by S L Shelton
She closed her eyes again. I was certain she had fallen asleep after a few minutes, with her head lulling to the side. I sat and watched her for a while longer, wondering how much information I could get from her if I visited again, but my conniving was interrupted by the nurse entering.
I turned and put my finger to my lips, urging quiet. She nodded.
“She seemed talkative today,” the nurse said when I came out into the hall. “It’s her new medication, I think. It’s clearing some of the fog.”
“I know! I was blown away…but,” I replied sadly though hating to turn a negative spin on such a chatty visit, “she still thinks it’s fifteen years ago.”
“She may never get out of that time,” she said apologetically as we walked down the hall. “But she smiles a lot more…that’s important.”
“Yes,” I said sincerely, a sudden feeling of optimism sweeping over me. “That is important.”
I drove home, feeling troubled by the new information my mom had shared. Though I was grateful for the new glimpses into my dad’s past, I couldn’t help but feel trapped by his mental illness.
And what are these secrets she was talking about? Who is Roger? And how did Dad go from working for GGP to being a farmer? Maybe I’ll find out tomorrow during my meeting at GGP.
two
Friday, August 27th through Sunday, August 29th
10:15 a.m.—Potomac Maryland
I parked in a visitor’s spot at GGP Labs and went in. The lobby was grandiose with an atrium of four or more stories high. One side was completely constructed of glass to the outside and decked by walkways to the floors above.
I looked up as I passed through the lobby, nearly dizzy with questions and wonder.
Did Dad work here? What did he do for GGP; raise goats for testing?
At the reception desk, I informed the receptionist that I had an appointment with Ms. Jones from Human Resources. I was asked to sit in the waiting area and she said that someone would come to help me momentarily.
A moment later, an attractive woman wearing a pencil skirt, a collared blouse, and high heels arrived in the lobby, walking toward me.
It's a mistake to be here, my other voice whispered.
Why? Where's the danger? I thought, ready to act.
No answer.
Fine.
“Mr. Wolfe?” she asked as she reached the waiting area.
Though her voice was all business, there was a musical quality to it.
I smiled as I rose to shake her hand. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Patricia Jones,” she said, shaking my hand. “I understand you are looking for information on a former employee.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “Roger Gallow.”
A confused look swept across her face.
“I thought you were looking for information about your father. Mr. Gallow isn’t a former employee,” she said, apparently thinking I should know who he was. “He’s our chairman.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Would it be possible for me to get a meeting with him?”
“May I ask what this in regard to?” she asked suspiciously.
“Yes. It’s regarding my father—Henry Wolfe.”
Another confused look crossed her face.
“Excuse me for just a moment, please,” she said before walking to the reception desk and picking up the phone. I picked up a brochure about GGP from a table in the waiting area and flipped through it while I waited.
Genetic research, gene splicing, biochemistry…hmmm.
I flipped to the GGP history page and discovered that GGP stood for Gallow, Granger, and Powell.
Gallow as in Roger Gallow—and Granger? As in the mental hospital Granger?
A moment later she returned, smiling.
“If you will follow me, I can take you to the chairman’s office,” she said and started to walk toward the elevator.
I was a bit startled by the immediate access, but I fell in step behind her.
Gallow, Granger, and Powell?
“Mr. Gallow is in a meeting at the moment, but his assistant said if you don’t mind waiting, he would be able to meet with you as soon as he’s finished,” she said as we entered the elevator.
“I don’t mind waiting,” I replied still a little shocked by the immediate access.
We exited on the top floor and walked past the executive-level reception area, into a suite of offices overlooking the Potomac River. She came to a halt in front of a desk. The woman behind it was just finishing a phone call.
“Yes, sir. If you don’t mind holding, he’ll be out of his meeting in just a moment,” the secretary said and then placed her call on hold.
“This is Scott Wolfe,” Patricia Jones said with a smile before turning to me. “Joan will make sure you're comfortable until Mr. Gallow is ready to see you.”
“Thank you,” I said and reached to shake her hand.
A flash of a flirt washed over her face as she smiled at me and a mild blush rose to her cheek.
“My pleasure,” she replied, shaking my hand before turning to leave.
“May I offer you a beverage?” Joan asked as I sat down in one of the plush chairs outside the chairman’s office.
“No, thank you,” I replied. “I’m fine.”
She nodded and went back to work.
You should leave, my internal nag whispered into my ear.
Be more specific, I replied silently.
Nothing.
I wasn't going to give up on the first real opportunity I'd ever had to know something about my father without a reason.
A moment later, the chairman’s office door opened and three men and a woman exited. It struck me that two of the men looked like muscle—bodyguards.
The third man and the woman walked out of the office in a little bit of a huff. I noted the man’s face had an angry sneer to it.
Joan picked up her phone and dialed, followed a split second later by the sound of the intercom in the chairman’s office ringing.
“Mr. Gallow. Mr. Emrick is on the phone as you requested, and Mr. Wolfe is waiting,” Joan said.
“Yes, sir,” she said after a moment’s pause, and then, speaking to me, “Mr. Gallow will be right with you.”
I nodded and continued to wait.
After a few minutes, I saw the light on Joan’s phone go dark. Roger Gallow appeared in the doorway of his office seconds later.
“Mr. Wolfe!” he exclaimed as he reached his hand out to me.
You should go now, my other voice whispered into my ear.
The voice’s persistence startled me, but I walked forward and shook the man’s hand anyway. After all, what sort of threat could a middle-aged man present that I couldn't fend off? Although my inner voice had been very good at giving me warnings about impending violence, I figured I was safe—but I'd keep my eyes open for any aggression, just in case.
“Mr. Gallow,” I replied. “Thank you for taking the time to see me with no notice.”
You really should go now, my other voice repeated more insistently.
“I understand you are looking for information about your father,” he said, leading me into his office.
Be very careful of what you say, my inner voice said. It’s too late to leave.
Whoa! That was ominous. What has you worked up into such a lather?
“Yes,” I replied. “I know very little about my father prior to his death. I only ever knew him to be a farmer, so I was a little shocked to discover he worked here.”
“If I may ask, what led you to believe he worked for GGP?” Gallow asked.
On his face I saw something strange—his facial muscles were flexing between smiling false familiarity and relaxed blankness.
Don’t let your face reveal what you see, my other voice whispered.
“A background check is being done on me for work, and a trust for my mother was discovered,” I replied, trying very hard to keep my emotions out of my facial expressions but also to cover the neurotic
, nagging voice whispering to me every five seconds. “It’s apparently funded by some sort of a survivor’s policy from GGP.”
“I see,” he replied. “For your mother?”
It’s too late. He knows, my inner antagonist whispered into my ear.
Knows what? I asked silently. What's going on?
He knows about the voice in your head, it whispered, barely audible.
I did my best to avoid showing shock from that revelation, but I knew that I let some of it slip through.
Am I in danger? I asked my inner voice. Imminent physical danger?
Gallow smiled.
Violence! My other voice screamed.
I gripped the arm of my chair in preparation for some sort of an assault. Gallow’s smile broadened.
“Yes,” I replied, keeping my voice calm and even. “She was institutionalized shortly after my father’s death, and the fund is apparently paying for her care.”
He nodded. “I knew your father,” he said. “And he did work here in the 80s. He was a very talented chemist.”
“A chemist?!” I asked, thinking my voice had given me a bum steer on the warning of violence.
“Yes, indeed,” Gallow replied. “Though I honestly don’t remember much. I’d have to go through some old records to refresh my memory.”
“I see,” I said, letting my disappointment show.
The threat has diminished, my other voice whispered.
You have just become useless to me, I thought. Shut up and let me have my meeting.
“Your arrival caught me off-guard,” Gallow replied. “If I had some notice, I might have been able to dig up some information.”
“When did he leave the company?” I asked.
“’91. I’m not sure of the exact time. He was gone for several years before his death,” he replied.
A sudden picture popped up with a memory of a younger Roger Gallow entering my father’s farm workshop.
“So you knew of his death?” I asked cautiously.
I saw a flash of discomfort flit across his face. He had disclosed something without thinking about the ramifications.
“He had a few friends here he kept in touch with after he left,” he said, trying to cover. “I think I must have heard it from one of them.”
I decided to press my luck a bit.
“I have a memory of you being you at the farm,” I said cautiously.
He cocked his head to the side for a moment and then his eyes popped wide. “AH!” he exclaimed. “Yes. You are correct! I had forgotten about that. I came to the farm once to inform him of the death of a mutual friend, Mike Nance.”
That’s a lie. You are in danger. You need to leave, my other voice whispered again.
Where is the threat? Does he have a gun? Is he going to stab me? What!?
Nothing.
Something strange was going on under the surface of Gallow’s expression. His facial reactions seemed to be conflicted—almost as if there were a struggle going on underneath. Perhaps my schizophrenic hitchhiker had been correct after all—I decided to push my luck and test the water.
“I see. What sort of work did Dad do?” I asked, throwing a new curve into my questions.
His face showed stress.
“I’d have to look to see what your father had worked on. Our chemists worked on many projects,” he said, sounding genuinely sorry he couldn’t expand on the subject. “But I’d be limited in what I could share. Security on all of our projects is extremely strict.”
“I understand,” I replied, feeling my voice wasn't being reliable—almost as if it had some sort of predisposed distrust of Gallow. “Do you know why he left the company?”
“Again, without looking at the old files, I’d be guessing,” he said, as he rose from his desk. “I’d feel better having someone look the information up before offering an answer. People come and go all the time in this industry.”
“Would you mind if I spoke to others he worked with?” I asked.
The threat of violence is returning, my mental hitchhiker said.
I ignored it—I was done letting it whip me up.
“If you’ll give me time to find his information, I might be able to help you with that,” he replied. “I’m sorry I don’t have any more answers for you, but my moment of quiet has passed. I'm afraid I have another meeting to call into.”
“Okay,” I said, rising from my chair. “Thank you for your assistance,”
“If you’d like to know more about the ‘young Hank Wolfe’, I’d be more than happy to speak with you again,” he said with a friendly demeanor. “Hopefully I’ll know more next time.”
“Thank you for your time,” I said and reached my hand out to shake.
Suddenly, a flash of impulse washed over me, willing me to reach out and crush the man’s hand. The impulse wasn’t strong enough for me to act on, but the fact that it had occurred was rather disturbing.
But what was far, far more interesting was the fact that Roger Gallow hastily withdrew his hand and panic flashed across his face…almost as if he had read the impulse from my head.
Fascinating, I thought.
Not if you think about it, my hitchhiker chimed.
He smiled and returned his hand with a slightly embarrassed grin.
“It was good to meet you, Scott,” he said as he shook my hand. “I hope we get a chance to sit down and talk about ‘old times’ and your father again.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said sincerely. “I’ll be in touch.”
“You are very welcome,” he replied and then looked at Joan as we entered the foyer to his suite. “Joan. Will you take Scott’s contact information and give it to Patricia? Have her send Scott anything regarding his father that isn’t classified.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, smiling.
“Have a good day, Scott,” he said as he turned to go back into his office.
“You too, sir,” I replied. “And thank you again.”
I gave my information to Joan and waited to be escorted back down to the lobby. Patricia arrived a moment later to take me downstairs.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked as she read the handwritten note from Joan.
“I’m a little better off than I was before,” I replied. “Thank you for your help.”
“It’s no trouble,” she replied as we stepped on the elevator.
As soon as the doors closed, she turned to me with a flirty smirk.
“It appears I’ve been tasked with providing you some information,” she said stepping closer, close enough for me to feel the heat of her body against my bare arms. “If you’ll give me a few days to pull it together, I’d be happy to deliver it…if you like.”
She’s flirting with me. I smiled my warmest smile of acceptance. Let's see how much more cooperation I can get out of you if I play along.
“That would be fantastic,” I replied confidently as I took a half step closer to her. “Let me know when you’d like to get together.”
A new blush came to her heart-shaped face—much more noticeable framed by her raven hair—and a soft breath escaped her lips as she tipped her head slightly to the side, exposing the throbbing vein in her neck. Had I been one of Bonbon’s “vampire-goth” friends, I might have been obliged to take a bite then and there.
“Well,” she said quietly as the color shifted in her face and a broad, shy grin appeared. “I’ll get right on it.”
“I look forward to it,” I said, warming my smile to match her emotional response as I had seen John do when schmoozing an unwitting asset—something he’d tried to do with me in Amsterdam, playing the “new friend” card to gain my trust. It hadn't worked on me, but it might on Patricia—Wait! Come to think of it, it had worked on me!
When we reached the lobby, she straightened herself quickly before stepping out ahead of me, taking on the rigid stance of a corporate executive once again—as if our flirty moment hadn’t just occurred. I couldn’t help but glance down at the swi
sh of the form-fitting skirt in front of me.
“Again, it was a pleasure meeting you,” she said with a crisp, businesslike tone, turning to me at the reception desk. “I’ll be sure to contact you as soon as your information is ready.”
Her manner of speaking may have returned to all-business, but the blush remained on her cheeks. When I shook her hand, her fingertips lingered for a split second longer than they should have in a polite business social expression.
I smiled and nodded. “The pleasure was mine.”
A fresh wave of color swept across her cheek as she turned and left.
I took another long lingering glance around the immense facility before heading for the door. My head was spinning with new questions as I crossed the parking lot to reach my car. As soon as I got in, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief—why? I assumed it was because my inner nag had me wound up over nothing.
You’ve revealed too much, my other voice said.
I shook my head.
“You and I are going to have a serious discussion,” I said in a quiet voice. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
No response.
“So it’s one of those relationships,” I continued. “You get to rock the boat whenever you want, but I don’t get a say in it.”
Again, no response.
“Fine. I’ll start a lithium regimen, and we’ll see how talkative you are then,” I threatened sarcastically.
As I pointed my car in the general direction of TravTech, I wondered how much urgency I had created in Ms. Patricia Jones by responding to her physiological cues. Far less urgency—I suspect—if she realizes my responses had been almost entirely manufactured for her benefit.
It suddenly occurred to me that that approach might be considered to be rather ‘cold’.
She works for the man who knows what happened to your father, my hitchhiker whispered.
I shook my head at the intrusion, but it was quite right. If I wanted to get my hands on information about what really happened, Patricia Jones was going to be my best bet—short of hacking the GGP mainframe.
Fuck it, I thought. I’d better get used to doing spy shit.
That thought alone took the sting of guilt I was feeling and shoved it into a little drawer in the back of my brain