But that was Charlie Chase. Right or wrong, always his own person, impulsively outspoken, and always quick to defend his work, he accepted a research position at the University of Chicago, which lasted, much to Charlie’s surprise, seven years, or until a young hotshot elitist, whose family had donated heavily to the University, was appointed the new Dean. The Dean had referred to Chase’s work as fanatical and unprogressive. Late one night, Charlie drove over the state line to a small farm in Valparaiso, Indiana, scooped a few ripe cow patties into a large shopping bag, which he put into the trunk of his Ford, then drove to the Dean’s house and placed the bag on the man’s front porch, set it on fire, rang the doorbell and left.
Charlie moved on from the University of Chicago to relocate in Jasper, Indiana. Around town he became known as Walking Einstein. He managed to publish a book at a conservative publishing house, which sold better than anticipated, but a book that academia panned, referring to it as “inane rambling and borderline lunacy.” Somewhere along the way, Smith became aware of the book. Something in the research had caught his attention, and that was the reason Dr. Charlie Chase found himself signing a security disclosure, which he took quite seriously. At last, he had a voice that was being heard. How long that would continue, he couldn’t say.
Visionaries like Chase considered failures as nothing more than temporary obstacles—steppingstones to success. Life was not neat and orderly. It was messy. Failures were necessary clutter, momentary mistakes easily brushed aside and forgotten. He realized from the beginning that working for people like Smith was risky. These were people who demanded to be taken seriously. If they didn’t get the information and results they wanted, Charlie knew this door, like others that had closed behind him, also swung outward. Charlie now had another chance to continue research that he was convinced was at the threshold of significant discovery.
One unmentioned objective of his new position had strong intimations of military stratagem. Though confrontation didn’t bother him, Charlie despised war. If he had been conscripted to advance a military mission, he’d be forced into a decision Smith might not like. That was still far enough down the road, so he’d continue with what they asked him to do, until he realized his work was too heavily compromised by military manipulation and intrigue. That realization had first occurred the moment Chase was introduced to General Elkins. He knew then it was just a matter of time before the General came knocking again.
With the government, disinformation campaigns were as frequent as lying to Congress. Maybe these campaigns did begin in 1947 Roswell, New Mexico, as many people suspected, and had over the years become increasingly more complex and convincing. Chase knew General Elkins had his hands full, stretching truth as far as he possibly could, while keeping every storyline completely believable. It would be a few days before the General would call on him, and there was always Smith to buffer any military protocol.
If there was one thing Charlie was sure about, it was the importance of quartz in the construction and operation of what he continued to refer to as communication towers. When triangulated, ley line influence and strong magnetic fields had the potential to reveal at least some of the answers Smith wanted. It would take time to work through new calculations, and even now, Charlie realized there might never be any significant developments. Those answers that Smith was pushing so hard to get might still be decades away—if they were to come at all. The possibility of failure was a predicament that Chase considered seriously. Smith was giving Charlie all the freedom he wanted, while at the same time providing sufficient rope to make a noose. People like Smith were movers and shakers, the untouchables who emerged from the shadows with hammers large enough to pound anyone six feet into the ground. That was enough to frighten even Dr. Charlie Chase.
Chapter 27
It was the week before Thanksgiving. Christmas decorations hung along the streets of Newburgh and Evansville. Many downtown stores had Christmas music playing for eager shoppers. Christmas displays were in all the franchise stores, and probably no place had bigger displays than Walgreens and the Walmart super stores. It was the festive time of year, time for colder weather and shorter days.
Still standing on the southeast lawn of Atwood House was the structure dug from the ground and resurrected into a thing which still had no decisive purpose. Ben had recent thoughts of taking it down and transporting it to the town recycle center. Maybe it was Jenna’s influence and persistence that prevented it from being demolished. She’d told him there was something missing, and that in time they would discover what it was. So, reluctantly, Ben gave in, and there hadn’t been much discussion about it in several days.
Most days, Ben was busy painting, preparing for a December exhibition at the River City Art Gallery in downtown Evansville. His other exhibitions there had been successful, so, anxious to get some recent work in front of the public, he made himself stay busy painting. Jenna said several times how happy she was to see him take on this renewed interest and commitment.
The unfinished portrait of Anna Atwood was wrapped and placed in a foyer closet, where it was all but forgotten. Late one afternoon, Jenna unwrapped it and studied it closely, as though she was searching for something. Holding a photograph from an old newspaper in one hand and the painting in the other, she noticed a striking similarity in the faces. Enthralling midnight eyes, articulated cheekbones, thin lips accentuating a rather pouty mouth, the face partially revealed behind the veil had unmistakable similarities to the face in the photograph.
Chopping firewood was not one of Manning’s favorite chores. However, laying in for the winter as much wood as possible was good exercise, and both he and Jenna enjoyed a warm fireplace on cold evenings. He cut some of the dead oak and hickory trees in the woods south of the stone bridge, split the logs and stacked them in the woodshed a few yards off the back patio.
“Look at this, Ben,” she said when he came inside.
“What is it?”
“I found a picture of Anna Atwood in an old newspaper.”
“Really?”
“Look at her face.” Jenna held up the painting and handed Ben the photograph. “The similarities are unmistakable, don’t you think? You can’t deny that this is Anna Atwood you’re painting.”
Ben, looking from the photograph to the painting, smiled and agreed. “I can’t deny it, Jenna. There are similarities, but that’s about all.” After a pause, he added, “She’s a pretty thing, not a doubt about that.”
“Okay, Ben, that’s enough. I just wanted you to see her face, not fall in love with it.”
He reached out for her hand and took it in his. “Your face . . . that’s the face I want to see.”
“She is beautiful, though,” agreed Jenna.
“But she isn’t real.”
“Well somebody that looks a lot like her has been in your house more than once.”
“Let’s forget about that. You’re the real deal, Jenna. Anna Atwood stopped being the real deal a hundred years ago.”
“I just thought you’d like to see the photograph.”
“What do you want to do this afternoon?” he asked, adroitly changing the subject.
“I think you should finish her portrait, Ben. I like it very much and wish you were more serious about finishing it.”
“As soon as I have time, I’ll finish it,” he promised while putting the painting back in the closet.
“You’ve had time, so I know you’re only talking.”
“No, seriously, I’ll do it—just for you.”
“Not just for me, Ben, for Anna, too.”
“Why is that so important?”
“I don’t know why, but I want you to finish it.”
“I would rather paint your face instead,” he admitted.
“If you do, I swear I’ll never speak to you again. Besides, I don’t dress like that.”
“You’re making too much of
this, Jenna.”
“I want her to live in this century.”
“What a strange thing to say. Anna Atwood doesn’t belong to this century.”
“Well, she sure does show up in it frequently.”
“What’s really bothering you, Jenna?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that she has such a mysterious face. I’d like to know her better is all.”
“That’s not what you’re thinking.”
She looked at him closely, wanting him to know exactly what she was thinking. “That painting has a soul.”
“What?”
“I mean it, Ben. It’s calling out to you, and I’m sure you’ve heard it.” Still looking at him, more curiously now, “Or, do you expect her to finish painting it?”
“Why don’t we take a drive, do some small towns—early Christmas shopping?”
“Sounds fun. Maybe we can eat at Maddy’s,” she replied excitedly.
“Great idea,” he smiled.
It was not the first time they had shopped the small towns north of Newburgh. Both enjoyed searching the antique malls, especially those in Huntingburg and Jasper. With Christmas coming fast, it would be a good opportunity to beat the rush.
As a boy, Ben loved the Christmas holidays, and each Christmas was every bit as exciting as the one before it. He always looked forward to buying “Toys for Tots.” Just the thought of giving toys to underprivileged children was one of the highlights of each Christmas. His only sister taught English in Japan, and his parents lived in the Florida Panhandle and no longer traveled at Christmas. He’d told Jenna earlier in the week that he would spend Thanksgiving in Florida and was anxious to visit his mother and father who’d asked him to come for the holiday.
Their plans to shop ended abruptly when they both heard a recurring humming, that sounded very much like the sound of discharges from high–voltage power lines. Coming from somewhere inside the house, it was loud enough to keep their attention for almost a minute before either was inclined to move.
They knew, even with the doors closed, that the strange noise was coming from the library. Jenna stayed a step or two behind Ben as they continued cautiously down the hallway, until, only a few steps from the library doors, they hesitated, realizing someone else was in the house. The noises were louder now, vibrations in the oak floorboards, subtle at first, but stronger near the entrance to the library. The space beneath the large ornate doors was filled with a faint glimmer of fluctuating green light.
With his hand on the doorknob, Ben looked at Jenna, and seemed reluctant to open the door. “It’s Anna,” he said confidently. “I know she’s in there.”
Light under the door intensified. Beneath their feet, heat lasted only seconds, before the space around them turned colder. Not a sound of any kind, and it was a heavy foreboding silence. Hesitating no longer, Jenna pushed past Ben, and slowly opened one of the doors wide enough for them to peek inside the room.
The interior of the library was flooded with white light, streaming through windows on the other side of the room. It had to be sunlight, but looked more like manufactured light, and it was strongest in the center of the room.
“I don’t see her?” Ben said softly. “Do you?”
Before Jenna could answer, a hand appeared in the space between the doors. Instantly, the crack through which they were peeking was gone. Jenna backed up so suddenly that she nearly took Ben off his feet. Then, both heard the latch snap shut.
“It is her, Ben. It’s Anna.”
“She’s locked us out.”
Desk drawers squeaked open, squeaked shut. Another opened, then closed. “She’s searching for something,” whispered Jenna.
Light continued to spill out from under the doors, illuminating the tips of their shoes, and pushed across the floor into the hallway. It seemed there was too much light for the library to contain, and it was stretching the very seams of the room. Again, a drawer slid open, and the rustling of papers was audible. Then, it was the sound of a chair or table being moved that held their attention.
“The brooch!” exclaimed Ben.
Jenna grabbed him by the arm. “You have to give it back.”
“Come on.” He took her hand, and led her outside, around to windows at the front of the house. Working their way past the hedges and taller shrubbery, until they could look inside the library, they were surprised to see a shape standing with her back to them, bent over the same table on which she had placed the vase of flowers.
“What’s she doing?” asked Jenna, thinking Ben would know.
Shrugging his shoulders, “I think she’s writing something.”
“I want to meet her, Ben.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I really want to meet her.”
“Why?”
“There’s something strange about this whole thing. I don’t think she is what she wants us to believe she is.”
“If she’s not a ghost, then what is she?”
“She’s no ghost, and I’d bet she’s as much a part of this century as you and I.”
After straightening herself, Anna turned toward the window like she knew she was being watched. The white light intensified, causing Ben and Jenna to cover their eyes. Behind them a car drove up the lane. It was a sleek black Ferrari, and Ben knew it belonged to Bob Bergman.
Apparently unaware of Bob’s arrival, Jenna continued to peek inside the window. “She’s gone.” When she looked for Ben, he was already on his way to meet Bergman.
Chapter 28
Slightly embarrassed as she emerged from behind the shrubbery in time to see the Ferrari roar to a stop in front of the house, Jenna followed a few yards behind Ben. The sun burned through a bank of heavy clouds that had moved in from the south, leaving a beautiful blue sky and a stunning autumn day ahead. Though their agenda had changed, both Jenna and Ben realized these strange and continuing events at Atwood House needed answers, and they were anxious to pursue recent suspicions, largely those that Jenna had suggested.
Bergman, wearing a broad smile, gave a slight wave as he approached them. Dressed in a navy suit, his hair slicked back, he said warmly, “Looks like a great day and warmer than weather reports predicted.”
“Hi, Bob,” Ben greeted politely, “how’s that Ferrari running?”
“It needs a good workout on one of those back roads off the Interstate.”
“I’d love to be with you when you do it.”
“Mr. Bergman,” smiled Jenna, reaching out to shake his hand.
“How are you, Jenna? And please call me Bob.”
Her smile widened. “You’re probably wondering why we’re creeping out from behind the bushes.”
“No, not at all,” Bergman assured her. “I was just passing by,” and here he looked at Ben, “and thought I’d say hello, and see if you’ve thought more about selling the brooch.”
Looking at Jenna before answering, Ben said, “I really haven’t thought much more about it, Bob . . . just been busy with things around here.”
“Well, not to worry. I assure you it’s in safekeeping.”
“I’m sure it is,” he smiled. “Give me a little more time to think about it, will you?”
“Sure, take your time. I have a few clients who are always looking to buy something unique . . . something expensive.” He walked back toward the Ferrari, but before getting in, turned to regard Atwood House. “This place really is special—and what a location.” Glancing out across the front yard he saw the structure near the stone bridge. “Is that yard art?”
“Just something we dug out of the ground . . . might as well be yard art,” Ben answered. “We don’t know what it is.”
“Do you mind if I take look at it?”
“Not at all.”
They walked across the lawn until they came to the structure, which was shining with
sunlight. “Odd looking thing,” admitted Bob. “You say you dug it out of the ground?”
“That’s right—over by the bridge.”
Bergman glanced toward the bridge, then walked around the structure. “Is it all here?”
“As far as we know; we couldn’t find any more pieces,” Ben replied.
“I wonder what it was, if anything at all.” He ran his fingers along the surface of one of the verticals. Looking at both Ben and Jenna before speaking again, he said in a voice barely audible, “Strange.”
“What is it?” asked Ben curiously.
“Put your hand here,” directed Bergman. “Maybe it’s something I’m imagining.”
“We know about the pulse,” returned Ben evenly.
Bergman stepped back to where they were standing. “This is much more than a pulse, Ben.”
Ben put his hand on the structure in the same place where Bergman had touched it, but drew back instantly, like he’d received a shock. “It’s stronger, much stronger than before. It feels like current is passing through it.”
“Exactly,” agreed Bergman.
“You know what it is?” asked Ben, thinking Bergman might have an answer.
“There has to be a reason why this is passing current,” he replied slowly.
The sound of water running over the rocks filled the silences between words. Shadows cast by the structure were surrealistic shapes, asymmetrical twists and turns on the lawn. Leaves the color of molasses, caught on a stiff breeze, floated on the crisp air before falling softly to the ground. In the distance, and beneath the large oak trees on the perimeter of the woods, pools of blue haze lingered like smoke from small fires. Across a deep blue sky, yellow rays of sunlight edged a few white clouds, which were slowly drifting toward the northern horizon. This day was art on canvas, already captured in the paintings of Impressionists like Renoir and Claude Monet.
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