Christmas in Montora (The Chronicles of Montora Book 4) Read online

  “Signe and I have been talking about this,” Franklin said. “We think we have a solution.”

  Eckert raised an eyebrow and looked quizzically at Franklin. “Well, Sir, do tell.”

  “It's simple, really. As of today, you are the Margrave's Chief Engineer. You will be responsible for all of the infrastructure of the Margraviate.”

  Eckert's mouth dropped open and he tried a couple of times to speak. “Margrave, there's something you don't know about me.”

  “Major Boodles told me about you, Harmon. An interesting story.”

  “I mean, I'm a wanted man on Caledon. I'm innocent of the charges, but I keep a low profile here. I don't want to become well known, Margrave. Really. And who else has the Major been talking to?”

  “Take it easy, Harmon,” Franklin said. “Martin told me in confidence, and neither of us has been blabbing. In one of my notes to Dad, I asked him to see if he could look into things unofficially. He's a lot closer to Caledon than we are here. I think he knows some people there too.”

  “This makes me nervous, Margrave.”

  “Listen, Harmon. All I have to do is refuse to extradite. Besides, nobody is interested in a backwater planet like Hepplewhite.”

  “I'm delighted to work for you Margrave, and I'll do whatever you want me to do. But let's not give me the title. I'm honored that you asked, but it makes me nervous.”

  Franklin laughed and clapped Harmon on the shoulder. “Whatever you say, Harmon. I'll pay you the Chief Engineer's salary, and I want you to start building your department, or whatever you want to call it. We'll pretend you're just a temporary worker or something.”

  Eckert looked unconvinced but finally nodded. “I guess that will work. Okay, let me get started on things. You are dumping a lot on me, you know.”

  “Of course, I know! It's good for you.”

  Harmon Eckert was still shaking his head as he walked out of Franklin's office.

  § § §

  Glenn Foxworth effused. There was no other word for it. He had spent the morning in yet another interminable meeting with Mayor Aldersgate of Cambridge and the town council. When he felt charitable, he called them gimme sessions. He had begun viewing the local politicos as noxious weeds and wanted to avoid them. The council-people, as was their habit, spent their time in the meeting complaining about one need or another, and then asked Glenn what he or the Duke was going to do about it.

  So, he sat in the walnut-paneled den of his townhouse effused. This was his private retreat. Here he could escape from all that was wrong in his domain and let the tension seep away. Mrs. Saint Simons quietly slipped in and placed a tall sweating mug of iced tea on the corner of his desk. After Franklin and Signe had removed anything and everything alcoholic from his reach, he had developed a taste for the ancient elixir. In truth he didn't miss the booze, although he sometimes still wished he could lose himself in the escape a bottle of well-aged Scotch whiskey provided.

  Foxworth sighed and brought himself back to the current reality. He reached for the folio volume on his desk and glanced at a paragraph.

  In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.

  He did most of his reading via the electronically oriented bits on a screen, but there was something comforting about holding paper and print. Placing the Bible within easy reach kept him focused. He slipped into a short prayer of thanksgiving for what God had done for him. His attitude brightened and he was able to push memories of the morning meeting to back of his mind, where they remained a nagging reminder of something else he had to lay upon the Lord and quit trying to carry himself.

  A blinking indicator on the corner of his display screen caught his eye, and he keyed his desk comp. A packet ship had arrived that morning and disgorged its cargo of communiques to the planetary net. Several dozen messages now lay in his inbox, waiting to ambush him. A whoop in the next room distracted him, and moments later Monica Foxworth rushed into the room.

  “Bunny, you won't believe it,” she cried.

  Glenn wondered, once again, how God had managed to pack a fusion reactor into Monica's petite five-foot frame. There was no other way to fuel the immense energy she exhibited.

  “What won't I believe, Baby?” he asked.

  She slipped into his lap and planted a firm kiss on his lips. “Carlo Roma just contributed three million Centaurans to the castle project! I got the statement from the subscription committee on Earth.”

  Glenn whistled, as he put his arms around her for a hug. “That's wonderful. That will almost complete the interior of the castle, won't it?”

  “I think so, yes,” she replied. “Maybe we can start working on some ideas for the plaza. It's starting to look shabby compared to what Signe and Franklin have done up at the village.”

  “What possessed Carlo to open his wallet like that. I wonder if he slipped a decimal point or something. You'd better not spend it out until the next packet ship comes. You know, Sorry Monica, a little slip-up there.”

  She elbowed him in the stomach. “Don't be silly. He's excited about the project too. And we raised another hundred K besides Carlo's. And with the castle done, we can start properly marketing this place.”

  “I'm sorry, my dear. After this morning's meeting, I'm having trouble getting back to my usual optimistic self.”

  “Ha!” The response exploded from his wife. “Your optimism is so unrestrained that when Panoz comes up in the morning, it's only because you've concluded it didn't go nova during the night.”

  He grinned. “We're still alive, aren't we?”

  She threw her arms around him and kissed him again. “That's what I love about you, Bunny. Always looking on the bright side of things.”

  Sarah peered into the room, then ghosted over to the corner, where she sat down and began silently playing with her rag doll.

  Monica nodded over to the white-blond waif. “Suppose there will be any news?”

  Glenn shrugged. “I can't believe we've come up dry so far. I've got inquiries out in Alsace and Danica now. There was no record on Samothrace. I think I'm going to have to start searching Earth-ward.”

  “What about out towards Cardiff?” she asked.

  “I will if nothing pops up. That seems unlikely, though.”

  “I pray every day we can find the child's father,” Monica said. “But, the longer it takes, the harder it will be to let her go again.”

  He grimaced. “In some ways, I really don't even want to think about that.”

  She slipped off his lap and patted his leg. “I'd better let you get busy with your message queue. Louie's invited us to dine at the hotel tonight.”

  “Right,” he said. “A chance to spend some time with the only sane person in town, present company excepted of course.”

  “The people here aren't so bad, Bunny.”

  “Oh, I know. But if the mayor goes missing after the next time we have a concrete pour...”

  She laughed as she walked out of the room. It was a surprising, deep belly laugh, which once again belied her small size. Glenn keyed up the first message in the queue and began reading. Sarah slipped to her feet and padded across the room to climb into Glenn's lap. He put his arm around her waist to hold her in place as he continued reading. Monica glanced in as she walked by the doorway later. Sarah seemed satisfied just to watch Glenn work, and he looked much more content as well.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Do you think it wise in view of your many responsibilities to go haring off into space, Sir?”

  The executive secretary was fifty-five years old and had decades of experience in smoothly managing recalcitrant and erratic CEOs. The carefully chosen tilt of the head, the slight iciness in the tone of voice, and the direct eye contact were all calculated to bend the will of the most unyielding boss to the desires of the corporate culture.

  Thirty-year-old Calvin Hawkins looked at his secretary with a slight grin and a twinkle in his eyes. “I know what you're doing Davis.
Since you cannot seem to order me about, you are trying to imbue me with an oppressive sense of guilt for leaving Earth. Nothing, not even family, is as important as the functioning of Transstellar Minerals, right?”

  “I would never say that, Sir,” Davis Fordham said.

  Hawkins chuckled. “Uh huh. But, it's in your tone of voice. You don't need to say it. Well, I'm sorry, Davis. We've been arguing about this for two weeks. I'm not going to be able to rest until I find out what happened to Kelly and Sadie.”

  Fordham said nothing but stood watching as Hawkins worked through the remaining items in his work queue. After a couple of minutes, Hawkins looked up.

  “Was there something else, Davis?”

  “Yes, Sir. Your travel security team is waiting in the outer office.”

  “As I instructed?”

  Fordham looked uncomfortable.

  Hawkins probed. “Two people, Davis. I don't need six.”

  “Two guards cannot protect you from a determined assault, Sir.”

  “Two people. Pick the two best.”

  “But, Sir....”

  “I'm done arguing about it. Just do as I say.”

  Fordham managed a substantial sigh. “If you insist, Sir.”

  “Davis! I insist.”

  Fordham finally nodded his head in acquiescence.

  “Very well, Davis. That will be all for right now.”

  “Of course, Sir.” Fordham nodded deeply, and quietly slipped out of the palatial office.

  Hawkins continued working. He was racing the clock to clear the most critical items off his desk, and still make his rendezvous with the liner in Earth orbit. His inability to leave things incomplete moiled against him. But his innate productivity worked in his favor. It was a half hour later he looked up to see the old man sitting on the sofa along one wall of the office.

  “How long have you been here?' Hawkins asked.

  “Not long. Maybe five minutes.”

  “Coming to talk me out of being a fool?”

  The elderly man leaned forward and pushed on his cane to lever himself to his feet. He walked slowly across the room to drop into the chair across from Calvin's desk.

  “Davis is quite upset with you,” Clinton Worley said. “I believe he was screening me within thirty seconds after leaving your office.”

  “After I threw him out, you mean?”

  Worley laughed quietly. “There is nothing so pathetic as a jilted executive secretary. Your decision to hire him was inspired, Cal, but it is necessary to whittle them down from time to time.”

  “Isn't that the truth? Now, what brings you down from your eyrie on the two-hundredth floor?”

  Worley gazed across the desk at Hawkins for a full thirty seconds. Calvin was beginning to get uncomfortable. “You've lost a wife and daughter, Cal. I lost my wife long ago. I never thought anything could hurt quite so much. I was wrong. Losing my daughter and granddaughter has created its own pain that won't go away.”

  “Then you know why I must do this, Clint,” Hawkins said.

  “I do.” Worley stared at his son-in-law. “Yet... when this unforgiving universe knocks you into the dirt, all you can do is get up, brush yourself off, and move on. It hurts like nobody's business.”

  “I don't buy that, Clint. I have to make sure.”

  “Listen to me, Son,” the older man said fiercely. “The Cresswell blew up when she came out of FTL at Sylvia’s Star. Nobody survived. Kelly and Sadie were on the passenger manifest. They're gone. You have to accept it!”

  “But they could've gotten off somewhere...”

  “Then why haven't we heard from anybody, then?” Worley asked.

  “She was running from me, Clint!” Hawkins clenched his fists and pressed them into the desktop. “I pushed her too hard. I tried to manage her just like I manage this company. How wrong I was.”

  “I don't blame you, boy,” Worley said. “Kelly was always a willful girl. I always thought it was because I raised her after her mother died.”

  “We've had this conversation before,” Hawkins said.

  “I know I am not going to stop you, Cal. Forgive a selfish old man. I have no other family with the strength of character to run this business. That's why you are the heir. You came into the business by marriage, but you are as much my son as Kelly was my daughter. If you don't come back, this outfit will get parceled out and sold to the highest bidder. The Paladin will get the money and the Centaurans will get the business.”

  “I'll come back, Clint.” Now Hawkins stared at his father-in-law. “Listen, I know you don't care much for my faith. But my life is under God's control and protection...”

  “I don't want to hear that, Cal,” Worley interrupted. “Oh, I respect your religion. I understand how it helps you be successful. But I've gotten along to this point without that crutch. I think I'm doing okay.”

  Hawkins looked out the window at the Chicago skyline. The compact and well-defined city on the shores of Lake Michigan soared towards the sky and reflected the human race's optimism following its near-death hundreds of years before. He wondered when he would see the city again.

  “I have to go, Clint. Captain Koepsel is a friend of mine, but he won't hold the ship for me.”

  Worley struggled to his feet again as Hawkins came around the desk. He hung his cane over his arm and grasped both of younger man's arms. “You come home again, understand?”

  “Yeah, Poppie,” he said, using Kelly's nickname for her father. “I'll be back.”

  Without another word, Hawkins left the office and walked to the elevator. The two guards followed. The elevator carried them to the roof of the Transstellar Building, some hundred floors above, where the shuttle waited. Worley studied the closed door to the office, then limped over to the door to leave as well.

  § § §

  The Reverend Edmund Tracy Riggs strolled through the central square of Montora Village enjoying the summer breeze and nodding to the villagers who happened to be present. Father Riggs, as he was known to most of the villagers, Trace, as his friends called him, loved to spend time among his people. Most of the villagers attended the St. Stephen's Anglican Reformed Church. The congregation met in the vest-pocket cathedral on the village square.

  The short, rotund, cherubic parish minister gave the impression of indolence. He spent much of his days wandering about the village visiting one individual or the other. He never seemed to be very busy, but always had time for friendly conversation. He spotted the Margrave walking purposefully through the village and adjusted his path to intercept him.

  “If it isn't my favorite parish priest,” Franklin Nyman boomed. “I see you are still looking for things to do.”

  “Good Morning, Margrave. Just out visiting my parishioners and making sure we have as much contented godliness as possible.”

  “Harmon Eckert is looking for people to help break rock for the road to the shuttle port. Maybe you could help him,” Franklin said with a grin.

  “Ho, ho,” Riggs chuckled. “I really must be about the Lord's business. It's not that physical labor is beneath my dignity. I'm just afraid of what it would do to my weak back.”

  “I hear ya,” Franklin laughed. “Far be it from me to interfere with your spiritual duties.”

  “Actually, Margrave, there was something I feel we need to discuss.”

  Franklin looked around the plaza, and then back at Riggs. “Out here, Trace? Do we need to go to your office?”

  “Oh, no. This is fine. It's the girl, Margrave.”

  Franklin scratched his head. “Girl? You mean Sarah?”

  “Right. You know Antonia has been working with her when she visits the village.”

  “Yes, and we really appreciate it. Your wife seems to have an uncommon gift with children.”

  “Well, yes she does,” Riggs agreed. “She actually has a degree in psychiatry. She was working on it when we met – I was in seminary.”

  “And you're thinking Sarah needs professional help?”
br />   “Ah... quick on the uptake, Margrave. Antonia thinks you need to get her to someone who can give her some in-depth Christian counseling.”

  “Isn't she awful young for that, Trace?” Franklin asked. “I don't know much about that science, but can't you end up doing a lot of damage to a child by putting them into psycho-therapy at a young age?”

  “That's why we're suggesting a professional,” Riggs said patiently. “Antonia knows her limitations. And the child was so brutalized. Somebody needs to reach into her head and pull her back from wherever she has hidden.”

  Franklin folded his arms across his chest as he studied the village. “Some of these buildings are already needing a coat of paint. I wonder if I should have a talk with whoever my mother bought the paint from. It just ought to hold up better than that.”

  “A change of subject, Margrave?”

  “Yeah. I don't know, Trace. I need to talk to Signe and Monica. I don't think there is anyone on-planet qualified for something like this. Nobody has the money to send her off-planet. Besides, I don't think we could pry her away from Glenn. And, I don't think she needs any more trauma.”

  “I'm just relaying what Antonia's been telling me,” Riggs said. “She won't like what you're saying, Margrave.”

  “Look Trace. I'm faced with insolvable problems of my own. I'm doing what you've always told us – praying about it.”

  “Are you putting feet to your prayers, Margrave?”

  “Sure am, preacher. What about you?”

  “Yes, Margrave. That's why I'm talking to you.”

  “And you're a persistent little monkey, Father. I don't have an answer. If I could do something for the little girl, I would. It tears my heart out to see her like this. I wish we could help her. I wish we could find her father if she has one.”

  “What do I tell Antonia? She tends to be persistent; you know.”

  “Tell her to keep praying, Father.”

  “As in the Margrave says.”

  “And as my friend, Louie says, whatever. Have a good day, Father.”

  “Wait, Margrave, there was one other thing.”