The Spatial Shard
Chapter Seven: Any Port In a Storm

“You sure you wanna do this?” he said in a strained whisper. “I realize you think you need to make a living, but dying is the wrong way to go about it!” The sun beat down on his well-tanned skin which was covered in sand and sweat.

“Frank, we’re not going to do this again,” Alan sighed, trying his best not to breathe in through his nose. He put his hands on his hips and let the uniform and badge do most of the talking. “You’ve got yourself another stray and I am walking into that… house.”

“Over my dead body!” Frank insisted.

“From the smell of things, we just need to wait until after lunch,” Jarvis muttered, but it was apparent both men had heard him. Frank staggered toward the young deputy, but Alan took hold of his arm.

“Easy there, Frank,” Alan said softly.

“No!” Frank said, pulling his arm free of Alan’s grip. He started to lift his fists, but the effort of freeing himself was still with him and he continued moving to the side after his feet had stopped. He fell over on his shoulder and fell unconscious. The sheriff looked at his deputy and gestured toward Frank’s body.

“Are you happy now, James?” Alan asked as he watched a taxi stop at the end of the drive. “Well, what do we have here?”

Timothy and his children got out of the taxi. Gordon and Timothy took the luggage off the top of the mini-van as Imogene slowly made her way down the driveway, her hands stuffed in her back pockets as she looked at the house. Apprehensive would have been a polite word to describe her. With every step, she searched her soul for the strength to take the next.

“Coach Thaxton? Is that you?” Imogene asked, holding her hand up to shade her eyes from the sun.

“Genie?” Alan said aloud, removing his sunglasses as his face broke into a smile. “Is that my Goalie?!” Without another word he was running down the driveway and Imogene jumped into his waiting arms. They laughed as he spun her around.

“You making moves on my daughter, Sheriff?” Timothy asked as he walked up with a beleaguered smile on his face. Alan noticed that Gordon said nothing as he walked by him.

“You act like you have a better offer waiting somewhere,” Alan said as he put Imogene down and moved to embrace Timothy. “I tell you what, I’ll marry your daughter if you can do something with Mrs. Thaxton.”

“Looks like you’re going to be a married man for a long time there, Alan,” Timothy shrugged. “I swear I’d rather get shot by you than chance making your wife mad.”

“And she wonders why I want her to ride around with me when I go out on calls,” Alan laughed, donning his sunglasses. “Hey, where are my manners? Imogene and Timothy Schultz, this is my new deputy, Jarvis James.”

“Citizens,” Jarvis said as he nodded and turned to face the cruiser. Timothy and Imogene’s faces registered surprise while Alan’s face fell blank.

“James?” Timothy repeated softly so that the deputy would not hear him. “Not the son of Judge James?”

“One and the same,” Alan sighed.

“Looks like I’m not the only one in the throes of bad karma,” Imogene said as she walked faster to catch up with Gordon.

“Bad karma?” Alan repeated as he gestured at the luggage. “You guys moving in?”

“Us? No,” Timothy answered. “Them? Yeah. I’m on my way back to Santa Cruz tomorrow. Got some things I need to wrap up before I can spend any length of time away from the project.” Timothy put down his luggage and looked at Alan before he looked at the house and the children who were now standing over their unconscious uncle.

It could have been Alan’s experience with coaching sports functions with teams comprised of all females, but he had developed something akin to female intuition. “James, you want to get these bags and take them into the house?”

“Do I have a choice?” Jarvis muttered as he walked toward the luggage.

“Only what condition you walk away in,” Alan replied as his head came forward and his brown eyes peered over his sunglasses. Jarvis did not need help in understanding the unstated message and sighed as he picked up the luggage. Alan watched him walk away and then turned back to Timothy. “Good help is hard to find,” Alan admitted as he ushered Timothy toward the beach. “I take it we need to talk?”

“Remember when you said if I needed anything… anything, I should come and find you?”

“I remember,” Alan replied with a gentle smile. “I’d say you nailed the delay between repetitions perfectly.”

“Well, when you’re not wearing the sunglasses, your eyes can be rather potent.”

“So I’m told,” Alan said as he looked out into the ocean. “That’s why I wear ’em.”

“Well, my friend, I’d say this definitely qualifies under that second anything,” Timothy said.

“Uncle Frank,” Imogene called to him as she touched his face. It had been some time since anything else had touched his face… including soap and water. The roughness of the beard and the smell coming off his body was stomach-wrenching, and Imogene could not bear it any longer. She picked up her bags and walked into the house. The powerful scent seemed to be getting stronger and Imogene hesitated in the foyer. Her face twisted in pain to reflect the power of the stink. She opened the interior door and walked into the house.

“Hey, what gives?” Imogene thought as she stepped into the living room. The scent was just about gone now and it had been replaced with a very familiar aroma. “No way!” she thought as she turned and walked quickly into the kitchen.

The old electric range had been removed, along with the refrigerator. A very large gas stove was there instead and the side by side refrigerator-freezer unit was stainless steel and too big for the space where it had been inserted. In the middle of the kitchen was an island stove with a very large section of counter-top and storage. There were a number of large pots hanging all over the walls and ceiling. But Imogene’s attention was drawn to the small bowl in the center of the kitchenette table; she was the second to arrive. Gordon was already there and staring at the source of the smell. With each step, Imogene drew closer to her brother, the table, and a yesterday that she had forgotten. There was so much to Eleanor, trying to remember what she did for a living seemed to be a waste of time and energy. It was obvious that Franklin Stewart Edwards remembered. In a small bowl that was covered with a small circular strainer, there was a combination of leaves, tree bark and flower petals.

“Mom’s periwinkle, pine and banana potpourri,” she whispered. Her voice was Gordon’s cue to leave, but she did not concern herself with his feelings at the moment. She was too engrossed with the bowl…

“And the whole house, for that matter,” she thought as she looked around again. Uncle Frank was the polar opposite of his younger sister. She was waves and shops, he was Wall Street and malls (the building and selling thereof). Where she was gentle, he was aggressive and where she was passionate, he was passive. It seemed that the two of them could not share a room together for ten minutes without falling into an argument. As far back as Imogene could remember, they only agreed on two things: Mom’s kids and Mom’s taste in life partners and in that specific order.

It was sometimes comical to watch. When Eleanor approved of a partner, that woman would wind up dumping Frank for purely justifiable reasons. When her mother did not approve, Frank could not keep the relationship going for three days after the judgment had been given. Seventy hours and thirteen minutes was the closest he had come, and there was a suspicion that one of the two had been handcuffed and gagged.

When Franklin had bought the property which would eventually become home to Eleanor’s shop, she had told him that it was a very nice gesture, but the wound on his spirit would take more than a band-aid before it could start healing. From the looks of things, Frank had undergone open-heart surgery!

In the corner of the kitchen there were cardboard boxes stacked up nearly to the ceiling. Imogene took one of the smaller ones down and saw it was labeled with an address in Minneapolis. But she did not keep her eyes on the destination of the package for too long. She was entranced by what she saw as the sender.

“You need to decide what to do with the business,” Eleanor had said to her older brother. He had wanted to argue, as always, but from the moment he knew she was sick, Franklin Edwards had no arguments for his sister. Maybe that was one of the reasons why she did not tell anyone about her illness. Eleanor had loved everything at face value, even if it was bitter and ugly. At least it was real, and on that she had thrived!

“I’ll give it to the kids,” he had cried, barely able to speak.

“If that’s your decision, Frank,” she had replied, managing a smile.

“You can’t leave us!” Frank had declared. It was the ‘us’ that fixed itself most to Imogene’s memory. In retrospect, she felt ashamed. Everyone else had spoken in terms of themselves only, but Frank had been concerned with what everyone was losing and he took it on himself to be the voice for the world. “What will we do?”

“What did you do before I came around?”

“Gave Mom and Dad hell!” Frank had quickly answered.

“So, why stop now?” she had asked, touching her brother’s face. “You know, I miss our arguments.” The touch and that statement had been too much for Franklin and he had made a very quick exit. Not to be undone, Eleanor smiled and nodded. “Funny, that’s how most of our arguments end; with him leaving.”

Franklin had not attended the funeral, and Imogene did not hold it against him. She had been at the grave site when he had visited, laid down flowers, cursed her stubborn ways, smiled and left without even acknowledging Imogene at all. He had sent thank you cards to everyone who had attended the ceremony, including Eleanor’s widower and children. Imogene chuckled, remembering how long it had taken to cool her father down after opening that letter. She had taken it upon herself to open any letters from Uncle Frank herself from then on and set up something of a buffer between her father and uncle.

“New Deal, Incorporated?” she whispered.

“Don’t you know your history?” Frank asked and Imogene jumped, dropping the package. She was quick to slide her foot under the box before it could hit the floor and it bounced up, off the stacks of boxes and she grabbed it, quickly putting it back where it belonged.

“Hello, Uncle Frank,” she said, trying to dismiss the feat they had just witnessed.

“Nice reflexes,” Frank nodded as he walked, dragging his feet, to the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of sparkling water and tossed it at Imogene. “Stardust Surprise,” he said in a rough voice. “Got ’em in from Japan about two months ago. Shipment missed you by three days.

“And you were right,” Frank said without stopping, “…they’re not too bad.” Imogene followed her uncle into the living room, slightly surprised that she did not smell her uncle’s approach. “I take it you two are moving in?”

“So it would seem,” Jarvis said as he let the luggage drop to the floor. “And since I am in here, might as well have a look around.”

“You wanna strong-arm me?!” Frank roared as he faced the deputy. “Alright, kid, let’s see whatcha got!” Frank leaned forward and started moving left and right, his feet putting together an awful two-step pattern.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jarvis asked, pointing at Frank’s feet.

“It’s called a jangah, pig!” Frank huffed, almost out of breath.

“Ginga,” Imogene whispered.

“Ginga-Minga!” Frank yelled, waving Imogene off. “Don’t matter what you call it, I’m about to serve this pig up with my preamble.”

“Preamble?” both Jarvis and Imogene repeated.

“To my Constitution of Pain!” Frank kicked, but his foot missed and the slippers he was wearing were not the sort of things that could provide traction on the carpet. As his left leg crossed in front of his right, his left foot slid and Frank spun to the ground hard. He was very still for a moment and then he moaned.

“Normally you only see things like that in really bad cartoons,” Jarvis commented as he started walking toward the dining room.

“Do you have a warrant?” Imogene cried out.

“You don’t even live here,” Jarvis said as he walked to the far wall and started tapping it with his fingers. On the fifth tap there was a hollow sound that made Jarvis James smile as he took out his night stick.

“No!” Imogene yelled. She could not explain why she moved, but her conscious mind would have to catch up later. She put her shoulder into James’ ribs and both of them fell to the floor. She rolled when she hit and was standing in the next instant. Jarvis was not as fortunate as he hit another wall before he made it to the floor.

“Have you lost your mind?” Jarvis asked, grabbing his stick and slowly getting up. “You just assaulted an officer of the law.”

“An officer without a warrant or the owner’s permission to be in the house and about to do damage to it!” Imogene initiated her ginga and the difference between what she performed and what Franklin was trying to emulate was incredible. It was also clear she would not be tiring out too soon. “This is my uncle’s home and I have every right to defend it!”

“Oh my God!” Imogene thought. “I am so going to jail!”

Surprising her, Jarvis took a swing for her head. She timed her spin to get her head out of the way and landed a back kick to the man’s sternum. Jarvis yelled as he dropped his stick and fell to his knees.

“Oh no!” Imogene gasped, breaking form. “I’m so sorry! Are you hurt?” Jarvis stood up with a backhanded slap that sent Imogene spinning to the floor. When her body stopped, her mind was still spinning and the side of her face was throbbing.

“Not as much as you,” Jarvis smiled, patting the bulletproof vest he wore under his shirt.

“Genie!” Imogene heard just before she fell unconscious.

Darkness was very slowly replaced by light. Numbness was slowly replaced by pain. Absence of thought was quickly replaced with recollection and Makeen sat up quickly, his voice booming out into the room. Though he could not hear it, his outcry spooked several of the medical technicians and they dropped clipboards, cups of coffee and various medical supplies. Makeen started to get out of the bed, but the padded restraints prevented too much movement. Both arms and legs were well secured.

“Impressive!” Samantha said, rubbing one of her ears and opening her mouth as if trying to get one of her ears to pop. “I’m convinced, but the Russian judge is bound to give it a low score. They can be such perfectionists!”

“I had him!” Makeen cried, testing the restraints again.

“You never had him,” Samantha said calmly as she put her hand on Makeen’s shoulder. “He had us… both of us… from the moment Brewer reported him being sighted, we’ve been puppets dancing to his tune. When we picked you up, there was a video disc letting us know that Seth had already inoculated Weiss and his men against the agent we used. We backtracked and it was McEmbree who developed the software that prepared the assault team stratagems. Of course he knew which nerve agent we would be using!

“Now I-”

“I am not fit to serve you, Mistress,” Makeen said as he closed his eyes and lowered his head. She had been afraid of this. Makeen was preparing for death.

“You know, Afzal,” Samantha said, drawing closer to his side. She gambled that using his first name might jar him a little, open his mind enough to actually process what she was about to say. “Sometimes I am not fit to serve myself! So if you die, I have to die, because I don’t treat me as well as you treat me.

“You finish my sentences,” she continued. “You correct my mistakes, and you make handling this corporation seem simple at times. If that is unfit service then what passes for par around here has got to be abysmal!”

“McEmbree-”

“Isn’t real!” she cried, knocking down the tray holding his food. “Okay?! He’s not real! We went to another world, you and I, and we marveled at what we saw! We are still blown away by what we saw. Seth went there and said, ‘Yeah, sure, this’ll do’. Makeen, even they didn’t see McEmbree coming!” Samantha was perhaps too far into trying to save Makeen from himself to notice the way his eyes opened. It was as if he had been struck by a stark reality that was so simple and yet had been missed all this time.

“Now I need you,” Samantha whispered. “And I am not too proud to beg.” Her body slowly lowered to the floor as she closed her eyes. No, she was not too proud to beg, but that did not mean she was anxious to engage in the act. She was a proud woman, but Samantha Vey constantly reminded herself how she had achieved the power and influence she had. She had witnessed men who thought they were so powerful that all of the rules changed for them. To some extent, it was a true statement. But things like the laws of physics, ballistics to be more specific, and the law of gravity do not care about name or social echelon. Men with access always had someone in power around them who could always be counted on to be the focal point of a coup. For Vey, it was Putzkammer. Though they could not be more alike in their approach to science and what it yielded, Heinrich was no Vey fan and the only reason why he was alive was because of the man to whom she was about to kneel.

“If that knee touches the floor, I will kill us both!” Makeen whispered as he took firm hold of Vey’s forearm and she froze. Samantha thought it best not to look at how close her knee was to the floor tile and she stood up, primping her clothes.

“You can release me,” Makeen said and Samantha made a motion toward the guards who were quick to remove the restraints. He rubbed his wrists as they removed the electric shock devices at the foot of the bed. Makeen saw the unit being carried away and he looked up at Vey with a slight smile on his face. He nodded his approval.

“I have a good teacher,” Samantha smiled. “So! I have news.”

“As do I, but perhaps you should go first,” Makeen said as he got out of the bed. Vey made the aversion of her eyes seem natural and quite smooth in action. She advised her Security Chief of the information on the Mark Seven and the lead generated from the recording.

“I see,” Makeen said as he finished tucking in his shirt and started on his tie. “Thank you for the new tie,” he commented.

“You’re welcome,” Samantha replied. “We’ve got a surveillance team in place now, but for some strange reason, we have yet to see any sign of the Schultz’s. Princess is tracking Tim Schultz’s credit cards, but no purchases for hours.”

“What was the last charge?” Makeen asked, his mind already piecing together two puzzles. One concerned the prey they were now hunting, and the other concerned Seth McEmbree.

“He paid for a taxi ride home,” Vey answered. Makeen laughed as he finished with his tie.

“What is it?” Samantha asked, hoping that Makeen was once again fully engaged. Yes, they had made progress without him, but they were once again hitting a wall with only shrugs and looks of confusion for answers.

“He paid for a taxi ride,” Makeen answered. “But unless you hacked the cab company, you cannot assume he went home.

“The target’s father had to leave a fairly important job in Bolivia and it is not the kind he can leave alone for too long. I am quite certain he’ll go back, but he will do so without his children. No, he’ll leave them in a place where he thinks they’ll be safe… like with a trusted friend or relative. I trust you have a file with a number of possibilities?”

“Before I go racing off to give Princess another Dick Tracy job,” Samantha said softly, keeping her happiness under tight rein. “…what did you have to say to me?”

“Something you said about McEmbree,” Makeen said, donning his shoulder strap. “…it got me thinking. I am not yet certain because there is so little we are sure about from that place. But I believe our Dr. McEmbree has become, or is becoming an Etnavas!” The smile was snatched from Vey’s face as her moment of elation was once again made all too brief. Had it been anyone or anything else making the hypothesis, she would have quickly laughed it off. But Makeen was not the sort of man to make unjustified theories. He had been the one who had tracked and chased the man, and quite recently in point of fact. Whatever combat skills she possessed had been honed by Makeen, so he knew what he was talking about in such matters.

“That is not good news,” she said softly. “And I will note you said ‘has become’ first.”

“It is the more likely conclusion,” Makeen replied.

“Then what the devil is he up to?!”

“I cannot say,” Makeen answered. “But your use of the word devil may be closer to the truth than we would prefer.”

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