D Carpenter - Infertile Grounds

He navigated the early morning traffic crush as he drove to Cambridge. He felt terrible physically, the alcohol withdrawal was affecting him badly. Yet, somehow everything was clearer, brighter. The skyline of the city was crisp and defined. The color of the sky was a vibrant blue he hadn’t seen, or appreciated, in years. Even the sound of the traffic around him had a musical quality. He had a positivity this morning that he hadn’t felt in years.

He left the administrative building with a skip in his step. It never ceased to amaze him at how helpful people wanted to be when he displayed his FBI credentials and informed people quietly that they had been personally selected to help on a very important case that only a select few people had details of.

In just under an hour, he had managed to get copies of some of Sarah Burns’ undergraduate transcripts and, most importantly, he had found that she had a mentor when she was in school, Maurice Andleman. As the head of the biology department back then, and an advisor to the elite students, he had taken Sarah under his wing and nurtured her. In a note in her file, he had written that she could be the smartest student he had ever had the pleasure of teaching, but more importantly, at least to him, was that she had vision. She could see what biotechnology could do, where it could go – beyond the obvious.

Maurice had retired twelve years ago and moved to New Hampshire. Harvard had an address but no phone number, and a quick call to information confirmed that the guy had no phone. Pell climbed into his car for the drive up to New Hampshire to interview him. Maurice probably hadn’t heard from Sarah since she left school, but this was the strongest lead he had.

He sat for a moment to clear his head. It had been over thirty-six hours since his last drink at the Lo Maine. His body felt tired and achy, his head hurt and his hands trembled. He could really do with a drink right now, just to ease his way up to New Hampshire. But no, he had made a commitment to himself and he wasn’t going to fall off the wagon after just thirty-six hours.

After a moment, he pulled himself together and reached forward to adjust his mirror. As he did, he thought he saw one of Carl’s men, Steve Strange, getting out of a car parked on the other side of the college garage.

He slouched down in his seat. Indeed, it was Agent Strange, and Pell watched him walk into the administrative building entrance. He walked with the cocky confidence that comes with being an up and coming Bureau man. Pell had seen young guys like Strange many times over the years. They had all the right stuff – athletic, smart, educated and ambitious. But most of them just didn’t have what it really took to excel in this job. That certain something that could never be taught – call it street smarts, call it morally malleable, call it whatever… Pell had it, Jenkins had it, not many others did.

“Damn,” Pell muttered. Why the hell would one of Carl’s men be visiting the University? Surely the only reason could be that Carl was after information on Sarah Burns. Which meant that son of a bitch must be working on the case after all.

He needed time to get up to New Hampshire, find Maurice Andleman, and talk to him before Carl and his cronies turned up. He climbed out of his car and walked over to Agent Strange’s car. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his Leatherman tool and opened the pliers. Taking a quick look around the parking lot, he quickly snipped off the valve stems on each tire. Air whistled as it rushed out, and the car settled slowly down onto its rims.

He felt much better as he drove away. His head had cleared, he felt in control and he was following a hunch. He had that buzz in his stomach like the old days when things were going well and everything was starting to come together. An hour and a half later he took the highway exit in New Hampshire and drove along a winding rural road. The natural beauty of the soaring, tree covered hills, the blue sky and the sparkling crystal lakes went unappreciated as he churned over the questions he had for Maurice Andleman. After about fifteen more minutes, he came to the lake that Maurice had retired to, Lake Horace. A dirt road led down toward the glistening, mile-long lake. At a junction there was a pole covered with small wooden arrow shaped signs that pointed in different directions down three merging roads. On each sign was the name of a family. Following the arrow for Andleman, Pell maneuvered the car carefully down a winding, deeply rutted, lakeside road. A mixture of shacks, mobile homes and beautiful houses that any normal man would be happy to have as a year round residence, not just a summer cottage, lined the dirt road.

As the road narrowed to the width of one car, he came to Maurice Andleman’s. He would have expected a retired Harvard department head to have one of the mansions, but as he pulled into the driveway, he was surprised to see a single-story, somewhat run-down building. It looked like any camp back up in Maine.

He parked on the side and got out, noticing the empty driveway – not a good sign. A thick carpet of brown pine needles covered the ground to the front of the camp and up onto the stairs leading into a screened-in porch.

As he knocked on the door, it swung open. “Hello, anyone home?” He called out. “Mr. Andleman, may I speak with you?”

No response. He walked into the screen porch that had a distinct tilt toward the lake and up the slight grade to the weathered wood door that led in to the camp. A shade blocked the window. He knocked, waited, and when he got no response, knocked again. Still nothing. He reached down and tried the doorknob. This one was locked.

“Damn,” he muttered as he turned around. What to do now? If Andleman wasn’t at the camp, he might be gone for an hour or two or for days. He checked his watch. He had some time. Even if they decided to follow this lead, Carl’s men were probably still a few hours away. There was no doubt they would have found out that he had been to Harvard too. He decided to sit it out to see if the retiree turned up.

A table on one side of the porch had a cribbage board on it. The pegs were in the middle of the game. A deck of cards with a large metal bolt on top of it lay next to the board. He sat down and grabbed the cards, and as he started to play solitaire, his cell phone buzzed with an incoming SMS message. He looked at the sender “Carl Moscovitz” and read the brief message ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ That was about what he had expected. He deleted the message and then looked up as the whine of a motorboat drifted across the water. A water-skier was being pulled at a ferocious speed around the relatively small lake. The sun reflected off the water in dizzying flashes as if uncountable diamonds bobbed on the surface. What a picture-perfect spot this was – a vacationer’s paradise, a great place to spend some time barefoot with the family for a few weeks in the summer – if he actually had a family, that is.

He returned to the cards and after a few minutes, was startled by a man’s voice.

“Can I help you?”

An elderly man with a tattered Red Sox hat and goggle-like green sunglasses stared at him from the side of the porch.

“Mr. Andleman?” Pell asked.

The man didn’t answer.

“I’m agent Paul Pelletier, with the FBI. Are you Maurice Andleman?”

The man nodded slowly and said, “Yes.”

“I’m sorry for making myself at home here, sir. I was waiting for you and saw the table… This is a beautiful spot. I can see why you would pick this place to retire.”

The old man walked around to the door and up the stairs along with an equally as aged Golden Retriever.

“Do you have some ID?”

Pell fished out his ID as the dog rammed his nose into his crotch and sniffed up and down his legs.