Authors: Crystal Hubbard
“Then tell me, because I can’t.”
“Because your mother didn’t crumble when she was left alone with five daughters,” John said softly. “Because Abby accepted God’s plan, and went on and lived her life to the fullest. She taught you and your sisters to live your lives fully, to follow your dreams and pursue your loves and to be good people, not because you’re scared that you’ll go to hell if you don’t, but because that’s what you are. She doesn’t like you because she’s so jealous of how God has blessed you.”
Chiara laid her head on John’s shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around his. “God has blessed her, too. She’s just too stubborn to see it.”
“A nod is as good as a wink to a blind donkey,” John said.
Chiara laughed in spite of herself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your Grandma Claire used to say that,” John reminded her. “It means that it doesn’t matter what you do when you’re dealing with someone as stubborn as my mother.”
“Do you think she’ll be better when the baby’s born?”
John stared into the purple blackness of the moonless winter sky, and he tried to picture his mother in the role of grandmother. The shadowy depths of the heavens showed him an image of Almadine, dressed in one of her black, brown or green Sunday suits, bringing her first grandchild to church. He envisioned Almadine’s claw-like hand clamping on the child’s shoulder to make him hold still in the uncomfortable pews, or tugging his ear if he started to nod off.
“I think she’ll try even harder to succeed with him where she failed with me,” John said.
“So no unsupervised visits,” Chiara joked.
“You got that right.”
Chiara stroked his arm. “You’re paying interest on a problem you don’t have yet.”
“Grandma Claire speaks again,” John chuckled.
“Once she sees the baby, she’ll soften up,” Chiara said. “She has to.”
“I hope so,” John murmured, turning his face from the sky to press a kiss to Chiara’s head. “For her sake.”
The squeal of the back door and the creaking of the floorboards of the patio made John and Chiara both look behind them, and they saw Bartholomew crossing the patio.
“I’m just about ready to take your mother home,” he said. “I figure she’s been tortured enough tonight.”
“Tortured?” John echoed. “No one’s been anything but nice to her.”
With a loud grunt, Bartholomew lowered himself to the top step, to sit beside John. “You know how your mama is. Folks being nice to her
is
torture.” He handed John the shallow white box that Almadine had tossed at Chiara’s feet upon their arrival. “You missed this when you were opening the rest of your gifts. It’s from me and George and your mother.”
“Who picked it out?” John asked, seriously doubting that his mother had anything to do with selecting a gift for him and Chiara.
“You will.” Bartholomew’s merry eyes sparkled and the left side of his mouth turned up in an impish smile. “Consider it an engagement, wedding and baby shower gift all in one.
John gave Chiara the honor of opening the slim box, which couldn’t have measured more than ten by four inches. The inside held what looked like a gift certificate, but what it entitled the bearer to remained a mystery, as Chiara could only cover her mouth with her hand.
John took the certificate and read it himself. “Dad,” he gasped. “This is too much. A car from your dealership?”
“Those sporty little things you and Chiara drive are fine for a young couple hiding a marriage and a pregnancy, but you’re out in the open now,” Bartholomew said. “You’re gonna need something practical, something big enough to carry a baby seat, a diaper bag, a stroller, all your groceries—”
“You’ve given this some thought, huh, Pops?” John chuckled.
“I’ve lived it, boy! I got two sons of my own, you know.” Bartholomew quieted, and his smile transformed from playful to regretful. “I owe you an apology, John. I’d hide out at work on Sundays to avoid going to church with your mother. I grew up in the church, same as your mama, and I thought it was good for you to go to services every week. It wasn’t until later, when she dragged me along to keep George, that I saw the truth of what was going on at her daddy’s church.” Bartholomew set a big, meaty hand on John’s knee. “Alma’s daddy’s got the wrong idea about what church is for, and what his role in it is. He scares folks now. He wasn’t so bad when Alma and I first met. It was at a Baptist convention across the river, in Belleville. Your mother was a quiet little thing in a blue skirt and a white blouse with a big lacy collar. She had this sweet little smile and the skinniest legs.” He let loose with a rolling laugh that made his belly bounce against his lap. “I was big and loud and had the reputation of being a li’l bit of a ladies’ man.”
John smiled, easily seeing his father thirty-five years younger and in his prime.
“I think the only reason Alma’s daddy let me pursue her was because he was itchy to get her married off. She’d just graduated from high school and he wouldn’t allow her to go to Lincoln.”
John was stunned. “Mama wanted to go to college?”
“Oh, yeah,” Bartholomew said. “She wanted to be a teacher.”
“Like my mother,” Chiara said.
“Only Alma’s folks were hardliners,” Bartholomew said. “They count themselves as Baptists, but they make up their own rules as to what Baptist means. For Alma’s people, a good Baptist woman stays home and takes care of her husband, children and house, in that order. I would’ve let her go to school, but her daddy ruled my roost until it was too late.”
“It’s not too late for her to go to school,” Chiara said. “It’s only too late when you’re dead.”
“I hate to say it, but the part of Alma that wanted to go to college is dead,” Bartholomew said. “Maybe if I’d gone to services with her, and found out sooner what was going on there, I could have saved her. Saved that part of her.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Mahoney.” Chiara reached across John to take her father-in-law’s hand. “It’s not your fault. Trust me on that.”
“Every one of the whippings Alma handed out was my fault,” Bartholomew said sadly. “And I’m sorry for it, John. I really am. I would never have known if George hadn’t told me one Sunday around the time you were thirteen. Why didn’t you tell me, boy? Do you think I would have let her keep on with ’em?”
“I guess I thought I deserved them,” John said, his voice thick with the emotion he didn’t want to display before his father.
Chiara moved to squeeze herself between Bartholomew and John, and she held both their hands. “The whippings weren’t your fault,” she said to her father-in-law, “and you didn’t deserve them,” she told John.
“You don’t owe me any apologies, Dad,” John said. “I don’t want to look back anymore. I have too much to look forward to.”
“Me, too,” Bartholomew laughed. “I’m going to be a grandpappy!”
Traveling stateside might not have been as exciting as traveling in a foreign country, but Chiara still got the same perks on the East Coast that she’d enjoyed in the Far East. Two days after speaking with Grayson, she arrived at Baltimore-Washington International Airport and disembarked her first-class fight to find a driver displaying a placard with her name on it. He took her overnighter, but she insisted on carrying her briefcase herself.
Her driver led her to the pick-up area at the front of the airport and opened her door for her. Once her driver settled behind the wheel of the dark Lincoln Town Car and started the vehicle toward I-95 North, Chiara propped her briefcase on her knees and opened it.
Along with a few of her personal effects and USITI paperwork, the case contained a complete set of R-GS chips and their master. It also contained another set of chips that would complement the R-GS system in a way that Chiara hoped would ensure her safety and security—and that of the folks she loved—from Emmitt Grayson and Carlton Puel forever.
She stroked her fingertips over one of the small white cards bearing the rebound chips that George had developed and Clara had helped refine. Thin as a sheet of paper, the iridescent chip was nearly clear, and it looked more like a section of a dragonfly’s wing than a highly advanced security device.
While Grayson and Puel had turned to mythology to name their major enterprises, George had taken a more straightforward approach, giving his rebound chip the lengthy moniker of Secure Notation Imprinted Transistor Chip. Or SNITCH, for short.
The greenish-black master chip contrasted darkly with the pearlescent SNITCH, and Chiara’s heart started to beat loudly in her ears as she closed her briefcase and focused her thoughts on the sale she had to make.
Walter Westcott, founder, head researcher and sole employee of Westcott Technologies, held nineteen patents of his own and had assisted in the research and development of twenty-six more. Dr. Westcott, who held a doctorate in analytical and organic chemistry, specialized in pharmaceutical chemistry. He also held a medical degree and an MBA from Johns Hopkins University.
Dr. Westcott’s career achievements included working with the National Institute of Health to create drugs used to treat patients suffering from rare diseases such as cystic fibrosis and Hunter Syndrome.
For the past decade, however, Dr. Westcott had devoted his time and considerable talent to developing a product tentatively called the Nutbuster. Similar to the home lead tests consumers could purchase over the counter at hardware stores, the Nutbuster was a device that could be used to detect the presence of nut oils and nut derivatives in ordinary food.
Grayson had been pursuing Westcott for four long years with no success. This was likely the last pitch Grayson would be allowed to make, and it was certainly the last Chiara intended to make on Grayson’s behalf.
She knew more about the Westcotts and Westcott Technologies than the doctor and his wife probably knew themselves. She would use every tool at her disposal, every method in her arsenal, to sell the R-GS system. And then she’d pray to heaven that George’s lovely little SNITCH chips could do the rest.
Chiara’s investigations into the life Dr. Walter Westcott led outside the laboratory would prove most crucial in formulating her sales pitch. The personal components of a potential client’s life always impacted the business aspects, and those were the tools Chiara needed to build a successful sale. Those were the things that made the work personal, and therefore more important to the customer; and as a top-notch salesperson, they were the things Chiara relied on for success.
On paper, Dr. Westcott seemed to be an amazing man dedicated to pursuits that could only benefit humanity, and Chiara felt a nauseating level of guilt over her determination to sell the R-GS system to him. But if George’s chip performed as planned, Dr. Westcott would have the privilege of knowing that he’d helped apprehend one of the most successful corporate spies in the history of modern technology.
* * *
“Emmitt Grayson’s not fighting fair anymore,” Orabelle Westcott said after opening the front door of her home to Chiara. Chiara felt the shorter, older woman’s eyes on her as she entered the foyer, and she was confident that the soft yet sophisticated Ann Taylor suit she’d chosen gave her the proper balance of professionalism and approachability. The peplum of her white Donegal tweed jacket nicely hid the small swell of her abdomen, and the matching petticoat skirt gave her the right touch of modesty as the hem met the tops of her black calfskin boots.
“That Mr. Grayson’s a smart man, sending you here,” Mrs. Westcott said as she took Chiara’s white mohair and wool coat. “You’re young, pretty and sharp-eyed…It’s gonna be hard for my husband to deny you just about anything.”
“I don’t want your husband to agree to anything he isn’t completely comfortable with,” Chiara said. “I’m here to do a job, and if I do it well, then Westcott Technologies will be the better for it.”
“Nicely put,” Mrs. Westcott said, nodding approvingly. She was hanging Chiara’s jacket in a closet off the foyer when Dr. Walter Westcott himself ambled down the wide stairway that fed into the foyer.
Stepping forward, Chiara extended a hand. “Dr. Westcott,” she smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for taking the time to see me today.”
Dr. Westcott stepped onto the pale green marble floor, and Chiara was surprised to see that he was the same height as his wife, who stood no taller than five feet. The doctor’s whitened afro contrasted sharply with the deep brown of his skin. Although his hair aged him, the cheery twinkle in his dark eyes gave him a youthfulness that belied his seventy years. He took her hand in both of his and gave it a long squeeze.
“Young lady, may I ask how old you are?” the doctor said by way of greeting.
Chiara happily obliged. “I’m thirty.”
Beyond her, she heard Orabelle chuckle. “Miss Winters, I was married fifteen years before you were born,” Dr. Westcott said.
“You were nominated for a Nobel prize the same year I was born,” Chiara countered, “for your work on the inhaled corticosteroids physicians use to treat asthma and cardiopulmonary disorders.”
“I knew you’d be smart, but I didn’t realize you’d be so thorough,” Dr. Westcott said. “Would you like to join me in my lab, or would you be more comfortable in the sitting room, or the patio?”
Chiara played her first ace. “I’d love to see your lab. My sister Clara Winters is a virologist, and—”
The doctor hesitated. “Clara Winters Holtz, out of California?”
“She moved back to Missouri a couple of years ago,” Chiara said. “She conducts a great deal of independent research and lectures throughout the United States. She was jealous about this meeting with you. She admires and respects you quite a lot.”
Detailing Clara’s work and achievements as though he were her number one fan, the doctor guided Chiara and his wife through their lovely, plantation-style home. Chiara carefully noted the photographs stacked two-deep on the fireplace mantel in the living room, and the ones stacked five-deep on the lid of the baby grand piano gleaming in the sitting room. The doctor had five children and seven grandchildren, but it seemed like more judging from the number of framed photos adorning the walls and surfaces in each room they passed. The understated luxury of the décor revealed more evidence of the love that had once filled the house; Chiara couldn’t help smiling when she saw scribbled faces carved on the end of the dining room table, and a section of hallway bearing a large framed crayon drawing that had been applied directly to the wallpaper by someone less than a yard tall.
Dr. Westcott led Chiara through the spacious, airy kitchen that Chiara immediately adored for the big, wide skylights in the high ceilings. Orabelle held back to finish preparing lunch, which—judging by the distinctive scent of Old Bay seasoning flavoring the air—would be homemade Maryland crab cakes.
The doctor held the back door open for Chiara, and she stepped out onto a large enclosed patio. “Once all my children were married off and settled into homes of their own, we turned the carriage house into my laboratory,” Dr. Westcott explained. “Nothing beats a five-second commute to work.”
At the front door of the carriage house, Dr. Westcott lifted a small panel that Chiara would never have noticed had she not seen him open it. He punched in a series of numbers and letters, which deactivated an alarm system and unlocked the front door. Chiara glanced at the windows and saw that each was heavily wired. The friendly, one-story stone cottage seemed as secure as any government installation.
Once inside, Chiara saw nothing homey or cozy. The carriage house was for science and research only, and it was just as sterile and impersonal as Clara’s lab.
Chiara also noticed that the security precautions weren’t limited to readily apparent hard-wired systems. The windows and skylights had a subtle sheen, a clear indication that they had been treated to deflect radio and satellite interference as well as to prevent photographs or video images from being taken. Chiara smiled to herself, pleased that the doctor was so protective of his intellectual property.
“I like to conduct business out here, Miss Winters, so whenever you’d like to begin, please feel free,” Dr. Westcott said, pulling up a tall stool for her at a long, shining stainless steel lab table.
“Quite frankly, Doctor, there’s not much I can tell you that past USITI sales reps haven’t already,” Chiara started. “You’re basically a small business owner who interfaces electronically with other individuals and businesses across the globe, and you’ve told us many times that you’re perfectly happy with your current system.”
“So you came here for my wife’s famous crab cakes instead of to make a pitch?” the doctor laughed.
“Oh no,” Chiara chuckled, “although my stomach seems to be doing more talking than I have since we passed through the kitchen.”
“Are you married, Ms. Winters?” Dr. Westcott asked.
Caught off guard, Chiara started to give her rote response, which before recent events had always been an outright denial or a clever change of subject. Feeling that she owed the doctor what truths she could divulge, she answered honestly. “Yes.”
“How long?”
“Twelve years in March.”
“My,” he gasped. “You get hitched in the cradle?”
“No, sir,” she smiled. “Although it was something like that. We met when we were very young.”
“Any children?”
“One on the way. We’re due in July.”
Dr. Westcott’s cheeks bulged in an enormous smile. “Well, congratulations, Ms. Winters!” he exclaimed. “I was never happier than when Orabelle was expecting one of ours. Nothing I do in this lab compares to what’s going on under your heart right now. That’s the real miracle. That’s the closest thing to magic and divinity we get on this planet.”
Chiara’s nose twitched from the effort of holding back tears at the doctor’s lovely words, but she plowed on, determined to make her sale before he broke her heart. She played her second ace. “This is my last assignment for USITI, Dr. Westcott,” she said. “I’ve resigned my position so that I can stay home and take care of my child full-time. My husband and I are fortunate in that we can afford to do that. There are so many other things, though, that I worry about. This is a scary world we’re bringing this child into. It’s the things you can’t see that can be more dangerous than the ones you can.”
Dr. Westcott’s smile dimmed a bit as Chiara’s words sank in.
“I’ve read the research on your latest breakthrough,” she went on. “I think it’s amazing. It’ll save a lot of lives. Especially those of children.”
“You are quite thorough in your research, Ms. Winters,” the doctor sighed.
“I’m sorry about your son.”
The sparkle left Dr. Westcott’s eyes as he fixed Chiara in his gaze. “You…I rarely speak of…How—”
“My sister Cady has access to a specialized search engine at the newspaper she freelances for,” Chiara explained. “She showed me your son’s obituary.”
Dr. Westcott sat heavily on a stool facing Chiara. “It’s been ten years,” he said wistfully. “Jonah was the baby. Of course he wasn’t much of a baby when he died.”
“He was twenty-two?” Chiara offered gently.
The doctor nodded before recalling a story that Chiara already knew. “Jonah was in culinary school, at Johnson & Wales up in Providence, Rhode Island. He wanted to be a chef and own his own restaurant someday. He and some of his school friends went to a chili cook-off in Texas. Jonah was always very careful about what he ate because of his allergy to peanuts. All the contestants in the cook-off were supposed to list all their ingredients at their cooking stations. But you always get folks who don’t want to give up all their secrets.”
Chiara succumbed to the temptation to set a comforting hand on the doctor’s shoulder. The small gesture spurred him on.
“Jonah’s friends said that within two minutes of sampling one of the chilis, he went into anaphylactic shock,” the doctor said. “He carried an EpiPen with him at all times, and it was used, but it didn’t totally suppress the reaction. Jonah died at the hospital twenty-five minutes later. The chili cook had used peanut butter as a thickening agent, but she didn’t list it on her ingredient sheet because she didn’t want anyone to steal her secret.”
The story sounded so much worse coming from Dr. Westcott than it had when she’d read it in the documents Cady had provided her.
“She didn’t win the cook-off.” Dr. Westcott smiled somberly. “It’s been ten years. Jonah would have been thirty-two come February fifteenth.”
Chiara swallowed hard to choke back the emotion clogging her throat. This meeting wasn’t like any she’d ever experienced. She was used to huge, impeccably decorated conference rooms and boardrooms, used to an audience of trustees, vice-presidents, attorneys, CEOs. She’d never given a sales pitch as personal, intimate and important as this one. She suddenly wanted to admit everything to Dr. Westcott, to confess that he was being made part of a plan to bring down Emmitt Grayson.
But she couldn’t. If her plan failed, his knowledge of the R-GS rootkits and master chip intrusion might place him, Orabelle and the rest of his family in jeopardy. Chiara stiffened her spine and placed her trust in her instinct: that the SNITCH would work, and that Dr. Westcott would handle the information it provided quickly and appropriately.