D Carpenter - Infertile Grounds

“What were you thinking?” She exclaimed.

“It seemed—”

“So you’re shutting down the base, right?”

“It’s being done as we speak – just like we planned. Bert Nadeau’s on his way down. Once I get done with him, things will be looking a lot better.”

“When will you be out of there?” She asked.

“At the latest it’ll be noon tomorrow.”

“Camilla is not happy about this. I just hope she doesn’t feel compelled to tell the others. This is not anything they would want to hear. Hell, I just got done telling them the great news about the results and how we’re ready to go into release phase. And here we are, having to bring our exit forward.”

“Screw Camilla. She’s not the one doing all of the work. I know how close we are, and I know how big a problem this is. All I can tell you is that I’m on top of it. Things won’t get worse.”

“Seth, this is Camilla Haywood.” Her normally perky voice was suddenly excruciatingly business-like.

He cleared his throat and said, “Hi, Camilla. I didn’t know you were on the phone.”

“Obviously,” she replied. “Sarah told me what happened with David.”

“None of us saw it coming.”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’ve invested a lot of money and we expect results. Understand? I don’t care what you do or how you do it, but you better fix it. I’m not going to think about what we’ll have to do if things go sour at this point. You can be certain it’s nothing you’ll like.”

“I think that it’s a little premature to be talking about failure,” Sarah interjected. “There’s still a long way to go from where we are now to complete failure. Our schedule for getting out of Maine has just been bumped up by a few weeks. When are you going to be able to give us an update?”

He glanced at his watch and said, “Six hours.”

Sarah and Camilla both said, “Good.”

“You’ll call us?” Sarah asked.

“Of course.”

Sarah hung up and looked at Camilla.

“He’s very competent.”

Camilla didn’t look convinced.

“Are you going to tell them … him … about this?” Sarah asked, pointing toward the great room.

Camilla sat down on the bed. “You truly believe that they’re going to be able to straighten this out?”

“Have I ever lied to you, Camilla? We planned contingencies. This is just a change in the schedule. We’re prepared.”

Camilla smiled and said, “Okay, he’s got six hours, but after that, I’m going to have to let him in on this. I don’t have a choice. Can you imagine if somehow the FBI was able to tie me and Phillip to this? It would be such a scandal.”

True. If Sarah could get out of the country, she would be able to disappear. Over the years she had squirreled away a little more than a million dollars in a Cayman Islands account. A little pilfering from the generous grants was no big deal. She deserved it.

She sat down on the bed next to Camilla and put her arm around her shoulder. “It’ll all work out. I promise.” Involuntarily, she leaned forward and kissed Camilla’s cheek.

“So what’s up with Mike?” Sarah asked.

Camilla pushed a loose strand of hair behind Sarah’s ear and said, “We connect really well – kind of a rarity for me. Each time we’ve gotten serious, we’ve each pulled back. I don’t know where it’s going but he’s a good guy and he chipped in some cash.”

Sarah nodded. “Does he know about us? I mean, about how we used to be.”

“Used to be?”

“You know what I’m saying.”

Camilla laughed. “I know what you’re saying and he does.”

“You trust him?”

“Absolutely.”

“He’s a civilian who’s providing me with the information. His name isn’t important,” Pell said.

“Agent Pelletier, there is a reason this communication channel is secure and encrypted, as you well know. You should not have non-identified third parties in the room with you there. I’m going to need to take a name and full details,” Operator 275 ordered.

Pell rolled his eyes at Chris. “Okay, his name is Chris Foster and he was the one who first brought this to my attention.” He explained, then he gave the operator the details she needed.

“I will need to detail this on my report,” she said. “This could look bad for you for not revealing you had a third party in the room. Keep the connection up and I’ll be back.”

The speaker fell silent as they were placed on hold.

“Whatever,” Pell sighed under his breath. “This could take a while, why don’t you try and grab some sleep on the couch.”

The combination of the alcohol and not sleeping for two days finally caught up with him and Chris was asleep as soon as he lay down.

Pell leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. He loosened his tie and put his hands behind his head, which filled with thoughts of personal and professional redemption as he drifted into a fitful sleep.

He dreamed he was at a Bruins game with Allen Jenkins’ son. They were sitting in the corner directly behind the glass, and it was a great game against the hated Canadiens. Ricky Jenkins turned and asked, “When’s my dad gonna get here, Mr. Pelletier?”

Pell didn’t know what to say. He had killed the boy’s father, but for some reason Ricky didn’t know it. “I don’t know, Ricky. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

“I hope so,” Ricky replied. “This is a really great game. Dad never takes me to the Bruins anymore.”

The crowd roared as the B’s scored a goal. Pell turned to watch the celebrating players when, to his horror, he saw Allen Jenkins standing directly in front of him on the other side of the glass. Blood spurted and trickled down his forehead from the bullet hole Pell had put there.

Pell glanced at Ricky who looked through his father, as if he didn’t even see him.

He turned back to Allen and tried to say something but the words weren’t coming out.

“You’re lying to my boy, Pell. I’ll never get to take him to another game because of you!” Allen screamed. Pell barely heard him over the roar of the crowd.

“But, Allen. You were there. There was nothing I could do.”

“Bullshit.”

“I regret it every day.”

Allen pressed his face against the clear barrier. His pasty features compressed and turned grotesque as he slid his head back and forth, leaving trails of blood streaked along the glass.

“You wimped out. I want you to tell Ricky what you did.”

Pell shook his head spastically. “I can’t. It wasn’t my fault.”

“You’ve got to tell him the truth!” Allen screamed as he pulled his head back and slammed it into the glass, shattering it. More blood poured out of the fresh cuts on Allen’s face as he leaned in and hissed, “Tell him now.”

His breath smelt of the grave – as if he had gargled with dirt and worms and rot.

Suddenly, as if someone turned on the lights in a dark room, Ricky saw his father. He started to wail.

“He did this to me, Ricky,” Allen said, pointing to Pell.

Ricky’s howl rose to the roof of the Garden, growing louder and louder until it eclipsed all other sounds. Pell looked around frantically. Everybody else was still celebrating the goal. Just he, Allen and Ricky were not. Ricky started pounding his eight-year-old fists into Pell’s chest.

“Why did you kill my father,” he cried. “Why?”

Pell jerked awake and fell out of his chair. His forehead was covered with sweat. He got up on his knees and looked over at Chris, who was crashed out. He glanced at the communicator. They were still on-line. He went to his office, pulled out a bottle and raised it to his lips.