Burden of Solace: Book 1 of the Starforce Saga

by Richard L. Wright

  Cassie lowered her eyes, unwilling to accept his sympathy, unable to meet his gaze. He must have taken her change of bearing for defeat and pressed his point.

  “First you pull that rogue surgeon thing with the Acosta girl. The next day, I’m fielding a complaint about you from Exohuman Affairs, of all people. Now, this. So, I have to ask, Whelan - what is going on with you?”

  “What’s bothering me is that we should be more concerned with people and less concerned with profit.”

  An unexpected voice interrupted. “Dr. Whelan, I couldn’t agree more.”

  Both of them turned, surprised to find two men standing in the doorway.

  Cassie’s head snapped up as she recognized her boss’ boss, Randal Blair, as one of the two. His face mirrored her Attending’s – he’d probably overheard enough to shit-can her on the spot. The man who had spoken, however, was a different matter. He looked unperturbed by the embarrassing scene she was creating. If anything, he seemed amused. He smiled and extended a hand.

  “Sorry, where are my manners? Martin Ballantine.”

  Cassie stared at him for a moment before realizing that she was still scowling. Something about him made her face relax. She was still pissed about the defibrillator - and her imminent dismissal, of course - but she felt a warm smile form as she took his hand.

  He looked to be early middle-aged, with a hint of gray dusting his temples, enough to give an impression of worldliness. He was nice enough looking, but not overly so. His height was average; his eyes were gray - the man was remarkably unremarkable in every way - but he carried himself with such confidence that none of that mattered.

  “Mr. Ballantine, I’m so sorry... Wait. Ballantine? As in the Ballantine Cardiac Care Unit? And the Ballantine Neo-Natal Wing?”

  “Please, call me Martin. And no apologies are necessary. Actually, I’m glad to see such passion in the physicians here. It shows that my donation will be used wisely.”

  “Donation?”

  Blair cleared his throat, attempting to reclaim control of this unexpected situation.

  “Mr. Ballantine is here to discuss a rather generous contribution to our trauma center. At least he was.”

  Ballantine waved two fingers, dismissing Blair’s concern as if he were performing a Jedi mind trick.

  “That hasn’t changed, Randal. This hospital was very important to my parents before their deaths. I’m happy I can continue to support it in their memory.”

  Blair’s relief was visible as he motioned Ballantine into his office. “Well, then let’s talk about how your generosity can best be used. Shall we?”

  Ballantine held up a finger, his eyes still on Cassie.

  “As a matter of fact, I think I have some idea where that money might do the most good. Dr. Whelan, do you think five million dollars would solve some of those problems you were talking about?”

  Cassie felt like her eyes must surely be popping from her head. The things they could accomplish with five million! Hell, even half that amount would fix their most serious problems.

  Blair looked like he was about to blow a vein. “Mr. Ballantine,” he said. “There are multiple areas within the Trauma Center that could benefit from your donation. As for Dr. Whelan, well, she isn’t in a position to have an opinion on the future of this department.”

  Ballantine’s smile took on an edge as he turned his head toward the CEM.

  “Randal, I find Dr. Whelan’s opinions quite interesting, especially as they pertain to poor resource management that may have endangered patients.”

  Blair’s mouth snapped shut. Cassie knew there was no good retort he could offer. Satisfied that he had quelled Blair’s objections, Ballantine returned his attention, and his smile, to Cassie.

  “Dr. Whelan, I would very much like to hear your ideas for improving the quality of care your department provides. Unfortunately, I have a series of meetings that will occupy me for the remainder of the day. By any chance would you be available for dinner tonight? I could pick you up around, say, seven o’clock?”

  Cassie bit her lip as she tried to hide her reticence. This sounded more like a dinner date than a fundraising meeting. Dating a millionaire was probably almost as complicated as dating an exohuman. Would he withdraw his donation – and his implied support of her - if she didn’t go out with him? Would it end with this one date, or would the strings attached extend all the way to his bedroom? Five million dollars could do a lot of good, but if the price of his patronage amounted to Cassie prostituting herself, then his money and influence weren’t worth the cost. Even salvaging her dream wasn’t worth that. She was about to decline when she heard her own voice speaking, as if of its own accord.

  “Seven would be fine. And please, call me Cassie.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Seriously?” Cassie said, reaching for her wine glass only to find it empty. “You’ve never seen the picture? Little redheaded girl between two coffins? It was everywhere back then. I couldn’t escape it.”

  Ballantine shrugged and poured the last of the bottle for her. Cassie took a big sip as he signaled the waiter for more.

  “Well, you can google it if you want,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t be rude enough to do it at the table. “Suffice it to say, it wasn’t my favorite day.”

  He nodded, then a hint of recognition lit his face.

  “Wait,” he said. “Your parents were those Whelans? The Heroes of Haiti?”

  Cassie wrinkled her nose. Of all the things said about her parents, that one bugged her the most. Liam and Erica Whelan had done a lot of good on their many medical missions around the globe, but the ‘hero’ epithet seemed a bit much, even if they had died saving a bunch of orphans. Cassie would much rather have them than their legacy.

  “That was them,” she said. “Thing is, people didn’t pay much attention to their mission trips until after they died. Maybe if they’d had more support, more volunteers, then maybe they could have spent a little more time at home.”

  With me, came her unspoken thought. Her teeth found her lower lip, and she made a conscious effort to curtail her nervous habit.

  “Honestly,” she said, “the worst part is how everyone just assumes I’m going to carry on their tradition. Don’t get me wrong – I love helping people, and I can’t imagine being anything other than a doctor. It’s just… Sometimes I feel boxed-in, like I don’t have a say in my own life.” She shrugged and took another gulp of wine.

  Cassie ran a wet finger around the rim of her glass. For all of her misgivings about tonight, this didn’t totally suck. Martin’s ignorance about her history was actually refreshing. He was charming and halfway attractive and, more to the point, he didn’t seem the least bit put off by her notoriety, her issues, or… her. In other words, this was like no date she could remember.

  She hadn’t really been sure this was a date-date. Ballantine had couched his invitation in such ambiguous terms that, on the surface, the invitation had sounded like a business meeting about his donation to the hospital. But here she sat, in a five-star restaurant drinking pricey wine and wearing a classic Little Black Dress. She’d even dug out a pair of four-inch heels to show off what she considered her best feature - her legs. She had no idea why she’d dressed up that way. It just seemed the thing to do and, yeah, this sure felt like a date, and she was boring him with her tiresome family saga.

  “Sorry. I know this all sounds so stupid – complaining about getting to do what I want to do just because other people expect me to do it. And you invited me to talk about how you could improve things in the ER, not to suffer through my sad little tale.”

  Ballantine shook his head once, smiling. His smile was pleasant, although Cassie couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only on the surface.

  “Don’t apologize, please. But I do have a confession to make. I didn’t really invite you here to discuss my donation. I’ve already decided on that. I really just wanted to spend some time with you, get to know you. I apologize for the subterfuge.�
�

  Under normal circumstances, Cassie would have felt a wash of relief learning that she hadn’t scared off a guy who might actually be interested in dating her. “Yet,” the little voice in her head whispered.

  She pushed her negativity down. But this whole thing was pretty far from normal. Even without the complications of him being a benefactor of the hospital, there was an odd vibe that she couldn’t shake. Maybe it was just that she wasn’t looking for a relationship, and, moreover, wasn’t sure she wanted to get involved with Ballantine. But, at some point she had stopped worrying and decided to see where this went.

  She wanted to let him talk for a while, to even the conversational balance. Other than the fact that he was rich - old money rich - she knew almost nothing about him.

  “As you said, don’t apologize”, she said. “But I’d like to hear about you too. I’ll shut up - well, as much as I’m capable of shutting up - and you tell me about you. Who is Martin Ballantine?”

  Ballantine shifted in his seat, reframing his posture. He moved from a listening pose, one that invited a person to share, to a manner that conveyed an honest sharing. It occurred to her that this was probably one of the things rich kids learned in prep school - poise. She couldn’t tell whether it was a conscious thing, or an ingrained habit. He smiled - his eyes along with his lips. It might have been a fake smile for all she knew, an act, but his entire demeanor was in on the bit. Cassie got the feeling that was also something learned.

  “Not much to tell, really. My family had money, obviously. I won’t lie, I had it easy growing up. I never really wanted for anything. That’s not to say I always got what I wanted. My parents weren’t the spoiling kind. They were good people. I miss them. They died when I was twenty.”

  Cassie’s hand reached across the table, fingers resting on his. She hadn’t intended to do that. She barely knew the man, but he accepted her gesture with a small smile.

  “You probably read about it. It was all over the news - robbery gone wrong, wealthy couple killed in their own home.”

  Cassie’s head bowed as she shook it. “Sorry. I guess I missed your story too.”

  “At first, the police couldn’t figure out how the robber got into the estate. There were no signs of forced entry and the security footage didn’t show anyone coming or going. Their only explanation was that it was some kind of exohuman. They’ve never caught him.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Cassie said. “I had no idea.” Cassie squeezed his hand. She’d lost her parents at a younger age, but she could identify with his loss.

  “It wasn’t just my parents. There was… a girl, our housekeeper. Her name was Renata. Her mother worked for our family and often brought Renata to work with her. We practically grew up together. When her mother passed away, my parents hired Renata as a maid. She was all grown up, dusky and oh so beautiful. I guess I fell in love with her. Or maybe I had been all along.”

  He looked up as the waiter discreetly replaced the empty wine bottle. Ballantine gave the slightest of nods in acknowledgement.

  “That exo, whoever he was, took everyone I cared about. Every time I see one of those gray Guardians out there, I can’t help but wonder how many more of them are lurking in the shadows, like the one that killed my family. Like the one that took my Renata from me.”

  He refilled their glasses, topping off Cassie’s to within an inch of the rim.

  “In recent years, I’ve come to realize that even the supposedly good ones can’t necessarily be trusted, not completely. Who knows what goes on when they’re away from the cameras and crowds. Hell, for all I know the exo that killed my parents is out there now, wearing a gray uniform as he smiles and tells a roomful of kids - ‘stay in school’ and ‘don’t do drugs.’ Nobody’s that good all the time, that perfect. I think the new legislation, Senator Jacobs’ Freedom From Fear Act, is a step in the right direction, but even it may not go far enough.”

  He straightened and forced a smile. “But enough of that. Never talk politics on a date, right? Do you like magic?”

  The abrupt change of subject threw her. Maybe he had taken her blank stare for boredom or even disapproval, but she had no idea what the ‘Freedom From Fear Act’ was. She recognized Jacobs’ name as the head of the Senate Exohuman Affairs Committee, but that was it. Rather than show her ignorance, she followed him down his conversational detour. “Magic? Like Harry Potter?”

  “Stage magic. There’s a new act opening tonight at a small, private club. He’s billed as a mentalist, a mind reader. Apparently, he’s a big deal in France. Calls himself ‘The Warlock.’ Very dark and mysterious. Would you care to go?”

  Cassie started to decline. She didn’t really have an excuse. She wasn’t feeling especially tired and tomorrow was her day off. But she wasn’t sure how she felt about extending this sorta-kinda-date. But she found herself smiling and answering.

  “Sounds like fun. I’d love to.”

  *

  The club was nothing special to look at, an ordinary small venue with a slightly raised stage. Where it differed from other places Cassie had visited was in the way it was run. For starters, there was no sign out front, nor any box office or ticket-taker. Ballantine had simply rung the bell and been admitted. The doorman greeted him by name, as did the blond waitress who escorted them to his ‘usual table.’ The club wasn’t terribly large or crowded. As a matter of fact, the spacing between the tables and booths was more generous than any place she’d ever seen. She could only assume this was the sort of specialized establishment that catered to wealthy members who valued discretion and privacy.

  The waitress set down their drinks and told them the show was about to start.

  “This guy is amazing, Mr. Ballantine. I think you’ll really like his show.” She gave Cassie a sly look and added, “And he’s about the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  As she grabbed her tray and headed away, the lights began to dim. Then came the amplified shuffle and thud of a live microphone being mishandled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the Persephone Lounge is proud to bring to you, from the streets of Paris to the mountain monasteries of Tibet, the man they call The Warlock. Please put your hands together for Master Mentalist Etienne Leclair.”

  The applause was muted and polite. Cassie thought the audience had a decidedly cynical attitude. The man who slowly arose from the center of the stage, ascending from the well-worn wooden boards like smoke, put their practical doubting on notice - this wasn’t going to be an evening of scarf tricks and leggy blondes being sawn in half. For an instant, Cassie wondered if The Warlock might be an exohuman, but she dismissed the thought immediately. Exos wore the gray garb of government property. And besides, after hearing Martin’s opinions on how exos should be restricted, it was unlikely he would bring her to see a handsome one flouting the law.

  And he was very handsome, with dark, wavy hair and rugged features. He wore black leather pants and a silvery silk shirt that he hadn’t bothered to button, shrouded by a faded black duster. A crumpled black cowboy hat sat atop his head, pulled down to shadow his face. His eyes, dark like a gypsy’s, pulled at Cassie’s gaze, drawing her to him.

  The waitress was right. This was a seriously sexy man, carefully cultivated to appeal to the corner in women’s hearts that fantasized about bad boys. In the same way that Martin Ballantine had learned to present himself as a poised and confident man of the world, this man had cast himself in a timeless archetype meant to grab female psyches by their damp panties. When he spoke, a sultry French accent purred in her ears.

  “As a small boy, living on the streets of Paris, I knew that I was special. I knew that something was different about me, that I was meant for more than picking pockets and stealing bread.”

  He paused for effect. “This shocks you, that I was once a thief?” He smiled, a whisper of danger lurking beneath. “Not all that glitters is gold, my friends. But, a thief I was. It was how I survived.”

  “One day,” he continued, “I saw an o
lder gentleman, standing on the street corner. His coat was well made, and well worn. His shoes were first quality but run-down in the heel. I watched him as he stood there. The traffic signal changed several times, but still he made no move to cross the avenue. I decided, in my mind, that he was bored, and that I should liven up his day by relieving him of his wallet. I was a generous child, you see - always trying to bring excitement into the lives of others.”

  The audience rewarded him with a low laugh. As he continued his act, the Frenchman stepped down from the stage and into the house, drawing an unopened pack of playing cards from his duster. He unsealed the pack and then offered the deck to a middle-aged man to shuffle.

  “I approached the old man, carefully, stealthily, like a cat. I was a shadow, a spectral child, gliding through the crowd. I was invisible.”

  The Warlock took the shuffled deck from the man and fanned it out, offering him a selection. The man drew a card, looked at it and placed it face down on the table.

  “I came up behind him, quiet as a mouse, and brushed against him, ever so softly. My skinny fingers slipped into his pocket and withdrew with my prize. Then, I was gone, disappearing into the crowd. All of this happened in an instant. I was very good, you see.”

  He moved to another table, where an older couple sat. This time he offered the cards to the lady. She seemed to appreciate being singled out and beamed at the handsome stranger, giggling a bit in schoolgirl fashion. In her fluttering excitement, she fanned herself with the card. The six of spades was clear to everyone who cared to look. She barely looked at the card herself before laying it down on the table.

  “I slipped off, stealing away to a nearby alleyway. Quick, like the fox with a purloined egg, I ducked behind a trash bin. Only then did I stop to examine the fruits of my labors, my misappropriated treasure.”

  He offered his splayed deck to a pair of young women. They waved him off, far too engrossed in each other to partake in his act. The Frenchman moved to the next table, where Cassie and Ballantine sat. Martin reached for a card, but the mentalist angled himself toward her. She demurred, but he moved the cards closer, insisting with those dark eyes. She drew and pretended to look at the card. Without her glasses, it was just a colorful rectangle. Once the Warlock had stepped away, she lowered the card below the surface of the table, stretching her arm to try and bring it into focus. The card she had drawn wasn’t a regular playing card. Neither hearts nor diamonds, not spades or clubs. The card she held was from the Tarot, the kind of cards used to tell fortunes.