A heavy sigh escaped into the equally heavy silence, joining the concentrated air which had grown more and more laden with heavy sighs since J. Gander had taken over. He sat now with his fingers to his brow, propping his head up as his troubled gaze stared through the documents on the desk below.
The office was more than fifty years old, and had housed a fantastic line of noteworthy leaders whose accomplishments J. Gander felt he couldn't even remotely aspire to. Two portraits in particular hung on the walls, both of which held significance for the newest SHUSH director. One was of the first SHUSH leader, the one who paved the way for generations of directors, and the second was of the late Director Bonaparte, who had been a great mentor and friend to him. What J. Gander wouldn't give to hunt down the man who had so callously ended Bonaparte's career with two bullets to the head, echoing the assassination of President Kenneldy thirteen years prior. He had vowed to find the killer, even if it took him the rest of his career.
Another sigh. He pushed himself back, the leather on the chair squeaking from the friction, and redirected his thoughts elsewhere for the time being. The framed 5X7 on the corner of his desk caught his attention, and he picked it up, fully aware that he was postponing the inevitable.
The day he had been sworn in as Director of SHUSH had been one of the proudest in his life, though he had wished it had been under different circumstances. Still, Bonaparte had made strictly clear in his documents (his HU-2870s to be exact) that it was to be J. Gander Hooter to succeed him, much to John's astonishment. It was usually the chief agent who stepped up once the director's time had ended. The only thing that would have made that day better was if his best friend could have been there. But, as had seemed to be the trend ever since he had taken up with Blunt, Jacob had been on assignment and unable to break himself away. Their friendship had seemed to wilt as a result, a fact which appeared observable to J. Gander alone, and continued to do so even after Jacob had transferred to the local division. Still, Jacob had been the voice of encouragement when so many others had doubted J. Gander's ability to lead, doubts which undeniably sprouted from the fact that he was the youngest SHUSH director in the history of the organization.
Another sigh. How could this happen? What had led his old friend down such a dangerous path, spurred him to risk his near perfect life?
In the ten years since Jacob had officially ended his globe-trotting with Blunt, J. Gander had noticed a change not only in their friendship, but in Jacob himself as well. It was glaringly obvious to J. Gander that something was and had been amiss in his old friend's life for some time, he just didn't know what.
In an effort to repair whatever damage had been done, the moment J. Gander was named Bonaparte's successor he knew he wanted no other mallard serving as his chief agent than Jacob. Now, however, he was faced with some disturbing evidence that could ruin Jacob's career. He was not at all looking forward to the forthcoming meeting.
A brief knock preceded a brash opening of the door. It was Jacob, late as usual.
"You wanted to see me, John?"
There was a kind of hopeful glint in his eyes that made it that much harder for J. Gander to look at him. He addressed his stapler instead.
"How long have we known each other, Jacob?"
His friend was quiet for a moment, as if the question confused him. He shrugged.
"Geez, John, I don't know…22 years? Ha! Man, we're really turning into a couple of old geezers, aren't we? …And by 'we', I mean you, naturally."
John's short beak turned up in a weak smile, but not even Jacob's charisma could downplay the situation. A third sigh settled heavily into the air.
"Tell me about The Old Haunt."
Jacob raised an eyebrow. "The Old Haunt? Used to be an upstanding place until a few years back. Now it's just a seedy bar where copious amounts of the city's reprobates loom. Why?"
The small stack of papers slid across the desk toward him, and J. Gander's tired stare finally rested on his ex-partner. "This."
Jacob moved forward and scooped up the papers, glancing through them carefully.
"Oh, come on, John, you don't honestly believe –"
"I don't know what I believe, Jacob. Not anymore."
Black eyes narrowed under a severe brow. The edge of John's impressive oaken desk was suddenly occupied by Jacob's strong hands, as if threatening to overturn it. His grip was so tight the feathers around his knuckles paled.
"Twenty-two years, John," he snarled lowly in a voice his friend recognized as one reserved for hated adversaries. "Twenty-two years, and you dare to question my integrity…If you weren't my friend, I'd break your beak here and now. As it is, it appears I value our friendship more than you do. The title's gone to your head." With a sharp jerk Jacob released the desk and took a deep breath. "I've got a family to get home to. I can only hope by tomorrow you'll come to your senses."
There was nothing left to say. Jacob departed with a lasting glower that didn't make a dent in J. Gander's calm, hard stare.
The car had sat in idle for a good twenty minutes before J. Gander finally turned off the engine. Silence settled over him like fog, making him all too painfully aware of what he was doing out in the middle of what was quickly becoming one of the most criminally active areas in the city.
He drummed his fingers agitatedly against the steering wheel, glancing across the street every other second toward the entrance to The Old Haunt. For a "seedy bar where copious amounts of the city's reprobates loom," it sure was quiet. A little too quiet. An unsettling quiet that heightened the churning in his stomach. The time for internal argument had come and gone, now it was left to gather his strength. He needed to know the truth once and for all, even if it meant losing his best friend.
The car door protested loudly as he exited, its hinges old and rusty from years of abuse. He made a mental note to buy some oil on his way home.
Voices floated over the saloon-style doors as the SHUSH director crossed the street, taking deep breaths as he went to alleviate the difficulty of clinging to his confidence. The orange light rolled over him like a sunrise as he stepped up toward the entrance, but he didn't continue inside. Instead he peered over the wooden swingers to spy the participants in the intense conversation. In the back of the bar, surrounded by notable delinquents, was Jacob, his pronounced eyebrows knitted together as he spoke in earnest.
Wanting to get a better view, and perhaps a better listen, J. Gander crept around the side of the building and into the alleyway. Unfortunately for the undersized avian, the only windows on the side of the structure were set up high. A few tattered, discarded boxes littered the alley, and he set about making a tower of them so that he could look through the glass nearest the back.
They were standing in a semi-circle around the table, Jacob in the middle. The only one seated J. Gander recognized as Shannon Mongoose, and his thick sausage fingers were steepled underneath his portly chin. On either side of him stood his twin sons, Dominick and Nino. Flanking them were other members of the Mongoose Gang, one of the most notorious groups of felons Saint Canard had ever seen.
"Come on, Mongoose," Jacob was saying firmly. "Do your part. Otherwise, you know who I'm going to, and I don't think you want her taking control of this part of town."
"We don't owe'em nothin'," Dominick said gruffly, folding his beefy arms.
"I don't think I was addressing you, son," Jacob replied evenly.
"How much are we talking here?" Mongoose asked, his steely voice grating through the tension between his son and the SHUSH agent.
"Enough. You can't put a price on this kind of thing. And let's not forget what he did for you when your son stuck his nose where it didn't belong."
Moments passed, and J. Gander couldn't imagine the expression Mongoose must be wearing. People that usually talked to him like that ended up at the bottom of the Audubon Bay. The mobster reached into his pocket, and the director felt every muscle in his body tense up.
"Jacob!" he shouted, hoping to warn his friend. Jerking upright, he tumbled off of the tower of boxes and raced around the corner before barreling through the swinging doors. "Stop!"
The scene before him froze, Mongoose in the act of handing over a wad of cash to Jacob. John drew his gun and aimed it toward the group huddled at the corner. Unfortunately, the entire mob drew their own arsenal at the same time.
"Whoa, whoa!" Jacob cried, pushing to the front of the group. "Hang on a second, put those down!"
The felons looked warily from each other to their boss, whose single nod sent guns back into pockets. Mongoose seemed to recognize the SHUSH director, and leaned back farther in his chair to watch the impending conversation with the slightest hint of a smirk beneath his thin mustache.
"What are you doing here…sir?"
The afterthought of formality didn't escape the notice of J. Gander, and the ease with which Jacob consorted with the gang didn't sit well with his friend.
"I should ask you the same thing, agent," he said, mimicking his tone. "Except that I already have an idea. They're one of your payers, aren't they, Mallard? One of many in this part of town. They pay you off, you let them run things how they see fit."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Jacob seethed through his teeth.
"Don't try and talk your way out of it, I saw what you were about to do, I heard what you said."
"You don't know anything. Stand down, sir. I've got to finish things here, and then I promise we'll talk later."
J. Gander's eyes slid over to Mongoose, whose thick eyebrow was raised curiously as he eyed superior and agent. The director could feel a sickly, nauseating feeling creeping into his stomach. Jacob was making him look like a weak fool, and no criminal mastermind would take SHUSH seriously if they knew it was headed by a pushover. John stood his ground.
"No. You're relieved of your duties until I see fit. Give me your badge and your gun, agent. You're coming with me."
"I can't, I need –"
"Now, agent."
Author's Note: A new Chapter 21. Going off of an idea from the lovely Miss Lael Adair, I decided to nix the previous chapter and replace it with this. If this is seemingly too odd a jump, too disjointed, from Carrie's birth to here, let me know. I don't want there to be a ton of confusion, but I also want to let you readers know that more will be explained in later chapters, including the information that was in the original Chapter 21. Let me know what you think! We're coming up on the final chapters of the story.