Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (25 page)

Nothing in Andrew’s file justified Clarissa’s belief. His early testing profile resembled Noah’s with high potential in math and foreign languages. He was among the youngest students across the nation to pass the language proficiency exam. Except for poor grades in the months following his father’s death, my son certainly held his own among his peers.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Instead of looking forward to the distraction of our kids during that lunch that day, I steeled myself for what could be awkward with Noah and Phoebe eating their meal with Hajar. Sarah stayed in the kitchen to supervise production of the morning’s harvest. I hoped to hide my distress by asking Terrell for a picnic lunch that John, Andrew, and I could eat outside.

Under a cluster of maple trees at the edge of the residence’s courtyard, we sat with plates of sandwiches, cheese slices, fruit, and cookies. I studied their faces, noticed small similarities, as John asked questions about living in the city. With little experience of life outside the estates region, Noah and John believed the metro streets were filled with dangerous people and weapons.

Andrew’s first sandwich disappeared faster than I thought possible. I watched him look at the platter. Without speaking, I pushed it his way. He bit into his second serving more slowly. I suspected he might never have tasted homemade strawberry jam.

“The boys can’t wait until they are able to spend a few nights in Minneapolis.” I took control of the conversation to give Andrew opportunity to talk about himself. “I’m more curious about how your first morning of classes felt?”

“Okay.”

“Teacher Jason says Andrew can probably speak any language at all, like Chinese.”

“John, we should hear about the morning from Andrew.”

“Sorry, Mom.” John grabbed apple slices. “I bet this isn’t like city schools.”

Andrew swallowed milk, licked his lips. “Ashwood is more like the Philadelphia gifted school. I didn’t do well in the Minneapolis gifted school after I moved.” He offered no excuses, no mention of losing his father or his home. He just stated a fact and reached for fruit.

“I was a teacher, so each week the kids and I review learning plans. Sometimes I can be helpful with homework. And you should feel free to ask any of the teachers for help right away. Don’t wait until you’re lost.”

Andrew nodded as he finished his apple. “Thanks. I’m pretty responsible.”

“My dad does homework checks.” John chimed in.

“Okay.” Andrew offered the word without enthusiasm. “Whatever you want.”

“You need a few days to settle in. Then you and I and Teacher Jason will talk about your learning program.” I moved cookies across the table, pleased to see both boys’ hands extend. “Maybe the beginning of next week?”

With young child curiosity, John stopped eating as Andrew examined the sugar cookie in his hands but didn’t respond to my question. Never meaning to make our newest family member uncomfortable, I impulsively stretched an arm around his shoulders.

“We’ll take it one day at a time.” I wanted to feel him lean into my arm, but was satisfied that he did not pull away or stiffen. “My lesson planning for the rest of the day is that you should eat two cookies.” I eased my arm away. “And I give you full permission to tell your little brother to back off if he asks too many questions.”

“I can do that, Anne.” Andrew picked out a second cookie. John giggled.

“Let’s get the two of you back to work.” I piled them with empty plates. “We’re lucky to have an all-day school that meets gifted kids’ needs so you don’t have to do remote learning.” David and I committed personal resources to keep the program acceptable to the Bureau so Phoebe and Noah could be educated at Ashwood.”

We carried everything back to the kitchen. With the boys returning to school and Phoebe with Dr. Frances, I spent a long afternoon alone, even taking an uncomfortable nap at my temporary desk. Tired of reports and quiet, I visited the greenhouses, fields, gardens, and barns. Eventually Milan paged me for a meeting with Hajar to go over the ad litem requirements. Milan was kind, but the restrictions on my parental decisions for Phoebe and Noah were fixed in Bureau protocol.

Milan, Hajar, and Dr. Frances joined us for dinner that evening, requiring a larger table. I asked Teacher Jason to fill in the last chair, yet even with his positive energy, our family’s stress showed in subdued conversation and quiet children.

Hajar had become a strong woman with a kind smile and a dry sense of humor who could talk to the children about life in Miami, New York, and Paris. She spoke French with Andrew and Phoebe, admired an art project by John, and found a way to thaw Noah’s cool behavior.

Our children loved having Milan in residence, treating him like an uncle willing to appreciate their childish stories. Tonight they talked about the past twenty-four hours. Andrew answered questions politely, but didn’t volunteer information. John and Noah became anxious when Sarah left to prepare for an evening with Paul.

The doctor remained aloof throughout dinner. From where I sat I could watch her observe our family, and she could watch me. We both looked like we had worked a long day.

“Mom, Dr. Frances told me that I’m not going to take the language exam next week,” Phoebe lobbed across the table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Silence followed the question. The children looked my way, Noah and John showing the normal apprehension that can develop when a sibling challenges a parent.” Andrew absorbed the exchange. The doctor looked interested.

“I made that decision, Phoebe,” Milan volunteered. “I want all of you to stay on Ashwood for the next weeks.”

Phoebe drew herself up, spine straight and tall for a mere seven-year-old. She put one hand flat on the table, appeared to be thinking. All eyes watched.

“It’s just that there are a lot of new adults here,” she said. Her voice, while friendly and informative, held a wary note. “There’s always lots of gossip on the estate.” She nodded toward her brothers. “Noah and John and I expect to hear about important things through our parents.” A smile and a dimple appeared. Raising her hand from the table, she smoothed back hair dangling in her eyes. “With everything so upside down, we need to hear things from our Mom.”

Noah and John nodded in agreement.

“No offense.” Phoebe settled back in her chair. “You’re all very nice people. We’re just a bit traumatized.”

Adult faces remained frozen.

“Anne,” started Andrew, “has been really straight with me. This whole guardian thing shouldn’t have been started just ’cause of a last night. My father would have said that was kicking the dog because the horse ran away.”

“I do apologize, Phoebe.” Dr. Frances kept her comments brief. “I thought you knew of the decision. I would not mean to dishonor your mom.”

Hajar led us out of the discussion. “No one wants to come between you and your mom, kids.” Her tone showed respect for their concern. “We adults will have to be more careful about coordinating our actions. You’re right, Andrew, about Ms. Anne. She is straight with others.”

The kids’ posture eased. “Do you think Cook Terrell might have real dessert tonight because we have visitors?” Noah asked. “And it’s been a hard day. Real dessert might give us energy to finish our school work.”

“Maybe we could take dessert to Grandpa?” John cut through our small laughter.

“Let me check with DOE security. If they agree, we’ll do that,” I suggested. “We’ll eat it in my big office.” Stepping into the hall, I sent a request to Peterson’s people, waited for fifteen minutes without an answer. Rejoining the family group I pulled Milan aside to tell him about the delay and my plan to walk over. Aware I was going against Lao’s earlier warnings not to face Peterson alone, I activated an open channel on my wrist communicator en route.

At the DOE entrance, I punched my code into the security register. A guard, another stranger, watched. He put me through all clearance processes available in our small facility from simple questions to an iris scan, a finger-prick blood test, and a complete wand scan. Eventually the door slid open.

Inside every light was lit, strictly against energy conservation practice when the sun still provided decent lighting. At least thirty people crammed the compact space, with additional data pads set up on tabletops and counters. Peterson sat behind my desk. Like Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole, I made my way through the chaotic scene to the place that had my sanctuary, the first office in my life that had a name plaque on the door and a chair built for my comfort.

“What difference a day makes, Colonel Peterson.” I didn’t stop at the door, but walked straight into the room. “From a small communications team managing DOE-related information about the disappearance of David’s team to something much grander.” He ignored me. I rested my hands on the back of a visitor’s chair, remembered choosing the wood with David, felt strengthened by that memory. “I would think a tall man like you might fit another chair and desk better than mine.”

“Manager Hartford, if you have nothing important to say, I’m busy.” Peterson still didn’t look up. “Do you want your husband back, or your office kept tidy?” At this point he raised his head, cool eyes looking quickly beyond me. Dismissed my presence.

“Tell me what your people are doing in this building.” Milan’s counsel slipped beneath my anger.

“If this is about the having-dessert-with-grandpa question, you can see children don’t belong here.” He pulled his head slightly to one side as if communicating with two women who approached my office door. “If you want to speak with Paul, you can be escorted to the lower level, where he is currently restricted.”

“This is my office.” And I’m used to being acknowledged, I wanted to add.

He pulled an unfamiliar pair of glasses from the top drawer of my desk, put them on while looking at me. “The U.S. government requirements supersede a small property owner’s whine.”

“Perhaps in your squad you feel powerful enough to speak disrespectfully to others. I am not part of your squad. I am a significant property owner in the state of Minnesota.” I closed the office door, activated a special lock David designed. “By now you must know we have figured out who you are and have some questions about whether you should be anywhere near Ashwood.” As his head came up, I regretted letting my frustration override Milan’s warnings.

Peterson pressed a button on his communication wristband in response. The two women moved toward the door. 

“You can share a room with your father-in-law,” Peterson said as he stood. He pushed me aside, twisted the handle. The door did not open. He twisted it again, pulled at the handle.

The latch served as a prototype for the handle of our main residence safe room. Although I was now locked inside my office with the enemy, the simple device also gave me a few minutes of delay.

“Christ sake,” he muttered as he continued working at the lock. “You won’t smile when you lose those kids.”

“I can assure you I’m not smiling now, Captain Peterson.” I stood back a distance from the energy he wasted on the door handle. “It has been a horrible eighteen hours since someone sabotaged our residence’s security system and a member of your team was apprehended outside our door with a camera in the middle of the night. Unless you are a parent you have no idea of the stress my children are under because of your actions. Believe me, no one is smiling.”

He turned, looked past me, and moved toward the guest chair’s partner. His large hands settled around the back. He raised it, began a small backward swing. Somehow my right hand caught one of the chair’s legs and we struggled. With a thrust, Peterson shoved the chair legs into my chest, and I fell backward like a lioness warded away from escape.

As I dropped toward the floor I saw the chair crash through the half-windowed interior wall. My head cracked against the side of my solid oak conference table before I landed on one elbow then bounced to my back. The sounds of glass shattering and people screeching deadened the sound of head smacking wood. Loud security alarms blared, would continue to blare until circuits in the window casement were deactivated. I believed Lao’s team would be here in minutes and stayed quiet.

“Security,” Peterson bellowed. “Get in here and take her downstairs to hold with the other prisoner.” The door remained unopened. “Crawl in through this window. Quit gawking.”

I heard a man yell for something to cover the window’s jagged glass edge. With my desk running along the inside half wall, jumping from outside the office to inside meant walking on sensitive data transmission equipment that was already compromised. I remained still, forcing Peterson’s man to assess the impact of my fall before finding a way to transport me out of the office.

“Turn off the damn alarms.” Peterson came close, extended a hand. He turned his head and yelled louder. “I want that alarm off in five seconds.” Looking back my way, he bent far enough for his hand to come within inches of mine. “On your feet.”

Pictures of civil disobedience came to mind. Peterson could have his people carry me across the office, through the window frame. Angry, frightened, my chest beginning to ache, I decided to not move.

“Captain, we need you in debrief.” A young male voice projected from the outer office. “Code yellow, sir.”