"No," Dorothea protested softly, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "There are too many memories. Painful as some of them may be. Such is life. I couldn't bear giving away the physical representation of those precious memories."
Jack understood but did not agree and kept it to himself. Silence fell between them as they stared across the Hudson.
Then Dorothea said, "Strange."
"What… what's strange?" Jack thought she was referring to the flashing lights deep into the wooded area beyond the house. The lights were spaced apart as if on a vehicle of some kind. They had been flashing intermittently the last ninety or so seconds. At first Jack ignored it. Now he knew what it meant.
"Lawrence…" she continued.
Jack felt relieved she did not refer to the flashing lights, but braced himself, nonetheless. "What about Lawrence, dear?"
"He never ate candy." She said reflectively. "Not even as a child."
Jack remained silent. It was the same observation Leonard referred to outside the funeral home. Jack chided himself for not realizing such an obvious fact relating to his own child. The light in the woods kept flashing in slow almost hypnotic intervals. Dorothea must have noticed it, Jack presumed, but was more preoccupied with her thoughts. Jack was no sensate like his wife and their two sons, but he had developed a fierce sense of survival in the theatres of war and the equally dirty trenches of the political arena. With each flash of that light, he felt exhilaration he'd not experienced in years since retirement, but with it also a foreboding.
"Are you… alright," Jack asked his wife with genuine concern.
"I'm as okay as okay can be under the circumstances," she said.
"You mind then I go for a walk?" Jack asked.
"In this downpour?" Dorothea queried.
"You know rain is no bother to me. Plus, in this downpour I'll be less likely to run into anyone else on the street that would be a disturbance to the quiet I prefer. And I need some air. Feels like the walls are closing in on me here."
"I understand, dear," Dorothea said earnestly, but still feeling somewhat abandoned. "I'll return to our company."
"I won't be long," Jack promised.
CHAPTER 3
Leonard had parked his car at a parking lot in Chinatown. He paid the owner cash, including a healthy tip, to keep the car for a week at an even healthier discount. His only close and trusted friend Barry Honefield kept Leonard's personal car parked in the garage of his home in Queens while Leonard globe-trotted in his attempt to hide from American authorities and to just stay the hell away from the country in general. He knew America was going to hell and did not want to be around when it completely collapsed into chaos. Whenever he sneaked back into the states, which was not often, he would contact Barry to meet him at a designated spot with the car. Leonard knew things and the governmental authorities on his tail knew he knew things, and it was in their best interest to give him as much freedom as sensibly possible in hopes he would eventually expose more of himself and with whomever else he was involved. He was not sure which branches of the government were interested in him, but he had a strong feeling it was one of the armed services – probably Army – and possibly even CIA. However, they miscalculated Leonard. He was no fool and over the years had developed his gift to a remarkable degree. In some instances, and with only certain people he eventually and surprisingly learned to manipulate emotions and thereby behavior to a degree. It was his secret weapon. One he hoped he would not have to use unless necessary. For it drained him physically and mentally for hours and sometimes even days. He parked his car with the intention of renting another. His vehicle had been identified by whoever it was that was following him and more than likely reported to their superiors. For now, he was starving. He loved Chinese food. Preferred to eat it from Chinatowns in whatever country or city he so happens to find himself, New York City being his favorite. He hadn't eaten since the day before he left Australia. The less he ate the more sensitive grew his power to sensate. That's why he preferred Chinese food. Besides tasting good it was also light on his digestive system. Overeating did not severely impair his abilities, unless he ate red meat, but it did tend to dull his sensitivity. His second motivation for entering the restaurant was to use the men's room where he could privately open the little envelope that was hidden inside the parking ticket jacket. It was a clever idea on Emanuel's part to hide Lawrence's address, keys and other important valuables necessary for him to gain entrance to Lawrence's residents. No one would have suspected, nor cared to confiscate it. Leonard had to take every precaution possible. Emanuel was a good friend of Lawrence and was also interested in how and why he died, and Leonard in no way wanted to jeopardize Emanuel's safety or life by exposing that he knew him.
The Kun Fow restaurant was bustling, and the aroma of food watered his mouth and further encouraged his appetite. Leonard knew however he did not enter the restaurant alone. Whomever it was that was tailing him he felt their presence ever since he left the funeral home. He sensed the unique energy of contrivance, anticipation and excitement; the odorous smell of an overabundance of male hormones driven by adrenalin. He looked over the tables in the restaurant as he waited for the waitress to bring his order. He scanned the tables quietly to catch the vibe. He was looking for possibly someone seated alone. In a restaurant such as this it would be odd that someone beside himself would take a table solo. Most people were too self-conscious to expose themselves to such imagined public scrutiny of sitting alone in a very public place. He didn't give a damn. No one stood out. Perhaps the person was just outside the entrance. His attention now searched over the patrons at the bar, and he spotted the profile of a white man in his late thirties with sandy-colored short-cropped hair. Nursing a drink, he looked a little too refined and neat, almost like a Wall Street type but minus the flair of self-importance. He was alone. The man was doing a great job looking inconspicuous, but to Leonard's keen awareness and gift it was almost comical.
Bingo!
The vibe strengthened. Leonard had found his man and smiled to himself, as the waitress delivered his order, and he began plotting his next move. It took Leonard twenty minutes to finish his meal. He was accustomed to eating much slower but was eager to get to his brother's apartment and this agent off his back. The waitress brought him his bill. He paid her the exact amount and a ten-dollar tip. He then removed a pill box from his jacket pocket. It contained six compartments of what he decided were his essential vitamins, but it also had a group of small octagonal-shaped white pills in a separate compartment that were made to be tasteless and able to dissolve instantaneously upon being dropped in fluid. One of these which he placed on the table while he ingested the other six. He downed them with a glass of water, then took the white pill in his hand and rose up from the table and headed toward the bar in the direction of the too neat white man.
Leonard positioned himself next to the man, who pretended not to see him. He then caught the attention of the bartender and ordered a shot of Southern Comfort for a chaser and a bottle of Coors Lite. The man sipped his drink and placed it back on the counter.
"Damn wet day," Leonard commented to the man.
"Yeah," the man agreed, "sure as hell is."
The bartender returned with Leonard's requests.
"Thanks," Leonard said, placing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. He gulped down the Southern Comfort, then lifted the bottle of Coors, tipping it toward the man. "Cheers to a rainy day." And the bottle slipped from his hand onto the man's lap, part of the contents wetting the man's pants. In the momentary commotion the man was distracted from his drink, Leonard took advantage of the opportunity and dropped the odd-shaped pill into the glass. It dissolved quickly without a trace of effervescent.
"Jesus," the man said. "Can't ya be careful?"
"I'm so sorry," Leonard apologized. "Christ. I'm so sloppy sometimes. I'm sorry."
"Never mind," the man said. "Forget it."
"Towel over here, please," Leonard said to the bartender.
"No, that's alright," the man insisted, "I'll have to clean this up in the bathroom."
"Hey, man," Leonard said, "I'll wait here. I owe you. Those pants look expensive."
The man seemed pleased at the offer. "Kind of you," he said with a hint of sarcasm, as he lifted his drink, finished it and headed toward the men's room.
"You want another beer?" the bartender asked Leonard.
"No, thanks," Leonard said, as he watched the man disappear into the crowd on his way to the bathroom. He pulled out his billfold. Peeled off a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to the bartender.
"What's this for?" The bartender asked.
"Secrecy. Will this buy your trust?"
"Damn right."
"When that gentleman comes back give this to him. I owe him for the pants. "No problem," said the bartender.
And Leonard left the restaurant.
CHAPTER 4
Rain fell as though the heavens were expressing as much mourning as Jack felt. Jack didn't appreciate umbrellas. He wanted his hands free in case the need arose to use them. He preferred a hat instead to shield him from Nature's tears. Water dripped heavily from the brim of his black Fedora. From about fifty yards or so Jack could see through a light veil of fog the dark figure of a man sheathed in a trench coat, holding an umbrella. Jack knew the umbrella was more for personal concealment than protection from the rain. Such was the way of the cloak and dagger life. A cloud of cigarette smoke escaped from underneath the umbrella and floated into the air undisturbed by the rain. The only physical feature Jack could make out was that the man was as tall as he and appeared well built even through his coat. From experience in clandestine activity Jack knew that if he and the man knew one another he was here to give or get information or a combination thereof. If on the other hand the man was a stranger, he would more likely deliver either a warning or threat or some variation of the two. Either way Jack was prepared. He had long ago accepted the reality of his own mortality and in so doing there was very little, if anything, he feared. Instead, he was more overwhelmed with curiosity. When he came within conversation distance the man tilted back his umbrella to reveal his face. Jack halted, as the man blew one last plume of cigarette smoke from his mouth and dropped the cigarette to the ground, extinguishing it with his large boot.
"I'm sure Smokey Bear would appreciate my gesture," the man said in a low humorous tone. "You can't be too careful with fire. Hello, Jack. It's been a long time."
"In this torrent, Bill," Jack said, "I doubt Smokey would be overly concerned."
The man was Bill Polar. He and Jack worked closely together for eight years on a classified project involving the joint operations of two branches of the U.S. armed forces and CIA. They were not friends per se but shared mutual respect as working partners. At that time Bill was a high-level priority agent for the CIA and because of his intellect, having earned a master's degree in psychology, his commitment and unrelenting ambition, he managed to climb swiftly through the ranks. By the time Jack retired Bill had reached the level of assistant director of special operations dealing with Project MK-Ultra – a highly classified mind control program within the CIA. For all Jack knew he now could be head of the whole damn outfit. After all, Bill was clever enough, ruthless when required and trustworthy as far as getting things done.
'So, what in hades was he doing here?' Jack wondered.
"Hello, Bill," Jack answered, unemotionally. "I have a feeling you're not here to give your condolences." Jack wanted him to get to the point as quickly as possible.
"Forgive me, Jack. My deepest sympathy to you and your family. Honestly."
"Thanks," Jack said, meaning it. "Now that you got that out the way, what's about?"
"We know Leonard's back in the country," Bill said.
"I'm sure you knew before I did," Jack replied.
"You had a conversation with him outside the funeral home," Bill said.
"That's what fathers and sons do, Bill."
"He mentioned anything we should be concerned about?" Bill queried.
"Like what?" Jack felt this question to be a test. Bill probably already knew the answer. He wanted to see at what level Jack's loyalty was, again. Then again maybe the guy really didn't know shit, which Jack deemed highly unlikely. In any event Jack was not about to let Bill know that Leonard had informed him that he was in the early stages of memory recall. Jack had been out of commission with operations for years, but he knew better than to reveal such sensitive information, at least for now. He needed more time to feel things out and learn what he could.
"Come on, Jack. Leonard's a person of interest to us. You know that."
"You mean," Jack corrected, "he's a threat. Troublemaker. Renegade. Hell, given the current state of our union I can't say I blame him."
Bill pulled out a pack of cigarettes and removed one. Lit it. "Has he gotten next to you with his conspiracy crap? You got too much time on your hands, Jack."
"Well, if you're not here to give me something to do with them, it's pouring down rain, cold and I have a house full of mourning guest. That includes my wife and myself. Nice seeing you again, Bill." Jack turned to leave.