Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams (4 page)

Agent McMahon
didn’t like David Beach much. He was pulling out every trick in his
limited repertoire of people handling skills to try to demonstrate
to Mr Beach that they should be friends in this matter, but when he
got right down to it, McMahon didn’t trust anyone now, and it
showed. He hadn’t offered David any water, but that wasn’t
tactical, that was just McMahon. He knew Mr Beach was itching to
get out of this interview and pick his daughter up from the crèche
facilities down the hall, and he contemplated needling him about
this. It was probably a cheap shot, but he wondered if perhaps
cheap would steer this conversation in the right direction.

Thinking better
of this, McMahon flicked the side of his glass of water a couple of
times before continuing, “Mr Beach, we have many notes on what you
have told us about your vacation week. The problem we have is that
something isn’t quite tallying up between your statements, and the
statements we have collated from other members of the
administration.”

David Beach
leaned slowly towards the table, resting his elbows on the hard
surface and cupping his head in his hands, “You’ve checked my phone
records?”

“Yes.”

“And they
corroborate with what I’ve told you?”

“Yes Mr Beach,
your phone records do.”

“So what …
what’s the problem here?” David felt like there was something that
he was missing, some malevolent undertone to the line of
questioning.

“It’s a matter
of timing Mr Beach. As I said, we are trying to build an accurate
time line and your conversation with Undersecretary Carlton brings
into question statements made by several other members of the
Department of Defense.”

Agent McMahon
leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin, enjoying the rough
texture of his two-day stubble. He wasn’t sure if he’d said too
much. If this information put David Beach on his back foot, he was
doing a good job of hiding the fact. On the other hand, if Mr
Beach’s apparent lack of interest was genuine then McMahon really
did have a problem.

“Mr Beach, I’m
sure you’re eager to get back to Sophie …”

“Stephanie.”
David corrected him, jaw tightening slightly as he spoke.

“Sorry, of
course, Stephanie … If you could just help me by clarifying for me
one more time, the exact nature of the conversation that took place
between you and Undersecretary Carlton, I’ll let you get back to
Stephanie.”

The two men sat
looking at each other across the table, both of them irascible and
tired. David really did just want to get out of that room and pick
up Stephanie. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the exact
wording of his conversation with Carlton. He couldn’t erase the
image of McMahon’s sallow face, his designer stubble, his gelled
blond hair, and that image made it exceedingly hard to concentrate
on a conversation that took place weeks ago.

“Undersecretary
Carlton wanted me to talk to someone at a company called Arctum
Industries, based out of New York. There had been some concerns
raised about security in that building for some reason. He told me
that I needed to be discrete in my line of questioning with anyone
I spoke to at Arctum Industries, but that ultimately he needed me
to get hold of schematics for the building.”

McMahon frowned
and picked up his glass of water again. He sipped, then returned
the glass to the table, and leaned forward, bringing his chin close
to the table to catch David Beach’s eye line.

“Are you aware
Mr Beach, that on the afternoon of March sixth, when you apparently
received this call about Arctum Industries from Undersecretary
Carlton, that Undersecretary Carlton was in a meeting with the
Joint Chiefs of Staff from 2pm to 4pm?”

David Beach
lifted his head from his hands slowly.

McMahon
continued, slow words, dripping maliciously from thin lips, “This
information has been verified by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the
Undersecretary of Defense included. Everybody present at that
meeting on the sixth has confirmed, time and again, that no phone
calls were made during the entire two hours. No one left the room.
Your phone records confirm that there was a phone call, but beyond
that …”

David Beach
threw up a little in his mouth and then chuckled slightly, wiping
his mouth with the back of his hand. He recalled his protestations
to Stephanie that morning and the pains he went to, trying to
explain to Stephanie that he didn’t want to have breakfast because
it always gave him indigestion.

“Something
funny Mr Beach?”

David shook his
head and shrugged, “I was just thinking about breakfast.”

Agent McMahon
tried to blink away his frustration. He was really starting to hate
David Beach.

A tight band of pain
around her chest woke Charlene Osterman, but the pain had subsided
by the time she opened her eyes. As she tried to adjust to the
light, she stared up at the sculpted plaster coving around the
ceiling of her apartment, struggling to remember how she had come
to be lying down on her couch. She felt something brush her hand
and she reacted with a start, body tensing, pulse racing, she found
she was unable to move her head because her neck was aching.

“Charlene,
don’t panic.”

The voice came
from somewhere beside her, soft and reassuring. Several slow
breaths later, she recalled the voice, and what she had been doing
before she had passed out. She tried to move, “Mr Yestler, I’m
sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” His hand on her forearm was
comforting rather than restrictive, “Charlene, you don’t have to
get up, take your time.”

Something had
happened, something more than merely passing out, and although she
was unable to put her finger on what exactly it was, she felt her
eyes filling with tears. She was overwhelmed by a strange mix of
emotions; fear, loss, melancholy, confusion, all completely
uprooted from context. Her breathing shuddered and she rested her
eyelids focusing on how heavy they felt, eyes tracing the subtle
wash of shadows. “Did I finish your haircut at least?” she muttered
shakily, still aware of West’s hand on her arm.

She felt his
weight shift, the couch cushion moving under her as he knelt. His
voice was close to her ear now, still comforting, still firm,
“Charlene, before you look at me, think about what it was that you
saw before you collapsed.”

She wanted to
disobey his request, her instincts told her that she should look at
him now. She opened her eyes, but it was still uncomfortable to
move her head, and she quickly gave up, closing her eyes again as
she tried to remember. There, in dark recollection, she could see
it, see the reason she had lost control, and in seeing, the fear
returned, her throat closing up, nostrils flaring, brow furrowing.
She lifted her left hand from its resting place on her lap,
fingertips touching her lips as her eyes teared up again
involuntarily. She could see him, picture him sitting in the chair,
the mirror in front of him. There, in the mirror, not Mr Yestler,
not the stranger from down the hall. She knew the man who sat in
the chair, or else she had known him, in recollection, in another
life, too long ago.

She bit her
lip, her fingers touching her cheek, she thought carefully before
she spoke, “Mr Yestler, on the side table by the television,
there’s a telephone there … do you see it?”

“Yes.”

Now that she
understood what was happening, she was calm and collected, “Mr
Yestler, I need you to call an ambulance for me, or my doctor; his
number is written in the back of the little notebook by the
phone.”

“Charlene,
you’ll be okay, just take some time to breathe, relax and let your
body do its job.”

“No.” She spoke
clearly, her eyes opening wide, staring at the ceiling, “I am
unwell, and I am in need of medical assistance.”

It was
impossible but she knew him, this ‘Mr Yestler,’ more completely
than she had known any other man. She knew, and the agony she felt
was so palpable that her breathing slowed and her chest ached
again. When he refused to fetch the phone a second time, it only
went to confirm her suspicion.

The man’s name
came to her easily. Anthony Statham. He had been a dear friend to
her, but that had been nearly sixty years ago now. This was
dementia, she was certain of it. She knew she must be talking to
someone else, merely imagining that she was talking to Anthony
Statham. She licked her lips, trying to remember the name of the
help who brought her meals and shopping when she was out of sorts.
Janice? Patrice? She couldn’t recall, and that was as sure a sign
as any. She was probably talking nonsense to the poor girl.

Oh God, she
thought to herself, what was the hair cut? What had she actually
been doing? Janice, or Patrice, or whatever her name was, would
never ask her for a haircut. Her fingers formed a barrier over her
lips now, her hands shaking; she knew she had to stop herself from
talking.

“Charlene, you
know who I am. You saw my face; you saw enough of me to know for
sure.”

She closed her
eyes and gulped back tears, her head filling with the white noise
of silent screaming. She had feared this moment for some time now,
probably longer than she cared to admit. When she had turned sixty,
she had started to be concerned about her memory, although Doctor
Sawyers had frequently reassured her that everyone experiences
forgetfulness. He had even joked with her about it the last time
she’d mentioned it, “Miss Osterman, you needn’t worry every time
you forget where you’ve put your keys. Come back to me when you’ve
forgotten what keys are for.” Of course, she’d thought he was
impertinent, and had told him as much. She’d always said he had
dreadful bedside manner.

She felt her
arm lifted from the couch, lifted by the ghost of a dear friend,
and she shivered as he kissed the soft skin of the back of her
hand. She swallowed uncomfortably, breathless and nauseous, she
could feel her pulse in the veins of her neck.

“Charlene, open
your eyes for me.” The request was soft, not threatening, but she
didn’t know how to open her eyes any more. She felt as if she would
never stop crying if she opened them. Her lips parted and she heard
her own pathetic gasp and moan, her voice cracking as she tried to
speak, “You … You …”

The room was
dark, the light from the window dull and sunless, illuminating only
in subdued tones and cutting dark swathes where it was unable to
reach. She opened her eyes slowly and he was there, his face picked
out of shadow cut contours. “Anthony?” She spoke the word as an
admission of insanity, surrendering the possibility that she might
be talking to her care worker. It didn’t matter anymore. She could
only see his face. If this was dementia, her mind had conjured the
most vividly real and heartbreaking memory to taunt her.

She stared at
him, reconciling the details of his features against her memory of
Anthony Statham, and she couldn’t discern any flaws in his
likeness. It was him, down to the soft crow’s feet, the Prussian
blue irises of his eyes, the slight cleft of his chin, the thick
eyebrows.

West looked at the
faded, but ornate fabric of Charlene Osterman’s couch and started
tracing the pattern of floral swirls with the finger of his free
hand, trying to imagine what the fabric felt like, trying to
remember the softness of fabric. He didn’t want to look at
Charlene’s face as she went through this agony. It was a necessary
pain, he knew. He would be forgiven for it. Probably. He glanced
about the apartment and noticed a large bromeliad on a plant stand,
flowering with a beautiful deep purple cup.

“You can keep a
plant alive now,” he whispered, “that’s a miracle in itself.”

Charlene pulled
her hand away from West and covered her face with it.

West stroked
his fingers against Charlene’s pearl white hair, wishing that he
could feel it, “I know this doesn’t make sense to you Charlene. I
understand that you’re frightened. I’m not going to hurt you and
I’m not going to leave your side until you calm down and talk to
me.”

Charlene lay
trembling, trying to muster the courage to look again at the man
who knelt beside her.

She turned her
head slowly, staring into his deep blue eyes, those eyes she hadn’t
recognized when he had come to her door, eyes that she had sworn to
herself a thousand times she would never forget.

“Anthony?” she
tried the word again, tentatively, unsure how much pain it would
cause to say that name.

The man shook
his head. “Charlene, my name is West Yestler, although you have
known me, and the name you knew me by was Anthony Statham.”

Her chest
caught again and a series of shallow breaths gave way to gentle
sobs as she pressed the back of her left hand against her eyes. She
fought against her frailty and self-pity, trying her best to sound
firm and certain, “Anthony Statham was the kindest man I have ever
known, and he would never have stooped to playing evil tricks on
old women.”

West laughed
gently, not mocking, “Charlene Osterman was one of the bravest
women I have known in many years, and she would never deign to
describe anything in such trivial absolutes as good or evil.”

She glared at
him firing back quickly, “People change!”

West glanced
around the apartment again before looking back to her, “Seldom do
people change. You have learned to nurture plants though.”

Charlene
covered her mouth with her hand, unsure how to respond, not because
she was disarmed by West’s humor, but because of the specific
nature of his taunt. During the brief period in which he had filled
her life, her inability to keep even weeds alive had been a running
joke between Anthony and herself.

She looked at
him carefully, observing the minutia of detail; the strong line of
his jaw, the smooth, blemish free skin of his cheeks, the short
sandy blond hair; every aspect of his being as she remembered him.
After so many lonely and bewildering years, the only man Charlene
Osterman had ever loved was kneeling beside her. She wondered how
the mysteries of the universe could unravel so quickly and cruelly
around her.