Angels Mark (The Serena Wilcox Mysteries Dystopian Thriller Trilogy)

by Natalie Buske Thomas

  Yes, she was still that girl, the charmed fairy princess, but her ball of light was fast dimming. She couldn't remember the last time she had really looked at her face in the mirror, beyond the face to the spirit within. She saw only what she needed to see to pull herself together each day; the blemishes to conceal, the curve of her lips to paint, the uneven complexion to smooth, the new lines on her face to mask.

  In her reflection, her dark eyes stared back at her, awaiting the insertion of contact lenses and the framing of her lids with makeup, but there was no gleam, no spark of life, no glimpse of her soul. She was being eclipsed by the office she held. At what point would she disappear altogether?

  Ann sensed that her husband could feel her slipping away. She hoped that her thoughtfulness on his birthday would reassure him, and she was confident that it would, for now. Ted was an easy man to please. He appreciated the simple things in life. He was also a patient man. Yet Ann knew that no marriage was immune from strain, growing apart, and ultimately ending. How long could Ted wait for intimacy to return? What was his breaking point?

  Ann’s moments of brooding were fleeting, but in recent days had become much more frequent, and more regretful and wistful in nature. A reoccurring theme was her longing to be a mother, which always resolved itself with the reluctant thought that her inability to conceive a child was a blessing in disguise. If she was struggling to hold on to her own identity, could she have nurtured a child?

  No, she answered herself, the office consumed her; she could not have put a child first. Not only did she not have time for a theoretical child, she knew that if she didn’t figure out how to get a grip on herself, she could lose her marriage by the time this was all over. But of course, maybe her destiny included making such personal sacrifices for the greater good. When put into that framework, how could she not rise to the occasion, regardless of the toll?

  "President Kinji?"

  "Yes?"

  Breyana Robertson, in a magenta pants suit today, rapped gently at her open door, as was her ritual. “Paul Tracy is back.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Ann’s shiny bob waggled, giving away the angry shaking of her head.

  “Sorry. I could tell him you’re not available?” Breyana suggested, all the while knowing that Kinji would never back down from a challenge.

  “No, send him in please.”

  Paul strolled in front of the Democratic Union seal, looking smug and mysterious. “How are you and the New Liberals getting on?”

  “Democratic Union. Get to your point.”

  “Harsh, especially after what I offered you.”

  “I don’t know anything about an offer, and I don’t see any reason to talk to you. I allowed you in here for the sole purpose of telling you face to face that I don’t want you to contact me again.”

  “You didn’t get my package?”

  “I disposed of it without opening it. I do not appease bullies.”

  “That’s how you see me? A bully? Why, Ann, I’m offended.”

  “Look, Paul, I am not a game player. I do not have any skeletons. There is nothing to blackmail me with. You have no bargaining tools. I’m asking, no, telling, you to leave.”

  “You should have opened the package, but that’s okay. I have copies. You’ll want to see what I have to offer.”

  Ann picked up the phone, but Paul flipped the stack of papers around before she could punch anything in. And the face she saw gave her pause: It was Ted. Her Ted. With a little girl. Walking hand-in-hand. Clearly, obviously, this child had a bond with Ted. Clearly, obviously, Ted was likely her father. Clearly, obviously, Ann did not know this child existed, nor did the rest of the world.

  “I’m offering you my silence, in exchange for a job.”

  “I don’t give in to terrorists. Not even when my personal life is at stake.”

  “Oh I know you don’t. But you won’t stand on principle at the expense of a little girl’s life – think of how that child will be exploited if you let my people go public with this. I know you’ll think this through, and then you’ll call me. And when you do, you’ll accept my offer.”

  He set the stack of photos on Ann’s desk. As he turned around to leave, he said, “Looking forward to working with you, Ann.”

  “Get out.”

  “You’ll call me. I’ll give you 24 hours.” And on that note, Paul spun sharply on the heels of his $700 shoes and left the office of the President of the Democratic Union, with Ann’s dark eyes burning holes into his suited back.

  Paul worked his way through the maze of the building, leaving the marbled-floor hallways far behind him. Fifteen minutes later, he was finally in the parking garage and searching for his beloved Porsche Carrera GT, a supercar with a top speed of 205 mph+; and, as he’d tested the claim for himself, he told anyone who would listen that it could reach 0-60 in 3.9 seconds. He’d spent $428,000 on the car, a bargain.

  The economic downturn brought about opportunity for the newly rich like Paul. He loved his silver baby, and hated leaving it unprotected in a common parking garage. That was why he parked it as far away from the entrance as possible, where he was the most likely to be able to take two parking spaces for himself, a move that he regretted today.

  He was all alone, on the far opposite of the highest parking ramp exit, where no one could hear him if he screamed – a thought that occurred to him when a large beefy hand grabbed his mouth shut from behind his head.

  Paul tried to twist his head to see the man who held him captive, but he felt such strong resistance that he feared his neck would break if he dared try that move again. He advised himself not to resist his captor, and to wait for his chance to run.

  He spied his Porsche just yards away. The sight of his car gave birth to anger, more anger than fear. Paul bit the beefy hand.

  “Sonnofa…” bellowed the six foot six man, who released Paul instantly.

  “Grab him,” yelled another.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” said a third.

  For the first time, Paul understood that he was grabbed by official thugs, not a mugger. Secret Service it looked like. So Ann had made good on her threat then? She was really going to toss her husband’s illegitimate love child to the wolves? Heartless shrew! Paul had underestimated Kinji. And yet Clyde had been so sure that Ann would crumble.

  “Sweet ride. I’ll drive,” said the possessor of the beefy hand.

  Startled, Paul gulped, “No you won’t!”

  “You bit me. I drive.” The giant stepped into the car and glared at Paul. “Keys.”

  “Get in,” the second man growled as he pushed Paul closer to the passenger’s door.

  Beefy Hand drove Paul in the Porsche while the other two men followed in a black sedan with government plates. They traveled through heavy commuter traffic, sometimes at a stop-and-go pace, without exchanging a word. Paul tried to initiate conversation, but his attempts were answered with a silent glare. Not that he could see the man’s eyes behind the dark glasses, but he could feel them. An hour and forty-five minutes later, they arrived at a private airport where a small jet awaited them.

  Beefy Hand snatched Paul’s coat jacket and yanked him around like he was a marionette. He propelled Paul up the narrow metal steps to the jet’s open door. Once Paul was inside the plane, Beefy Hand released him and turned outward to face the tarmac. He stood guard. Against what?

  Paul blinked his eyes to adjust to the difference in lighting, and walked slowly down the small aisle of, what he now recognized to be, a luxury jet. And there, two feet in front of him, sitting in a leather chair, sipping coffee, was none other than President John Williams. Paul stopped in his tracks. He feared his mouth had fallen open.

  “Take a seat, Paul.”

  The leather chairs were positioned to face each other. There were two chairs on each side. Paul sat directly opposite the President, as that was the chair that President Williams was gesturing toward. Paul’s mind was racing. Had he done anything to flag
himself as a potential terrorist? What could the President want with him?

  “Nice work today.”

  “Sir?”

  “That’s Mr. President.”

  “Sorry. Mr. President, I don’t know what you are referring to. How do you know me?”

  “We have ears in Kinji’s office.”

  “You’re bugging the President’s office?”

  “Oh don’t look so surprised. You’ve been getting your hands dirty your own self.”

  “You know about that?”

  “The pictures of her husband with the child. How did you do it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  President Williams arched an eyebrow. “Don’t play stupid with me. That kid isn’t his. She doesn’t even exist. How did you manage to airbrush a kid who looks the spitting image of him? I want the name of your guy.”

  “Okay, you got me.” Paul shrugged. “I don’t know who did it. I have a team that works for me. They took a photo and morphed it, changed her features to look more like his. I hear it wasn’t that hard to do. He has an easy face to copy.”

  “It’s good work. I want to use it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your hearing. I want to use it, you. You’re going to work for me now.”

  “No one owns me.”

  “Think again. I’ve caught you in this pathetic scheme of yours. What is it you were planning to do, anyway? Did you really think she would hire you if you blackmailed her? That was never going to happen.”

  “I know her better than you think.”

  “Oh, old school chums. Yes, I heard. Although I’m curious, why did you call it an Academy? My people tell me that your only childhood connection to Kinji is a babysitter in common. A Mrs. Mason, who we’d have talked to, but she’s deceased. Died from a freak accident in the home.”

  Paul’s eyes registered the shock he felt.

  “You didn’t know she was dead? What’s it to you? Answer me about the Academy bit.”

  “We ran into each other when we were about sixteen or so. We made a joke about the old Academy days, Mrs. Mason headmaster. It was sarcasm. Warren Academy is a mobile home with nicotine-stained walls and mildewed furniture. We hated that place, and the nasty slug who ruled it; watching soaps all day, giving us nothing but animal crackers to eat and Kool-Aid to drink, telling us to shut up while puffing away on one cigarette after another.”

  A familiar face appeared at that moment. It was the blonde aide from the tarmac. Paul always remembered another good-looking man. The aide produced coffee for the President; no offer was extended to Paul. The aide sat next to John and remained there for the duration of the conversation, which Paul found curious and off-putting. Now he had two sets of eyes starting him down.

  “And that’s your only connection to Kinji?”

  “Yes.”

  “She came from humble beginnings, so did you.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “No point. Forming a picture. Tell me why you wanted her to hire you.”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Son, I have no time for this. I have to meet Kinji myself in less than two hours. My staff can dig around and figure this out. If you make me wait for that I won’t be in a generous mood anymore.”

  “Generous?”

  “I want to hire you, Paul.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Tell me what I need to know. Then I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

  “I wanted to work for her so that I could influence that Identity Chip bill. I want it to pass.”

  “Ah, now I get it. You want fear mongering to bring more money into your church, your pocket in other words. You and your homely brother Cliff.”

  “Clyde.”

  John Williams waved his hand to indicate that Clyde’s name was irrelevant to him. “Your plan was, and is, ridiculous. But your blackmail photo is quite good. I hope you are paying those kids you’ve got running your computer lab. It’s not child slavery is it? You got them working in your cult for food and water?”

  Paul’s eyes again registered surprise.

  “Oh you didn’t think I knew all about your operation? Paul, my guys briefed me about your whole life in about fifteen minutes. It’s all right here.” He tapped the brown folder he held on his lap. “They said I could read it on one of them gadgets, but I like paper.”

  Paul knew he was beaten, in way over his head. He was nothing but a two-bit con man compared to the President of the Liberty Union. “What do you want with me?”

  “I want you to take that photo of yours to the media.”

  “You want to embarrass her?”

  “You don’t need to know my reasons. But yes. Making trouble for her keeps her off balance.”

  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  John snorted. “You ain’t no Boy Scout, Paul. You know politics can be messy.”

  “Why didn’t you send one of your people to talk to me? Why is the President himself doing this?”

  “You’re an oily little snake, Paul. You wouldn’t be loyal to a staffer. But you’ll be loyal to me, won’t you?” The President leaned forward and locked his steely blue-gray eyes with Paul’s. Satisfied, he relaxed his posture. “See? We understand each other.”

  “That’s all you want me to do, leak the photo?”

  “No. That’s not all.”

  “Then what? And what about hiring me?”

  John chuckled. “Someone will pay you. You’ll find money in your account. Untraceable to this office, of course.”

  “And what do I have to do?”

  “Leak the photo. My people will pick you up when I want you again.”

  Paul tried to think of something more to ask, but couldn’t come up with anything.

  “Paul, we’ll be watching you. Your church? It’s infested. Your home? It’s infested. My people say you have a bug problem. Feel like you’re being followed? You are.”

  7

  “All the leaves are brown…” Serena crooned into the microphone, aiming for a bluesy groove with her vocals.

  “All the leaves are brown,” her daughters echoed.

  “And the sky is gray,” she sang, feeling the lyrics heavily in her heart. Minnesota winters were harsh and long, so very long.

  The girls echoed dispiritedly. Tom, their son, and their youngest daughter plucked away on their acoustic guitars. Serena tapped out a beat on the cowbell attachment on her snazzy red drum set, her Christmas present from Tom. Their eldest daughter played a pink electric guitar, which didn’t really fit the sound of this particular song, but no one cared. With no audience to worry about, their standards were relaxed.

  Last year, while acclimating to their new life in a rural area, and avoiding popular family activities where they would be seen by too many people, they joined a bluegrass group composed almost exclusively of friendly and warm senior citizens. The group welcomed their young son into the fold, teaching him how to play both the harmonica and the guitar. The rest of the family sat watching, week after week. Eventually the girls in the family felt comfortable singing along. Tom decided to take up an instrument, and was advised that the mandolin was an easy one to start with. After mandolin, he took up guitar.

  One thing led to another, and before long the formerly-known-as Bridge family had evolved into their own family band. Now they stayed home and rehearsed their own line-up of songs. Sometimes they posted their sessions on the Internet to share with the world. By now, they didn’t seriously fear that anyone would recognize them.

  America, just one year after the bombing, had already changed so much that no one would care who they were, or what had happened back then when the world fell apart. No, the Bridges would be left alone, and could probably shed their Meadows persona whenever they wanted. And they could leave Minnesota, where they were light and sun deprived and craving color.

  But until Tom found a new job, here they were, suffering
through another long frigid winter, with no warmth in sight. Jobs were hard to come by, and it would take a miracle to be on their way to a new life anytime soon. So, for now, they stayed in their roles as the Meadows family. To make themselves feel better they turned every light in the house on, lit their faux wood stove, and played music.

  “I’d be safe and warm if I was in L.A.”

  “If I was in L.A.,” the girls droned.

  “California Dreamin’ on such a winter’s day…” Serena felt the tragedy of the song. There was no California post-bombing. Would life ever feel good again? How could the world recover from this evil? Would they ever recover?

  She was shaken from her thoughts when the music came to an abrupt halt. She watched Tom bolt from the room. “Phone!” the kids yelled in unison.

  Ah! Maybe a job offer! Serena prayed silently. Unbeknownst to her, their three kids were doing the same thing.

  Tom was back in a flash. “Telemarketer.”

  Everyone groaned, wallowed in self-pity for a moment, and then started back up again, “All the leaves are brown…” Their session went on for four more songs before they wrapped up their evening.

  They always ended with the song “I’ll Fly Away”, and since snacks followed their music session, everyone moved fast after hitting the final note, all leaving the room at the same time. By the time they hit the last verse, “Just a few more weary days and then, I’ll fly away. To a land where joys shall never end. I’ll fly away…” they were hungry.

  They scrambled up the stairs and into the kitchen, but Serena had fallen short with the grocery shopping and hadn’t prepared anything special for after-music snacks. Tom suggested that they go out, which was met with a round of cheers, a flurry of clothes-layering activity, and a mad dash to the mini-van, which was still drive-able, but barely. Once behind the wheel, he turned to Serena, “Where to? We could just go to Red Wing, or if you want to go someplace bigger we could go to the Cities.”