by Mari Collier
Creighton's face became harder. “This is not to be discussed anywhere else. Do you understand?”
Walter's own blue eyes hardened and he nodded his head. Creighton turned the photograph and placed it in front of him.
“This was taken four weeks ago at a small port on Long Island.”
The colored photograph showed Margareatha, Red O'Neal, and a very tall, muscular, dark-haired woman (or maybe it was a man? Walter couldn't decide) standing in front the Colombia Queen, the words clearly painted on the prow. Walter's sharply indrawn breath told Creighton his hunch was correct.
“Would you like to explain her youthful appearance, Walter?”
“I can't.”
“Humor me and venture a guess.”
“If I tell you my hunch, I'm out of the Bureau.” Worry and agony were written across his face. “For God's sake, man, I've only five years left and I will have my thirty years as an agent.”
“You claim you have had no contact with her, yet we can prove your mother has.” Creighton's voice had grown cold. “We need to know where these people are hiding, and why they are in this country. No one can trace their origin. The Columbia Queen has disappeared into the Atlantic again, but as far as we can determine that man,” he jabbed his index finger down at the picture of Red, “is still in this country. All three,” he pointed at Red and the two women, “disembarked the day the Columbia Queen docked. They went somewhere, but where? Our man lost them. We think we know where they went, but the man we have posted there didn't see them arrive, nor has he seen them since. There are no hotel records, no taxi driver, or ferry boat crew that recognizes them. We're not even positive what names they are using.
“Now, tell me why you think she looks so young. That way I won't submit a report about your insubordination.”
Walter stood, leaned forward, and put his knuckled fists down on the desk edge in front of him. “Very well, but I am not crazy. I have not spoken to her or seen her since she walked out the door. Without her physical presence there is no way I can prove what I am about to say. It is the reason I have not told anyone. If for some reason you use this to muster me out, I'll deny ever saying it. I am not going to be labeled as one of those loonies who have seen a UFO or been contacted by aliens. Is that understood?”
Creighton nodded yes, his brown eyes carefully gauging Walter.
Walter took a deep breath and started, almost like he'd rehearsed the speech over and over. “I was young, and I thought we were both in love. Strange, when you love a woman that much, it can sap your innate common sense. I never had the courage to ask her why or how it was possible, but she has two hearts.”
Creighton's face hardened and he leaned forward. “You were married for almost two years. Do you have any idea why they would use a New York State port other than to dispose of booze, guns, or South American artifacts?”
Walter considered as he turned over the thought of divulging what he'd learned on his vacations.
“She used to visit a woman called Melissa Carson in New York City. This Carson woman was older and Margareatha claimed she was a distant relative. Just how distant she never elucidated. I had the feeling that Mrs. Carson was somehow handling financial arrangements for my wife. Once again, I have no proof.” He sat back down.
“Where did this Mrs. Carson live?”
“I never went with Margareatha to the woman's home so that will remain another unknown in my wife's mysterious background. She and Margareatha would meet for lunch. She would come to our house when I wasn't there. I tried to locate Margareatha through the doctor she went to, but his office refused to let me talk with him. When I tried to investigate him, he disappeared for awhile. Strange, as he is the son of an upper New York state judge who was later appointed to the New York Supreme Court. The judge has two other sons; one in the military and the other is a lawyer. As far as I know, neither the judge nor the other sons had any contact with Margareatha. The judge has a daughter. She's a high society lady and O'Neal never went near any of the venues she visits.”
Creighton sat back. “What was this doctor's name and where was he located?”
“His name is Gary MacDonald. I've forgotten the exact street, but it was somewhere in the borough of Brooklyn.
“How much time did you spend trying to locate her?”
“About six months, but I backed off when the agent who was hot on O'Neal's or Neal's trail felt I was stepping on his toes. He never found O'Neal. He wouldn't interrogate anyone connected with Melissa Carson. Her brother is Judge MacDonald, now retired New York Supreme Court Justice. The man felt Judge MacDonald was too well-respected and wealthy to bother with gunrunners. Yet he is also the father of the doctor my wife went to.”
Creighton noticed bitterness had crept into Walter's voice. “Did your wife ever show any signs of extreme wealth?”
“No, she just mentioned that she had insurance money, some property out West, and a few family stocks inherited from her mother. It was enough for her to live on, but that was the late 1920's. Why are you interested in her now?”
“You should have surmised why. We've no idea of the origins of those three, or why they are here; plus, she's in that picture with O'Neal. Do you recognize the other woman?”
Walter frowned and picked the photograph up and studied the cropped hair and build. “No, I never saw her. Are you sure that's a woman? Look at those biceps and thigh muscles.” His guesses he kept to himself.
“You're still married to her, aren't you?”
Walter looked up and his eyes hardened. “So, that's why you called me in here. You know the answer to that. You have a whole field of investigators at your command. Since you want reassurance, yes, technically we are still married. I never filed for divorce. It would have meant instantaneous dismissal in 1930. Later it didn't seem worth the effort.”
“You never met anyone else? Are you still in love with the woman?”
“The answer is no to both questions. I simply saw no reason to endanger my retirement. Have you arrested her already and need to know whether I can testify against her?”
Creighton shifted. “We haven't arrested anyone yet, but we expect to wrap things up within six weeks to six months, however, two to three months is more likely. We need for you to file for divorce now using abandonment as the reason. Yesterday would have been better. Reno will do it quicker than New York or Virginia.”
Walter leaned forward again. “You've tracked them to the MacDonald Lodge in upper New York State and you're planning a raid.”
“I thought you said you dropped your investigation.”
“I did, but what I do on my vacation is my business. I don't think you're going to find anything there. O'Neal doesn't take his goods inland. He goes up there whenever he's in the East, or at least he used to. I gave it up when I never spotted Rita in town or going towards the grounds.”
He watched Creighton's face. The man showed nothing.
“What amazes me is that you didn't protest when I told you how she was different. O'Neal hasn't aged any in the last twenty years either.” He smiled at Creighton. “You haven't been honest about what you know. I think you traced Melissa Carson to the MacDonald family and tried to find out about the MacDonald Corporation. I'm betting without the IRS it would have been a dead-end.”
Creighton's face looked as if it were carved from marble.
“What did you find out about the MacDonald that started the ranch in Texas? That he probably looks like that so-called woman?” Walter couldn't resist proving his knowledge.
Creighton's eyes finally looked at him. “How did you find all that information? How do you know about the original MacDonald?”
“It took time, but I'm a farm boy. I can go in a western tavern and be accepted. Small towns love folktales about the old days. Once I found out the doctor's father was originally from Schmidt's Corner, Texas, I went there. No one is sure when the original MacDonald died, and his son, the Judges' father, disappeared about ten years ago after ne
arly beating a man to death. He did this while in his late eighties or early nineties. I don't believe they're dead. I just haven't been able to tie them to Margareatha. How did you do it?”
Creighton relaxed. “Through Melissa, the Judge, and the marriage licenses in Arles County and the state capital repository. The original MacDonald's daughter married a Rolfe from the neighboring ranch. As a Lutheran minister he left all sorts of tracks. We traced them back to Missouri where his synod is located and their children led us to her.” He pointed at LouElla. “She's part of the MacDonald Corporation according to the initial corporation filings in Texas and their tax returns. Originally, it was a LouElla MacDonald. Now it's LouElla Polk. Have you ever heard of her?”
Walter shook his head no. How had he missed her?
“What about the name Rolfe? Did your wife mention that one?”
“She did not, but they're still out there in Texas close to the MacDonald ranch.”
“Not all of them. I'm referring to the descendents of the one that married the original MacDonald's daughter. Two or more are employees of various MacDonald subsidiaries and a third owns a small steel milling factory. In fact, one member of that branch has been seen with your daughter.”
Walter straightened. “My God, what are they doing? Interbreeding?”
“We checked with a doctor. If there is a family connection, there are too many generations separating them. It wouldn't matter. We did find out from the corporation filings in Texas, a Jeremiah O'Neal brought in a ranch, ships based in Galveston, and a separate subsidiary of gambling houses and houses of prostitution.”
“What?”
“Even more interesting, a Margareatha Buckley was the first Treasurer and added a ranch and logging firm from Nevada. I suspected you knew that when you said the pictures were taken out West. A LouElla MacDonald added a boarding house in St. Louis. Somehow this entitled her to be Vice President.”
“My God, are they all that old?”
“We're not sure. Margareatha and her daughter, Brianna Andresen, have been living on the ranch until about two years ago. My man missed your wife by weeks. The daughter is at college and goes to the MacDonald Lodge in the summer. This Margareatha claimed to be a descendant of the original. We were unable to find any other records; except one.”
There was a puzzled look on Walter's face.
“Don't worry it wasn't something you were looking for. We tried to find the original MacDonald's marriage license, but the older journals were moldy, faded, and unreadable. What we did find was a marriage license for a Lorenz Adolf MacDonald and an Antoinette Theresa Josephine O'Neal issued in 1869.”
“So they are inter-related. What else did you find? What about the IRS tax reports? Why haven't you arrested them?”
“So far we haven't found much. We can't arrest them for longevity and they have been meticulous about reporting their income. It's their out-of-country corporations that are subsidiaries that we can't verify income for tax evasion. Those are run by O'Neal. If we can catch him at their lodge, we can move in. We've a man watching them now. That's why you need to get that divorce.”
“I'll get that divorce if I can go along on the raid. If you want to ruin my retirement over insubordination, you go right ahead.”
Creighton drummed his fingers on the oak arm rest. “You're a little old for that type of exercise. They brought in some real toughs these last couple of years, but nobody sees them once they're at the place. I need men capable of fighting.”
“I'm still in great shape, and if necessary, I am a marksman.”
“This is not for your revenge.”
“It's not about revenge. Whatever she is, she can't pass O'Neal's spawn off as mine. I'm not sure she's really human—her or all the others that haven't died.”
“Another agent saw a picture of your daughter. She looks remarkably like your mother.”
“You son-of-a-bitch! You had agents questioning my mother?”
“No, he posed as a magazine salesman and showed her a picture of his granddaughter. Your mother showed him a picture of a very normal looking Mid-Western farm girl and said it was her granddaughter.” Creighton smiled. “The subscriptions she ordered are all legit. She wasn't cheated.
“Now back to Margareatha's looks. I don't believe that two hearts are possible. Something else determines their resistance to aging. Would you like to explain that in other terms?”
“How do you explain that O'Neal hasn't changed in appearance?” He took advantage of Creighton's scowl to continue.
“I'm curious though as to how you connected them to the MacDonald Lodge.”
“We discovered that O'Neal and the other female visited Melissa Carson in New York City. Mrs. Carson spends the hottest part of the summer up at the MacDonald Lodge. According to the locals, she's very rich and a daughter of a Texas rancher named MacDonald. It simply tied everything together. Then we found the birth certificate for a Melissa Angelique MacDonald born to Lorenz and Antoinette MacDonald. We're not sure about the exact relationship of LouElla Polk as we don't know if these are the same people or their descendants.”
“Yes,” Walter agreed, “the Carson woman could be more than a distant cousin. It was no coincidence that Margareatha chose a MacDonald as her doctor. Any other doctor would have detected the two hearts and reported it.
“And I still go on that raid or no divorce.”
“I can't promise that.”
“Then no divorce.” Walter sat back. He would win this one.
Chapter 40: Time to Leave
Lorenz bent down and inspected where the man had been. He nodded with satisfaction as his finger air traced where the man had shifted positions. The place was perfect for watching any incoming and outgoing traffic at the MacDonald Lodge or the out buildings, but the trees, hillocks, and the rock formations of the mountain hid most of the complex. The man was close, no more than several yards ahead. He knew it, he could sense it. Why was someone spying on the MacDonald Lodge? They'd been here so long the locals ignored them. Lorenz doubted that this man was local. The prints said shoes, not the boots or heavy brogans worn in the mountains. Plus, locals only came into this area to hunt, and hunting season wasn't until fall. It was one of the reasons they had chosen to have the family reunion and corporate meeting now. He had risen early and ridden out to clear his mind. Now it looked as though events would go faster than anyone planned.
He had taken the draught of the Justine elixir ten years ago. Llewellyn and Gary had approximated the needed dosage, but the Golden One had no data for the reaction on a Justine Earth mutant his age. It was almost too much. Something in his Justine genes restarted and at first he was weak and the amount of food was never enough. Plates of roast beef and gallons of ice cream had disappeared into his mouth. It took six months to recover. To his astonishment he had grown and now stood six foot three: the same height as what Daniel had been. His hair was dark again with no trace of grey.
“Mayhap the Justine genes are fighting to override the Earth genes as they can grow when they take the first three or four rejuvenating draughts.” Llewellyn's speculation did little to cheer him.
“I like my earth genes,” he had growled back. At least the extreme hunger had dissipated and his appetite was normal.
Gary speculated that his body had required that amount of food to repair the cells that had been damaged from aging and his rapid re-growth.
“I recommend you take the elixir like a medicine every 50 years, certainly no longer than 60 years apart. That should forestall any or most of the side effects. It's the regime that Margareatha and Red employ.”
If they had been discovered, it looked like he would be drinking the elixir on Thalia. Taking the potion now would be too soon and too risky.
Lorenz remounted his horse and looked at the ground. This was almost too easy. The man made no attempt to hide his footsteps or step lightly. The sounds of his horse must have spooked the man. Did he do this like a human or with his mind? Lorenz decide
d on the mind. A local might have been a challenge to track, but this man was a city dude and he didn't belong.
He sent his mind searching, first one direction and then another, until he located the man slightly downhill. The man was not moving. Probably hoping I'll ride the other way, thought Lorenz. He wheeled his horse and went loping down the hill, easily avoiding the small bushes. These trees were old and their branches and leaves formed a canopy that prevented huge shrubs like those growing in the logged forests of the Pacific Northwest. Lorenz had ridden but a few yards when he saw the man huddled behind a tree peering out at him.
The man stepped out, holding his hands in front, palms outward, and a smile on his face.
“I'm a bit lost. I wonder if you could direct me back to town.” Inside Prentice was wondering what this cowboy was doing in the woods of New York. His smile died. He realized he could not move.
“What's your name and what are y'all doing here?”
“I'm Michael Prentice, and I'm observing the house, the grounds, and the people below.”
“Why?”
“I've been assigned to do so.” The man was sweating, his face contorting as he tried vainly to keep his lips from moving.
“Who are you doing this for?”
Prentice tried to bite his tongue, but the words tumbled out. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Lorenz sat back in the saddle and observed the man. “Did they tell you why?”
“No.”
“Who are you looking for?”
The man tried to move, to turn away from those grey eyes boring into his and the names and descriptions came tumbling out. When he finished, Lorenz's eyes were like flint.
“I'm not going to kill y'all, but when y'all get back to town, you're not going to remember too well. Y'all will leave town by morning.”
Lorenz rode behind as the man started down the hill. He walked Prentice the almost four miles into town. Once there, he stayed in the man's mind long enough to leave fear: a fear so deep Prentice fled town that day. He did not stop until nightfall.