Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (19 page)

“My mom said she loved you before you were born,” John’s deep little boy voice in the kitchen surprised me. “I’m your real brother, John. If you need help with anything here, you can ask me.” He extended a hand. “We’re going to share a room with Noah, my other brother. He can be your other brother, too.”

“Why aren’t you in classes?” I asked, trying not to look at Terrell in case we both laughed out loud.

“I couldn’t pay attention because I saw Andrew walking with you.” My matter-of-fact kid was honest. “Teacher let me go.” His eyes moved from Andrew to me, them back to his new brother. “And, I’m hungry. I think I forgot to eat enough lunch ’cause we talked so much about you.”

Terrell’s laugh, so low and rich that children always responded, answered John’s indirect food request. “I have enough to feed at least two boys. Go show Andrew where to wash up and how to get back to the kitchen. You two can eat at the counter.”

Andrew didn’t look back as John led him from the kitchen. I turned to Terrell.

“Still the Ashwood I love,” he said. “Never have to worry about feeling alone. You going to sit with the boys? I got iced tea and a few cookies waiting.” While he spoke, he set plates on the breakfast bar he insisted we build years ago. “By the way, anyone who sees that boy next to you is going to know you’re related.” He shook his head. “Amazing how genetics works.”

“Thank you. For everything.” My wristband pulsed and I read the message. “Damn, it’s Peterson. I need to meet him in my office.”

Paul, returning with the boys, reminded me of Lao’s directions that I not be alone with the man.

“Is Dad all right?” John’s easygoing befriending of Andrew slipped. “Isn’t Mr. Peterson the one with news about Dad?”

“He might have news, or he might want to talk about the DOE crew working here.” I rubbed his back lightly. “You two eat your snack. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, could you introduce Andrew to Teacher Jason?”

“This is the way it is around here,” John said to Andrew. “She’s busy during the days, but we have family time at night. When my dad isn’t traveling, he eats breakfast and lunch with us. You’ll like him.”

Paul and I hurried through the residence and office building passage. Rain clouds had begun to gather over Ashwood’s distant fields. Good news for the farm, but superstitiously I hoped they were not forewarning me of difficult news. Catholics like my mother or Sarah might have made a small sign of the cross. My right hand twitched at the thought of that long-ago comfort gesture.

The DOE guard stopped us, made Paul answer questions that I understood to discourage my father-in-law from entering the offices. But I would follow Lao’s direction that I not meet Peterson alone. I tapped Milan’s code into my wristband. When he didn’t respond, I gave him open access to the conversation about to take place.

“You’ve done your job,” I told the guard. “You’ve known Paul to have absolute access for all the years you’ve worked in this building. Your son plays on the soccer team my father-in-law coaches, so don’t treat him like a stranger.”

“New rules, Manager Anne.” The woman kept her eyes low.

“This is still my property that the DOE rents.” I gave her a small smile because our sons played together. “Please don’t make this any more difficult a time than it is for my family.”

“You have my thoughts and prayers, Manager Anne,” she said. The door opened. “They’re waiting for you in Director David’s office.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Paul kept his voice low. “I thought these guys were here to make sure the media were kept at bay and to take care of you. Now I wonder whose side they are on?”

Not being part of my earlier conversation with Peterson and Milan, Paul didn’t know whose side the players lined up on. “It does feel awkward,” I said to provide an answer without real substance.

As soon as we entered, I headed to my office, relieved to see the door was still closed. They may have tampered once more with the lock David had installed, but for the moment all appeared normal.

Paul trailed behind me on my way to David’s office where Peterson waited at David’s conference table. I noticed that more pictures were in different places, and a pitcher of water with unfamiliar glasses stood on a tray on the edge of the desk where David kept work reports. All the subtle changes irritated me while signaling more challenges coming from this man.

“You didn’t need to disrupt Mr. Regan’s work, Manager Hartford.” Peterson rose from a chair. “I merely wanted to update you in person.”

“It is more efficient for both of us to hear your update at the same time.” I remained standing. “And I prefer that you work in a visitor’s office or conference room. David will not appreciate the disruption of his things. Is it DOE practice to go through their directors’ work space within days of any interruption of their normal activities? Have your staff ruffled through David’s things when we vacationed away from Ashwood?”

The man flushed, perhaps flustered at my words, or irritated at my willingness to challenge his poor decisions.

“Maybe you thought you could find information in David’s office to help you locate him?” I stopped, stepped back into the hall. “I won’t meet with you in there, nor will I ever sit down at that conference table with Ms. Sweetwater.” Paul stepped aside as I moved toward my office. “We’ll use my table.”

They followed me. I placed my hand on my door, felt the security system hesitate before the door opened. Nothing looked out of place, but now I knew my space had been searched and probably bugged.

“Hopefully your crew didn’t upset the estate files,” I said as I pulled out my chair at the table. “You see, the scanner had a bit of a hiccup at the door—a signal to me that there has been another breach.”

“We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, Manager Anne.” Peterson looked at me with eyes like deep Great Lakes winter water, dark and blue. “I apologize. I may have taken liberties with these offices assuming they operate like most DOE-owned facilities.”

“Mr. Peterson, you know this is now leased space on privately-owned land. The DOE has played a supporting role in Ashwood’s success and I am appreciative. Let’s not get into boundary issues. I only ask respect as you work with us.”

Paul sat. Peterson continued to stand.

“Sit down, Mr. Peterson.” My fear of what he might tell us about that small third group of ambushed Americans gentled my voice. “We are eager to hear what you know about David.” I tried to sort out what Lao told me from what I knew through the morning interview. “The last I know is that only the group including David is still missing in Paraguay.” Like a hungry animal watching food carried by another, Paul’s eyes followed Peterson’s moves. “Please, sit and talk with us.”

He pulled out a chair and lowered himself as if sitting might corral him in an unwanted position. Paul leaned back; I stayed upright with elbows resting on the table. Outside clouds thickened suggesting a sudden rain storm’s arrival. Andrew might have to wait a day to find a soccer game. Paul fidgeted.

“There have been developments,” Peterson began. He spoke like the manager of a troubled company trying to maintain face while offering false comfort to investors. I concentrated on maintaining my own calm and strength.

“As you mentioned, the ambushers split the group, and American military personnel rescued most of our team within the last twenty-four hours.” I nodded. Paul did not respond. “The remaining individuals were divided into two groups.”

Peterson paused. I wondered if he needed to restructure what he said because Paul did not know the full story, or if the presence of another man in the room changed his style. “We located one group, but David is among three DOE staff still missing.”

“Use that damn tracking chip and find him. I can’t believe the U.S. military can’t just resolve this and bring my son home.” Paul, brother of a marine and son of a Vietnam vet, grew impatient with the bureaucratic verbal dancing. “This should have been over yesterday. Who’s in charge?”

Before Peterson responded, Lao’s words came to mind. “Paul, the tracking chip is only technology.” Speaking to my father-in-law, I kept my voice low. “These individuals could remove the chips. Is that what you’re going to tell us, Mr. Peterson?”

I appeared to sidetrack Peterson’s presentation. If I had not asked him specifically to sit with us, the hands positioned palm down on his chair might have propelled him back to his feet to deliver the rest of this carefully worded update.

“Yes, the tracking chips of those missing were removed.” I closed my eyes, feeling again a sense of nausea in response to David’s pain. “We found those chips alongside the bodies of two other DOE crew.”

The next few minutes of conversation barely penetrated my terrible fear about David’s safety. I wondered if Paul’s intensity was response to knowing that two crew members had been killed. Paul’s voice, while strident, also sounded like an old man demanding the impossible.

“Where is that site?” Paul now leaned forward, so close to Peterson that he could grab him. I don’t think I could have held Paul back if he had tried. “What country is holding David?”

“Personnel on the ground tell us David is being held by Paraguayan military within the country’s borders.”

I closed my eyes, understanding through all of Peterson’s bravado that the Paraguayan situation had spiraled with no one now in control.

“It’s a stinking small country. Heat-seeking technology can find these people faster than you can drive back to the Cities.” Like a commander himself, Paul directed the conversation. “I want a complete report from a military representative within the next half hour. Anne and I will wait here.”

“Mr. Regan, I do represent both the DOE and the U.S. military. Like your son, I carry dual titles. I will answer your questions.”

“Then start talking. What is the U.S. government doing to find David?”

“This is a very delicate diplomatic situation, Mr. Regan.” Peterson stood. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you any more.”

“Sit down, Mr. Peterson.” I opened my eyes and saw Paul push back Peterson’s chair with a foot. “Let me tell you what I learned from someone I know very high in the State Department. Whatever organization you represent bungled a stupid staged event in Paraguay that has now resulted in two deaths and endangers my son. Someone in your chain of command hired the wrong people to embarrass a shitty small country’s corrupt government. People are aware that you’re here to blackmail Anne and build a media frenzy to disrupt the Median Party’s foreign relations agenda.”

Paul coughed. Peterson, sitting away from the table, waited for the coughing to stop before standing. I feared he might put hands on Paul and stood as well.

“Your source fed you a mix of truth and political speculation, Mr. Regan.” His words were as powerful as a sharpshooter’s bullets. “Your interference in this top-security mission is unpatriotic and threatens our efforts. I am placing you under house arrest until this situation is resolved.”

“Under whose authority?” Paul sputtered. “Who sent you here, Peterson?”

“No more, Mr. Regan.” Peterson touched his hand toward a small holster I hadn’t noticed. I put up my hands, tried to find a way through this insanity by turning the discussion back to Ashwood, to what I knew.

“I don’t understand what just happened, but locking Paul up will place immeasurable stress on my family and this whole estate.” The conversation felt crazy and Peterson’s continued handling of the gun horrifying. “Paul is needed by all of us as we struggle with my husband’s absence. Ashwood and many neighboring estates are relying on Paul for a successful grain harvest. You said you were here to keep us safe, not cause us harm.”

“Manager Hartford, we will keep this man within this building for as long as needed. We will provide food and a comfortable place for him to sleep. He can work on estate matters from one of those guest offices you mentioned.” Peterson’s voice dropped to a growl. “But, he will not leave this building unless he is accompanied by a guard approved by me.” He held out his hand. “Give me your communication band.”

Paul rose, approached Peterson. I attempted to move between them. “Give the band to me,” I interjected. “His calls are from family and estate staff. If you won’t let Paul use his communicator, then I will take it.”

My office door was opened by a stocky middle-aged man who stood at attention.

Peterson jerked his head toward Paul. “House arrest for the duration.”

“Before you leave, what is being done to rescue my husband?”

“Everything possible,” he said and left.

“Mr. Regan, if you will come with me, I’ll show you where you can work.” Peterson’s guard stood at Paul’s side.

My father-in-law began to bluster. I held a finger to my lips. “I’ll get this straightened out, Paul. It’s best if we just work this through the right channels. You’ll be okay in the guest office. You’ve worked in there before.” He offered me his wristband. The guard stood at attention. I looked around my office, at what had become a gulag center on Ashwood’s land.

“I’m glad you heard the truth, Anne,” Paul offered. “Work this through the channels as you said. You know I was arrested for civil disobedience in protest of that whole Iraq mess, but I’ve never been called dangerous to my country.” His voice quivered. He cleared his throat, coughed. “Government idiots spend all their time kissing ass and scheming and don’t have a clue what it is like to be a regular American.”