Infertile Grounds

by DB Carpenter

  Harvard seemed a million miles and a thousand years away. Sarah had been on a full-boat scholarship. With an IQ of two-hundred-forty-five, her passion for the sciences had been insatiable, particularly biology. Camilla had gotten into the prestigious school not for any academic prowess but through personal connections.

  Thinking back on it, Sarah recalled how annoyed she had been that even at Harvard, who you knew was just as important, maybe even more important, than what you were capable of knowing, of learning. But if Camilla hadn't gotten in, they would never have been on this precipice – ready to change the course of mankind forever, or at least the foreseeable future.

  A smile crossed her face – eighteen years. She had single-handedly managed to engineer a virus that would attack and destroy a specific function of the human body. To her knowledge, nobody else had ever accomplished this. Lots of hype and millions of venture-capital dollars flowed to start-ups, many of which said that they were on the brink of doing something similar, but she had done it. Nature created things like this, not people.

  "Amazing," she muttered. The butterflies were gone. All she had to do was appreciate herself – genius wasn't always self-evident and certainly not self-appreciated.

  They drove up the steep, lush hills that lined the ocean. Spectacular homes perched on concrete and steel stilts peered over the treetops. They all had magnificently constructed heavily glassed walls that offered their occupants incredible panoramic ocean views.

  "Let's go," she muttered, wanting to get to the beach house as soon as possible.

  Albert could either hear her, or it was a coincidence, as he said over the speaker, "We'll be there in a couple of minutes, Ms. Burns."

  The limo pulled off the main road and stopped in front of an ornate iron gate that slowly swung open. They proceeded up the winding floral-garden-lined driveway until they were in front of Camilla's stunning, Spanish influenced mansion. Thick stucco walls supported the terra cotta roof that contrasted beautifully with the blue sky.

  Once they stopped, Albert rushed around the car to help her, but she had already let herself out. She looked at her watch and to her surprise saw that it was only a little after noon back in Maine.

  She stared at the water fountain in the center of the driveway next to her. Nude figures nestled in the corners of the intricately carved stone spat streams of water from their mouths into a coy filled pool. She inhaled the sweet California air and held it inside her lungs, savoring it. Camilla snuck up behind her.

  "Sarah, darling, so glad you're here!"

  "Camilla!" Sarah said with equal excitement as she turned around. "How are you? You look amazing."

  "I feel amazing! Now how are you? It's been so long."

  "I'm great," she replied. "This place is beautiful."

  "Thank you. How was your trip? You must be exhausted."

  "Everything was perfect. I'm never going to want to travel coach again."

  "If you're going to tell us what I hope you are, your days of traveling coach are over," Camilla beamed as the two women hugged.

  "So, are they here yet?" Sarah asked in a more somber tone as she glanced at the house.

  "They?" Camilla asked.

  "The investors."

  Camilla glanced at the house and said, "I haven't been able to tell you anything until now, Sarah. I wanted to but couldn't. He wouldn't let me. There's so much you don't know."

  "He?"

  Camilla opened her mouth to speak and then stopped. "You'll see," she replied as she led Sarah inside.

  They wound through the lavishly decorated house – every nook occupied by an eclectic mix of art, furniture and mementos from Camilla's frequent world travels – emerging in an expansive great room. A lone man stood with his back to them in front of the glass west-wall – silhouetted against the living Pacific mural. Camilla rested a hand on Sarah's forearm, stopping her from walking further. The old man didn't turn around for a moment and when he did, Sarah instantly recognized him.

  12:13 pm FBI Field Office, Bangor, Maine

  Chris tapped his fingers on his bouncing knee for a minute and then shook his head as he said, "I don't know. It sounded like it was a place – a place where they were experimenting with this virus. You don't know anything about this group of people up in Aroostook County?"

  "Not to be accusatory but that's why I have a hard time buying your story. If something like this was going on, you'd think that we'd have heard something about it. Everything that's worth looking into from here to Canada comes through this office. If some weird cult had set up a lab and planned to change the world, I'd think that I would have heard something. Maybe not the details, but at least a rumor or something – anything."

  "I can't explain it, all I know is that it happened," Chris said shaking his head. A thought occurred to him. "The plane!"

  "What?"

  "The plane's got to be there. Let's go up there and see it. Then at least you can see that I'm telling the truth about that. It's all shot up."

  "Yeah, we could do that, but I want to get some more details before we do anything."

  The computer screen went blank. Then a form came up and information about Chris filled in the blanks. Watching as his personal history appeared on the computer screen from an even larger computer that was lurking elsewhere in the country, gobbling up information about people and storing it for later regurgitation on request to some bureaucrat, gave him the creeps.

  He leaned closer so that he could see the information but Pell spun the screen away from him.

  "What's your social security number again?" He asked.

  Chris repeated it and he nodded.

  "Address?"

  Chris told him and he confirmed it.

  "What's your ex-wife's name?"

  This question caught him off guard. Why would they have that in there? He'd been married for six months, ten years ago.

  "Jessie, why?"

  "I'm just confirming that you're really who you said you are, Chris."

  "What else is in there?" Chris asked as he stood up. Privacy in the twenty-first century was impossible.

  "Sit down," Pell said with surprising force. "This is confidential information."

  "Yeah, it's confidential to me."

  "Don't let it bother you. We know about everybody. You should know that – being in the information business that is."

  Chris dropped back down into his chair and began gnawing on his vacation-regrown thumbnail.

  "So you were arrested for selling pot, huh?" Pell said matter-of-factly.

  "When I was nineteen."

  "Why were you dealing?"

  "I was a confused kid. It was something to do," Chris said.

  "You smoke it too?"

  "No, never," Chris replied sarcastically. "Of course, it was one of the perks."

  "Jesus Christ, sorry about your family," Pell said as he scrolled down the screen. "A natural gas explosion?"

  Chris nodded and managed a simple, "Yeah." Time had helped but little things, like the smell in the diner this morning, brought it back – sometimes worse than others. It wasn't a question of did it hurt, it was how much did it hurt today.

  "What happened?"

  He didn't want to talk about it. He had learned on that beautiful autumn Sunday in 1991, or really over the weeks, months and years that followed, to let things go – the past was only trouble, no good could come from dwelling there.

  He and his family had lived on L Street in South Boston – Southie, a triple decker. They were squeezed into the top two floors with his grandparents on the street level. It was Sunday morning and Mom needed eggs. When he went to get them he walked right by the city crew working on a busted water main. It looked like they were taking their sweet ass double-time time. The store was busy and he waited in line to pay when a massive explosion blew in the windows, knocking everyone and most of the merchandise onto the floor with an incomprehensible, ground-shaking roar.

  Chaos followed, people moaning and screa
ming. The woman lying in the debris next to him had blood gushing from a gash in her neck. He should have stayed, helped but he was confused and scared. He ran out of the store. The street was filled with smoke and people – some dazed, others moving with purpose. He saw a woman on her knees tearing at her long blonde hair as she pulled her head back and screamed, a small child dressed in his Sunday best lay lifeless in front of her. His ruptured eardrums thankfully muted her pain-filled wails. He ran down the street toward his house but it was gone. All that remained was a smoking mound of rubble. The piece of the heavy equipment that had been working on the water main was tossed onto the smoldering mound as if a giant spoiled child had thrown a fit, destroying his playhouse with his Tonka toy.

  The rest was a fog – eighteen dead, thirty-four seriously injured, countless bruised, battered and shaken. Three generations of his family tree had been culled in one instant. He was all that was left. Fifteen and alone in the world. Coping was something he had been forced to learn, and to cope he moved on. Today and tomorrow mattered – not yesterday.

  "You know Southie?" Chris told the painful story.

  "I'm sorry," Pell said.

  Chris shrugged.

  "Well, I guess you are Chris Foster," Pell said matter-of-factly.

  "I told you that an hour ago. I'm not the problem here. I'm just the unlucky bastard who happened to have his long-awaited and well-deserved vacation shot to hell because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't know why you're treating me like I'm some kind of whacko."

  "You need to calm down, right now," Pell said.

  "I don't care! I know that there is one way for sure that we can find out whether or not I'm lying. Let's take a ride up to the St. Croix River, and you can see the plane for yourself."

  "Don't get yourself all worked up," Pell said in a calm, professional voice. "I'll tell you what I can do. Let me make a few calls. Hopefully, I can scrounge up a chopper, and we'll send someone up there to take a look."

  He patted Chris on the shoulder and took on a more sympathetic tone as he said, "Wait here. I'll be back in a few."

  Chris realized he had yet to speak to Karen about any of this. He reached for his mobile phone but remembered it was still in his room at the Wild Bear. Damn. "Can I use the phone?" He called to Pell. "I need to call my wife."

  "Help yourself."

  He picked up the receiver and dialed home. When Karen answered, he hung up. For reasons he didn't quite understand, he decided that maybe she didn't need to know about this after all. Hell, he was supposed to be up on the river for five more days. No need to worry her about this and besides, it would be nice to surprise her when he got home early. Maybe they could spend a few days alone together.

  Pell dropped into the worn chair behind his desk and grabbed his rolodex. He could use his computer but for some reason he liked a good old fashioned Rolodex. He flipped through it until he found the number for the FAA and dialed it up.

  After a quick conversation, he was assured that nobody had reported any downed or missing airplanes in the past few days. He churned this information over as he hung up the phone. Chris said that the state cop had called the FAA and arranged a meeting for this morning, and yet, as he had just found out, they knew absolutely nothing about it. Something wasn't adding up. On the outside, Chris Foster seemed like a perfectly rational, normal person but perhaps there was more going on inside that Pell needed to explore.

  Why would this apparently straight-laced guy fake a story like this? In his years with the Bureau, he had seen his share of weirdoes, and he knew better than most people that anything was possible. People are just bizarre sometimes, trying to figure out why was a useless exercise.

  He picked up the phone again and made a call to the State Police barracks in Houlton. He knew the commander well. Over the years they had worked on numerous cases together.

  "Peter Clemens, please," Pell said.

  "Can I tell him who's calling?" The receptionist asked.

  "Agent Paul Pelletier."

  After a brief pause Peter came on the line. "Pell, how the hell are you?"

  "I'm doing well, Peter. How about you?"

  "No complaints. The goddamn Customs Agents aren't happy about being part of Homeland Security and have been doing work stoppages for a few days. My men have to cover for them."

  "It's the same old story, isn't it?" Pell said.

  "Between you and me, I'm sick of it. They're all a bunch of candy asses over there in Customs. Hell, they ought to have to deal with the crap I do. Maybe then they'd see how good they've got it."

  Pell chuckled. "Whip their lazy asses in line."

  "I wish I could," Pete replied. "Well, enough of that. My blood pressure is going up just talking about it. What's up?"

  "Not much really. You know a trooper named Bert Nadeau? Works route eleven."

  "Sure. He's a good man, why?"

  "I'm not sure. I'm working on something, and his name came up. That's all."

  Silence came from the other side of the phone until Pell asked, "Have you heard of anything happening up in that area?"

  "Like what?"

  "Cult activity, suspicious groups, anything like that?"

  "Cults? Hell no. It's all the usual stuff out there – poaching, drinking, domestic shit. I talked to Bert two days ago, and he didn't say anything. Can you tell me more?"

  "I wish I could but it's probably just a wild goose chase. If anything comes of it, I'll be sure to give you a call."

  "I'd appreciate that."

  "Thanks for the information, Pete. I'll be in touch." He hung up the phone. Chris Foster's story was sounding fishier by the minute.

  He got up and shut the door to his office. He walked back to his desk, sat down, and pulled a bottle of vodka out of the locked bottom drawer of his desk. Mild tremors shook his fingers as he put the bottle to his lips and took a drink.

  The warmth and bite of the vodka made him see things a little more clearly, and he decided to do what Chris had suggested. Booze always made him more decisive, at least in his opinion. He arranged for a chopper to fly them up north.

  After another gulp and a quick blast of breath freshener, he was on his way back to tell Chris what they were going to do.

  10:05 am PDT Malibu, California

  Phillip G. Spencer II – one of the most respected economists in the country, an American rags-to-riches success story, a living legend in the investment community, a confidant to presidents and Fed chairmen, and a goddamn billionaire. And, he was also Camilla's quasi-adopted father. So that explains why money was never a problem.

  "Phillip Spencer," Sarah said, her breath caught in her tightening throat.

  "I am him," he replied cordially as he hobbled over to the two women flashing a slight, self-effacing smile. "And you are the brilliant Sarah Burns."

  Thoughts raced through her mind as he clasped her hand in his and stared into her eyes, his arthritic hands quaked mildly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Spencer."

  "Please, call me Phillip and the pleasure really is all mine. I've been waiting for this day for a long time," he said with a soft Arkansas twang, still clutching her hand. "A long time."

  Sarah glanced at Camilla who said, "Let's sit down. Get comfortable."

  Three chairs surrounded an ornately carved, oriental coffee table. The thick glass top offered a view of an exquisitely detailed, three dimensional battle scene carved in the dark wood. Samurais fought and died in front of a large Pagoda, tiny bonsai trees lined the square, a lone man sat on a mat at the top of the stairs calmly surveying the vicious sword battle. As they sat down, she noticed in the shadows of the Pagoda porch, behind the seated figure, a man with a raised sword, poised to jump out and strike a fatal, probably decapitating, blow. Was he a traitor or an enemy? Sarah couldn't help but wonder if her own battle was finally over or if it was just beginning. Was someone lurking in the shadows, waiting to shatter her peace? Albert came into the room and asked Camilla if he could get anyth
ing for her guests. She requested a pitcher of lemonade, and he disappeared into the kitchen to make it.

  With some effort, Phillip crossed his bony legs then flipped his long hair over the bald spot that covered the front half of his head. His complexion was ruddy and he looked to be in decent shape – a bit lame maybe but, considering he had to be pushing ninety, that wasn't so bad. His eyes were bright, alert – no signs of the rheumy confusion that plagued many his age.

  "Phillip's got limited time so why don't we just get down to business," Camilla said. "I hope you've come here to tell us what we've been waiting to hear. It's been difficult, excruciating actually, not to get over-anxious. I've been looking forward to this day since that night in Calcutta when we first had the idea. Remember?"

  Sarah nodded and smiled coyly at Camilla. She remembered that night very well – for that and other more lustful reasons. Camilla shot her a soft wink

  Phillip's face darkened for a moment and then he said, "I've been waiting for this since June 14, 1986, the first anniversary of my son's death."

  "I remember," Camilla said.

  Sarah watched the two of them lock eyes for a long moment – undoubtedly reliving their uniquely shared pain – before he turned to Sarah and said, "Have you done it?"

  "Yes," she blurted, wanting to say more but biting her tongue.

  He let out a long, slow exhalation and tilted his head back until he was staring at the ceiling. His comb-over flopped to the right side of his head giving him a disheveled genius appearance.

  "I knew you would. From the moment I read the draft of your thesis I knew you were special, gifted. Christ, what you've done will change the world for ever. could make us a fortune if we were interested in that."