Burn District 1 Page 11

  “Laura, you’re starting to lose it,” Mike said to me one night. “We have enough food for a year already, give it a rest.” That pissed me off. Before this happened Mike was a fanatic; our cars for instance, maintenance, tire rotation, oil changes, registration. He’d go on and on until I wanted to plug my ears. I wanted to remind him, to make him try to see how important it was for me to be confident about our food supplies, when I realized I would never feel good about it until we were self-sufficient and maybe even not then. The effort it was taking us to get a ten-foot by ten-foot plot of my father’s rocky sand ready to cultivate was more than we were equipped for. I had to hand it to Kelly; she didn’t stop trying to garden that plot, using a pick ax to try to break up the cement-like ground, working peat moss and manure into it from the farm across the road.

  “What happens after a year? Then what?” He looked at me and shook his head, and started to leave our room, but I wasn’t having it. I grabbed the back of his shirt.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I said, and fortunately, it came out like I was teasing or we might have ended up in a battle to end all battles, but he smiled and let me pull him back.

  “I guess I’ve got this coming,” he said, smirking. “What do you want?”

  “We need to start growing our own food. This rocky ground is not going to cut it. Right across the road is a gigantic, abandoned farm. We’re already using their equipment. Let’s take part of the land close to the road and plant it. It already has the rows in and the irrigation is in place. We need more solar panels.”

  “You talk like there are panels laying around for the taking. I think we have what we’re gonna get. If we need more than this, we’ll have to go into Yuma, and I don’t think we want to do that.”

  “Because of what those looters told us? It might not be so bad now.”

  “Let’s wait and see,” Mike answered. “You can start working on the farm if everyone else agrees its safe enough. We’ll have to take turns standing guard. But it has to be without irrigation if the pumps require electricity. There might be enough pressure in their system to water a small area without power. I’ll go over with you tomorrow and we can check it out.” I felt like he was really in touch with me, that he cared about what my concerns were. I went to him and he hugged me, and then we kissed.

  “Can we do it tonight?” he whispered. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, I guess so,” I said teasing. “Meet me here after everyone else is in bed.”

  Our trailer had been the place for game playing and movie watching, but the others were spending more time in their own spaces in the evening, occasionally inviting our children along. Carin was the loneliest, missing Elise as she cared for Chris, but trying to make the best of it by staying busy. When we weren’t toiling in the small garden plot, she was sewing curtains for the little trailer her grandparents were in, and making slipcovers for every cushion in sight using fabric we’d looted. The sewing machine motor running into the night became a soothing sound in our trailer.

  The connection between Kelly and I continued to be strained. I tried not to watch her and my dad together too carefully, but it was obvious they were a couple. It made me both angry and a little sick feeling, like she’d traded our friendship for a date with a man fifteen years older than she was. My dad was distancing himself from me too, that was the sad part. Her friendship was definitely expendable, but my bond with my dad was not. I didn’t know how to navigate it.

  One day when we were at the grocery store with Candy and Jessica packing up more food, Candy turned to my dad.

  “Would you be interested in coming for dinner sometime?” It was clear she’d caught him off guard, but I had to hand it to him.

  “That’s so nice of you,” he answered. “But I have an idea. Why don’t you come to our compound? We’d like you to meet the rest of the family and trust me, you don’t want all of us coming to your place.”

  Candy put her arm around Jessica’s shoulders and she nodded in agreement and then smiled. “It’s been pretty lonely. Dinner with friends would be great.”

  “Like old times,” Candy said, smiling at Steve. “Before this nightmare.”

  “Okay, what do you say Laura? How about tomorrow night?” Friday was Date Night, but I’m sure he wasn’t thinking in those terms.

  “Tomorrow night would be fine,” I said. I hoped it would fill the void Elise leaving had made.

  Kelly didn’t say anything. I wondered if she was jealous, or still upset with me for questioning her about flirting with Mike. In a second’s time I realized I didn’t care. She needed to grovel a bit before I would give it up. Kelly needed to be more appreciative. My attitude would sustain me through the coming weeks.

  Chapter 13

  Winston Clarke sat in the steam room at the Andover Country Club in downtown Fairfax, alone save his bodyguard, Ralph Jones, and secretary, Terry Kirkland. Terry, who disliked steam and disliked getting it with his boss even more, was resting against the wall with his eyes closed. “Terry, did you get in touch with Ben Adamiac?” Making sure his poker face was on; Terry sat up and opened his eyes. Perfect timing, no matter how long he waited for Clarke to engage him, he would always choose the minute Terry finally was comfortable.

  “I did. He can meet with you on Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday. Why wait until Tuesday? He should see me the moment I ask. Get him on the phone please and tell him I can’t wait. We need to talk this weekend preferably tonight.”

  Standing up, Terry let the towel fall away, walking out of the room. Flaunting Kirkland’s trim youthful physique in contrast to Clarke’s porcine habitus was useful when he needed to get a little upper hand, next to impossible when he was clothed. Ralph watched Terry walk by, turning his head to prevent the boss from seeing his smile; he knew what Terry was doing after watching the two of them.

  Ralph might just be a bodyguard to Clarke, but he was a student of personalities and the dynamic between the two men was a study in contrasts. He often wondered if they were lovers, but knowing Terry as well as he did now, doubted he’s be able to tolerate Clarke, who was a slob. Watching Clarke follow Terry’s slender form out of the room with his eyes, Ralph thought Clarke had probably caught on to Terry, but because he was so cute, let him get away with his shenanigans. No other secretary had lasted as long as he had.

  “It might be time to look for a new secretary,” Clarke said, as though he’d been eavesdropping on Ralph’s inner dialogue.

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s getting lazy,” Clarke replied.

  “A familiar set of sins is easier to cope with than an unfamiliar set,” Ralph answered. “You’ll have to train someone all over again” Train wasn’t the right word. “Indoctrinate.”

  Terry returned to the steam room, his phone to ear. “You’re probably right,” Clarke said. Terry hung up from the call.

  “Ben’s utmost regrets; he’s taking his daughter back to school this weekend and they won’t be back until Tuesday.” Clarke spit out a venomous chuckle.

  “Oh, no, no, no. He needs to see me now. Give me that phone.” Terry handed over his phone, bending over at the same time to pick up his towel, bare ass in the air.

  “Kirkland, give me a break, will you please?” Ralph asked looking the other way, moaning.

  Terry snickered. “My apologies.”

  “Knock it off, you two,” Clarke yelled. Then kindly into the phone as it was being answered, “Ben! Glad I caught you before you left for, what was it again? Michigan?” He listened, nodding into the phone.

  “Out of respect for me, you need to see me before you go,” he said, still nodding. “Plane fair is so cheap nowadays, that’s hardly an excuse. I expect you to meet me tonight, at my office, at nine. No excuses.” He pressed end and handed the phone back to Terry.

  “Don’t let that happen again,” he said. Terry nodded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ralph, get David to drive you over to Ben Adamiac’s house. He
needs an escort to my office tonight. Be there at nine.” Pulling the towel around his ample middle, Ralph stood up to go out to the dressing room.

  “Okay, sir. On it.”

  “Now that’s what I want from you, son,” Clarke said to Terry. “I expect you to do what I tell you to do, not come back with excuses why it wasn’t done. I didn’t get where I am now by being a milquetoast.”

  “What’s that mean?” Terry asked, knowing but implying the phrase was too antiquated for someone as hip as he was to understand.

  “Shut up,” Clarke replied. Ralph, chuckling as they bickered, came in with his t-shirt and underpants on.

  “No answer from David,” he said, ready to explain he’d go over to the man’s house if necessary. This resulted in an outburst by Clarke.

  “Unless you want to be a chauffer tonight, you’ll get David on the phone now.”

  “Clarke, chill. I was just about to say I would get dressed and take a ride out to Adamiac’s house myself before I was so rudely interrupted. Do you want to tag along? We can drop in unannounced.” He cackled.

  “You mean take a meeting at his house?” Clarke frowned. Keeping Ben in line was easier on Clarke’s own turf.

  “Come on Terry, you come, too. See the big man in action.”

  “I’ve already seen, remember?” There had been a certain unfortunate incident involving Phil Arndt, Clarke’s accountant, right after the hurricane. They’d tried to protect Terry just in case he was subpoenaed. He’d avoided acknowledging the brutality his boss was capable of, and although he knew that much of the day to day business was on the level, there was enough undercurrent for him to know he might be an accessory if Clarke was ever indicted, especially now.

  “Bring him to the office,” Clarke commanded.

  “I’ll drop you off, then. Come on let’s get the lead out. It’s getting late.” Clarke didn’t like Ralph bossing him around but he knew his best interests were at heart, if heart was the right word to use.

  ***

  Ben Adamiac saw Terry Kirkland’s name and number come up on caller ID and the effect was immediate, he had to rush to the bathroom. It could only mean one thing; being summoned back to Winston Clarke’s office. And that was petrifying. Ben was man in charge of Clarke’s public relations division. This meant he was the originator of lies that covered everything from starting a global warming hoax to denying funding of research for an AIDS vaccine. While he sat on the toilet with a wastepaper basket in his hands about to vomit, his wife Beverly came to the door and knocked.

  “Ben, we have to leave now,” she said, concerned. “We’re cutting it awfully close.”

  “Call a car,” he said, heaving. “I’ve got to meet with Clarke tonight.” From history, Beverly Adamiac knew Winston Clarke called the shots around their house. He had so much power over Ben she could pinpoint which nights Ben would have sex with her by where in the country Clarke was. The further from D.C., the better her chances of getting laid. She and her daughter having to take a plane out of Dulles alone at the last minute was aggravating, but she’d had worse. When she was in labor with their last child, a girl, Ben left, summoned by Clarke, just as the head was emerging.

  “I’ll have to drive myself,” she said, gritting her teeth. “It’s too late to call a car.” It didn’t do any good to complain about it because there was nothing Ben could do. If Clarke called, Ben was better off killing himself than not showing up.

  “Can I at least come in and give you a goodbye kiss?”

  “No! I’m shitting and puking in here. Tell Shannon I love her. And put the car in the short term lot.” Beverly walked away from the bathroom door, aware that she might not see Ben alive again.

  A series of sounds; the garage door opening, a motor starting up, the door closing, the car driving further away, confirmed his family would be safe. After minutes of evacuating his body, Ben felt empty enough to stand up. He glanced at his watch; Clarke wanted to see him at nine, which meant one of the apes would be there in ten minutes to pick him up. Not allowed to drive to the office in the four years he’d worked for Clarke, Ben worried it was so they didn’t have to dispose of his car if he came to the end of his life at one of the meetings.

  Looking in the mirror, a death mask hung in front of his face. The stress of working for Clarke had taken a toll on his body. Most of the assignments he had were easy enough to execute as long as he didn’t think too much. But this latest was a travesty; he was frightened, and Ben didn’t usually get scared. Clarke was crazy; it was a known and accepted fact of Washington. But lately, the craziness was accelerating, beyond insanity even.

  “I think our man might be mad,” Terry Kirkland confided. “I wish I could get out, but he’d kill me.” Ben looked at Terry with horror; it was one thing to think it, but another altogether to say it out loud.

  “Shut up. Honest to god, shut the hell up,” Ben hissed, looking around his office. The Winston Clarke Humanitarian Fellowship offices were in a middle class neighborhood outside of Washington. They were bugged, of course. Terry had worked there long enough to know better.

  “Chill out, man. They’re not going to go over every tape.”

  “This shit is live,” Ben whispered. “Every fucking word is listened to. Just watch it in my office. I don’t care what you do in your own hole.”

  The encounter with Miranda Garrison and her family, a source of most of Ben’s recent nightmares, taught him a valuable lesson. Thinking he’d be off the hook if he took care of her was erroneous. The assignments just got worse as Clarke’s madness expected more and more from Ben, each thing asked of him more gruesome than the last. Ben was truly a patsy.

  Taking care of the problem of Miranda Garrison should have been the end of it. But Clarke was expanding his grip; the latest an idea to drop bombs on traffic jams of cars fleeing an area after a burn. Each incident fueled more rumors until higher, innocent powers in Washington were taking a second look. Miranda Garrison’s father was a well-loved senator; her death only made things worse.

  He washed his face and grabbed a towel from the bar under the bathroom window to dry off. Car lights swept the front lawn. They’d come for him. He had no idea what Clarke wanted this time, so he took a deep breath and tried to blank out his thoughts. Worrying would do no earthly good at all. Looking through the sidelights as he pulled a jacket on, he saw Ralph Jones walking up the path and involuntarily sighed relief. The worst of the apes, David Parks usually drove Clarke and the thought of being alone in a limousine with him after dark was not welcome. At least Ralph pretended what they did was normal. Ben opened the door.

  “Do I need my briefcase?”

  “What? Do I look like your mother? You go to see your boss, you bring your paper along. What’s wrong with you?” He thought he heard a sob from Ben, but when he looked at him closely, there was no sign of distress except the man looked awfully thin.

  “You okay there, buddy? You lookin’ a little peaked.”

  “I’ll live. Now you sound like my mother,” Ben replied, reaching for the back door handle of the car. Ralph laughed out loud.

  “Sit in front. I’m no chauffer.”

  “What happened to Parks? I was fully expecting to have the shit beat out of me,” Ben said.

  “He’s indisposed,” Ralph answered, sounding just mysterious enough to frighten Ben. “Why would he beat you, Ben? You did your job. Nice work, by the way. I think the old man is mighty pleased.” Ben thought of his family flying to Michigan without him, his beloved daughter going off to school and him not there with her. At least he wasn’t going to his death, yet.

  “Why the urgency then?” Ben asked. It was as far as he’d go questioning.

  “You know how he gets. He wants his people around him for security.”

  “Any repercussions yet?” Ben asked, his stomach doing a flip.

  “Not a peep. Not even on those forums she runs. Not a suggestion of anything. That is a little concerning if you ask me. Like the next bomb is getting r
eady to drop on us.”

  “Oh Jesus, don’t say that out loud,” Ben cried out. “You trying to get us killed?” Ralph looked in the rearview mirror and out the side window. No one was around to repeat what he said, but if the car was bugged, well, it was an issue. They’d bugged others, but not their own, did they? The thought was frightening.

  “Gotcha,” Ralph said. They’d lived and worked in relative anonymity for so long, but with the recent developments, it could change. Ralph felt his first fear that night. Although he’d never issued an order, or participated in anything that led to a death… a murder, he was still part of Clarke’s team and it gave him a chill. He looked over at Ben, at how drawn and skinny he’d gotten and suddenly Ralph felt sick to his stomach.

  Rarely allowing thoughts about how bizarre what Clarke did was, the fact that it was already out of control worried him. The first incident was in Bell Harbor, a vacation community off the North Carolina coast. The Clarke’s owned the longest expanse of private beach left in Bell Harbor, all but for two lots in the center of his property. The owners allowed public access to their beachfront. No matter how much money he sunk into a legal battle to force the owners to sell, or to at least commit to keeping it private, he kept losing. And then Hurricane Sandy hit last month; Clarke was ecstatic, praying out loud that their beach front would be sparred but that the offending properties would be decimated. The Atlantic coast beachfront community was destroyed and the rest was history. Someone got sick, probably a bad case of the flu, and he developed pneumonia and died. Then a second person, and third, and soon a flu epidemic hit.

  Clarke called his team in after the hurricane. “Get to the office, fast,” he demanded. Ralph was used to being at his command; he wasn’t married, his children grown and gone so it was never an inconvenience when the summons frequently came. He put a raincoat on over his sweatpants and ventured out, stopping at a drive-thru window to get coffee and donuts. When he arrived, David had just pulled in to the office building parking garage with a car full of grumpy men; Ben Adamiac, Terry Kirkland, and Phil Arndt.