D Carpenter - Infertile Grounds

Pell dropped into the worn chair behind his desk and grabbed his rolodex. He could use his computer but for some reason he liked a good old fashioned Rolodex. He flipped through it until he found the number for the FAA and dialed it up.

After a quick conversation, he was assured that nobody had reported any downed or missing airplanes in the past few days. He churned this information over as he hung up the phone. Chris said that the state cop had called the FAA and arranged a meeting for this morning, and yet, as he had just found out, they knew absolutely nothing about it. Something wasn’t adding up. On the outside, Chris Foster seemed like a perfectly rational, normal person but perhaps there was more going on inside that Pell needed to explore.

Why would this apparently straight-laced guy fake a story like this? In his years with the Bureau, he had seen his share of weirdoes, and he knew better than most people that anything was possible. People are just bizarre sometimes, trying to figure out why was a useless exercise.

He picked up the phone again and made a call to the State Police barracks in Houlton. He knew the commander well. Over the years they had worked on numerous cases together.

“Peter Clemens, please,” Pell said.

“Can I tell him who’s calling?” The receptionist asked.

“Agent Paul Pelletier.”

After a brief pause Peter came on the line. “Pell, how the hell are you?”

“I’m doing well, Peter. How about you?”

“No complaints. The goddamn Customs Agents aren’t happy about being part of Homeland Security and have been doing work stoppages for a few days. My men have to cover for them.”

“It’s the same old story, isn’t it?” Pell said.

“Between you and me, I’m sick of it. They’re all a bunch of candy asses over there in Customs. Hell, they ought to have to deal with the crap I do. Maybe then they’d see how good they’ve got it.”

Pell chuckled. “Whip their lazy asses in line.”

“I wish I could,” Pete replied. “Well, enough of that. My blood pressure is going up just talking about it. What’s up?”

“Not much really. You know a trooper named Bert Nadeau? Works route eleven.”

“Sure. He’s a good man, why?”

“I’m not sure. I’m working on something, and his name came up. That’s all.”

Silence came from the other side of the phone until Pell asked, “Have you heard of anything happening up in that area?”

“Like what?”

“Cult activity, suspicious groups, anything like that?”

“Cults? Hell no. It’s all the usual stuff out there – poaching, drinking, domestic shit. I talked to Bert two days ago, and he didn’t say anything. Can you tell me more?”

“I wish I could but it’s probably just a wild goose chase. If anything comes of it, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Thanks for the information, Pete. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up the phone. Chris Foster’s story was sounding fishier by the minute.

He got up and shut the door to his office. He walked back to his desk, sat down, and pulled a bottle of vodka out of the locked bottom drawer of his desk. Mild tremors shook his fingers as he put the bottle to his lips and took a drink.

The warmth and bite of the vodka made him see things a little more clearly, and he decided to do what Chris had suggested. Booze always made him more decisive, at least in his opinion. He arranged for a chopper to fly them up north.

After another gulp and a quick blast of breath freshener, he was on his way back to tell Chris what they were going to do.

Phillip G. Spencer II – one of the most respected economists in the country, an American rags-to-riches success story, a living legend in the investment community, a confidant to presidents and Fed chairmen, and a goddamn billionaire. And, he was also Camilla’s quasi-adopted father. So that explains why money was never a problem.

“Phillip Spencer,” Sarah said, her breath caught in her tightening throat.

“I am him,” he replied cordially as he hobbled over to the two women flashing a slight, self-effacing smile. “And you are the brilliant Sarah Burns.”

Thoughts raced through her mind as he clasped her hand in his and stared into her eyes, his arthritic hands quaked mildly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Spencer.”

“Please, call me Phillip and the pleasure really is all mine. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time,” he said with a soft Arkansas twang, still clutching her hand. “A long time.”

Sarah glanced at Camilla who said, “Let’s sit down. Get comfortable.”

Three chairs surrounded an ornately carved, oriental coffee table. The thick glass top offered a view of an exquisitely detailed, three dimensional battle scene carved in the dark wood. Samurais fought and died in front of a large Pagoda, tiny bonsai trees lined the square, a lone man sat on a mat at the top of the stairs calmly surveying the vicious sword battle. As they sat down, she noticed in the shadows of the Pagoda porch, behind the seated figure, a man with a raised sword, poised to jump out and strike a fatal, probably decapitating, blow. Was he a traitor or an enemy? Sarah couldn’t help but wonder if her own battle was finally over or if it was just beginning. Was someone lurking in the shadows, waiting to shatter her peace? Albert came into the room and asked Camilla if he could get anything for her guests. She requested a pitcher of lemonade, and he disappeared into the kitchen to make it.

With some effort, Phillip crossed his bony legs then flipped his long hair over the bald spot that covered the front half of his head. His complexion was ruddy and he looked to be in decent shape – a bit lame maybe but, considering he had to be pushing ninety, that wasn’t so bad. His eyes were bright, alert – no signs of the rheumy confusion that plagued many his age.

“Phillip’s got limited time so why don’t we just get down to business,” Camilla said. “I hope you’ve come here to tell us what we’ve been waiting to hear. It’s been difficult, excruciating actually, not to get over-anxious. I’ve been looking forward to this day since that night in Calcutta when we first had the idea. Remember?”

Sarah nodded and smiled coyly at Camilla. She remembered that night very well – for that and other more lustful reasons. Camilla shot her a soft wink

Phillip’s face darkened for a moment and then he said, “I’ve been waiting for this since June 14, 1986, the first anniversary of my son’s death.”

“I remember,” Camilla said.

Sarah watched the two of them lock eyes for a long moment – undoubtedly reliving their uniquely shared pain – before he turned to Sarah and said, “Have you done it?”

“Yes,” she blurted, wanting to say more but biting her tongue.

He let out a long, slow exhalation and tilted his head back until he was staring at the ceiling. His comb-over flopped to the right side of his head giving him a disheveled genius appearance.

“I knew you would. From the moment I read the draft of your thesis I knew you were special, gifted. Christ, what you’ve done will change the world for ever. could make us a fortune if we were interested in that.”

“My thesis?” Sarah asked. How’d he get a copy? She never even finished the damn thing. “How—”

“I was given a private sneak peek from your mentor, Maurice Andleman.”

“What?” Sarah exclaimed. “Maurice gave you my work? I don’t believe it.”

“It was brilliant, Sarah.”

Sarah’s face flushed. This certainly wasn’t how she anticipated this meeting going. Her instinct as a scientist was to get angry, her privacy had been violated, her not-fully-formed intellectual ramblings stripped naked for an outsider to peruse and lay some sort of half-ass claim to.