Frame 232

by Wil Mara

  “Thanks, Jason. Really, thank you.”

  “Sure.”

  Hammond tapped the speaker button, and the red light went out. The only sounds in the cabin now were the steady hum of the engines and the hiss of the oxygen vents. He looked toward the flight deck a few feet away, where his copilot, or at least the back of him, was partially visible.

  Hammond rose and went in. “Sorry I took so long with the call. How’s it going up here?” He got back into the pilot’s seat, which was something of a production since he was just a hair under six foot three.

  “Fine, just fine.” Noah Gwynn was a smallish man of sixty-two with a round face and wispy white hair sticking out from under his felt cap. Other than a slight belly swell, he was in very good physical shape for his age. “How was the interview?”

  Hammond set his headphones into place and positioned the mic in front of his mouth. “No problems. David’s great.”

  “That’s why you talk to him, right?”

  “You bet.” Hammond checked all the gauges, then took a moment to admire the early morning light that was breaking over the horizon. He rubbed his hands together and said, “So I’ve been looking into the death of Princess Diana. I was researching it pretty heavily before we got involved with the Earhart search, and I think I might have found someone willing to shed some light on—”

  “Jason . . .”

  “—a few of the inconsistencies in the Paget report.”

  “Jason.”

  “Hmm?”

  Noah cleared his throat. “We need to talk about some things. Some business things.”

  Hammond tensed and nodded curtly. “When we get back.”

  “Of course. I guess I should also mention that Father Outerbridge called to ask if there was any chance maybe this week you’d be willing to come to—”

  Noah was cut off by air traffic control asking for their position. Hammond took the chance to respond even though it was normally the copilot’s responsibility.

  Hammond kept himself too busy for the remaining fifteen minutes of the flight to revisit the conversation. He was an experienced pilot, making a smooth descent and working the controls confidently, but Noah knew his boss was just going through the motions. When the estate came into view, Noah peered over to gauge Hammond’s reaction. There was no longer even a trace of his former enthusiasm. This was a completely different person—one whom, after six very long years, Noah still did not know quite how to handle or help.

  Noah hated seeing this transformation—hated it because it was unavoidable. The energetic, enthusiastic Jason Hammond had morphed into the one that was unreachably troubled. On the surface, the conversion manifested itself in simple changes—a faded smile that was now more forced than inspired, eyes that previously held the gleam of excitement thinning with pain and distraction, and a tensed, ready-to-take-on-the-world body loosened by the exhaustion of an interminable struggle.

  As they made their approach, more details lensed into view. At the heart of the property was the forty-four-room main house, white with black trimmings except for the dusty red of an enormous chimney. The mansion was surrounded by three guest cottages, a pair of tennis courts, a swimming pool, a greenhouse, and extensive landscaping that included a sizable garden for fruits and vegetables.

  To the east, accessible by a brief dirt road that cut through the hardwood forest like a scar, was a house larger than the cottages but smaller than the mansion. It had its own pool and garden and sat a short distance from the edge of a cliff that offered an unfettered view of the Atlantic Ocean. Noah had lived here for much of his adult life. To the west, a longer path led to a modest pond that, in spite of being natural rather than man-made, formed an almost-perfect oval shape and thus bore the name Nearly Oval Pond.

  Running south of the main compound, a paved road snaked through the woods for nearly a quarter mile before reaching a security gate and guardhouse at the front of the property. To the north lay the runway, which halted at the base of a gentle hill covered with wildflowers and tall grasses. At the peak of the hill, and farther on about the length of a football field, was a smaller palisade. At the bottom, accessible only by a set of winding steps that were slowly being consumed by thorn tangles, were a small dock and boathouse nestled in the corner of the bay.

  Hammond eased the little jet to a landing, retrieved his personal items, and went out. The Ford Expedition was exactly where they had left it the previous month. It started without a fuss when Noah got behind the wheel. As they drew closer to the main house, Hammond said, “Drop me off at the back, would you?”

  Noah thought about reopening the discussion, then remembered the old axiom about knowing when and where to pick your battles.

  The entrance Hammond wanted was not technically at the back of the house but rather the southeast corner. There was a time when it had been used only by staff. What made it practical in this regard was that it opened to a staircase that led directly to the second and third floors of the east wing and enabled them to conduct their business invisibly.

  Hammond climbed out of the Expedition with a quick thank-you, opened the door, and was gone.

  In his bedroom, Hammond dropped his knapsack on the floor and proceeded into the adjoining bathroom, where he took a long, hot shower. Then he got into bed, buried himself under the sheets, and fell into a deep sleep. The dreams came soon thereafter, as he knew they would, and jolted him awake.

  He slid up on one elbow, breathing hard. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. Three orange pill bottles stood between the alarm clock and the lamp on the nightstand—psychotropic medications prescribed by three different physicians. He had never opened them and never would.

  He peeled the sheets back and got up. His heart was still pounding as he crossed the room to the walnut bookcase. Paris-London Connection: The Assassination of Princess Diana was on the top shelf. Just as he reached for it, he saw his Bible one shelf below. The top and bottom edges of the black spine were frayed, the two bookmark ribbons still buried in the pages. Familiar passages, once trusted and beloved, began surfacing in his mind.

  I have set the Lord always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.

  The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?

  When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears and delivers them out of all their troubles.

  When I called, you answered me; you made me bold and stouthearted.

  After remembering this last, he drove these thoughts violently away, and his jaw tightened as an old, familiar defiance came to life inside. Taking the Princess Diana book down, he returned to bed and began reading.

  Loitering by the bedroom door, Noah couldn’t hear any noise coming from inside. He wondered whether Hammond was still asleep. Even if he was, there were things that needed tending to, so he knocked softly.

  “Yes?”

  “Jason, it’s me. Do you have a moment?”

  A pause. Then, “Sure, come on in.”

  When Noah entered, Hammond was holding one hand across his forehead, and the other held a book upright on his chest. Noah saw it was Paris-London Connection, the independently published paperback about Princess Diana’s possible assassination.

  Hammond set the book on the nightstand and moved into a sitting position.

  “Did you have a good rest?” Noah asked with a smile. He held a manila folder in his hand, a pen between two fingers.

  “It was okay. What about you?”

  Noah pulled a chair over and sat down. “I haven’t had the chance yet.”

  “You need some sleep.”

  “I know. I’ll catch up tonight.”

  “Okay. So what’s up?”

  “I’d like to go over a few business-related concerns that need your immediate attention. Things that have been waiting a bit too long.”

  Hammond hesitated, and for a moment, Noah thought he was going to beg off with some kind of ma
nufactured excuse. Then he nodded in resignation. “All right, fire away.”

  “First, there’s the construction of the new fabric plant in Brazil. The workers have been on strike for the past three weeks, and at first we thought it was for the obvious reason—because they wanted more money. As it turns out, the brothers who own the construction company are the ones holding out for more, and they’ve staged this strike to make their employees out to be the villains.”

  Hammond laughed, which surprised Noah. Usually he flew into a rage when someone tried to welsh on a deal they’d already signed. “That sounds like the Bouceiro brothers. Okay, if I’m not mistaken, those two scoundrels have been ardent supporters of Miguel Rapoula. Contact Ms. Verdial’s people and tell them you’re speaking on my behalf. They can call me if they need confir—”

  “Hang on a second. You mean Elana Verdial? The Brazilian vice president?”

  “That’s right. Tell her people what’s happening. Rapoula really went after her during the last election, particularly with that slash-and-burn story about her son’s alcoholism. I’m sure she won’t mind shaking the Bouceiros’ tree a little bit. They have a couple of major contracts with her government. The threat of losing them should get them back in gear.”

  Noah scribbled some notes. “Okay. Now, concerning the capital allocation for that green initiative in Texas. They’ve put up thirty turbines on that wind farm, but they say there’s room for at least another twenty. However, they’ve already used up the money you’ve loaned them and—”

  Hammond put up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say. Give them what they need for the other twenty.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. The front-end costs of wind farming are the only significant expense of this particular green technology. Maintaining them after that is little more than routine housekeeping. As time passes and more people begin to understand the inherent value of wind power, that unused land will increase in value. We’ll have people fighting for it, and that’s when things will get really ugly. Empty space on a wind farm is valueless space. I’d rather put up the turbines sooner than later. And if it doesn’t work out, the materials can be repurposed. The initial debt is already being eroded at an above-average rate, correct?”

  “Yes, according to the numbers I’ve seen.”

  “Then we’d be foolish not to go forward. We’ll never run out of wind, Noah.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “If worst comes to worst, we can always aim the turbines in Washington’s direction. One session of Congress will have them spinning so fast you won’t be able to see them. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Good point.”

  “What’s next?”

  “The tax structure of profits earned through several of our European investments.”

  “Let me guess—a few of the higher-ups over there are trying to find ways to wrap their greedy little fingers around as much of it as possible so they can help out the E.U. nations who haven’t bothered to pay any taxes since time out of mind.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “No one likes it when the parents come home and the party’s over.”

  “No.”

  Hammond sighed and shook his head. “Okay. I’m willing to give back a little, but not for free. I start down that road and pretty soon they’ll be taking 99 percent and telling us we should be grateful for the remaining one. Call Kip Larson in Switzerland and tell him to ease up on 5 percent. In return, tell him he needs to communicate to the right people that it’s about time they softened their tariffs on our exports. Let’s get a little quid pro quo going here.”

  “Do you think they’ll go for it?”

  “Half the continent is teetering on the brink of insolvency, and the horrors that follow will last for a generation. Yeah, I think they’ll be in the mood to bend a little.”

  “All right.”

  Noah made more notes and kept going, but it wasn’t long before Hammond’s attention began fading. This always happened, and it always made Noah nervous. Hammond now had sole control of his father’s multibillion-dollar empire. He had inherited much of his father’s business genius, but he wasn’t as good at focusing it. While some of his decisions had led to significant gains, others had resulted in horrific losses. The only time Noah felt he consistently had Hammond’s full attention was when they discussed the handful of humanitarian organizations Hammond had launched on his own. Overall, the businesses were still running strong, but they had definitely declined since the death of the father and the succession of the son. Noah feared the day when the shareholders rose up in rebellion.

  He held out a manila envelope, and Hammond took it in his lap. He scanned each document briefly, then jotted his name at the bottom. Like a teenager doing homework, Noah thought. Just get it over with.

  Handing it back, Hammond said, “Is that it?”

  “Yes.” Noah replaced the chair in its original spot and went to the door. He looked over at the young man he had come to love, whose abandonment of faith concerned him deeply, and whose suffering had become so much Noah’s own. Hammond was already lying down again, lost in his book and, Noah knew, the only part of his life that didn’t antagonize him.

  “Lunch is at two,” he said.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Hammond read until one thirty, then pulled on cotton slacks and a short-sleeved polo shirt. Stepping into the hallway, he closed the bedroom door and headed toward the servants’ staircase.

  About halfway there, he came to a halt and turned back. There was still plenty of diffused sunlight coming through the curtains, brightening the pink carpet. One end of the hallway looked the same as the other—a tall window, an accent table, and a vase with fresh flowers. But Hammond fixed on the end farthest from him, staring at it and then away . . . at it and then away.

  He began moving in that direction, his breathing heavier. When he got there, he turned again—this time to the right. The hall continued on for only about twenty feet before terminating at a large door, which had been painted white to match the chair rail. He stopped again, heart pounding. A disorganized collection of sounds began playing in his mind, softly at first and then rapidly growing louder—voices in other rooms, music from clock radios, drawers being opened and closed, the whoosh of shoes on carpet. The notes of everyday life.

  Each step toward the door seemed longer than the last. He saw his hand reach for the knob as if it were someone else’s. The knob turned easily, and then he released it, and the door drifted back. The hallway continued unremarkably, with the pink carpeting and the diffused sunlight and the white chair rail on either side, interrupted occasionally by more doors, each recessed. Nothing unusual to the ordinary observer. To Hammond, however, it felt as though every nerve was coming alive.

  He saw ghost images of people going between rooms, could detect a familiar blend of colognes, perfumes, old-house dustiness, and a dozen other aromas. The sights and sounds were phantasmal, he knew. But the faintest trace of that unique odor, even after all these years, remained. That somehow made it all real, as if the accident had never happened. As if it were just another day. As if they were still here.

  He left his safe zone behind and crossed the border. The first door led to his sister’s room. He didn’t have to open it; he knew what was in there. As with every other room in this part of the house, it was still, per his orders, exactly as it had been on the day they were taken from him.

  A few steps farther, on the right side, was his own room—or at least his former room. It, too, was kept in a museum-like stasis. Very little had been exported to the new one; Hammond bought all new furniture, clothes, and decor. The pictures on the walls were pretty enough: landscapes, mostly. But they were impersonal and generic, like something on the walls of an upscale hotel. Noah once commented that they spoke nothing of the room’s occupant. Hammond feared they spoke too much.

  He moved on and arrived at the hall’s geometric cent
er. This was marked by a set of large double doors on either side. Those on the left led into his parents’ bedroom suite, those on the right into his father’s four-chambered home office. He had not entered either in six years.

  He stood facing the office doors for a long time. More sights and sounds and scents tormented him. He was hyperventilating now, his face glistening with perspiration. His hand came up again, reaching for that doorknob a million miles away. He made contact with the cold smoothness of the brass, held there for a moment, then let go again.

  The voice of a slightly younger Noah Gwynn echoed in his mind:

  “Jason, I’ve got some very bad news. You’d better sit down.”

  “. . . on the way back from the Caribbean . . .”

  “. . . They’re not sure what happened. . . .”

  “. . . isn’t much hope . . .”

  He turned and walked off.

  9

  THE TRAGEDY that wiped out his family had occurred six years earlier. The Hammonds had been vacationing in the Bahamas at the time, hiding from the brutality of another New England winter. They’d spent the first week on Bimini, then the Abacos, and finally Nassau.

  Jason’s father, Alan, was known for three things—hard work, a love of family, and an unswerving belief in the Lord. He began in life with nothing and was a member of America’s billionaire club by the age of fifty-five. In everything from cable television to software engineering to foreign currencies, he had the Midas touch. “It goes to show you,” he reminded his son frequently, “you can be successful without compromising your beliefs. It’s not impossible, in spite of what others might try to tell you. Trust in the Lord’s way, because it’s the only way.”

  Jason had no trouble following this advice; even as a small boy he had felt a personal connection with God—one that he enjoyed enormously. The relationship with his father, however, was not always so harmonious. Jason had always been aware of his family’s wealth, but it was not until his early teens that he began to understand his father had not acquired all of it through ethical means. Early in his career, before he found the Lord, Alan Hammond had a reputation for ruthlessness. He steamrollered anyone who presented an obstacle, skirted any law or regulation that he found inconvenient, and dabbled in businesses that were less than savory. After his spiritual awakening, he abandoned these tactics and made some effort to help those he had exploited. But his son still had difficulty resolving the fact that a percentage of his family’s fortune had been acquired in this manner. Fueled by embarrassment, Jason urged his father to do more to help the people he thought of as the man’s victims. These discussions sometimes erupted into heated arguments. There was still a core closeness between them, but outwardly their bond was often fraught with discord.