There … there it was, that gentle twist and spasm of the skin at the corner of Charlene’s mouth. That was what West had been watching … waiting for. The blade dropped to the floor with a clatter and West closed his eyes and allowed himself to wade in the half silent reverberations caused by that razor shaped penny hitting the floor. He felt Charlene’s hands fall to his shoulders and start to slide down to his chest. He gripped her hands gently, but firmly, climbing quickly out of the chair as he ducked from between the hollow of Charlene’s crossed arms, dancing quickly behind her and catching her before she fell completely into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER THREE
Questions
Upon his return to Washington, David Beach had been called in for questioning several times. In the first week, he had felt almost exhilarated to be the center of attention; however, as the weeks wore on, it became tedious, the same questions coming up again and again.
“Did you receive any unusual phone calls in the week leading up to the March 10th?”
David’s heavy eyes rolled as he sighed a world weary response, “No, I’ve explained this already, I was on a week-long vacation with my daughter. The only phone call I received during the entire week, other than from my sister, was from Undersecretary Carlton.”
Sitting across from David, the agent ran his fingertips across the smooth steel surface of the table before reaching for his glass of water. He took a slow sip from the glass before continuing with his questions, “Please Mr Beach, I understand your frustration. We are doing everything we can to build a thoroughly accurate time-line for everybody surrounding the key figures of the administration.”
David chewed a fingernail idly, annoyed by a snag that kept catching on the fabric of his sports jacket, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to come off as frustrated, it just feels like you guys should have some of this straight by now.”
Agent McMahon didn’t like David Beach much. He was pulling out every trick in his limited repertoire of people handling skills to try to demonstrate to Mr Beach that they should be friends in this matter, but when he got right down to it, McMahon didn’t trust anyone now, and it showed. He hadn’t offered David any water, but that wasn’t tactical, that was just McMahon. He knew Mr Beach was itching to get out of this interview and pick his daughter up from the crèche facilities down the hall, and he contemplated needling him about this. It was probably a cheap shot, but he wondered if perhaps cheap would steer this conversation in the right direction.
Thinking better of this, McMahon flicked the side of his glass of water a couple of times before continuing, “Mr Beach, we have many notes on what you have told us about your vacation week. The problem we have is that something isn’t quite tallying up between your statements, and the statements we have collated from other members of the administration.”
David Beach leaned slowly towards the table, resting his elbows on the hard surface and cupping his head in his hands, “You’ve checked my phone records?”
“Yes.”
“And they corroborate with what I’ve told you?”
“Yes Mr Beach, your phone records do.”
“So what … what’s the problem here?” David felt like there was something that he was missing, some malevolent undertone to the line of questioning.
“It’s a matter of timing Mr Beach. As I said, we are trying to build an accurate time line and your conversation with Undersecretary Carlton brings into question statements made by several other members of the Department of Defense.”
Agent McMahon leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin, enjoying the rough texture of his two-day stubble. He wasn’t sure if he’d said too much. If this information put David Beach on his back foot, he was doing a good job of hiding the fact. On the other hand, if Mr Beach’s apparent lack of interest was genuine then McMahon really did have a problem.
“Mr Beach, I’m sure you’re eager to get back to Sophie …”
“Stephanie.” David corrected him, jaw tightening slightly as he spoke.
“Sorry, of course, Stephanie … If you could just help me by clarifying for me one more time, the exact nature of the conversation that took place between you and Undersecretary Carlton, I’ll let you get back to Stephanie.”
The two men sat looking at each other across the table, both of them irascible and tired. David really did just want to get out of that room and pick up Stephanie. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the exact wording of his conversation with Carlton. He couldn’t erase the image of McMahon’s sallow face, his designer stubble, his gelled blond hair, and that image made it exceedingly hard to concentrate on a conversation that took place weeks ago.
“Undersecretary Carlton wanted me to talk to someone at a company called Arctum Industries, based out of New York. There had been some concerns raised about security in that building for some reason. He told me that I needed to be discrete in my line of questioning with anyone I spoke to at Arctum Industries, but that ultimately he needed me to get hold of schematics for the building.”
McMahon frowned and picked up his glass of water again. He sipped, then returned the glass to the table, and leaned forward, bringing his chin close to the table to catch David Beach’s eye line.
“Are you aware Mr Beach, that on the afternoon of March sixth, when you apparently received this call about Arctum Industries from Undersecretary Carlton, that Undersecretary Carlton was in a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff from 2pm to 4pm?”
David Beach lifted his head from his hands slowly.
McMahon continued, slow words, dripping maliciously from thin lips, “This information has been verified by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Undersecretary of Defense included. Everybody present at that meeting on the sixth has confirmed, time and again, that no phone calls were made during the entire two hours. No one left the room. Your phone records confirm that there was a phone call, but beyond that …”
David Beach threw up a little in his mouth and then chuckled slightly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He recalled his protestations to Stephanie that morning and the pains he went to, trying to explain to Stephanie that he didn’t want to have breakfast because it always gave him indigestion.
“Something funny Mr Beach?”
David shook his head and shrugged, “I was just thinking about breakfast.”
Agent McMahon tried to blink away his frustration. He was really starting to hate David Beach.
A tight band of pain around her chest woke Charlene Osterman, but the pain had subsided by the time she opened her eyes. As she tried to adjust to the light, she stared up at the sculpted plaster coving around the ceiling of her apartment, struggling to remember how she had come to be lying down on her couch. She felt something brush her hand and she reacted with a start, body tensing, pulse racing, she found she was unable to move her head because her neck was aching.
“Charlene, don’t panic.”
The voice came from somewhere beside her, soft and reassuring. Several slow breaths later, she recalled the voice, and what she had been doing before she had passed out. She tried to move, “Mr Yestler, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” His hand on her forearm was comforting rather than restrictive, “Charlene, you don’t have to get up, take your time.”
Something had happened, something more than merely passing out, and although she was unable to put her finger on what exactly it was, she felt her eyes filling with tears. She was overwhelmed by a strange mix of emotions; fear, loss, melancholy, confusion, all completely uprooted from context. Her breathing shuddered and she rested her eyelids focusing on how heavy they felt, eyes tracing the subtle wash of shadows. “Did I finish your haircut at least?” she muttered shakily, still aware of West’s hand on her arm.
She felt his weight shift, the couch cushion moving under her as he knelt. His voice was close to her ear now, still comforting, still firm, “Charlene, before you look at me, think about what it was that you saw before you collapsed.”
S
he wanted to disobey his request, her instincts told her that she should look at him now. She opened her eyes, but it was still uncomfortable to move her head, and she quickly gave up, closing her eyes again as she tried to remember. There, in dark recollection, she could see it, see the reason she had lost control, and in seeing, the fear returned, her throat closing up, nostrils flaring, brow furrowing. She lifted her left hand from its resting place on her lap, fingertips touching her lips as her eyes teared up again involuntarily. She could see him, picture him sitting in the chair, the mirror in front of him. There, in the mirror, not Mr Yestler, not the stranger from down the hall. She knew the man who sat in the chair, or else she had known him, in recollection, in another life, too long ago.
She bit her lip, her fingers touching her cheek, she thought carefully before she spoke, “Mr Yestler, on the side table by the television, there’s a telephone there … do you see it?”
“Yes.”
Now that she understood what was happening, she was calm and collected, “Mr Yestler, I need you to call an ambulance for me, or my doctor; his number is written in the back of the little notebook by the phone.”
“Charlene, you’ll be okay, just take some time to breathe, relax and let your body do its job.”
“No.” She spoke clearly, her eyes opening wide, staring at the ceiling, “I am unwell, and I am in need of medical assistance.”
It was impossible but she knew him, this ‘Mr Yestler,’ more completely than she had known any other man. She knew, and the agony she felt was so palpable that her breathing slowed and her chest ached again. When he refused to fetch the phone a second time, it only went to confirm her suspicion.
The man’s name came to her easily. Anthony Statham. He had been a dear friend to her, but that had been nearly sixty years ago now. This was dementia, she was certain of it. She knew she must be talking to someone else, merely imagining that she was talking to Anthony Statham. She licked her lips, trying to remember the name of the help who brought her meals and shopping when she was out of sorts. Janice? Patrice? She couldn’t recall, and that was as sure a sign as any. She was probably talking nonsense to the poor girl.
Oh God, she thought to herself, what was the hair cut? What had she actually been doing? Janice, or Patrice, or whatever her name was, would never ask her for a haircut. Her fingers formed a barrier over her lips now, her hands shaking; she knew she had to stop herself from talking.
“Charlene, you know who I am. You saw my face; you saw enough of me to know for sure.”
She closed her eyes and gulped back tears, her head filling with the white noise of silent screaming. She had feared this moment for some time now, probably longer than she cared to admit. When she had turned sixty, she had started to be concerned about her memory, although Doctor Sawyers had frequently reassured her that everyone experiences forgetfulness. He had even joked with her about it the last time she’d mentioned it, “Miss Osterman, you needn’t worry every time you forget where you’ve put your keys. Come back to me when you’ve forgotten what keys are for.” Of course, she’d thought he was impertinent, and had told him as much. She’d always said he had dreadful bedside manner.
She felt her arm lifted from the couch, lifted by the ghost of a dear friend, and she shivered as he kissed the soft skin of the back of her hand. She swallowed uncomfortably, breathless and nauseous, she could feel her pulse in the veins of her neck.
“Charlene, open your eyes for me.” The request was soft, not threatening, but she didn’t know how to open her eyes any more. She felt as if she would never stop crying if she opened them. Her lips parted and she heard her own pathetic gasp and moan, her voice cracking as she tried to speak, “You … You …”
The room was dark, the light from the window dull and sunless, illuminating only in subdued tones and cutting dark swathes where it was unable to reach. She opened her eyes slowly and he was there, his face picked out of shadow cut contours. “Anthony?” She spoke the word as an admission of insanity, surrendering the possibility that she might be talking to her care worker. It didn’t matter anymore. She could only see his face. If this was dementia, her mind had conjured the most vividly real and heartbreaking memory to taunt her.
She stared at him, reconciling the details of his features against her memory of Anthony Statham, and she couldn’t discern any flaws in his likeness. It was him, down to the soft crow’s feet, the Prussian blue irises of his eyes, the slight cleft of his chin, the thick eyebrows.
West looked at the faded, but ornate fabric of Charlene Osterman’s couch and started tracing the pattern of floral swirls with the finger of his free hand, trying to imagine what the fabric felt like, trying to remember the softness of fabric. He didn’t want to look at Charlene’s face as she went through this agony. It was a necessary pain, he knew. He would be forgiven for it. Probably. He glanced about the apartment and noticed a large bromeliad on a plant stand, flowering with a beautiful deep purple cup.
“You can keep a plant alive now,” he whispered, “that’s a miracle in itself.”
Charlene pulled her hand away from West and covered her face with it.
West stroked his fingers against Charlene’s pearl white hair, wishing that he could feel it, “I know this doesn’t make sense to you Charlene. I understand that you’re frightened. I’m not going to hurt you and I’m not going to leave your side until you calm down and talk to me.”
Charlene lay trembling, trying to muster the courage to look again at the man who knelt beside her.
She turned her head slowly, staring into his deep blue eyes, those eyes she hadn’t recognized when he had come to her door, eyes that she had sworn to herself a thousand times she would never forget.
“Anthony?” she tried the word again, tentatively, unsure how much pain it would cause to say that name.
The man shook his head. “Charlene, my name is West Yestler, although you have known me, and the name you knew me by was Anthony Statham.”
Her chest caught again and a series of shallow breaths gave way to gentle sobs as she pressed the back of her left hand against her eyes. She fought against her frailty and self-pity, trying her best to sound firm and certain, “Anthony Statham was the kindest man I have ever known, and he would never have stooped to playing evil tricks on old women.”
West laughed gently, not mocking, “Charlene Osterman was one of the bravest women I have known in many years, and she would never deign to describe anything in such trivial absolutes as good or evil.”
She glared at him firing back quickly, “People change!”
West glanced around the apartment again before looking back to her, “Seldom do people change. You have learned to nurture plants though.”
Charlene covered her mouth with her hand, unsure how to respond, not because she was disarmed by West’s humor, but because of the specific nature of his taunt. During the brief period in which he had filled her life, her inability to keep even weeds alive had been a running joke between Anthony and herself.
She looked at him carefully, observing the minutia of detail; the strong line of his jaw, the smooth, blemish free skin of his cheeks, the short sandy blond hair; every aspect of his being as she remembered him. After so many lonely and bewildering years, the only man Charlene Osterman had ever loved was kneeling beside her. She wondered how the mysteries of the universe could unravel so quickly and cruelly around her.
Stephanie Beach wasn’t happy. She’d spent an hour in the crèche playing with a despondent five-year-old girl named Jennifer. As Stephanie saw it, Jennifer’s problem was that she didn’t seem to understand how to play with any of the toys, as if she didn’t have any idea how to react to them. Stephanie had resigned herself to acting out improvised movie scenes with broken action figures on her own for half an hour and her reward for this? She was now strapped in to the booster seat of the Toyota and her father appeared to be harboring the expectation that she would just keep quiet about it.
“I’m on the phone hon
ey, just a minute okay? John, yeah, John it’s David can you hear me?”
The voice on the other end of the line was deep and commanding, “David, I’m not supposed to be talking to you, do you understand?”
David tried again to motion for Stephanie to be quiet, glancing over his shoulder sternly as she tried to kick the back of his seat.
“John, I don’t understand what’s going on. They seem to think I’m involved in all of this somehow.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. David didn’t know if Undersecretary Carlton was being maliciously evasive or just cautious.
“John, do you know what the hell they’re talking about?”
The quick inhale of breath from the back seat reminded David that he wasn’t supposed to use the “H” word in front of Stephanie and he mouthed a silent apology to her through the rear view mirror. The voice of John Carlton blared over the car’s speakers, “David, I’m getting a lot of flak about this already. You better be damned sure about who you talk to from now on, okay?”
“John, they’re saying you didn’t even call me while I was on vacation.”
“David, I’m not getting into this with you. What you discuss with the FBI is your business, and it’s sure as shit going to stay that way.”
Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams Page 3