“This is Dr. Jeanne McLennan from Aberdeen,” she announced crisply. “I am trying to reach Dr. Pinkerton?”
“You mean Uncle Tom?” chirped the female voice. “Sure, hang on a sec and I’ll go get him.”
A rush of relief. Whew. It’s no secret American girlfriend. Just one of the nieces he’s mentioned before.
As soon as she became cognizant of what she was doing - actually experiencing both pain and pleasure over a ‘full of himself, backwoods, American, virtual stranger!’- Jeanne gave herself a mental slap. Idiot!
When he picked up the phone, the rush of pleasure she tried to deny at hearing Tom’s voice was short-lived when her colleague said, “Jeanne? Jeanne, are you alone? Can we talk? Is this line secure? Are there people around?”
“Wh-what?” Jeanne stuttered, stunned. “What’s the matter with you, Yank? Never heard you so discombobulated.”
Nor had she. Tom sounded downright panicky. Far from his usual teasing, gusty demeanour.
“Jeanne, honey, listen to me-we have to talk, and you need to be able to listen very closely. Can you do that? This is a matter of life or death.”
Matter of life or death...
So shaken was she by the statement, by Tom’s grimness and fear, the fact that he’d slipped and broken all professional decorum by calling her a term of endearment never even registered.
“Well, I’m still on the plane at the moment...”
“Are there people around?”
“A few. Some crew. John Wilson, too. Why?”
“No good,” Tom muttered, evading the question. “Look, here’s what to do. When you get off the plane, find a place where there’s no eavesdroppers, and call me back. Pronto. Got it?”
Pronto? Jeanne pulled the phone away, frowned, then stuck it back to her ear. “Sure, Tom. Whatever you say.”
“It’s very important,” he reiterated. “Matter of life or death.”
A black chill skittered down her spine. “So you’ve said. Tom - what is it? Can’t you tell me?”
“Call me back,” was all the American replied. Then came the click of a dying connection.
“What was that all about?” mumbled her seatmate, John Wilson, just now stirring from the cozy sleep he’d enjoyed for nearly the duration of the flight.
“What? Er, nothing. Just Tom?”
“What’d he want?” Wilson covered a yawn. “Something up?”
“I-I’m really not sure,” Jeanne faltered. “He seemed pretty uptight, but wouldn’t come across with anything. I’m supposed to call him back.”
“Better do it, then,” directed the artist needlessly, then turned to observing the world outside his window as the plane came to a gentle halt.
Don’t worry. I will.
The time it took to exit the plane, locate their baggage, then get John Wilson situated guarding it while she searched for a secure area in which to call Tom, felt an eternity. Jeanne’s stomach roiled; not the good kind of roiling, as when she’d woken Tom and heard his sleepy drawl. But a bad kind of roiling, the anxious kind, like the time Paul had been sent home with a note saying his English teacher wanted to meet with her the following afternoon.
Despite her outward calm that day, Jeanne had fretted and stewed right up until the moment she was actually sitting across from the woman, hearing her say Paul had a bright imagination and a knack for writing; all he needed was to focus on something more cheerful. Lately, his writing had assumed a depressed, morbid tone. Getting to the bottom of the situation, Jeanne had discovered he was upset about his dad not being there for his birthday party a couple of weeks ago-well, what kid wouldn’t be? But they’d worked out the issue, got Paul’s writing back on track, and now all was fine and dandy. Or, as fine and dandy as a kid being brought up with divorced parents could be.
The issue wasn’t Paul now, or even Mike and her divorce. The issue Jeanne currently faced was calling Tom and finding out what was the matter. She figured the roiling wouldn’t cease until she actually got Tom on the line. What she didn’t count on was his story being bad enough to cause her stomach to go from roiling to downright nauseous.
“Are you kidding me?” she whispered weakly when he finished, sinking against the nearest wall.
“I wish I were. Normally, I wouldn’t take the word of a teenager on something like this, but Winn’s a really bright kid and, besides, it just...”
“Makes sense,” Jeanne whispered, completing the thought.
Drawing a deep breath, she pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers, seeking to relieve the pressure mounting in her skull.
“So you don’t think there’s any way this - this Croninn could be mistaken, then?”
“None, Jeanne. I’ve done some archaeology on our local natives here in the area. Everything Ny-mo says is not only accurate to the best of our knowledge; it trumps the best of our knowledge. He makes us look like first graders trying to do algebra. I’m telling you, I just don’t see any way he’s not legit. His story has to be on the money.”
“Oh Tom...”
Whatever she’d been intending to say trailed off helplessly. What was there to say? From the dead silence on the other end of the connection, she assumed her colleague felt likewise.
“A pretty pair we are. Two of the world’s alleged leading scientists, both of us doctors and professionals in our field, and neither of us has the slightest idea what we’re going to do. Maybe we should just ask Paul, or Winn. Those two kids have provided some major breaks in the case: Paul with his recognising Finn as being from Wilson’s book, and Winn with finding Ny-mo, figuring out how to communicate with him, and now putting the puzzle pieces together.”
At first, she was tempted to laugh at the notion: the kind of weary chuckle drawn from a soul pushed so far there’s nothing to do but laugh at how ludicrous, how ridiculous, how hard life can be. Yet, strangely, the more she considered the idea, the more merit she saw.
Well, and why not? They’re just kids, but they’re far from stupid. I mean, what could it possibly hurt?
Deciding she’d call or text Paul at the first opportunity, she initiated the new scheme by breaking the silence between herself and the Yank.
“Well, Tom, I’m fresh out of ideas, and I don’t mind saying so. I’m just wondering-what does your niece...Winn, did you say her name was? What does she think we ought to do?”
From Tom, she got the very same chuckle she’d repressed; only there was the slightest bit of humour to lighten the dreary sound.
“Funny you should ask. Winn’s got our next move all figured out.”
“And what is that?”
“Winn thinks Finn, Kesha, and Ny-mo need to meet.
“That’s pretty much my thinking too. Okay, we’ll be with you this time tomorrow. I want to see how Ny-mo gets on with our own Brosnyan head of clan. I know they aren’t from the same tribe but there is no-one on earth who knows more about the little people than John. You would be blown away at how much Finn and Kesha have come on. Rather than them learning from Amy, she is learning from them, and putting together a book with a set of signings which are easy, and simple communication finger movements which anyone can use.”
Tom sounded a little distant, more preoccupied with his own problems than her news as he replied, “Yeah, we’ll talk about all that lot when you get here.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow then.”
“I’ll see if I can get the Feds to arrange for your pickup. … Bye.”
“That would be great. See yer,” she signed off with a sigh, the moment of closeness had slipped away, - again, and went to look for John. Crazy thoughts were buzzing round her head; Tom’s interpretation of Winn’s theory, or was it Ny-mo’s, was so wild, so impossible, or was it?
20.
Evans’ Farm.
Indian Country, OK.
Jeanne and John arrive in Oklahoma
May 2011
The big Ford Explorer pulled into the yard trailing a plume of dust. Tom stepped forward
to it and slid the rear door backwards; putting out his hand he took Jeanne’s in his and helped her down the step. She stumbled slightly, falling forward into his arms. He held her for a moment then bent and kissed her lightly on top of her head. Jeanne froze. Oops, thought Tom, not only have I crossed the line, I’ve jumped clean over it.
Slowly Jeanne raised her head until she was looking him straight in the eyes. Tom winced, expecting fire and brimstone from the depths of hell to pour out spewing over him. Jeanne did no more than smile, her eyes sparkling; she reached up slightly and kissed him full and hard on the mouth. “Missed yer hun,” she said in her best Mary-Lou impersonation. Stepping back with a laugh, she looked deep into his eyes.
Tom could not have been more surprised. He stood with his mouth wide open.
“Catching flies now?” she joked, “Where’s the kitchen, I could murder a decent cup of coffee.”
“Follow me, Java in this direction; you can meet the crowd too.”
John was helping the young Fed, who had elected to pick them up from the airport to unload their bags from the back of the S U V. “Is naeb’dy gonna gie’s a hond?” He said in the thickest Aberdonian accent he could muster. The two other Feds, snake-eater and the line-backer looked at each other in askance.
Tom stepped across and picked up two of the bags, “I had to take a course in colloquial Doric before they allowed me into Scotland,” he said to them. Jeanne laughed.
In the kitchen Tom introduced the two to his family, the two older girls looked Jeanne up and down intently, sussing me out as a worthy Uncle Tom’s partner no doubt, the twins were a little shy, but soon warmed to the male Scot, before long they were sat at his feet inundating John with questions about the Loch Ness monster.
“Speak some Scotch, Mr Wilson,” said the carrot headed girl.
John regaled them with the first verse of the Bard’s - To a mouse.
“Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie,
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an chase thee,
Wi murdering pattle! - and its Scots not Scotch,” he concluded.
The twins were in hysterics.
They sat around the big table, sipping at hot mugs of coffee, Jeanne obviously found it to her exacting taste, “Mmm,” she said, “now that’s good.”
Winn was the first to break the moment, “I’m going to see Ny-mo,” she said, and stood with a loud scrape of her chair on the stone floor.
John rose, “Is it alright if I come too?”
“Sure, you know anything about Trolls?”
“A bit,” he responded with a wry smile.
“C’mon then, do as I say and do and you’ll be alright.”
Macy gave her excuses and mooched from the kitchen looking for her own personal FBI agent, the twins sat opposite Tom and Jeanne, watching the two adults in uncharacteristic silence. Fudge grunted in disgust at the disturbance, and climbed to her feet, following Macy out the door.
Tom took Jeanne’s hand in his and gave a little squeeze. She made no attempt to pull away. “Are you sure, Tom?” she looked deep into his eyes, her lower lip quivered.
“I sure am, you?”
“I missed you like crazy, - so I guess the answer is yes, but......”
“If you two are going to get all mushy, I’m off to find Winn,” said carrot top.
“Me too” echoed her brother. The twins scooted out the door following the chocolate lab.
Tom and Jeanne were at last alone; taking her in his arms he drew her close, mouth hovering over hers for a brief moment...
Making me want it, Jeanne warned herself before all rational thoughts fled, and she acting on impulse, chose to meet him half-way.
Their earlier kiss had been nothing but a precursor for this. She was quickly lost in the motion, the taste, the sensation. Jeanne hadn’t been kissed this way in, - well, years. Judging by the American’s shaky breathing when she finally pulled back, neither had he.
“Well,” he said, voice having assumed a husky quality that made Jeanne tingle all over, “I guess it’s a good thing the twins did decide to scoot.”
Grinning, Jeanne allowed herself to drift forward, relaxing against his chest. “Mmmm,” was all she could say, burrowing her nose in his shirt front, enjoying the combined scents of man, cologne, and spicy deodorant.
“Maybe so.”
How long she snuggled against him like that, his hand gently stroking her hair, she didn’t know. How long would she have kept it up? Maybe forever. Unfortunately - or rather fortunately, depending on one’s point of view, interruption came in the form of Case, the huge African American Fed.
“Dr. Pinkerton, Dr. McLennan?” rumbled the giant’s bass voice, startling them both. He’d made no noise entering the house, offering no warning. Jeanne’s eyelids, since when had they drifted closed? snapped open. Simultaneously, she bolted upright from Tom’s chest, narrowly missing a painful collision with her colleague’s chin.
“Y-yes?” she stammered, nervously running a hand over her hair to smooth it down. Her cheeks felt aflame.
Blast you Tom! Here I am acting like a guilty schoolgirl caught canoodling with a forbidden boyfriend after dark, but the Yank looks as relaxed as can be. Not the slightest hint of guilt or discomfiture on his countenance. Rather, he seemed to be enjoying her flushed cheeks as only a male could. Long legs stretched out before him, he folded his arms casually over his torso, favouring her with a slow, teasing, sexy wink before switching his focus to the intruder.
“What is it, man?”
The Fed’s tight, grim expression gave nothing away. “Your niece, Wintergreen, sent me up here to ask if the two of you were ever coming.”
“To the barn?”
“I believe that was her meaning.”
Tom chuckled lightly. “We’ll be right there. Thanks, Mr. Case.”
“Anytime.”
Without a backwards glance, the giant turned on his heel and departed.
“Errr, he gives me the shivers.” Jeanne rubbed her forearms theatrically. “So cold and distant.”
“Who, Case?”
“Aye, Case. Why must he be so.......” Sentence flagging, she searched for the right word.
Tom took up the slack. “Dour? Dismal? Grim?”
“Any of them would work.”
“Hey now,” Tom chuckled, “you actually just saw Case at his most light-hearted. I think he’s taken kind of a shine to the kids, especially Winn and Emma. Seems he’s got a couple of girls of his own.”
“And you know this, how?” Jeanne queried dubiously.
“He told me.”
“He told you? He doesn’t seem like the type to be very chatty.”
“Told me more than that,” Tom confided. “Just as I guessed, he’s also a former snake-eater.”
Jeanne wrinkled her nose. “Snake-eater? Sounds a bit creepy. What on earth is that?”
“Delta Force,” replied Tom, standing. “The elite of the elite, so far as U.S. Special Forces go.
“C’mon, lady fair,” he offered, extending a hand to pull Jeanne to her feet. “Duty, and my niece, has called. Shall we answer?”
21.
Jeanne meets Ny-mo
Evans’ Farm.
Indian Country, OK.
May 2011
Out at the barn, Tom tugged on Jeanne’s arm until she leaned close. Mouth next to her ear, he whispered, “Don’t say anything yet. Just watch Winn at work. You’ll be amazed.”
Jeanne nodded assent. The door to the hayloft was open, but Tom stepped back, placing a hand on the small of her back to usher her in first. The small, chivalrous act left her wanting to purr like a kitten.
A gentleman. I like that.
Once inside, though, all fluttering feelings and girlish fancies fled. Before her was the new Boggart, and he was everything Tom had promised. Roughly, he was about the same shape but a bit ta
ller than Finn, her own male Brosynan. Hair differed, he had no mane. His clothing though was similar, but the most spectacular difference was his golden eyes. She could see how his story of their tribe intermingling with the local natives’ years ago could be true; the little guy bore characteristics of both races. Those golden eyes were sharply intelligent, alert the instant she entered his space, and quick to look her over from head to toe, sizing her up.
The Tirnano - Book 1 'FINN' Page 13