The Other Side of Anne (2 page)

“I am dying,” Charles said. “I imagine you can tell.”

Avery could. His first thought upon seeing Charles was:
Dad’s done for.
Avery had not seen his father in exactly one year, since Avery’s thirty-ninth birthday—also the day of his mother’s funeral. Then, Charles’s white hair was lush and thick, his chest strong, his posture confident despite his mourning. Now, he sat in a wheelchair. He was a shrunken, wrinkled leaf. His skin hung loosely. His eyes were alive, though. Bright, startlingly, secretive green. As always.

Avery supposed he ought to bend down and hug his father, but neither of them wanted a hug. “Cancer?” Avery guessed.

“Yes.”

Avery was glad his mother died unsuspecting. The best way to go. A car hit her while she was on a walk. Doctors said she did not suffer.

“I have perhaps a month left,” Charles said.

Ave
ry nodded. He was vaguely curious what kind of cancer Charles had. Not curious enough to ask. The man in the wheelchair was Avery’s father in name and blood only. As far as Avery could remember, Charles had been gone, swept up in his work. Avery put up with the old man because, for some reason, Bella loved him.

“I know I have
been a bad father,” Charles said.

Avery
gritted his teeth. Why had he come? Never mind Charles’s words on the phone:
Defining moment of your life, Avery. Stunning birthday surprise. Please meet with me.
Charles was a brilliant man, a genius, Avery recognized that much. But stunted when it came to emotional intelligence. Or maybe Charles just did not care. Avery was embarrassed to tell people who his father was. Charles Paul Franklin, billionaire. Yep,
that
billionaire, founder of defense contractor and weapons maker Pegasus Corp. Charles also owned who knew how many smaller corporations and research foundations. Avery and his father connected over one thing, and one thing only: their passion for history.

“Well,” Charles said. “How are you
, son? How is work?”

“Fine. And fine
.” Avery surveyed his father’s office. Avery had not been on Pegasus property since he was a child, but the office was what he expected. Whatever Charles’s faults, he lacked pretension and airs. The simplicity of his office showed that. “What’s this birthday present you have for me?” Avery asked. “That you’re dying can’t be it.”

Charles chuckle-wheezed. “No
.”

“Why am I here?” Today was a Saturday. The building had been deserted when Avery arrived, and he had followed Charles’s instructions to find the office.

A knock sounded. The man who entered looked about fifty years old, and airs of confidence and intelligence surrounded him. He wore a Pegasus security uniform, complete with a holstered gun.

“Benjamin, you’re right on time,” Charles said. He beamed. With reverence. With love.

Avery narrowed his eyes.
What’s this?
Charles going googly over a male security guard?

“Charles.” Benjamin held the same love and reverence in his gaze.

“Meet Avery, my son.”

Benjamin held out his hand. “How do you do, Dr. Franklin?”
The guard’s accent rolled off his tongue. Mellifluous and somewhat British.

Avery shook the
offered hand. Callused.

“Your father speaks highly of you, Dr. Franklin. I read both of your books. Perhaps you would be so kind as to autograph my copies? They’re downstairs.”

“Certainly,” Avery said. Something nagged him about Benjamin’s accent. Because of Avery’s Tudors work, he had spent plenty of time in England and France. He knew most, if not all, of the dialects and regionalisms. What was off about Benjamin’s accent? It was not exactly modern, maybe, and such an odd mixture of American and British.

“Please follow me, Dr. Franklin,” Benjamin said.

“Sure.” Avery decided to forget about Benjamin’s accent. The guy was not someone worth wasting time on.

**

Benjamin walked to a door marked
STAIRS
. He flashed Avery a rueful grin and said: “Claustrophobia. Take the elevator down with your father.”

Charles and Avery
descended ten floors into the bowels of the Pegasus building and met back up with Benjamin. Charles, thanks to his motorized wheelchair, had no problem keeping pace. At the end of the first corridor, the threesome took a right. They traveled the entirety of another corridor. Benjamin hung a left into a room blanketed on one wall by video monitors. Two of the monitors showed people. One was a man in the Pegasus security guard uniform. He sat watching TV in what appeared to be a living room. The center monitor showed a woman curled up in bed and reading a book. Her hair was short and dark, but further details were hard to make out because of the way she was positioned.

“Anne has been with us three years,” Charles said. “Three year
s and eight months to be more exact.”

“She lives here?”

Benjamin proffered
Edward VI: Reign of the Forgotten Tudor King.
“I loved this one. Well, both of your books, really.”

“Where do you want me to sign?”

Benjamin handed Avery a black felt-tip pen. “The title page is fine.”

Avery wrote:

To Benjamin,

It was nice meeting you. Thank you for reading my books!

- Avery Franklin

Benjamin
gave Avery the other book,
Anne Boleyn: Doomed Queen.
On the title page, Avery simply signed his name.

“Thank you, Dr. Franklin,” Benjamin said.

Avery returned to the wall of monitors. The woman—Anne, right?—flipped a page.

“What is she reading?” Charles asked.

Benjamin shrugged. “Let’s see.” He sat and pressed a button. The camera zoomed in. “
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. Lewis Carroll. Excellent book.”

Long eyelashes cast shadows on
Anne’s cheeks. She glanced up, and Avery froze.
She knows we’re watching.
Anne had dark, dark eyes. Like coals, angry coals.

“What is going on?” Avery asked his father.

Charles trembled to his feet until he stood as tall as he could, three inches below Avery’s six feet two inches. He placed a hand on Avery’s shoulder. “Anne needs your help.”

“
She’s depressed,” Benjamin put in. “Maybe you can reach her. No one else can.”

“I’m not
a psychologist,” Avery snapped.

“But
you’re not one of us,” Charles whispered.

“I don’t understand.”

Charles sank into his wheelchair and nodded at Benjamin. “Avery and I are going in.”

Avery followed his father down another sterile, gray corridor. Florescent lights buzzed above them. Charles stopped at the third door on the left, a door labeled
TT2
. He pressed his hand to a biometric key scanner, and it beeped. The door opened, and Avery trailed his father into a room just as inviting as the corridor. On the wall facing them hung another biometric key scanner. Charles repeated the procedure, but this time, as he rolled into the next room, Avery noticed him pat his hip. Mandy, a policewoman, often had done the same thing. Automatic reflex, checking that the gun was there.

Why in the hell did Avery’s weakling, almost-dead father carry a gun? Did the woman reading in bed live here? Nothing made sense.

The next room was the living room from the wall of monitors. Same security guard on the couch.

“Nate,” Charles said. “This is my son, Avery.”

Nate nodded an unsmiling greeting.

“How’s Anne?” Charles asked.

“Same.”

“Anne?” Charles called, the strength of his voice surprising Avery. “Anne, it’s Charles. I’ve brought my son.”

“She lives here?” Avery asked. “She’s lived here for more than three years?”

Charles said nothing. He continued sitting in his damn robot wheelchair, tension bunching his shoulders. He and Avery waited. And waited.

Avery’s patience ran out. “What is going on?”

“I had a script prepared,” Charles
murmured. “A speech. An explanation. I was going to explain to you—me and Benjamin, we were going to explain to you. You know what people say, the best-laid plans go awry. Best if you see for yourself. Then I’ll explain.” Charles beckoned for Avery to follow him. They passed several rooms, which Avery recognized from the monitors. The door at the end of the hallway was closed, and Charles knocked on it.

“Anne?” he called.

Nothing.

“I’m coming in, Anne.” Charles waited a moment and twisted the knob as if he knew it would not be locked.
Slivers of fear licked Avery. Was Charles keeping a woman prisoner? Why would he?

The bed was neatly made, and Anne stood in front of the nightstand. She wore blue jeans and a green polo T-shirt. Her eyes drew Avery in again. Dark, dark
eyes. Angry, vicious eyes. Also defeated eyes. Yes, this woman was a prisoner. She seemed about five feet eight inches tall and was like a rod, no curves, breasts the size of small apples. Her neck was slender and elongated, as if she had an extra cervical vertebra.

“Anne,” Charles said, bowing his head.

Anne clenched her hands into fists.

“This is my son, Avery. Avery, I have told Anne so much about you. She has read both your books. Did you enjoy them, Anne? You wouldn’t tell me if you did.”

Anne’s gaze burned into Avery. She hated him already. What had Charles and these Pegasus people done to traumatize her?

“Anne, would it be all right if my son visited with you for a while?”

Anne betrayed no reaction.

“
Fine,” Charles said. “I will be in my office. You kids have fun. Take your time.” He let the door close softly behind him.

Avery jammed his hands into his jean pockets. “Hello, Anne,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m here, but I’m here.”

Like him, Anne looked about forty. Her skin was olive-colored but pale, what some people would call sallow or pasty. However, Anne was lovely in her own way. Even the tiny, fine lines around her eyes added to her beauty.

Her eyes.

They really were arresting. Avery had never seen eyes that black. If there were a witch, she would have Anne’s eyes.

Continued clenched fists and a continued suspicious gaze from Anne.

“What do you do? I’m a historian,” Avery said, more from confusion than an effort to be polite. “I’ve written a couple of books on the Tudors. Oh! That’s right. You read my books. What did you—”

Avery stopped.

He studied Anne’s extra-long neck. Anne. Anne who? Had Benjamin asked Avery to sign the books to get him into a certain frame of mind?

Charles on the phone:
Defining moment of your life, Avery. Stunning birthday surprise. Please meet with me.

Little snatches and rumors floated back to Avery. Rustles that Pegasus Corp. had dabbled in making a time travel machine since before Avery was born. Charles always denied the rumors and continually claimed time travel was impossible, as much as he would like to think otherwise.

Avery shook off the ridiculous notion that had popped into his head. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. Goodbye, Anne.”

Sh
e said nothing.

Her silence, the apprehension in her eyes, impaled Avery. “Why are you here? Are you happy? My father said you’ve been here three years and eight months.”

Anne shook her head.
No, I’m not happy
, her expression said.

“Who are you, Anne?”

She opened her mouth. What Avery thought she said was: “Do you like Starbucks?” Anne spoke slowly, stressing each syllable. She spoke with a French accent, but like with Benjamin, something was off. Something not modern.

Avery concealed his surprise. “Did you ask if I like Starbucks?”

“Do you?”

“Yes
.”

“I went to Starbucks a few times,” Anne said.

“Want to go there now?”

“I am not allowed.
They are afraid a fade will happen.”

“I don’t understand.”

Anne shrugged as if to say: “Not my problem.”

Fru
stration knotted Avery. How the hell was this supposed to be a surprise? This Anne woman was delusional. Was this building also some sort of mental facility? Perhaps Anne was intellectually challenged.

Anne’s eyes glazed over. “Benjamin fades also.
Worse. His are uncontrollable, but he gets to walk around. I do not.”

“The security guard? He’s like you?”

Anne nodded.

Avery nodded back, but at what, he did not know. The whisper, the
tickle of the impossible, nudged the back of his mind.
Defining moment of your life.
Avery returned to an earlier, safer topic. “I’ll persuade my father to let you go to Starbucks with me.”