Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  But Baylor retained control, shooting through Oluf’s bravado. “That’s consistent with what your superior told me approximately seventy minutes ago. Let’s move on.” She began a review of the last twenty-four hours, beginning with Ladd’s abduction, using questions to lead to details, not impressions or emotions. Paperwork filed by Lao with the Bureau was discussed, Baylor showing irritation only that the Twin Cities Regional forces were not notified at the time of the occurrence.

  The man I knew as Van answered questions about the previous day, beginning with trailing of our transport in the morning, an odd note attached to the vehicle during my time inside Bureau headquarters. At times I closed my eyes, at times my hands shook under the table, and by the end of his complete report I felt overwhelmed by the raw power of my enemy.

  “Your driver says nothing about Senior Executive Director Jensen’s stated intention to take control of the DOE’s water reclamation project or threats against the Regans,” Oluf inserted.

  Baylor let her irritation with the interruption show in a single crease above her eyes. She tapped the table once before speaking. “Perhaps you missed that O’Toole was not in the room when those comments were allegedly made. The threatening comments you refer to came to our staff attention through tapes filed by Director Regan and Engineer Lao.

  “Terrell Jackson, your report on last night’s misuse of government communications systems needs little elaboration. Information filed by Lao and Matron Anne are consistent.” She shuffled papers. Around the room, we civilians appeared to be watching her every move. The people in security-related uniforms looked straight ahead during the silence, eyes locked on some point between the end of their noses and infinity. I coughed, my rib took the affront like a mule kick, but I kept a straight face.

  David appeared to be untouched by the proceedings, the normal small motions of his hands almost school boyish in contrast with tension in the room. I sensed he felt relief that bigger guns were on the scene. Perhaps he had escaped living in the metro area during the deepest years of the time of adversity, when these police forces ranked close to hunger or disease in generating fear.

  Baylor picked up her papers, moved to an empty chair at the table and sat down. All eyes stayed with her. She could give Sandra a run for a controlling presence.

  She spoke as if addressing a single person across a desk. “Now we get to today. Senior Executive Director Jensen stands in violation of a number of Bureau protocols. Those issues are not the concern of this group.” Baylor paused. “Our concerns are the estate security issues enforceable by the regional estate chain, Twin Cities Regional Police enforced laws of the state of Minnesota, and United States federal laws. These include extortion, threats, harassment, damage to private property, and distribution of chemically-treated greenhouse products. Depending on the extent of injuries in the current incident and investigation into yesterday’s transport explosion, charges may be added.”

  Heads nodded here and there. Watching DOE personnel, I felt doubtful that Terrell’s wish for a future clinic assignment would happen. His calm demeanor and choice to stay undercover with DOE representatives in the room took no advantage of the situation for self-promotion. On the other hand, I realized Oluf may well have planted Terrell and directed his activities. I kept my hands quiet, watching the players gathered as if in a real life game of good spy-bad spy.

  “So here’s what’s going to happen.” Again, all eyes found Baylor. She held up one hand. “For the next thirty days, or until all parties have reached resolution of their individual cases, the Twin Cities Regional Police, along with the Minnesota State Patrol, will assume responsibility for protecting Ashwood and its residents. This protection has been assigned by the federal government and extends to the state’s borders, superseding the involvement of any agencies, departments, or bureaus. Do all parties within this room understand?”

  Sandra would have been my point of reference to understand the implications of Baylor’s news. I could tell by the faces of Lao, Auditor Milan, puff-bag Oluf, and the officers in the room that we might all be in uncharted territory.

  “How will this work,” I asked. “I expect Lao will still be Ashwood’s chief person. Will you be replacing our own security staff and the contracted service? It’s no secret in this room that Ashwood doesn’t have the financial resources to pay for additional services.”

  “We will explain chain of command and financial considerations with a smaller group,” Baylor explained. “Mr. Jackson, Lieutenant Oluf, Director Regan, Analyst Whalen, you may all leave. Thank you for your time.”

  “I believe it is in the best interests of the nation for me to remain in this reporting group.” Oluf said as the others stood. “Beside a federally funded water project on site, the Regans are two of this country’s most essential resources at this time. Director Tia is involved in sensitive management of an international nuclear energy plant malfunction, and Director David is the lead scientific resource for a top-secret product launch. The Department of Energy is not comfortable entrusting the safety of our physical plant and people to local jurisdiction.”

  Without a word, Baylor withdrew a paper from her folder and slid it toward Oluf. “The Department of Energy agreed to this plan. I thought you might want a copy of the signed order. Our liaison will work with Lao and Whalen when either of the Regans needs to leave Ashwood. I’m sure you will be in the DOE loop to provide security outside the state.”

  Taking the wind out of a DOE representative’s sails is the dream of many government bureaucrats tired of being shoved around by its all-powerful influence. Baylor sat back in her chair. There was silence until the door closed again.

  “Before we begin, let me confirm that two Ashwood people have been transported to the regional medical center for minor burn treatment and a possible ankle fracture.” Listening to her earpiece, she continued. “Agronomist Magda had burns on her neck and left hand, a day laborer experienced similar burns and the ankle injury. The building has minor, although not insignificant damage, and Ashwood staff are moving plants to other buildings.” She looked up. “Ready to start?”

  At four different estates, I’d witnessed nothing more violent than workers roughhousing. “What’s really going on here,” I asked either Auditor Milan or Baylor. “Federal protection, agencies fighting bureaus. I should be following those injured staff and worried about all the normal operations of this estate—not considering life or death implications of each decision.”

  “If we do our job well, you’ll be free to do your job.” Baylor glanced at the wall clock. “Just keep a cool head. I have a team update in seven minutes. Let’s go over the details.”

  “One point before we begin,” I interrupted. “We have many children on Ashwood and their protection inside the estate is critical. If any officer or trooper can’t deal with children in an appropriate manner, I request they be replaced. These kids came from the metro area and may be frightened by the close proximity to police officers. Do I have your word that our estate’s people will be treated with respect and kindness?”

  “For that reason I picked shift leaders who are parents, Matron.” Baylor cleared her throat. “My youngest is spending three years on an estate in the Stillwater area.”

  Nothing changed in Baylor’s face or voice as I acknowledged her response, but as I participated in the following discussion I found my motivation reinvigorated to balance Ashwood’s business growth with answering our young workers’ needs. Even though our workers were on multi-year contracts, each of them had someone somewhere who once had tucked them into bed at night.

  The briefing quickly moved to communication coordination and chain of command discussions, leaving me to focus on finishing my visit with Sandra before checking on our injured staff. The scrapes on my legs tingled, my burned ankle itched, and I felt bone tired. Walking from the conference room, one of my feet snagged on the back hall boot rack and I stumbled against Lao’s shoulder. He offered a hand, but I straightened on my own,
apologizing for my clumsiness.

  “Afraid my mind disconnected from my feet for a second. I have a difficult meeting with my superior before I can concentrate on Ashwood.” I cut short what I wanted to say out loud, knowing this manager dealt better with fact than emotion. “Are you comfortable with this protection plan?” was all I asked.

  Lao looked ahead to the kitchen area, and then spoke quickly, as if others might hear. “I’d have been more comfortable if the situation hadn’t grown so large. I have confidence in Baylor’s people.” He stopped walking. “Another question is how Mr. Jensen might place pressure on other estates or vendors who do business with us. Magda will know first if our products are not selling.”

  He touched on a point beginning to worry me as well. “We have Auditor Milan involved. He reports to a very high-level person in the Bureau who’s been watching this mess develop. Because Baylor kept Milan in the chain of command briefing session, I want to believe he’s free of influence.”

  “I’d like to believe that,” Lao responded. “We should be able to trust that all parts of the federal government would operate with common purpose. I’ll see you again at this afternoon’s briefing and will keep you in communication if anything develops.” Lao grabbed his outdoor coat and left.

  I found Sandra pacing the office lounge area, a cup in one hand, while carrying on a conversation via her earpiece. Her voice, as commanding as Baylor’s, plus East Coast-hurried, carried throughout the almost-empty space. DOE security, already on site, stopped me in the office building walkway, and a stranger sat at a desk with clear views of David or Tia working in their offices. With government employees assured all meals while on an estate, I worried how we could stretch Ashwood’s meager reserves.

  Conscious of time passing while Sandra continued her conversation, I interrupted. “We need to talk about the rest of our day,” I said and respectfully placed a hand on her elbow to steer her toward my office. She allowed my touch, shut down her call. My office security monitor indicated she had tried entering while I was gone, but had been unsuccessful without DOE identification.

  “I should have been in that meeting,” Sandra stated. “How dare you, a rookie estate manager, present yourself as a representative for the entire Bureau?”

  “There was regional Bureau representation present.” I drew back a chair at the conference table for her, and then sat as well. “We have a Giant Pines transport confiscated by police authorities outside the Bureau for ramming one of our gates and two Ashwood residents in local hospital with burns from a firebombing of an outlying building. The options listed on your slip of paper are no longer relevant, even if I was interested.”

  Sandra didn’t miss a beat, a controlling colonel in her own Bureau army, particularly when under siege. “I’ll make a few calls. There’s some misunderstanding, which can be explained. Perhaps you gave Senior Executive Director Jensen indication you would be interested in his Ashwood dinner offer?”

  “There’s nothing you can do here, Sandra. The situation is beyond your influence. Representatives from about five government units sat in my estate’s conference room. I don’t know all the interagency issues at play. In fact, I don’t think you are privy to everything that’s happened. The best step at this point is for you to go back to Washington, D.C. We’ll call for transport.”

  So much of me needed the comfort of confiding in Sandra how confused and frightened I was by Jensen’s threats, by a sense that big players were moving Ashwood across the game board of their power battle. I craved assurance that my decisions made sense, that Ashwood’s production and people showed signs of positive change. My own words came back to haunt me—I was the perfect candidate for Ashwood’s battle specifically because I had no family, no real friends, or network who would care if I succeeded or failed.

  “I have my own transport on call.” Sandra stood.

  “Your transport won’t be able to enter Ashwood. I can have someone drive you to the gate to wait.”

  She began to fuss, stalling for time to make a few calls and get the right people involved. Instead of listening, I watched her actions with sadness, knowing I might never call her my confidante or friend again. I admired her head held so tall on a strong neck and shoulders as broad as needed to carry the problems of hundreds of young women preparing for a difficult role in the midst of this national social and economic change. My role model, the only person who ever saw me hold the child I carried, the woman who had tracked down the wedding ring I hocked to buy food for my mother might become just another memory when she walked through Ashwood’s giant wood doors. I knew we’d never meet again on the same side of the table.

  I listened to her bluster for a precious few minutes before calling the transport. “I have a new tutor arriving in less than two hours and all my regular morning work to complete,” I said as if explaining my rush, although we both knew our relationship had changed. Or, maybe I now understood what our real relationship had always been and accepted that reality.

  We walked from the office building, me noting a second guard now sitting in the glassed hallway. Sandra’s bags and coat waited at the main doors. A transport pulled up the main drive. My ribs hurt as we embraced in the foyer, hurt again as I pulled open the large wood door for Sandra as she left.

  31

  Closing the door, I knew my priorities had to be walking the residence, reassuring workers individually, ducking into the nursery to see Phoebe. Everyone showed signs of stress from Amber to Nurse Kim. With each person I emphasized the new security meant good people were watching over Ashwood.

  Magda returned from hospital before lunch. I found her in the kitchen, holding a glass of chocolate milk, talking with Terrell. Her burns—three gauze-covered wounds on her neck and one on the back of each hand—were less severe than I expected.

  “It is so good to see you here.” I gently touched her shoulder. “How will we need to take care of your burns?”

  “By frying that Jensen bastard in hell.” Magda spit the words.

  Someone had pinned her long, heavy hair high on her head. Strands fell around her face, framing eyes distorted by more potent painkillers than Terrell dispensed to me.

  “How about I redo your hair and help you out of this sweater? Maybe wash off the smoke smell?” Simple human touch was such a gift in this new world.

  “I lost my best clip in the fruit barn when a most handsome police woman brushed debris from my hair. I’ll take you up on the offer.” She set down the glass and stood up. “You know the way to my place.”

  The morning had turned mild, a more normal December day than the early hours suggested. Walking with Magda, I breathed in as much fresh air as my hurt ribs allowed, enjoying the sunshine and energy of the outdoor laborers’ activities. Strangers stood alongside the path. Most showed respect as we walked past. I hated invasion of our quiet world and looked for something to distract her as we made our way to her small place.

  “Yesterday at this time I was wearing a salon robe and having a neck massage. First time in maybe six or seven years that a professional touched my hair.” I laughed a little. “Now the entire estate is wrapped up tight, and we’ve got interagency squabbles taking place at the conference table. Great turn of events.”

  “Don’t you ever stop working?” she said. “Slow down. Let the guys look at your killer haircut. Every man’s telling every other man to check you out. You don’t even see it.”

  I knew I blushed. “You’re more aware of such things than I am.”

  She opened the door to her quarters. We passed through her cluttered agronomist’s office where plant stuff and books overflowed shelving surfaces before entering the studio-style living space. Strong earth colors anchored the furniture to the outdoors I now knew she loved. A sweet robin’s-egg-blue blanket covered a brown leather reading chair.

  “You’ve never seen this place by daylight,” Magda said. “I found that chair you like at a sale, and Jack repaired it.” Her energy level dropped. “Can you fi
nd my green shirt in the closet? My hair things are on the bathroom counter.”

  I eased her coat over her hands, put it on a rack by the door. It would need to be replaced. Two pairs of sturdy work boots and a pair of warm lined slippers lined up on the floor. Magda sat on a small chair decorated with hand-painted vines by the window.

  Mindful of my own injuries, I returned the favor of her gentle care the previous night. I removed her sweater, then her t-shirt. She had the upper body of an athlete with well-defined shoulder and larger breasts supported by muscles developed through conscious weight-lifting and hard physical work. I lifted the green shirt, waited for her to extend her arms, my ribs aching with each stretch.

  “Can you brush my hair and pin it up before I put on that shirt?” Magda asked. “I’ve been so warm sitting in hospital with all these layers of work clothes.”

  “Not a problem. But, maybe at least a camisole so you don’t get too chilled?”

  “Are you uncomfortable with naked boobs?” Her tone was light, locker room talk.

  “You forget I lived with four dozen women and saw plenty more than breasts.” I offered her the shirt one more time. “I’m being practical. The room is cooler than I think you really feel right now, and we can’t afford you catching cold.”

  She gave in, then let me brush her hair, which was surprisingly coarse and thick. Her shoulders drooped while I brushed, relaxation draining trauma from her body.

  “If you have a scissors handy, I could trim out singed hair.” She would be unhappy when the drugs wore off and she found one side more damaged.