The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  “Adam? Adam, can you hear me?” she repeated as she gently shook him.

  He responded with a louder groan. She felt his forehead. He was burning with fever despite the cold. It was even worse than she had feared.

  What could she do? There had to be a doctor in Merritt. But then what would happen to him? There was no way to disguise his wound. They would find out and arrest him. What would he want me to do?

  There was no time to debate this. She had to get him cleaned up and find a way to control the fever. The doctor could come later.

  She found a working lamp in the front room then set off to make the cabin habitable. It was near freezing inside. She found electric heaters along the outside walls and turned them all on. Warm air rose immediately.

  She ran out to the car, grabbed her bag, and locked up the rental. Old habits were hard to break; it was not likely anyone would be looking to steal it out here.

  The kitchen yielded sponges, a pan, and running water. In the bathroom she found a clean set of towels and the cabin’s first aid kit. She stripped Braxton, sponged him down, and tried to clean the two rough wounds in his shoulder. The bullet had passed completely through; she could see fresh red tissue and something shiny and white, she assumed it was bone, through the holes. His shoulder burned red from inflammation and a yellow puss oozed from the openings.

  She cleaned the wound as best she could, smeared on antibiotic cream from the kit, and bandaged the shoulder with clean gauze. Luckily there were two bunk beds in the room. She made the other lower bunk with fresh linen discovered in a small closet and led her incoherent patient there. He managed to swallow some water, a couple more Tylenol, and two Erythromycin tablets she found among her inventory. He fell back to sleep immediately.

  Satisfied she had done as much for her patient as possible, Goddard took an inventory of the cabin. On the left as she had entered was the dormitory bedroom. To her right was a small kitchen area that backed to the bathroom in the far corner. A worn sofa sat under the front windows. Bookcases, dressers, and cabinets were arbitrarily placed throughout the space. A large, hewn-wood trestle table and chairs occupied the center of the main room. It was a functional, if not comfortable, layout and undoubtedly just right for a group of young Boston bachelors.

  Rustic living was not unfamiliar to Goddard. Her father had had a cabin in the hills of Virginia when she was a girl. They would go there every summer to get away from D.C. and fish and swim in the small lake down the road.

  Her father had been a very organized man. He had made lists for everything and the cabin had been no exception. There had been a checklist for opening the cabin in the spring and one for closing it in the fall. Every year she had been given a new item on the lists as her responsibility. She had been so proud when he would “award” her the activity. It had been his way of recognizing her growth. She hoped she could remember some of those items now.

  There were two more sets of clean bed linens in the closet. She was just about out of Tylenol and bandages. The cabinets in the kitchen held a limited stock of canned goods. The small refrigerator was empty and turned off. She plugged it in and it began a steady, if not quiet, drone. The water from the tap looked clear and the pressure was good. Nothing urgently broken.

  She ached to sit down and rest, but there were still things that had to be done. Her movements were robotic, going from one task to the next without thinking. Checking him one more time, she stroked his forehead, kissed him gently, and left the cabin.

  She hated to go, but they desperately needed more supplies. And she was less likely to be noticed tonight than during the day tomorrow. She reversed the directions back to Merritt and headed south. Five minutes down the road she found a twenty-four hour CVS that provided most of the critical items on her list, including an assortment of over-the-counter antibiotics. She hoped they would be enough.

  She made it back to the cabin at 10:45. It was warm enough that she could finally take off her coat. She looked in on her patient and found he had kicked off all of his covers; his fever continued to rage. She redressed his wound, applied some of the medication she had purchased, and tried to make him more comfortable. He still didn’t seem to realize she was there.

  Pulling one of the chairs from the main room next to Braxton’s bunk, she finally sat down and covered herself with a spare blanket. Time to think. What did she need to do next?

  Two minutes later she was fast asleep.

  * * *

  Greystone slid his chair back from the table and downed the half inch of Drambuie remaining in his snifter. He felt satisfied and relaxed; quite ready to deal with the next phase of the evening.

  His guest, on the other hand, looked considerably less comfortable. Hajima was squirming in his chair, apparently trying to find a position that would relieve the battle tearing at his insides. Greystone had insisted on a traditional Southern dinner: fried chicken, buttered grits, candied yams, and okra. Topped off with a huge piece of pecan pie ala mode. If that wouldn’t give his Japanese colleague heartburn he didn’t know what would.

  “I’m so glad you were able to join me, Akira. I hope you enjoyed the meal.” Hajima had come alone this time. He probably didn’t want to expose his people to the toxic food.

  “It was excellent, Robert. Your southern cuisine is truly . . . unique.”

  “Thank you. I asked you this evening both to share this lovely setting and to update you on the status of our project.”

  “Excellent, Robert.” Looking exceedingly uncomfortable, Hajima tried crossing his legs. “I am anxious to learn of any progress. But may I first ask why the police have not closed the investigation on your President’s death? My management is still quite concerned over this unexpected event.”

  What is he talking about? The frame-up was perfect. He must still be concerned about public opinion.

  “The police have assured us there will be no additional publicity. They are satisfied that Lombard was responsible and acted alone. If there is any delay I’m sure it is just procedural.”

  “Of course, Robert, of course. It is just as I thought. But surely you understand how the delay in resolution puts our project at risk.”

  “I again can assure you, my friend, that Charles’ untimely death does not in the least affect Theater’s commitment to you and our partnership. You must believe that.”

  “I know you are committed, Robert. But we both know this has been a calculated gamble. I felt you could control the play of events at Theater. The unresolved murder of your top executive is hardly something that instills confidence in my management. What can I tell them? When can we sign the agreements that would form the joint venture?”

  “Akira. These are delicate matters. As I’m sure you know, a critical amendment to the Bill was passed on Tuesday. An amendment that legislates the technology platform we have developed.

  “I have also learned that tomorrow Senator Potterfield will pass the Bill out of committee. It will then be only a short time until it is signed. A matter of days. We will then be able to move forward aggressively.

  “Julius and I speak frequently of the progress of our partnership. This is just as we had planned. Surely you do not want to withdraw now?”

  Why should he have to appease Hajima as if he was a child? For all of his demands, the Japanese was in as deep as Greystone. If Hajima failed to deliver the venture he would go back to Japan in disgrace.

  “I am not suggesting we stop our work. I only ask that you continue to educate your management on the benefits of our relationship. We have delivered on the feasibility studies, the design plans, and the technical prototypes. We needed only your assistance in the regulatory matters and a distribution channel. If you are not able to bring Mr. Flitterman to the table, there may be little I can do to hold off my management’s impatience. Any further complications could be quite damaging. Do we understand each other, Robert?”

  “Yes, Akira. We understand each other completely.”

  What a bastard
! He’s acting like this is his project. The venture was Greystone’s concept. It was his work that resulted in the amendment. His company that will provide the distribution. Once the contracts are executed, we’ll see how necessary his overpriced manufacturing capabilities really are.

  “And there is one other small thing, Robert.”

  What now? thought Greystone.

  “I will require access to your tap on the Internet.”

  Greystone’s heart stopped. Hajima had to be bluffing. There was no way he could know anything.

  “A tap?” he asked, hoping the catch in his voice wasn’t too obvious. “What do you mean?”

  Hajima sat calmly. He shook his head as if reprimanding a child.

  “Oh, Robert. I really am disappointed. I thought we were getting along so well. Yet you had the arrogance to tap our internal communications and throw it into my face. Do you really think I wouldn’t figure out how you got all that inside information?

  Hajima rose from the table. “We’re done for this evening. Think over my request and decide whether you want to continue our partnership.

  As he passed Greystone’s chair, he turned and smiled. “Oh, and thank you so much for the dinner.”

  Greystone watched as the Japanese strode from the dining room to his waiting car.

  He could feel the flush in his face and the sweat pooling at his collar.

  Damn him! No one had ever suspected what they had created. Not for thirty years.

  He slammed his fists on the table, not caring about its effect on the other diners. After the cracking of china and shattering of crystal had stopped, the room again grew quiet.

  He had underestimated Hajima. And now his secret was compromised.

  But he could still salvage this. He could control the flow of information. As long as Hajima received the data he wanted, he would be satisfied.

  Greystone could still control the port. He didn’t have to give Hajima the operating details. Just the results. He didn’t even have to tell his friends.

  It would still work out.

  Chapter 50

  Merritt, New Hampshire

  Friday, 4:00 a.m.

  GODDARD AWOKE DISORIENTED and in pain. Her mind quickly cleared, and realized the jabbing ache was from resting her neck on the hard edge of the captain’s chair. She shook off the discomfort and took stock of her situation. The air in the small cabin was oppressive; it was so warm that both of them had tossed off all their blankets during the night. Braxton was thrashing naked on the bunk.

  Lights glared in every room. This was not a good time to call attention to yourself.

  She got up, stretched for a minute to unkink her muscles, and went to right the cabin. The heaters were first; she turned them down to sixty-five. Then she turned off most of the lights except for one in the kitchen and a small table lamp in the bedroom. She refilled the pan of water, cleaned Braxton’s wound, and tucked him back under the covers. He seemed to be sleeping more comfortably.

  There was no way she was going to go back to the chair for the rest of the night. She made up the other lower bunk, stripped to her underwear, and crawled in. She left the light on in case her patient woke up. It didn’t disturb her sleep.

  At 9:00 she again awakened, but this time more comfortably. Glancing to Braxton’s bed, she saw he was still quiet. It didn’t look as if he had stirred. She checked his forehead and his temperature was definitely down. His shoulder still glowed scarlet but the oozing had stopped. Maybe the worst was over. She tried not to think what would have happened if she hadn’t come.

  Her head throbbed and her muscles still ached from exhaustion, but there was no point in going back to bed. She had never been able to sleep late in the morning; Momma and Father had always been early risers and she had never been able to break their training. She picked up her clothes and tip-toed into the main room, closing the bedroom door behind her. In the light of day, she could see what a mess the cabin really was. The floor was littered with magazines and newspapers. Dust bunnies clung ferociously in uncountable nooks and crannies. There were cobwebs in most of the corners and an occasional spider ventured out to see the newest inhabitant of its lair. Stale dust covered every surface she could see, and probably most she couldn’t.

  The place was in critical need of a female touch.

  First on the agenda was breakfast. She scrambled two eggs, toasted a couple of English muffins, and poured a glass of orange juice, all supplies she had purchased on her late night excursion. She was famished; it was her first real meal since lunch the day before at the Georgetown cafeteria. As she sat devouring the food, she scanned the papers from the day before. The news reports weren’t good. Braxton had been identified as the prime suspect and alerts had gone out across New England. At least they didn’t seem to know where he had gone.

  The article reminded her of the Cherokee. It was sitting in plain view in front of the cabin. It was unlikely anyone would come by, but there was no use in taking the chance. She unsuccessfully searched Braxton’s clothes for the keys, then went out and checked the vehicle. The keys were still in the ignition.

  She turned the switch and was awarded with a weak groan for her effort. He must have left the car running when he arrived. She glanced at the dashboard and was relieved to see that the fuel gauge still floated above empty. It was just a dead battery.

  After finding a pair of jumper cables stuffed under the back seats, she pulled up her rental, jumped the Cherokee, and parked it out of sight behind the cabin. So far, her father’s training had done its job.

  She left the rental in front. At least no one was after her.

  When she came back in, she heard movement in the bedroom. Braxton was tossing in the bunk and seemed to be mumbling something. She tried to get him to take some juice. He seemed to recognize her, even attempting a small smile, then fell back asleep after a few sips. She decided to let him rest as long as he wanted.

  The remainder of the morning was spent cleaning up and rearranging the contents of the cabin. The reading material seemed to be of two classes: male adolescent, epitomized by well-read copies of Playboy, and male sport, consisting of almost as worn copies of Rock & Ice. At least the sport pile was twice the height of the other. She considered throwing both piles out, but found a secluded corner in a closet and stacked them there instead.

  Terrel’s name was on many of the papers and mementos she found scattered around the cabin. It seemed to be his place, used freely by his friends as a secluded getaway. If Terrel really had been killed because of Braxton, she wondered how he would ever get over it.

  She was washing her breakfast dishes when she heard a strange shuffling sound. She turned and saw her patient swaying precariously in the doorway to the bedroom.

  “Aren’t we domestic,” he managed in a weak, thin voice.

  “Yes, I am,” she replied putting her hands on her hips. “And you are to go right back to bed. I haven’t nursed you back from the dead to let you fall on your face.” She rushed over to catch him before he collapsed.

  “Okay, but I think you’d rather I get to the bathroom first.”

  She led him first to the small bathroom, then back to his bed. He seemed alert and anxious to talk, so she asked him what had happened. The story came out in a torrent of words and emotion.

  He sketchily related the events since he left D.C.: finding Chamberlain’s email, traveling out to his home in Carlisle, finding the body, and taking the flash drive clutched in his hand. He described what he remembered of the escape through the woods. They both were amazed that he had made it to the cabin at all and managed the strength to call her. Without help, she was sure he would have died.

  She asked a few more questions, and he tried to answer, but was too weak to continue.

  “It’s time for you to go back to sleep,” she told him. “I’ll go out and get today’s papers. Maybe there will be some better news. You rest and we’ll talk later.”

  He nodded obligingly, closed his eyes, and
drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Flanagan was incensed. She had been in a meeting with Lighthorse on the gateway problem when she had gotten a call to report to Rydell’s office immediately. It was urgent. Candela was already there when she arrived.

  “It’s bad enough that I had to listen to that incompetent FBI agent on the phone, but to have him imply that we might be involved was outrageous.” Rydell was standing behind his desk ranting and pounding his fists together. Flanagan and Candela stood sheepishly in front of him hoping the tirade would rapidly pass.

  “Why the FBI, Timothy?” Candela asked. “I thought it was a simple murder.”

  Flanagan raised her eyebrows at her colleague’s insensitive characterization of Chamberlain’s death.

  “They’ve gotten it into their heads that there’s some kind of Internet conspiracy going on. The fact that this Braxton was one of our consultants really set them off. We did terminate the contract didn’t we, Rachel?”

  It was clear there was only one acceptable answer to the question.

  “Yes, we agreed to stop working on the incident, Timothy. I have been trying to get in touch with Braxton but I’ve not talked to him.” At least her statement was technically true.

  “Make sure there’s a memo to that effect in my mailbox. Copy Lawrence and contracts. What about this computer company, Century? Do they have anything to do with the Incident?”

  “Nothing I’m aware of,” she replied. “Braxton never mentioned them. We do have some of their equipment on site but they’re not tied to any investigations.”

  “Good, we’ll stress that. Braxton’s relationship with Century has nothing to do with the Center.” Rydell recited it for their benefit.

  “This FBI agent, Randolph,” Rydell continued, “said that he would be coming around and questioning the staff. Edward, you are in charge of escorting him wherever he goes. I don’t want him talking to anyone who hasn’t been briefed. Rachel, you’re in charge of the Ops staff. Tell them to keep their mouths shut. On second thought, Edward, get Walter and Lawrence out of the building until he is gone. They don’t have anything important to do anyway.”