The Arrival

by J W Brazier

  Now Glenn leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his plump stomach. His big cigar started to move again. “Keep going. This is getting more interesting by the minute.”

  “Okay, well, here’s something else that struck me as odd. I was returning to my hotel yesterday to pack, and I passed several convoys of what I thought were National Guard units. At first, I didn’t think anything of it, figuring big weekend maneuvers. I’d seen several convoys days earlier, but this one was different. They weren’t American soldiers. The UN contingent I’d heard about, but hadn’t seen, made their debut, complete with the UN blue armbands and helmets.”

  The cigar stopped moving yet again. Glenn sat upright in his chair once more and made a rolling hand motion for Dean to continue.

  “Sure, well, I did a U-turn,” Dean said. “Packing could wait. I finally found a US National Guard officer, but he stayed tight-lipped with specifics. ‘We’re conducting an extensive terrorist training exercise,’ he said, but gave no timetables.”

  Glenn nodded. “Any mention of why UN NGOs and foreign national units joined the exercise?”

  I knew it! Glenn knows more than he’s sharing, Dean thought, but said, “No overt mention, but the officer appeared nervous and evasive with me mentioning the UN. His complaints were directed toward Tea Party conservatives and Christian malcontents stirring up trouble. ‘Beer-guzzling bubbas’ was how he described them, and he praised multinational cooperation with regurgitated PC crap.”

  “Dean, did you see or hear of any other news organizations camping out or expected later?”

  “No, sir, not a word, and none present, other than the local press, not even Little Rock, which was odd. I just happened to clip in under the radar before everything commenced. There’s powerful politics afoot, and it’s keeping a tight lid on whatever’s about to happen in White River. It’s uncanny.”

  “Did you detect anyone from GEM-Tech following you?”

  Dean paused. Why is he asking that—or does he already know the answers?

  “Uh … Yes, as a matter of fact, boss, I did. Do you have a reason for asking, or maybe you suspect a more sinister motivation by GEM-Tech?”

  Glenn shrugged. “Possibly. GEM-Tech’s goons paid me a visit the day I sent you to White River. They’re asking questions, fishing around to see who has copies of Deborah Holland’s personal records. They want the names of anyone who knows what’s in them.”

  Dean remembered what Ann had suggested and warned him about. “Are we in danger, boss?”

  Glenn’s frown and hard stare told the bitter truth better than words. Dean took it as, yes, they were in trouble.

  Glenn sighed and said, “It depends on how GEM-Tech and their head of security, Mr. Hirsch, will play it out. I got the impression he has a free hand to play a rough game. Just keep your wits about you and be careful. If he tries anything or moves a finger of aggression, call me right away.”

  Glenn’s phone buzzed and he picked up, then looked at Dean and said, “Stay put, Cohen. I want to hear the rest.”

  *

  Dean fidgeted in his chair and waited for Glenn to finish his phone call. His boss would soon enough ask the one question he dreaded answering, but it was inevitable. Dean had to tell the man the truth, but telling him would be painful. He wondered, How do you break the bad news of death about someone they knew?

  Glenn hung up and immediately said, “How’d the interview go with Ms. Holland?”

  Dean shifted several times in his chair. “Um, the interview went well. Her story has merit and I believe will prove to be worthwhile. We should pursue it further.”

  Glenn leaned forward and slit his eyes at Dean. “Cohen, you’re avoiding my question on purpose, and you’re not good at it, so get to the details.”

  Trapped … He couldn’t dance around the truth any longer. That would be dishonest and unfair. He had to tell him straight out.

  “Glenn, from the interview, I learned you have Dr. Holland’s original packet of documents. In it are her details of GEM-Tech’s secret project, called ‘Phoenix.’ She’d worked on the project for several years. She provided you audiotapes in her own words, describing her involvement.”

  Glenn stiffened a bit. “There’s more, Cohen, so spill it.”

  Dean imagined his tie must’ve cinched tighter around his throat. He struggled to find his words, and then took a deep breath. “Glenn, my interview wasn’t with Dr. Deborah Holland. My interview was with her daughter, Ann Taylor. She’d changed her last name for anonymity.”

  Glenn face turned ashen, as if he knew or had guessed what was coming.

  “Sir, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but the truth is, Dr. Deborah Holland is—Glenn … Ms. Deborah Holland is dead. Her daughter—Ann—believes that her mother’s documents, and tapes, were what led to her mother’s—” Dean paused, struggling to say the word. “Glenn, her daughter believes her mother was … murdered.”

  Glenn’s eyes opened wide. His body shuddered, and his breath became shallow and labored. Dean honestly wondered if he was about to pass out. Then Glenn shoved away from his desk and stood. His legs seemed unsteady. He braced a hand on the desk’s corner for support. Once steady, he walked toward the windows and stood with his back to Dean, his hands overlapped and cupped at his back.

  Looking down into Central Park once more, Glenn slumped a bit, with his head bowed, but Dean could hear the quiet sobbing. Dean shifted in his chair again, wondering if he should stay or leave. He wanted to just bolt from the room and avoid the scene, but he waited in silence.

  After several moments, Glenn cleared his throat and then wiped his eyes before he spoke.

  “I take it this Miss Ann Taylor has supplied you with copies of Deborah’s tapes as well.”

  Dean nodded. “Yes, sir, she did, and to tell the truth, what Dr. Holland explained scared the living daylights out of me.”

  Glenn kept his back to him, still staring out the window. “I’m sending you back to White River. Get with Sally before you leave today. There’s a piece of the puzzle still missing. According to Deborah, Project Phoenix is linked with a 1948 archaeological expedition in Palestine. There’s a man I want you to find and interview—a Mr. Ian Taylor. He holds the key to understanding this whole picture. His eyewitness testimony will bring everything into perspective.”

  “I already have Ian Taylor on my list to track down,” Dean said, but then he shook his head. “But, Glenn … 1948? I’d think Mr. Taylor is dead by now, or close to the end.”

  Glenn glanced back at Dean. “No, he isn’t. In fact, from what my contacts provided me, he’s living on a three-thousand-acre homestead inherited from his friend, the late Dr. Charles Wagner. I wouldn’t dwell on his age. He’s not senile, but a resourceful man, and an ex-Army intelligence officer. He’s lived through a lot of history and has the scars to prove it.”

  “Well, alright boss. I’ll leave first thing in the morning. But … uh … may I ask you … a personal question?”

  Glenn looked away again. “Depends on how personal, Cohen, but I can sense your curiosity wheels turning from over here. Make it quick.”

  Dean stood and approached the window. “It’s about your … friendship with Dr. Holland.”

  Glenn gave a small nod. “Years ago …” He paused and smiled, nodding his head down toward the park.

  Dean looked down and saw two lovers walking arm in arm below. At the same time, Glenn pulled out a handkerchief and gave a quick wipe at his eyes and nose.

  “Deborah and I met at a genetic research convention here in New York City,” Glenn said. “My editor wanted me to gather as much information as I could. He was of the opinion, like me, that if one bad apple dabbled with genetic manipulation, they’d start a chain reaction. One day, there’d we’d be, staring into the abyss of Pandora’s box. Anyway, the first day I laid eyes on Deborah, she took my breath away. But I had no idea she was one of the scientists and guest speakers until later.”

  Dean held his breath, w
aiting for Glenn’s next words.

  “If you haven’t guessed already, we were young lovers, impetuous and irresponsible. We’d fallen head over heels in love, and then she vanished. For several years, not a phone call or letter—nothing. Then one day, just as mysterious, she came back to New York. When she arrived, Deborah was a different woman … a shattered shell of her former self. She looked aged and exhausted, as if stressed beyond her limits. During her absence, something terrifying had happened with Project Phoenix. Fear gripped her mind and soul. She knew that I wouldn’t stop my investigations into genetic research. If I brought it up even in casual conversations, she’d refuse to talk about her own work.” Glenn paused and shook his head. “I’d already exposed companies and scientists racing pell-mell for profit into eugenics and the genetic abyss, as if they were untouchable gods.

  “So … our affair was short lived, but oh, what a glorious time we did have! The precious months I spent with her were the best times of my entire life. She embodied the woman I’d always envisioned to marry. The regret of my life is that I never had the guts to ask her.” Glenn paused and stared out the window, then frowned. “There came a day in Central Park I’ll never forget. She broke off our relationship that day. She was nervous and agitated, fearful, always looking around her, as if she expected someone to be watching. Without any explanation, she said she had to return to White River. I didn’t understand it, and couldn’t convince her to stay. She begged me not to follow her. She just warned me and pleaded with me to stop my investigations. Deborah thought my work would lead me to White River and her project. She said if I continued, I’d be a target and in extreme danger. I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t listen.” Glenn shrugged. “She captured my heart from our first moments together. I’d give up everything for the opportunity of spending one more day with her, but now …” He gave a long sigh and wiped at his eyes again. “Her memory is all I’ll ever have.”

  Dean caught his breath, realizing he’d stood there, motionless, his mouth ajar during Glenn’s story. He tried to picture a romantic and emotional Glenn Boyd tied to anything or anyone other than his journalistic work.

  Glenn turned and faced Dean. “Cohen, I can hear those wheels turning in your head. You can’t imagine an old codger like me being in love. Well, like you, I was young once.” He rubbed at his leaking nose and made a quick swipe at his moist eyes, then stuffed the damp cloth into his trousers. “Alright, Cohen, let’s move on. My melancholy moment is finished. Deborah’s journals reminded me of things I’d forgotten, things I ignored for selfish reasons. After reading her journals, she’s put my life onto a new path. She’s forced me to examine my prideful and selfish choices over the years and to refocus on my eternal choice. I fear it will come sooner than any of us imagine.”

  Dean could only reach out with an extended hand. “Thank you, Glenn. I appreciate you sharing with me about Deborah. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

  Dean turned to leave when Glenn spoke: “Dean, what does … her daughter look like?”

  “She’s stunning, a beautiful women, Glenn. Looks like her mother, from the pictures I’ve seen of her.”

  “Would you … uh, ask her if I could have a picture of Deborah—something recent … if she wouldn’t mind?”

  Dean smiled. “Sure, boss. I can’t imagine that’ll be a problem. I’m sure they’d both approve.”

  Chapter 16

  The foyer grandfather clock at 401 Blue Ridge Court tolled 6:00 a.m. Sunday morning always seemed to come early for Linda Kingston, but not her husband Craig. His normal routine was to force his numbed body, still groggy from sleep, downstairs toward his favorite easy chair.

  As Linda rattled around in the kitchen cupboards, Craig settled back into his recliner, where his bulges and rolls found their usual sweet spot. He picked up his TV remote while Linda made coffee before church. Religion, though, was her bag, never his, as he always liked to say.

  “Honey,” he said, “have you got the Sunday paper in there? I can’t find it.”

  Linda heard him but was too busy digging in the fridge for creamer to answer.

  “Honey, you have—”

  “Craig Kingston, you know very well I don’t have that paper in here,” she shouted. “I’d say thanks to our delivery boy, because it’s lying in my rose bushes—again!” Linda rolled her eyes and finally found the creamer. Twenty-eight years they’d been married, and she’d never started a Sunday with the paper, but still Craig asked about it.

  “Okay, okay, geez,” Craig muttered.

  Linda glanced in his direction and saw him click on the TV for his morning news fix. He buttoned through the channels to Channel 13 Eyewitness News. His ritual, she knew, was almost complete—except for his fresh coffee and the Sunday paper. She watched as he stood, tied his terry cloth robe with a determined yank, and then headed for the front door.

  “Back in a minute,” he said. “I’m going to get my paper.”

  Craig walked out the front door, no doubt hoping he wouldn’t have to fight Linda’s roses. With the coffee made and a cup set out for Craig, Linda poured herself a cup to drink before she’d get dressed for church service. She halted in front of the sink when she heard a loud rumbling noise, like heavy diesel equipment.

  Residential neighborhoods are restricted areas, not shortcuts for tractor trailers, she thought.

  Linda remembered that the city planned to start work in their neighborhood but … Why would they bring in heavy equipment on a Sunday? Like her, the residents were pleased with the new mayor’s quick actions. Ben Archer and his cronies had ignored two years of homeowners’ pleading and a petition with three hundred signatures.

  Curious, she peeked out the kitchen window. She saw no big diesel trucks outside, but the unmistakable noises grew louder. Linda decided to investigate further from her front porch for a clearer view of the streets. She took her coffee and Craig’s with her.

  The moment she stepped out the front door, the flowering fragrance of roses greeted her with their intoxicating scents. She paused, eyes closed, then inhaled and exhaled a deep, pleasurable breath, but the blissful moment was short lived. She opened her eyes, and in those few seconds, a disturbing sight caused her to squeal. She almost dropped both coffee cups at what she saw parading down the streets before her. Her hands trembled as she set the two cups on a small flower table.

  Rugged soldiers, their weapons at the ready, marched past her home, followed by an array of military vehicles. Transport trucks stopped at intersecting streets to unload more armed personnel and equipment.

  Who in the world are these people? Are we in danger? she wondered.

  Views from her front porch were good, but limited, which elevated her concerns, because she couldn’t see her husband.

  “Craig?” she said.

  She could feel her heart start to race. Worried, she ventured farther out into the yard and looked to her left. Her anxiety subsided somewhat at seeing Craig in the far corner of their yard, struggling near the street. She could tell when he was mad. His familiar angered frustration only grew with each yank at his thorn-ensnared robe. He fought to free himself, but the sharp barbs held the terry cloth tight, penetrating his pajamas, scratching his legs. The thorny stings were painful, Linda knew, but he kept a death grip on his tattered newspaper.

  His tug of war came to an end, and left him looking disheveled from head to toe. He glanced in Linda’s direction several times. She could see that he was embarrassed by his humbling predicament. He looked as if he were about to call out to her for help. He must’ve fallen into the roses, she reasoned.

  But her attention went back to the street. Armed foreign and US military soldiers ambled past Craig on either side of the road. Each man wore a blue armband with the UN insignia.

  Oh my goodness. What is going on? she thought.

  “Honey, are you okay?” Linda yelled.

  Two soldiers broke ranks, then raised and pointed their weapons as they approached her hus
band.

  “Oh no!” she whispered.

  Craig looked at the soldiers and then at her. Linda didn’t know what she could do to help, despite his pleading look.

  “Craig! Craig!” she yelled, but the truck noise was too loud.

  Linda stood there, frozen in place, feeling helpless as one of the soldiers barked something at Craig and pointed toward their home. Other residents up and down the block gathered in their front yards. More soldiers broke from their ranks and looked to be repeating similar orders to them.

  Then she heard rapid gunfire and screams coming from the direction of Paul Weston’s home, just two houses down.

  “Oh my God!” Linda cried.

  She looked that way. Several soldiers dragged Paul’s two big pit bulls out into his front yard. Both of them were dead. They’d killed his dogs.

  A military ambulance departed from the convoy and raced to the scene to help a hobbling foreign soldier.

  “Craig! What on earth is going on?” she shouted, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t move, which was fine, because she had no interest in being yelled at by a soldier.

  Craig, though, still couldn’t hear her cries. His attention was riveted on the soldier giving him orders. The two soldiers finally stepped forward, grabbed Craig’s arms, and pulled him free of his thorny confinement. Cautious, Craig backed away, turned, and ran toward his house. He stumbled and fell several times, but scrambled back to his feet. Linda’s emotions teetered on hysterics. Newspaper in hand, Craig made it back, panting for breath, scratched, and bloodied, his bathrobe torn, looking humiliated by the experience.

  “Craig!” Linda said, taking his arm. “Why are they here? What do they want? What’s going on?”