Maybe it was a coincidence that the Chinese had decided to have the first man land on Mars the day before the United States election day, in prime time for the Eastern Time zone. Then again, maybe the fact that HBO had the exclusive rights to non-Chinese coverage of the landing, for which it had paid handsomely, had something to do with it.
Whatever the reason, space buffs had had almost five years to plan ahead for this landmark event in human history and there were parties all over town as people gathered to see it happen. Just about everyone on Earth knew the names of most of the members of the twenty person mission. Most journalists coercing the story could even rattle off the names of the leaders with credible Mandarin accents. All of the crew members were Chinese, and while the crew was from diverse backgrounds within China, all of the leaders were from Beijing.
DeVeux Events hadn’t landed the biggest party, at the Museum of Natural History, but, the Denver Country Club Party which they did get was as much as they could handle anyway. Normally, Lily did only ice sculptures, for which she received a 50% commission, but for this job, Mark needed everyone he could get, so Lily was helping to set up tables, carrying trays of appetizers and clearing empty glasses. When the moment came, campaign bottles would pop and everyone on staff would dispatch glasses full of it to the guests as if it was a New Year’s Eve Party.
In the main hall, the HBO coverage played on a huge screen at the front of the room. In a side room, a six foot diameter hologram of Mars spun slowly, surrounded by charts, timelines and diagrams on preprinted poster boards. It wasn’t quite museum quality, but was good enough to win a top prize at a high school science fair. This particular display, hologram and all, won the top prize at the South High School Science Fair.
Fatima Kwam, the young woman who’d prepared the project was hovering over it and piercing her natural tendency towards social awkwardness with her earnest desire to explain the mission. Fatima Kwam looked out of place in the country club. Three-quarters of a century after the civil rights movement began, the country club was mostly full of white faces, with just a smattering of Asian and black members. Most of the guests were in evening gowns, but Fatima wore a plain, loose gray wool sweater, a long plain skirt that went down to her ankles where it met sensible dull leather loafers, and a transparent silk veil that didn’t really obscure her face, but made a statement about her faith. She wore no jewelry, except a cheap watch buried under her sweater. Her hair was short without being boyish. In a corner of the room near the main hall, her father, a severe looking man in his early 40s wearing a simple navy blue suit instead of the tuxedo sported by most of the older male guests, watched her silently from a distance.
When one of the regular serving crew had been asked questions about the foot by Fatima’s father, Mark had dispatched Lily to handle it after briefly explaining which foods in the menu had pork or alcohol in them.
As Lily came in, Fatima was immersed in her pitch.
“So, I understand that you’re the President of the South High School Space Club. Do I have that right?”, an older man with a curled mustache asked.
“That’s right. I helped found the Club at South three and a half years ago as a Freshman. Everyone was doing it. I doubt there’s a high school in the country without one now. The Administration may have felt that it was no big deal because unmanned missions are more cost effective than manned missions, but NASA just didn’t get it. This trip captured the world’s imagination. When more than a year had passed and no one had really don’t anything to acknowledge what all of us were interested in, we started a club. Ms. Frisk, the physics teacher, was great. She really encouraged us. When my senior year came, I became the President.”
Lily turned away and spoke to Fatima’s father.
“Mr. Kwam.”, Lily said, getting his attention. “Mr. DeVeux, said you had some questions about the menu. I usually work with clients to co-plan events, so he asked me to discuss the menu with you.”
Mr. Kwam averted his eyes from Lily, who was considerably less modest in her attire, with cleveage pressing against her servant’s black and whites, but he did answer her.
“Yes, I did. As you probably know, Fatima and I are Muslims, and its important to us that we not have any food or drink prohibited by our religion - such as pork or alcohol. Could you tell me what has gone into the various appetizers?”
“Certainly.”, Lily responded. And, she quickly launched into a rundown of the menu from pork sausage rolls, to wine sauce soaked pastries, to acceptable vegetable trays, to permissible lamb-matzo ball dumplings, to permissible chicken soup, to forbidden pork lard cake slices. She also explained that while most of the drinks were alcoholic, that any glass with blue ring dangling around the stem was non-alcoholic. As one of her co-workers went by, she grabbed several lamb-matzo ball dumplings, and a glass of apple cider and presented it to him.
“Thank you.”, Mr. Kwam responded, after hearing the presentation from Lily, and he brought the plate and glass to his daughter.
“These foods are safe to eat. I spoke with Mr. DeVeux’s assistant to confirm it.”, he told his daughter.
Fatima smiled and took a deep drink of cider, her throat getting sore from so much talking.
Soon a bell rang, and the guests gathered in the main hall. The first man set foot on Mars. The man doing so made a statement about the power of the People working together, quickly translated from Mandarin to English by an HBO translator, corks popped, campaign was distributed, and on a third or fourth round, Lily personally brought two glasses of sparkling grape juice (accompanied with an explanation of what it was) to Fatima and her father.
Dinner was served half an hour later, and it was all Lily could do to keep up. By the time the desert was served and the sun had set her usual smile had faded to a painted on facsimile of a smile and Lily was regretting her decision to wear even low heels for this function.
Once the closing speech from the Country Club Night Owls Chairman was over and the scientifically minded people in the crowd had gravitated to the telescopes set up on the greens to watch Mars what was now early evening, Lily took a break in the front room with the Mars display. Fatima had retreated there as well and was sitting next to Lily. Comfortable that the guests were no longer interested in his daughter, Fatima’s father had drifted into the front drive to enjoy a glass of tea by himself.
“I’m really impressed.”, Lily told Fatima, to make conversation. “I was never very good at school. I didn’t even graduate from high school.”
Fatima wrinkled her nose, not quite sure what to make of that. “My father would kill me if I didn’t make good grades. He was a professor of Islamic law back in Nigeria, even though now he just rents old cement trucks to contractors. He isn’t thrilled by the fact that I spend all my time at meetings of a club full of boys, either. If it weren’t for the fact that my brother is in the club too, he wouldn’t let me participate at all.” Fatima glanced over to make sure her father was still safely outside as she said it.
Lily thought a bit about how to respond to that.
“Is it nice having a brother?”, Lily asked. “I never had any siblings.”
“Oh, a brother can be O.K. My older brother, happy to chaperone me at my meetings at all hours, as long as I don’t tell my dad that he drinks beer with his friends. But, brothers can be awfully bossy. And, of course, I have to do all the housework with my mom, even though my older brother and my two younger brothers are all perfectly capable of it.”
“Do you have plans for college?”, Lily asked, knowing that most science fair kids did.
“Yes. I was just accepted to C.U. a couple of weeks ago, and the guidance counselor at school said I’ve got a good chance of getting a scholarship. Good think too. Otherwise, my father would probably never be willing to spend the money on me. Sending the boys abroad to study Islam is much higher on his financial priority scale. He’s a leader in the community and so he feels like he has to send them to keep up appearances.”
Fatima glanced over to see her father heading back in and spoke quickly.
“Could I get your number. I’ve been here all night and you’re the only person who seems to really care about me as a person. Father won’t let me spend time with men, and I have to study so much I don’t get much time to meet other women either. Father told me you make the most beautiful ice sculptures. He’s seen them in the paper. Maybe we could talk again?”, Fatima was almost pleading. Clearly, she was one lonely girl.
“Sure.”, Lily said, writing her number on a napkin. The irony of her, who’d never had family, being a big sister to a woman who had a huge family did not escape her, but she heard the tone of Fatima’s voice and couldn’t help but to want to help her any way she could.
A few moments later, Fatima’s father came in and they started moving the project out to their dirt covered pickup truck. Lily helped carry poster boards and the hologram projector. Her father politely said thank you and asked for her name. In a moment they had vanished into the 1st Avenue traffic in front of the country club.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
17th Street
Winston paid the outrageous amount it took to park the company van in a downtown parking garage and walked down the 16th Street mall for his 9 o’clock appointment with James Phan, the criminal defense lawyer that his accountant had recommended. Mr. Phan was reputed to be one of the better white collar crime specialists in Denver. Usually, his conversations with lawyers were by videophone, but Mr. Phan had written him in a letter written on thick bond paper in a fountain pen, insisting that they meet in person, saying that an in person conversation was the only way to assure complete confidentiality, especially in business cases where insider participation was common.
Winston turned the corner, crossed 17th Street, and entered Mr. Phan’s building, one of the many anonymous high rises filled with lawyers downtown. He checked in with the front desk attendant to say he had an appointment with Mr. Phan, who then confirmed the appointment on his computer and authorized an elevator which Winston entered. It went directly to the 17th floor.
A short hallway led to Mr. Phan’s office. The waiting room featured a large fresh floral bouquet, a fountain, several mirrors and some traditional Vietnamese prints. A steaming tea pot with empty cups arrayed around it sat on an ebony table next to the small silk couch. The only reading materials in the waiting room were two thin, books of captioned pictures, one of mountain scenes, and the other of office scenes with ominous collections of bureaucrats posed in them. An elderly woman of Vietnamese descent sat behind the reception desk, actually just a table, apparently hand calculating some accounts on an abacus. A voice only phone was on the table, but it had no computer, video screen. It didn’t even have the obligatory in and out baskets.
“Are you ready to pay the retainer?”, the elderly woman asked.
Winston handed her a plastic holographic card, which the woman took, walking into another room, and then returned with a small paper receipt. The amount matched the very large number that had appeared in the handwritten letter to him.
“Mr. Phan will be with you shortly Winston.”, the elderly lady said.
“Thank you grandmother.”, Mr. Phan said as came out of one of the two doors that lead into the waiting room. He was about six feet tall, thin, and clearly of Vietnamese descent. He wore tiny round wire rimmed glasses, despite the fact that he could clearly afford eye surgery or permanent contacts, and looked to be about 40 years old. His long black hair was drawn back in a ponytail wrapped around a brilliantly purple iris. The deep scent of the flower reached Winston almost immediately. Mr. Phan was dressed in a deep blue silk shirt, with sapphire cufflinks, a fine light gray sports coat, and tailored black silk pants. His feet were bare in his black loafers, despite the fact that summer was swiftly passing. His watch was elegant, and looked like something out of a jewelry store.
“Come into my office, call me James.”, he said.
The wall to wall windows were obscured by ethereal white curtains that allowed light in, eliminating any need for artificial light, while obscuring any view in or out. The interior walls were lined with double doored, closed, white cabinets. This room also lacked the usual videophone, although there was a portable computer on one a wicker credenza against one wall next to Mr. Phan’s Colorado bar admission certificate in a small black wooden picture frame sitting on the credenza as well. A large circular table made of a single oversized slab a light gray granite streaked with long veins of black granite was surrounded by five large comfortable leather chairs dominated the room. In the outside corner, opposite the entry door, a large brass fat Buddha smiled at them. A thin paper file, a note pad, and a fountain pen rested in front of one of the seats at the table which James sat in. Winston pulled up another chair.
“I understand that you are being investigated for some accounting irregularities.”, James said.
“I think someone is using my construction business to launder money for terrorists or criminals or who knows who.”, Winston said.
“Do you have access to those accounts?”
“Yes, I’m a small business person and a keep my own books. I don’t recall having given the passwords to access them to anyone. I’ve never written them down.”
“Surely, you have some help.”
“I have staff that processes accounts payable, but no payments can be authorized without my say so, and I handle the deposits personally . . . my company works on large paving contracts, so its rare for me to get more than two or three deposits a month.”
“Have there been any irregularities in your personal accounts?”
“No. But, there have been some strange things going on in my personal life. Just when this broke, you know, I just moved to a new condo, someone mailed me my cat, who had gone missing when I moved, in pieces.”
“Do you suspect anyone?”
“I have no idea whose behind this. I’ve been in business for years, its competitive. I’m sure I have more enemies than I can count. But, I really have no idea.”
“Do you have any idea how much money was run through your accounts?”
“Multi-millions, I’m not sure of the exact amount.”
“Do you have the copy of your accounting records I requested?”
Winston handed him a black silicon chip about the size of his thumb.
“Here’s my card. Carry it with you at all times and present it to the police immediately and say nothing more about this case, if you are arrested. Your best defense appears to be that you have been very elegantly framed. Your problem is that you don’t seem know enough about what’s happened to be useful in defending yourself. This will be a difficult case, but I will take ever step possible under the law to protect you. My investigator will visit you at your home next week. Hopefully, we can uncover some leads before the authorities discover that a crime has been committed using your company.”
“You don’t think I’m guilty, do you?”, Winston asked.
“I’m not in the business of determining guilt or innocent. I am in the business of protecting you.”
“Thanks James.”, Winston said with a biting tone that Mr. Phan chose not to acknowledge.
The two men shook hands, and Winston returned, down the elevator, and through the downtown streets to his van, not particularly reassured.
Winston turned the corner, crossed 17th Street, and entered Mr. Phan’s building, one of the many anonymous high rises filled with lawyers downtown. He checked in with the front desk attendant to say he had an appointment with Mr. Phan, who then confirmed the appointment on his computer and authorized an elevator which Winston entered. It went directly to the 17th floor.
A short hallway led to Mr. Phan’s office. The waiting room featured a large fresh floral bouquet, a fountain, several mirrors and some traditional Vietnamese prints. A steaming tea pot with empty cups arrayed around it sat on an ebony table next to the small silk couch. The only reading materials in the waiting room were two thin, books of captioned pictures, one of mountain scenes, and the other of office scenes with ominous collections of bureaucrats posed in them. An elderly woman of Vietnamese descent sat behind the reception desk, actually just a table, apparently hand calculating some accounts on an abacus. A voice only phone was on the table, but it had no computer, video screen. It didn’t even have the obligatory in and out baskets.
“Are you ready to pay the retainer?”, the elderly woman asked.
Winston handed her a plastic holographic card, which the woman took, walking into another room, and then returned with a small paper receipt. The amount matched the very large number that had appeared in the handwritten letter to him.
“Mr. Phan will be with you shortly Winston.”, the elderly lady said.
“Thank you grandmother.”, Mr. Phan said as came out of one of the two doors that lead into the waiting room. He was about six feet tall, thin, and clearly of Vietnamese descent. He wore tiny round wire rimmed glasses, despite the fact that he could clearly afford eye surgery or permanent contacts, and looked to be about 40 years old. His long black hair was drawn back in a ponytail wrapped around a brilliantly purple iris. The deep scent of the flower reached Winston almost immediately. Mr. Phan was dressed in a deep blue silk shirt, with sapphire cufflinks, a fine light gray sports coat, and tailored black silk pants. His feet were bare in his black loafers, despite the fact that summer was swiftly passing. His watch was elegant, and looked like something out of a jewelry store.
“Come into my office, call me James.”, he said.
The wall to wall windows were obscured by ethereal white curtains that allowed light in, eliminating any need for artificial light, while obscuring any view in or out. The interior walls were lined with double doored, closed, white cabinets. This room also lacked the usual videophone, although there was a portable computer on one a wicker credenza against one wall next to Mr. Phan’s Colorado bar admission certificate in a small black wooden picture frame sitting on the credenza as well. A large circular table made of a single oversized slab a light gray granite streaked with long veins of black granite was surrounded by five large comfortable leather chairs dominated the room. In the outside corner, opposite the entry door, a large brass fat Buddha smiled at them. A thin paper file, a note pad, and a fountain pen rested in front of one of the seats at the table which James sat in. Winston pulled up another chair.
“I understand that you are being investigated for some accounting irregularities.”, James said.
“I think someone is using my construction business to launder money for terrorists or criminals or who knows who.”, Winston said.
“Do you have access to those accounts?”
“Yes, I’m a small business person and a keep my own books. I don’t recall having given the passwords to access them to anyone. I’ve never written them down.”
“Surely, you have some help.”
“I have staff that processes accounts payable, but no payments can be authorized without my say so, and I handle the deposits personally . . . my company works on large paving contracts, so its rare for me to get more than two or three deposits a month.”
“Have there been any irregularities in your personal accounts?”
“No. But, there have been some strange things going on in my personal life. Just when this broke, you know, I just moved to a new condo, someone mailed me my cat, who had gone missing when I moved, in pieces.”
“Do you suspect anyone?”
“I have no idea whose behind this. I’ve been in business for years, its competitive. I’m sure I have more enemies than I can count. But, I really have no idea.”
“Do you have any idea how much money was run through your accounts?”
“Multi-millions, I’m not sure of the exact amount.”
“Do you have the copy of your accounting records I requested?”
Winston handed him a black silicon chip about the size of his thumb.
“Here’s my card. Carry it with you at all times and present it to the police immediately and say nothing more about this case, if you are arrested. Your best defense appears to be that you have been very elegantly framed. Your problem is that you don’t seem know enough about what’s happened to be useful in defending yourself. This will be a difficult case, but I will take ever step possible under the law to protect you. My investigator will visit you at your home next week. Hopefully, we can uncover some leads before the authorities discover that a crime has been committed using your company.”
“You don’t think I’m guilty, do you?”, Winston asked.
“I’m not in the business of determining guilt or innocent. I am in the business of protecting you.”
“Thanks James.”, Winston said with a biting tone that Mr. Phan chose not to acknowledge.
The two men shook hands, and Winston returned, down the elevator, and through the downtown streets to his van, not particularly reassured.
Chapter 7: October 15, 2030
The album arrived the next day, while Lily was in the back room sharpening her tools. It was in a white box, wrapped in pink and black tissue paper. The opening picture was a blown up news photo of a car bombing near shops and government offices in Johannesburg, South Africa. The next few photos showed a teenaged Chloe and her father, in mourning clothes at a funeral for Chloe’s mother. The obituary explained that it was a contaminated blood transfusion, rather than the blast itself, that had killed her. This, Lily had expected, having heard the whole story from Mark after her meeting with Chloe. But, after these first few pages, were “before” pictures, obituaries, and “after” family pictures, not posed but at homes and shops and schools, for each of the other fourteen victims of the blast, some dead, others, horribly wounded. Black and white; brown and Asian. Muslim, Christian and neither.
Chloe had commissioned the biggest ice sculpture Lily had ever attempted. That afternoon she prepared a sketch, with the bombing in center stage, surrounded by a scene related to each of the fifteen victims circling the blast, each scene obviously related to a particular person, despite the absence of lines or circles to directly connect them. Lily even, as the picture album had, included a picture of the family of the bomber himself, a human, caring picture that showed why he might have done it. The finished scene had several projections on two foot by three foot bond paper in gray watercolor. She gave Chloe only one option, to give a thumbs up or down. Mark reviewed the sketches before they went out, as he always did. He’d given her considerable input when she started at first, often sending her back to the drawing board. He still did. Lily had been working for Mark less than a year. This time, however, Mark simply intoned, “Yes.”, and Lily called the bike messenger and gave him the address of Chloe’s advertising agency.
Lily was surprised to find the bike messenger return an hour later. Chloe had told him to stay for her reply. A sweet smelling piece of folded hand made paper in an envelope made of the same paper and sealed in wax came back. Lily broke the seal. In flowing deep black fountain pen ink, was a single word in Chloe’s hand. “Yes.”
Lily cried, and after a decent interval, the bike messenger gave her his receipt pad for her to put her thumbprint on. Lily did. A soft ding rang from the plastic slate, and the man was on his bicycle and off to his next job.
Chloe had commissioned the biggest ice sculpture Lily had ever attempted. That afternoon she prepared a sketch, with the bombing in center stage, surrounded by a scene related to each of the fifteen victims circling the blast, each scene obviously related to a particular person, despite the absence of lines or circles to directly connect them. Lily even, as the picture album had, included a picture of the family of the bomber himself, a human, caring picture that showed why he might have done it. The finished scene had several projections on two foot by three foot bond paper in gray watercolor. She gave Chloe only one option, to give a thumbs up or down. Mark reviewed the sketches before they went out, as he always did. He’d given her considerable input when she started at first, often sending her back to the drawing board. He still did. Lily had been working for Mark less than a year. This time, however, Mark simply intoned, “Yes.”, and Lily called the bike messenger and gave him the address of Chloe’s advertising agency.
Lily was surprised to find the bike messenger return an hour later. Chloe had told him to stay for her reply. A sweet smelling piece of folded hand made paper in an envelope made of the same paper and sealed in wax came back. Lily broke the seal. In flowing deep black fountain pen ink, was a single word in Chloe’s hand. “Yes.”
Lily cried, and after a decent interval, the bike messenger gave her his receipt pad for her to put her thumbprint on. Lily did. A soft ding rang from the plastic slate, and the man was on his bicycle and off to his next job.
Chapter 6: October 14, 2030 A Halloween Party
The phone had been making off the hook noises for hours when Lily opened her eyes. She’d left it that way after trying over and over again to try to call Cass and see if he was all right. The alarm had progressed from waterfall noises, to a morning show on the radio, to a disturbing wail. The sun was streaming in through the window.
“Damn.”, Lily thought. “I’m going to be late.”
The shop wasn’t far, just across Cherry Creek and down the street at 8th and Speer. But, Lily had been warned in no uncertain terms by her boss, Mark DeVeux, that this morning’s meeting was a make or break event for the little catering shop, DeVeux Events, where she worked. Usually, Lily managed to fit in a little stroll along the bike path on her way in, but that was not going to happen today. Lily quickly washed her face in the kitchen sink, skipped her usual makeup, and threw on the ankle length plain black dress that she’d worn the night before -- despite the fact that it smelled of cheap cigarettes. She looked for shoes to put on as she headed out her front door, but the short and narrow heels she’d worn the previous night was the only thing she could see that matched.
Lily tripped once or twice racing down three flights of stairs after just missing the elevator, only to be saved by the hand rail. She lurched out her apartment building into the bracing early October morning, and set her eyes on her motorcycle, parked near the front entrance to be building. The building door snicked shut behind her. It suddenly occurred to Lily that the keycards to her apartment and the building were in her purse on the couch in her apartment, behind two locked doors. She hated the snotty little kid who handled lockouts -- for a $100 fee, but Lily would deal with that later. The clock tower across the road said 8:27, too late for the bus (even if she had any money) or to walk. This day was not looking like a good one.
Fortunately, the motorcycle was started with a fingerprint key. But, as Lily approached it, it occurred to her that an ankle length black dress posed certain difficulties. “You idiot!”, Lily informed herself, speaking to no one in particular. Mark DeVeux would kill her if she was late. This was a big client and she couldn’t afford to be the one that lost her. Lily needed this job to pay the rent. But, it wouldn’t do to have her boss and the shop’s big new client see her going down Speer Boulevard with her lacey panties from last night showing underneath a dress rolled up to her waist. With Lily’s luck today, she’d end up on the front page of the Rocky Mountain News.
Resigned to necessity, and not really trusting herself, Lily kicked her motorcycle into gear and daintily sat sidesaddle on the seat. The sight of Lily Matsunaka gracefully leaning back as the motorcycle slowly rolled back and forth, out of her apartment complex, East along 11th Avenue to Speer, in front Sunken Gardens Park, and over Cherry Creek into the front parking lot of the shop inspired a wolf whistle or two from some construction workers and kids on their way to West High School. It would have made a good shot for the paper even so, but no photographers were in evidence, and she’d already contributed to today’s front page, although she didn’t know it yet.
Lily rolled into the lot just as the shop’s grandfather clock chimed the half hour, in tandem with a huge boxy black Cadillac that could have housed an entire soccer team. Lily managed to land gracefully, and reached the front door just in time to hold it open for the surprisingly young woman who had disembarked from the monster next to her motorcycle in the parking lot. Mark DeVeux was all smiles to the client, but the moment the client looked away at a display of tarts, he shot Lily a lance that said “we’ve got to talk.” Meanwhile, stifled cheers and moans erupted from the back room, where bets had apparently been placed on whether Lily would make it in this morning.
“Ms. Tabor, I presume.”, Lily said, as the woman returned her gaze to Lily and Mark DeVeux from the elaborate tarts that were a DeVeux trademark confection. Ms. Tabor, was tall, blond, pale and thin, with big generous brown eyes, dressed in sharp tweedy designer clothes. Mark had told Lily that Ms. Tabor, who was a few years ahead of him at the Denver Academy, was an advertising executive, and she looked the part.
“Indeed! I’m here to talk to Lily Matsunaka and Mark DeVeux about the Halloween Fundraiser for the Terror Victims Fund. Hi! Mark, how’s it going? And, where’s this Lily Matsunaka I’ve heard so much about?”
“I’m her.”, Lily peeped, with a blend of indignation and pride.
“Oh my, you’re so young.”, Ms. Tabor exclaimed.
“Don’t worry Chloe. When it comes to ice sculpture, Lily is Denver’s rising star. She won’t be disappointed, will she Lily?”, Mark replied.
“Mr. DeVeux is generous.”, Lily answered, “but, I assure you I do take my work seriously and you’re welcome to look at my portfolio and let it speak for itself.” Lily wasn’t always so socially graceful, but she and Mark had worked out of standard banter for clients in the several months she’d worked for him.
“I think I will.”, Chloe said as Mark guided the two women to the parlor where he planned events with his clients, sitting Chloe in front of an pedestal with a reduced sized hologram of the sculpture Lily had done for the event for the Naval officers at the Governor’s mansion. Chloe Tabor gasped at what she saw, and walked around it to see it from all sides. After indicating thumbnails of few more of Lily‘s works that activated different holograms, Chloe stopped and simply said, “I’m impressed. You’d told me how incredible Lily’s work was before, but I had no idea.”
Mark adjusted the bud he liked to wear behind his right ear, gave Chloe a huge smile, and said, “Of course, work like this doesn’t come cheap, and is in addition to the ordinary catering costs.”
“Of course.”, Chloe said, “where would you like to start?”
“Why don’t you give me the notes on the location, number of guests, and menu needs we talked about before, and meet with Lily, while I go over them.”
Chloe nodded and turned her gaze straight into the surreal pastel green of Lily’s eyes set against Lily’s dusky skin and they began. Lily took Chloe’s hands in her own and asked her, almost trace like, “What do you want your guests to come away from the event thinking?”
Chloe spoke slowly, haltingly, torn away from the light chatter she’d been immersed in just moments before with Mark. “I want them to remember the horror of the killings that never seem to stop. . . And the people who are left behind to hurt. . . How human they are . . .how they could be anyone. . . I want them to remember how urgently they need love, support and money to rebuild their lives. . . . If they really get that message just once, I know they’ll keep giving for the rest of their lives. . . The Terror Victim’s Fund is a good cause.”
Lily spoke very softly, treading carefully. She had no idea whether Chloe had suffered personally. “Do you have any photographs? Of a terror scene? Of some of the people the fund helps? Pictures can capture feelings better than words do.”
A tear or two fell from a silent Chloe’s eye. Lily could see that this was personal.
“I’ll get you a little photo album tomorrow.”, Chloe said in a hush. “I don’t know why, but I don’t think I need to say any more. I know you’ll do the right thing.” Lily handed Chloe a tissue, gently acknowledging Chloe’s pain. “Thank you.”, Chloe said.
Lily went to the back room and collapsed into a chair in the break room.
Joe Romero stood across from her, leaning against the sink.
“You saw death face to face and survived yesterday. How did it feel?”, he asked.
“What?”, Lily asked, feigning ignorance.
Joe threw the front page of the Rocky Mountain News down in front of her. There was Lily’s portrait of the shooter, filling the entire page, larger than the original.
“I know your work, Lily. Police profilers don‘t use water colors.”, Joe said, “And, even if I didn’t, how many other Naval officers in Denver do you suppose took their dates to coffee shops at ten thirty, right next to the ballet you were going to see with Cass Jackson last night, not long after the show was over. I may not be a genius, but even if I hadn’t read the paper I would have guessed that there was some reason you came into work, terribly late, in an evening dress, with bags under your eyes.”
Lily involuntarily reached up to touch those dark spots.
“It was actually creamer and coffee.”, Lily said, “I used a swizzle stick as a brush.”
“You’re lucky to be alive Lily. You were right there when the shooting started, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”, Lily said, and she cried for the first time since it happened, shaking all over. “I just got a commission for the Terrorism Victims Fund. I didn’t plan on being one. But, I guess I am now.”
Joe gently held her shoulder. Then, he put on hand on the cross around his neck and the other on her hand and said a silent prayer. Then, Joe handed her a tissue, turned, and walked towards the back door.
“I’ve got to pick up the beef for tonight‘s function at the Stockyards. You know how to call me if you need to talk.”
And then, Joe left.
Lily used the shop phone to call the number Cass has left her.
“Corporal Wallace here.”, a voice answered.
“This is the “ice lady” calling. I’m sure Cass is too busy to talk, but is he O.K.?”
“I don’t think he’s too busy to talk to you. One moment please.”
“Lily, my darling, are you all right? I know I left in a rush and that you must have been terrified. It’s my job. I should have never put you in danger like that. I’ll make it up to you some how, if you still want to have anything to do with me.”
“Are you O.K.?”
“I’m fine. The sniper got away. I didn’t get much sleep, and I imagine you didn’t either, but I don’t have a scratch on me. A good night’s rest and she’ll be right.”, Cass said.
“Can we meet again? I need to see you. I hear you, but I don’t believe it.”
“Sure. Everything has been nuts since this happened, but I’ll make time. Someplace safe and discrete. Can you do dinner tonight at the Remembrance Towers, at the cafeteria on the 100th floor of the South Tower? My office is in the building, and I can’t think of any place safer. How about seven o’clock? That way I can take a nap and freshen up a little first. I’ll leave your name with the guards at the front gate, so you shouldn’t have any problem.”
“I’ll be there.”, Lily said, and terminated the connection.
Lily then laid her head on the break room table and took her own midmorning nap. Mark DeVeux saw her, but he’d read the paper by then and deduced what had happened, just as Joe had, despite the fact that her name wasn’t mentioned. He decided to let her sleep.
* * * * * * *
Just over a month after her last visit to the Remembrance Tower for Remembrance Day, Lily again got off the shuttle in the plaza in front of the Towers. At night a reflection of the city lights gleamed in their glass facade. This time, however, she went in the main door, rather than the tourist entrance.
The door opened easily enough, but only into a large cage of thick tinted glass. She crossed it to a door at the other side.
“Please place you right hand on the scanner and identify yourself and your business.”, a pleasant, but canned voice repeated from hidden speakers. A hand size panel near the door glowed and a camera behind the glass focused on her.
Lily put her hand on the panel and said, “I’m Lily Matsunaka, here to have dinner with Cass Jackson at the cafeteria on the 100th Floor.”
The door opened, and she walked through into a tinted glass tunnel. Once she was through the door it closed behind her, leaving her in an air lock. A small printer dropped a paper ticket in a glass bowl at the other end of the hallway. It had her name, and stated that she was authorized to ride to the 100th floor until midnight, to be present in the building accompanied by a host with permanent ID, and to exit the building. As she took the ticket, there was a hiss and the door at the other end of the tunnel opened out onto a bank of elevators. A man with a rifle over his shoulder sat at a lonely front desk in front of a screen, looking bored, and waved her on with his eyes. She went to an elevator labeled “Floors 50-100”, pressed a button, and got on when it opened.
“Please place your hand on the panel and select a floor.”, another canned voice said calmly.
Lily put her hand on the panel and pressed the button marked 100. The elevator rushed up so fast her made her stomach lurch a little. When the doors opened at the 100th floor, she got off.
Unlike the ground floor of the building, which had been dark and still at seven o‘clock at night, at least when she was there, the 100th floor, which appeared to be entirely a cafeteria, was perhaps a third full as mostly federal employees took their dinners in small groups or alone. Cass had positioned himself facing the elevator exit, and got up to meet her as she stepped into the cafeteria.
Lily ran up to him and grab both of his hands so tightly as she pulled herself up against him that he started and a several people in the cafeteria looked up to see what was happening before they decided to avert their eyes. She planted a long, fervent kiss on his lips. They paused and he too took a moment to be captivated by her pastel green eyes.
He took her by one hand towards the serving area. It was a step up from a mall food court. He suggested Cajun chicken, seafood gumbo, and cornbread, and offered her a glass of peach nectar. She accepted each of his suggestions, which looked better to her than other choices she’d seen. He took a prime rib and mashed potatoes incongruously matched with some Indian flat bread, and a small dish of Korean kimchi. He took an Arnold Palmer, half lemonade and half iced tea, to drink.
“Something tells me that you’ve discovered my Creole roots.”, Lily said, suspiciously as they made their way to the cashier.
“I actually had to pull a favor to get them to make the chicken, so I’m glad you wanted it. And what can I say, my dear. I’m in Naval Intelligence, it’s what I do.”
They set down their trays on a table for two near a window turned away from downtown where the snow covered Rockies gave off a pale reflected gleam in the background from the lights of the Western suburbs that filled the foreground. The streets pulsed with light, although the residential streets were surprisingly dark. A silk flower in a faded white plastic vase graced the table. The décor is no match for the food, Lily thought, as Cass placed their dishes on the table and took away the trays.
“If you were something other than a personal friend, my dear, I might be less than forthcoming with you right now. It comes with my job. But, as far as I know, nothing in your life has anything to do with my job, so I’m going to be honest with you. The table we’re sitting at is no accident.” Lily started, looking around. “No, not that way, the department has very strict rules governing interactions with outsiders, especially here in headquarters, to prevent espionage. That ugly silk flower you see is a audio-recorder, and your every move is recorded on videotape, just like in every other public place in the world these days. I don’t like it, but I see why they need it.”
“Oh.”, Lily said.
“I want to apologize to you for what happened last night.”, Cass said.
“You don’t have to . . . “, Lily started.
“I have a dangerous job. I’m not allowed to talk about the details, national security and all.”
“I understand.”
“But, that doesn’t mean that I can’t have a life. And, it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t make it up to you.”
“Really, you don’t have to, it wasn’t your fault.”
“In a way, it was my fault. I should have been more careful. I didn’t have to be out in dress uniform. I should have, at least, warned you. I would have never forgiven myself if you’d been hit last night.”
“What matters is that you and I are both alive.”, Lily said, squeezing both his hands again, not quite believing that this was all real.
“Have you ever been to Washington D.C.?”, he asked.
Lily sputtered at the sudden change of subject.
“No. To be honest, I’ve never been more than a few miles East of New Orleans.”, she wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but figured that with him, honesty was the best policy.
“Would you like to?”, he asked.
“Well, sure, but, you can’t just go on a vacation like that. You have work to do and so do I. This is only the third time we’ve met.”
“The fourth. The Governor’s ball, the bagel shop, the ballet, and now.”
“Whatever. No one’s ever asked me to go on a vacation before.”
“The truth be told, it wouldn’t be a complete vacation for me, I have to fly to the Pentagon every month to do work at headquarters anyway. But, that doesn’t mean that we couldn’t enjoy the city after hours, and there are plenty of things for a first time tourist to see.”
“But, how could I get away. I work almost every weekend and holiday. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are my days off. And November and December are especially busy.”
“Well, that’s perfect. Minnesota Mutual Air Taxi doesn’t fly to Denver on weekends anyway, and I can adjust my schedule so that my November trip is a Tuesday-Wednesday. Half the people I need to talk to are away for Thanksgiving anyway, so it won’t be a conflict.”
“An air taxi? Aren’t those wildly expensive? How can you afford it?”
“They aren’t quite as expensive as a private jet. And, the government, like everyone else, gets a refund if there’s a profit for the year, but, yeah it’s not cheap. But, I think I could get the department to pay for it, if you could spend about fifteen or twenty minutes talking to the people at headquarters about your contribution to this morning’s front page.”
“How do you know. . .”
“I talked to the investigating officer, and convinced him to keep any mention of you out of the story. That’s my job.”
“Is it a deal?”
“Where will we stay?”
“There’s no commitment. The office keeps a loft downtown for overnight trips like this. There’s more than one bed, if that would make you comfortable.”
“O.K.”, Lily said.
They held hands and watched the world pass by for a long time. Cass excused himself after a while, saying he had to go back to work. They exchanged a light good night kiss. And he went out, notably not offering her a tour of his office. A few minutes later she took the elevator down, left the building, and took the shuttle to downtown, and then another shuttle to her apartment. She went to the management office, mournfully agreed to pay the lockout fee, got into her apartment, and went to bed.
“Damn.”, Lily thought. “I’m going to be late.”
The shop wasn’t far, just across Cherry Creek and down the street at 8th and Speer. But, Lily had been warned in no uncertain terms by her boss, Mark DeVeux, that this morning’s meeting was a make or break event for the little catering shop, DeVeux Events, where she worked. Usually, Lily managed to fit in a little stroll along the bike path on her way in, but that was not going to happen today. Lily quickly washed her face in the kitchen sink, skipped her usual makeup, and threw on the ankle length plain black dress that she’d worn the night before -- despite the fact that it smelled of cheap cigarettes. She looked for shoes to put on as she headed out her front door, but the short and narrow heels she’d worn the previous night was the only thing she could see that matched.
Lily tripped once or twice racing down three flights of stairs after just missing the elevator, only to be saved by the hand rail. She lurched out her apartment building into the bracing early October morning, and set her eyes on her motorcycle, parked near the front entrance to be building. The building door snicked shut behind her. It suddenly occurred to Lily that the keycards to her apartment and the building were in her purse on the couch in her apartment, behind two locked doors. She hated the snotty little kid who handled lockouts -- for a $100 fee, but Lily would deal with that later. The clock tower across the road said 8:27, too late for the bus (even if she had any money) or to walk. This day was not looking like a good one.
Fortunately, the motorcycle was started with a fingerprint key. But, as Lily approached it, it occurred to her that an ankle length black dress posed certain difficulties. “You idiot!”, Lily informed herself, speaking to no one in particular. Mark DeVeux would kill her if she was late. This was a big client and she couldn’t afford to be the one that lost her. Lily needed this job to pay the rent. But, it wouldn’t do to have her boss and the shop’s big new client see her going down Speer Boulevard with her lacey panties from last night showing underneath a dress rolled up to her waist. With Lily’s luck today, she’d end up on the front page of the Rocky Mountain News.
Resigned to necessity, and not really trusting herself, Lily kicked her motorcycle into gear and daintily sat sidesaddle on the seat. The sight of Lily Matsunaka gracefully leaning back as the motorcycle slowly rolled back and forth, out of her apartment complex, East along 11th Avenue to Speer, in front Sunken Gardens Park, and over Cherry Creek into the front parking lot of the shop inspired a wolf whistle or two from some construction workers and kids on their way to West High School. It would have made a good shot for the paper even so, but no photographers were in evidence, and she’d already contributed to today’s front page, although she didn’t know it yet.
Lily rolled into the lot just as the shop’s grandfather clock chimed the half hour, in tandem with a huge boxy black Cadillac that could have housed an entire soccer team. Lily managed to land gracefully, and reached the front door just in time to hold it open for the surprisingly young woman who had disembarked from the monster next to her motorcycle in the parking lot. Mark DeVeux was all smiles to the client, but the moment the client looked away at a display of tarts, he shot Lily a lance that said “we’ve got to talk.” Meanwhile, stifled cheers and moans erupted from the back room, where bets had apparently been placed on whether Lily would make it in this morning.
“Ms. Tabor, I presume.”, Lily said, as the woman returned her gaze to Lily and Mark DeVeux from the elaborate tarts that were a DeVeux trademark confection. Ms. Tabor, was tall, blond, pale and thin, with big generous brown eyes, dressed in sharp tweedy designer clothes. Mark had told Lily that Ms. Tabor, who was a few years ahead of him at the Denver Academy, was an advertising executive, and she looked the part.
“Indeed! I’m here to talk to Lily Matsunaka and Mark DeVeux about the Halloween Fundraiser for the Terror Victims Fund. Hi! Mark, how’s it going? And, where’s this Lily Matsunaka I’ve heard so much about?”
“I’m her.”, Lily peeped, with a blend of indignation and pride.
“Oh my, you’re so young.”, Ms. Tabor exclaimed.
“Don’t worry Chloe. When it comes to ice sculpture, Lily is Denver’s rising star. She won’t be disappointed, will she Lily?”, Mark replied.
“Mr. DeVeux is generous.”, Lily answered, “but, I assure you I do take my work seriously and you’re welcome to look at my portfolio and let it speak for itself.” Lily wasn’t always so socially graceful, but she and Mark had worked out of standard banter for clients in the several months she’d worked for him.
“I think I will.”, Chloe said as Mark guided the two women to the parlor where he planned events with his clients, sitting Chloe in front of an pedestal with a reduced sized hologram of the sculpture Lily had done for the event for the Naval officers at the Governor’s mansion. Chloe Tabor gasped at what she saw, and walked around it to see it from all sides. After indicating thumbnails of few more of Lily‘s works that activated different holograms, Chloe stopped and simply said, “I’m impressed. You’d told me how incredible Lily’s work was before, but I had no idea.”
Mark adjusted the bud he liked to wear behind his right ear, gave Chloe a huge smile, and said, “Of course, work like this doesn’t come cheap, and is in addition to the ordinary catering costs.”
“Of course.”, Chloe said, “where would you like to start?”
“Why don’t you give me the notes on the location, number of guests, and menu needs we talked about before, and meet with Lily, while I go over them.”
Chloe nodded and turned her gaze straight into the surreal pastel green of Lily’s eyes set against Lily’s dusky skin and they began. Lily took Chloe’s hands in her own and asked her, almost trace like, “What do you want your guests to come away from the event thinking?”
Chloe spoke slowly, haltingly, torn away from the light chatter she’d been immersed in just moments before with Mark. “I want them to remember the horror of the killings that never seem to stop. . . And the people who are left behind to hurt. . . How human they are . . .how they could be anyone. . . I want them to remember how urgently they need love, support and money to rebuild their lives. . . . If they really get that message just once, I know they’ll keep giving for the rest of their lives. . . The Terror Victim’s Fund is a good cause.”
Lily spoke very softly, treading carefully. She had no idea whether Chloe had suffered personally. “Do you have any photographs? Of a terror scene? Of some of the people the fund helps? Pictures can capture feelings better than words do.”
A tear or two fell from a silent Chloe’s eye. Lily could see that this was personal.
“I’ll get you a little photo album tomorrow.”, Chloe said in a hush. “I don’t know why, but I don’t think I need to say any more. I know you’ll do the right thing.” Lily handed Chloe a tissue, gently acknowledging Chloe’s pain. “Thank you.”, Chloe said.
Lily went to the back room and collapsed into a chair in the break room.
Joe Romero stood across from her, leaning against the sink.
“You saw death face to face and survived yesterday. How did it feel?”, he asked.
“What?”, Lily asked, feigning ignorance.
Joe threw the front page of the Rocky Mountain News down in front of her. There was Lily’s portrait of the shooter, filling the entire page, larger than the original.
“I know your work, Lily. Police profilers don‘t use water colors.”, Joe said, “And, even if I didn’t, how many other Naval officers in Denver do you suppose took their dates to coffee shops at ten thirty, right next to the ballet you were going to see with Cass Jackson last night, not long after the show was over. I may not be a genius, but even if I hadn’t read the paper I would have guessed that there was some reason you came into work, terribly late, in an evening dress, with bags under your eyes.”
Lily involuntarily reached up to touch those dark spots.
“It was actually creamer and coffee.”, Lily said, “I used a swizzle stick as a brush.”
“You’re lucky to be alive Lily. You were right there when the shooting started, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”, Lily said, and she cried for the first time since it happened, shaking all over. “I just got a commission for the Terrorism Victims Fund. I didn’t plan on being one. But, I guess I am now.”
Joe gently held her shoulder. Then, he put on hand on the cross around his neck and the other on her hand and said a silent prayer. Then, Joe handed her a tissue, turned, and walked towards the back door.
“I’ve got to pick up the beef for tonight‘s function at the Stockyards. You know how to call me if you need to talk.”
And then, Joe left.
Lily used the shop phone to call the number Cass has left her.
“Corporal Wallace here.”, a voice answered.
“This is the “ice lady” calling. I’m sure Cass is too busy to talk, but is he O.K.?”
“I don’t think he’s too busy to talk to you. One moment please.”
“Lily, my darling, are you all right? I know I left in a rush and that you must have been terrified. It’s my job. I should have never put you in danger like that. I’ll make it up to you some how, if you still want to have anything to do with me.”
“Are you O.K.?”
“I’m fine. The sniper got away. I didn’t get much sleep, and I imagine you didn’t either, but I don’t have a scratch on me. A good night’s rest and she’ll be right.”, Cass said.
“Can we meet again? I need to see you. I hear you, but I don’t believe it.”
“Sure. Everything has been nuts since this happened, but I’ll make time. Someplace safe and discrete. Can you do dinner tonight at the Remembrance Towers, at the cafeteria on the 100th floor of the South Tower? My office is in the building, and I can’t think of any place safer. How about seven o’clock? That way I can take a nap and freshen up a little first. I’ll leave your name with the guards at the front gate, so you shouldn’t have any problem.”
“I’ll be there.”, Lily said, and terminated the connection.
Lily then laid her head on the break room table and took her own midmorning nap. Mark DeVeux saw her, but he’d read the paper by then and deduced what had happened, just as Joe had, despite the fact that her name wasn’t mentioned. He decided to let her sleep.
* * * * * * *
Just over a month after her last visit to the Remembrance Tower for Remembrance Day, Lily again got off the shuttle in the plaza in front of the Towers. At night a reflection of the city lights gleamed in their glass facade. This time, however, she went in the main door, rather than the tourist entrance.
The door opened easily enough, but only into a large cage of thick tinted glass. She crossed it to a door at the other side.
“Please place you right hand on the scanner and identify yourself and your business.”, a pleasant, but canned voice repeated from hidden speakers. A hand size panel near the door glowed and a camera behind the glass focused on her.
Lily put her hand on the panel and said, “I’m Lily Matsunaka, here to have dinner with Cass Jackson at the cafeteria on the 100th Floor.”
The door opened, and she walked through into a tinted glass tunnel. Once she was through the door it closed behind her, leaving her in an air lock. A small printer dropped a paper ticket in a glass bowl at the other end of the hallway. It had her name, and stated that she was authorized to ride to the 100th floor until midnight, to be present in the building accompanied by a host with permanent ID, and to exit the building. As she took the ticket, there was a hiss and the door at the other end of the tunnel opened out onto a bank of elevators. A man with a rifle over his shoulder sat at a lonely front desk in front of a screen, looking bored, and waved her on with his eyes. She went to an elevator labeled “Floors 50-100”, pressed a button, and got on when it opened.
“Please place your hand on the panel and select a floor.”, another canned voice said calmly.
Lily put her hand on the panel and pressed the button marked 100. The elevator rushed up so fast her made her stomach lurch a little. When the doors opened at the 100th floor, she got off.
Unlike the ground floor of the building, which had been dark and still at seven o‘clock at night, at least when she was there, the 100th floor, which appeared to be entirely a cafeteria, was perhaps a third full as mostly federal employees took their dinners in small groups or alone. Cass had positioned himself facing the elevator exit, and got up to meet her as she stepped into the cafeteria.
Lily ran up to him and grab both of his hands so tightly as she pulled herself up against him that he started and a several people in the cafeteria looked up to see what was happening before they decided to avert their eyes. She planted a long, fervent kiss on his lips. They paused and he too took a moment to be captivated by her pastel green eyes.
He took her by one hand towards the serving area. It was a step up from a mall food court. He suggested Cajun chicken, seafood gumbo, and cornbread, and offered her a glass of peach nectar. She accepted each of his suggestions, which looked better to her than other choices she’d seen. He took a prime rib and mashed potatoes incongruously matched with some Indian flat bread, and a small dish of Korean kimchi. He took an Arnold Palmer, half lemonade and half iced tea, to drink.
“Something tells me that you’ve discovered my Creole roots.”, Lily said, suspiciously as they made their way to the cashier.
“I actually had to pull a favor to get them to make the chicken, so I’m glad you wanted it. And what can I say, my dear. I’m in Naval Intelligence, it’s what I do.”
They set down their trays on a table for two near a window turned away from downtown where the snow covered Rockies gave off a pale reflected gleam in the background from the lights of the Western suburbs that filled the foreground. The streets pulsed with light, although the residential streets were surprisingly dark. A silk flower in a faded white plastic vase graced the table. The décor is no match for the food, Lily thought, as Cass placed their dishes on the table and took away the trays.
“If you were something other than a personal friend, my dear, I might be less than forthcoming with you right now. It comes with my job. But, as far as I know, nothing in your life has anything to do with my job, so I’m going to be honest with you. The table we’re sitting at is no accident.” Lily started, looking around. “No, not that way, the department has very strict rules governing interactions with outsiders, especially here in headquarters, to prevent espionage. That ugly silk flower you see is a audio-recorder, and your every move is recorded on videotape, just like in every other public place in the world these days. I don’t like it, but I see why they need it.”
“Oh.”, Lily said.
“I want to apologize to you for what happened last night.”, Cass said.
“You don’t have to . . . “, Lily started.
“I have a dangerous job. I’m not allowed to talk about the details, national security and all.”
“I understand.”
“But, that doesn’t mean that I can’t have a life. And, it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t make it up to you.”
“Really, you don’t have to, it wasn’t your fault.”
“In a way, it was my fault. I should have been more careful. I didn’t have to be out in dress uniform. I should have, at least, warned you. I would have never forgiven myself if you’d been hit last night.”
“What matters is that you and I are both alive.”, Lily said, squeezing both his hands again, not quite believing that this was all real.
“Have you ever been to Washington D.C.?”, he asked.
Lily sputtered at the sudden change of subject.
“No. To be honest, I’ve never been more than a few miles East of New Orleans.”, she wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but figured that with him, honesty was the best policy.
“Would you like to?”, he asked.
“Well, sure, but, you can’t just go on a vacation like that. You have work to do and so do I. This is only the third time we’ve met.”
“The fourth. The Governor’s ball, the bagel shop, the ballet, and now.”
“Whatever. No one’s ever asked me to go on a vacation before.”
“The truth be told, it wouldn’t be a complete vacation for me, I have to fly to the Pentagon every month to do work at headquarters anyway. But, that doesn’t mean that we couldn’t enjoy the city after hours, and there are plenty of things for a first time tourist to see.”
“But, how could I get away. I work almost every weekend and holiday. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are my days off. And November and December are especially busy.”
“Well, that’s perfect. Minnesota Mutual Air Taxi doesn’t fly to Denver on weekends anyway, and I can adjust my schedule so that my November trip is a Tuesday-Wednesday. Half the people I need to talk to are away for Thanksgiving anyway, so it won’t be a conflict.”
“An air taxi? Aren’t those wildly expensive? How can you afford it?”
“They aren’t quite as expensive as a private jet. And, the government, like everyone else, gets a refund if there’s a profit for the year, but, yeah it’s not cheap. But, I think I could get the department to pay for it, if you could spend about fifteen or twenty minutes talking to the people at headquarters about your contribution to this morning’s front page.”
“How do you know. . .”
“I talked to the investigating officer, and convinced him to keep any mention of you out of the story. That’s my job.”
“Is it a deal?”
“Where will we stay?”
“There’s no commitment. The office keeps a loft downtown for overnight trips like this. There’s more than one bed, if that would make you comfortable.”
“O.K.”, Lily said.
They held hands and watched the world pass by for a long time. Cass excused himself after a while, saying he had to go back to work. They exchanged a light good night kiss. And he went out, notably not offering her a tour of his office. A few minutes later she took the elevator down, left the building, and took the shuttle to downtown, and then another shuttle to her apartment. She went to the management office, mournfully agreed to pay the lockout fee, got into her apartment, and went to bed.
Getaway
The pickup raced out of downtown, onto Speer, and then turned right onto Kalamath. It then careened left and crossed Santa Fe Boulevard against the light forcing a passing taxi to slow down. Once into the shadows, the driver killed the lights and slowed to a stop. In perfect synch, another man in a similar pickup turned on his lights continuing towards Speer Boulevard going fast. The taxi driver who had slowed down saw that pickup race away, assuming it was the same one.
Ten minutes earlier, the departing driver had withdrawn money at an ATM in a nearby grocery store and bought a lottery ticket at the customer service desk, which he had visited regularly over the past two months for this purpose, where he told the clerk a particularly crude joke. Two minutes ago, he’d received, as he expected, a call on his wireless phone informing him that a break in was in progress at his University Hills liquor store. The bullets in the .45 caliber handgun, for which he had a valid concealed weapons permit and a receipt from his shooting practice session earlier that afternoon, would not match the 22mm ammunition used in the incident downtown. The police responding to the alarm system call would find a broken window and a broken an empty cash box when they arrived. Early the following morning, the departing driver, whose face would not quite match the description being circulated by police, would leave a long interrogation at police headquarters with a ticket for driving 80 miles an hour in a 45 mile per hour zone and a form to make a police report about the break in to his shop.
Back at the handoff point, the pickup rolled quietly into a body shop, the garage door with white washed windows closing behind them. The shooter in the back of the pickup jumped out and deposited his rifle inside a large shop vacuum. The passenger took a license plate from a shelf and used it to replace a license plate on the pickup, which itself belonged to an unknown par patron’s BMW convertible. The passenger dumped the stolen license plate into a large barrel of paint remover and replaced the lid on the barrel.
The driver was already in the body shop bathroom, having and flushing the hair down the toilet. The man from the back of the pickup joined him. Then, they both cut each other’s hair in near silence. The man who had been in the passenger seat had worn a paper bag over his head during the shooting and getaway and didn’t try to vary his appearance.
The driver took off his shirt, removed the football pads he had under them, stashing them in a gym bag in an employee locker in the shop, and changed into white, paint covered overalls that were in the same locker. The driver then removed the pickup hatch, tossing it into a scrap metal heap in the back, taped over the bullet holes in the side of the pickup, sprayed a first coat of blue paint over the existing white paint, and covered it all with thick plastic tarp. He, then left in his late model Ford sedan, heading straight for the mountain cabin that was his destination. No one would notice him missing during the next two weeks during his planned bow hunting vacation on the Western Slope.
The shooter replaced his clothes with a security guard’s uniform, complete with helmet that hid his hair length from his fellow employees, and headed to the alleyway where his jeep waited.
The passenger, who had slipped into the office to write a note, left last, dropping the letter in a mailbox on his walk home mixed in with a stack of bills he was paying. When the police knocked on his door the next morning, he would admit seeing a white pickup race by his shop, while he was working late on paper work and one of his employees was finishing up a job before leaving on vacation. He would motion with his hands that no vehicle matching the description of the car they wanted to know if he had seen was in his shop.
The shooter would have a time card from his employer’s machine showing that he had arrived on time to his solitary night shift job as a parking lot security guard, a half an hour before the shooting took place. The mechanical time clock would shown no trace that its mechanism had been tampered with and the videotapes of the parking lot would have been reused several times by the time the investigators asked for them, a week later.
Ten minutes earlier, the departing driver had withdrawn money at an ATM in a nearby grocery store and bought a lottery ticket at the customer service desk, which he had visited regularly over the past two months for this purpose, where he told the clerk a particularly crude joke. Two minutes ago, he’d received, as he expected, a call on his wireless phone informing him that a break in was in progress at his University Hills liquor store. The bullets in the .45 caliber handgun, for which he had a valid concealed weapons permit and a receipt from his shooting practice session earlier that afternoon, would not match the 22mm ammunition used in the incident downtown. The police responding to the alarm system call would find a broken window and a broken an empty cash box when they arrived. Early the following morning, the departing driver, whose face would not quite match the description being circulated by police, would leave a long interrogation at police headquarters with a ticket for driving 80 miles an hour in a 45 mile per hour zone and a form to make a police report about the break in to his shop.
Back at the handoff point, the pickup rolled quietly into a body shop, the garage door with white washed windows closing behind them. The shooter in the back of the pickup jumped out and deposited his rifle inside a large shop vacuum. The passenger took a license plate from a shelf and used it to replace a license plate on the pickup, which itself belonged to an unknown par patron’s BMW convertible. The passenger dumped the stolen license plate into a large barrel of paint remover and replaced the lid on the barrel.
The driver was already in the body shop bathroom, having and flushing the hair down the toilet. The man from the back of the pickup joined him. Then, they both cut each other’s hair in near silence. The man who had been in the passenger seat had worn a paper bag over his head during the shooting and getaway and didn’t try to vary his appearance.
The driver took off his shirt, removed the football pads he had under them, stashing them in a gym bag in an employee locker in the shop, and changed into white, paint covered overalls that were in the same locker. The driver then removed the pickup hatch, tossing it into a scrap metal heap in the back, taped over the bullet holes in the side of the pickup, sprayed a first coat of blue paint over the existing white paint, and covered it all with thick plastic tarp. He, then left in his late model Ford sedan, heading straight for the mountain cabin that was his destination. No one would notice him missing during the next two weeks during his planned bow hunting vacation on the Western Slope.
The shooter replaced his clothes with a security guard’s uniform, complete with helmet that hid his hair length from his fellow employees, and headed to the alleyway where his jeep waited.
The passenger, who had slipped into the office to write a note, left last, dropping the letter in a mailbox on his walk home mixed in with a stack of bills he was paying. When the police knocked on his door the next morning, he would admit seeing a white pickup race by his shop, while he was working late on paper work and one of his employees was finishing up a job before leaving on vacation. He would motion with his hands that no vehicle matching the description of the car they wanted to know if he had seen was in his shop.
The shooter would have a time card from his employer’s machine showing that he had arrived on time to his solitary night shift job as a parking lot security guard, a half an hour before the shooting took place. The mechanical time clock would shown no trace that its mechanism had been tampered with and the videotapes of the parking lot would have been reused several times by the time the investigators asked for them, a week later.
Chapter 5: October 13, 2030
The ballet had been delightful. Lily had seen Swan Lake at Christmas once growing up, but Dracula was something entirely different. She’d never imagined that something could be so beautiful and so grotesque at the same time. According to Cass Jackson, who’d gone to Colorado at CU before becoming a Navy officer, it was a Denver tradition. Lily had lived all her life in Colorado, but her experience did not extend to the traditions of the local ballet companies.
Lily had never felt so admired in her life. Her ankle length sleeveless black dress wasn’t warm (especially at ten o‘clock at night in late October), but it was the only nice dress she owned. Her black and white pearl necklace she inherited from her mother, that her mother had inherited from her mother before her, caught a few glances, even in the glamour of the performing arts center. Her heels were starting to make her feet ache just a little, but she enjoyed the one inch height boost they gave her and the being slightly off balance did make her feel a little sexy. So did the lacey panties she’d worn just in case, even though this was only their second date. Next to Cass Jackson in his dress uniform (the most formal clothes he owned), she felt important.
Arm in arm, they walked out of the Performing Arts Center and into Downtown. Cass led Lily around the corner to a coffee shop and wine bar called Pablos. They ordered Irish Coffees and stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. More sizing each other up, than entranced.
In fact, Lily knew very little about Cass, and Cass knew very little about Lily. Lily had struggled with herself for almost a month before calling the number Cass had left for her. Part of her shared Mark’s concern that a man who would send two dozen roses out of the blue was probably a stalker creep who was best avoided. But, eventually, the part of her that said that she was young, all alone in a big city, and the object of someone’s desire won out. That, and Fiona’s effusive descriptions of Cass, anyway.
When she called, from a pay phone at the court house, just to be safe, she’d thought at first that she’d reached Cass himself. The fellow quickly corrected her and identified himself as a Northern Command Army Corporal Wallace, who was acting as Cass’s personal secretary and assistant. When she identified herself as the “Ice Lady”, the corporal said, “Yes, Ma’am”, in a tone that clearly conveyed knowledge and importance and asked her to stay on the line and that he’d have Mr. Jackson for her right away.
When Cass picked up, she heard construction in the background, but Cass was all sugar and honey. “Thank you for calling Ma’am. I thought for sure I was a fool. . .”
“Maybe you were.”, Lily, answered, provoking a poignant silence at the other end of the line. But, Lily started again, before he had a chance to respond. “But, I’m willing to give you a chance to prove it. Would you like to do lunch?”
“Yes, Ma’am!”, Cass responded. After a few more seconds of conversation they agreed to have lunch at a Bagel Shop on the Sixteenth Street Mall the following day. Lily didn’t want to take on chance on meeting this man anywhere other than a public place, or anywhere that alcohol was served, for the first time. She wasn’t actually a bagel fan, but, she’d thought it through, and discussed it at length with Fiona at the flower shop, and declared it safe and someplace that he probably wouldn’t be familiar with as a Southerner. She had decided that she didn’t want to meet him anyplace that was his turf.
The connection had been terminated before Cass was cursing himself for failing to get Lily’s name.
Fiona and Lily had also, of course, done some research on Cass Jackson before this call took place, because they did have his name. Her really was a naval officer and was apparently attached to some senior officer on loan to the Colorado National Guard to fight terrorism under a program set up by the Department of Defense Northern Command and the Department of Homeland Security. He got an undergraduate degree in International Relations from C.U. and was a master’s degree student in the school of Islamic Studies at C.U. as well. A couple of yearbook searches showed that he was on the Equestrian Team and Philosophy Club at C.U., and graduated from High School in Tallahassee, Florida, where he was declared “Most Likely To Fight Terrorism.” He was twenty-four years old. A criminal record search and a credit record search showed that he had no particular blemishes on his record, didn’t own a car (presumably he used the military motorcade), and didn’t have a mortgage. Fiona and Lily agreed that he passed the basic background check.
Lunch went well and finally broke the ice. He didn’t tell any obvious lies, compared and contrasted every great religion’s definition of infidel, and did great caricatures of working with his Nigerian counterpart, John Franklin, scion of a Liberian based shipping family. She gave him her name, let him know that she had roots in the South without being too specific, and explained to him what life as a real farm girl was like. He was impressed that she’d been to the Denver Stock Show every year since the year she was born. She didn’t leave him her number, but informed him that she knew how to find him, and asked to remain the “Ice Lady” to his staff.
“It has an ironic ring to it.”, she said.
He asked her if she’d like to get together again sometime, just before they left. And, she said yes.
A week later, an invitation to the Ballet addressed to “The Ice Lady”, arrived at the shop along with a delightfully complicated African orchid hand delivered by Clark Crist. She bought her dress, because she thought she should own one. They met in the lobby, where they shared appetizers and wine before the show while discussing amusing costumes that some of the audience had chosen to wear. They watched Dracula together, and wound up back here at Pablos. The first time she’d kissed him was in the lobby on the way out.
Lily ventured a serious question.
“So, how did you end up in the Navy?”, she asked.
“My grandfather was in the World Trade Center, closing a business deal, on September 11, 2001. He died that day. It was before I was born, but I heard the stories growing up. It crushed my father. My grandfather’s business was bought out by his partners. My father’s family had enough money, but grandma never really recovered. Grandpa was everything to her. Dad grew up to be a man full of hate. He put his hand on his gun any time a woman with veil or an Arab looking man got near the dealership where he was a car salesman. He thought all Muslims were evil. I didn’t want grandpa’s death to go unpunished either, but I didn’t have the same hate and anger. I studied religion and international affairs in college and signed up for Naval Intelligence. I want to get the people who are really the problem, so people like my dad can stop being mad at the whole rest of the world.”
“That’s quite a story.”, Lily responded.
Cass was about to ask Lily a question about her. Lily looked out the window while he collected his thoughts and saw the face of a man leaning over the back of a pickup truck holding a rifle. A small red light appeared on the white vase with silk flowers sitting between them at their table.
“Get down!”, Cass yelled with a steely voice only the military can give a man.
Cass instantly fell to the ground in a crouch, knocking the table over between them, and upending Lily’s chair in a single motion. At the same moment glass shattered everywhere and the rapid fire bang, bang, bang, bang, that sounded like fireworks, rang through the air. People screamed. The mirror right behind their table was shattered. The pickup truck across the street screeched away. Cass had pulled a handgun Lily hadn’t even known he had and was panning it, shooting rapidly at the departing pickup through the window pane. He glanced at Lily.
“Are you all right?”, he asked.
“Yes.”, she whimpered.
And he was gone. He leapt over the fallen table and out the front door, chasing after the pickup, firing as he went. Cass dodged a few more spurts of gunfire. He screamed into his phone. He showed his badge and gun and commandeered a taxi, leaving the driver standing dumb founded on the sidewalk. Screeching into the darkness, he was gone. Suddenly, Lily was all alone again.
The proprietor went from table to table, asking if everyone was all right. After he’d made his first round and called the police, Lily asked for some paper, some creamer, and some coffee. Having done everything else he could, the proprietor complied with her requests.
Lily went to a corner table that had escaped the gunfire as the police sirens wailed moving in her direction, and others sounded in the distance. She tried not to think about where Cass was by focusing on her self appointed task. In ten or fifteen minutes she was done, and looked up, and the policeman who’d interviewed everyone else came over to her. He looked over her shoulder.
The man’s face, and arms, as he leaned over the edge of the pickup holding a gun, were almost as clear as a photograph, painted in coffee and creamer with a swizzle stick.
“It was him.”, Lily said, pointing at her drawing.
The police man asked if she’d mind coming a few blocks to the police station so he could ask her some questions. She agreed. Three hours later, at almost three a.m., the interviewing police officer drove her home, not leaving until she was safely in her complex and the building door had locked behind her.
The front pages of the Denver Post, the Rocky Mountain News, and U.S.A. Today had her drawing, captioned “police reconstruction” staring out at her. The Rocky Mountain News, which goes to press latest, also informed its readers that police had tentatively attached a name to the suspect’s description. The suspect was purportedly armed and dangerous and had escaped apprehension. The reports mentioned that an undisclosed Naval officer in dress uniform was the target, but didn’t mention that he had a date with him.
Lily had never felt so admired in her life. Her ankle length sleeveless black dress wasn’t warm (especially at ten o‘clock at night in late October), but it was the only nice dress she owned. Her black and white pearl necklace she inherited from her mother, that her mother had inherited from her mother before her, caught a few glances, even in the glamour of the performing arts center. Her heels were starting to make her feet ache just a little, but she enjoyed the one inch height boost they gave her and the being slightly off balance did make her feel a little sexy. So did the lacey panties she’d worn just in case, even though this was only their second date. Next to Cass Jackson in his dress uniform (the most formal clothes he owned), she felt important.
Arm in arm, they walked out of the Performing Arts Center and into Downtown. Cass led Lily around the corner to a coffee shop and wine bar called Pablos. They ordered Irish Coffees and stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. More sizing each other up, than entranced.
In fact, Lily knew very little about Cass, and Cass knew very little about Lily. Lily had struggled with herself for almost a month before calling the number Cass had left for her. Part of her shared Mark’s concern that a man who would send two dozen roses out of the blue was probably a stalker creep who was best avoided. But, eventually, the part of her that said that she was young, all alone in a big city, and the object of someone’s desire won out. That, and Fiona’s effusive descriptions of Cass, anyway.
When she called, from a pay phone at the court house, just to be safe, she’d thought at first that she’d reached Cass himself. The fellow quickly corrected her and identified himself as a Northern Command Army Corporal Wallace, who was acting as Cass’s personal secretary and assistant. When she identified herself as the “Ice Lady”, the corporal said, “Yes, Ma’am”, in a tone that clearly conveyed knowledge and importance and asked her to stay on the line and that he’d have Mr. Jackson for her right away.
When Cass picked up, she heard construction in the background, but Cass was all sugar and honey. “Thank you for calling Ma’am. I thought for sure I was a fool. . .”
“Maybe you were.”, Lily, answered, provoking a poignant silence at the other end of the line. But, Lily started again, before he had a chance to respond. “But, I’m willing to give you a chance to prove it. Would you like to do lunch?”
“Yes, Ma’am!”, Cass responded. After a few more seconds of conversation they agreed to have lunch at a Bagel Shop on the Sixteenth Street Mall the following day. Lily didn’t want to take on chance on meeting this man anywhere other than a public place, or anywhere that alcohol was served, for the first time. She wasn’t actually a bagel fan, but, she’d thought it through, and discussed it at length with Fiona at the flower shop, and declared it safe and someplace that he probably wouldn’t be familiar with as a Southerner. She had decided that she didn’t want to meet him anyplace that was his turf.
The connection had been terminated before Cass was cursing himself for failing to get Lily’s name.
Fiona and Lily had also, of course, done some research on Cass Jackson before this call took place, because they did have his name. Her really was a naval officer and was apparently attached to some senior officer on loan to the Colorado National Guard to fight terrorism under a program set up by the Department of Defense Northern Command and the Department of Homeland Security. He got an undergraduate degree in International Relations from C.U. and was a master’s degree student in the school of Islamic Studies at C.U. as well. A couple of yearbook searches showed that he was on the Equestrian Team and Philosophy Club at C.U., and graduated from High School in Tallahassee, Florida, where he was declared “Most Likely To Fight Terrorism.” He was twenty-four years old. A criminal record search and a credit record search showed that he had no particular blemishes on his record, didn’t own a car (presumably he used the military motorcade), and didn’t have a mortgage. Fiona and Lily agreed that he passed the basic background check.
Lunch went well and finally broke the ice. He didn’t tell any obvious lies, compared and contrasted every great religion’s definition of infidel, and did great caricatures of working with his Nigerian counterpart, John Franklin, scion of a Liberian based shipping family. She gave him her name, let him know that she had roots in the South without being too specific, and explained to him what life as a real farm girl was like. He was impressed that she’d been to the Denver Stock Show every year since the year she was born. She didn’t leave him her number, but informed him that she knew how to find him, and asked to remain the “Ice Lady” to his staff.
“It has an ironic ring to it.”, she said.
He asked her if she’d like to get together again sometime, just before they left. And, she said yes.
A week later, an invitation to the Ballet addressed to “The Ice Lady”, arrived at the shop along with a delightfully complicated African orchid hand delivered by Clark Crist. She bought her dress, because she thought she should own one. They met in the lobby, where they shared appetizers and wine before the show while discussing amusing costumes that some of the audience had chosen to wear. They watched Dracula together, and wound up back here at Pablos. The first time she’d kissed him was in the lobby on the way out.
Lily ventured a serious question.
“So, how did you end up in the Navy?”, she asked.
“My grandfather was in the World Trade Center, closing a business deal, on September 11, 2001. He died that day. It was before I was born, but I heard the stories growing up. It crushed my father. My grandfather’s business was bought out by his partners. My father’s family had enough money, but grandma never really recovered. Grandpa was everything to her. Dad grew up to be a man full of hate. He put his hand on his gun any time a woman with veil or an Arab looking man got near the dealership where he was a car salesman. He thought all Muslims were evil. I didn’t want grandpa’s death to go unpunished either, but I didn’t have the same hate and anger. I studied religion and international affairs in college and signed up for Naval Intelligence. I want to get the people who are really the problem, so people like my dad can stop being mad at the whole rest of the world.”
“That’s quite a story.”, Lily responded.
Cass was about to ask Lily a question about her. Lily looked out the window while he collected his thoughts and saw the face of a man leaning over the back of a pickup truck holding a rifle. A small red light appeared on the white vase with silk flowers sitting between them at their table.
“Get down!”, Cass yelled with a steely voice only the military can give a man.
Cass instantly fell to the ground in a crouch, knocking the table over between them, and upending Lily’s chair in a single motion. At the same moment glass shattered everywhere and the rapid fire bang, bang, bang, bang, that sounded like fireworks, rang through the air. People screamed. The mirror right behind their table was shattered. The pickup truck across the street screeched away. Cass had pulled a handgun Lily hadn’t even known he had and was panning it, shooting rapidly at the departing pickup through the window pane. He glanced at Lily.
“Are you all right?”, he asked.
“Yes.”, she whimpered.
And he was gone. He leapt over the fallen table and out the front door, chasing after the pickup, firing as he went. Cass dodged a few more spurts of gunfire. He screamed into his phone. He showed his badge and gun and commandeered a taxi, leaving the driver standing dumb founded on the sidewalk. Screeching into the darkness, he was gone. Suddenly, Lily was all alone again.
The proprietor went from table to table, asking if everyone was all right. After he’d made his first round and called the police, Lily asked for some paper, some creamer, and some coffee. Having done everything else he could, the proprietor complied with her requests.
Lily went to a corner table that had escaped the gunfire as the police sirens wailed moving in her direction, and others sounded in the distance. She tried not to think about where Cass was by focusing on her self appointed task. In ten or fifteen minutes she was done, and looked up, and the policeman who’d interviewed everyone else came over to her. He looked over her shoulder.
The man’s face, and arms, as he leaned over the edge of the pickup holding a gun, were almost as clear as a photograph, painted in coffee and creamer with a swizzle stick.
“It was him.”, Lily said, pointing at her drawing.
The police man asked if she’d mind coming a few blocks to the police station so he could ask her some questions. She agreed. Three hours later, at almost three a.m., the interviewing police officer drove her home, not leaving until she was safely in her complex and the building door had locked behind her.
The front pages of the Denver Post, the Rocky Mountain News, and U.S.A. Today had her drawing, captioned “police reconstruction” staring out at her. The Rocky Mountain News, which goes to press latest, also informed its readers that police had tentatively attached a name to the suspect’s description. The suspect was purportedly armed and dangerous and had escaped apprehension. The reports mentioned that an undisclosed Naval officer in dress uniform was the target, but didn’t mention that he had a date with him.
Informant
A kid with a blue slip of paper pinned to his t-shirt that said “student aid” walked into Eunice’s science class and handed a piece of pink paper to the Ms. Stint. Ms. Stint interrupted her lecture on the different phyla of algae and examined it. The class tittered.
“Eunice.”, Ms. Stint said., “Could you please take this with you to Assistant Principal Brown’s office?”
“Right now?”, Eunice asked.
“Yes, right now.”, Ms. Stint responded, as a chorus of “ooh, you’re in trouble” arose from the rest of the class.
“Eunice read the note as she made her way down the hall, see through backpack on her shoulder filled with her books and papers. Science was the last class of the day, so she probably wouldn’t make it back. The note simply said that Eunice was wanted, without any explanation. For once, Eunice had no idea why she was summoned. She couldn’t recall any fights, hadn’t skipped school, had good grades so far for the term, and didn’t even have any overdue library books. She guessed they would call her if her mother or father or sister had been killed in some accident. She hoped it wasn’t that. One teacher stopped her in the hall, but when he saw the pink slip, he let her go on.
Mr. Brown’s office was in the main administrative suite for Ranch View Middle School. The walls were faded pastels adorned with posters urging kids not to take drugs and student artwork. A student aid was entering classroom attendance slips into a computer. Two older women were talking together next to the coffee machine. Three kids, two Nigerian and one Anglo, all covered with mud and scratches were sitting on a bench next to the Principal’s office.
“Can I help you?”, one of the older women asked.
“Eunice Anderson, here to see Assistant Principal Brown please.”
The boys on the bench and student aid looked up.
“I’ll let him know you’re here. You can wait on the bench next to his office.”, she pointed, “Over there.”
Eunice sat on the bench and looked at the floor, waiting. A few minutes later, a think Nigerian boy with glasses left the office, empty handed, without a word.
“Eunice, could you come in?”, Mr. Brown said, sticking his head out of his door. Mr. Brown was a light skinned black man in his late 30s. His usual responsibility was discipline and Eunice had seem him holding a struggling eighth grader in each arm to break up a fight.
“Please take a seat.”, Mr. Brown said. A clean cut man in a military uniform was also in the room in a chair that looked like it was usually reserved for parents of misbehaving students.
“Do you know why you’re here Eunice?”, Mr. Brown asked.
“No.”, Eunice replied.
“Do you remember filling out this survey at the start of the term?”
Eunice looked. The school always had everyone fill out endless forms at the start of each term. It looked like her writing, so she said yes.
Mr. Brown handed her the survey.
“Do you know why this survey was given, Eunice?”, Mr. Brown asked.
“Something tell me,”, Eunice said as she directed her eyes towards the man in uniform sitting in Mr. Brown’s office, “that I’d be wrong if I guessed that it was to help set the Cultural Sensitivity curriculum for the year.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong if you said that, Eunice, but no, that wasn’t the only purpose for the survey.”
Eunice’s mind raced. Was she under suspicion of terrorist activity, or what?
“Eunice, we did a special data analysis on that survey, and the other information that all new surveys provided on the first day of school. We looked at your residential address, your attitudes towards the country, and your knowledge of the Nigerian Muslim community. Do you know that out of twelve hundred students in this school that you are one of only four students who aren’t Nigerian Muslims who correctly answer three questions regarding the words of the daily calls to prayer? And, two of those students are here on a magnet program from central Denver, and the other one admitted to guessing.”
“So, I live in a Highlands Ranch ghetto and I’ve picked up a few words of the language’s my dad’s tenants speak. So what? That doesn’t make me a criminal.”
The man in the military uniform finally spoke up.
“No, it doesn’t. And, I’m not here to investigate you. I’m Cass Jackson, Naval Intelligence.”, he also had a Southern drawl. He stood up and extended his hand to Eunice. “My job is to identify terrorist cells that may be operating in Colorado within the Nigerian immigrant community. You’ve been identified as one of a handful of people in your area who would be well qualified to serve as an informant for the Colorado National Guard.”
“Whoa. You want me to be a spy and rat on my neighbors?”, Eunice responded.
“I’d prefer to say that we’re asking you if you’d be willing to serve your country, for suitable compensation, of course. You wouldn’t even have to leave your neighborhood.”, Cass Jackson replied.
“What kind of money are we talking here?”
“Let’s just say that we don’t pay minors anything less than we pay adults doing the same work.”, Mr. Jackson replied.
Eunice thought about that for just a second.
“Parental consent is, of course, required for you to do any kind of work at age fourteen, but it was more convenient for Mr. Jackson to meet with you and a few other possible recruits during the school day, all at once, so I scheduled the initial meeting here.”, Mr. Brown said.
“So what would I have to do?”, Eunice asked. “Would I have to carry a gun.”
“Oh no.”, Mr. Jackson replied. “All you’d have to do is file regular reports and to try to find out information. I’d meet with you from time to time to let you know what we’re looking for and to give you some tips, and then I’d give you a password and user identification for a certain network site that you’d submit your reports at from time to time.”
“O.K., I’ll do it. Well, I mean, I’ll talk to my parents about it. Do you have the forms?”
“Sure.” Mr. Jackson had apparently expected this response and handed her an envelope. You can drop the forms off with Mr. Brown any time through the end of next week.
“Thank you.”, Eunice said. “Are we done now?”
Mr. Brown and Mr. Jackson exchanged a glance.
“Yes, you’re done now. School is over in half an hour, so you don’t have to back to class. You can go to the library if you want. Mr. Brown took another pink slip off a pad on his desk and marked a box. And, Eunice. I’d appreciate it if you were discrete about this matter. If your classmates ask for an explanation, you can tell them that your enrollment paperwork wasn’t complete and that you had to get some more forms to fill out. That should suffice.”
“O.K.”, Eunice said and left. No one was on either of the benches when she left.
Eunice went to the library, pulled out the forms and read them. The disclosure form noted that she was at serious risk of death or serious injury, that this was a volunteer position, and that any violation of protocol could result in her being killed by American forces in order to protect national security. The pay schedule was $2,000 per monthly report and additional bonuses for useful information, all tax free under a special provision of the Internal Revenue Code adopted for the war on terrorism. All told, it was more than her mother made, if she could come up with even a few bits of useful information. She signed her name, and then her parents’ names in different handwriting, as she always did when the school asked for permission slips. She checked the box for payment monthly in cash to be picked up at the general delivery desk of the downtown Denver post office. Then, she lifted the protective plastic shield from a corner of the form and pressed her thumb into it so that the post office could compare the two before releasing the cash. Then, Eunice put the forms back in the envelope in her backpack and headed out to catch the bus home.
The next morning, Eunice left the envelope for Mr. Brown.
“Eunice.”, Ms. Stint said., “Could you please take this with you to Assistant Principal Brown’s office?”
“Right now?”, Eunice asked.
“Yes, right now.”, Ms. Stint responded, as a chorus of “ooh, you’re in trouble” arose from the rest of the class.
“Eunice read the note as she made her way down the hall, see through backpack on her shoulder filled with her books and papers. Science was the last class of the day, so she probably wouldn’t make it back. The note simply said that Eunice was wanted, without any explanation. For once, Eunice had no idea why she was summoned. She couldn’t recall any fights, hadn’t skipped school, had good grades so far for the term, and didn’t even have any overdue library books. She guessed they would call her if her mother or father or sister had been killed in some accident. She hoped it wasn’t that. One teacher stopped her in the hall, but when he saw the pink slip, he let her go on.
Mr. Brown’s office was in the main administrative suite for Ranch View Middle School. The walls were faded pastels adorned with posters urging kids not to take drugs and student artwork. A student aid was entering classroom attendance slips into a computer. Two older women were talking together next to the coffee machine. Three kids, two Nigerian and one Anglo, all covered with mud and scratches were sitting on a bench next to the Principal’s office.
“Can I help you?”, one of the older women asked.
“Eunice Anderson, here to see Assistant Principal Brown please.”
The boys on the bench and student aid looked up.
“I’ll let him know you’re here. You can wait on the bench next to his office.”, she pointed, “Over there.”
Eunice sat on the bench and looked at the floor, waiting. A few minutes later, a think Nigerian boy with glasses left the office, empty handed, without a word.
“Eunice, could you come in?”, Mr. Brown said, sticking his head out of his door. Mr. Brown was a light skinned black man in his late 30s. His usual responsibility was discipline and Eunice had seem him holding a struggling eighth grader in each arm to break up a fight.
“Please take a seat.”, Mr. Brown said. A clean cut man in a military uniform was also in the room in a chair that looked like it was usually reserved for parents of misbehaving students.
“Do you know why you’re here Eunice?”, Mr. Brown asked.
“No.”, Eunice replied.
“Do you remember filling out this survey at the start of the term?”
Eunice looked. The school always had everyone fill out endless forms at the start of each term. It looked like her writing, so she said yes.
Mr. Brown handed her the survey.
“Do you know why this survey was given, Eunice?”, Mr. Brown asked.
“Something tell me,”, Eunice said as she directed her eyes towards the man in uniform sitting in Mr. Brown’s office, “that I’d be wrong if I guessed that it was to help set the Cultural Sensitivity curriculum for the year.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong if you said that, Eunice, but no, that wasn’t the only purpose for the survey.”
Eunice’s mind raced. Was she under suspicion of terrorist activity, or what?
“Eunice, we did a special data analysis on that survey, and the other information that all new surveys provided on the first day of school. We looked at your residential address, your attitudes towards the country, and your knowledge of the Nigerian Muslim community. Do you know that out of twelve hundred students in this school that you are one of only four students who aren’t Nigerian Muslims who correctly answer three questions regarding the words of the daily calls to prayer? And, two of those students are here on a magnet program from central Denver, and the other one admitted to guessing.”
“So, I live in a Highlands Ranch ghetto and I’ve picked up a few words of the language’s my dad’s tenants speak. So what? That doesn’t make me a criminal.”
The man in the military uniform finally spoke up.
“No, it doesn’t. And, I’m not here to investigate you. I’m Cass Jackson, Naval Intelligence.”, he also had a Southern drawl. He stood up and extended his hand to Eunice. “My job is to identify terrorist cells that may be operating in Colorado within the Nigerian immigrant community. You’ve been identified as one of a handful of people in your area who would be well qualified to serve as an informant for the Colorado National Guard.”
“Whoa. You want me to be a spy and rat on my neighbors?”, Eunice responded.
“I’d prefer to say that we’re asking you if you’d be willing to serve your country, for suitable compensation, of course. You wouldn’t even have to leave your neighborhood.”, Cass Jackson replied.
“What kind of money are we talking here?”
“Let’s just say that we don’t pay minors anything less than we pay adults doing the same work.”, Mr. Jackson replied.
Eunice thought about that for just a second.
“Parental consent is, of course, required for you to do any kind of work at age fourteen, but it was more convenient for Mr. Jackson to meet with you and a few other possible recruits during the school day, all at once, so I scheduled the initial meeting here.”, Mr. Brown said.
“So what would I have to do?”, Eunice asked. “Would I have to carry a gun.”
“Oh no.”, Mr. Jackson replied. “All you’d have to do is file regular reports and to try to find out information. I’d meet with you from time to time to let you know what we’re looking for and to give you some tips, and then I’d give you a password and user identification for a certain network site that you’d submit your reports at from time to time.”
“O.K., I’ll do it. Well, I mean, I’ll talk to my parents about it. Do you have the forms?”
“Sure.” Mr. Jackson had apparently expected this response and handed her an envelope. You can drop the forms off with Mr. Brown any time through the end of next week.
“Thank you.”, Eunice said. “Are we done now?”
Mr. Brown and Mr. Jackson exchanged a glance.
“Yes, you’re done now. School is over in half an hour, so you don’t have to back to class. You can go to the library if you want. Mr. Brown took another pink slip off a pad on his desk and marked a box. And, Eunice. I’d appreciate it if you were discrete about this matter. If your classmates ask for an explanation, you can tell them that your enrollment paperwork wasn’t complete and that you had to get some more forms to fill out. That should suffice.”
“O.K.”, Eunice said and left. No one was on either of the benches when she left.
Eunice went to the library, pulled out the forms and read them. The disclosure form noted that she was at serious risk of death or serious injury, that this was a volunteer position, and that any violation of protocol could result in her being killed by American forces in order to protect national security. The pay schedule was $2,000 per monthly report and additional bonuses for useful information, all tax free under a special provision of the Internal Revenue Code adopted for the war on terrorism. All told, it was more than her mother made, if she could come up with even a few bits of useful information. She signed her name, and then her parents’ names in different handwriting, as she always did when the school asked for permission slips. She checked the box for payment monthly in cash to be picked up at the general delivery desk of the downtown Denver post office. Then, she lifted the protective plastic shield from a corner of the form and pressed her thumb into it so that the post office could compare the two before releasing the cash. Then, Eunice put the forms back in the envelope in her backpack and headed out to catch the bus home.
The next morning, Eunice left the envelope for Mr. Brown.
Chapter 4: September 11, 2030 The Remembrance Towers
Lily took a shuttle bus from her apartment complex to Market Street station and caught the 5:45 a.m. bus to Remembrance Towers. Most people took the elevator, but on Remembrance Day, September 11, for her first visit during her first year in Denver, she decided to take the pilgrim’s route. She was not the only one starting up the tower stairs at sunrise. A line of about two hundred people, mostly young, like her, but some who were old enough to remember September 11, 2001, waited to pass through security and make the climb on this free day for the observation deck. There were actually two lines, for the North and South towers respectively. She chose the South Tower, because it was usually a little less crowded. They her ticket read 6:32 a.m. when she started.
In addition to being physically demanding, climbing the 3703 stairs up 2,640 feet to the 160th story was haunting. Every step had three names inscribed on bricks near eye level, one for each person killed in the Invesco Field Massacre of 2009 when a crop duster pulling a sign had flown over the packed stands to drop its deadly cargo. The names of the tens of thousands were sickened by not killed filled the bricks of the plaza at the base of the towers. Most pilgrims took time to pause every once and a while to mediate at one or another brick. Many had little slips of paper printed out from a directory at the base with names of loved ones and a brick location on them. Lily was no exception. One of her father’s cousins, a coworker’s father, and the late wife of her high school science teacher, who had been a mentor for her before she dropped out of high school, had all died in the massacre. She had slips for each of them.
The long walk up the stairs was interrupted by windows providing an increasingly good view of the surrounding city, water fountains, an occasional bathroom, an informational signs every four or five stories. The first sign reminded Lily that the Remembrance Towers were the tallest buildings on Earth, far taller than the Sears Tower in Chicago, which was the tallest building in the United States after the Remembrance Towers, the Petronis Towers in Malaysia, or the Mao Building in Beijing, which, at 500 meters, was the tallest building in the world until the Remembrance Towers were built. Another sign informed pilgrims that the Towers were home to the digital signal broadcast towers for every television station in the metropolitan area and most of the radio and wireless communications towers.
Lines on the wall informed the climbers as they reached first 6000 feet above sea level, and then 7000 feet above sea level. The top was just over 8000 feet above sea level. Lily cried just a little to think that she was about as far from the sea as it was possible to be in the world, at least in the country where she was born, as each new line appeared.
Other signs traced the ownership of the Towers. Originally, Mile High Tower Corporation had set out, with lease commitments and investments from many of the largest businesses in Colorado, to build a single tower a mile high. The engineering didn’t work out and the plan was revised to build two half mile high towers. First United Bank and Trust Company provided the financing. Ground was broken two years to the day after the Massacre, and six years later, the first tenant moved in. Since then it had become one of the must see tourist destinations in Denver.
Sign after sign explained the engineering marvels involved. The titanium girder construction, the foundations dovetailed hundreds of feet into bedrock, aerodynamic features designed to minimize sway, features that made the building bend rather than break in the face of stress like flexible window mountings and composite cross beams, precision engineering necessary to prevent cumulative deviations from specifications from accumulating as the building rose ever higher, an evacuation plan involving aircraft from three neighboring airports instead of ladder trucks for the higher stories, miles of wire, tons of materials, unprecedented elevator designs and window cleaning robots designed specifically for the Towers.
The Towers had never made business sense, the signs reported. Skyscrapers were a product of high population density, poor transportation, and a need for businessmen to deal with each other face to face on short notice. In an age where everyone carried a phone, every business had videoconference capabilities, and documents where exchanged electronically it didn’t make sense. Denver also lacked the population density, and a system of one way streets and dedicated bus lanes in its inner city that made office to office travel faster that most major U.S. cities. The initial lease commitments kept Mile High Tower Corporation solvent for seven years, but when the time came to renew leases, fifteen years after the fervor for the project born in the Massacre had died down, economics won out. First United Bank and Trust foreclosed in the world’s largest every foreclosure action, and the Towers were put on the market.
President Powell, Colorado Governor Veiga, and City and County of Denver Mayor Romanoff formed the Remembrance Towers Authority and made a joint offer to buy the Towers at a fraction of the outstanding debt, partially in cash and partially in exchange for federal, state and city office buildings in the metropolitan area, which First United Bank and Trust accepted. For the past five years, the Towers had become the world’s largest government office building. Including the broad lower levels of the two towers, which were linked so that the two towers were actually a single building, it had more office space than the Pentagon.
But, Lily was nineteen years old and impatient. While she stopped at two bricks (the third was in the North tower), and read a few signs, she didn’t read every word and was quicker up the stairs than many of her companions. She was one of the first of the group that had been waiting in line to make the climb to arrive at the top observation deck at about nine o’clock. The record set in the Memorial Day stair race was just under 26 minutes to the top, but today, Lily was in no mood to race. She only had two bricks to stop at, neither from anyone particularly close, but that was enough to make the meaning sink in.
By then, the sun had risen. It was a clear day. The South and East sides of the South Tower gleamed in an almost blinding reflection. The wind rushed by making the flags at the corners of the Towers flutter in the wind. She could smell the thunderstorm that would arrive late that afternoon, although none of the other viewer would have known that without a weather map. Pikes Peak was visible far to the South. A few dozen yards to the North was the North Tower. To the West, the Rocky Mountains stood bare, with the last of the previous year’s snow melted away, and the new snow not yet fallen. She could see patches of black in the mountains where various wildfires had burned, some as recently as this summer. A computerized map named the fires, but Lily didn’t care to look. To the East, the City spread out in all its glory. The cluster of tall buildings in downtown Denver that housed the elite private corporations and law firms of the mountain states seemed small by comparison. The airplanes at Denver International Airport looked like tiny toys. The farm that had once been her father’s was too far away to see, even at eight thousand feet, but Lily could see the Front Range roll out before her past E-470, past the City of Aurora, past the urban growth boundary the state imposed around the time Lily was born.
The North Tower was dominated by communications antennas. But, the scene at the center of the South Tower was a chilling reminder of why the Towers were built, which she hadn’t considered when she decided which tower to climb. The turret in the middle of the South Tower, wrapped around another set of communications antennas, with its radar dish, huge telescope-like sights and anti-aircraft missile battery, was all business. The Army sergeant on duty clearly took his job very seriously. His eyes were glued to his monitors and sights, and he didn’t have a word to spare for the visitors. A couple of corporals, with automatic weapons shouldered, kept a wary eye on the visitors from behind their gated territory atop the building, while their superior kept his eyes on the sky. No neat little signs explained precisely what the capabilities of that turret were, but Lily didn’t doubt that they were capable of taking down even an errant jet fighter.
By nine-thirty, the heat of the summer sun on the black granite of the observation deck was getting uncomfortable. Lily set out across Faith Bridge, connecting the North and South observation decks, which was itself a marvel. From a distance, the transparent bridge made of glass fiber and plastics was invisible, although it could be lit like a neon sign if desired as it was on the 4th of July when The Towers were the launch site for the City’s fireworks. The surface texture and prism effects in the design minimized its reflectivity. The flooring and walls of the bridge were made of flexible and sheer glass fabric instead of a rigid material so that it could flex with the tower tops in the wind. The guard rails were curved outwards, so that they would stop you from falling, but weren’t convenient to hold. Many visitors simply couldn’t stomach the crossing, and either didn’t start, or retreated after a few steps. The 140 yards between the buildings was chosen to match the size of the football field that had once stood directly beneath this bridge. Lily took a deep breath and strode confidently across, breathing the fresh air, looking in all directions including down, and arriving at the other side. She took in the view of Boulder from the North side of the North Tower, found the stairs down, skipped the overpriced coffee shop and snack bar on the 158th floor, and walked down the North Tower. The signs were identical, so Lily ignored them, and the going was quicker on the way down than it was on the way up.
Lily walked down the steps, stopped by the brick for her teacher’s late wife for about ten minutes, sobbing and then contemplating it, and then continued to the bottom of the stairs and waited for the bus back to Market Street. The fountain was spraying from two directions in arches into the center of the fountain’s pool. Across the fountain from her, she saw a woman in a worn black dress and hat, crying, looking at the pool. She looked like she was praying or talking silently to herself, or maybe to the person she mourned for. She had probably lost her husband twenty-one years ago in the Massacre and never recovered emotionally. Lily felt a tear of her own just watching this woman.
In addition to being physically demanding, climbing the 3703 stairs up 2,640 feet to the 160th story was haunting. Every step had three names inscribed on bricks near eye level, one for each person killed in the Invesco Field Massacre of 2009 when a crop duster pulling a sign had flown over the packed stands to drop its deadly cargo. The names of the tens of thousands were sickened by not killed filled the bricks of the plaza at the base of the towers. Most pilgrims took time to pause every once and a while to mediate at one or another brick. Many had little slips of paper printed out from a directory at the base with names of loved ones and a brick location on them. Lily was no exception. One of her father’s cousins, a coworker’s father, and the late wife of her high school science teacher, who had been a mentor for her before she dropped out of high school, had all died in the massacre. She had slips for each of them.
The long walk up the stairs was interrupted by windows providing an increasingly good view of the surrounding city, water fountains, an occasional bathroom, an informational signs every four or five stories. The first sign reminded Lily that the Remembrance Towers were the tallest buildings on Earth, far taller than the Sears Tower in Chicago, which was the tallest building in the United States after the Remembrance Towers, the Petronis Towers in Malaysia, or the Mao Building in Beijing, which, at 500 meters, was the tallest building in the world until the Remembrance Towers were built. Another sign informed pilgrims that the Towers were home to the digital signal broadcast towers for every television station in the metropolitan area and most of the radio and wireless communications towers.
Lines on the wall informed the climbers as they reached first 6000 feet above sea level, and then 7000 feet above sea level. The top was just over 8000 feet above sea level. Lily cried just a little to think that she was about as far from the sea as it was possible to be in the world, at least in the country where she was born, as each new line appeared.
Other signs traced the ownership of the Towers. Originally, Mile High Tower Corporation had set out, with lease commitments and investments from many of the largest businesses in Colorado, to build a single tower a mile high. The engineering didn’t work out and the plan was revised to build two half mile high towers. First United Bank and Trust Company provided the financing. Ground was broken two years to the day after the Massacre, and six years later, the first tenant moved in. Since then it had become one of the must see tourist destinations in Denver.
Sign after sign explained the engineering marvels involved. The titanium girder construction, the foundations dovetailed hundreds of feet into bedrock, aerodynamic features designed to minimize sway, features that made the building bend rather than break in the face of stress like flexible window mountings and composite cross beams, precision engineering necessary to prevent cumulative deviations from specifications from accumulating as the building rose ever higher, an evacuation plan involving aircraft from three neighboring airports instead of ladder trucks for the higher stories, miles of wire, tons of materials, unprecedented elevator designs and window cleaning robots designed specifically for the Towers.
The Towers had never made business sense, the signs reported. Skyscrapers were a product of high population density, poor transportation, and a need for businessmen to deal with each other face to face on short notice. In an age where everyone carried a phone, every business had videoconference capabilities, and documents where exchanged electronically it didn’t make sense. Denver also lacked the population density, and a system of one way streets and dedicated bus lanes in its inner city that made office to office travel faster that most major U.S. cities. The initial lease commitments kept Mile High Tower Corporation solvent for seven years, but when the time came to renew leases, fifteen years after the fervor for the project born in the Massacre had died down, economics won out. First United Bank and Trust foreclosed in the world’s largest every foreclosure action, and the Towers were put on the market.
President Powell, Colorado Governor Veiga, and City and County of Denver Mayor Romanoff formed the Remembrance Towers Authority and made a joint offer to buy the Towers at a fraction of the outstanding debt, partially in cash and partially in exchange for federal, state and city office buildings in the metropolitan area, which First United Bank and Trust accepted. For the past five years, the Towers had become the world’s largest government office building. Including the broad lower levels of the two towers, which were linked so that the two towers were actually a single building, it had more office space than the Pentagon.
But, Lily was nineteen years old and impatient. While she stopped at two bricks (the third was in the North tower), and read a few signs, she didn’t read every word and was quicker up the stairs than many of her companions. She was one of the first of the group that had been waiting in line to make the climb to arrive at the top observation deck at about nine o’clock. The record set in the Memorial Day stair race was just under 26 minutes to the top, but today, Lily was in no mood to race. She only had two bricks to stop at, neither from anyone particularly close, but that was enough to make the meaning sink in.
By then, the sun had risen. It was a clear day. The South and East sides of the South Tower gleamed in an almost blinding reflection. The wind rushed by making the flags at the corners of the Towers flutter in the wind. She could smell the thunderstorm that would arrive late that afternoon, although none of the other viewer would have known that without a weather map. Pikes Peak was visible far to the South. A few dozen yards to the North was the North Tower. To the West, the Rocky Mountains stood bare, with the last of the previous year’s snow melted away, and the new snow not yet fallen. She could see patches of black in the mountains where various wildfires had burned, some as recently as this summer. A computerized map named the fires, but Lily didn’t care to look. To the East, the City spread out in all its glory. The cluster of tall buildings in downtown Denver that housed the elite private corporations and law firms of the mountain states seemed small by comparison. The airplanes at Denver International Airport looked like tiny toys. The farm that had once been her father’s was too far away to see, even at eight thousand feet, but Lily could see the Front Range roll out before her past E-470, past the City of Aurora, past the urban growth boundary the state imposed around the time Lily was born.
The North Tower was dominated by communications antennas. But, the scene at the center of the South Tower was a chilling reminder of why the Towers were built, which she hadn’t considered when she decided which tower to climb. The turret in the middle of the South Tower, wrapped around another set of communications antennas, with its radar dish, huge telescope-like sights and anti-aircraft missile battery, was all business. The Army sergeant on duty clearly took his job very seriously. His eyes were glued to his monitors and sights, and he didn’t have a word to spare for the visitors. A couple of corporals, with automatic weapons shouldered, kept a wary eye on the visitors from behind their gated territory atop the building, while their superior kept his eyes on the sky. No neat little signs explained precisely what the capabilities of that turret were, but Lily didn’t doubt that they were capable of taking down even an errant jet fighter.
By nine-thirty, the heat of the summer sun on the black granite of the observation deck was getting uncomfortable. Lily set out across Faith Bridge, connecting the North and South observation decks, which was itself a marvel. From a distance, the transparent bridge made of glass fiber and plastics was invisible, although it could be lit like a neon sign if desired as it was on the 4th of July when The Towers were the launch site for the City’s fireworks. The surface texture and prism effects in the design minimized its reflectivity. The flooring and walls of the bridge were made of flexible and sheer glass fabric instead of a rigid material so that it could flex with the tower tops in the wind. The guard rails were curved outwards, so that they would stop you from falling, but weren’t convenient to hold. Many visitors simply couldn’t stomach the crossing, and either didn’t start, or retreated after a few steps. The 140 yards between the buildings was chosen to match the size of the football field that had once stood directly beneath this bridge. Lily took a deep breath and strode confidently across, breathing the fresh air, looking in all directions including down, and arriving at the other side. She took in the view of Boulder from the North side of the North Tower, found the stairs down, skipped the overpriced coffee shop and snack bar on the 158th floor, and walked down the North Tower. The signs were identical, so Lily ignored them, and the going was quicker on the way down than it was on the way up.
Lily walked down the steps, stopped by the brick for her teacher’s late wife for about ten minutes, sobbing and then contemplating it, and then continued to the bottom of the stairs and waited for the bus back to Market Street. The fountain was spraying from two directions in arches into the center of the fountain’s pool. Across the fountain from her, she saw a woman in a worn black dress and hat, crying, looking at the pool. She looked like she was praying or talking silently to herself, or maybe to the person she mourned for. She had probably lost her husband twenty-one years ago in the Massacre and never recovered emotionally. Lily felt a tear of her own just watching this woman.
Coming Home
Duncan’s motorcycle rolled into Jerrica’s driveway at about nine o’clock at night. She got off, they kissed deeply, and she walked, backpack on her arm to the front door, awaiting the inevitable.
Her hair hung loose. She was wearing her camisole, with jeans, under a new brown leather jacket he’d bought her. New pearl earrings and a gold rope necklace with a pearl locket hanging from it (with a picture of Duncan and her in it) adorned her face. She had lipstick on and had painted her nails bright red that morning. Her jeans were only half zipped, revealing more of her stained white camisole.
Her father, drunk, was pulling the door open as she put her old fashioned metal key in the lock. Downtown, keys had been replaced with finger and eye scans, but this was unfashionable Highlands Ranch.
“You fucking whore!”, he roared.
“Must be true,” she said, “look at all the jewelry Duncan gave me.” She smiled with an artificially huge smile.
He slapped her, leaving a red mark on her cheek.
“You are grounded for the rest of the term, Miss. And, if you ever do this again, you are not welcome in my house.”
Before she could say another word, Eunice had both hands on Jerrica’s hips and was forcibly moving Jerrica up the stairs to her room.
“Are you drunk?”, Eunice ventured when the sisters had reached the top of the stairs, while continuing to push Jerrica into her room.
“Drunk with love.”, Jerrica replied.
“Or lust, more likely.”, Eunice answered.
Once in Jerrica’s room, Eunice closed the door behind them. Jerrica tossed her backpack on the bed and took off her boots and jeans. The jeans smelled musty, with discharge from Jerrica’s sexual encounter with Duncan that morning now dried in the crotch. Nothing but the camisole was under the jeans. The camisole smelled of the blend of Jerrica’s perspiration and his.
“He’s the one. I know it.”, Jerrica said.
“That will look good on cardboard when you’re begging on the corner after dad’s thrown you out and he’s dumped you.”
“Sex with him is so pure. It’s like dancing when all the barriers come down.”
“Not that you have any comparisons. . . Besides, what about diseases and stuff? You scarcely know this man.”
“Haven’t they updated your health books since last century? I’ve had all my teen shots: AIDS, syphilis, HPV, warts. And, I won’t get pregnant either. I got my c-plant at fifteen like most high school girls, and it’s good until I’m eighteen, unless I go to a doc to have it taken out.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I want to have Duncan’s children. O.K., not next month or anything, but I’m serious about him.”
“Just like everybody is with their first boyfriend? Love makes you stupid.”
“We’ve been going out most of the summer.”
“And now its fall and school’s back and things change.”
There was a gentle knock on the door. Eunice could see in the crack at the bottom of the door that it was mom. Eunice opened the door letting herself out as mom came in. A drunken howl wafted up from the living room.
“Jerrica, Jerrica, Jerrica, what are you doing? Throwing your life away, the way I did?”
“Mother, I’m in love. I though that you, of all people, would understand.”
“I understand what a hard life you have when you get too involved with an older man too young. And honestly, Jerrica; you know better than to bait your father the way you did. Show your father some respect, at least. Who is this man you ran away with really? It’s obvious what you did. Here you are standing in your own room in front of your own mother in a camisole that smells of him, and no underwear. You have to listen to your father. You are grounded, and if he catches you again with that man, he will kick you out of our house. Maybe we can save at least one of our girls. They always said girls were more difficult.”
Mom collapsed weeping in Jerrica’s bed. Ashamed, Jerrica held her.
“Mother, I don’t want to hurt you.” Jerrica pointedly didn’t extend this concession to her father. “Duncan is the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life. We’re made for each other. We’re in tune. When I’m with him I feel so alive. If I have to move out of here and in with Duncan, I will. But, how many chances in your life do you have for real love? I don’t want to pass up the only chance I may ever get and end up living the rest of my life with a runner up.”
“You’re just barely sixteen.”, mom moaned, “Just the other day you were just my little girl.” Then mom sobbed some more and mother and daughter fell asleep holding each other in Jerrica’s bed.
* * * * * * *
“I’m home.”, Duncan said.
He took off his motorcycle boots in the hallway and tossed his things on the couch.
He heard a moan. He raced up the steps.
“Auntie? Are you O.K.?”, he asked loudly. He walked into her room.
Duncan’s aunt was sitting on the side of the bed. Her thin, white hair was flying everywhere. The room had that musty, old person’s smell. Some depressing music his aunt called grunge was playing on an ancient player, skipping over and over again, with the volume turned down low, but the player not actually turned off.
His aunt was trying to stand on the carpet, so faded that the original color could not be determined. Her ankle was trembling so violently that it made the unicorn tattoo on her ankle look almost alive. It had faded and wrinkled, giving it an otherworldly effect. Most people her age had tattoos removed, but she always said that she couldn’t afford it while she was raising Duncan. In any case, she defended this attachment to her youth.
“How long have you been in bed?”, Duncan asked.
“Not long, only since last night,” she said as the sun started to set in the window. He thought that one of the old person smells might be urine, no doubt trapped in an adult diaper which hadn’t been changed in a long time.
Her hair hung loose. She was wearing her camisole, with jeans, under a new brown leather jacket he’d bought her. New pearl earrings and a gold rope necklace with a pearl locket hanging from it (with a picture of Duncan and her in it) adorned her face. She had lipstick on and had painted her nails bright red that morning. Her jeans were only half zipped, revealing more of her stained white camisole.
Her father, drunk, was pulling the door open as she put her old fashioned metal key in the lock. Downtown, keys had been replaced with finger and eye scans, but this was unfashionable Highlands Ranch.
“You fucking whore!”, he roared.
“Must be true,” she said, “look at all the jewelry Duncan gave me.” She smiled with an artificially huge smile.
He slapped her, leaving a red mark on her cheek.
“You are grounded for the rest of the term, Miss. And, if you ever do this again, you are not welcome in my house.”
Before she could say another word, Eunice had both hands on Jerrica’s hips and was forcibly moving Jerrica up the stairs to her room.
“Are you drunk?”, Eunice ventured when the sisters had reached the top of the stairs, while continuing to push Jerrica into her room.
“Drunk with love.”, Jerrica replied.
“Or lust, more likely.”, Eunice answered.
Once in Jerrica’s room, Eunice closed the door behind them. Jerrica tossed her backpack on the bed and took off her boots and jeans. The jeans smelled musty, with discharge from Jerrica’s sexual encounter with Duncan that morning now dried in the crotch. Nothing but the camisole was under the jeans. The camisole smelled of the blend of Jerrica’s perspiration and his.
“He’s the one. I know it.”, Jerrica said.
“That will look good on cardboard when you’re begging on the corner after dad’s thrown you out and he’s dumped you.”
“Sex with him is so pure. It’s like dancing when all the barriers come down.”
“Not that you have any comparisons. . . Besides, what about diseases and stuff? You scarcely know this man.”
“Haven’t they updated your health books since last century? I’ve had all my teen shots: AIDS, syphilis, HPV, warts. And, I won’t get pregnant either. I got my c-plant at fifteen like most high school girls, and it’s good until I’m eighteen, unless I go to a doc to have it taken out.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I want to have Duncan’s children. O.K., not next month or anything, but I’m serious about him.”
“Just like everybody is with their first boyfriend? Love makes you stupid.”
“We’ve been going out most of the summer.”
“And now its fall and school’s back and things change.”
There was a gentle knock on the door. Eunice could see in the crack at the bottom of the door that it was mom. Eunice opened the door letting herself out as mom came in. A drunken howl wafted up from the living room.
“Jerrica, Jerrica, Jerrica, what are you doing? Throwing your life away, the way I did?”
“Mother, I’m in love. I though that you, of all people, would understand.”
“I understand what a hard life you have when you get too involved with an older man too young. And honestly, Jerrica; you know better than to bait your father the way you did. Show your father some respect, at least. Who is this man you ran away with really? It’s obvious what you did. Here you are standing in your own room in front of your own mother in a camisole that smells of him, and no underwear. You have to listen to your father. You are grounded, and if he catches you again with that man, he will kick you out of our house. Maybe we can save at least one of our girls. They always said girls were more difficult.”
Mom collapsed weeping in Jerrica’s bed. Ashamed, Jerrica held her.
“Mother, I don’t want to hurt you.” Jerrica pointedly didn’t extend this concession to her father. “Duncan is the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life. We’re made for each other. We’re in tune. When I’m with him I feel so alive. If I have to move out of here and in with Duncan, I will. But, how many chances in your life do you have for real love? I don’t want to pass up the only chance I may ever get and end up living the rest of my life with a runner up.”
“You’re just barely sixteen.”, mom moaned, “Just the other day you were just my little girl.” Then mom sobbed some more and mother and daughter fell asleep holding each other in Jerrica’s bed.
* * * * * * *
“I’m home.”, Duncan said.
He took off his motorcycle boots in the hallway and tossed his things on the couch.
He heard a moan. He raced up the steps.
“Auntie? Are you O.K.?”, he asked loudly. He walked into her room.
Duncan’s aunt was sitting on the side of the bed. Her thin, white hair was flying everywhere. The room had that musty, old person’s smell. Some depressing music his aunt called grunge was playing on an ancient player, skipping over and over again, with the volume turned down low, but the player not actually turned off.
His aunt was trying to stand on the carpet, so faded that the original color could not be determined. Her ankle was trembling so violently that it made the unicorn tattoo on her ankle look almost alive. It had faded and wrinkled, giving it an otherworldly effect. Most people her age had tattoos removed, but she always said that she couldn’t afford it while she was raising Duncan. In any case, she defended this attachment to her youth.
“How long have you been in bed?”, Duncan asked.
“Not long, only since last night,” she said as the sun started to set in the window. He thought that one of the old person smells might be urine, no doubt trapped in an adult diaper which hadn’t been changed in a long time.
Chapter 3: September 3, 2030
A tall, bald man, with tattoos up and down his heavily muscled arm, a biker’s leather jacket, and a switch blade dangling from a chain on his belt appeared at the front desk of DeVeux Events. Instead of ringing the bell at the empty front counter, he called out:
“Hey, Mark! Get your sexy butt up here to the front. I’ve got a delivery.”
Mark DeVeux, signature bud behind his right ear, purchased that very morning at Clark Christ’s flower shop, accenting his undeniably Gallic face, in a frilled white shirt underneath his tailored waist coat emerges from the back room.
“Clark. What do we have there? All those roses? For me?”, Mark smiles, coy and dismissive, knowing better than to expect that from Clark.
“No, my love, this is for one of your girls. Seems the fella didn’t even know her name. I reckon its for your Lily though.”
“Lily! There’s a delivery for you.”, Mark calls out.
Clark Crist has already set about cutting the stems and arranging the two dozen roses in a vase.
Lily emerged from the back room still in her painting smock covered with gray watercolor. She was wearing overalls and a dirty old t-shirt. Joe Romero, a twenty-one year old Hispanic man who drove the shop’s truck and was the only other person in the shop at the time peeked out himself after her to see what the commotion was about.
“A military man by the name of Cass Jackson came into my shop this morning. My girl Fiona, who always did take after those clean cut types with Southern accents, was about to swoon over him. He said he spent all weekend trying to track down who did the gig at the Gubn’ers mansion last Friday ‘till he’d worked out it was DeVeux’s (pronouncing it dee vux instead of duh voh) outfit that done it. Said he saw this woman from there sculptin’ ice and it was love at first sight. He described her, and it was a dead on for your Lily, but I didn’t let on like I knew nothing. I just took his order and brought it over here. But, I reckon these are for you, my lady Lily.”
Clark handed Lily the overflowing vase and closed envelope.
“I can’t recall that I’ve ever had an admirer before.”, Lily intoned feigning an unimpressed tone.
“Open it!”, cried Mark, like a little kid at a birthday party.
Mark, Clark and Joe all looked on. Lily recalled the military man from the previous Friday who’d helped her lift her sculpture when Joe had gotten stuck in traffic. For a moment she held the letter to her breast as if the shame them for prying, then with a flourish, she said, “I never was one to keep secrets!”, opened the letter and read it aloud.
“My lady,” Lily read the letter in a manly and earnest voice with a bit of a drawl, having noted Clark’s description of the writer and her own memory of him. “Since I saw you last Friday, I have thought of nothing else but you. Your voice is music. Your form exquisite. Your hands, the very model of perfection. Call me a romantic, but I would curse myself for the rest of my life if I did not try to see you again. If you would be so kind as to see me again, you may contact me with the information on my card enclosed. Tell my secretary that you are the “Ice Lady”, and he will put you through directly to me immediately. I don’t even know your name. Your sincere admirer, Lieutenant Cass Jackson.”
Joe Romero had vanished from the room by the time Lily had finished.
Clark Crist ventured the remark, “I wish I had a man who would talk to me so sweet.”
Mark DeVeux showed more levity, and pronounced, “If I were you, I’d watch out for a man like that, he might end up a stalker. Well, enough fun. Back to work.”
Lily took the flowers to her work space in the back and set them next to her easel in the light of a window from the alleyway. She read the letter one more time, and then tucked it in her middle overall pocket under her smock and got back to work. Joe Romero wasn’t in the back either. But she did notice that the trash can by the back door was tipped over and had a dent in it. Lily had the distinct feeling that she had more than one admirer.
“Hey, Mark! Get your sexy butt up here to the front. I’ve got a delivery.”
Mark DeVeux, signature bud behind his right ear, purchased that very morning at Clark Christ’s flower shop, accenting his undeniably Gallic face, in a frilled white shirt underneath his tailored waist coat emerges from the back room.
“Clark. What do we have there? All those roses? For me?”, Mark smiles, coy and dismissive, knowing better than to expect that from Clark.
“No, my love, this is for one of your girls. Seems the fella didn’t even know her name. I reckon its for your Lily though.”
“Lily! There’s a delivery for you.”, Mark calls out.
Clark Crist has already set about cutting the stems and arranging the two dozen roses in a vase.
Lily emerged from the back room still in her painting smock covered with gray watercolor. She was wearing overalls and a dirty old t-shirt. Joe Romero, a twenty-one year old Hispanic man who drove the shop’s truck and was the only other person in the shop at the time peeked out himself after her to see what the commotion was about.
“A military man by the name of Cass Jackson came into my shop this morning. My girl Fiona, who always did take after those clean cut types with Southern accents, was about to swoon over him. He said he spent all weekend trying to track down who did the gig at the Gubn’ers mansion last Friday ‘till he’d worked out it was DeVeux’s (pronouncing it dee vux instead of duh voh) outfit that done it. Said he saw this woman from there sculptin’ ice and it was love at first sight. He described her, and it was a dead on for your Lily, but I didn’t let on like I knew nothing. I just took his order and brought it over here. But, I reckon these are for you, my lady Lily.”
Clark handed Lily the overflowing vase and closed envelope.
“I can’t recall that I’ve ever had an admirer before.”, Lily intoned feigning an unimpressed tone.
“Open it!”, cried Mark, like a little kid at a birthday party.
Mark, Clark and Joe all looked on. Lily recalled the military man from the previous Friday who’d helped her lift her sculpture when Joe had gotten stuck in traffic. For a moment she held the letter to her breast as if the shame them for prying, then with a flourish, she said, “I never was one to keep secrets!”, opened the letter and read it aloud.
“My lady,” Lily read the letter in a manly and earnest voice with a bit of a drawl, having noted Clark’s description of the writer and her own memory of him. “Since I saw you last Friday, I have thought of nothing else but you. Your voice is music. Your form exquisite. Your hands, the very model of perfection. Call me a romantic, but I would curse myself for the rest of my life if I did not try to see you again. If you would be so kind as to see me again, you may contact me with the information on my card enclosed. Tell my secretary that you are the “Ice Lady”, and he will put you through directly to me immediately. I don’t even know your name. Your sincere admirer, Lieutenant Cass Jackson.”
Joe Romero had vanished from the room by the time Lily had finished.
Clark Crist ventured the remark, “I wish I had a man who would talk to me so sweet.”
Mark DeVeux showed more levity, and pronounced, “If I were you, I’d watch out for a man like that, he might end up a stalker. Well, enough fun. Back to work.”
Lily took the flowers to her work space in the back and set them next to her easel in the light of a window from the alleyway. She read the letter one more time, and then tucked it in her middle overall pocket under her smock and got back to work. Joe Romero wasn’t in the back either. But she did notice that the trash can by the back door was tipped over and had a dent in it. Lily had the distinct feeling that she had more than one admirer.
Chapter 2: September 1, 2030
It started life as an ice cream truck. Now it was painted with red crescents and served a higher purpose. The call to prayer filled the cul de sacs on this Saturday morning. Young men playing soccer in a backyard let the ball lie and turned to face East on their knees. Finding the direction of Mecca was easy in Denver. You just turned away from the mountains. Women with dark black faces in long white dresses with colorful head scarves stopped drinking their iced tea at patio tables. They knelt in the front yard, toddlers in hand. Here and there an American or a Chinese immigrant would take a deep breath and quietly watch the spectacle. Younger outsiders who’d lived in the subdivision a while, like Eunice, who was sitting in the bay window, could distinguish which of the five daily prayers it was by now, although the actual words remained undecipherable. The old people who couldn’t afford to move out remained befuddled by the phenomena. It caught them unexpected every time. Here and there a dog barked. In the pauses, the highway over the hill hummed with morning traffic on this perfect crisp morning that was just starting to heat up. The hum harmonized with the rhythmic chant emanating from the van‘s speakers. In a few minutes the van fell silent and it was over. The young men resumed their game, a bit more studiously, while the women restarted their conversation by fits and starts. The bystanders went about their business. The sound of the highway and the dogs faded into the background.
Eunice went back to her book. Her mother’s Harry Potter books might be getting a little yellow, but anything that helped her keep her mind off the argument her parents had had last night when father had learned about Jerrica’s little holiday, was welcome.
A little later, the mail woman came. She was a veteran of one of the wars President Bush had fought in the Middle East. She wasn’t missing any arms or legs or fingers, but her face had the grim set of someone who’d braced against snipers and bombs and mortar launches one time too many. Eunice went to meet her. Their family always had the largest stack of mail in the neighborhood. Her father was a property manager, and with the start of a new month came new utility bills for each unit, rent checks from tenants were reliable enough not to require weekly visits in person, bills from maintenance subcontractors, and the usual run of business and personal junk mail. Eunice silently cursed the judge who had decided that unlike junk faxes, e-mails and phone calls, that there was a free speech right to send junk mail. The decision was the bane of everyone with a mailbox, but it was also credited with saving the postal system from extinction.
Three doors down, the mail woman dropped a fragile, single aerogramme and a supermarket flier into a box labeled, “George Muhammad”, one of five boxes near the front door. The central drop box was abandoned when more and more families started moving into each house. The aerogramme had an address neatly printed on the front in child like block letters, overwritten with a red Nigerian postmark. Inside, deep black expressive Arabic script written with fountain pen flowed across the page.
14 July 2030
God Is Great.
May the blessing of Allah protect you from all harm. The remittances you are sending are greatly appreciated. Your sister now has her own hut and a new washing machine. I have been able to bribe the local state dentist into approving a new pair of dentures for me. Your nephew is doing well at the American school in the city. His English sounds almost like the American soldiers who occupy our fair land. He has also memorized the part of the Koran known as “The Heifer” and won an award from his teacher for the best recitation in his class. It must be hard to make payments from your bankruptcy and still send money home as well. But, I don’t know how we would survive without you. It looks like this year may be another drought.
Your brother has been conscripted by the government. He is going along quietly so that he learn the enemy’s ways from the inside. The risks are terrible, however. Conscripts are being put on oil well duty without proper training. Seven conscripts from Kumo were killed in a refinery blast last week. One had visited our mosque as part of a music group after coming back from his Haj, just before he was conscripted.
Conah will tell you when it is time to take the next move.
Sleep well in God’s Hands.
Your father.
George touched his cigarette to the thin paper and lowered it into the ashtray next to his plastic seat on the front walk. The space did not deserve the name porch. He watched as the message from far, far away vanished into ashes. Security really did matter in cases like this. If a Naval intelligence officer found it, he might use it to figure out who Conah was, and to break all of the cells under Conah’s command. George wouldn’t live to see the next month if that happened.
George made his way to a coffee shop built in a garage a few doors down and plunked down a few dollars for small cup of thick coffee. He felt in the waist band of his trousers under his loose blue work shirt. The pistol was there, loaded, just in case. Then he reached down to the pocket of his muddy, cement spattered chinos. Inside was a scrap of paper with a phone number belonging to a man he knew only as Conah.
George picked up the copy of the Highland's Ranch Free Daily from the next table. He flipped through a few pages until he came to the headline: "Yucca Mountain Shipments To Continue Weekly Through 2032." He took a deep breath and then began to read the article carefully.
Eunice went back to her book. Her mother’s Harry Potter books might be getting a little yellow, but anything that helped her keep her mind off the argument her parents had had last night when father had learned about Jerrica’s little holiday, was welcome.
A little later, the mail woman came. She was a veteran of one of the wars President Bush had fought in the Middle East. She wasn’t missing any arms or legs or fingers, but her face had the grim set of someone who’d braced against snipers and bombs and mortar launches one time too many. Eunice went to meet her. Their family always had the largest stack of mail in the neighborhood. Her father was a property manager, and with the start of a new month came new utility bills for each unit, rent checks from tenants were reliable enough not to require weekly visits in person, bills from maintenance subcontractors, and the usual run of business and personal junk mail. Eunice silently cursed the judge who had decided that unlike junk faxes, e-mails and phone calls, that there was a free speech right to send junk mail. The decision was the bane of everyone with a mailbox, but it was also credited with saving the postal system from extinction.
Three doors down, the mail woman dropped a fragile, single aerogramme and a supermarket flier into a box labeled, “George Muhammad”, one of five boxes near the front door. The central drop box was abandoned when more and more families started moving into each house. The aerogramme had an address neatly printed on the front in child like block letters, overwritten with a red Nigerian postmark. Inside, deep black expressive Arabic script written with fountain pen flowed across the page.
14 July 2030
God Is Great.
May the blessing of Allah protect you from all harm. The remittances you are sending are greatly appreciated. Your sister now has her own hut and a new washing machine. I have been able to bribe the local state dentist into approving a new pair of dentures for me. Your nephew is doing well at the American school in the city. His English sounds almost like the American soldiers who occupy our fair land. He has also memorized the part of the Koran known as “The Heifer” and won an award from his teacher for the best recitation in his class. It must be hard to make payments from your bankruptcy and still send money home as well. But, I don’t know how we would survive without you. It looks like this year may be another drought.
Your brother has been conscripted by the government. He is going along quietly so that he learn the enemy’s ways from the inside. The risks are terrible, however. Conscripts are being put on oil well duty without proper training. Seven conscripts from Kumo were killed in a refinery blast last week. One had visited our mosque as part of a music group after coming back from his Haj, just before he was conscripted.
Conah will tell you when it is time to take the next move.
Sleep well in God’s Hands.
Your father.
George touched his cigarette to the thin paper and lowered it into the ashtray next to his plastic seat on the front walk. The space did not deserve the name porch. He watched as the message from far, far away vanished into ashes. Security really did matter in cases like this. If a Naval intelligence officer found it, he might use it to figure out who Conah was, and to break all of the cells under Conah’s command. George wouldn’t live to see the next month if that happened.
George made his way to a coffee shop built in a garage a few doors down and plunked down a few dollars for small cup of thick coffee. He felt in the waist band of his trousers under his loose blue work shirt. The pistol was there, loaded, just in case. Then he reached down to the pocket of his muddy, cement spattered chinos. Inside was a scrap of paper with a phone number belonging to a man he knew only as Conah.
George picked up the copy of the Highland's Ranch Free Daily from the next table. He flipped through a few pages until he came to the headline: "Yucca Mountain Shipments To Continue Weekly Through 2032." He took a deep breath and then began to read the article carefully.
Club Seam
Jerrica stumbled a little as she climbed down the steep steps into Leadville’s Club Seam in the dark. It looked like it was once the basement of Victorian house. Duncan caught her shoulders and steadied her. The beat coming from below made it clear that they’d come to the right place.
The Labor Day weekend crowd wasn’t large. It was the off season. Half the patrons looked to be ski bums, some in electric colored ski wear, others in jeans and shirts or blouses from retail day jobs. A few more were frumpy older women in stunning clothes designed to hide the fact that the women themselves were getting to old to go clubbing as they verged on turning forty. The rest looked like college students, having a last fling at the parent’s condos before returning to the grind. They looked more like the crowds Jerrica and Duncan were used to from Denver clubs. One man wore a romantic flowing black shirt that wouldn’t have looked out of place in 15th century Venice with ruby rings, and real silver accent threads to complement a neatly trimmed beat and moustashe, with loose, natural deer leather slacks and finely polished black shoes. A tall woman with long blond hair wore a nearly transparent blouse and skirt over a shimmer white satin bra and a taffeta slip. The diamonds and pearls resting on her shoulders around her neck piled all the way to her chin. Her huge platinum drop earings clinked against the pearls when she moved. Her silvery bracelets piled from her wrists almost to her elbows. Her diamond anklets glittered as the soft silver bells that hung from them tinkled. Her titanium cable belt glowed with a surreal whiteness, and the fat blue sapphire on her white gold belly button ring seized your attention from anything else about her because it was the only part of her that wasn’t white or silver.
Jerrica decided that this woman’s belly button had seized a bit too much of Duncan’s attention and stepped on his foot. His eyes shot back to her.
Despite the thin crowd, the music was alive with urban sophistication and verve. After a long day processing repair complaints in her dad’s office, followed by hours on a motorcycle driving from Highlands Ranch to the cabin Duncan had arranged for them in the mountains, followed by another hour and a half sitting as they shared a really gourmet dinner and enough fine wine to leave her without inhibitions, Jerrica was ready to move. She caught Duncan’s eyes, drew her view to the dance floor where two or three people were dancing. She stepped out onto it, leaving the rest of the world behind her.
Jerrica might be only a sixteen year old kid, but she had already been going to clubs with a fake ID since she was thirteen, and knew no fear. With a grace polished in long hours on an old carpet in their unfinished basement in front to music from her clock radio, Jerrica made the dance floor her own. She was oblivious to anyone and anything but the music, the lights, and Duncan. She danced for the joy of being free, away from her parents, away from her nosy younger sister, not confined in a chair or seat, free to move, free to express herself. The music propelled her to move and her body responded. Every move was defined, just as she wanted it to be, in perfect synch with the rhythm of the drum machines and the mood of the cords playing above it. Her face was absorbed and alive. Even the bar tender had a tough time keeping his eyes off of her, despite the fact that her clothes were nothing special and she wore no jewelry.
To his credit, Duncan kept up with her, not a rival to her hypnotic motion, but a worthy satellite in orbit about her. It was his dancing that had attracted Jerrica to him in the first place. He sensed where Jerrica was heading and went with it. His moves complimented her, although they were not quite as precise and were less dramatic. When the music turned slow, rather than resorting to the high school entwined shuffle that most couples favored, their slow, sensuous, intimate dancing was elaborate, revealing, and breathtakingly sexual without any touching that was visibly crude.
They had danced for more than an hour when they stopped for the first time, kissing and making their way to a table at the edge of the dance floor. Their skin now shimmered with sweat. Jerrica told him what she wanted to drink, just lemon water, and made her way to the ladies room. Duncan breathed deeply.
The Labor Day weekend crowd wasn’t large. It was the off season. Half the patrons looked to be ski bums, some in electric colored ski wear, others in jeans and shirts or blouses from retail day jobs. A few more were frumpy older women in stunning clothes designed to hide the fact that the women themselves were getting to old to go clubbing as they verged on turning forty. The rest looked like college students, having a last fling at the parent’s condos before returning to the grind. They looked more like the crowds Jerrica and Duncan were used to from Denver clubs. One man wore a romantic flowing black shirt that wouldn’t have looked out of place in 15th century Venice with ruby rings, and real silver accent threads to complement a neatly trimmed beat and moustashe, with loose, natural deer leather slacks and finely polished black shoes. A tall woman with long blond hair wore a nearly transparent blouse and skirt over a shimmer white satin bra and a taffeta slip. The diamonds and pearls resting on her shoulders around her neck piled all the way to her chin. Her huge platinum drop earings clinked against the pearls when she moved. Her silvery bracelets piled from her wrists almost to her elbows. Her diamond anklets glittered as the soft silver bells that hung from them tinkled. Her titanium cable belt glowed with a surreal whiteness, and the fat blue sapphire on her white gold belly button ring seized your attention from anything else about her because it was the only part of her that wasn’t white or silver.
Jerrica decided that this woman’s belly button had seized a bit too much of Duncan’s attention and stepped on his foot. His eyes shot back to her.
Despite the thin crowd, the music was alive with urban sophistication and verve. After a long day processing repair complaints in her dad’s office, followed by hours on a motorcycle driving from Highlands Ranch to the cabin Duncan had arranged for them in the mountains, followed by another hour and a half sitting as they shared a really gourmet dinner and enough fine wine to leave her without inhibitions, Jerrica was ready to move. She caught Duncan’s eyes, drew her view to the dance floor where two or three people were dancing. She stepped out onto it, leaving the rest of the world behind her.
Jerrica might be only a sixteen year old kid, but she had already been going to clubs with a fake ID since she was thirteen, and knew no fear. With a grace polished in long hours on an old carpet in their unfinished basement in front to music from her clock radio, Jerrica made the dance floor her own. She was oblivious to anyone and anything but the music, the lights, and Duncan. She danced for the joy of being free, away from her parents, away from her nosy younger sister, not confined in a chair or seat, free to move, free to express herself. The music propelled her to move and her body responded. Every move was defined, just as she wanted it to be, in perfect synch with the rhythm of the drum machines and the mood of the cords playing above it. Her face was absorbed and alive. Even the bar tender had a tough time keeping his eyes off of her, despite the fact that her clothes were nothing special and she wore no jewelry.
To his credit, Duncan kept up with her, not a rival to her hypnotic motion, but a worthy satellite in orbit about her. It was his dancing that had attracted Jerrica to him in the first place. He sensed where Jerrica was heading and went with it. His moves complimented her, although they were not quite as precise and were less dramatic. When the music turned slow, rather than resorting to the high school entwined shuffle that most couples favored, their slow, sensuous, intimate dancing was elaborate, revealing, and breathtakingly sexual without any touching that was visibly crude.
They had danced for more than an hour when they stopped for the first time, kissing and making their way to a table at the edge of the dance floor. Their skin now shimmered with sweat. Jerrica told him what she wanted to drink, just lemon water, and made her way to the ladies room. Duncan breathed deeply.
In the Mountains.
With the delay occasioned by taking the scenic route, Duncan and Jerrica reached the cabin in the woods at about eight. They dropped their bags, relieved themselves. Jerrica washed her face and took off her scarf, since the smoke had subsided a little her in the mountains. Duncan drove the last half hour into Leadville, driving more carefully than he had on the way to the cabin.
The waiter frowned, just a little, when they asked for a table for two. Jerrica’s makeup was too heavy, but didn’t hide the fact that she had just turned sixteen this summer. Duncan didn’t seem to notice. He ordered two vodka martinis, and then ordered dinner for her as well as for him. The fettuccini with crab sauce had been one of her top two choices anyway, so Jerrica decided to consider it empathy, instead of bossiness. He ordered a twelve ounce steak. They were too tired to say much after the long ride, and the martinis went surprisingly fast. Duncan ordered another round when the waiter finally came with water glasses. The second round went quickly as well. Jerrica was beginning to feel just a little drunk. Duncan started to relax. He casually stroked her calf under the table with his hand. They had done little but stare into each other’s eyes when dinner arrived.
It wasn’t as if either of them was a virgin, or, even that this was their first time. But, the sexual tension still filled the space between them. They’d been on several dates now, but each for an evening or for lunch, or once for a hike and breakfast. Their first time, her only time, had been a frenzied affair with Duncan in a bedroom at Duncan’s friend’s house, at 2 a.m. on the night they‘d first met, after a long night of intimate dancing at a Denver club.. But, they’d never had an entire long weekend, and had never met planning in advance to have sex (although neither of them had said so out loud even this time). Like most high school girls in the 2030s, she had an implant to prevent pregnancy and has been warned to use condoms. But, she didn’t use a condom the first time, and she didn’t bring any this time either. She was only here at all now because she’d chosen to leave without asking her father’s permission., knowing no one would be home when she left.
Duncan started talking when dinner arrived, loosened up by a couple of drinks. “You look great tonight. How’d you like to go dancing after we eat?”
“I’d love it.”, Jerrica said. “It’ll probably just be us and a bunch of old farts, but I’m not afraid to make a little bit of a show, are you?”
“No. When I’m dancing with you, the rest of the world goes away.”
Unlike so many men, Duncan actually could dance, and well. His sense of rhythm was impeccable and he paid attention to his partner, so that he was in synch with her. Jerrica, despite the fact that she was just sixteen, was electrifying. On the dance floor she was totally uninhabited and yet moved with so much definition that your eyes were drawn to her when you walked in the room. She lead and the rest of the dance floor followed. She moved with purpose and emotion. Despite her lack of experience, Duncan had discovered that Jerrica’s incredible abilities as a dancer translated well to the bedroom. She had a natural grace and a sense of her own body.
“One of these days,” he said, “I want to open my own motorcycle shop. Just motorcycles. Repairs, new bikes, used ones, the whole thing. Maybe even tours.”
“Do you think you could pull it off?”, Jerrica asked.
“Sure, why not? Mr. Salazar and Mr. Carrey did it, and they’re no smarter than I am. Hell, given half a chance Mr. Carrey would tell off every Nigerian who comes into the shop with a clunker that needs repairs and we’d lose half our business. I’d know better than the bite the hand that feeds me.”
Jerrica didn’t know. She’d been introduced once in passing to Mr. Salazar and had never even met Mr. Carrey. “Doesn’t it take a lot of money to open up a shop?”
“Not really.”, Duncan said, “Your employees rent their own tools, there are plenty of places in the suburbs where you can rent an old garage cheap, and I really know plenty of people who could send business my way, so I wouldn’t need to spend a lot on ads. Sure, I‘d need more money than I have now, to buy motorcycles and parts to sell, but it wouldn‘t be so much. I‘ll bet I could even get a loan for some of the cost.”
“That would be great.”, Jerrica said.
The waiter frowned, just a little, when they asked for a table for two. Jerrica’s makeup was too heavy, but didn’t hide the fact that she had just turned sixteen this summer. Duncan didn’t seem to notice. He ordered two vodka martinis, and then ordered dinner for her as well as for him. The fettuccini with crab sauce had been one of her top two choices anyway, so Jerrica decided to consider it empathy, instead of bossiness. He ordered a twelve ounce steak. They were too tired to say much after the long ride, and the martinis went surprisingly fast. Duncan ordered another round when the waiter finally came with water glasses. The second round went quickly as well. Jerrica was beginning to feel just a little drunk. Duncan started to relax. He casually stroked her calf under the table with his hand. They had done little but stare into each other’s eyes when dinner arrived.
It wasn’t as if either of them was a virgin, or, even that this was their first time. But, the sexual tension still filled the space between them. They’d been on several dates now, but each for an evening or for lunch, or once for a hike and breakfast. Their first time, her only time, had been a frenzied affair with Duncan in a bedroom at Duncan’s friend’s house, at 2 a.m. on the night they‘d first met, after a long night of intimate dancing at a Denver club.. But, they’d never had an entire long weekend, and had never met planning in advance to have sex (although neither of them had said so out loud even this time). Like most high school girls in the 2030s, she had an implant to prevent pregnancy and has been warned to use condoms. But, she didn’t use a condom the first time, and she didn’t bring any this time either. She was only here at all now because she’d chosen to leave without asking her father’s permission., knowing no one would be home when she left.
Duncan started talking when dinner arrived, loosened up by a couple of drinks. “You look great tonight. How’d you like to go dancing after we eat?”
“I’d love it.”, Jerrica said. “It’ll probably just be us and a bunch of old farts, but I’m not afraid to make a little bit of a show, are you?”
“No. When I’m dancing with you, the rest of the world goes away.”
Unlike so many men, Duncan actually could dance, and well. His sense of rhythm was impeccable and he paid attention to his partner, so that he was in synch with her. Jerrica, despite the fact that she was just sixteen, was electrifying. On the dance floor she was totally uninhabited and yet moved with so much definition that your eyes were drawn to her when you walked in the room. She lead and the rest of the dance floor followed. She moved with purpose and emotion. Despite her lack of experience, Duncan had discovered that Jerrica’s incredible abilities as a dancer translated well to the bedroom. She had a natural grace and a sense of her own body.
“One of these days,” he said, “I want to open my own motorcycle shop. Just motorcycles. Repairs, new bikes, used ones, the whole thing. Maybe even tours.”
“Do you think you could pull it off?”, Jerrica asked.
“Sure, why not? Mr. Salazar and Mr. Carrey did it, and they’re no smarter than I am. Hell, given half a chance Mr. Carrey would tell off every Nigerian who comes into the shop with a clunker that needs repairs and we’d lose half our business. I’d know better than the bite the hand that feeds me.”
Jerrica didn’t know. She’d been introduced once in passing to Mr. Salazar and had never even met Mr. Carrey. “Doesn’t it take a lot of money to open up a shop?”
“Not really.”, Duncan said, “Your employees rent their own tools, there are plenty of places in the suburbs where you can rent an old garage cheap, and I really know plenty of people who could send business my way, so I wouldn’t need to spend a lot on ads. Sure, I‘d need more money than I have now, to buy motorcycles and parts to sell, but it wouldn‘t be so much. I‘ll bet I could even get a loan for some of the cost.”
“That would be great.”, Jerrica said.
Home Front
At eight o’clock, Mom’s old hybrid drive Daewoo Hola sedan rolled into the driveway. It’s once fashionable puce exterior was thankfully hidden by the now fallen night. Normally, she worked four ten hour shifts a week and did chores on Friday. This week, she’d done a fifth shift, because a co-worker had had to go to a funeral, and the family needed the money. Dutifully, Eunice helped bring in the groceries from the car. The shadows beneath mom’s eyes were visible. The figure she’d had when she married had long since vanished. She looked like she was in her mid-forties, even though she was only thirty-three.
Eunice had already opened a couple of boxes and popped them in the quick heat before mom could start doing anything else. At fourteen, Eunice felt like an adult making dinner the for family, or at any rate the two of them. Dad reserved Fridays for beer and baseball with his old buddies, some from before he’d met mom, from the old neighborhood. The truth was that mom was probably better off with him drunk at someone else’s house. Dad was not a docile drunk. Jerrica, of course, was absent without leave. Eunice set the nook table for two, since it wasn’t worth using the dining room table for just the two of them. The quiche, as always, smelled wonderful. As an extra touch, Eunice took two crystal wine glasses from the one glass cabinet in the kitchen and poured her and her mother glasses of peach-strawberry nectar. She used the good stainless silver tableware as well.
Mom slumped into the seat in the nook facing in towards the kitchen. Mom smelled of strong antiseptic soap. She starred at the place where Jerrica would usually have brought up a chair and eaten herself and simply said “Where?”.
“She went out with a friend about five. She took a bag.”, Eunice said, as opaquely as she could manage.
“Who?”
“I didn’t see.”
“But, you know.”
“Duncan.”
Mom winced.
“Damn it. He’s twice her age.”
Eunice decided that silence was the best policy at the moment. Mentioning that mom had married dad when she was a pregnant seventeen year old and dad was thirty-seven was not the right thing to say right now.
“School starts Tuesday.”, mom said.
“Jerrica knows. She bought her books last week.” Eunice elected not to mention the lingerie her big sister purchased on the same trip without being asked.
Mom went to the liquor cabinet, took out the vodka, and filled her half empty cup of nectar with it. Euncie rolled her eyes. Mom responded by pouring about a shot’s worth into her glass too. Eunice hadn’t expected mom to do that, but didn’t complain.
Mom nursed her drink with one hand, and squeezed Eunice’s hand gently with the other. “Your growing up so fast yourself.”, mom said. Eunice smiled a little. She was fourteen, after all. Before Eunice could do anything more, mom said, “Go read. I know you want to, your books sitting in bay window.”, and took the dishes to the dishwasher. Eunice obeyed, adjourning to the window.
Half way up the stairs mom kneeled in from of the shrine she’d created with stained glass and trinkets and pictures on the landing. She prayed.
“Lord, I give you thanks that my daughter Eunice is well. Please lord, keep Jerrica and Jerry safe this night, and grant me the privilege to see tomorrow. In your name I pray. Amen.”
Mom went to sleep without brushing her teeth or going to the bathroom. Eunice didn’t know what to think. So she read her book until she fell asleep in the bay window.
Eunice had already opened a couple of boxes and popped them in the quick heat before mom could start doing anything else. At fourteen, Eunice felt like an adult making dinner the for family, or at any rate the two of them. Dad reserved Fridays for beer and baseball with his old buddies, some from before he’d met mom, from the old neighborhood. The truth was that mom was probably better off with him drunk at someone else’s house. Dad was not a docile drunk. Jerrica, of course, was absent without leave. Eunice set the nook table for two, since it wasn’t worth using the dining room table for just the two of them. The quiche, as always, smelled wonderful. As an extra touch, Eunice took two crystal wine glasses from the one glass cabinet in the kitchen and poured her and her mother glasses of peach-strawberry nectar. She used the good stainless silver tableware as well.
Mom slumped into the seat in the nook facing in towards the kitchen. Mom smelled of strong antiseptic soap. She starred at the place where Jerrica would usually have brought up a chair and eaten herself and simply said “Where?”.
“She went out with a friend about five. She took a bag.”, Eunice said, as opaquely as she could manage.
“Who?”
“I didn’t see.”
“But, you know.”
“Duncan.”
Mom winced.
“Damn it. He’s twice her age.”
Eunice decided that silence was the best policy at the moment. Mentioning that mom had married dad when she was a pregnant seventeen year old and dad was thirty-seven was not the right thing to say right now.
“School starts Tuesday.”, mom said.
“Jerrica knows. She bought her books last week.” Eunice elected not to mention the lingerie her big sister purchased on the same trip without being asked.
Mom went to the liquor cabinet, took out the vodka, and filled her half empty cup of nectar with it. Euncie rolled her eyes. Mom responded by pouring about a shot’s worth into her glass too. Eunice hadn’t expected mom to do that, but didn’t complain.
Mom nursed her drink with one hand, and squeezed Eunice’s hand gently with the other. “Your growing up so fast yourself.”, mom said. Eunice smiled a little. She was fourteen, after all. Before Eunice could do anything more, mom said, “Go read. I know you want to, your books sitting in bay window.”, and took the dishes to the dishwasher. Eunice obeyed, adjourning to the window.
Half way up the stairs mom kneeled in from of the shrine she’d created with stained glass and trinkets and pictures on the landing. She prayed.
“Lord, I give you thanks that my daughter Eunice is well. Please lord, keep Jerrica and Jerry safe this night, and grant me the privilege to see tomorrow. In your name I pray. Amen.”
Mom went to sleep without brushing her teeth or going to the bathroom. Eunice didn’t know what to think. So she read her book until she fell asleep in the bay window.
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