Category: Fiction

Aside from a new title, that is.

 
Commander Tom Knox sat on one side of a large oak conference table in Naval Station New York’s Reagan Boardroom. His duffel and backpack were on the seat and floor beside him. An athletically thin, middle-aged woman with thick, flowing, hip-length blonde hair sat across from him in a sharp black suit with lapel pins, a service patch he didn’t recognize, and neither a name tag nor an obvious place for one on her suit jacket. Two younger men, both sandy-haired, both clean shaven, both dressed as she sans the lapel pin, sat on either side of her with their briefcases open and facing them on the table.

They stared into their open briefcases and she stared at him.

He stared back. “What department are you with again?”

She ignored the question. “The San Jacinto is equipped with the latest Aegis, that’s correct, isn’t it?”

He looked down at the highly polished table top for a moment. “What’s on the ship’s manifest?” His eyes caught Transport IDs on the bottom of both men’s cases – 717521 and 717522 – and kept moving.

The man on her left pulled a stapled, much handled report from his briefcase and slid across to Knox. It stopped right in front of him.

“You learn how to do that in school?”

The woman nodded at the paper without taking her eyes off him. “Is that the paper you submitted directly to the Joint Chiefs?”

He scanned his name under the title The Need for Confirmation of Objective Sans KeyHole, ALWYS, and Related Systems. “You reading other people’s mail again?”

“You subverted the Chain-of-Command on purpose?”

“You here to slap my hands?”

“Is your laptop available?”

He pulled it from his backpack. One of the woman’s aides reached across the table for it. “May I?”

“It’s government property. Go for it. For that matter, so am I. What do you want it for?”

The aide reached under the table to a network hub and ran a cable from the hub to the laptop. Tom could see the glare of the screen on the aide’s face as it came to life. The aide nodded at the woman and she nodded back without taking her eyes from Tom.

“You don’t blink much, do you, Miss…?”

“Are you familiar with MK-Ultra?”

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Previous Fains I (A John Chance Mystery) Chapters

Yeah…well…deal with it.

I’ve learned to.

Vincent Quarrals watched Monique Modine exit Martin’s store from deep in the shadows of the Kristoffersen’s barn. Stacey Knox headed south a few minutes earlier.

He considered walking over when he saw her pull in, decided no. She seemed okay enough. He did a cursory read of her background at the state capital using what little Monique knew as a starting point, and something about Knox told him to go deep, go further, do some more reading beyond her litigation histories.

She bought the Campbell’s farm. He never noticed her in town before. What, did she come into town on a lark, saw a broken down farm badly in need of repair with a for-sale sign on it, and decided hot damn, that’s for me? One of the top lawyers in New York City decides to go country?

Bullshit. Only a flake would do that and she didn’t seem the flake type.

Did she even know the Campbell farm’s history?

Sad place if ever there was one.

The Campbells owned the farm since dirt was young. Al Senior, Al and Blanche’s father, never came back from Korea. MIA or POW or KIA nobody knew, and Mrs. Campbell did what she could to hold things together. They dirt farmed their small patch but that gave them enough for themselves and a little more. Kind-hearted neighbors, most of them farmers themselves, bought her overflow. She’d drop off baskets of produce and they’d return the baskets, often with new or at least not too worn clothes for her and the kids.

They raised chickens and pigs. Mrs. Campbell planned on selling off the livestock and Al had none of it. “We have two good breeder sows and all our hens are good layers. I can learn how to slaughter and get things to market. We do this right and we can grow the farm, Ma.”

Ballsy for a twelve-year old kid, but nobody knew what a head for business Al had. By the time he graduated high school he was one hell of a butcher. He handled chickens and pigs with razor sharp knifes and never made a mess. Quiet, quick, and clean, and he proud of it. Neighbors brought their livestock to him for slaughter. He smiled and only took some good cuts for payment.

Al was fourteen, Blanche twelve, and the widow Campbell gets a suitor. Within a year Mrs. Campbell is Mrs. Stockton and Gus Stockton, Mr. Chocolates and flowers and smiles when people are watching, is fists and belt and a water pipe when people can’t see.

Quarrals remembered his parents talking about Gus Stockton when they thought Vince slept, how Gus beat Al and Blanche, at least once beating Al unconscious. By now Blanche was becoming a woman and Gus found other uses for her.

And if Mrs. Stockton said anything?

She’d feel his fists and strop, too.

Just the memory sickened him.

And didn’t Acra grow quiet when Gus died in a freak farming accident, his boot laces caught in the lower fork of a grain elevator, his belt – the same one he used to strop his family – wrapped around one of the tines, and the controls well out of reach.

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Previous Fains I (A John Chance Mystery) Chapters

Yep, another rewrite. Had to introduce a new character. Not sure if the character stay and for how long.

Times like these, I keep remember Kevin Bacon’s The Big Picture. Give it a watch and pay attention to how the characters in his scripts react to his edits.

 
Lawrence Martin watched the newcomer. She came in confidently – a good thing, one-twenty pounds or so, five-six and something, dressed for the weather except for a silk scarf around her neck and over her shoulders with a bunch of scarf wadded up over her chest. The bell jingled over her head when she opened the door. She glanced up at it and smiled.

Her gaze swept the store in an easy motion, what would be called window shopping in a city or mall, before landing on Monique. “Hi, Monique.”

Like her movements, she spoke with a confident, easy grace.

“Hi, Stace. This your first time shopping in our happening burg?”

“Except to drive through finding the farm, using the phone outside, and back out to the highway.”

Martin interrupted with his Yankee drawl in place. “Need a map?”

Monique rolled her eyes. “Stace, meet Larry Martin, proprietor, who’s bullshitting you with that drawl. He’s only been here – how many years, Larry?”

Martin dropped the drawl. “Five so far.”

Monique nodded. “And if he doesn’t cut it out with the crazy accents, it’ll only be five.”

Martin offered his hand. “Someday this town’ll have a talent show and I’ll be in it.” He released Knox’s hand and leaned towards her. “Ever hear the one about the cityslicker lost in Maine?”

Stacey gave Monique a “What’s going on here?” look.

“Just go with it. He won’t let up until he’s got one or two jokes out.” Monique glared at Larry. “One, if he’s smart.”

“So this cityslicker stops at a small town in Maine and sees an old Yankee sitting in front of the general store in a rocking chair whittling a stick with a pocketknife. He says, ‘Lived here all your life?’ and the old Yankee answers without looking up or stopping his whittling, ‘Not yet.'”

Martin slapped the countertop and doubled over laughing.

Stacey gave Monique a “Is it safe to be in here?” look.

“He’s his own best audience.”

Martin pouted at them. “Oh, come on. That’s one of my best jokes.” His eyebrows formed a tent on his forehead like a little boy pleading with his mother for another cookie. “You liked it, right, Stacey?”

Monique came up beside Stacey and placed a protective arm in front of her. “You’re scaring the newcomer, Larry.”

Frank Sinatra poked his head out of the wadded scarf and hissed.

Martin crossed his arms underneath his apron. “Guess I get carried away sometimes.”

Monique snickered. “Sometimes?”

“Sorry, Ms. Knox. It’s Knox, right? Stacey? Can I call you Stacey? Sorry I upset your cat. What can I do you for?”

Monique made a show of browsing the jerky selections. “Looks like a middle-aged Clark Kent still hoping for a date with Lois when he does that, doesn’t he? And don’t worry, he’s safe. One of Larry cum Clark’s his best qualities is his nosiness. Should your phone, internet, and carrier pigeons fail, Larry’s Acra’s reliable community switchboard.” She pointed at Frank. “He she it friendly?”

“Usually.”

Monique reached out slowly. Frank’s blue eyes crossed following her hand approach him. “Good kitty. Good puss puss.”

She rubbed his ears. Frank sank back into the scarf’s folds and quietly purred.

“I didn’t know you had a cat. He she it got a name?”

Stacey made sure Frank rested snugly in the scarf. “Frank Sinatra.”

Larry perked up. “Ol’ Blue Eyes. I get it.” He waited for their acknowledgement.

Monique stood in front of the dairy refrigeration units. “Love the way you’re modernizing the place, Lare.” Her voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “He’s replacing the old equipment a little bit each month. Stay away for two months and you won’t know where anything is.” Her voice returned to its conversational natter. “Or is that your plan, Larry? To keep people coming in?”

He nodded vigorously. “The plans are for internet access in the cafe with a few computers. You know, keep the kids off the streets.” He looked hopefully at Stacey. “What d’you think? Cool, huh?”

Stacey looked out the window to the ghost-town lack of traffic, people, pigeons, anything, and smiled.

Monique shook her head. “Isn’t it endearing when a middle-age man uses ‘cool’ in everyday language? Makes you think he’s one of the bitchin’ boss boys in the band, doesn’t it?”

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Previous Fains I (A John Chance Mystery) Chapters