27

Designed Intent

Chapter 6

Thursday

It was still the first week of classes and Gleason realized she was already behind. So, why did she tell Malcolm she would co-author the article with him and Willow? Because I am a glutton for punishment, she told herself. Her five classes were already generating a lot of work. The administrative paperwork alone was daunting. Completing forms for athletes on scholarship, veterans and reservists on military tuition, students requesting or requiring academic support – it seemed to be without end.

"I would have picked you up this morning, you know; you wouldn't have had to drive," Malcolm said again.

"I know, and I thank you, Malcolm, but it wasn't necessary. I drove myself and am fine now. Can we please just forget what happened?" He still had that look about him, that pained, worried, loving look. In an effort to change the subject, she continued with, "Let me ask you something, how often are these kinds of reports done?" She held up a sheaf of forms.

He took them from her and leafed through, "Oh, these, each one twice a semester. It's not a big deal, the American government just wants to make certain tax dollars are not being wasted or misused by the citizens who pay them." Gleason caught the whiff of sarcasm in his tone and grinned back at him. Malcolm continued with, "Do you want to get lunch today?"

"I don't think so, but thank you." Malcolm checked his watch and said, "I'm already late for class. I'll check on you later."

"You don't need to 'check on me.'"

"I know, but I will."

He left and Gleason sat. It felt as though mud flowed through her veins; she was so tired.

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"Mr. Brine! Oh, Mr. Brine, I am so happy to see you! Here, let me help you." Mrs. Nicholson fussed over him as he made his way up the steps to the front porch. She waved to the cab as it pulled away as though it were a neighbor who had brought Brine from the hospital.

"Mrs. Nicholson, please, don't fuss. Please."

"Come; let me make you a nice lunch. You are so thin. All right?"

Brine was told he was lucky, his blood work showed he was malnourished and dehydrated. The hospital had given him a prescription to help boost his system and appetite; he did not intend to fill it. He was hungry, however.

"Here, why don't you go get cleaned up while I make you something good?"

Brine nodded and headed up to his room.

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"Where are you on that missing jewelry?" Deakins asked his two best detectives. Eames and Bobby had just returned from Methodist General. They had been talking with Zankowsky's wife, Mildred, who had had a heart attack and then a mild stroke following the shooting of her husband during the standoff at the motel.

"Mrs. Zankowsky is not saying anything," Eames offered, taking a seat. "She refuses to help 'the bastards that shot her Jessie."

"We've got notices out to all the pawn shops, identifying the pieces. We've contacted collectors who might be interested in the necklace," Bobby added.

"Could this have been a set up by the collector in order to collect on the insurance? Especially since the piece needed repair?" Deakins suggested.

"I don't think so," replied Bobby, "Bryce Silverthorne, the owner of the necklace, wants the piece back; he has not initiated an insurance claim. He's a genuine collector of the old school – possessing the piece means more to him than the value of the item."

The three were quiet a moment, and then Deakins asked, "We need to find Zankowsky's accomplices. That old man did not pull off this heist on his own. Give his wife a day to rest and then step into her. What about the security tapes?"

"Nothing," Eames answered, "the equipment was setting on a shelf beside the safe. The tape was destroyed when the safe blew."

Deakins shook his head in disgust and said, "Great. Well, where are we on the other case? What about those counterfeit books?"

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Lunch had finished hours ago at the Carmel Ridge Center and Frances Goren dozed in her room on the medium security floor of the psych wing. Her roommate, Sylvia, was in the recreation room, playing cards. Sylvia was bipolar and currently having a particularly enjoyable run of good feeling and good luck. Frances was schizophrenic and the medication that tamped down the voices in her head, tamped down her energy as well. She slept often.

"Gramma? Gramma?"

Frances roused slowly to the sound of the little boy's voice, barely more than a whisper. She opened her eyes and saw him, standing in the doorway, waiting for an invitation to enter.

"Oh, hello, my Sweet Pea! I am so glad to see you. Come here and see your old Gramma." Frances watched the little boy cross the room from the door and then lean against the arm of her chair.

She smiled lovingly at the boy and said, "I've missed you so much. Where have you been?" The little boy smiled up silently at her. He looks so much like Bobby when he was little, Frances thought, oh, those curls! "I wish my son would bring us some books for me to read to you."

"He's my daddy. And the lady is my mommy," the little one said.

"I know, I know, Sweet Pea," Frances replied.

"Why do you call me 'Sweet Pea'?"

Frances paused, thought a minute and then responded with, "Because you are a sweet pea. And, and I don't know your name." She paused again, tilted her head to the left, just as her younger son does, and kneaded her left knuckles with her right hand, again like her son.

Bobby Goren's mother looked down at the three- or four-year-old leaning against her chair and asked, "What is your name, anyway?"

The nurse standing at the door observed the entire episode. "Oh boy," she sighed and left to write her report.

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"Where the fuck was you last night, man?" Turnbuckle was livid. "I almost went to your place, man, looking for you. What happened, man? You not gonna back out of this, are you? Tell me you ain't backing out. I need you man, you the one I really needs."

Turnbuckle had felt so much better after the warm, healthy lunch Mrs. Nicholson had prepared for him. She had offered to provide him three meals a day for the cost of the breakfast. She was more than happy to provide this to him in return for his quiet, kind, tidy demeanor. He was delighted to accept. Funny how a full belly can make everything seem so different, so much better.

"I told you I'm in. Don't worry."

"Where was you? We gotta make plans, man. I got the other dude, the lookout. We gots to get together to work this out, man. I wanna get this job done, so we can like, you know, get on wif our lives and all man. Know what I'm sayin'?"

"When do you want to meet?"

"Ok, man, ok that's good. Lemme talk wif NyeTeen and I'll get back to you. Prawbly gonna be tomorrow night, man. Yeah, less just say, it's tomorrow night, right here, say ten thirty. That good for you? Yeah."

"I'll be here, tomorrow night, ten-thirty," and Brine turned and walked away. He felt an interesting calmness. He knew God understood his decision to be a part of this; just as God had understood all of his previous questionable decisions. God was, after all, all knowing.

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Bobby couldn't wait to talk with Gleason that night. He missed her desperately. Tuesdays and Thursdays were her short nights and she would be back to the apartment by six New York time. After work, he stopped by Pan Ling's for take out and drove home.

He changed his clothes and then ate straight from the cartons and finished his beer. He kept looking at the clock. Finally, his phone rang.

"Hi Honey."

"Hi, Love."

"Gleason, you sound so tired." He was startled by the sound of her voice. She sounded exhausted. "Honey, do you feel ok?"

"Yes, yes, I am fine. I am tired, however. This is a lot of work."

"Are you sure you're all right?" He didn't want to worry, but she didn't sound good.

"Yes, please, Bobby don't fret. I am fine. How was your day?"

Bobby hesitated and thought about what Dr. Stephens had told him about having faith in her and in himself. Bobby believed that Gleason would tell him if anything was wrong. She would not keep anything from him. His overreaction yesterday during the session was evidence of his concern and love for her. He was overreacting now. She would tell him if anything was wrong. She wouldn't deceive him.

"Deakins wants us to get going on that counterfeit book business. That one is going to be interesting, I think."

"I am certain you will enjoy it, Love. Counterfeit books, especially first editions, are right up your alley. Just think how much you will learn." He heard the smile in her voice as she said this.

"This is going to be exciting. Tomorrow Eames and I start in earnest on that one as the jewelry heist is pretty much stalled."

Bobby and Gleason talked for more than an hour. By the end of the conversation, he was satisfied that she was all right, that nothing more sinister than fatigue was bothering her. He knew this weekend would be tough without her, but he had decided to throw himself into work to keep from going out of his mind missing her.

Gleason was looking forward to the weekend to get caught up on work and sleep. She would miss Bobby, certainly, but she was wise enough to know that teaching here was unlike anywhere she had taught. The Ancient Studies program at Northwestern was huge, whereas everywhere else, the classes were few and small. Brookbine University back in New York had been a much smaller school than Northwestern and her largest class had had only fifteen students. Here, her smallest class had nearly fifty.

Both lovers were realistic about their first weekend away from each other.