{"id":169,"date":"2022-03-15T04:41:05","date_gmt":"2022-03-15T04:41:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lmbanyan.com\/?page_id=169"},"modified":"2022-12-05T20:21:17","modified_gmt":"2022-12-05T20:21:17","slug":"l-m-banyan","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/lmbanyan.com\/","title":{"rendered":"Enter the Worlds of the Past and Future!"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

PHANTOM FUTURE series<\/em><\/h1>\n\n\n\n
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An infamous man emerges from legend in this tale of past and future worlds linked through time travel<\/h1>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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SEQUEL NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON!<\/strong><\/em><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Buy <\/em>Phantom Future<\/em><\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Buy <\/em>Quantum Verdict<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

PHANTOM FUTURE review:<\/strong> “Multi-layered, atmospheric, romantic, and complex\u2014sci-fi and history, good and evil. Good mix of characters, with the story narration moving about among them…Looking forward to the next book to see what happens to them all. And to the world.”<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

QUANTUM VERDICT review:<\/strong> “Absolutely does not disappoint…I did not put it down until I finished it. I love the main characters\u2014there is so much heart and feelings….Erik is such a trickster! If you love POTO (Phantom of the Opera), you will love this book….<\/em>“<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Read FIVE FREE CHAPTERS of PHANTOM FUTURE<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Learn about PHANTOM FUTURE AND QUANTUM VERDICT\u2013worlds that we have come from and are traveling into\u2014and the fascinating people who hold the world’s fate in their hands. Read FIVE FREE CHAPTERS of PHANTOM FUTURE and summaries of both books. Enter into Paris during the tumultuous 1870s and our future world in 2040 Seattle<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Engaging Blog Posts!<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

The Phantom Future<\/em> series contains real people, places and events from past and future worlds. Blog posts will delve into these interesting facets, with references to books, articles, videos and movies! Let’s explore all this together!<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Book Club, Free Zoom Session with Author!<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Would your Book Club like to have a FREE ZOOM Session with the author about the books? Check the Book Club page and learn more!<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Author Page!<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Want to learn about the author? Or would you like to ask questions or add your own comments? Check out the Author Page.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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CHAPTER 1 – REMAINS<\/h1>\n\n\n\n
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PARIS, January 24, 2040<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

I scowl at the ragged book on the counter. That blasted diary! Why did I buy it? I must have been out of my mind. The antique dealer suspected who my client is and gouged me on the price. What a gamble!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As my panic increases, I glance out my shop window again. Where is Lady Margaret? And why is she so late? Her assistant told me they\u2019d be coming from a funeral in England on one of their private jets and make a stopover to examine the diary. Did something happen? There\u2019s been growing furor about Lady Margaret\u2019s husband and that strange business of the time-travel technology his company supposedly developed. What if there was a protest at the funeral\u2014or even worse, a bomb? The very thought makes me reach for my antacids.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Frantic, I bark at the wall monitor, \u201cScreen on! Search British news for a funeral any time today.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Within seconds a medieval chapel where a funeral is being held appears on the monitor. A reporter solemnly announces into the camera, \u201cWe\u2019re here at the funeral for the daughter of renowned barrister Sir Kenneth Ballard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The camera pans from the reporter over to paparazzi standing near parked limos and protestors waving signs behind a police barricade. As he walks toward the protesters, the reporter says, \u201cAmong the many notables attending is Lady Margaret de Renesse who famously avoids publicity. Protestors have taken advantage of this opportunity to demonstrate their opposition to the new time-travel technology controlled by her American husband, Howard Wheaton.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The reporter sticks the microphone in a protester\u2019s face and asks his opinion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTime travel? That\u2019s mind-bending,\u201d the scruffy man replies. \u201cBut why should one person be havin\u2019 it all to himself?\u201d The reporter nods in agreement, then moves to another protester who expresses similar sentiments.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cProtestors,\u201d I huff. I have no idea why they object to Wheaton\u2019s control of time travel, but then I don\u2019t pay much attention to the news. As long as Lady Margaret pays lavish sums for my antiques, that\u2019s all that matters to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After interviewing several more protestors, the reporter announces, \u201cThe service is over and mourners are leaving.\u201d The camera turns back to the chapel, but only focuses on a veiled woman being escorted to a limo by several men, no doubt bodyguards. The woman is identified as Lady Margaret just as a paparazzo rushes within feet of her and aims his camera. In a blink, a large bodyguard pivots and his elbow flies up, deftly sending the camera through the air. As the startled paparazzo scrambles to retrieve it from the mud, the limo speeds away. Good! She got away unharmed\u2014but the funeral was on the midday news report, and it\u2019s almost six o\u2019clock. Where is she?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I chew on another antacid. What if Lady Margaret doesn\u2019t come at all? What if her interest in the book was just a passing whim\u2014that has passed? But she always asks me to keep my eye out for artifacts from the 1800s, especially from the Paris Op\u00e9ra or the Commune. She was pleased with the cane I found for her from the Op\u00e9ra. A unique cane, as I recall, with a handsome ivory lion\u2019s head\u2014almost as handsome as the price she paid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And what if she arrives but doesn\u2019t like the diary? I glance around my shop. A pathway has been created through the clutter of antiques so she can sit in the alcove, surrounded by tempting treasures while she examines the book. I spot the Louis-Philippe armchair and move it into the alcove. Lady Margaret purchased one like it last month, and she must buy something. I\u2019m desperate. What if my daughter finds out I bought that diary with the funds put aside for her wedding? She has her heart set on a silk gown despite the outlandish prices now that silk worms are dying off. And my wife, what does she care about the costs? She spends like she\u2019s the reincarnation of Marie Antoinette. So what was I to do?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Pepin of Paris mantle clock strikes six ominous chimes. My stomach churns as I reach for the troublesome diary and thumb through its pages. Quite good condition for a book two hundred years old, and it was written by a woman at the Op\u00e9ra. My heart skips as a page falls out and lands on the floor. When I pick it up and look for a date, my eyes catch the words \u201cmask\u201d and \u201ccannonballs.\u201d Curious, I squint at the tiny script, faded but legible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

20 April 1871<\/strong>
Erik is dead. There can be no doubt. His stark mask rests on the table, its hollow eye staring back at me, like the skeleton that will soon be all that remain<\/em>s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can hear cannonballs exploding into the buildings nearby. My hand is shaking so much that holding the pen is difficult, but I must attest to his bitter ending. I know what they say about him. But how could anyone else know what I saw behind his scarred face\u2014what I saw in his soul? How can the spell cast by his genius be described? No challenge withstood his inexorable will. But he is no more.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Communard rebels came to my room today, they said Erik was executed this morning by their firing squad and demanded I come to identify his body. They forced me to go through the streets even though a bombardment was shelling the city. I feared we would be blown to pieces, but they dragged me to those dreadful chambers beneath the Garnier.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

To bid my final farewell I knelt beside his still form, covered in crimson streaks trailing down the black waistcoat. I wept bitterly at the gash on his forehead and blackened bruises on his face, then removed his mask and touched the scarred flesh which has forever been his curse. Their one kindness was to allow me to keep the mask. As the Communards led me out, I heard shovels striking the hard ground. I glanced back and saw them digging a hole to bury him there, alone. In the place he lived so long. Alone.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

His life should not have ended this way. Why have men always killed each other over their differences? Why? Once again all Paris cowers in fear while the government and revolutionaries tear at each other. But the world will go on as it always has. The living will not miss him. I wonder, had they not rejected him, what his life could have meant to the world.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have written the truth about him in this diary, but I doubt anyone will ever read my words. Would they make any difference? The explosions are getting closer. I must seek a safe place. Now Erik is in God’s hands. As are we all.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I shake my head. It\u2019s beyond me why Lady Margaret would be interested in that grisly period when the Communards took over Paris. The page turns out to be the last one in the diary. As I\u2019m debating whether or not to throw it away, her Bentley pulls into my shop\u2019s courtyard. Time has run out. I quickly decide to return the page to its place and rush to the front of my store.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two bodyguards escort her, but only the large Native American enters. His eyes scan the store like a hawk searching for prey as he walks down the narrow aisles, checking out every hidden nook. At the back of my shop, he goes into the storage room and searches it to confirm that no one else is here. Finally, he returns to the front door and opens it. Lady Margaret sweeps into my shop, dressed in black Chanel and still wearing a veil.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy condolences, Lady Margaret,\u201d I utter solemnly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She nods politely. \u201cYou have the diary of Ad\u00e8le Giry?\u201d Her tone is skeptical.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust as I said.\u201d I offer her the book. \u201cFeel free to inspect it to your satisfaction.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment she stares at the diary suspended in midair. When she reaches out to take it, her hand trembles. Good omen? Or bad? I escort her to the alcove and seat her on the Louis-Philippe armchair. Its cushions are sapphire blue, like her eyes. Perhaps she\u2019ll buy it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Returning to the counter, I busy myself sorting through a crate of books and occasionally steal glances over at the alcove. She has removed the veil, but since she\u2019s turned away, I can\u2019t see her expression, only the golden hair pulled back into an impeccable chignon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The clock\u2019s loud ticking frays my nerves. Why is she taking so long? Who knows what drives the whimsy of a rich woman? But a woman can do whatever she wants when her husband is reputed to be the world\u2019s wealthiest man. Well, some have and some have not. Hopefully, before she leaves, I\u2019ll have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As if my troubles weren\u2019t nerve-racking enough, her bodyguard stands motionless at the entrance to the alcove. Only his eyes move, following everything I do. A most intimidating man with long, black hair tied behind his neck and broad shoulders nearly filling the alcove doorway. I recognize him as the man who elbowed the paparazzo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just as I\u2019m reaching for antacids again, Lady Margaret motions me over. With a catch in her voice, she begins, \u201cThis diary ends during a bombardment. By chance do you know what happened to Madame Giry? Did she survive the shelling?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I swallow hard. I have no idea. What will sell the book\u2014that the woman lived or died? I should have thrown away that last page. I decide not to guess and tip the scales the wrong way. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, I don\u2019t know.\u201d Smiling apologetically, I hold my breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She picks up her handbag. Mon Dieu! Is she leaving? My heart pounds as I wobble slightly. Then she reaches in and takes out her checkbook. Without so much as a glance in my direction, she fills out the check and hands it to me, her mind elsewhere. In shock, I stare at the amount. The figure far exceeds the price I quoted her\u2014more than enough for a silk wedding gown. And the check certainly is good as gold, drawn on one of her husband\u2019s banks with her family crest prominently displayed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thank her profusely and escort her through the shop. As I\u2019m holding the door, I remember the Louis-Philippe armchair. That would have paid for the wedding champagne! But it\u2019s too late\u2014she has already glided past me. Her bodyguards quickly assist her into the Bentley, and she\u2019s gone, leaving behind the scent of exotic perfume and my delighted <\/em>grin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Go to Ch 2 FATE<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Buy<\/em> PHANTOM FUTURE<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Return to Book Summaries<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

CHAPTER 2 – FATE<\/h1>\n\n\n\n
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PARIS, April 19, 1871<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Erik Mercier:<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Explosions pummel Paris, striking ever closer. I race across the abandoned avenue through clouds of smoke rolling between the buildings. Red fingers of fire streak into the late afternoon sky\u2014like devil\u2019s talons reaching out of hell. As I race down an alleyway, the rooftop above me explodes, showering down brick and plaster. Before I can pull up my cloak to keep the dust from getting under my mask, a shard grazes my forehead. Mon Dieu. The soldiers have turned the cannons! I keep running, hopefully beyond their range.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With each footfall, pain radiates through my head and warm blood trickles down my face. Taking refuge behind a livery shed, I pull out a handkerchief and press it to the gash, all the while disparaging the manhood of the soldier who fired that volley. No doubt my landlady is hiding in the basement of her Auteuil boarding house, also cursing the soldiers and claiming they bomb the finer neighborhoods out of spite. She always says that, and I always agree. After all she doles out the food, and a nod of concession to her ranting is rewarded with a larger scoop from the soup tureen. But why would the soldiers not take advantage of an opportunity to avenge their hatred on the well-to-do? That is the poisoned core in the heart of the City of Light. The reason civil war rages again on the streets\u2014all about the few having so much and the many having so little.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A cannonball explodes into the livery, pelting me with debris. Furious, I flee down the alley again. Damn the government. As I run, I keep staunching the blood, cursing them all for their madness. This crazed, patriotic fervor sweeping the city has been a curse on my life since last September when the Prussians laid siege to Paris\u2014and my world ended.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Silence now, except for my boots pounding on cobblestone. The streets are nearly empty as people huddle in their rooms, seeking safety. Another terrifying crash overhead as a cannonball shatters a window. A woman\u2019s scream pierces the air. Again I am struck with fear for Christine and Ad\u00e8le. How have they fared? Surely Raoul left Christine at his family\u2019s estate in the countryside before he went off to fight the Prussians. I worry more about Ad\u00e8le. She had no wealthy nobleman to take care of her, and she moved to Neuilly, which is being heavily shelled. Yet I dare not visit her. She was known to be my friend, so the police may be watching. But after every bombardment, I wonder whether she survived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another explosion! How many more will die today? And all for nothing. This is the third rebellion since the Great Revolution a hundred years ago, and no doubt it will end as they all have. After the death and destruction, a few bones of concession may be thrown to the people to placate them. But in the end, the wealthy and powerful will retain their wealth and power, and the people will return to their lives of struggle and misery. Nothing will change. Nothing ever does. I quicken my pace and search the ground for one of the entrances into the tunnels. Crossing Paris above ground has become too perilous.As I race across a street, a horse bolts out of a livery stable and nearly runs me down. I yell at the rider, but he does not even look back in his panicked flight. Seeking the safety of a caf\u00e9 doorway, I stop to catch my breath. To think I came out of hiding two months ago needing to live again in human society. Even succeeded, passed myself off as a wounded soldier, and no one suspected who I am. But now that I live above ground, humanity has gone mad, trying to destroy itself and me along with it. And I no longer want to be a part of it\u2014desire only a cottage in the countryside where I can live in solitude. Human companionship is not meant for me. And my hope for love? Delusion<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Again I set out, having no choice except to hazard crossing Paris to retrieve the metal box that contains my small fortune. After all, I must deal with my landlady and her greed. My funds on hand have run out, and I need money to secure the relative safety of the boarding house until these fools have tired of killing each other. Then I will leave this City of Suffering and put the past behind me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A cannonball smashes into the building ahead. The cannons have turned again. I dive beneath a wagon and spot the cover of a manhole that leads into the tunnels. Hefting the iron plate aside, I lower myself onto the wooden stairs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the first landing I discover the bracket which holds the torch is empty\u2014and I have only a few matches. Merde! I will have to travel most of the way without light, but that I can do. Despite being a formidable foe, the cavernous underbelly of Paris has often granted me asylum. Night engulfs me as I descend many stories down the stairwell. At the bottom a faint acrid smell hangs in the cool air. Removing my gloves, I light a match. The small flame illuminates three converging tunnels. I choose the one heading northeast and soon the flame sputters out, leaving me in darkness befitting a tomb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All my senses become acute to outwit the serpentine passageways. I hold one hand in front to detect overhangs and lowered ceilings. With the fingertips of the other, I read the cryptic code on the wall. Here, the chisel marks feel relatively smooth\u2014surely a gallery tunnel the workmen for the Inspection des Carri\u00e8res carved out to search for lost quarries.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My hand trailing the wall, I walk blindly through treacherous tunnels. The wall\u2019s texture changes, probably a cement buttress constructed to support an abandoned quarry\u2019s ceiling and save Paris from being swallowed into gaping holes. Abruptly, the wall ends. I stop and use one of my matches. Its weak, flickering light discloses the large cavern of a quarry. I hurry across, reaching the tunnel on the other side just as the match hisses out and leaves me sightless once again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Claws grate the ground as rats scurry away from the soft thud of my boots. After some distance the tool marks beneath my fingers change to gouges that feel like dragon scales. These were made by the men who built the soaring cathedrals in the Middle Ages. I always sense their hovering ghosts. Can almost hear the rhythm of their hammers, raping the limestone from mother earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the next conjunction of tunnels, I light my last match and read the Inspection\u2019s sign that corresponds to the street above, getting my bearings. The sound of feet shuffling against the stone floor sends a chill down my spine. Those are not rats. Quickly I extinguish the match and listen to determine how many are lurking\u2014at least three from the different timbres of their voices. My hand goes instinctively to my Punjab lasso. I throw my voice, sending a low, rumbling growl reverberating through the limestone tunnels. Frightened voices cry out as they scutter away in panic, and I move on into timeless night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lit dimly by lamplight filtering through a street grate high above, a cistern comes into view. The workmen used the cistern\u2019s water to make cement for the buttresses. One of their stairways may not be far! I venture back into darkness, clawing at the ragged wall, desperately searching for stairs. Then my hand scrapes against a wood railing. I am safe! Relieved, I begin the seemingly endless climb to the surface.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the top landing, I cautiously lift the cover. The cannonade is far away, and the moonless night sky promises a cloak of protection. After a one-legged Communard hobbles past, I climb out and pull up my hood to conceal my face. Slipping silently through near-empty streets, I stay to the shadows, unseen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Finally, the majestic Garnier looms ahead. I go to the side of the building and pull off a hidden grate. Stooping low, I make my way down a musty passage until it connects to the lower level\u2019s ventilation duct, then crawl through the cramped duct to a secret trapdoor. Smirking, I wonder what Monsieur Garnier would think if he knew how many of these I incorporated into the building.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I drop through the trapdoor into the second cellar. A deserted oil lamp sits precariously at the edge of a workman\u2019s bench. I light it and survey my surroundings. So eerily silent now, unlike the noisy activity during construction, when the sounds of hammering and raucous banter assaulted my ears like a discordant symphony. Although the room is unfinished, strewn with wood shavings and piles of lumber, I feel at home. But such sentiments are overshadowed by my disgust for all that has been lost. First the war and siege and now the uprising have halted construction on this grand building. I wonder when, or if, the work will continue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The wound on my forehead has stopped bleeding, but before I put away the handkerchief, I try to remove the blood embedded in my ring\u2019s engravings. When the gold band gleams in the lamplight, bitter memories return. Memories of hope and pain. And faces.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCurse you,\u201d I mutter to the specters. \u201cCurse all of you.\u201d Hastily, I pull on my gloves, banishing from my sight the reminder of my follies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My journey is nearly at an end. At the far end of the room, I discover that the door is locked. Reaching into my waistcoat, I pull out my silver fob and press the ornate engravings until a jagged metal pin appears. With it, I make quick work of the door lock. I grab the lamp and enter a dark corridor, traveling quickly through the maze-like rooms until I reach the stairway, then descend downward into the depths of the Garnier. Finally reaching the fifth cellar, I breathe a sigh of relief. The box I buried with my money and valuables, such as I have, is not far.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then laughter erupts from around a corner. I snuff out the lamp and slip noiselessly into a room to hide, but a door across the room slams open, and three men in green trousers and blue jackets enter. Communards!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A gangly boy holds high an oil lamp which illuminates a storage room full of kegs. The intrusive light reaches the corner where I have taken refuge, and the boy catches sight of me. Startled, he calls out, \u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d The other men aim their rifles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you a filthy government spy?\u201d an old man demands, his voice shaky. \u201cOr a thief?\u201d He waves his rifle at the wine barrels and stacked bags of flour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNon. Neither.\u201d Calmly, I try to explain, \u201cI worked for Monsieur Garnier and came back for some of my possessions.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The third man, larger, with a nasty scowl, points his rifle at my chest. \u201cSpies are everywhere. I can tell you are one. Hold up your hands.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I set down the lamp and display my empty hands. \u201cI assure you, I am no spy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou lie,\u201d the man spits.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy do you wear a mask?\u201d The old man eyes me. \u201cWhat are you hiding?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They approach, rifles aimed. Fear and suspicion have overcome reason. Nothing I say will be believed. Communards accuse anyone who is suspect and shoot them as a spy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My body coils. Before they can cock their rifles, the Punjab lasso flies from my hand. Snaking through the air, it cinches around the big man\u2019s neck. He drops his rifle and clutches the strangling noose. I lurch forward and shove his body against the others. They fall backward onto some barrels, arms and legs flailing wildly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No time to retrieve the oil lamp. I race into the pitch-black corridor, feral instincts taking over. I run blind, hand scraping the wall. Blood pounds in my ears. How many Communards are in the cellar? Now fate stalks me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turn a corner and collide with a soldier, taking us both to the ground. More Communards come streaming through a door. Hands reach down, pulling the man from beneath me. They circle like hyenas, and from every side boots kick viciously. I lash out and kick back. They scream in anger. I use my forearms to deflect the blows, but boot heels drive into my ribs. Pain shoots through my chest. A rifle butt hammers my lower leg, and I feel the agonizing snap of bone. Pain, sickening pain. Then a strike to my forehead and a shock of cold air. My mask\u2014ripped away. I am exposed. Overpowered. I clutch my hands to my chest and roll over to protect them with my body. Then a piercing blow to my head. All goes black.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Swirling, murky darkness surrounds me. I moan. Agony pulls me out of oblivion. I struggle to open my eyes, but they are clotted shut with dried blood. I try to lift my hand but cannot. Ribs are broken. Raising my other hand, I rub away the blood. With effort I look around my makeshift prison. The door is ajar, allowing a strand of light into my shadowy cell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Voices intrude from the next room. \u201cHe is dangerous,\u201d someone rasps. \u201cIf it is who we suspect, they say he is a crazed murderer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat if he struck a deal with the government? The bastard mighta spied on us ta save his own skin.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut if he is a spy, he might be worth more as a bargaining chip.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBargaining chip? You ignorant ass,\u201d the voice rumbles, gruffly drowning the others. \u201cWe should shoot him right now and be done with it. That devil\u2019s lasso nearly strangled Gilbert.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut it didn\u2019t. Gilbert\u2019s off duty for the night and stinkin\u2019 drunk by now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s better off than us!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd what if Monsieur Masque is a poor fool like us?\u201d a fretful voice asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, what if he spoke the truth? What if he only came to get his things? Sacre bleu.<\/em> What if he\u2019s not a spy?\u201d The rasping voice rises to an anxious pitch. I hold my breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEnough! It makes no difference.\u201d The gruff man ends the quarrel. \u201cWhen the regiment returns in the morning that bastard will be shot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I let out a ragged breath. So it is decided. I am to be executed. Desolate, I survey the room for escape routes. No windows. My eyes search the floor for grates marking underground tunnels. None. I scan the ceiling for an air duct. Nothing. The only exit is through the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I spot it on the floor inside the doorway\u2014my mask. A sliver of light streaks across the black leather. I laugh. So they want me to wear the mask when they execute me. Better that they kill me now and get it over with. I attempt to get up, but pain screams through my splintered leg. I fall back onto the dirt floor, frozen. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The pain makes me acutely conscious of my body. I grimace at the irony that my body will not burden me much longer. In many ways, that is a relief. I have always been at war with my physical self. I take a ragged breath. Even the escape of sleep is beyond my reach. I lie on the cold, hard floor, haunted by memories of things I have done\u2014accomplishments most men could barely imagine. But the many things I have never done also torment me. Human joys that most take for granted have evaded me. A paradox. Ultimately, my life was a paradox.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I send up a futile prayer. If only I had more time. But when I pass from this world, who will know or even care? As if in response, a gentle face appears like an apparition. Ad\u00e8le. Will she ever learn what became of me? Or will she wait for years, hoping for my return?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Relentlessly, my hopes and dreams continue to mock me. I cannot escape them any more than I can these cursed Communards. I stare at the ceiling, hovering like the lid of my coffin. My body is too broken to put up another fight. I cannot evade my fate\u2014but I vow that in death my specter will haunt this place forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Screams and crashes suddenly erupt in the next room. Wounded cries fill the air as an unseen battle rages. Then the door slams open and three Communards rush in. Cold fear floods through me. Wracked with pain, I prop myself up on my elbow and strike out at my attackers. Hands seize me, pinning me down. One man sprays a mist into my face and the world goes dark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So this is how it will end.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Go to Ch 3 DEFENSE<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Buy<\/em> PHANTOM FUTURE<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Return to Book Summaries<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

CHAPTER 3 DEFENSE<\/h1>\n\n\n\n
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SEATTLE, WASHINGTON<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

June 4, 2040<\/h2>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Collin McKay:<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
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The elevator opens and I plunge into the crowded corridor. Don\u2019t like courthouses. Never have. I prefer university hallways with students chattering amiably or hurrying to appointments. Here, frazzled people stand around looking worried and lost, waiting for their fates to be decided.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The attorneys stand out with their professional garb and matter-of-fact attitudes. One couple frowns as they listen to an old attorney whose jacket bags from sloping, tired shoulders that seem weighted down from dealing with too many people, too many problems. Nearby, two well-groomed businessmen hang on the words of a confident young attorney in a trendy suit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What with my Scottish tweed jacket, I probably could be mistaken for an attorney, but instead here I am, joining the worried and feeling quite lost. As if my work weren\u2019t complicated enough, now I\u2019m dealing with this damned mess. But there\u2019s only one person I can think of to take this on\u2014and that we can trust.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hurry down the corridor, looking for her, but no luck. She must still be in court\u2014room number 44, her legal assistant said. I find it and peer through the door\u2019s small glass window. The spectator section is empty, but a hearing is going on. Ah, there she is. I slip in quietly and take a seat at the back. An attorney in an expensive Italian suit stands at the front of the court, addressing the judge. Sporting a suntan that speaks more to hours in the Tuscan sun than overcast Seattle, the attorney hammers his case with all the fervor of a Cesare Borgia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When the other attorney turns to her client, I catch a glimpse of her face\u2014the large, dark eyes and graceful nose turned up slightly at the tip. It\u2019s been three years since I\u2019ve seen Kathryn. A pang of guilt strikes me. Swallowing hard, I shove the painful memories aside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Punching the air for emphasis, Cesare accuses Kathryn\u2019s client of abandoning her two daughters last Friday and making no attempt to contact her husband or see the children. Despite the dramatics, the judge looks bored. Cesare concludes that the wife is unfit, and since she has no means of support, her request for custody should be denied. The balding husband approvingly grins at his attorney\u2019s attack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Kathryn stands to address the judge, I get my first good look. Still wears skirts with matching jackets. Kathryn never did dress informally. Anne always kidded her about that. I lean forward, don\u2019t want to miss a word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s true Mrs. Stratton left her home in the middle of the night last Friday,\u201d she begins. \u201cIt\u2019s also true she did not take her children and made no attempt to contact them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What\u2019s she doing? Kathryn just conceded the main points in the husband\u2019s case. But then she explains that her client fled in fear of her life through the bathroom window onto the second-floor roof. Then she walked to the highway and flagged down a truck that took her to the nearest emergency room, where doctors treated her for two cracked ribs and numerous bruises and cuts\u2014all from a beating at the hands of her husband.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A snort of denial erupts from the husband. In a hushed voice, Cesare advises him to control himself. Kathryn requests that the medical records be admitted into evidence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cObjection!\u201d Cesare jumps to his feet. \u201cWe don\u2019t know that the injuries were at the hands of my client. These could have been sustained in a fall from the roof or even at the hands of some other person. Apparently she hitchhiked. Maybe the injuries were from a tussle with the truck driver.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cResponse, Ms. Copeland?\u201d the judge asks Kathryn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Stratton\u2019s attorney has conceded my client left the house through a second floor window. Why would she climb onto a roof and risk falling and breaking her leg or worse? Only because she\u2019d already been beaten. She sought refuge in the bathroom but realized the door wouldn\u2019t stop her attacker, so she did the only thing she could\u2014escaped onto the roof. The medical records specifically note she was not under the influence of alcohol or drugs.\u201d Kathryn glances sympathetically at her client and adds, \u201cNeither her husband nor his attorney has alleged my client was in the habit of leaving her family and going off alone at night. All the facts point to her having fled after being beaten by one person\u2014Mr. Stratton.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cObjection overruled,\u201d the judge announces. \u201cThe exhibits are admitted.\u201d The husband glares at Kathryn through narrowed, threatening eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kathryn continues her factual onslaught, detailing the physical abuse which had increased over the past months as the husband\u2019s business lost more money due to the depression plaguing the country. She points out that the wife\u2019s fleeing to protect herself and being absent for three days do not constitute abandonment of the children. Methodically, Kathryn describes her client\u2019s fears not only for her safety, but also the safety of her daughters. She presents her case with the same persuasiveness and clarity that won every debate at the university against anyone foolish enough to take her on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The husband grumbles angrily, but Cesare warns him to hold his tongue. After more heated, gut-wrenching debate between the attorneys, the judge grants all the temporary orders. Then he pointedly directs Stratton to remove his personal belongings from the family home under the supervision of a police officer. Everyone stands as the judge leaves the bench. Stratton walks past with his attorney, and I get an earful of foul language. Clearly he\u2019s used to getting his way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then the young wife breaks down crying. With a reassuring voice, Kathryn patiently answers all her client\u2019s questions. When the woman leaves, Kathryn\u2019s shoulders relax as she opens her briefcase and puts away her file and old model laptop. I noticed that the other attorney had a Wheaton Qrystal quantum computer\u2014and the most expensive model at that. Kathryn evidently doesn\u2019t get the pricey fees from her clients. But then, she left the corporate world a few years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kathryn turns around and spots me. \u201cCollin, what are you doing, lurking there?\u201d She walks toward me, her brilliant smile making me wince. So much like Anne\u2019s. \u201cI thought we were meeting at my office.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCould no\u2019 resist seeing you in action.\u201d I give her a big hug. \u201cTo tell the truth, your hearing was running late, so I came here t\u2019 pick you up for dinner.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWonderful to see you again. How long have you been here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSnuck in as the other attorney was launching his attack. I enjoyed watching you give him a good drubbin\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn his defense, his client probably didn\u2019t disclose a lot. I doubt the attorney knew about the beating or the medical reports.\u201d She grins. \u201cIt helps to have the facts.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s all there is to it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust curious about wha\u2019 it takes to win a case.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, getting all the facts isn\u2019t as easy as it sounds. The client may not want to admit or disclose everything\u2014may not even be aware of all the facts. So gathering evidence includes digging into any potentially useful information and tracking down and questioning witnesses.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo that\u2019s all there is to it, then?\u201d I query.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, thoroughly researching all the legal angles is crucial. And having a fair judge or jury plays no small part. Fortunately, the law provides attorneys with a useful tool\u2014we can file a motion to disqualify judges who are biased.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTha\u2019 doesn\u2019t sound like a politically correct thing to do.\u201d I\u2019ve had my own run-ins with the political types at the university.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, it\u2019s not.\u201d She chuckles. \u201cBut I don\u2019t hesitate to file a motion to remove a judge when needed. So, thorough preparation of the facts and law as well as an impartial judge are usually a successful combination.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFrom my understanding, \u2018usually\u2019 is not the correct word when applied to you. Based on wha\u2019 I hear, it\u2019s more like \u2018always.\u2019 You win just about every case, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow did you come up with that information?\u201d She regards me suspiciously. \u201cAnd why would it matter to you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cT\u2019be honest, I\u2019m in need of a good attorney.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did you do? Flunk someone who\u2019s got a lord in front of his name?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, it isn\u2019t about me.\u201d She\u2019s joking, but she\u2019s got a point. When I was a professor at Oxford, I didn\u2019t go off half-cocked. \u201cHowever, I do know a person who may be accused o\u2019 things.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThings? What things?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUh, murder\u2014mostly.\u201d I flinch. So much for saving that for later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stares at me long and hard before replying. \u201cMurder? Sorry, I don\u2019t take criminal defense cases. My practice is mostly civil litigation and cases involving domestic violence and child abuse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe can discuss this later.\u201d I glance around the room, uneasy. \u201cWe have t\u2019be cautious.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s this about?\u201d Kathryn takes a step back. \u201cIs that the reason you\u2019re here? Why you called to take me out to dinner?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShall we go then?\u201d I punt. \u201cWe\u2019re going t\u2019be late.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you made dinner reservations?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cO\u2019 course. You love French food, right? I got us a table at Le Bouc.\u201d I grin and take her briefcase, escorting her into the corridor. It\u2019s after five and the swarms of sullen people are gone. As we enter the elevator, I comment offhandedly, \u201cWe\u2019re going to a meeting first if you don\u2019t mind. We\u2019ll have dinner after.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMeeting? What\u2019s the meeting for?\u201d She doesn\u2019t hide her irritation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I shrug apologetically. \u201cIt\u2019s indirectly involved wi\u2019 the case I mentioned.\u201d When the doors open, I guide her toward the public parking lot. \u201cShall we take my car?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kathryn halts abruptly. \u201cWhy can\u2019t I follow you in mine? Where are we going?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s no way I can tell her here. It\u2019s too open. Anybody could be tracking me, listening in. I put on a smile. \u201cWill ya trust me? I thought maybe you could help me out a bit.\u201d I don\u2019t dare give her any more information. She\u2019d likely bolt right now. \u201cFor old time\u2019s sake?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She searches my face for several tense seconds. \u201cI\u2019m not happy about this being sprung on me.\u201d Testy, she finally says, \u201cAll right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So far, so good, I\u2019m thinking as we head to my car. When I open the car door for her, she gives me a strange look. What now? As I\u2019m driving to the exit of the garage, she seems to be studying the electronic monitors on the dashboard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis isn\u2019t a hybrid, is it? It\u2019s a fully electric car,\u201d she says, surprised.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat it is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve never been in one. Wouldn\u2019t have thought this was within the salary of a professor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, true. This is provided by my employer. All o\u2019 his vehicles are electric.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReally? You mean he can afford to pay the extra taxes for using electric cars? Who is this employer? Is he involved somehow with this \u2018meeting\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cActually, he is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo what is his name?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll know tha\u2019 soon enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She shakes her head and looks away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We head toward I-5, but the motorbikes and pedicabs clogging the hazy, grey streets of Seattle slow us down. As we approach an intersection, police sirens begin to blare, so I stop the car. An old van comes speeding down the street, but slams on its brakes at a traffic gridlock. Two men get out and race into the alleyway, followed by a hunter police drone hovering closely overhead. Police cars screech to a halt next to the van. We watch as several policemen give chase while one stays back and uses a crowbar to pry open the van\u2019s back doors. When they fly open, a cargo of barrels comes into sight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you think it is?\u201d Kathryn asks. \u201cWater?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, tha\u2019 would be my guess. Probably water runners, wha\u2019 with half the country dealing with drought and the other half with water contamination. And here in Seattle we have all this rainwater t\u2019 be captured for free and sold for drinking water.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut how can you blame them? Bootleg water brings high prices in some places. Unfortunately, if they get caught, that\u2019s a minimum prison sentence of two years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve noticed the police have been crackin\u2019 down on the water runners even more now. Ever since the Powers, T\u2019ang and Bianchetti Corporation cut their backroom deals and got the government to give them exclusive rights to sell and distribute water throughout the country.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She sighs. \u201cWho would ever have thought collecting rain that falls from the sky would be illegal? The PTB Corporation spreads its slimy tentacles everywhere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI hear their next move is to make it illegal to grow your own food or sell it without government authorization. And o\u2019 course, they\u2019ll make sure tha\u2019 only PTB subsidiaries have authorization.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo doubt,\u201d she says, \u201cthey own everything, including the government.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Traffic begins to move again, forming a single file around the tangle of police cars and abandoned van. A tiny black police drone hovers outside my car door, inspecting me, then zooms around to Kathryn\u2019s side. She glares back at the drone until it buzzes away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBloody hummingbird drones,\u201d I mutter under my breath. \u201cThere are more o\u2019 them all the time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, they\u2019re large enough to see, so we know when they\u2019re around.\u201d After a pause she adds, \u201cAt least for now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t say anything, but I\u2019m not so sure. Who knows how small they\u2019ve been able to make the drones? Maybe these are only decoys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I check my watch. Damn, we\u2019re going to be late. But there\u2019s no rushing through traffic in the clogged Seattle streets. I wind around the pedicabs which slow traffic and squeeze past buses stopped to let out passengers. At a red light we\u2019re trapped behind a truck belching out clouds of black exhaust. Kathryn coughs when the noxious fumes reach inside my car. I hate coming into the cities. It would seem that with the gas rationing, the smog would decrease, but a lot of regulations were tossed out because they were considered too expensive to enforce, including the regulations on car exhaust. Maybe paying for surveillance drones drained the coffers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Finally we enter I-5 and head south. \u201cWhere are we going?\u201d Kathryn asks warily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOlympia. To Land\u2019s End, an estate on Puget Sound.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAny connection to the Land\u2019s End on the southwestern tip of England? I was born near there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, that\u2019s its namesake,\u201d I reply cheerily. She falls silent, studying me. I sense wheels turning in her mind. How am I going to hold her questions at bay for an hour\u2019s drive?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo, why am I going there for a meeting about someone accused of murder?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Actually, we\u2019ll be discussing tha\u2019 matter after the meeting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay, what\u2019s this all about?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry, I canno\u2019 reveal the details yet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s all this secrecy for? Good grief, why are you even involved with someone accused of murder? The only trouble you ever got into was taking a political stand or rocking the boat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This seems like a handy rabbit trail to take. One by one I revisit the controversial programs at Oxford I participated in. That succeeds in keeping the conversation lively and distracting her for nearly an hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then Kathryn ambushes me. \u201cSo, who is this person accused of murder?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRight now all I\u2019m t\u2019 do is take you to the meeting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI should have known.\u201d The words ooze with underlying meaning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKnown what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, I haven\u2019t seen you since Anne\u2019s funeral three years ago. I should\u2019ve known you weren\u2019t here just for old time\u2019s sake. So, it\u2019s business.\u201d Her voice is filled with disappointment. \u201cWhy, Collin? Anne was my best friend. I wrote and called you, trying to help. But you never replied, not once.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry. I just couldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid I do something wrong? Say something wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. That\u2019s no\u2019 your style.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen, why?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause you were Anne\u2019s closest friend. You were practically sisters.\u201d How can I explain? Anne and she looked so different and yet were so much alike. Anne had the curly red hair of the Irish, and Kathryn, although Irish on her mother\u2019s side, has the straight black hair of her father\u2019s English heritage. But their eyes, so much alike\u2014brilliant and intense. Wherever they focused their energy, they brought that unique combination of daring and compassion. And their smiles could stop a man dead in his tracks. Anne\u2019s surely did that to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My Anne. So gentle and loving with me. But she also had that Irish temper. So fiery and fierce when she was angered by the poverty that seems to be everywhere or the wars that always devastate the innocent. That\u2019s why she became a photojournalist. She wanted to expose the corruption and greed that causes those tragedies. Whenever she went off on one of her journeys, I was always fearful. Then she was gone. Forever. And I couldn\u2019t see Kathryn without seeing Anne. I think that\u2019s the reason I froze Kathryn out of my life. Partly from grief, partly out of self-preservation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou reminded me o\u2019 her. It hurt too much.\u201d When I glance over, the pain reflected on her face tells how hurt she was too. \u201cNot calling or explaining wasn\u2019t right. Will ya forgive me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her eyes become watery. \u201cOf course. I was a bit hard on you just now. Sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFriends?\u201d I reach out my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She takes it and gives me a conciliatory smile. \u201cFriends.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A silence falls between us. After a couple minutes Kathryn is studying me again. Maybe music will distract her. \u201cRadio, scan music channels.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTrying to stall by playing music?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOnly if it works,\u201d I shoot back. She rolls her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stop on my favorite channel, unfortunately just as the promo begins: \u201cPALnet\u2014the Private Advantage Link\u2014your unsurpassed internet connection to the world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kathryn frowns. \u201cDon\u2019t you have your own music? I try to avoid the PTB canned programming on PALnet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRadio, play my favorites,\u201d I quickly order. As my music begins, Kathryn smiles her approval, and we talk once again about our days at Oxford. Thankfully Kathryn doesn\u2019t press me for more information. I don\u2019t want to scare her off before they can make their pitch for her to take the case. Judging from her reaction, it\u2019ll be a hard sell. But we have to try. She\u2019s the one we think can do what is needed. More importantly, we feel she has the ability to work with him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Turning onto Cooper Point Road, we drive through Olympia\u2019s suburbs, past deserted shopping malls and abandoned restaurants. This unending depression has invaded even these affluent areas. Finally, we\u2019re out of Olympia and driving through lush, green countryside with its fresh, clean air. Trees line the road, protectively blocking the view of large homes. We pass the golf course, still neatly manicured for wealthy clientele. Turning down a side road, we drive the last mile through dense forest until we reach the tall brick wall enclosing the estate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I pull up to the fortress-like gates. Peering into the red eye of the security camera, I declare, \u201cCollin McKay and Kathryn Copeland.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When the gates slide open, two armed security men motion for us to proceed. \u201cWhere in hell have you brought me, Collin?\u201d she demands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can\u2019t look her in the eye. \u201cWe\u2019re almost there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We proceed down the long driveway, overshadowed by towering cedar and spruce. After a half-mile the forest ends abruptly. For security reasons, only ground-hugging grass covers the land in this part of the estate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As she takes in the long line of buildings that trail the cliff above Puget Sound, Kathryn shakes her head. \u201cYou called this an estate. It looks more like a military installation. What is this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can\u2019t argue with her description. The facades on this side of the buildings are stark and windowless, constructed with monumental blocks of granite that look like they were left over from the pyramids.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, it\u2019s no\u2019 military for certain. This is a private estate and also somewhat of a business.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSomewhat? What does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry, I really canno\u2019 say anything more just yet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The road winds through the clearing, between the neat white fence which encloses the pasture with stables on the right and the rambling buildings on the left. I\u2019m relieved when Kathryn turns her attention to the half dozen prize horses grazing in the pasture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Finally we reach the courtyard outside the one part of the fa\u00e7ade which appears inviting. As soon as I park, a waiting security guard opens the door for Kathryn and another takes my keys to repark my car in the underground garage. Kathryn hesitates at the foot of the massive marble stairs leading up to Chinese-style double doors. I give her an encouraging smile and escort her up the steps. As we arrive at the top, one of the doors opens and the elderly twig of a butler appears. With a bow and sweeping gesture of his white-gloved hand, he welcomes us in. Under his appraising gaze, I usher Kathryn over the threshold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood evening, madame and Dr. McKay.\u201d The butler draws back his lipless smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood evening, George.\u201d A tad anxious, I add, \u201cI assume everyone\u2019s here for the meeting?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIndeed. You\u2019re late,\u201d he sniffs. \u201cEveryone has been in the library for some time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hope we\u2019re not too late. The plan was for Kathryn to hear the last item on the agenda. \u201cWe\u2019ll hurry right along, then.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As we rush through the mansion, I sense Kathryn\u2019s mounting tension. She resents being manipulated, but how could I have told her the truth? Would she have believed it? Will she believe it even now?<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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Go to Ch 4 CASTLE<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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CHAPTER 4 CASTLE<\/h1>\n\n\n\n
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LAND’S END, WASHINGTON<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

June 4, 2040<\/h2>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Kathryn Copeland:<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Stunned, I look around the spacious room we enter. Considering the foreboding stonework on the exterior, I was prepared for something resembling a bunker. Instead, the eccentric butler has welcomed us into what feels more like the lobby of a five-star hotel. Several stories above, enormous skylights flood the room with light. The architecture is starkly modern with white granite walls and highly polished marble floors, but the couches are overstuffed in elegant European style and arranged in conversation groups. European tapestries cover the walls. I suspect they are priceless antiques.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Collin hurries me through this room and into a wide corridor bathed in light by clerestory windows. He\u2019s noticeably agitated about being late. Late for what exactly? My stomach churns. Nothing seems right about this. Why am I here for a meeting in this bizarre place with the fa\u00e7ade of a mausoleum and the interior of an opulent mansion?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Racing to keep up with Collin\u2019s long stride, I glance in awe at the museum-quality treasures we\u2019re rushing past. Silk-covered couches line the corridor, separated by T\u2019ang Dynasty horses in orange-gold hues atop marble pedestals. Delicate Sung porcelains glow in lighted cases.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We turn down a long, winding corridor. Antique French consoles displaying blue and white Ming porcelains line these walls. Finally, we come to engraved metal doors where an intimidating man stands guard. Without cracking a smile, he opens the door and steps aside. Not knowing what to expect, I hesitate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But Collin gives me no choice. He ushers me into a room that turns out to be a spacious library with walls covered in mahogany bookshelves, full of leather-covered hardbounds. Unlike the windowless fa\u00e7ade that faces the road, this room has magnificent views of Puget Sound, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows. The muted glow of recessed lights reflects off rich wood and plush carpets. Behind us the heavy door closes with a foreboding thunk. I feel trapped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Collin and I settle into chairs by the door, not disturbing the dozen or so people seated on brown leather couches around an immense marble fireplace. Everyone\u2019s engrossed in some report. I study their faces. To my increasing discomfort, I recognize a number of well-known public figures, including an heiress to the largest retail corporation in the world and a former secretary of state who tried to bring about Middle East peace treaties without success. A balding man huffs and slams the report closed. He\u2019s a controversial member of Parliament and next to him sits the current president of a South American country.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A diminutive Chinese man returns my gaze. His face seems familiar. I look away, trying not to stare. Then I remember seeing his face in the news. He\u2019s Dr. Hua, the quantum physicist who made history by developing the theoretical basis of time travel for which he received a Nobel Prize in physics. Time travel. The concept utterly confounds me. It\u2019s become a hotly debated topic, and I\u2019ve read a couple articles about Dr. Hua\u2019s work. I always take what\u2019s reported with healthy skepticism, but it\u2019s claimed the technology has now been taken beyond the theoretical stage. Feels surreal to be in the same room with the man who might have accomplished that magical feat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I try to discern a pattern, some logical connection between these people, but this seems to be a random conglomeration of men and women prominent in business, politics, and science. The only thing I\u2019m certain of right now is my misgivings about why I\u2019m here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is this, Collin?\u201d I whisper. \u201cA meeting of the leading members of Who\u2019s Who?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the Executive Committee of the Foundation for Worldwide Action.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The FWA? As I recall, that was created last year to fund ocean and freshwater reclamation projects around the globe. Puzzled, I murmur, \u201cJust what are we doing here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBe patient,\u201d Collin says under his breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I glare at him. His intense, brown eyes turn away as he nervously rubs his beard. He\u2019s testing my patience. I study his familiar face\u2014the high brow and pronounced cheekbones of his highland ancestors\u2014trying to figure what\u2019s going on in that keen mind. He\u2019s always had the straightforward Scottish manner of dealing with people. Why is he so evasive now?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turn my attention back to the group as one of the men looks up from the report. It\u2019s Howard Wheaton! Probably the most famous man on earth. The controversy over his time-travel program, under the direction of Dr. Hua, has been all over the news for the past several months. He\u2019s said to be fifty-some years old, but he looks much younger\u2014not a hint of grey in his ash-brown hair and only a few wrinkles in those striking features.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow, for the last item on the agenda,\u201d Mr. Wheaton states. \u201cThe report you just read is to inform you of this situation before it possibly breaks in the news. I\u2019m sure you have questions.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The white-haired former secretary of state speaks up first. \u201cHoward, how exactly did this happen?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe man we brought from the past was in far worse physical condition than we anticipated, and the infirmary here at Land\u2019s End wasn\u2019t adequate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They brought a person from the past? Really?\u201cHe needed immediate surgery and was taken to the hospital we own in Seattle,\u201d Wheaton continues explaining. \u201cWe required everyone who had any contact with him to sign confidentiality agreements, and sizable bonuses were paid for their silence. Despite that, a leak occurred. It was traced to a nurse. We verified that after she pocketed a tidy sum from us, she sold the information to Powers, T\u2019ang and Bianchetti.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The PTB Corporation? I glance over at Collin. What has he gotten into here?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The secretary of state presses, \u201cTell me that nurse is no longer working for you and you\u2019ve plugged all the leaks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn a manner, yes.\u201d Mr. Wheaton hesitates. \u201cThe nurse was involved in a fatal hit and run a few hours after our investigator talked to her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man with an Aussie accent blurts out, \u201cYou don\u2019t mean your bloke kil\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course not. That\u2019s not the way I handle things.\u201d Mr. Wheaton glares back at the man, and the room goes deathly silent as everyone digests this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Someone killed that woman to silence her. A PTB thug? Or is Mr. Wheaton lying? He certainly wouldn\u2019t admit to ordering a murder. My heart starts pounding. I really don\u2019t want to be here\u2014feels like I\u2019m standing on crackling thin ice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen the PTB media machine gets wind of this, the muck is going to hit the fan,\u201d the heiress says cuttingly. \u201cI suspect some of it will land on us. What steps are you taking to keep this from tainting the work of the Foundation or any of us directors?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSir Kenneth has advised us,\u201d Mr. Wheaton replies, glancing over at a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair, \u201cto release a statement that bringing Mercier from the past has nothing to do with the Foundation. We\u2019ll clarify that Wheaton Industries transported him here to test our time-travel technology. To limit any negative publicity, I\u2019ll step back from active participation in the Foundation\u2019s public affairs until this matter is resolved.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEach of you can state that you had no involvement with this,\u201d Sir Kenneth states, \u201cand that this issue has nothing to do with FWA projects. Make no further comments.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat in hell possessed you to do this, Howard?\u201d the heiress presses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAs the report says, it was part of our system\u2019s ongoing tests,\u201d Mr. Wheaton shoots back. \u201cWe knew people from the present could travel into the past, but we didn\u2019t know if it worked the other way. We needed to find out and never intended to make public that we had brought Mercier to the future. The plan was to send him back after he recuperated.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you claim this was no more than an experiment?\u201d asks a dark-haired man with a thick Russian accent. \u201cThen why didn\u2019t you pick some unknown person? Someone innocuous?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe selected the person based on specific parameters. It had to be someone about to die from an external cause, so if we were unsuccessful in returning him to the past, he wouldn\u2019t be prevented from fulfilling his life\u2019s work. That might have a ripple effect.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy from an external cause?\u201d A grey-haired woman wearing a brightly colored sari speaks up. I recognize her from a recent article. She\u2019s a doctor who is developing new metabolic-nutritional treatments for chronic illness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe didn\u2019t want to transport someone who was ill. If they died in transit or shortly afterward, how could we determine if it was from time travel or natural causes?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat possessed you to choose this particular chap, then?\u201d the member of Parliament scoffs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAs most of you know,\u201d Mr. Wheaton replies, \u201cmy wife is interested in nineteenth-century French history. She came across a diary that gave us the information to locate him just before he was to die. The diary also indicated he was wrongly executed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf you return him to the past, won\u2019t there be ripple effects?\u201d the Russian asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, there would be no ripple in our time stream that would effect us,\u201d Dr. Hua replies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d a dignified man in an African agbada asks. I\u2019ve seen him interviewed about his work in environmental crisis areas. \u201cWouldn\u2019t changing something that occurred in the past create a domino effect on our history?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen Mr. Mercier was saved from execution, that created a new time stream. When he is returned to the past, therefore, he will be living on that alternate time stream and will not affect us or the stream we exist on.\u201d Dr. Hua smiles patiently as if he\u2019s explained this point many times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The member of Parliament cuts in, \u201cThat may all be well and good, Howard, but why choose a chap with his nefarious background? Someone who could possibly bring discredit on your work?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPerhaps my wife can best address this.\u201d Mr. Wheaton turns to the woman beside him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Wheaton is one of the people I hadn\u2019t been able to identify. Her blonde hair is pulled back, highlighting azure eyes. She speaks softly, her precise British accent tinged with French overtones. \u201cMonsieur Mercier was known to be a creative genius, so saving his life had two distinct benefits\u2014rescuing a falsely executed man and allowing a genius to complete his natural life and fully utilize his talents. Wouldn\u2019t that be a benefit to humanity?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLady Margaret, I appreciate your good intentions,\u201d the secretary of state says deferentially, \u201cbut wasn\u2019t he also known as a murderer? Maybe even insane?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFrom the information we\u2019ve gathered,\u201d she replies confidently, \u201cit appears Monsieur Mercier has not been portrayed accurately.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlso, his having a negative impact when he goes back would be unlikely,\u201d Dr. Hua interjects. \u201cOne person alone would have a statistically insignificant effect on the alternate time stream.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt still leaves you with the current imbroglio,\u201d the Russian argues.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s right,\u201d the member of Parliament declares angrily. \u201cAccording to this report, the International Criminal Court of the Americas in Seattle is investigating Mercier for murders he might have committed. How did they get involved?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Wheaton bristles under the heated scrutiny. \u201cPowers, T\u2019ang and Bianchetti Corporation has been busy behind the scenes. They informed the French government that Mercier had been brought from the past and pressured them to file criminal charges, since there is no statute of limitations on murder.\u201d Smiling grimly, Wheaton continues. \u201cHowever, Wheaton Industries is in negotiations to purchase and reclaim polluted land outside Paris for a new factory. Judiciously, the French government declined to pursue extradition or file charges. Then Powers, Tang & Bianchetti turned over the information to the Criminal Court of the Americas, which is examining the evidence to see if they have grounds to proceed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo the PTB Corporation\u2019s game plan is to use the trial to pillory you for bringing Mercier to the present?\u201d the member of Parliament asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Sir Kenneth says, \u201cthis is another one of their maneuvers to get what they want\u2014the time-travel technology.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd if they get their hands on it,\u201d the South American president says, scowling, \u201cthey\u2019ll find out about the future. That would be disastrous.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The future? What\u2019s he referring to? My stomach clenches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy not send Mercier back to the past before charges can be filed?\u201d the Russian asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can\u2019t,\u201d Mr. Wheaton chafes. \u201cAs the report said, the Criminal Court served me with an injunction that prohibits me from sending him back pending their investigation. At least we negotiated an agreement with the Court to keep this matter confidential. It\u2019ll only go public if charges are filed. Although there were rumors that Mercier committed these murders, he was never charged with any of them during his lifetime. The Court may not be able to find sufficient grounds to bring charges.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood grief,\u201d I whisper to Collin, \u201cwho\u2019d they bring? Jack the Ripper?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAch, no,\u201d Collin says under his breath. \u201cWell, no\u2019 exactly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot exactly? Then who exactly?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Collin shakes his head and turns back to the group.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf Powers, T\u2019ang and Bianchetti is behind this,\u201d the member of Parliament scowls, \u201cthere is little doubt the court\u2019s prosecutors will dig until they find any excuse to file charges.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhatever happens regarding this situation,\u201d Mr. Wheaton retorts, \u201cthe Foundation must keep doing its work. In the meantime, I\u2019ll take the heat, and we\u2019ll dispute the charges if they\u2019re filed. Once acquitted, Mercier will be returned to the past. That\u2019ll quell the attacks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt damned well better,\u201d growls a man with an Australian accent. \u201cThere\u2019s too much at stake here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI trust you have shrewd attorneys to represent him?\u201d the South American president asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe do,\u201d Mr. Wheaton replies confidently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I blink. He can\u2019t be referring to me. I\u2019m not a defense attorney. Why would they want me for this case? After hearing what\u2019s at stake, I don\u2019t want anything to do with this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHoward, just pay them whatever they want.\u201d The secretary of state wags his finger and chuckles. \u201cYou won\u2019t miss a million or two.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Wheaton replies stiffly, \u201cAny further discussion?\u201d When no one speaks up, he announces, \u201cMeeting adjourned. Please join us for dinner in half an hour. Our chef has prepared some specialties for dinner tonight\u2014lobster and oysters, I believe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLobsters? Oysters?\u201d the environmental scientist exclaims. \u201cThose haven\u2019t existed outside museum aquariums for years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe bought several islands and are developing processes to reclaim their coastal waters.\u201d For the first time, Mr. Wheaton breaks into a smile. \u201cWe\u2019re reestablishing oysters, lobsters, and two types of crab.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Despite the prospect of such delicacies for dinner, the people wear worried faces as they leave. No one seems pleased with the turn of events. I can relate. Neither am I.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Abruptly, Mr. Wheaton addresses us. \u201cGood evening, Ms. Copeland. Collin.\u201d He already knows who I am. \u201cWe\u2019re glad you agreed to meet with us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Agreed? More like hijacked. Mrs. Wheaton gives me a welcoming smile, but her haunting eyes make me uneasy. They seem to peer into my mind, as if she can read my thoughts. I feel like Exhibit A. But there\u2019s also a wistful, sad quality in her gaze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease join us,\u201d Mr. Wheaton adds, \u201cso we can discuss your client, Mr. Mercier.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As Collin and I take seats on a couch opposite the Wheatons, I control my anger. Either Mr. Wheaton is taking a lot for granted, or I\u2019ve been entirely left out of a rather significant loop. \u201cFirst, let me clarify, I have not accepted Mr. Mercier as my client.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe apologize for the inconvenience of bringing you here at the end of your long work day.\u201d Mrs. Wheaton\u2019s voice has none of her husband\u2019s demanding overtones. \u201cI know you\u2019ve had little notice, but we learned about this possible legal action less than a week ago ourselves. Could you please read the report? Perhaps that will help.\u201d She nods to Collin, and he hands me one of the portfolios.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hesitate before opening it. Do I really want to know? Do I want any part of this? Reluctantly, I open it and begin reading. The report goes over the reasons Mr. Mercier was chosen to be brought from the past and says basically what was discussed during the meeting. That is followed by a short biography of Mr. Mercier, which doesn\u2019t contain any reference to murders he may have committed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I turn to the last page and find the name by which he is well-known. I look up in shock. \u201cI\u2019ve heard about this man, but I thought the stories about him were fictional. So, you\u2019re saying that Erik Mercier\u2014the person you brought from the past\u2014is that infamous man?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Mrs. Wheaton replies. \u201cHowever, Gaston Leroux wrote the original book about Mr. Mercier forty years after he died. Leroux pasted together myth and legend which he gleaned from different sources, so not everything in his book is correct. To find out the truth would be part of your job.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI see. Frankly, this isn\u2019t the type of case, or client, I usually represent.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019re aware of that.\u201d She half smiles. \u201cBut I feel if you were to hear his story and understand his situation, you\u2019d have a different impression of him. I feel he\u2019s innocent, or if he committed any acts he\u2019s accused of, surely it was justified. In any case, he deserves the finest defense possible.\u201d Her response has an underlying emotional charge, and she\u2019s certain he is, or should be, innocent? Fairly shaky from a legal perspective.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you have proof to support that?\u201d I ask, feeling like the ice I\u2019m standing on is beginning to fracture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before Mrs. Wheaton can respond, Mr. Wheaton interjects, \u201cHow about a retainer of a couple million for starters?\u201d That hits me like a plunge into icy water. Mrs. Wheaton talks about a man who\u2019s been wronged, but Mr. Wheaton offers money that\u2019s nothing less than a bribe. Everything about this feels wrong, twisted. My instincts scream for me to get out of here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn interesting proposition. However, respectfully, I must decline.\u201d When I stand to leave, Mr. Wheaton stares in disbelief and Mrs. Wheaton gasps. Collin\u2019s jaw clenches, but wisely he refrains from saying anything. I no longer trust him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I walk to the door, Mr. Wheaton calls after me, \u201cPlease come back and be seated. We have not finished.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My anger ignites. I turn around and the words explode from me, \u201cYes! We have!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t wait for his response. Hurrying across the library, I shove open the door and rush down the corridor. I don\u2019t get far before my knees give way, and I sink onto the nearest couch. My hand shakes as I take out my phone and call my legal assistant. I want her to send a car for me so I can just get out of here. Now!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I can\u2019t get a signal. I try over and over, with no success. Are they blocking my call? Then I remember what happened to the nurse who didn\u2019t go along with the program. Nobody knows where I am. If I disappear, no one would even know where to look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I put my phone away and stand up, a dark flash catches my eye. Someone just came around the corner, then stepped back into the shadows. I\u2019m being watched. Adrenalin shoots through me and my heart pounds as I race down the endless corridors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I finally reach the lobby, the skeletal butler plants himself between me and the exit. I start to make an end-run dash for the doors. Suddenly, strong hands grip my shoulders and stop me\u2014just steps away from escape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Go To Ch 7 ENCOUNTER<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Buy<\/em> PHANTOM FUTURE<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Return to Book Summaries<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

CHAPTER 7 ENCOUNTER<\/h1>\n\n\n\n
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SEATTLE, June 5, 2040<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

(Author’s Note: In chapter 6, Kathryn is reading the first chapters of Leroux’s book, “The Phantom of the Opera,” which Collin gave her so she could familiarize herself with what is known about Erik. She has just read the passages about the young woman at the opera house, Christine, who allowed Erik to mentor her voice. Christine pulled Erik’s mask off to see his face, and Leroux described both Christine’s and Erik’s traumatic reactions in graphic detail.)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kathryn:<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

An armed guard waves us up a ramp, and my Vette enters a space just large enough for a single vehicle. When the doors close behind us, a security scanning light hums as it moves beneath the car. I feel the jerk as the car elevator pushes us upward. When the door lifts, we park in a private garage. The meeting was at four and it\u2019s well past that, but court ran late today. I almost expect an oversized white rabbit to appear and remind me of the time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Riding up the elevator, I glance uneasily at Ryan. His intense hazel eyes say he\u2019s all business, but I feel more disturbed than comforted knowing he\u2019s got a gun under his suit jacket. The doors open onto a circular foyer crowned by a crystal chandelier. Murals cover the walls and gilded chairs bookend antique consoles with marble tops. Several bodyguards flank the elevator.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A native-American man, solidly built with hair cropped short, military style, steps forward and says, \u201cI\u2019m Tom Cheveyo, head of security.\u201d He leads us past gallery walls adorned with French Impressionist paintings, then into a spacious office where two men are seated at a conference table. One has his back to me. I wonder if he\u2019s the man Leroux so graphically wrote about, but Tom draws my attention in the other direction. At first all I notice is an enormous desk with legs supported by carved lion\u2019s claws. Then, beyond the desk, I catch my first sight of him<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He faces away, gazing out panoramic windows at steely skies that seem like an extension of his dark silhouette. Although he stands motionless, there\u2019s an aura of intense, restrained power about him. Noting that his suit is modern, I suppress a nervous laugh. What did I expect? A nineteenth-century evening suit with waistcoat, cravat, and cloak? Actually, I did. But he is wearing black leather gloves, and one hand rests on a gentleman\u2019s cane.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turns his head slightly. I can\u2019t see his face, just glimpse a corner of his mask\u2014black, just like Leroux described. Tom introduces me to Mr. Mercier\u2019s back. Without turning around, the shadowy presence nods his head in acknowledgement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn honor to meet you,\u201d I volunteer, hoping to put him at ease.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn honor is it?\u201d His caustic laugh sends chills through me. \u201cA lawyer with wit. How rare.\u201d Tom and Ryan exchange knowing looks. Well, I\u2019ve handled difficult clients before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Turning to the band of bodyguards, I ask them to leave so I can begin my conference with Mr. Mercier. Tom hesitates, surprised by my request. \u201cWe\u2019d prefer to stay,\u201d he says firmly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe conversation between an attorney and client is confidential and privileged, so I\u2019d appreciate having privacy,\u201d I reply pointedly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe would keep everything that\u2019s said here confidential,\u201d he insists.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No, that won\u2019t do. I have to gain Mr. Mercier\u2019s trust and even getting him to open up to me, his attorney, will be a challenge according to Dr. Adler. Having others present makes that much more difficult.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPerhaps you need a different attorney, then.\u201d I start walking toward the door. From the corner of my eye, I notice Mr. Mercier\u2019s head turn sideways as he listens intently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have taken several steps when Tom raises his hand, indicating for me to stop. I wait as he thinks over the situation, gazing all the time at the back of the man who stands silently at the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right,\u201d Tom finally says, then points to a console on the conference table. \u201cJust press the button on the right when you\u2019re done.\u201d Or is he implying in case of an emergency?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Looking worried, Ryan glances back at the dark figure as he leaves with the others. Have I already made a mistake sending them out? I walk over to the desk and put my briefcase down. \u201cMr. Mercier, would you like to sit at the table and talk?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he responds gruffly. \u201cIs it Mademoiselle or Madame Copeland?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUh, neither, actually. It\u2019s Ms. Copeland.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat does that title signify?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s neutral and doesn\u2019t distinguish.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow uninformative,\u201d he growls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He remains planted, staring out the window, so I can\u2019t see his face or the legendary mask. One thing is certain\u2014Leroux was wrong about his age. He\u2019s much younger, with ebony hair. And he\u2019s not skeletal\u2014in fact, he\u2019s quite tall and imposing. But his body language communicates barely contained hostility. Putting him on the spot by asking questions might make him more intractable. I decide to take a different approach. \u201cSo, do you have any questions you would like to ask me?\u201d I begin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour actions yesterday bespoke your true feelings. So why are you here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well, that\u2019s one I didn\u2019t expect. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe were to be introduced following your, shall we say, \u2018meeting\u2019 with the Wheatons. Your hasty departure made that problematic.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re the one I saw in the hallway behind me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He freezes, but does not reply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI take that as a yes,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou refused to accept this case,\u201d he replies with a challenge in his voice, \u201cyet today you are meeting with me. What changed your mind?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBased on a discussion with Dr. Adler, I agreed to this meeting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo, they blackmailed you.\u201d Abruptly he turns his head to the left. For a moment the black mask comes into view. I can\u2019t see an eye. Just a dark hole in the leather. Leroux described his face as having \u201cblack holes that are his eyes.\u201d And I don\u2019t see a nose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou really believe the Wheatons would blackmail me?\u201d I reply, hoping he didn\u2019t detect the quaver in my voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou rejected the king\u2019s ransom that Wheaton offered you. So was it blackmail or a larger bribe that persuaded you to accept?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t know me well enough to make such accusations,\u201d I spit back, indignant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut I have dealt with men like Wheaton. Even if you cannot be blackmailed or bribed, you most certainly could be threatened.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou think Mr. Wheaton would threaten me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid he not assign a guard to watch you at all times?\u201d He looks in the other direction. Briefly I glimpse his other side. The mask covers his forehead, but not his cheek. I had assumed it covered his entire face as Leroux described.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re implying they\u2019ve assigned a bodyguard to control me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust as they do with me every minute since I arrived.\u201d Bitterly he adds, \u201cGuards control where I go and what I do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey are probably meant to protect you. Our world is unsafe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe world has never been safe for me. My entire life. The Wheaton cage may be lavish, but it is a cage nonetheless.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you don\u2019t trust them at all?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. But let me clarify that I haven\u2019t been hired by the Wheatons. I told them I had to see the information they have and meet with you. Be assured that if I accept your case, it will be my choice and not coercion. And if I accept, also be assured I\u2019ll make every effort to defend you to the best of my ability and uncover the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe truth is, I do not belong in this place,\u201d he snarls, \u201cor this century.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour anger for being placed in this situation is understandable, and it\u2019s only right that you\u2014not the Wheatons\u2014have the final decision about your attorney.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDecision? That is certainly novel. I have not been asked my opinion at all. Not since I was brought here.\u201d His voice rumbles through the room, filling it like a lion\u2019s roar. It\u2019s the Voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My hands go clammy. \u201cOh.\u201d I clear my throat. \u201cI didn\u2019t know.\u201d This is a major problem. The situation has been imposed on him, and he resents it. Maybe he needs to vent. \u201cMust have been difficult to travel into the future as you have. I can hardly imagine experiencing that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, you cannot possibly,\u201d he hisses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Good god, how many disorienting shocks has he dealt with adjusting to our world? \u201cIt must be a challenge to adjust to so many differences between our cultures. Maybe you were chosen as the first person brought from the past because of your intellect and abilities.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPerhaps.\u201d His voice contains a tinge of civility.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This might be an opening. I decide to test the waters. \u201cThey learned about you from a diary written by Madame Giry. Is she a friend?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd what difference would that make to you or my defense?\u201d The cutting edge is back. He shifts his weight and leans more heavily on the cane. Strained silence falls between us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Unless we can talk face to face, this is going to be like using pliers to extract information. Not easy for him or me. Maybe if I can get him to sit at the conference table, that\u2019ll put him more at ease and we can talk. I move slowly toward him, hoping he\u2019ll acknowledge me. He\u2019s so engrossed in his thoughts, he doesn\u2019t seem to notice. When I\u2019m a couple feet away, I reach out to touch his shoulder and get his attention, but his hand flies to his mask and he spins around.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly, I\u2019m overshadowed by a dark presence looming like a black bird of prey. Burning eyes bore into mine, his teeth bared in menace. I gasp. In an instant, I understand Christine<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

PHANTOM FUTURE series An infamous man emerges from legend in this tale of past and future worlds linked through time travel PHANTOM FUTURE review: “Multi-layered, atmospheric, romantic, and complex\u2014sci-fi and history, good and evil. Good mix of characters, with the story narration moving about among them…Looking forward to the next book to see what happens […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-169","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lmbanyan.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/169","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lmbanyan.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lmbanyan.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lmbanyan.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lmbanyan.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=169"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/lmbanyan.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/169\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":699,"href":"https:\/\/lmbanyan.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/169\/revisions\/699"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lmbanyan.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=169"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}