Overbrook Farms

by Neal Goldstein

  “Do you have any idea where Ran might have gone? Do you think he’ll come back here?” Jarvis asked.

  “There’s no reason for him to come east since the plot to take over Montgomery’s company has been exposed, so there’s no benefit in killing the owner or his heirs. Montgomery’s ex could never take over the company, and even if she could, Homeland is monitoring where the minerals are going.”

  “Cleve, you’re probably right. But if you hear anything, keep me in the loop,” Jarvis said and disconnected the call.

  Within an hour they were assembled at Montgomery’s house. Jarvis filled them in on the call.

  “How the fuck could this have happened?” Benson was the first to react.

  “Do you think Jackson’s assessment about Ran’s not heading back is accurate?” Montgomery asked.

  Jarvis ran his hand over his brow as he contemplated his response. “It doesn’t seem rational for the RGB agents to continue the mission to take over Triple M. If anything happens to Mr. Montgomery, or the children, Kim Jong Un would lose any opportunity he would otherwise have to make a deal with the President.”

  “But Scarface did try to kill Roger, and the North Koreans probably were involved in sending an assassin to kill Haley,” Hunter said.

  They sat in an uncomfortable silence. Jake Loman turned to Hunter and asked, “What are you thinking?”

  Hunter shifted his eyes from Jarvis to Jake and said, “I never bought the story that Qwon and Scarface were former RGB agents on the run. The way I saw it, they were working for Kim Jong Un the whole time, and still are.”

  “So, do you think there’s still a threat? Benson asked.

  Hunter shrugged.

  The room went silent again as they considered Hunter’s remarks.

  “Well, let’s hope Homeland gets Ran back in custody,” Jarvis said.

  Benson snorted, “Fat chance. Those assholes could fuck up a wet dream.”

  “And with Qwon still out there, let’s keep our guard up for now, just in case,” Hunter said.

  42

  July 2018, Overbrook Farms

  The next three weeks passed uneventfully. Hunter continued to diligently maintain his security routine. Both Haley and Roger had around the clock surveillance watching their every move, in most cases without either of them knowing it. Mr. Montgomery had curtailed his travel schedule and worked from his home. This both enabled him to spend more time with his son and reduce the security risk.

  There had been no word from Homeland on the progress of their search for the missing RGB agents. The only news out of North Korea was a report that Jang Song-thaek, Kim Jun Un’s uncle, who had been a member of Un’s inner circle, had died under curious circumstances. Unconfirmed news reports indicated that the Dear Leader had poisoned his uncle.

  The President flew to his summit with Kim Jong Un in Vietnam, leaving the National Security Advisor in Washington, DC.

  * * *

  Lisa Kimbro brought several of her colleagues to Hunter’s backyard to catalog his work. Lena and her father’s unrelenting persistence, finally wore Hunter down, and he agreed to allow the Art Museum to show his sculptures at a special exhibition in the fall. Kimbro would narrate the audio tour. So far, even with intense pressure from his family, Hunter declined to participate in any of the pre-exhibition activities.

  All eight of the sculptures in his backyard, and the swing made from parts of the 1952 Buick had been selected for the show. Hunter ‘s sculpture of Lucy Thurman, the photo of which had appeared in ‘The Daily Pennsylvanian’ that brought his work to the public’s attention, along with his drawings and photographs of his workshop, would also be included.

  “You have to let Dr. Kimbro interview you as part of the recorded tour,” Lena told Hunter as they watched the curators from the Art Museum carefully pack the sculptures for transit.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he responded. “The last thing I need is some journalist looking into my background. Just let Dr. Kimbro tell everyone I’m a recluse, you know like J.D. Salinger or Harper Lee. Neither of them made public appearances.” He frowned and said wistfully. “I’ll be happy when my 15 minutes is over.”

  * * *

  “Still no word from your friend at NCS about the BOLO?” Hunter asked Jarvis, who stopped by to brief him on Global’s independent effort to find Qwon and Ran. They were having a beer in Hunter’s garage/studio, where he hid out while the hub-bub of activity surrounding the preparations for the exhibition swirled through his residence.

  “No. It’s a shame we didn’t implant a tracking device in Ran when we gassed him at the safe house. Maybe he went to Vancouver until things cool off. There’s a large Asian presence there.”

  Jarvis looked at the bottle Hunter had handed him, “Hey, is this Ortliebs, the same skunked beer John at Mahuffers tried to serve you when you tracked me down in Indian Shores? It’s really good.”

  “Yeah, some young guys resurrected it. They brew it here in Philly. I sent John a few cases as a thank you.”

  They both took a swig from their beers and Hunter asked, “Do you know if the President even asked Kim Jun Un if he knew the whereabouts of the two rogue agents before he left for the summit?”

  “Yes. One of the State Department security people got the Secretary to suggest that POTUS make the inquiry.”

  “And?”

  “Kim denied any knowledge of their existence. Apparently, that satisfied the President.”

  Hunter shook his head in resignation of the man’s gullibility. “Do you think the two agents are together? From what you told me, I got a vibe that Qwon doesn’t like Scarface,” Hunter asked.

  “Me too. According to Homeland’s investigation, when they reviewed all of the video footage of his escape, he had no assistance. Cleve Jackson also told me that NSA’s super computers picked up a transmission they believe came from Qwon asking for authorization to eliminate Ran the day we took him into custody.”

  “Did he tell you where the signal originated?” Hunter asked.

  He nodded, “Yeah, he told me it originated from somewhere in Philadelphia.”

  “And, was there a response?”

  “Negative.”

  “OK. At least we know that Qwon was near here when Ran was captured,” Hunter said.

  “Affirmative.”

  “So, we maintain the status quo for the time being?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes,” Jarvis agreed.

  When Jarvis left Hunter looked at the scraps of bronze, tin, aluminum, and copper he had been shaping into strips to eventually fashion into the sculpture of Lena holding Carlos. He could see the finished work in his mind’s eye. It all came so naturally to him.

  He wondered once again how he had spent the first three decades of his life in such a different world than the one he presently inhabited. A world without family, love, and art. He could never go back to his former life, and would never allow anyone to threaten his present world, his family - Lena, Carlos and Haley. He would protect them no matter the cost, even his life.

  “Hunter, are you alright?” Haley asked. She was standing at the garage door. He had been so deep in thought he hadn’t heard her approach. He turned and smiled.

  He was suddenly aware that he hadn’t noticed that the frightened, skinny little eight-year-old child who had just witnessed the brutal murder of her mother he had rescued from a cellar in Hatillo, Venezuela, was blossoming into a happy, secure teenager. With his artist’s eyes he could see what a magnificent woman she would soon become, likely long before he would be ready to let her go.

  43

  Twenty-Five Years Earlier

  “What are you drawing?” she asked the boy.

  They were sitting at the table in the small kitchen of the apartment she had rented after they were evicted from their home outside Baltimore a few weeks before.

  “It’s a picture of you Mommy,” eight-year-old Charles Hunter replied.

  Every time she looked at the child she wa
s overcome with the mixed emotions of pride and sorrow. “Show me,” she said.

  He handed her the sketch pad. Even at an age when other children drew sick-like figures, her son’s drawings were freakishly mature. He was an artistic savant, like Mozart who began composing music when he was four or five years old. She looked at the drawing and felt the tears welling up behind her eyes.

  “That doesn’t look like me,” she said.

  The boy studied his mother’s face and replied, “It looks like you from before.”

  She was momentarily lost in his gaze. His large light, gray-green eyes held her stare. He had his father’s eyes.

  “What’s wrong Mommy?”

  She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and said, “Nothing baby…it’s just that your eyes remind me of your father,” and handed him the sketch pad. “You better get ready for school now.”

  She stood up, cleared the dishes from the table and took them to the sink. The porcelain sink was cracked and stained; her eyes shifted around the dilapidated room. She stifled a cry as she wondered how she could have fallen so far, so fast.

  She walked her son to bus stop and waved goodbye as the bus pulled away. When she returned to the apartment, she found the drawing Charles had put on her bed. She read the note, “I love you Mommy,” looked at her reflection in the mirror, at the hollowed eyed, drugged out creature that stared back at her, and began to weep.

  * * *

  She had graduated from Peirce Junior College in Philadelphia with an Associate’s Degree in Business Administration. The Placement Office sent her resume to Carson Oldsmobile, a dealership on South Broad Street that had been a fixture in the South Philadelphia neighborhood for over thirty years.

  Carson Oldsmobile was a family business. The patriarch of the family, Hershel Carnofsky, a Jew who emigrated from Poland in 1919, had changed his name to Harry Carson to more easily assimilate in his new country. Harry was a born salesman and within ten years had managed to purchase the Oldsmobile dealership at which he had been employed.

  As the business grew and the paperwork became more burdensome, he eventually installed his young niece, Helen Carnofsky, as the Office Manager. Carson would not trust anyone outside the family to be part of his organization. Twenty-five years later, he decided Helen needed an assistant who was able to keep up with the sales and accounting demands of the car business, but there was no one in the family who could handle the job.

  After reviewing the resumes, he called the dean of Peirce College, a long- time customer and asked her about Carla Hunter. She told Harry that Carla graduated at the top of her class and was a person of integrity, someone he could trust.

  “Is she Jewish?”

  “No Harry. She’s a Negro.”

  “A schartze?”

  “Harry! You of all people; you should be ashamed of yourself. Your family came here to get way from persecution. Trust me, she’s perfect. You’ll fall in love with her.”

  And they did, especially Harry’s grandson Aron, who was smitten by the beautiful young woman.

  Aron pursued Carla for a year, before she finally succumbed to his entreaties. He was handsome and charming. She knew it was a mistake, there was no way his family would accept her, but could not resist. A year later she told him she was pregnant. The next day, Harry called her into his office.

  “Please sit down,” he pointed to the leather club chair in front of his desk. It was the chair in which he seated important clients when he was trying to close a deal. He looked sad.

  “Carla, Aron told me you’re carrying his child,” he said his voice was low, his tone was gentle. “He wants to marry you,” he breathed out heavily and looked directly in her eyes.

  “I know he’s in love with you, and I suspect you feel the same about him,” he paused and they sat in silence. “You know this can’t happen.”

  “Mr. Carson.”

  He held up his hand, “Please let me finish,” he said. “You have to break it off.”

  “But…”

  “Carla, we want to do right by you and the baby. We found a house for you in a nice neighborhood in Baltimore, and we’ll give you $50,000 for a down payment and to help you raise your child until you get on your feet, if you agree to move away and make no claim against our family. You don’t have to decide right now. Think it over.”

  “Where’s Aron? I need to speak with him.”

  “We sent him away…Think it over,” he said, stood up and left her in his office.

  A week later she agreed. A month later she moved to Baltimore where Charles was borne five months later.

  At first things went well, but as time passed, she had second thoughts. Two years later she read in the news that Aron had married. The news of her previous lover’s marriage added to her loneliness and depression. She started drinking and eventually turned to cocaine and heroin.

  She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her son was right. His drawing was what she had looked like before. Before the booze and the drugs.

  When Charles got off the school bus that afternoon, his mother wasn’t there waiting for him. He saw the police cars and emergency vehicles outside the entrance to the apartment building. A uniformed police officer stopped him when he approached the entrance. “Are you Charles Hunter?” he asked the boy.

  He nodded. “Where’s my Mommy?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry. There’s been an accident.”

  44

  The Present, Hunter’s studio

  It was late Friday night, two weeks before the opening of the exhibition of his works at the Art Museum. Hunter was in his garage/studio welding some copper and bronze scraps together to prepare for covering the wire-hanger skeleton of the sculpture of Lena and Carlos. He had opened the garage doors to allow ventilation of the stuffy and cramped work area.

  After years of trial and error, he had perfected his welding skills to create virtually seamless joinder of the metals. The work required total focus and extreme attention to detail. He stood bent over the workbench leaning inches away from where the acetylene flame from the torch melted the metals and joined them with the weld pool. The heat from the torch and the perspiration from his brow fogged the glass on the shield that protected his face.

  The combination of his concentration on his task, and the hiss from the flame, prevented him from hearing the intruder enter the garage and approach from behind him. Hunter felt a slight shift in the air a millisecond before he saw the wire flash across the eye cover of the welder’s mask. Only the angle at which he had been working, and the length of the safety shield prevented the wire of the garrote from immediately slicing through his neck and cutting off his airway.

  The attacker leaned away from him, slowly lowering the wire closer to the bottom of the mask, while simultaneously pulling Hunter’s head up and away from the surface of the workbench. A few more inches were all that was necessary to allow the assailant to position the garrote for the kill.

  Hunter had to make a defensive move now, or he was a dead man. He turned the handle of the welding torch he held in his hand and pointed the flame behind him where he hoped it would make contact with his attacker. Just as the wire of the garrote slipped off the bottom of the welder’s mask, he heard the blood-curdling scream and smelled the odor of burning flesh as the 3100-degree Celsius flame found its target.

  The garrote dropped to the floor and Hunter turned keeping the flame from the welder’s torch aimed at his attacker, Ran Kang-Dae!

  “Drop the torch!”

  Hunter turned to his right and saw Qwon Du Pak pointing a silenced Heckler & Koch VP 9mm semi-automatic pistol at him. He dropped the torch. In his peripheral vision he saw Ran reach behind his back. In the blink of an eye Hunter was staring at the business end of Ran’s weapon.

  Qwon shoved Hunter out of the line of fire as Ran squeezed the trigger. The explosive sound of the killer’s weapon reverberated throughout the small room. Hunter felt the pressure of two rounds from Qwon’s gun pass inc
hes from his head, and saw blood spurt out of the tall Korean’s forehead. At the same instant in time, he felt the excruciating pain of a bullet rip into his body. He looked over at Qwon in disbelief and fell to the floor.

  * * *

  Qwon saw blood pulsing from Hunter’s side. She looked for something to staunch the bleeding, grabbed the tarp off the worktable, dropped to her knees and pressed the tarp down on Hunter’s wound.

  She heard a woman scream and turned. It was Hunter’s wife. “Come here!” she shouted, reached for her, and pulled the woman beside her, placing her hand on the tarp. “You have to keep pressure on his wound, or he’ll bleed out.”

  An older man ran in the room, “Call 911, now!” Qwon ordered.

  She pressed her fingers on Hunter’s neck and felt for his pulse. “He’s still alive.”

  Lena shifted her eyes to Qwon. “Why did you…”

  Qwon cut her off, “I didn’t shoot him. I tried to save his life.”

  The two women stared at each other. Qwon heard sirens approaching from the distance. “Keep the pressure on his wound,” she said, got up, and ran out of the garage.

  45

  Two hours later, Lankenau Hospital

  Benson was the last one to arrive at Lankenau Hospital, where the emergency squad had taken Hunter. He remained at the crime scene until the techs finished, and waited for forensics’ preliminary findings before leaving. Loman and Ophelia met him outside the waiting room. Before he could ask, Jake said, “He’s been in surgery for over two hours now.”

  “Anything from the surgeon?”

  Ophelia shook her head, “Not yet. We asked him to follow the protocol for preserving the chain of custody when they remove the bullet.”

  Lena and Haley looked up when the three police officers walked into the waiting room. Benson approached them, kneeled down, and took Lena’s hand in his. He wanted to tell her everything would be OK, but could not find the words. Lena held his gaze and softly asked, “Are you alright?”