The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 12

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006

Posted August 21, 2019
Revised September 21, 2019

CHAPTER TWELVE

Conspiracies in Chaos

"A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees."

William Blake

"By the way,” said Wrath, “I was supposed to tell you that you're next up for Colonel Smekes' debriefing.”

I wasn't looking forward to that. "Have you_ been put through the mill yet?"

The big man nodded. "I was. He's hammering on Coburn right now."

I nodded and offered him a nearby chair. "Is there anything fresh coming in from New York?"

Tunney shrugged. "Smekes says that Strike may have been be one of the perpetrators. He was identified along with some other ultras on the south edge of Central Park. Or, what's ~left~ of Central Park."

"Is the source reliable, Greg?"

He shrugged again.

So, that shoe has finally dropped. Poor Brandon.

"It's hard to believe that Strike could be involved," I said slowly. "He's always been wild, but never a criminal or terrorist. Come to think of it, the man's been pretty quiet since before last Christmas."

"He got active last June for a little while, but I don't have any details. Whatever he was up to, the management didn't seem to want to talk about it, not even with senior agents. By the way, Mantra – the original one – was part of that action. Didn't you hear about it over in data analysis?"

“Just rumors. I wasn't asked to analyze what happened. The files were classified beyond my grade.”

And that came as no surprise. It was so secret that no warrants were put out publicly for the arrest of either Warstrike or myself. What Brandon Tark and I had done was to mess up a treason plot. People high in Aladdin were well along in a scheme to use special forces backed up by new ultras that they had created to set up a dictatorial regime. Hundreds of thousands of Americans might have been dead if there had been any resistance and millions more could be occupying prison camps. 

 The operation may have actually have come down from a place much higher than Aladdin, since whatever the federal government had known about it, nothing had been released to the public, and no plotters had been arrested or, as far as I knew, fired. There was a new president now, but who knew how much or how little he had been told? That was the Deep State serving America.

“Mantra, huh?” I said. “I know she's being held for robbery and infiltration, but the rest of her record hasn't shown her to be a threat.”

"I don't know much about Mantra, but maybe Strike's been laying low only because he's been making plans with mass murderers."

"We need more information before we say what really happened,” I told him. “From what you're saying, Strike was seen in New York. But people are coming and going around that city all the time. Maybe he wasn't a perp; maybe he was just checking out the damage."

Tunney shook his head. "I tell you, lady, the more I get to know these ultras, the less I understand them."

I thought it wise to drop the subject, but my erstwhile partner still felt like talking.

"I used to believe that anyone with too much power has to be dangerous, but now I'll have to include myself in that."

"How do you mean?"

"The enhancement I got is still experimental. I was warned that there could be side effects. And it turned out that there were! I can work myself up into a berserk mode that multiplies my strength and endurance; the more I bear down, the stronger I get. But getting too stirred up makes it hard for me to control myself. All too often, demolishing things starts feeling better than having sex." He paused and looked at me. “Sorry I said that.”

I guessed that he had been brought up in an old-fashioned household, when growing boys men were careful about what they said to a woman. But it was just the way that men talked to each other, and I was comfortable with it. "'Wrath' is the perfect code-name for you, then," I jested lamely.

Tunney's smile seemed forced. "That may be. But you know, Eden, the guys in the offices are always telling us about some ultra master plan, but they're damned sketchy about the details. They want us to think of an ultra as some kind of neo-Nazi ready for a new blitzkrieg. The trouble is, I haven't run into any Nazi-types out on the street. Mostly, the ultras I find are youngsters.”

“Yeah, I noticed that, too,” I said.

"How can grade-schoolers be recruits into some 'vast ultra conspiracy,' like that first lady from way back is always talking about? What in hell am I supposed to do with these teens when I find them? Use lethal force, or take them in for lock-up just because some kind of crazy accident gave them weird abilities?"

I grimaced. "My son was certainly no conspirator. He was a little boy who liked action figures, anything with peanut butter, and Star Wars movies – up until The Last Jedi, I mean. Then a terrible thing happened to him. It got him thinking that he was too ugly to be loved. As soon as he acquired powers, he started taking all that hurt out on everyone around him."

Wrath was looking even more troubled than he sounded. I touched his arm.

“Are you thinking about that girl who got killed?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“I am, too.”

He gave a shudder. "Why couldn't she just have gone home when trouble started? Why did she want to play hero? When I talked to her last Friday night, she didn't seem like a bad kid, just a teenybopper cosplaying as a bargain-basement Mantra. A girl her age should have been grounded for pulling bone-headed, dangerous stunts, not --"

"I can't argue with that!" I put in abruptly. I absolutely didn't want to talk about Lauren's sudden death. It had been a mistake to bring up the subject. It hurt too much.

"I won't be sleeping a lot for the next few nights, I'm afraid," he said.

"Ditto. I should have stayed chained to a desk, not going into field work. I don't like doing things that make me feel dirty."

Tunney nodded. "At least you've got some technical skills to fall back on. I'm just a fighter. That's all I've been trained for, that's all I'm good at."

I understood what he was saying, but I didn't dare tell too much of the truth. We had something in common, nonetheless. Both of us had hooked up with outfits that had turned us into pawns by messing with our heads, that did their level best to bring out what was worst in us. I'm trying to climb out of the darkness, but it's hard going.

At that moment, a female staffer poked her head into the lounge and called my name. "Mrs. Blake, Colonel Smekes is ready for you now."

I gritted my teeth. This was clench. I had a lot to cover up, and wasn't sure what all Smeke was going to be throwing at me. I muttered a goodbye to Wrath and followed the young aide out.

#

While facing a string of hard questions from the steely-eyed military man, I tried to sound like I was holding nothing back. In fact, I was dodging bullets like a circus tumbler.

"There's something you're not saying," Smekes suddenly remarked.

Oops. Maybe the guy wasn't as dumb as I'd hoped.

"It's that girl's death," I said. "I've got children of my own. I can't help but think about the shock in store for her parents. Kids grow up assuming that they'll going to have to bury their mom and dad someday. But when it's a parent that has to bury a child...." I shook my head. "Well, that's...that's something else."

"Yes, of course it is, Mrs. Blake," Colonel Smekes agreed without straying into the realm of sincerity.

I only nodded, not wanting to say more than I absolutely had to.

"By the way, you had an interesting connection to this short-lived new Mantra, I've discovered."

It had been a wonder that he hadn't sprung that bit of information on me the second that I'd stepped in the door. Fortunately I had expected it and was ready to dissemble. “I don't understand why you should say that.”

"We've identified her body as belonging to one Lauren Sherwood.”

Act like you've never acted before, Lukasz!

"Lauren? Are you m--? Are you serious?"

"I'm quite serious.” He was looking at me hard. “And I don't think it's a coincidence that she's been your babysitter for about a year."

You don't, huh? I wish to hell that you did.

"What do you mean, sir? How could an ordinary babysitter be an ultra that I never heard of? Oh, sure, I knew that Lauren was always a big fan of the ultra heroes, like so many kids are. But if you're saying that the masked girl at the mall was really her, I can't put my mind around it!"

"You're an Aladdin agent. It's your business to keep out a watchful eye for ultras. Blythe Ashwin was planted in our ranks years ago and she rose high. There is no reason to suppose that she's the only enemy infiltrator that we have to worry about.”

“Are you saying that an organized conspiracy put Lauren Sherwood into my home to spy on me, sir?”

I sure hoped that that was what he was saying._

"We can't overlook that possibility. We need more information. How did you first meet Lauren Sherwood?"

I took a deep breath. A good liar always tries to stay close to the truth. "Well, sir, a couple year ago, my mother and I hired a neighborhood kid to sit with the my son and daughter. She was a nice, sensible girl who worked out well. When she needed more money, she took a new job at one of the strip malls. But instead of leaving us high and dry, she introduced me to a friend of hers from school. It was Lauren Sherwood."

"You must be speaking of one Kelly Cantrell. And this friend of hers did not appear suspicious?"

I was slightly surprised that Smekes had already cribbed on such details as the name of my former babysitter, but I took it in stride. "I checked Lauren's references. She'd been doing babysitting around the neighborhood for a while and people whom she worked for were very positive about her. Her family had been living only a few blocks away from us for years. When I tried her out, both of the kids seemed to like her. She was punctual, did the job competently, and didn't cause any problems."

Actually, the young lady had seriously careened into the Dark Side once and nearly killed me, but Smekes didn't need to know that.

"A little earlier, I received some faxes from investigators who have been checking up on Miss Sherwood."

"Yes, sir? What have they found out?"

Sheesh! Lauren's body had barely cooled and already the cold, dead hand of Aladdin was sifting over her remains.

"That she represents a very interesting case. For one thing, she has recently changed physically, and to a remarkable degree. Her pictures as a freshman in high school hardly resembles the girl she is – was – today. Didn't you think that the changes you witnessed in her appearance over the last year were strange?"

"Well, of course I did. But kids seem to grow up fast these days. They say our food is loaded with hormone additives and GMO stuff. Anyway, her parents and teachers, as far as I know, never showed concern, so I just took it in stride. Anyway, over that whole year I was obsessing about making good at my new job at Aladdin. Now it looks like there were little things at home that I didn't pay enough attention to. Anyway, the change was a gradual one and she always seemed in good spirits and very healthy."

What I was telling him was mostly true, but I hadn't been as oblivious as I wanted him to believe. Lauren had been plain, flat-chested, and skinny when I'd first met her. At fifteen she looked more like a child of thirteen. But by the age of sixteen, she could have been a teen model.

Glancing up, I saw Smekes' scowl. "What you're saying disappoints me, Mrs. Blake, but it's true that you were not a trained agent back then.”

“Thank you for understanding, sir. I hope you can agree that I've been making some better calls lately. I think I have to give credit to the Aladdin training program.”

Oops; hold back on the flattery, Lukasz. Smekes is a clever rat, not a dumb donkey.

Whatever he thought about my remark, he didn't rebuke me. All he said was, “Possibly, young Sherwood made a deal with the devil."

"The devil, Colonel?"

"Figuratively speaking, of course. Some ultras can transform themselves. I'm especially thinking about Anything, one of the Freex. Couldn't some ultras be empowered to transform others? An offer of beauty would be hard for an ugly duckling to resist. Maybe Miss Sherwood's recruiters also offered her ultra powers. After all, there are companies that routinely make ultras out of ordinary people, and Aladdin has used similar technology. Why can't the people that are behind the rise of the ultras do the same thing?"

"Gaining Playboy Magazine-type looks and super powers, too? Who would ever have believed that babysitting could pay such -- large dividends?" I remarked.

Smekes' expression remained sober. "When you think of it, a babysitter is well-placed to be spy. She has easy and frequent access to her target's home. She also has no adult supervision most of the time that she's there. Even her employers' children will be sent to bed early.”

“That's true. I should have been more wary, sir,” I said, trying to make myself shrink with contriteness.

He ignored me. “You say that you were impressed with Miss Sherwood. Could it be that she was cynical beyond her years and doing what she had to, to keep on your good side, just to maintain access to your house?"

"It's possible, I suppose, if she was a good enough actress. But do we really have information that the ultras have created a subversive plotting and planning organization?" Whenever I can, I try to send hostile investigators down blind alleys, but Smekes didn't seem to be taking the bait.

Instead, he asked, "What do you know about the girl's parents?"

"Not very much, I'm afraid. I've been told that her father is a senior accountant. He and his wife separated last year. Lauren's always been reluctant to talk about the reasons why. The mother, by the way, is in advertising.”

“Why didn't the girl go with the mother? That would be the most usual thing.”

"Well, what Lauren told me was that her mother's new job called for her to take an apprenticeship in another city. Lauren didn't want to leave home and lose contact with all the people she knew. Mrs. Sherwood has been living in Santa Rosa, but she's put in for a company transfer to L.A. Anyway, Lauren's mother visited her often and their relationship seemed to be very positive."

“I wouldn't rule out the possibility that the parents were actually part of the conspiracy,” the officer confided. “We'll be investigating them very thoroughly – especially regarding what her mother's been up to while living out of town.”

This was paranoia, plain and simple, but it had given me an idea. Telling Smekes something that he'd soon be finding out anyway would make me look helpful while not doing any additional harm. "Now that you've opened my eyes, sir, I realize that there was something that I learned about Lauren that could be significant."

"What is that?"

"She was a tremendous fan of Mantra."

The officer silently chewed on that crumb for a few seconds. "It fits. She was calling herself 'Mantra' on Friday night, at least by the testimony of your own daughter. Many people at the Mall also assumed that she was Mantra. So, what do we have? Mantra becomes our prisoner but, several weeks later, Lauren Sherwood steps up to act as a new issue of the same ultra. Is it possible that those behind the spy plot have a good reason to maintain a Mantra-type agent around Los Angeles? And it's doubly interesting that they specifically placed her into the exact same suburban neighborhood that the other Mantra also frequented.”

“That is an interesting question,” I said.

“Could it be that Lauren has been closely associated with Mantra all along? In fact, she's at the right age to be her daughter. That would expose the Sherwoods as impostors who's job it has been to establish a false front."

Lauren my daughter? I did the math. Eden Blake was in her early thirties, though she looked younger. Lauren was sixteen. That would have put Eden in her late teens when the girl was born. Such a construction could work, but I wasn't sure whether I should encourage the idea or let it go. I decided on the latter.

"I wouldn't know about that," I said. "As for Mantra fan activity in Canoga Park, I know of a registered club that has four steady members." 

"Did Lauren belong?"

"No. I take it she didn't get along with the other girls."

"An alienated loner? A troubled, anti-social type?"

"Not that I noticed. She just seemed to be more reserved and studious than most other girls her age. I mean, she was the brainy type, which is impressive at a time when most school kids hardly seem able to tell you who won World War II."

Smekes went silent and started typing something into the keyboard in front of him. Then he glanced up, looking smug.

"I've just searched our data base for the name 'Kelly Cantrell of Canoga Park.' It seems that the young lady been observed in frequent contact with the ultra Prime. That's suspicious. I'm going to order her put under observation. Her movements and communications may lead us to a whole nest of ultra conspirators."

I groaned silently inside. Did every nice, ordinary high school girl already have a file inside America's black ops databases? Why should I be surprised? But there had been no way that I could have kept Kelly's name out of this ugly business. The secret files that the Company keeps on every agent -- including Eden Blake -- would have revealed all her connections, including facts about her babysitters. I was afraid for the girl. Aladdin could play rough, even with children, Gus being a case in point. If interrogated, did Kelly know anything that could compromise Prime? Infatuated teenage boys could be so indiscreet.

Smekes continued. "We also know that Prime has had some sort of association with our prisoner, Mantra. If so, she's so far resisted giving us even the barest information. However, Mantra and Strike have also been working in tandem. In the past, all three of these ultras have been observed acting together against the Company's interests. Since Strike has been implicated in the New York disaster, one has to wonder whether Prime may not have been involved in it also, even if he's only worked behind the scenes."

I didn't care for where this was going. Pretty soon every ultra not already in custody would be added to Aladdin's suspect-list for having destroyed downtown New York.

"But let's stick to the matter at hand," the sub-director stated. "It's possible that Kelly was the one assigned to spy on you first, and Prime was her controller. Finally, the girl was pulled out and Sherwood was sent in to take her place. As a powerful ultra herself, Lauren Sherwood would no doubt have functioned even better in the role. Whether Miss Cantrell is still associated with the conspirators remains to be found out. We might discover that she's an ultra, too, or at least a person who has long-standing connections with ultra interests." 

Ohhh, this whole thing was spiraling out of control.

Smekes lowered his voice. "We'll have to proceed cautiously. The ultras have already infiltrated Aladdin at least once. Ashwin won't admit it, but it's hard to believe that she was working alone."

I could only wonder how many times they had tortured Blythe Ashwin before giving up on their dead-end line of questioning.

"What do we have that's solid so far, sir?” I asked. “That Prime might be some sort of espionage ringleader?"

"Let's just say that we'll have to carefully consider such a possibility."

"If it's helpful, sir, I want to say that we should doubt that either Lauren or Kelly could have found anything useful inside my house. I've always been scrupulous about not bringing compromising material into our home."

"This is the Twenty-First Century. They might have planted listening devices, cameras, even, to catch everything inside your home that's either said or done. We're going to have your house and lot checked out carefully. Think back. Might you have let anything slip to your son, daughter, or mother that you shouldn't have?"

I shook my head. "They all suppose that I work for the CIA, just as I was instructed to tell them. I've always refused to answer questions that may involve my work."

"And does that go for your brothers and your personal friends, too, along with anyone who might have called on you at home?"

"I'm confident about that. I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Very commendable." If these words were intended to sound reassuring, his skeptical tone spoiled the effect.

At that point, Smekes eyes fixed on me, hard and cold. Though surprised, I recognized this as an old interrogator's trick, having met plenty of old interrogators. He wanted to spook me into thinking that I had somehow aroused his suspicions. The aim would be to see if my behavior would abruptly change or if I might start to protest too much about something. The poor fellow must have been reading too many outdated interrogation manuals. I've been played the espionage game for fifteen hundred years and so I didn't give him any reaction at all.

The colonel maintained his odd posture until, presumably, he started to feel silly. Smekes suddenly said, "I'm putting some additional people into Canoga Park to turn up everything that they can about the Sherwoods. You could be of great assistance, considering that it's your own back yard."

"Ahh, sir," I said hesitatingly, "working on the Sherwood matter would create a problem for me. I was thinking about closing my house and requesting a transfer to San Francisco. My son is being held at Alcatraz and I want to be able to visit him as often as possible."

He frowned. "Have you talked this over with Sarn?"

"Not yet. When I was with her, neither of us knew exactly what the situation was. We spent most of our time together planning for the deployment of NM-E."

He nodded. "I see. Well, your wish is an understandable one. Dr. Sarn intends to remain in San Francisco for some while. She's working on a project that's based there. I know how well you two brought off the Spear of Destiny coup and even captured Mantra as icing on the cake. If the doctor signs off on your transfer, well and good." He stood up and extended his hand.

Also rising, I accepted the shake.

"I was wondering, sir."

"Yes?"

"What will the public be told? Will Lauren Sherwood be buried as an ultra, or as some local girl who accidentally got killed during a random outbreak of violence?"

"That hasn't been decided," he replied. "Myself, I would prefer the latter. What the public doesn't know can't hurt the Company. But be assured, whatever we decide to say, the major press and media will fall into line and back up the government's press releases. That's their job."

"Yes, sir, and calling the death a tragic accident might make things easier for Lauren's parents, too."

"Oh, yes, the parents," Smekes remarked absently. "We certainly mustn't make things unnecessarily hard on America's bedrock – not until we can prove something against them."

I felt relieved to have the interview over with. Clearly, even a little bit of Colonel Smekes went a long way.

#

Once in the corridor, I leaned back against the wall, my eyes closed. I felt drained. I'm a hard case, usually, but the last few days had worn me down, and what had gone on today had taken me to the end of my rope. Gus was suffering. Pinnacle was suffering. I had failed to protect the reputation of Lauren Sherwood and her parents, and had done nothing to prevent Prime, Kelly Cantrell, and Warstrike -- excuse me -- Strike -- from being investigated by Aladdin. Also, I'd come across as being naïve regarding Kelly and Lauren. But, damn it, Smekes had been totally wrong about the pair of them in almost every particular!

Suddenly someone rushed past the place where I stood at hyper-speed -- traveling backwards.

To my dismay, I realized it hadn't been an ultra --- just an Aladdin agent in a business suit. Time was going unhinged again!

In a flash, the hall was a beehive of activity, with dozens of people going by at wild acceleration. I saw Coburn and then Wrath dash by me in the direction of Smeke's office -- in retrograde -- and then they came out again, still retrograde. In less than a minute things had sped up to a degree that was too fast for the eye to follow.

I covered my face and awaited my fate. Whatever power had me in its merciless grip was yet again moving me across the chessboard. How had this started? Why did it keep happening?

And how long could I keep my sanity if I had to live my life backwards...?

TO BE CONTINUED in Chapter 13

 

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 3, Part 1

Posted 08-07-19 

Revised 09-07-19 

By Christopher Leeson
 

Chapter 3, Part 1

Wednesday, December 20, 1871 

At the next dawning, Aunt Irene rechecked Myra's measurements. When she was finished, she folded up both their party dresses, bagged them, and put them onto the buckboard. Because the time was short before the Saturday party, they would have to give Teresa Diaz time enough to make needed adjustments. Myra wasn't being forced to go back into town this time. Instead, she'd be left to do her usual chores and to get something ready for George's lunch. At that last instruction, a frown wrote itself Myra' face. She would avoid going anywhere near him, if possible. Let the annoying fellow eat his victuals out in the barn!

Down deep, the farm girl was hoping that he'd choose not to come. If George's pa was going to ride out into the rough lands to look for Myron's body, chances were fair that George would choose to go with him. At least Myra hoped so. She doubted that the boy was as hard a worker as he liked to pretend. Who wouldn't leap at the chance of spending a day riding around the foothills and jawing with his fellow hunters, instead of pitching hog manure in a place where he wasn't welcome?

Thinking about George's invitation to the dance made her especially cheesed off. She didn't like being talked to like a girl, and his motives made her even more annoyed. A person of his kind didn't care about the girl he was trying to consort with. All that mattered was the way she looked. He wanted to show her off to his friends and any fetching girl would serve him just as well. Myron had himself gone after Gilana only because she had the prettiest face in Yuma. It was only later on that he'd found out that she was fun to be with.

At that point, Myra glanced up the road, hoping not to see George riding in. Fortunately, he wasn't there.

How could she deal with a boy who kept pushing his unwanted attentions her way? She'd already tried by discourage him by telling him off. What more could she do? She couldn't beat him up, considering he was so much stronger than she was. Nor could she use a weapon, thanks to those magical commands that her aunt had loaded on her. She couldn't harm anyone at all, in fact, except, supposedly, in honest self-defense. 'Some Christian Irene is,' Myra thought. 'What Bible-believer worth her salt would use the devil's black magic to get her way with somebody else?

After feeding the animals, the girl went to milk the cows. Most than any other farm chore, Myra disliked milking. It seemed like work for girls. The books always talked about milkmaids, never milk-lads. On the other hand, Myra fancied horses well enough, though caring for them was messy and tedious. 

Myron had become an outlaw, in part, to get away from the hard drag of farmer's life. A farmer had to keep scrabbling for pennies until he grew old, sick, and ready to go. By then, he'd probably have lost his farm to the bank and would die knowing that his life had been a total waste. It wasn't the honest worker, but the outlaw, who got away with sacks of money, and did it without breaking a sweat.

But she didn't want to think about that. It would make her mood even worse that it was. 

Well, sure, Gilana Hulbard seemed to enjoy life. Saloon work had had kept away from homemaking. But not many saloon girls received as many tips and gifts as Gilana had. She had had a way that made men want to give her things. Oh, she had had to give out a little more than suited her, but the cancan dancer had liked being around men and seemed pretty well suited to the kind of life that she was living.

With her morning chores wrapped up, Myra decided on start a different project that she had been thinking about. The farm girl had found out that George and reorganized things around the farm more to his liking, and now it was taking her too much time to find tools and implements that he'd moved. To fix the problem, she wanted to go through the barn and the sheds, rearranging things in the way that fit her own preferences. She already knew where she wanted to start – at the old feed box. The thing was in bad shape, so it was being used for random storage. But what Myra had in mind was to turn it into a hiding place for her own valuables. Who knew?  Maybe she could steal something and would need a place to hide it.

Opening the large, lidded box, she saw a mass of mouse nests and scrap wood filling it. Digging a little deeper, she revealed dry and cracking pieces of harness, worn out horseshoes, rusty old iron, odds and ends, and also broken things that had been waiting for repairs that would probably never come. By making a little more room, the bin could be made useful to her needs. On top of that, maybe some of the stuff that she'd end up removing could be sold to a junk dealer.

Myra started sorting the refuse into piles upon the hay-littered floor. As she rummaged deeper into the bin, she touched upon a dusty old wooden case. Though the girl hadn't set eyes on the thing in years, she remembered its distinct appearance. Her parents had, before Irene had come, kept it on a standing shelf by their bed. Her mother had saved keepsakes in it – mostly personal letters. Holding the box in her hands made Myra feel closer to her mother than she had been able to in years.

Myra took the case out to the light and set it on a shelf by the door. Squinting, the girl checked the small padlock that held it closed. The little key was not to be seen, but that was a minor problem. Myron had learned how to pick locks from Lydon Kelsey. The youth had learned a few slick tricks from an uncle who had done time in Kansas state prison for burglary.

The girl considered what sort of lock-picking tool she would need and remembered the tin of old nails that she had already dug out of the feed box. She went back to it and selected a strong, slender one. As Myra turned about, she saw that the rectangle of sunlight made by the open door was being broken by a silhouette. Its abrupt appearance wrested a startled sound from her throat.

“George!” she exclaimed.

“Howdy day,” young Severin said. “I was going to start up the pen-cleaning again.”

“I-I'm surprised. I was supposing that you'd go out with your pa looking for Thorn's body.”

“Oh, he asked me if I wanted to trail along. In fact, I wouldn't have minded that one little bit, but I'd already told Mrs. Fanning that I'd be back today. I wish them luck, but somehow I don't think they're going to find what they're looking for.”

“Why's that?”

“Just a hunch.”

“A convenient hunch.”

“Why convenient?” asked George.

“You never liked Thorn. Maybe you'd prefer to have the vultures make a meal of him.”

“Did your aunt tell you that I didn't like Thorn?”

“No.”

“Then why do you suppose that I didn't? How would you know anything at all? You said you never met Myron, that you'd never even gotten a letter from him.”

“Just a hunch,” she said in mimicry.

“As a matter of fact, he was a hard one to like,” the boy said. “But I'd want him to be found, so this awful thing could be put behind you and Mrs. Fanning.”

“Nice to hear, but we can't stand here jabbering. We've both got more important things to do.”

“Before you disappear, Miss Myra, there was a topic that I was a mite curious about.”

“What now?”

“Pa said you told him and Mr. Grimsley that you weren't so sure that Myron was dead.”

She shrugged. “I was just thinking out loud. It's not important.”

“How can your cousin being alive not be important?”

“I guess what was only hoping out loud. But, honestly, he couldn't last for a week out in the open -- hungry, no water, cold.  And people say he was wounded.  He has to be dead.”

“Well, I look at it the same way. But what if the outlaws took him away alive?

“They wouldn't have done that. A wounded man would have slowed up their getaway too much. They'd rather finish him than get themselves caught. Or so I think.”

“Maybe so,” he conceded. “By the way, are you still going to the party?”

Myra was glad to talk about something other than her dead body. “Irene is dragging me to it. I just hope that you aren't going to make a pest of yourself while I'm there.”

He smiled. “If you don't like having company, you're due to get a mess of it today. Dale and Kayle are planning to come over. They got it in their heads that you wanted to get some dancing lessons.”

“Those silly females! I didn't ask for any dancing lessons. It was all their own idea.”

“Yep, that sounds like something that the two of them would cook up.”

Myra sniffed. “For a lonely old farmstead, this place is sure gets more than its share of visitors.” She then paused. “Why would they take time off to teach me to dance? Did – either – of them say that they liked me?”

George thought for a moment. “No, I reckon not. I figure they think that you're about as hard to like as your cousin was.” Then he grinned, as if joking.

Sour-faced, the girl moved toward the exit, stepping widely around the boy.

“But whatever impression you made on the girls in town, they're still coming over,” George called after her. “That's a good break for you, isn't it? If you mind your manners, the three of you might become as thick as thieves.”

She paused and looked back. “Don't worry about my manners, Mr. Severin. If the young ladies don't get too much in the way while they're around, they'll be welcome. It's better to have them chattering at me than listening to you.”

“Oh, I'll be here for a spell, too. I'll have to stop by the house for a bite to eat come noon, if you don't mind. I got accustomed to Mrs. Fanning feeding me right well.”

“My aunt told me about that already. I hope you don't have anything against cold food. Just don't waste the time of day nibbling at it for too long!”

Myra stepped closer to the locked box and paused alongside it. She didn't want George to start asking questions as to what it contained. Should she pretend the thing was nothing and leave it where it was, not coming back for it until the hired man was outside? But, then again, if she left the box in plain sight, he might he get snoopy and try to open it. That couldn't be allowed. No outsider had any right to nose around inside her mother's private memories.

She took the case off the shelf and tucked it under her right arm.

“What've you got there, Miss Myra?” George inquired.

“You and your questions!” Myra flung back as she strutted away.

#

Once inside, Myra checked the clock up on the high shelf. It was more than an hour to noon and it wouldn't take long to dump some edibles onto a platter, not if she didn't waste time cooking them. Myra would much rather be tinkering with the locked box than be acting like a hostess.

Placing the little chest on the table, the girl reached into her coat pocket to find the slim nail that she had salvaged. Myra drew up a chair and took a turn at examining the miniature mechanism. It wasn't cleverly made at all and, using the nail, she popped it open in just a minute. As expected, the thing was stuffed full of letters.

Myra opened the top letter on the stack. The return address told her that it was from Aunt Claudelle. Sliding the Fools Cap sheet out, she held the yellow page up to the light. It was a brief note wishing her mom well for the Christmas season. Myra couldn't remember ever meeting Claudelle. She had barely known even Uncle Amos. The latter had made a visit to Pennsylvania as a sort of goodbye to his sister, who was going West with her family. Claudelle and Abigail hadn't come with him for some reason. It seemed that neither of her parents nor Irene had been on easy terms with Amos' wife. Irene had hardly ever mentioned Claudelle over the last five years. But Myra's father had earlier let out an amusing story about Claudelle's father getting himself into trouble years back for chicken stealing.

But as uninformative as the missive was, it felt strange to be reading a letter to her mother. The written lines seemed to open a window into the past, and their words were like a voice speaking though the years.

Myra skimmed a few more letters. Addie Caldwell's most frequent correspondent seemed to have been Aunt Irene. Irene's letters were much longer than Claudelle's. They told a lot about what she was doing back East. Most of them had been written during the short time that she had been married.

The curious girl found one letter from her aunt that showed running ink on the address. It didn't look like there had been a spill.  The way the water had run had probably been tears. Myra had a hunch that the subject would turn out to be the death of uncle Darby. She didn't finish the sad letter. She didn't care for the way that females couldn't resist talking about things that made them cry. Gilana hadn't been a crybaby, luckily. She could make a joke out of the most awful happenings, and Myron had respected that aspect of her.

It seemed that most of these correspondences had been written back in a very different time. Those had been the war years. The far-away war had meant nothing to the very young Myron in those days, except that it was an exciting subject to read about in the newspaper -- at a time when he was new to reading. But it had been during the war that her parents had seemed to undergo quite a sudden change. All of a sudden they often seemed worried and sad. They started to speak very quietly at times, as if discussing serious problems that they didn't want their son to overhear. 

The obvious secrecy had made Myron extremely eager to listen in on them from hiding, but he rarely could catch more than an odd word here or there -- like “money” and “Grimsley.” Funny thing. The name of Grimsley had come up quite a bit during these secret talks. Why had that been? They had no quarrel with the man that she knew of, not like the run of trouble that they'd had with Tully Singer over the boundary line. And Grimsley hadn't been the neighbor that they'd most often socialized with, either.

What had made her folks change? Not the war. They didn't show much fear about what was going to happen if the Southerners won. They just wanted the killing to stop. A couple times, she remembered, her father has said something like, “Mark my words, the banks and the railroaders started this war, and they're the only ones who are going to benefit from it. I wonder how many of their pampered sons are making bayonet charges in Virginia.”

Myra looked at the clock again. More time had passed than she had realized. She wanted to keep reading, even though the memories that the letters invoked so far were not happy ones.

But the girl needed to put together a lunch for George. If he showed up at the door and it wasn't ready, the lazy cuss would stand around jabbering while she was scrounging up the victuals. The less talking she had to do with young Severin, the better. She opened a can of beans and spooned them into a pair of sauce dishes – one for George and one for herself. Hopefully, she could get hers eaten and be away from the table before he came in. She next went to the pantry.

She and her aunt kept the pantry door shut most of the time.  The little window inside it was half-open, and the December air kept the space cooler for the food inside. There were some chubs of bologna wrapped in rags, sealed in paraffin and hung up. The fragrant smell of the meat brought back more positive recollections. The aroma of curing bologna had filled the entire house during the autumn seasons. That scent still made her think of Christmas time, when everyone was allowed to eat their fill. Most of the neighbors likewise made their own sausage, but Myron had rated his ma's and pa's the best in the neighborhood. For one thing, almost everybody put too much spice into their ground meat, and spice was not something that sat well with the boy's pallet.

Myra found a chub that Irene had already been cutting from. Naturally, the farm girl chose that one, since sausage left open to the air wouldn't stay fresh for very long. She cut a portion for herself and a larger one for George. The way, she figured, he'd stay indoors less long if his first piece filled him up. Next, she sliced the end off a loaf of bread, put some churned butter into a small dish, and ladled into a fruit bowl some cooked apples from an already-opened jar.

Myra then stood back and took stock. It wasn't a meal. She wouldn't enjoy it herself, but she'd gotten used to forcing down rough fare while on the outlaw trail. Nevertheless, what the farm girl had put together should reasonably be enough for a hired man's lunch. It was only missing something to drink. Since the maid had brought in fresh milk from her morning chores, she went to the can and filled a small pitcher with it. She poured milk into a pair of tin cups for herself and George.

She gave a sigh, glad to be done.

With two lunches occupying the small table, there was little space left for her mother's letters. Not wanting the snoopy George to take a handful and start reading them, Myra separated the ones that she'd already skimmed from the others, creating two different bundles, and these she packed back into the wooden case. Then the girl concealed her treasure chest under her aunt's bed. She was still on her knees when a tapping sounded on the pine-board door, which she had carelessly left hanging open. Expecting that it was George, she called over her shoulder, “Yeah!”

But, upon standing up, she saw that her callers were a couple of girls – Kayley and Rosedale, of course. They came right in, burdened with carry-alls. “Hello, Myra!” Dale said. Behind her, Kayley nodded and smiled. Myra managed to smile back at them, though she was scarcely in a mood for company.

“I guess it is lunch time,” said Kayley.

“Come in. Do you need a bite?” Myra asked. She preferred not to have to put together a bigger meal, but the custom of hospitality was a very strong one. It wasn't uncommon for a visitor who received less than what he expected to rebuke his host to his face.

“An apple, maybe,” said Dale, approaching the table. “Kayley and I lunched just before we started over. We don't have to get back home until supper.”

That's going to be a long time to put up with these two, Myra thought. She didn't look forward to acting like a girl for nearly six hours. And what if they wanted to talk about embarrassing things, like women's bodies? That was a subject that females tended to bring up when no menfolk were around.

“Hey now!” exclaimed George, stepping in through the open door. “Isn't it nice to be having dinner with three fetching ladies – even if one of them is only my homely little sister?”

“Homely! You mangy coyote!” Dale answered him back.

“It's still five minutes to noon,” Myra reminded the youth.

“I didn't think you'd mind,” the Severin lad said. “It's probably best if I get my chowing done quickly, so you can get on with those dancing lessons. I know you've been powerfully excited on the subject all morning.”

Dale shook her head. “Men always want to make fun of people when they're trying to learn something new.”

“Always,” agreed Kayley. “I want to learn to drive the buggy, but my dad talks as if I was asking him to let me break a bronco.”

“I think you could give a bronc a good fight of it,” teased George.

“You talk like a brother,” the Grimsley girl responded, “and that's not a good thing.”

“How come? Why wouldn't you want another brother just like Jeremy? What have you got against Jeremy?”

“Nothing. And we weren't talking about Jeremy, not until you brought him up.”

“I can drive a buggy. I can teach you, Kayley.”

“You can?” the neighbor girl asked.

“I've said it, haven't I?”

“That would be jim-dandy!” Kayley exclaimed. She looked over her shoulder. “Why couldn't you offer to do the same for me, George?”

“The same reason that Dale hasn't. If your pa wanted you to be driving, he'd be teaching you himself. It's not proper for a neighbor to be interfering between a girl and what her folks' want for her.”

“Myra doesn't seem to care about fussy rules like that.”

“Well, it isn't for me to be saying what Myra should or shouldn't be doing. But remember how our folks made Dale promise not to be teaching you – not on any subject – not unless your ma and pa say that it's all right first. Now that Myra's spoken up, maybe they'll be coming over to arm-twist her into giving them that same promise. They already think that our Dale is a wild girl for starting out driving a carriage horse at such a young age.”

“Let's leave this sort of business for later, George,” suggested Dale. “Your victuals will be getting cold.”

“No rush,” her brother said. “Myra told me that she was fixing things up cold. With a nice hot stove in here, they can only get warmer.”

“I'm not much of a cook,” the ginger-maned girl explained.

“You can't cook?” said Kayley. “Oh, you have to learn, Myra, or you're not going to find the best kind of husband. Dale and I can teach you cooking.”

“Well, my aunt already said she's going to teach me. If everybody starts teaching me at the same time, I'll be learning to cook from dawn to dusk.”

“Would that be worse than choring all day?” asked Rosedale.

“It might be,” Myra said.

“Come on, you gals, don't try to change Myra into the mirror-image of yourselves,” advised George. “I think she's mighty nice the way she is.”

“Oh, yes, it's very clear how nice you think Miss Myra is,” teased his sister. “Is she going to the dance with you?”

“She says she'll be at the dance. Maybe I'll get her to dance with me once or twice while I'm there,” he said.

“Perfect!” exclaimed Kayley. “They always have square dancing. You'll have to get ready for that, Myra. It's the hardest sort of dance for a person to learn. It takes at least four people to teach it right. George, can you stay and help us show Myra some dance steps?”

“I'm not sure I should. I won't get a whole lot of the pen cleaned if I do. Today and tomorrow are the shortest days of the year, you know.”

“If you're nice to Myra, it could make her like you better,” suggested Rosdale, trying to keep from giggling.

“Think it would do just the opposite,” replied Myra.

“Oh, pshaw! Everybody's afraid to dance at first!” exclaimed Dale. “But I've been to lots of dances and believe me, if you know just a little, you'll look better than most of the other people there.”

“Let's start by showing Myra the square dance,” urged Kayley.

“I tried some square dancing once, but it's too crazy to understand,” complained the redhead. “It's bad enough trying to remember what you're supposed to be doing, but in square dancing you also need to understand what twenty different people are doing at the same time!”

“Everybody has trouble square dancing at first, but it's the dance that's always the most fun,” said Dale Severin. “And you aren't really dancing with twenty people; it just looks that way. Everyone dances in groups of four, or maybe eight, if a lot of people show up. You stay inside your own group to dance. Because there are lots of other groups dancing just as fast as they can, it looks more confusing than it really is.”

George was shaking his head.“This sounds like it's going to take a lot of time, and I don't have time to spare.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3, Part 2