him through the breakfast room window. That window, she recalled, was installed as a replacement to the original shattered on a horrible night two years ago. Why am I remembering this now? She shook her head.

When his cell rang, Tippy faintly heard it, and based on his body language, she surmised it was Alexa. Their granddaughter always called in the morning to coordinate with Donnie before coming over. He was apparently telling her, Tippy figured, that his work wasn’t ready yet for her to review. Did Alexa come by yesterday? Tippy tried but couldn’t recall. It was awfully hard for her to bring those memories forward, as if those recollections were a bouquet of stone flowers.

Donnie? she called out to him. She’d loved him ever since she’d first met him and knew that her father, a war hero in the British military during World War II, would have also. She remembered when her father’s brother, Helmsley Colin Morgan, Uncle Hem, a magistrate, cautiously recounted, at her insistence, how her father, Colonel Fitzhugh Thornbull Morgan, had gravely suffered.

It was a prolonged death, he told her, a slow and painful death for someone so young as he. Her father was a decorated British combat officer, a military man of tremendous bravery who’d led men into battle against terrible odds but whose true injuries, however, could never be known. Uncle Hem’s reticence at detailing for Tippy anything about her deceased father manifested itself clearly. He didn’t want to go on with the story, but his eyes betrayed him.

At that time, she was staying with him and his wife for a few weeks while her mother went home, in mourning, to Italy to see her family. Tippy insisted she wanted to know how her father died, but Uncle Hem always refused to speak of it. He was stern in his refusal. Yes, he said, he loved Tippy dearly, and yes, he wanted to be there for her, but the look on his face showed her the memory was vividly harsh for him. In the end, though, he relented because he believed Tippy was owed the truth.

I’m so sorry to tell you this, lass, seeing as you’re no more than a whippet. Uncle Hem rose, all six feet, eight inches of him, dressed in official magistrate regalia. Your father’s wounds, things inside festered and rotted his soul even though he survived the war. Please don’t look down, Tippy. Your father never felt sorry for himself as a soldier. Indeed, my brother relished in his duties. But his wounds were the type that caused terrible scars inside him, deep into his soul. It’s things no one can see, not even your dear mother, and such a good and caring wife she always was to him. He loved her uncommonly. Uncle Hem turned away for a moment.

But it was what he did as a soldier, under the ideal of a patriotic duty, that sorrowed him all the way until the end. Do you understand me, child? Uncle Hem’s eyes were wet, and he blinked rapidly. Tippy nodded, accepting of the words, even feeling badly for her Uncle Hem, though she felt completely abandoned by the loss of her father. May God rest my poor brother’s soul. Uncle Hem abruptly walked away.

Tippy gazed out the kitchen window. She thought, Just like how my Donnie feels over what he did in that damned war in Vietnam. She remembered him reluctantly speaking about it only once sometime well into the darkest hours of the night and after a few too many drinks. It was so unlike him to tell her anything about what happened during his time in the military. Tippy remembered how hard it was for her too. Donnie cried like a lost child, curling up, calling out a name she couldn’t quite grasp, Nuggle or Datir. She held onto him tightly because she felt his very soul was being torn apart—one side slipping away into a deep darkness, the other fighting to remain in the light. Neither spoke about anything said that night ever.

Tippy shook, thinking of the combined memory of her father and Donnie’s experiences. It was a bittersweet moment, then a million lights exploded in front of her. Tippy was jolted with a headache so fierce she thought she screamed, but no sound escaped. She struggled to walk, bouncing off walls down a hallway to get back to their bedroom. She fell onto the bed, a searing madness of pain blinding her. She was helpless to fight it and punched the mattress until she blacked out.

She awoke frightened. I can’t have slept the entire day, she thought. Rising, she walked to the kitchen to hear Donnie still outside splitting wood using an axe, cutting logs the old-fashioned way. Hi. Her voice was weak.

He had a neat pile of chopped wood nearby but still plenty left to cut. She sat at the kitchen table and suddenly was hit with another episode of unprogrammed reminiscing. This time, it was about when they’d bought their home. Tippy convulsed violently, forcefully breaking free of her disease’s grip before it wrenched control away from her. She desperately sought clarity as she willed herself to rise. She gripped the kitchen countertop with both hands for balance. She shook her head; her arms trembled trying to ward off the rigidity.

Please, not today, she almost shouted. Then a random but impactful memory flooded her consciousness, like fireworks exploding everywhere at once, a giant mishmash of thoughts. A dreadful panic set in as she struggled to stay upright.

*****

Tippy’s fearful screams, the deadly but wayward gun blasts, bullets everywhere, their trajectories barely altered as the breakfast room window in the kitchen shattered. Glassware and gouged wood splinters flew above her eyes just milliseconds after Donnie pushed her downward. He had been standing beside her at the kitchen sink when his peripheral vision caught a tiny red dot sweep across Tippy’s chest. He responded within the blink of an eye. On the floor, he bade her to lay still and remain quiet, but she recoiled from his grasp. She didn’t recognize him; his eyes were red burning coals, terrifying.

What cries she heard afterward, one keening after another, couldn’t be real. These weren’t human, and trying desperately, she still couldn’t unhear them