by Martha Carr
Harriet tsked at the retort. “Well, have you?”
“There was that one time Daddy had me shoot at a can in the woods. Knocked me flat on my back and took the wind out of me. Some kind of heavy revolver.”
“His old 38 caliber Colt and Remington. That thing was like a brick but shot pretty straight. Why learn to shoot now? I thought you had a moral outrage against guns,” said Harriet, raising an eyebrow.
“Should I always be counting on my mother to defend the fort? It’s just an idea.”
“You already live on a kind of compound,” said Harriet, holding out her arm to take in the nearby houses. That was another thing Wallis had learned. Most of her neighbors were Circle operatives who were carefully placed to surround Wallis and her family and keep them safe, or at least alive.
“A suburban fortress,” said Wallis, “with an HOA. I wonder if some of our monthly fee goes toward filling bullet holes. You know, there aren’t a lot of my old morals left. They’ve all been reshaped or thrown away.”
“Don’t be dramatic, dear. They’re all still there but they’re no longer theories. You had to put them into practice once you started learning the truth about your real heritage. You know, all of my fuss about the Windsors and your name was not just admiration. It was my little way of letting everyone in Management know I didn’t put much stock in Walter’s lineage. I never flouted his family side of things, if you didn’t notice. I preferred a few tea towels with deposed monarchs who were lovers of Management that were a constant reminder to your father. Things don’t always work out the way you plan. A good thing to keep in mind.”
“I used to admire him,” said Wallis, almost too quiet for Harriet to hear.
“You still can. He’s your father and half your DNA. There’s no getting around that. Maybe we are one of the normal crazy families, just a little, after all.”
Everything had started to unravel the day Stanley Woermer had shown up in her driveway and insisted on giving her that thumb drive after Ray Billings died of an apparent suicide. The more Wallis dug, the more she found out she was in the middle of it, starting with her own father.
Wallis had learned that her beloved father, Walter, long dead now, had been a descendant of the original group that formed Management. That meant Wallis was a member just by being born into this family.
At first, hundreds of years ago, Management had been created to give a voice to the middle class in a small European village and it had worked wonders. But success spread and bred a sense of entitlement that crept over the organization the bigger it got. To fight it off, the founders had built a way to invite in new members who just wanted a better life, and then help them get it. In just a couple of generations, Management had taken root behind the scenes all across the known world.
But somewhere along the timeline, it all became more of a barter. The families that opted into Management’s system were expected to follow the life plan they were given, with very few complaints and a thorny clause. There was no way out.
Well, one but it was permanent and troublesome, and violent. Wallis pressed her eyes shut and willed herself not to shed even one tear. There had already been enough of that since Alice had died. Strong, bold Alice Watkins who had escaped death at Management’s hands more than once and there was also Yvette, her friend from Bunko nights. An accidental casualty. Maybe the worst of it had been Maureen Bower’s death in her arms, right in front of her house. Wallis had watched as neighbors poured out of their houses after they heard the gunfire, only to learn they were all Circle operatives put in place over the recent years to watch over Wallis, the Management heir who didn’t know a thing about her fate.
Maureen’s death had sent her husband, Fred, another Circle operative on his own deadly mission to finally end the civil war. He neatly took out enough key Management operatives to cripple their network and then as far as Wallis knew, he disappeared off the grid. Wallis had asked both Norman and his brother Tom, the real Keeper who had replaced Carol, what ever happened to Fred but no one would tell her. She suspected they didn’t know either until she realized they didn’t want to admit they were still using him, despite what he did.
It turned out Ned was the real prize anyway, and all because of what Norman had left out of their wedding vows. That Norman Weiskopf and his two brothers, Tom and Harry were all legacies in the Circle, sons of a zwanzig, and he knew he was marrying one of the only remaining descendants in Management. Ned was the real prize for both sides and for a moment had even been pulled onto Management’s stage as some kind of heir apparent. That had been Harry’s doing, as some kind of strange amends for telling tales to Management that got Carol Schaeffer, his friend, killed in the first place and somehow led to an entire war. He tried to make up for it in the end, though and died trying.
“That’s something,” whispered Wallis, a common sigh, as she tried to reconcile the good and the bad of each person and forgive something.
Before all of it had started Wallis had counted on certain things as being her rules of the road. Her mother was more impressed by what people thought, Norman always had her back, and Ned was a quirky kid who could become whatever he wanted to someday. None of that turned out to be completely true or at least easy to understand.
“How long has it been?” said Wallis, as she turned away and went back to studying her neighbors’ houses. She looked toward Sandra Wilkins’ house, another operative, just a block away and was grateful the purple door had been painted over and was now a forest green. It helped just a little to let go of the memories of the former neighbor, sweet, old Mr. Blazney walking his dog in the wrong place, which happened to be an early morning in front of Wallis’ house. He had ended up dead in the middle of a field, still in his pajamas. Wallis had found his dog, Happy wandering busy Patterson Avenue, the leash still attached to her collar.
“Do you remember, exactly?” she asked, without turning around to see if Harriet was paying her any mind. She didn’t want to fall under the spell of her mother’s complicated stare. Harriet Jones had a few good looks of her own.
Harriet was ignoring her for the moment.
It wasn’t necessary to say anything else and complete the thought. All of their sentences that didn’t mention an exact time or a person or a place were about what happened. It was too big, and long and had roots that branched out everywhere. Something like that didn’t need to be introduced in a conversation, it was always there.
The morning was quiet. There was hardly anyone driving down Patterson Avenue this early, trying to get a head start on their Monday and get to work in one of the office parks that had spread across the suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. Wallis steadied herself and let out a deep breath, trying to believe that all of the peace in her neighborhood could actually be real. It was hard for her to imagine even after two years had passed but some mornings, like this one, made her think peace and quiet was possible.
“It’s not an illusion, dear.” Harriet waved at a neighbor out for their morning run. “For what it’s worth, for right now, moles in your yard have become your biggest worry.”
“You really shouldn’t be out here,” said Wallis. She came so very close to losing her mother that awful year. Harriet had been found crumpled just inside the old Hollywood Cemetery. The brass key that she had retrieved from within an old mausoleum in the cemetery that could have helped destroy both groups, was still in Harriet’s possession.
Wallis didn’t even know the key was there or what it was for, much less notice when it was pocketed by the minister from St. Stephen’s.
Her husband, Norman’s closest friend, Father Donald, had made sure that nothing came undone that day. It was an avoidance of mutual destruction that could have unraveled underlying financial and political structures just by revealing the truth underneath.
“It’s been a couple of years and a handful of months. Who cares what the exact number is? It’s been just over two years since you found out your real heritage, despite some really good efforts
. I’d like to say, mine mostly.”
Wallis pulled up the collar of her jacket. “I don’t remember that, you know. What you did when I was little, not really.” Harriet had nearly smothered her small child, just to prove to Management that she’d take out the legacy before she’d let the well-oiled machine have her child. No one, not even Walter realized Harriet was the one they wanted dead, more than anything.
Harriet was very good at hiding in plain sight.
The wind was swaying the trees just near the tops.
“That’s good, treat it like some old fairytale with some kind of moral at the end of a violent tale,” said Harriet. “That will help you to put it to rest.”
“Is that what you do?”
“A little bit every day,” said her mother, shutting her eyes again and humming the rest of the childhood tune.
“That would be convenient for you,” said Wallis, regretting the tone she was packing into the sentence.
“Convenient for life in general, honey. That sort of memory can only be used like a weapon. It was necessary but there’s nothing hopeful about it other than you and I survived.” Harriet pushed off a little too hard on the glider, making it bang against the house and startling Wallis. Harriet rolled her eyes just a little and patted her purse. “From the look of things, you and I are the only ones who lived to tell the tale and you know what they say. Victors write the history. Feel free to start,” said her mother. She was always practical like that.
Wallis turned around to go back inside. “I have to get to work. Laurel will start looking for me in the hospitals, if I don’t.”
“I’ll hold down the fortress,” said her mother. Wallis heard the small bit of laughter at the end.
“My mother has figured out how to be funny with guns,” mumbled Wallis. “Have to be a few other ordinary crazy families like ours,” she said, grabbing her keys.
Chapter 5
Charlie Foyle looked up at the tall stack of boxes at the Home Depot in the Bronx Terminal Market.
“Just pick one,” said the rogue Watcher, who was his constant companion. “They’re all the same. No one will care.”
Charlie didn’t bother to learn the names of the traitorous Watchers. George Clemente was always moving them around, worried about the possibility of a traitor in his midst. Besides, they were only on loan from Management, without their approval or even their awareness.
Charlie was the only person Clemente trusted.
“It’s for Mr. Clemente,” said Charlie. “He will care,” he said, reading the side of another box. The man was right, they were all the same. He carefully slid off a box from the top.
“You know, I used to come here as a kid,” said the Watcher. “Used to be the biggest open air fruit and vegetable market in the Bronx. Right where we’re standing was a prison,” he said. His voice sounded like a constant hum to Charlie.
“I think they called it a house of detention. In my day, the Bronx was where you tried to get out as fast as you could, by any means necessary. Forget Yankee Stadium. Tourists were escorted up to the ballpark from the subway and back down again after the game,” he said, waving his arm up and down in a sweeping gesture.
“It’s where Management recruited me when I was just turning thirteen, I think. Yeah, must have been around then. My brother turned them down, he practically lives on the streets, now. Was a godsend, I tell you.” The man was walking up and down the aisle, a smile across his face, looking around as if he expected to see a wayward tomato stand someone had forgotten to cart away or at least a familiar face.
“Dude, I’m happy for you. Help me with the box,” said Charlie. He wanted to tell him, we’re really not that different. My life has been mapped out since I was fourteen but I got to choose, he thought, feeling a little tired.
“Gave me choices, that’s all I’m saying,” said the Watcher, a little chagrined. “Coming back here makes you grateful.”
Charlie startled and almost dropped the box. He suddenly felt a pang in the center of his chest. He missed being able to call and check in with his parents or his little sister.
He knew most of their phone calls were monitored by both sides looking for any variance, especially since he had joined George Clemente after the fall of Richmond on the Management side.
Management listened to see if he was telling too much, giving away covert movements. The Circle to see if he was exposing his real allegiance or worse, signaling for help because things were slipping out of his control and he would need to be quickly removed.
His parents’ entire mission consisted of leading a normal small town life in Mechanicsville, just outside of Richmond, Virginia. Their son’s life even depended on it now. It helped him stay focused that his little sister had no idea about the family business and was away at college trying to figure out whether or not she wanted to study art history or film.
His family’s survival depended on his ability to keep his cover intact while seeming to serve an old and dangerous con artist like George Clemente. Charlie was undercover in plain view with no place to go to take a break. Both sides knew everything about him.
“Yeah, I can see your point,” said Charlie, wondering not for the first time if he had inadvertently given up every choice he had to destroy something he didn’t completely understand. That can’t be it, he thought, shaking his head.
“What’d you say your name was?” he asked, as the Watcher came over and easily lifted the box, heading off to the cash register.
“Alphonso. Friends call me Junior,” he said, as Charlie caught up with him in the line. “My dad is the senior Alphonso. You can call me Alphonso till you lose the attitude. Just kidding,” he said, slapping Charlie hard on the back. Charlie felt the hard thud even through his thick, wool coat. “It’s okay, dude, right?” said Alphonso. “We have a singleness of purpose, we’re busy working! What is it today? Oh yeah, buy a decent office chair, don’t get shot.”
The young cashier looked up at the two men, her eyebrows going up close to her hairline, making the ponytail on the top of her head wiggle.
“Bodyguards, mostly celebrities,” said Charlie, in a friendly tone. He gave Alphonso a look and remembered once again why he didn’t bother to learn Watchers names.
“Yeah?” she asked, “Like who?”
“Adam Sandler, Chris Noth, Kevin James, guys like that,” he said trying to sound casual, picking out names that wouldn’t draw out the conversation.
“Never heard of any of them,” she said, suddenly bored again. “You want your receipt printed or emailed to you?”
“Printed,” said Charlie. “Expense account,” he said, shrugging.
Alphonso stood by the door waiting, an amused look on his face.
“Not as funny as you might have hoped,” said Charlie, trying to let go of the annoyance. He knew he couldn’t afford to be annoyed at anything. It was just the sort of thing that could make him slip up and miss a detail.
“Douche bag,” muttered Alphonso in a cough. “Here, let me carry that for you. You seem to be struggling,” he said, as he lifted it over his head in the tall parking garage and whistled as he walked to the car.
They drove back in silence as Charlie tried to remember what he had seen in the past year. He needed to justify why he was doing all of this.
Skirmishes just outside of Chicago and the faces of his friends who were wounded fighting Management operatives in the civil war. Some had even been sent to the front along the Canadian border and never returned. Different reasons were given to their neighbors.
Some neighbors were told by the spouse left behind that their husband or wife was in rehabilitation for a long-hidden drug problem and they were moving to be closer to their treatment, cut back on expenses.
Others had to even put on an act of being happy that their loved one had unexpectedly gotten a promotion that moved them across the country. There had been no time to say goodbye or grieve. There were no funerals, no chance to grieve out in the open with friends
or family.
Charlie had to stand next to the widow of his best friend from childhood in a crowd of well-wishers and plaster a smile on his face. He didn’t dare whisper anything in her ear when they embraced for fear it would cause one of them to break down.
He felt the ache all the way down his throat once again.
“Where did you serve?” asked Alphonso, breaking Charlie’s flood of memories.
“What?”
“Where’d you serve? You know, in the Second Civil War?” Charlie knew that’s what a lot of Watchers in Management were calling the recent war.
“Got stuck in logistics. They were about to send me out when it all ended. You know, that thing in Richmond.”
“Logistics, huh? And you’re Mr. Clemente’s right-hand man. Okay,” said Alphonso, in a friendly, even tone. “That’s how it is. I was fighting in Wyoming. Tracking their big guy from the Circle across the Haskill Mountains,” he said, straightening up in his seat.
“You were tracking, what, the Keeper?” asked Charlie, feeling a sense of dread coming over him. He had read the reports. Too many of his friends had died in those battles.
“Yeah, and we came close. At least that’s what they tell me. Lost him somewhere in those mountains but we took a piece of skin before we did. Didn’t lose a single man in our squad too. All in all, was a good fight.”
Charlie counted out each breath, taking them in a little slower. He wasn’t going to ruin his cover that had taken most of his life over one Watcher’s recounting of a battle tale.
“I’ll pull up front, you can carry in the chair by yourself, right?” he asked, not looking at Alphonso, as he drove around the half circle in front of the high rise.
“Sure, sure. No problem. Hey, I was just razzin’ you a little. It’s what we do, yeah? No harm done,” he said, giving a small, sharp punch to Charlie’s shoulder.
“Yeah, sure, I’ll park the car and be up in a minute,” said Charlie, making himself wait till Alphonso had the box out of the car and was walking away till he let out the breath he was holding. He pulled away slowly and turned off the Grand Concourse onto 165th Street.