6

Designed Intent

Chapter 1

Sunday Afternoon

Bobby's tongue met Gleason's tongue; his hand, hidden under her wrap, slid down her back and then to her bottom, pulling her close, pressing her against his crotch. It did not matter to him that they stood in the center of the ticketing area of Concourse B at O'Hare. People passed by, some glancing and smiling, others glancing and scowling.

"Bobby, please. Don't Love, we're going to embarrass ourselves," Gleason whispered, smiling up at him.

"I am going to miss you. God, I am going to miss you," he pulled her tight and rocked with her. "Tell me you love me," he said into her hair.

"I love you, Bobby, forever." They stood silently holding each other for another minute, and then Gleason said, "Now, you should go on through security. It will take extra time declaring your weapon. Go on." She could not help it, but tears filled her eyes. "Go on, Love."

Bobby heard the tears in her voice and bent down to look at her, "Oh, Honey, don't cry. Sweetheart, don't cry. Come on. I'll call you, when I land and then when I get home. We'll talk tonight. Ok? I'll see you in two weeks. It will go fast. You'll see."

This was the beginning of living apart. Gleason would begin teaching at Northwestern on Monday. They would commute between Chicago and New York, each taking a turn on alternating weekends. It would be expensive and tough.

Gleason knew she was being silly. It was only two weeks, not months. She worried so about him, though. Her greatest fear was that he would be hurt, shot; she did not know if she could live without him.

"I know, I know. You be careful, understand? Call me when you get to New York. Now go. I love you. Forever. Go."

Bobby kissed her lightly, said "I love you," picked up his bag, and walked toward security, already removing his ID and shield from his inside pocket. He spoke briefly with a TSA officer who listened, glanced at this ID, and then ushered Bobby to an enclosed area. Bobby turned and waved sadly to Gleason. She waved back, waited a moment and then turned for the escalator down to baggage claim and the way to parking.

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"So, you gonna do this with me or not?" Melvin Turnbuckle shoved his hands into his pockets and waited for the other guy to respond. He wanted to get his boys lined up so he could put his plan into action. He needed this one, this one had, shall we say, certain background information that would come in handy at some point. "So, you gonna do it? Huh? I gotta know, you know, like today. What's it gonna be, man?"

Sylvester Brine could not believe he was considering engaging in a criminal endeavor with this man. How far have you fallen, he asked himself. He did not want to do this. No sir, he did not. "Yeah, I'm in."

Turnbuckle whooped and went to high five the other man, but got no response. "Ok, like sure man. Ok, you wait for me to call you, understand. Then, like after I meet with the old man, then we'll all meet, and then we'll do it. This is gonna be good, man." He watched as the other man just turned and walked away. "This is gonna be good. I'll call you, right?" Brine ignored him.

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Bobby sat in the window seat of the exit aisle. The gate agent had changed his seat when she called his name to speak to him about the placement of his bag once on board. His carry-on, containing the declared weapon, had to go under the seat in front of him. She gave him a lingering once over, smiling and being very, very nice as she inspected the bag's lock. Then she asked to see his ID and she took her time reading every word. He knew exactly what she was doing, this had happened before.

"I see the window exit seat is open, Detective. Would you be more comfortable with the extra legroom? You are quite tall," she said with her prettiest smile.

"Thank you; that would be nice."

"I can block the seat next to you, so you can spread out if you like."

Bobby nodded, smiled and said, "Thanks."

The plane was nearly full; a young kid, college age, sat on the aisle, the empty seat between them. Bobby stared out at the darkening sky, thinking about Gleason, how this was going to be, her so far away, them not being together.

His mind and heart darkened as he flew east into night.

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"Where does this go?" Eames turned with platter in her hands. "Edward, this platter, where does it go?"

"What?" Edward glanced up from the article he was reading and continued, "Second cabinet, top shelf." He wandered toward the kitchen, still reading, "Hey, listen to this, it says here they are making silencers out of foam core board and angel hair, that spun glass stuff."

He stopped in the doorway and watched her reach, up on one foot, toes actually, hanging onto the cabinet door, trying to slide the heavy platter onto the top shelf. He crossed to her, put a hand on her waist, took the platter from her and easily laid it on the shelf. "Alex, what are you doing? Leave this; Kate will put it away tomorrow. Come here, let me read this to you. This is good stuff." He turned to return to the living room.

"I don't think it's fair that your housekeeper knows more about you and your stuff than I do."

"Well, she better. I pay her to know stuff."

"You know, I could know too if we moved in together." There, she said it. Eames could not believe she actually said it! She was glowing as she watched him stop and turn.

"Alex, there is no way in hell we are ever moving in together."

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Sunday Evening

Gleason sat at the small kitchen table trying to put the names of her students into a spreadsheet for each of her classes. She hated this part of the job, wishing she could ask a graduate assistant to do this.

Loomis, the kind doorman at the Hilton, had a cousin in real estate who had found this place for her. She and Bobby had looked at it two weeks ago and she fell in love with it. The cousin told her she was fortunate to have gotten one of the bungalows at the Quartermaine house.

The Quartermaine mansion sat on Bremen Boulevard just three blocks from Northwestern's campus. The estate included a gatehouse, stables, a small paddock, and the main house. A small bungalow sat on each corner of the main house. Back in the day, the bungalows served as quarters for the help. These quarters were attached to the main house, hence the name, "Quartermaine."

The bungalow was perfect for her. A private entrance opened onto a large enough center room that served as living room and kitchen space. The bedroom, bathroom and closet make up the other half of the space.

Gladys, the estate manager, liked the young couple – she thought Gleason was particularly attractive – and offered them the chance to pick through abandoned and no longer used furnishings stored in a room off the back of the stable. Gladys watched as the young couple sorted through and made their choices. That is one lucky man, she thought.

Together they found a decent enough sofa, worn wing chair, small end table and lamp, rickety kitchen table and two mismatched chairs. The also found a nice bedroom set of head and footboard, dresser and night table. Bobby could not believe that Gleason would even consider using the stored mattress and box spring, "Jesus, Gleason it's probably full of mice and that wouldn't be the worst of it."

The three of them and Daryl, the handyman, lugged the items over to the apartment. Bobby and Gleason spent rest of the afternoon and evening shopping for a mattress and box springs, linens and cleaning supplies. A small argument ensued when Gleason insisted on getting kitchenware from a charity shop; Bobby won out.

He in particular enjoyed the shopping. It made him feel like they were shopping for their own home, as a married couple. A sad thought flashed through his mind – they would have been shopping for baby things now if – he shoved that thought away.

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"What have I gotten myself into? Dear God, what have I become?" Brine didn't think his shame and self-hate could get any worse than the events that had preceded this life, but here he was – in league with the devil.

He prepared for bed and then, as he had done from childhood, he dropped to his knees and prayed. This time, he asked for forgiveness.

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"Good night, Sweetheart. I love you. I'll talk with you again tomorrow evening. Gleason don't cry. Honey, if this is going to work, we have to make it work." His heart was breaking; this is never going to work, he thought, never.

It had been so good these last three months. After the miscarriage, rather, after the rough patch following the miscarriage, life was wonderful, everything was so normal. He wanted it to go on forever. Bobby had never wanted Gleason to take this job at Northwestern, but he would never say that to her.

"Gleason, Baby, please," he rubbed his eyes with the fingers of his right hand. He felt himself getting angry – not at her – but at this completely fucked up situation that was going to keep them apart. Calm down, he told himself – just calm down. His temper had improved significantly in the last few months and he did not want to lose it now.

"I'm sorry Bobby," she sniffed, "I've got work to do and you should get to sleep, Love. We will talk tomorrow evening, my class ends at eight so I'll be here by nine, ten your time. You be careful, promise?"

"Yes, I promise. You have a great first day. I love you, Gleason."

"I love you, g'night."

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Gleason finished her work, showered and went to bed. She laid a short time, feeling very alone in the bed, in the apartment; it was so quiet. It was the first night of many that she would sleep alone in this bed; it was big and empty and cold without him. She pulled up her green throw from the foot of the bed, dragged Bobby's pillow over her shoulder, and hugged it to her chest; his scent was comforting. Slowly, Gleason fell asleep.

Bobby finished his beer and went to bed. He laid a short time, feeling very alone in the bed, in the apartment; it was so quiet. It felt strange to sleep alone in their bed, it was big and empty and cold without her. He turned onto his left side, facing where she would be and pulled her pillow to his chest, her cinnamon scent was comforting. Bobby fought it, but then he cried. He had a very bad feeling about her being so far away.

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