Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (17 page)

“Everything is a problem in the kitchen at this time of summer, but their lead food person seems reasonable.” Terrell coughed and laughed at the same time. “If I were younger, I’d hope she was reasonable in other ways.”

I stopped walking and turned to face my friends. “I have a feeling something is under the surface with you two and I don’t know how much to ask.”

“Don’t ask anything,” Lao answered. “We’re doing our jobs.”

“Now let’s get you back to your kids,” Terrell said. “Those boys will probably hog the snack I put together so I hid one in my pocket.” He held out my favorite small filled pastry treat. “How about you turn off your mind for a few minutes and enjoy that, the company of two fine men, and this breeze. Maybe the heat will break.”

They filled our last few minutes with small talk about the evening’s softball game. I nibbled and listened. Their advice was good, and I disciplined my mind to turn off the problems of the day by the time I opened our bedroom door.

The king-size bed David and I shared easily accommodated three small children and their assorted stuffed animals and personal blankets. Phoebe and I took turns reading from a chapter of an old children’s favorite,
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,
then turned off the light. Sleep came quickly for them. I wondered if Terrell spiked their milk or if children’s minds more naturally calmed when their bodies demand rest.

Surrounded by their small noises, I thought about David before dozing off. I woke during the night, feeling someone watching me. On the other side of the bed Phoebe lay propped up on one arm. She put a finger to her lips and pointed at John.

“Listen,” she whispered.

In his sleep he perfectly recited lines from what we had read hours earlier. “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry” came clearly from his lips.

Phoebe muffled a giggle. “Weird,” she whispered, then lowered her arm and settled back on the pillow. In a few minutes I heard her breathing slow. John quieted. I wanted to stretch my arms across the bed like a road block barring the world access to my children’s innocence. How would Andrew Smithson fit into the world of these tightly knit siblings?

The files sent by Milan had images of Andrew at school, playing soccer, singing in a boys’ choir. I thought I could see my mother’s round brown eyes under arched brows. His face was more oval than round, like hers and mine. But I had no idea how he moved, or spoke. I hoped he would accept Phoebe’s fierce mothering if she offered it. I hoped he might become a big brother to make her path easier if she was willing. I prayed David would be here to share his masculine wisdom with my boy.

I pushed at my pillow, trying to find a cool spot, as a few tears slid down my face. A skeptical Christian, I found myself negotiating with God for David’s return and Andrew’s happiness. My grandmother always cautioned me to be careful what I asked from God. I tried to be concise with my petitions, which became fuzzier as I fell asleep.

Chapter Sixteen

Tangled sheets, stuffed animals, and a set of skinny boy arms made waking up more interesting at four forty-five. I dressed, spent a few extra minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, then headed to the kitchen. Ashwood’s residence halls rested in the quiet of the early morning. 

“No one makes coffee like this,” I commented as Terrell passed a full mug my way. “Maybe the real flavor of the coffee is in the company.”

He shook his head, but smiled. “I made sure the communications crew had a good breakfast, and you need the same.” Terrell removed a plate from the warming oven, lifted off its cover, and placed it on the counter in front of me. “Eat up. Who knows what Thursday will bring.”

“They want me in makeup in ten minutes.” Even as I spoke, I reached for a fork. “Has Paul been in yet?” Scrambled eggs, rich with herbs and cream, tasted better than Jeremiah’s best.

“Haven’t seen your father-in-law.” He gestured toward my plate. “Good enough to make you look more like your healthy self?”

“Food can’t fix what’s wrong now.”

“Well, I’m going to do my best to keep this family strong physically.” He sipped his own coffee, leaned back on a counter. “How did the family bed work out?”

“The kids, including Phoebe, slept well. I might invite them back for one more night.” I put down my fork. “I need to go. Thank you for everything.”

Paul never showed for makeup call. He remained missing when a technician settled Tabitha across from me at David’s office table. As the sun began filling windows, I disagreed with Peterson’s crew about displaying pictures of the kids during the interview. The room felt strange with Tabitha reading her data pad while the crew treated me like a prop. Coffee and scrambled eggs churned as I fought an urge to flee. A small stopwatch moved toward an on-air signal.

“We’re bringing you the first interview with Anne Hartford, wife of David Regan, the internationally respected United States scientist ambushed in Paraguay while leading a prestigious consulting team. The ambush took place on the tarmac of a private airport near the Asunción National Research Center.” Tabitha turned toward me. “Anne, how are you and your children and David’s parents holding up these past thirty hours?”

Before I spoke I thought I saw coolness in her violet eyes and realized that everyone involved in this broadcast, except me, knew a big moment would happen. I tensed, held my emotions intact, and kept my response short.

“We’re very fortunate that David’s parents live with us so we can support each other.” I paused.  “Until we know David is safe, we’re all anxious.”

“You must know that your husband’s job might include risk. Isn’t it true that his first wife, Tia Weisberg Regan, was killed while on assignment in Romania? How do their children feel with their remaining parent in danger?”

I looked into Tabitha’s face, couldn’t tell if she knew that Tia died in an alley during a drug deal gone bad, that everyone involved with Tia’s last months of life expected just such an end. I didn’t know how the DOE covered the dirty reality of Tia’s death, but understood it was important for the kids that I uphold the fabricated truth.

“Most of David’s work poses little risk beyond travel, so we don’t worry when he has to be gone.” I avoided talking about the children. “It’s true Tia Regan died in service to our country.”

“What do your children want to know about their father?”

“That he is okay and when he’ll be home.” I paused. “They are young and know nothing about world politics.”

“You might not know that overnight three of the team were rescued from a small town about a hundred miles from the airport. Early information suggests they were held by Paraguayan military troops and were found bound and injured.” She looked up, a facade of empathy not successfully hiding curiosity. “What will you tell the children this morning? Little Phoebe, Noah, and John?”

I hated her and hoped the children were still asleep. “This is the first I’ve heard of these developments. I can’t really respond until we’ve been briefed on the situation.” My right hand covered my wedding band under the table as I thought of David. “We all have high hopes that David and the entire crew are safe. They all carry U.S. government identity tracking chips so this rescue shouldn’t be so very difficult.”

“And if your husband doesn’t return? What would happen to your family and to this beautiful, privately held estate?”

“My attention right now is focused on doing what I can to bring my husband home safely and to keep my family strong until that time. Ashwood, while it is our home, is also a business with a great management team.” Weariness filled my voice. “David is at the heart of Ashwood, but isn’t involved with the business of the estate.” I looked toward the camera, away from her pert face. “We all want him home.”

“This is Tabitha Sweetwater with Anne Hartford, the wife of David Regan.” She reached over to pat my arm. “We’ll be here with the entire Regan family as this story unfolds.” She held her pose for as long as the camera person indicated, then abruptly sat back.

I removed a small microphone from my shirt, stood, and pushed my way to the door through furnishings that had been shoved aside. No one tried to stop me. Through the outer office, the hall to our residence, the central hall of Ashwood, I walked alone with newfound fear that David might not come home. Before Paul and Sarah asked questions, I needed to find answers of my own.

“Lao.” Tapping my earpiece, I called my security specialist. “Where can we talk?”

“Meet me outside the estate offices.”

Terrell joined me when I moved through the kitchen, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. We walked out of the residence. Day laborers moved into the dining hall for food and then their assignments. I noticed the lack of humidity, a cooler feel to the morning.

“Did you watch?”

He nodded. “You did well—strong and caring and intelligent.” Brushing a finger across his lips, Terrell began talking about a day laborer with strong kitchen experience who arrived on the first transport. I stumbled on the gravel path, not really listening to his words as my mind and emotions battled over what I could do to influence David’s situation. Terrell steadied me.

Lao waited outside Ashwood’s business office, a lightweight jacket held in one hand. “You look a bit cool in this fresh air.” He placed it over my shoulders, then made a gesture directing me to slip into the jacket.

I knew better than to question Lao and not only put my arms into the sleeves, but also pulled up the zipper. Lao and Terrell stayed quiet until the zipper reached its end.

“This way.” Lao led us to the back entrance. I reached for the door handle. He shook his head and pointed ahead to one of the stables. Terrell and I followed. Lao picked up a jumpsuit like those worn by the stable workers, held it out to me, and opened a door into a decent-size square room I always assumed was a small storage closet. He mouthed, “Take off your outer clothes.”

Twenty-four hours since Peterson and Milan brought me news of my husband’s ambush and I stood in an unknown room on my own estate stripping out of the clothes Peterson’s makeup crew had brushed down, the strap someone tucked back into my shirt. Lao would tell me what they had attached, would offer protection. From whom?

Terrell waved me out of the changing area, extended a garbage can for my clothes—the light teal shirt David brought me from Spain, a new camisole trimmed with lace by Sarah, my comfortable brown pants. I said nothing, but stored these losses with the anger that began during Tabitha Sweetwater’s surprise news. We moved back into the hidden room. Lao pulled out a chair, waved me to sit. I followed his direction, silence continued. From behind, Lao tipped my head, began moving his fingers through my hair. He pulled, whistled into a clear thread, and then broke it in two.

“All clear.” Lao patted my shoulder. “They planted two listening devices on you during the makeup and hair time this morning. Don’t let their technicians near you again.”

“Why would they do that?”

“They could suspect you’re wearing a thread.” Terrell kept his deep voice low. “Peterson didn’t believe you yesterday. Maybe he didn’t feel he could call your bluff with Milan in the room.”

“Or Peterson might want to trap you in unpatriotic conversation.” Lao added his thoughts without emotion. “We have closed all outsiders’ access to the estate offices. Do regular work in the office set aside for you there. Any confidential conversations or communications are best held in this room. Carry your own food and drink everywhere on the estate.”

“Prisoner in my own home,” I said. “I have only one priority today—anything that can be done to find David.” The words stated what I wanted to do, but I had no idea where to be helpful. For someone used to making things happen, I felt inadequate at a most important time. “Any suggestions about how to start?”

Lao leaned against the edge of a small table that used to be in the school building. “There may not be anything you can do, Anne.” He pursed his lips, a rare sign of discomfort. I knew he had information that might be difficult for me. “The military contractors are obviously working as double agents. The larger ambushed group, including David, was split into three small cells during the night. Two of those cells have been traced. Our real military lost contact with the third cell.” He crossed his hands over his chest. “David is one of five people in that group.”

“What about their DOE tracing chips?” I think I always knew the DOE placed more confidence in their technology than it could deliver, like believing a simple handkerchief could stop a pandemic.

“It’s only a small bit of metal and wire, Anne. Removed from a body, it can be crushed with the heel of a shoe.”

Would mercenary soldiers use sanitary procedures as they removed chips from their captives? I closed my eyes, thinking about David experiencing such brutality. The chip had been injected deep in his shoulder muscle. I opened my eyes, terribly frightened.

“This is all my source could share.” Lao stood almost statuelike with only his eyes actively assessing my response. “Don’t think too much, Anne. We don’t know anything else.”

“I’ll call Milan.” The only person I knew high enough in any government branch to possibly have influence over Peterson’s crew. “I want to talk to him about this morning.”

“Do that, Anne, but in my opinion, he will be relatively ineffective in dealing with this situation.” Lao pulled up a chair. “Call Milan. I’m sure he watched the interview. Tell him about the listening threads. Ask for the DOE crew to be shut down. But don’t be surprised if he can’t help. Ask him what he knows, but don’t volunteer what I just told you.” He paused. “Then make your own decisions.”