

A Room in the House of the Ancestors

Books One and Two

By Melody Clark

 Copyright 2015 by Melody Clark Books, a subsidiary of the M Press melodyclarkbooks.com

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

About "A Room in the House of the Ancestors"

"An allegorical tale of our times that subtly depicts America and Europe in the modern era, while masquerading as a touching and funny tale of one haunted man and his family." Max's Ebook Email Espresso

Computer whizkid Edward's adopted father taught him that his biological family rejected him at birth. After Edward's own brother Andrew reaches out to befriend him, the two men forge a friendship based on a shared dream – a sentient computer system that promises to greatly improve the world. When Edward arrives at the ancestral home of the family he believes abandoned him, he soon discovers that reality is very different from his adopted father's paranoid delusion. And his family learns that Edward is far more damaged than they could ever have known.
Acknowledgments

To my many generations of ancestors, from Joseph and Ruth (Solesbee) Dillard of South Gate, California, US to Richard and Agnes (Barret) New of Bristol, Somerset, England, and all those before, beside and beyond, who taught me, step by step, that we are all the children of history.

Thanks, as always, to my copy editor, Lyn Townsend, who always puts forth a heroic effort to prevent me from looking like an idiot. Thanks to my content beta, Nancy Daniel, who actually reads my work because she likes it – still trying to work out having her cloned. And many appreciations to my old friend, Molly, my personal Britpicker.
A Room in the House of the Ancestors

*Book One*

By Melody Clark

"Nearly everything I have is in it,

And still the box isn't full."

(John Steinbeck, Paraphrased from the dedication to East of Eden)

Chapter One

"These people don't like you, Edward," his father's voice reached out to him, through the wall he had long ago erected around his mind. "They revile you. You weren't good enough for them, but now you have outwitted them. They want to bring you down with extreme prejudice. They are your ultimate opponent. You must fight them with all you are."

Edward fought to focus on the voice – the voice was all he was supposed to hear. His palms opened, as if by their own choice, and the batons dropped from his hands.

"I don't want to fight anyone," Edward remembered whispering, hugging himself with his arms.

"You must fight or they'll win."

"Let them win, Dad. I don't care if they win."

"The Bakunin name is at stake!" Wendell's voice thundered back at him. "Your livelihood and legacy are at stake! What is the opening salvo?"

"What do you mean?" he remembered asking.

"The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" he would always reply, from the Longfellow poem, "And loud that clarion voice replied. What was the answer?"

There was never an answer. There would never be an answer.

Many years later, Edward could still recall the scent of sweat in that room. The leathery smell of his grandfather's tack room, the dangers that waited inside it. When the wind changed, he could hear the crop raking against the wall where it hung when not in use. Even now, that sound made him nauseous, even sounds that reminded him of it, like the sound of his father's balled-up waste paper misses hitting the wall.

Edward had been about to compile his file when he heard the sound of the chair squeaking in his adopted father's office. He heard the measured pace of precision footsteps headed around the door into his room. They always tread the same narrow pattern in the same place.

"You realize who you'll be seeing today?" Wendell asked from behind him.

Dear God, not this again, Edward thought, his head listing forward to tap the top of his laptop. He inhaled and spoke the name inwardly. It gave him a moment to look at the time. He would soon be late.

"Thomas Croftdon's son, Andrew," Edward said, shutting his laptop and standing up for his jacket.

"Your biological brother, Andrew," Wendell said pointedly, looking over his glasses.

Edward donned his scarf, wrapping it around twice with the upcoming promise of a Boston chill. "Must we play this game, Dad? I know who he is. I know who they all are. You've made certain of that. If they're all so awful, I don't see why you won't just let me forget them."

Wendell stopped beside him, giving him his bespectacled commando stare. "You must see my position. You are my son, my heir, my principle computer adept –"

"What do you think the chances are I've forgotten that in the last few minutes, Dad?"

"My point is –"

"Your point is that you are as insecure as ever, not believing in anyone who has proved to you time and again their loyalty. I love you, Father. I have no other allegiance. My future is here, if you'll let it be."

"Some might say that blood is thicker than water, Eddie," Wendell said.

"Those people have never been adopted," Edward replied, shutting his eyes for a moment of inner quiet. He had said all this so many times before. He felt certain he would have to say it again. "What bonds us is shared experience and time. I barely know those people."

Wendell looked at him cautiously. "You and Andrew have exchanged frequent email in the last several years. Sometimes once a day. And not just about computer matters. I've read them. Yes, it's an invasion of privacy, one I regret, but it's necessary to protect you."

"Protect me from what? Funny comics and news stories?"

"It is clear you have a natural affinity for Andrew," Wendell said, "whereas there has been some distance between the two of us lately."

"Yes, I like Andrew," Edward admitted. "I find him engaging and funny. We commiserate. We work in the same field. We have similar interests. Is that a crime?"

"He is now the primary programmer for our most major competitor. I have to be sure you're not sharing secrets beyond the reach of your shared project."

Edward slammed his hand against the wall, nearly dropping his laptop as he did so. He lifted it up into a safer place against his chest. "He's someone I communicate with once or twice a day. I'm not sharing anything with him beyond an occasional Facebook post. And if there is a divide between you and me, Father, it's driven by your paranoia and suspiciousness and lack of trust in me."

Wendell stood up like a challenge, moving around the edge of his desk. His graying hair had grown thin in equal measure all over his head. He wasn't balding, his hair just looked sparse, like that of a man who worked more hours in a day than a day contained, which is who he was. Most of his workday, Eddie believed, was spent worrying about what he was doing.

"I don't mean to drive a wedge, son. It's just, since your mother's death, you're my principle ally. You are going to meet with the son of my chief competitor –"

"Who is the son of your father's friend and business associate."

"Yes, he was. But he changed allegiances, didn't he? As I'm afraid you will one day. You also carry Croftdon blood in your veins." Wendell took Edward firmly by the shoulders, staring deeply into his eyes. "Always remember, Thomas and Faith Croftdon cast you away. They abandoned you, a newborn infant, in your time of greatest need. Whatever you were was not enough for them. They have since raised two sons and even adopted one of his brother's sons. And yet you – you – they chose to forsake."

Edward cringed again at the onslaught of what he had suffered so many times before. "I know that, Father. But Faith Croftdon is dead. And why would I have any loyalty to Thomas Croftdon if he had none to me?" He checked his watch. "I have to meet with Andrew. May I go now?"

"They will play on your sympathies. They will try to engage your affections. You must understand how that might cause me concern –"

"I might understand it if I'd ever given you reason to doubt me," Edward said. "I've been a good and faithful son to you. Haven't I delivered to you with maximum effort the very best work I can on an ongoing basis? It's the quality and output of my work that has built your entire business. And yet you repeatedly and consistently require that I pass some bizarre test of loyalty."

Wendell removed his glasses to stare Edward straight in the eye. "Your service has not been without challenges. You have been openly condemnatory of the security measures around the Brice project. You have been very suspicious of our aims and objectives. This gives me cause to wonder."

What had Edward wanted to say? So much and yet too little. Father, I'm aware that I fall short of your limitless expectations. You have kept a running tab of my faults since my earliest memory. I am aware of where I have failed, I have always been aware, and I will remain aware of my many failures.

Instead Eddie just shook his head and sighed. "May I go?"

"So I'm assured there is no sense of loyalty whatsoever to Croftdon's boy? To your brother?"

Edward shut his eyes as the words connected with him, right where they had been expected to impact. As always, his father's aim was true. "I have no brothers. I am an only child. Your only child. May I go?"

"Oh, don't let me keep you," Wendell said, turning around to leave.

Edward had always known he was adopted. The fine details of it had been hazy, but the headline had been written in bold letters. The Croftdon name was whispered around him, like some vaguely arcane bit of wisdom he was expected to know too well and yet completely ignore. That family had become a repeating but unspoken theme in his life, like some nameless genetic malady from which he suffered that might not be spoken of in polite company.

The first time he saw a real, live Croftdon had been on his 11th birthday. By that great age, Edward had already deeply involved himself in programming. Having written his first computer game at eight, he had tackled bigger and better projects. He had already been recognized as a wunderkind in multiple computer languages. That afternoon, however, he had been tucked away in a corner perusing his hidden wealth of comic books.

He heard his name embedded in a tangle of raised voices. His father's voice had been one of them. Two others had been the vocalizations of strangers.

He hovered inside the doorway, catching sight of a man he had never seen before and yet somehow immediately recognized. He was nearly his father's age. He knew him and yet he didn't. Beside him stood a boy a few years younger than he was, maybe 8 or 9. The younger boy's eyes locked on his. They just stared at each other for a long time.

"Edward!" the grown man he didn't know called out to him, stretching out an arm toward him.

Edward's father grasped the door and slammed it closed in the boy's face, sealing Edward out of sight.

That had been the year his mother, Jennifer, had succumbed to skin cancer. Not just any skin cancer, but the sun god Ra's evocation of the Demon Melanoma. This event muddled the year emotionally and mentally to the point that the Croftdon encounter details became lost in the clutter of recall.

Mother drove him everywhere, bought him things, even as the cancer metastasized to her brain and claimed increasing amounts of her mind. Sometimes, she would tie the string to a helium balloon around his wrist. Once he had fallen asleep with that balloon still attached as it silently worked its way toward the ground. When she drew near death, he never took off the strings, as if untying them might release his mother to the ages.

He forgot the encounter with the two strangers until after his mother's death. She had gathered items for him, that she wanted him to have. One included a photograph of a man, a woman, and three young men. There were letters too, as if responses to letters written with pictures already sent to them.

He put them away, like his memories of his mother, to a second place in his mind so they wouldn't haunt the working rooms of his memory. And so the memories remained, like a tied string detached from its balloon.

Andrew Croftdon walked toward him. Edward envied the open warmth in the younger man's eyes – the obvious affection for him. Andrew, the man he now knew to be his brother. The brother he had seen very briefly in that long-ago room.

Andrew stuck out a hand. "Eddie, it's so goddamned wonderful to see you again. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks. And you?" Edward asked, smiling warmly to protocol while shaking the offered hand.

Andrew grasped Edward's hand between both of his. "I'm well. Everyone sends their – best."

"Thank you." Edward withdrew his hand to gesture to the restaurant. "Shall we go in?"

"Forgive me for staring at you," Andrew said, as they were seated at a quiet table. The restaurant was only lightly trafficked this time of day. They sat largely alone. "I can never get over how much you resemble our father."

"Thomas Croftdon?" Edward asked, studying the menu he had been handed. "I've never noticed."

"You do. Very much. You have our mother's eyes, though. And we both have her light coloring"

Edward paused a moment in his menu consideration. "I regret that I never met her," he said, thinking momentarily of the sadness of two such losses. "Well, I did meet her, of course, when I was born, but not that I can remember."

"You'll get to know all of us better and we'll help you know her through us. I'm very excited about our joint venture next month."

"I'm excited about it, too," Edward allowed himself to confess. "It will certainly be a challenge."

Andrew smiled with a kind of awkward grace, leaning forward as if to impart a great confidence. "I must admit that my principle reason for being excited about it is, well, that I will really get to know my oldest brother for the first time. I'm just very sorry it has taken so damned long to bring this about. Is Wendell still concerned about your participation?"

Edward grinned in reply, feeling a warmth that made him feel happy and yet guilty at the same moment. He decided to put up an emotional wall to protect his reaction. "My father grew up in very unfortunate circumstances."

"For some reason, I had the notion that Wendell grew-up in fairly affluent circumstances."

"Oh, he did. But wealth doesn't always bring with it privileges. In my father's case, it didn't at all. Admittedly, he does tend toward paranoia at times. He doesn't trust easily – or ever, really. He has accepted that it's something I want, however, and I think he sees that it will benefit his company as well."

Andrew nodded. "So when do you arrive?"

"Next Monday."

"Splendid. I'm told you'll be staying at an executive hotel, but I wanted you to know you do have a room set aside for you in our home for your use."

"Thank you. That's very kind. I doubt it will be necessary, but it may come in handy for some of my longer work binges."

Andrew laughed lightly. "I'm very anxious to work with you, side by side. I guess I don't have to tell you that you're a rock star in our industry. Our skills I think are roughly comparable, however, you've accomplished so many brilliant things in such a short period of time that I find it unfathomable."

Edward smiled a little. "My father is very demanding. One of his favorite sayings is we don't have laurels in our family, we have results. And they are reevaluated daily. Nobody rests on yesterday's accolades or achievements."

"He sets the bar high, hm?"

Edward nodded. "He always has. But that's the way he has built what he's built. You can't argue with success. At least not with my father."

Andrew eased into a more relaxed posture, clearly more at home than Edward was. "My father – that is, our father – is very laid-back. He allows our grandfather to largely run everything. I sometimes think it would be better if our father was a little more like Wendell."

Edward shook his head, sipping from his drink. "As they say, be careful what you wish for."

"Well, at least he might be able to standup to Granddad. The old fellow is a stern piece of work, but I gather you've heard about him."

"A little. John, right?"

"Yes, John Croftdon, on Father's side. Our mother's father passed a number of years ago. Very nice man. Very kind. Stephen. He was a Stuart, if you know about that sort of thing."

Edward nodded. "Vaguely."

"Well, we'll have to make up for that."

"Perhaps. If there's time once we've launched the project." Edward placed his menu down. "I suppose I should ask how Tad, James and Wilse feel about my presence on the joint project. I intuited there was a bit of resentment."

"Not toward you personally. Toward Bakunin Corp somewhat, yes."

"I am Bakunin," Edward said.

Andrew shrugged a little. "Let's just say, everyone is happy that you'll be on board. In fact, they're jealous that I've had more of a chance to work with you and get to know you. I'm afraid you're going to be subject to a certain degree of fraternal initiation."

"Everyone is glad," Edward said, smiling in earnest. "Even Tad?"

"Tad is a good man. He's a doctor, so he's particular. And, well, he's a force of nature. You'll get to know him better in time."

"Which is why I think it best we keep this on a business level," Edward said. "A professional one. You and I have always been friendly. I'd rather not have too negative an experience while I'm over there. I think an amicable course is the best one."

"I promise you I will see to it that it is. I'm just stunned Wendell agreed to this joint project after so many years of resisting the very idea."

Edward leaned forward slowly, considering, all the way to the table's edge, the gravity of the information he was about to impart. "I think it's only fair that I tell you something my father would rather I not. A large portion of his wealth has been, well, swindled from him. He's still very, very wealthy, but he's not the impermeable force he once was."

"Yes, I'm sorry. We'd heard something of that."

"To be honest, I think that's the actual reason for this project." Edward leaned forward again, looking around them. He lowered his voice a notch. "I also have been asked to do something I'm not going to do. I hope the very fact I'm informing you of the request that was made to me will assure you of my good intent. The last thing I want is to harm your family in any way. But I was asked to survey and report back on any additional changes that have been made to the code you have on hand. I've refused, but I wanted you to know that the overture was made to me."

Andrew's eyes shone back at him. "Thank you, Eddie. Yes, we had been told that by our people. I somehow knew you would be forthcoming about it, though. Thank you."

"Understand, I love my father, but he does verge on outright megalomania at times. I'm not going to be a tool for either side. I'm going to work with you to create the very best SAGE interface to Brice that we can, for the greater good of what we're trying to accomplish, as saccharine as that sounds."

"I couldn't agree more. I might have used those very words." Andrew extended his hand. "Equal partners."

Edward nodded and shook the hand he was offered. "Equal partners."

The flight had been the usual boring grind, which he had frittered away by playing chess on his handheld. He tried some music, watched bits of the movie, and tried to ignore the growing feeling of dread inside him. It almost felt like pressure building up. For how many years had he longed to come here? And how much was he dreading his arrival? Both measurements approached infinity.

"How you holding up?" Kentucky Sharpe asked, leaning near him.

"I am," Edward replied. "Thanks for asking. Where is Arvo?"

"Back in the men's room. Probably primping. Or planning his global takeover. One of the two."

Edward laughed and stared toward the distant clouds beyond the plane. "I know it's awful to say, but I cannot tolerate him. I wish Dad hadn't forced him on me this trip."

"Well, Wendell's trying to protect you from Croftdon. That's the way he sees it anyway."

"He should be protecting me first from Arvo," Edward said.

"Why do you think I'm here?" Ken asked with a chuckle. He again trained his eyes toward the window. "Look down there. Here it comes. That's Ireland."

Edward looked. It indeed was green. Very green. "That's about how I thought it would look, having never flown over it before. Well, not since I was three months old and flying the other direction."

Ken shrugged. "Their loss."

"More like their conscious forfeiture," Edward said.

"I'm sure it was a lot more complicated than that."

"Maybe."

The light streamed past him through the hired car windows as he stared dully out at all the directions. He was almost glad for the long drive from Heathrow to their hotel, despite the day cut in half and the hours dwindling. It still felt like late at night to early morning in his mind and yet here it was, 8 PM on another day. The end result would have him at the hotel, though, with sleep an easy transition, except for one detour on the way.

Arvo had already started his spiel. "They will try to undermine your association with Bakunin. They will attempt to sway you to their side, their sympathies, you have to remember who these people are –"

Edward surfaced roughly from his reverie, turning around with a sharp look in that man's direction. "Do you really think you need to explain that to me, Arvo?"

"I know you know it intellectually, but emotionally is another matter. They are the competition now."

"Can you imagine how many times I've heard that story from my father? How many times I have had it drilled into me? This is already going to be an incredibly difficult, awkward experience for me. I do not need you to reinforce that with me."

"I'm sorry, Edward, but I've been given strict orders –"

"You do not need to rebuild the firewall, Arvo. It's never going down." Edward motioned toward the motorway. "Where are we going? Croftdon House is in another direction, according to my GPS."

"We'll be stopping at the executive hotel suite first and then go to Croftdon house come the morning," Arvo said.

"No, I'm going there now. Tonight."

"You haven't taken your allergy medications yet," Arvo said. "You know what the allergist cautioned you about regarding your meds."

"I'm a grown man, Arvo. I've been managing those things for myself a while now. I want to go to the Croftdon house and see it. For my own reasons. If you want to stay behind, that's fine. I can drive myself."

"I'll go with you," Ken said.

"Thanks," Eddie replied with a smile.

"I'm going, too, believe me," Arvo said. "I'm not letting you near those people without a buffer."

Edward shook his head. "I'll be the arbiter of that, Arvo, not you."

Arvo shot a hard glare at his superior. "Then you'll answer to your father."

"No problem. I've been doing that for a long time, too."

The mansion itself, he already knew, had been built in the 18th century on top of the grounds of the old estate. In that area had once stood outbuildings of the older estate, the whole house ruins of which still existed and dated well into the 14th century. Croftdon House, how it was generally known, was a warm gold brownstone with a very old brick fence mounted with a more modern mild steel gate. The gate bore the original wrought iron image of a swan.

Edward inhaled deeply and opened the car with a sharp jerk of the handle. Even his first step out onto the property he experienced in slow motion. He had been here. He had been here as an infant. He tried to imagine himself in the arms of total strangers. Tried to imagine himself with familiars who were entirely unfamiliar.

He felt something. Something. He couldn't say what. He reached up to touch the swan emblem and then laid a hand on the brickwork beyond it.

"My ancestors lived on this land for centuries," Edward said aloud, to Ken who was at his side.

"Shouldn't I be able to feel something?"

"Maybe you are, but you're not letting it in," Ken said.

"Maybe."

"Or maybe you can't feel anything because you're Wendell Bakunin's son now," Arvo replied.

"I am, but must one eradicate the other?" Edward asked.

Edward held onto the brick for a moment, considering the dust that had collected on his fingers. He turned one way and then the other, surveying the full sweep of his ancestral land. Beyond the gate, he could see evidence for the gardens he knew filled much of the property. The ivy embraced one side of the house. He knew there to be a small family graveyard, just beyond the wing. The last person buried there had been his biological mother.

Some pressure welling up inside of him made it hard and harder to breathe. He turned his face away from the past and toward the newer gate, only to see the distant detail of the old mansion. Somewhere, a rustling presaged the breeze that blew through him and played faintly in his hair.

"I want to go now," Edward said shortly, turning back toward the car.

"Excellent idea," Arvo said.

The crisp sound of the mansion's front door opening broke through Eddie's train of thought as he reached for the car. He abandoned the effort and looked around toward the sound.

Out stepped Andrew and a slightly older man whom Edward recognized as Thaddeus. Tad, as he was called, had his arms folded. He sported his usual expression of skeptical if somewhat fond suspicion.

"Eddie!" Andrew called out to them as he walked down the steps to the pathway out to the gate. "We weren't expecting you until the morning!"

"Good going, Eddie, we're stuck now," Arvo muttered, where only Eddie and Ken could hear.

"I'm sorry," Edward called back toward the house, "I had just intended to take a quick look. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You're not disturbing us, don't be ridiculous," Andrew called out, laughing. "Come in, see the house, see everyone, meet James and Wilse. I insist."

"Well, we're really stuck now," Arvo whispered.

Edward swung a glare at him. "You can wait in the car."

"Your father would kill me–"

"I take full responsibility," Edward replied, in a low voice to his two companions. "We won't be long. I am about to enter the family estate of the family that rejected me and confront them. This event is going to be awkward and painful enough without you glowering at me the whole time I'm in there. Now wait in the damned car."

"Fine by me," Arvo said, climbing back into the rear seat and slamming the door behind him.

Ken came up around to stand between the car and Edward. "You all right?"

"No," Edward whispered, "but I know how to fake it well. I've been doing it for ages."

Edward walked forward until he stood within reach of the two men he knew to be his full biological brothers – Andrew, whom he knew well, and Tad, who he knew less well, while thinking Tad probably preferred it remain that way.

Edward extended his hand. "Hello, Tad. Good to see you again."

Tad smirked but gave the other man's hand a perfunctory shake. "You almost sounded like you meant that."

"Funny, I almost did."

Tad shook his head. "I see you haven't lost your saturnine sense of humor."

"Nor you your natural charm."

"Will you two please stop," Andrew said, stepping out of the way for Edward to pass. "We need to welcome Eddie home. It's been too long already. Let's not delay matters."

Edward turned away quickly to a familiar figure beside him. "First, I should introduce my personal assistant, Kentucky Sharpe. We call him Ken. Despite his name, he's a Native Canadian, but he seems to endure the ways of the anglo Yankee fairly well. Ken, these are Thomas Croftdon's sons, Andrew and Thaddeus."

Ken nodded to them. "I've been anxious to meet you. Eddie has told me a lot about you."

"He has?" Tad asked, looking at Edward in surprise. "I would have thought we were a shoddy secret that overshadowed his now legendary greatness once he sprung fully formed from the golden sweat off Wendell Bakunin's immortal brow."

"You're the only one who thinks I'm great, Tad," Edward said, "or you must because you keep pointing it out when no one else does."

Andrew snorted out a laugh at Edward's comments before he opened the entry door. "Eddie, welcome home."

If touching the brick wall outside had netted nothing, his primary reaction to walking into his ancestral home was an all-encompassing dividend of self-doubt. It made him feel even smaller and less significant than usual. He wondered if that was some primal reaction to his memory of the last time he had been here, when he was an infant who had apparently not passed muster.

It looked more modern than he had expected. It had clearly been extensively renovated. The great room was still big and open, now occupied by well-appointed aggregates of expensive tasteful furniture. Between them and the great room stood two younger men. One was perhaps in his early 20s, the other looked to be in his mid-20s. The older one was notably darker-haired than Eddie and the others. He determined that might be Wilse, Thomas' nephew whom he had raised.

"Eddie," Andrew said, as if he had been waiting to say this for a long time, "this is James and Wilse. Wilse is the son of our uncle George, who passed away. His mother moved back to her native Germany, but Wilse wanted to stay here and so he has lived with us ever since."

"Very nice to meet you both," Edward said against a rising dryness taking over his mouth.

The two younger men seemed to face him with honest smiles. He shook Wilse's hand and then turned toward James to do the same. But the younger man threw his arms around him. He hugged him so tightly Eddie doubted he could breathe.

He waited awkwardly for the contact to end.

"I'm sorry," the young man said, his voice tight and his gaze unwavering. "I've waited a good while to meet you, yes?"

"Thank you," Eddie said, more comfortable to be able to step away. "As I have you. All of you. You have a lovely home and grounds. It's very impressive."

Eddie felt his presence immediately, even though he didn't know he was there yet. That presence impacted him like the sizzle on his skin from an approaching electrical storm. It seemed an intense, immediate energy that everything in Edward instantly recognized, as if deeply linked via unseen connections to his inner core.

That presence spoke forcefully with an older and deeper voice. It might have been the voice of god for the chill that ran through Edward when he heard it. It made him feel like a shadow had just walked across his grave.

That voice said, "Did you really think you would be able to come in here and meet us like you were just a new employee?"

Edward turned slowly in the shadow's direction. He had met the man just briefly, years and years before, but he knew the man was Thomas Croftdon. His biological father. He knew it. Knew it. In his bones, he knew it.

"Mr. Croftdon," he said, trying to sound confident while offering his hand. "I'm very happy to formally meet you, I'm Edward – "

Thomas replied like a first burst of thunder, cutting cleanly through Eddie's introduction while ignoring his outstretched hand, "I gave you that name. Did you really think you needed to introduce yourself? I know who you are. Very well. Trust me."

Edward, struck silent, stood there in the margin, with nothing in him to say. He withdrew his hand and tried to scrape up a suitable reply.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid I don't understand your anger –"

"It isn't anger, damn it!" Thomas snapped. "It's thirty years of frustration. I've rarely been able to communicate with you, at Wendell's insistence. This visit almost seems like a miracle to me. I have been extremely worried about you for a long time –"

"Not for very long, given the circumstances," Edward replied, the impetus for his own anger having come out of nowhere.

Thomas smiled a soft understanding. "Good, now your anger comforts me. It shows me we still mean something to you. You've not left us entirely."

Edward spun around to look fully in Thomas' direction. The movement had been in anger, but he took a moment to center himself before saying calmly, "I didn't leave anything, sir. I was left."

"The real story is very different from the one you've been told," Thomas replied.

"Maybe we should save that discussion for another time? I just wanted to see the house. Andrew gave me the opportunity to introduce myself. I'm happy to meet all of you."

The older man closed the distance between them. He looked at him steadily, unblinking. Edward could only stare at him from the side, almost afraid to meet his penetrating gaze. Edward crossed his arm to steady his tremor at the fear this man induced.

"Good God, you don't really mean that," Thomas snapped back. "To hell with your polite and civilized responses, for god's sakes. Talk to me. You look dreadful. Exhausted. How are you? Where have you been?"

Edward felt forced to look away. "Mr. Croftdon, I've met you twice in thirty years. I don't mean to be rude, but I barely know you. And yes, I am trying to be polite and cordial." Edward looked toward Ken. "I think it's time to go."

"Is that how everything is done where you're from? Shrug it all off? Avoid discord? As you are parting, why don't you tell me to have a nice day, too?"

Andrew walked forward to stand between the two men. "Dad, please."

"It's all right, Andrew," Edward said to his friend. "We can get a fresh start in the morning. I'm looking forward to our collaboration on the joint project, which will help Croftdon Computers again reach its full potential." He glanced one last time back at Thomas. "Which, I know, is the one and only reason I was invited here, after thirty years. Oh, and have a nice day. I'll see myself out."

Ken had to match Edward's stride to catch up with him as the younger man moved steadily down the pathway they had just walked up. Edward was headed nowhere but their car.

Ken reached for the door handle and only then saw the tear that streaked down the other man's face as he whisked it away. It was quickly followed by another.

"Jesus, man, are you okay?"

"Get me the fucking hell away from here," Edward choked out, climbing with eagerness into the car.

Ken moved around to the driver's side and climbed in, casting a look back at the house to see Thomas watching their retreat.

Arvo leaned forward from the back, placing a hand on Edward's shoulder. "Don't let them get to you, man."

Edward shook his head. "Too late."

Chapter Two

It was the next morning, after showering and fumbling through dressing and making a jet-lag stab at morning rituals, that he finally made it over to Ken's room to check for his second bag. He squinted around the room, turning around to do so. Nothing matched what he sought.

"Where is my medication case?" Edward asked. "Is it in here? It's not in my room."

Ken nodded to the chair where Arvo was shouting into his cell phone. "That's what Mr. Personality is resolving. British Skies lost a couple of pieces of luggage. I'm afraid that was one of them."

"Wonderful," Edward said, shaking his head. "So not only do I have to return to my personal purgatory today, I'm without my allergy meds. I haven't taken them since we left home whenever that was. I'll be sneezing while I'm biting my tongue the whole time, which sounds downright dangerous. Maybe I'll be lucky and Thomas will be elsewhere today."

Ken looked with some trepidation over at his friend. "You know, Eddie, not to take his side or anything –"

"But to take his side," Eddie replied.

"There are no sides in this," Ken said. "I like Wendell, but he did shelter you from the world much more than he should have. The Croftdons know a lot more about you than you do about them."

"I seriously doubt that. They may think they know some things about me," Edward said.

Ken nodded. "Not everything they know is correct, that's true. But I think they do know more about you than you do about them."

"Maybe." Edward darted a glowering glance at Arvo. "I'll need an inhaler. Actually, two of them. Can you handle that for me?"

"Sure, there's a chemist we passed up the road." Arvo looked from one man to the other. "You're going to stay here until I get back, right?"

Edward settled down on the first available arm of an easy chair. He tried to appear at ease. "I haven't even had breakfast yet, where would I go?"

"Okay, as long as you wait for me," Arvo said, before once again checking from one man to the other, then grabbing the car keys and leaving with a swift energy known only to Arvo.

After Arvo's hired car clambered up the road, Ken grinned toward Edward and stood up to walk over to him. He flicked a corn flake off his shirt. "You're a really bad liar, Eddie."

"I know," he said, reaching for his laptop.

"You're calling a taxi?"

"One is already waiting for me around the corner."

This time, it took the better part of twenty minutes for Edward to summon the courage to walk up to the Croftdon home. He was happy at the weight of the laptop under his arm, like some anchor to himself, to his own life, his own world. He felt even happier to see that some of the cars that had been gathered near the entrance had been stripped away. Fewer cars might make for fewer Croftdons.

Andrew opened the door. "Good morning, right on time. Have you had breakfast?"

"Yes, thanks. I'd like to get to work if I can."

"I have us set-up in the library. I've seen to it we have the run of the place."

Edward tried not to exhale his relief too loudly.

The library itself was like every English home library he had ever seen on TV, and akin to most of the ones back in Boston, too. From the floor to the ceiling rose a wall of books with a fine dust web of neglect from row to row.

"Forgive the dustiness," Andrew said. "We don't use the library very often, what with laptops and handhelds and ebook readers and whatnot."

"I'm accustomed to dust. I live in Boston," Edward said, setting up his laptop on the open table. "Was there something you wanted to accomplish first up?"

"No, it's entirely your move from here, Eddie," Andrew said. "I'm just here to watch the master."

Edward coughed out a laugh. "If there was a master to watch, you could do that. I just work very hard. That's the only secret. I've uploaded the code to a cloud encryption. I asked Bakunin's programmer pool to cobble together the new additions." As Edward loaded the page to access the code, he tossed a grin up at Andrew. "Shall we load the sequence of nightmares that lay ahead of us?"

"I suppose we must. I also have that confusing app code that we found embedded in our common files. I would like you to take a look at it and see if you can fathom what it's for. I've sent it over to you."

"I see," Edward said, clicking on the link to open the document in text. He leaned forward, squinting at the screen.

"The title at the top is Op TinTin. It looks like some kind of laborator software. Where did this come from?"

Eddie squinted harder at it, like that might make it less confusing. "This was documented from my files?"

"Supposedly. We wanted to be totally upfront about it. No one is sure what it's for. I thought certain you would know."

Edward's confused stare continued. "I've never seen it before in my life. It would have no useful application to Brice. SAGE is the only already existing planchet system with a central console for the Brice system. This looks like one-way grasping wetware or something."

"That was my feeling, too."

"It even looks, I don't know, black world or something."

"I agree."

Edward shook his head forcefully. "I don't understand. This code would create a distinct and separate interface to an external nervous system. It would be redundant to the existing console. Why do this?"

"Some kind of secondary utilization?" Andrew asked.

"I'm not sure. I'd need to look at all of it."

"It has a pretty tough nut encryption on it, too, on large wings of the code. Can you crack it?"

"I can try. It's going to take me some time. You have any energy drinks?"

"Yes, I was forewarned about your twin energy drink and coffee addictions. I'm amazed you can guide a mouse without a tremor."

"It's not always easy."

From out of the rest of the house, Arvo Nurmi's voice repelled off of walls. "– unacceptable!" Arvo's voice powered across the many rooms. "This utterly goes against our entire contractual agreement–"

"As I've already told you, I was not here, Mr. Nurmi," Thomas' voice ratcheted up a notch to reply.

Just the sound of Thomas' voice made Edward nervous, but Arvo's outrage overwhelmed the first reaction.

"Sounds like I'd better rescue Thomas," Edward said, as he bolted out of the chair and rushed through the hallway to the outer great room.

"You must immediately –" Arvo continued to bark.

"I'm here, Arvo," Edward called out. "You may stop bellowing now."

Arvo turned on him like the guard dog schnauzer he resembled, but lowered his voice so it would travel only one way. "Why did you sneak out this morning while I was gone?"

"Obviously because I didn't want you with me."

"Your father gave me strict orders –"

"All I was doing was the work I came here to do. That my father asked me to do. Which is the reason I am here, remember?"

Arvo walked up on him, staring directly into his eyes. He lowered his voice to utter, "Have you forgotten where you are?"

"Do you really think you need to remind me, of all people, of where I am?" Edward snapped.

"Apparently so." Arvo handed him the small sack clutched in his hand. "Here are your damned inhalers."

"Thank you. Any word on my medications?"

"Nothing yet. Are you certain you brought them? They can find no sign of them anywhere in our baggage handling data."

"Yes, I'm certain I brought them," Edward said, his words slowed down into a calmer pace with obvious effort. "Find them. They're essential. I must have them to work."

"I'll do my best," Arvo said, holding up his hands. "That's all I can do."

"Do what you have to do, damn it," Edward snapped, ripping open the bag in his hand and deboxing an inhaler. He uncapped the inhaler and breathed in from it. After a moment, it calmed his expression. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. Just get it done or I can't do what I have to do."

"Yeah, I get that, believe me." He yanked the cell phone from his pocket again. "I'll do what I have to do to solve the problem."

With that, Arvo reversed course and walked off into the distance to make his call. Ken had been seated beside him, waiting, with his arms folded.

"Are you sure you brought the medicine case I brought out?" Edward asked, gazing steadily at his assistant.

"I brought everything I found there," Ken said. "If need be, I'll drive into town myself and purchase your allergy medications. Your allergy medications."

"I need my medicine case," Edward said firmly. "And I need it soon."

"Arvo's working on that," Ken replied. "I'll deal with your allergy medications, since that's apparently what's so important to you."

"You know, Tad is a doctor," James, the youngest of Thomas' sons said, having listened to pieces of the conversation from afar, "he could recommend anything you need, Eddie."

"Thank you, James, I appreciate the offer," Edward said politely, "but we'll handle it. Ken?"

"I'm on it," Ken replied, meeting Edward's stare until he stood up to walk away for his own phone call.

From his left, Edward heard the sound of Andrew coming into the hallway entrance and down into the office. He had apparently just come from the kitchen, as he toted energy drinks and a coffee carafe in his arms. Edward stole the moment to again uncap his inhaler and draw another hit off it. He shut his eyes to wallow in the aftereffects. When he opened his eyes again, Thomas, unseen until now, was standing near him, starting straight at him.

"Hello, son," Thomas said simply.

Edward stepped back at the greeting. "Hi," he said quickly, turning back to the hallway so he could escape to the library where Andrew waited with energy drinks and the laptop open to a puzzling file.

"Now where were we with the great mystery?" Edward asked, slipping into the chair again. "Ah, yes, trying to find out what the hell this thing is."

Thomas had followed and now stood, leaning against the door frame. He focused on Edward. "How many hours does Wendell make you work?"

Edward paused to center himself. He looked over at Thomas. "Only the hours that are needed to finish the project."

"You're certain?"

"Yes, of course. I work hard, but we all do," Edward said firmly, finally looking away. "Don't you work hard for Croftdon?"

"We have this odd notion about not killing people for profit," Thomas said. "Andrew, Wilse, James and I share the work. We also have employees. I work normal days most of the time, largely from home."

"It's good there are four of you then," Edward replied. "There is only me. My father isn't a programmer."

Thomas' gaze probed on, undeterred. "You have a pool programming subcontractor."

Edward flipped him a cautious glance in response. "Yes."

"Then why is it you seem to perform most of the coding? Everything I see has your name attached."

He looked away to his work again. "Security is important to my father. He doesn't trust many people. So I do the bulk of the important work."

"You do the bulk of the work, period, and he nets the benefits."

Edward slowly gnashed his teeth to reply, "I'm paid well. I have a considerable personal level of wealth."

"Not considerable enough from what I'm told."

"You are misinformed," Edward said firmly.

"Dad, please?" Andrew asked, passing Edward his cold can of energy drink.

"That's another thing," Thomas said, "one serving contains the same caffeine as found in five cups of coffee. And that's aside from the rest of the stimulants in them. How many of these do you drink in a day?"

"I'm an adult," Edward said, the anger soaking fully through his voice now, "and that is none of your business."

"Like hell it's not," Thomas said. "As long as you're here, you will listen to my opinions on this and any other topic I feel entitled to hold forth on. You're standing in my house, young man."

"That can be easily remedied," Edward said, shutting his laptop.

"Eddie, Dad, stop it, both of you," Andrew said. "We're trying to work. And the idea was to make Eddie feel welcome in our house, remember?"

"Very well," Thomas said, looking from Andrew to Edward. He pointed straight at the second man. "But this is not over."

Thomas turned around and stormed down the hallway, his footsteps punctuating the words he had spoken. Edward didn't let himself hope for deliverance until he heard the harsh echo of a slammed door up the hallway.

"You look worse than you did before," Andrew said. "What's wrong?"

Edward crossed his arms against an inner cold. He pushed up the laptop lid and tapped until the screen resumed. "He terrifies me. I'm not accustomed to that level of confrontation. Those topics are largely avoided with my father. We don't discuss this kind of thing. When Thomas yells at me, it's worse."

Andrew laughed a little. "He's just worried about you, Eddie."

"I would have thought he'd have recovered from that a long time ago."

"Of course not. Anyway, why would Dad terrify you?"

"I don't know," Edward said, speaking mainly to himself, but saying it aloud, "maybe for the same reason the house gives me chills."

"The house gave you chills?" Andrew asked, more than a little surprised now.

Edward realized he had spoken that aloud, too. He brushed it off and decided to top it off with a joke. "Probably just anticipating this godawful code. Shall we get back to business and plumb its frightful depths?"

It was his fourth or fifth can of the worst energy drink he had ever tasted, not that the flavor of it mattered at all. He had used up about a third of his inhaler. The data on the screen had begun to spin together into pinwheels like a kaleidoscope he was dreaming. He saw Escher patterns tumble out of raw data streams – visibly, figuratively. He watched as white phosphorous dots merged together before his eyes. He covered his eyes, looked around the room, did everything he could to engage his forebrain. He tried to wake himself fully to the room.

Tad's loud, resonant voice bounced in across him from the doorway. "Edward, your two co-conspirators went back to the hotel around nine o'clock. Something about eating and sleeping, it seems, those self-indulgent weaklings." Tad walked across to nudge Andrew, slumped in his chair. "Andrew, up with you, go to bed. Edward, the guestroom is down the hall. I'm afraid I'm going to have to shutdown this demoniacal workathon in my capacity as a physician."

Andrew had leaned forward, covering his forehead with his hands. He looked up, blinking repeatedly around at the light in the room. "What the hell time is it?"

"2:30 AM," Tad said. "By anyone's measurement of sanity, that is on the south side of it."

Edward shut his laptop. "Very well, I'll call a taxi."

"There's a room for you four doors down," Tad said, "I have already told you that."

"Thank you, but I need to work," Edward said briskly. "So I'll take it back with me to the hotel."

"Work?" Tad asked. "Eddie, it's the middle of the goddamned night."

"Actually, it's early the next morning." Edward surveyed the sleepy man in the room. "Good night, Andrew, I'll see you later in the day. Call me when you're awake," he said, and quickly left the library.

He felt a sense of floating freedom, much as he often did when he worked in the middle of the night, but the rush was even greater as he walked quickly across the great room toward the front door. A palpable sense of relief swept him as he exited via the entry and walked down the pathway toward the gate. He retrieved his cell phone to make a call.

His battery wave appeared dead. "Wonderful. Flatline. Oh, well, I'll walk."

Tad had unlocked his small sports coupe. He opened the passenger door. "Edward, get in my car. I will drive you."

"It's only half a mile, I'll walk," Eddie said, feeling a pressing need to stride down the path that turned toward the escape road.

Edward kept walking, straight toward a distant glow he knew to be the first turn before his hotel. He would use it as a beacon. It would help keep him alert. Or so he thought until the sound of a car sputtered up behind him.

The car slowed to keep pace with him. The driver was Tad, leaning over the passenger seat toward Edward on the other side. "I will drive you."

"I can walk by myself."

"Get in this moment, you thick, pretentious, arrogant ass," Tad called back.

Edward stopped in his tracks. The cool air, stinging his eyes, caused him to stare upwards at stars. He knew his eyes were filling with tears and there was little he could do to stanch them. An awful end to a terrible day. Wonderful – just wonderful.

"What is with all the anger and hostility and confrontation with your family? I've heard all about English civility. I'm told you're more polite and less forward. What happened?" Eddie shouted back.

"You should stop watching Merchant and Ivory films. I'll channel my inner septic now, just for you." He jerked open the door handle to push it open. "Get in the fuckin' car, you stupid jackass."

"God, I want to go home," Edward said.

"Has it occurred to you yet that you are home?" Tad replied.

"Home is where people don't throw you away."

"Not without getting some miles out of you first. Besides, I haven't seen anybody kick you to the curb. You're the one who left the house when I was showing you to your room."

"I was talking about the first time," Edward said. "And I said I would walk and I will."

Tad hit the gas and the car lurched forward to turn and then block the road. When Edward moved up to walk around it, Tad lunged the car forward to block him again. When Edward tried to walk up and maneuver around the other way, Tad backed up. Again, Edward moved one way, was occluded – tried to go the other direction, was obstructed again.

"We can go back and forth like this all night, if you like, Eddie. You think you're a pigheaded stubborn bastard? Where d'you think you got it from? Get in the car."

Once again, Edward tried to move around on both ends. Tad once again drove up and back to prevent him from passing.

Finally, Edward braced his laptop to his chest and rolled sideways over the front car hood, then jumped down on the other side to continue walking.

"You stubborn asshole!" Tad yelled, leaning over the passenger side to continue the shouting match. "What if I run over your legs?"

"Then I'll crawl!" Edward shouted back.

At last, Tad pounded the car horn until it screamed across the night. Lights flicked on in nearby houses. Dogs began to howl. Suddenly, he felt like the center of the universe, to which everyone was looking.

"People are watchin', Edward, we can't have your right to privacy imperiled, can we?"

Somebody switched on an outside light and walked out into their yard. Someone else did the same. There were voices trading words.

With that, Tad blasted the horn again.

"All right! All right! Stop it!" Eddie called back, climbing in the passenger side and slamming the door. "Are you happy?"

"Of course! I'm always happy when I win."

"Shut up and drive, Toad."

"See, I knew you'd get with the program," Tad said, turning the car to continue toward the hotel beacon.

Edward bristled at every moment as they drove on. "You know, there is something I've always wanted to ask you."

"No, there is no Father Christmas or Santa Claus," Tad said, continuing to drive down the road. "No Easter Bunny, too, I'm afraid. Jury is still out on the Tooth Fairy, I think, after watching South Park."

Edward shook his head, rubbing at his forehead, like he was trying to revive himself fully. He glanced over at Tad. "Why is it you hate me?"

Tad's trademark irritated glance veered back at him, but then Tad looked again at the road. "I don't hate you," he snapped. "Where in the hell did you get that immensely stupid idea?"

"Gee, I don't know. Let me think. The myriad emails ending with fuck off and die? The number of vitriolic voice mails you've left. Your Skype nickname for me – the Great Satan. Take your pick."

"Are you so bloody thin-skinned you can't accept a little criticism?"

"You call that a little criticism?"

"Yes, I do. Everyone doesn't throw garlands at your feet so they automatically hate you?" Tad turned at the appointed corner. "Andrew thinks you're the Second Coming. James worships you in his own way, too. And Wilse is pretty favorably impressed. I feel it to be my job to take the piss out of you now and again. It I didn't care, I wouldn't even consider talking to you."

Edward looked at him directly. "What makes you think I need the – your word – piss taken out of me?"

"You are the anointed dauphin of our industry –"

"Not anymore I'm not. I'm an aging icon and sinking fast. Most of that was just Bakunin Systems ad campaigns. It's all in your head. So because you think I'm great, I have to think I am? You think I think I'm fabulous, so I am arrogant?"

"Look, you've been kept in a palatial estate with people to serve your every need. You were allowed to ignore the rest of humanity. Your adopted father made you the crown prince of his kingdom and –"

"My adopted father," Edward interrupted him to say, "was the son of a Utah rancher. He was a good friend of your – our – grandfather, John. Our grandfather and my adopted grandfather came through times that made them the men they are. When Thomas and Andrew located me once, my father sent me to live on the Utah ranch for a few months, to keep me out of sight. Through no fault of my own, I wrecked my bicycle. Do you know how I was punished?"

"Oh, I'm sure through some deeply cruel and unusual punishment as we all are at that indignant age," Tad said.

"My grandfather had a horse he would use for riding. He had a crop he used with the horse. My adopted grandfather beat me with it so severely, I couldn't walk or stand for several days. That was the Bakunin idea of punishment."

"My God," Tad said, slowing the car to a crawl. "Okay, there's no way to quip my way around that one. That is awful."

"Thank you."

"But surely he was prosecuted."

Edward laughed a kind of sad, stilted chuckle. "Are you joking? He owned the local sheriff. I was essentially told that I was a lucky kid and should count my blessings for having been adopted by such a wealthy family."

"I must admit that sounds horrible," Tad said, shaking his head. "But my childhood was no Disney movie, I promise. We all have our crosses to bear. Mother died. Father drank for a time afterwards."

"When I was 12, I'd have changed places with you in a heartbeat," Edward said, looking over at Tad. "Would you have switched out with me?"

Tad tapped the steering wheel for a moment. Finally, he said, "No, I can't say I would." Tad reached down, picked up a package and tossed it to Edward. "Here, that's an antihistamine, diphenhydramine."

"Thank you for the thought. And the ride. But my allergy meds are a lot stronger than this. I have severe allergies to about a billion things. I can't take this anyway. That stuff puts me to sleep."

"That was a side benefit, too, yes. It'll halt many of your worst symptoms until something else comes in. I'll talk to your stateside doctor and –"

"My own people will handle it."

"Will you stop?" Tad asked, turning right with a vengeance into the hotel parking area. He pumped the brake to make his point and stop the car. "Why do you have to put up a wall whenever we, any of us, try to help you?"

"Where I'm from, that's an intrusion on my privacy. We don't accept assistance from others. It's considered a sign of weakness. I can handle things myself. I always have."

Edward climbed out of the car, his laptop under one arm and the tremor in his hand becoming obvious as he found his room card key. He walked away and toward the hotel, without once looking back.

"No, Edward," Tad said softly, "I think it is becoming abundantly clear that you cannot."

Chapter Three

He awoke with molten lead spilling into his forehead and sparks of flame burning straight through his first morning thoughts. A thousand hammers clanged against every raw nerve in his head and shoulders. The light spilled into his eyes and the pillow he grabbed for didn't really block it out – and it was too white. The whole room, too. Just too fucking white. And it hurt a lot.

He flung the pillow away and dragged himself up on an arm. He fought to remember where he had awakened and blinked hard to see around the room.

Hotel room. Somewhere. Oh, yeah. England. He recalled now.

"You finally back from the dead?" Ken's voice seemed to pound in on him like the high tide.

"Finally?" he croaked out a word. "Why? What time is it?"

"What time is it?" Ken asked, laughing. "You mean what day is it. You've been asleep for eighteen hours, Eddie."

"I've been what?" he called out, crawling up, grabbing for the wall to keep from falling but tripping anyway.

He hit the doorframe. Rubbing at the knee he had impacted, he dragged himself up again with the arm of a chair. He balanced only with maximum effort.

"You heard me," Ken said. "You got here I guess in the middle of the night on Monday night or Tuesday morning. It's Wednesday morning, pal."

"Oh, my God," Eddie whispered, raking his fingers into his thick blond hair. "How did I let this happen?"

Ken laughed loudly. "How did you let what happen? You slept. You were tired. Welcome to the planet of the mortals, man."

"I can't do that. Oh, God, does my father know?"

"Which one?"

Edward focused on his friend with a certain resolve. "That isn't funny."

"I lied to Wendell," Ken said. "I knew if I didn't, you'd pitch a fucking fit. Thomas called to find out how you were and I told him the truth. I thought it would be okay to let him know you're human. He seems to be in on the secret."

"I need my medication case," Edward murmured harshly, grabbing his towel from the linen closet.

"Arvo the Magnificent is on the case, so to speak," Ken said. "And anyway, Tad gave you antihistamines when he drove you home. He told me."

"I can't take those," Edward said, pointing to the unopened package. "It's diphenhydramine tablets. They're weak and ineffective on allergies like mine."

"Yeah, plus they make you sleep like the rest of us mere mortals," Ken said. "However, it seems like you crashed pretty hard without them. They'll keep the worst of the symptoms away until we can hunt down your medicine case. Anyway, I don't think I've heard you sneeze since we've been here."

Edward considered the assertion. "Yes, well, I've taken the medication so long I'm sure I've built up reserves. They must be keeping me in check."

"Maybe."

Edward reached for his grooming kit. "I'm going to shower and get dressed. Will you call Arvo and get an update on my case?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll also go find something for you for breakfast. You did not eat yesterday."

"Yes, I did. I must have."

"You didn't. The day before, you drank about six cans of Red Rover, your drink of choice, and God knows how much coffee, but no food that anyone can remember outside of the corn flakes that no one saw you eat either. So, let's try some actual eggs and things, shall we? You get ready. I'll hunt food."

The shower poured hot and steaming water down on him until he could barely stand the heat. He endured it, enjoying the brisk sting of reality it brought to his skin. It woke him more, though it barely alerted the brain that seemed permanently fogged without his stash. Not that he was admitting that to anyone who wasn't himself.

Once he had dressed, he found his way to the front room and located his wallet. A knock shook his door.

When he opened it, Arvo was waiting there, hands on his hips. He looked like a manic puppy just bursting for the gate to spring open.

"Your medical case has been found," Arvo said breathlessly, walking in. "I had your dad's secretary search for it. Here's the thing, Ed. She found the case in Ken's office."

Edward absorbed the information and nodded. He rubbed the towel again over his head. "Yes, I thought it would be something like that."

"I'll call your dad at once," Arvo said, "I'll tell him that Ken is trying to sabotage you."

"You will not," Edward said flatly. "You won't call my father and tell him anything in any way. Ken is my assistant. I will handle it."

"But he lied –"

"I said it's my call. My decision. Has Tyana shipped out the case?"

"It's going out express this morning," Arvo said.

"Thank you."

"If I can speak freely here, Ed, this is just way uncalled for. Ken seriously, seriously stepped over the line," Arvo said. "That kind of betrayal should be dealt with and strongly. I recommend terminating him immediately."

"I don't really care about your recommendations, Arvo," Edward said. "It's my father's company, my assistant, and my project, not yours."

The door opened and Ken walked in toting a box filled with sacks, cups and goldfish cartons. He looked like someone who knew he had just walked in on a conversation that had focused on him. He glanced from one man to the other. Arvo smirked through his usual annoying glare.

"What?" Ken asked.

Edward looked over at Arvo. "Give me a few minutes with Ken, would you?"

Arvo turned his smug grin in Ken's direction, looking for all the world like a child about to wail, now you're gonna get it. "With pleasure," he said and sailed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Edward accepted the box from Ken's arms and carried it to the small, square table beyond their kitchenette.

"You found out I hid your case," Ken said simply.

Edward removed one of the two meal cartons from the bigger box and handed it to Ken. "You care to tell me why?" he asked, sitting down with his own carton.

Ken joined him in a chair at the table. He set down his breakfast before meeting his old friend's eyes. "You want to tell me why you need it so badly?"

Edward laughed his sad, strained little laugh. He shook his head and opened his breakfast. He munched with perfunctory precision on a slice of toast. "I don't generally pull rank on you, but I should point out that I don't have to tell you anything, Ken. You're my assistant."

"I'm also your friend. Your good friend. For a lot of years."

"Then be my friend and don't prevent me from doing what I have to do. I have a ton of work ahead of me. I'm the only one who can do it. Those poor pool programmers my father brings in can't handle this level of code. Can you?"

"There are more important things than doing this job," Ken said. "Such as your health."

"My allergy medications –"

"This isn't about your damned allergy pills and you know it!" Ken snapped.

Edward looked away, finishing that piece of toast before picking up another. It took him that long to softly manage a reply, "Your big paycheck relies on my ability to work this hard. It always has."

Ken slouched gradually back in his chair, like a man melting against his own resolve. He folded his arms tightly, kicking at something under the table. "You don't think I know that? I have enough trouble sleeping because of it. Eddie, you're one of the kindest and most generous guys I've ever known in my life. I will not stand back and watch you become as crazy as Wendell – or die trying. It's one way or the other. There is no in-between. You have to know that by now. You're smart enough to know you need help."

"Can you afford for me to go cold turkey?" Edward asked. "I slept all those hours. Do you know why?"

"Because you're crashing," Ken said.

"Exactly. I can't do this without my pills."

"You don't know that, you've never tried. That's the addict talking –"

"I do know that! If you don't give me what I need to continue, I won't be able to do what my father demands of me. I have to do what my father demands of me or you don't get paid. No one gets paid. I am the fucking front dog on the sled. It's as simple as that."

Ken craned his neck backward, staring up at the ceiling. Finally, he shook his head. "No, I won't give you those drugs. I have arranged for something herbal –"

"Herbal? You can't be serious!"

"They're still chemicals. It's a concentration of stimulants, Eddie. It's supposed to be powerful, but it's not as dangerous as the uppers and downers."

"It's not as dangerous so it's not as effective."

Ken looked him directly in the eye. "It will give you a boost – that and your energy drinks and caffeine, it will be enough to bring you to a reasonably normal cognitive level. I've talked to a doctor –"

"Who doesn't know me? Who's never examined me? Who has no idea of the huge tolerance I've built up?"

"I told him the basics. He assured me that, as long as you eat and sleep normally, you should be able to function at a reasonable level."

"Reasonable to who?" Edward asked, doing minimal damage to his eggs.

"To most reasonable people," Ken said, "and he says we need to get you into rehab as soon as humanly possible."

"Wait, you said a doctor? You don't mean Tad, do you?" Edward asked, throwing down his fork.

"No, not Tad. But if you don't do as I ask, I'll not only tell Tad all about your addictions – I'll tell the whole Croftdon family. Everyone. In front of you even."

"I would sooner die," Edward said.

"I know that. So do what I ask and I won't be forced to go that far," Ken replied.

"And what if I can't do what I have to do?"

Ken exhaled slowly, sweeping back his long black hair. "If you can't – if you really can't – I'll reconsider then. And by the way, I called up and put a freeze on Tyana's instructions from Arvo. If you don't play fair with me, I swear to God, Eddie, I will tell all the Croftdons about everything. Your workload, your drugs, your breakdown –"

"All right," Edward said, biting numbly at a piece of bacon. "I don't have any other choice. I'll play by your rules. I just hope I can finish this bridging project with any degree of quality. The whole project depends upon the two systems fitting together."

"You'll get it done," Ken said.

"I had better. For both our sakes."

Edward had to admit he had benefited noticeably from food and sleep. The slow and quiet drive, despite Arvo nattering while at the wheel, also helped. The breeze through the windows had calmed him despite the direction they were headed. Edward reached for his laptop out of the back.

"I still don't like the idea of Ken contradicting –"

"It's not your call, Arvo," Edward said again.

"I just want to be on the record."

"Already noted."

Arvo scowled a little as he squinted at the road ahead. "I'll be out here until I talk to New York. Then I'll setup in the front great room like yesterday. If I see you being extensively interfered with by those people, I will step in and intervene, per my orders. I am to allow minimal interaction between you and the Croftdons."

"I know that," Edward said, as the car slowed down before Croftdon House.

Arvo looked at him for a moment. "How you feeling?"

"Like I'm going to a new high school on the first day. And I'm a freshman. With a target on my chest."

"Hang tough," Arvo said.

"Yeah, right," Edward replied, opening his door and forcing himself to leave the car.

The herbal crap that Ken had found for him basically turned the mental night light on in his head, and Eddie suspected that might be his imagination. All the gains made the day before yesterday had been lost. All the minimal comfort he had amassed at being inside the house had evaporated. He felt like a stranger again. And more than that, a stranger who had lost face. In fact, he felt weaker than he had the day before, when he had walked into the home of the people who had rejected him at birth.

He knocked at the door. He shut his eyes and prayed to gods in which he didn't believe for the door to be opened by Andrew.

The door opened and his eyelids lifted. An old man stared out at him. A staunchly polite if vaguely arrogant glare beamed back at him. It made everything so much better, Edward thought, adrift in an inner sea of sarcasm.

"You must be Edward," the old man said, stepping aside for him to enter, "I was told you might grace us with your presence today. It seems we missed you yesterday."

"You must be Mr. Croftdon. And that couldn't be helped, sir," Edward said, keeping his voice as flat and even as possible as he walked into this most frightening of houses.

"I trust that won't be happening again," the old man said, closing the door with a heavy thunk that almost sounded like a prison door closing.

"I trust it won't, no," Edward said, "however, I'm not an employee. I'm an independent contractor from a collaborating company. Our agreement states that the schedule may be subject to change."

"I understand that, young man," John Croftdon said, "I merely wish to be clear with you about my expectations of your work ethic. Your adopted grandfather was a great friend of mine. He was a highly disciplined person. I am also a businessman of rigorous standards of personal conduct."

"As am I."

"You had better be," John Croftdon said, pulling a folded group of papers from his pocket. "Mind you, I had your DNA tested to be certain we weren't being sent a ringer, even though my son and his wife have kept tabs on you through the years, to be certain of your whereabouts. When dealing with vast sums of money, there is always the opportunity for fraud. You are indeed Thomas and Faith's biological son. As such, you'll be expected to meet rigorous family criteria."

"You may expect as you wish, Mr. Croftdon," Edward said. "Is Andrew here?"

"He will be presently. I have things to which to attend. Why don't you have a seat there and you may wait for him?"

"Thank you," Edward said, as coolly as possible, as he sat down at the end of a very deep, old chair. As he looked up, his gaze aligned with a photographic portrait, hanging on the wall. It was a woman in what appeared to be a white and yellow silk taffeta dress. Her blonde hair pulled back, it made her seem stately, if a little older than she appeared to be.

Edward knew, somewhere in his marrow, the woman was his mother. It wasn't the color of her hair, which was his, or the narrow nose or chin, much like his, it was something even deeper.

"Yes, that's Faith," a familiar voice behind him said. "That's our mother."

Edward smiled around at Andrew. "Thanks, I had wondered."

"You look a lot like her. As do I. It's definitely where our hair color comes from."

"Despite that fact, she's beautiful," Edward said laughing, shaking his head at the overwhelming reaction he was having.

"Yes, yes, she was. And more than that, she was a wise and brilliant woman," Andrew said, sadly. He replaced the sadness with a smile. "You seem to be feeling stronger. When you rang, I spoke with the other people from our working group. They are anxious to hear the full presentation and get started. We have some time to waste so I thought I might show you around the grounds, unless there is something you wanted to work on first?"

Edward was suddenly compelled by a higher impulse. He glanced back at the portrait. "I wonder if I could see our mother's grave, too."

Andrew's gaze grew gentle until he looked away for a moment. "Yes, of course. Certainly. I'm sorry, I should have thought to offer before now."

With every step he took, Edward felt a little more at ease with the grounds. He followed Andrew out across the backyard into the divided garden that wended one way, while the opposing iteration of it unfurled into an overgrown ramble. That ramble forked off toward a rugged brick wall.

"This wall to the family plot is very old. It's part of the lay of the original farm. It's what gave the Croftdons our name. The original manor is over there."

They had cleared a high coppice and Edward could now see what had been hidden by the sloping land and the tall trees. An old house. A very old house.

"My god," Edward murmured, staring at it.

"Yes, that's Croftdon Farm Mansion, the original home. Some parts of it date back to the fourteenth century. God knows how many generations of our family lived and died there."

Edward wished he had some mastery over his expression just then. He had no will of his own over it or his words. To read 14th century on paperwork was one thing – to see it, entirely another. "It's –" he said, incapable of further speech.

"It's a monster of a money pit is what it is. Just a few weeks ago, Granddad was forced to sell it to a conservancy, just to be able to afford the upkeep on it. Heaven knows where they came from. It's enough to make you believe in miracles. Plus, we're still allowed full access to it."

Edward pressed a hand against his forehead, balancing out the sense of wonder assailing him with a reminder of reality. "The fourteenth century? The 1300s?"

"Yeah, yeah. 1330, 1340 some parts of it."

Eddie still couldn't think of a word to express the feelings. Finally, he relented, saying, "There simply aren't words enough for how astounding that is to me."

"Really? Well, yes, I suppose it might be from some perspectives," Andrew said. "I've always sort of taken it for granted."

Edward shook his head, looking back to the other man. "You don't understand. The oldest thing in my old neighborhood was the ice skating rink. It went all the way back to 1934. The oldest existing European structure in my whole state was built in the mid 17th century. It's so old in US terms, it's considered practically prehistoric in America."

Andrew nodded and yet shook his head, too. "Living with all this history can be a challenge. Watching time erode everything. Trying to manage it. It crumbles away a little every year. But if you think the old house is something, wait until you hear about this. In the far distance, see that gray rock thing shaped like an anchor? Looks like it's sunk into the ground."

"Yes, yes, I see."

"That is a 7th century monument of some kind. One of our ancestors built it. The name was de Croften or something like that back then. The monument is the remains of a crypt. It's why they built the ancestral croft here in the first place."

Edward's mouth dropped open, his eyes widening even more. He took two steps back as if he needed a better vantage point from which to take all of this in.

"That's astounding," he said, having folded his arms against a chill that had come upon him not from the air temperature but from another inner shock of astonishment. He laughed and then walked back and forward again, all the while staring at the view in amazement. "I've seen Native American structures that are even older, of course, but not European. I've never seen anything connected to my immediate ancestors even approaching that antiquity."

"I have to say, I think living in a new, clean city without age clinging to it would have its merits, too," Andrew said.

"Probably," Edward murmured, still staring in awe. "But this is so astonishing on a personal level."

"Speaking of personal," Andrew said, as he pointed the way up another path. "We can go see the family plot now, if you like."

"Yes, of course, lead the way."

The broken brick wall, that had settled itself into its own attractive symmetry wrought by time and weather, gave way to a gauged wicket on a half-gate that swung easily into the family plot.

"Here she is," Andrew said softly. "Here is Mum. Impossible to believe it's been ten years."

The grave was right and regular, the plot devoid of weeds or encroaching plant life. The square stone that marked its place was a soft coral color: Faith Arlene Stuart-Croftdon, Wife and Mother.

Edward gestured to the grave. "May I touch the stone?"

"Of course."

Edward knelt at the end of the plot, leaning forward to run his hand over the words etched into the flat marker. "Hello, Mother," he said softly. "I so wish I could have known you."

Andrew grinned at him. "That's the first time I've heard you refer to any of us in a familial sense. It makes me feel closer to you."

Edward smiled softly in return. "I lost my adopted mother when I was a boy. I had always hoped, somehow, that I'd be able to meet Faith one day. When I received word she, too, had died –"

"That must have been terrible."

"It was."

"It was awful enough to lose her having known her. Mum was very much the lady. She had an infectious laugh. She loved her horses. When she died, Dad sold the last of them. He couldn't bear to look at them without her to ride them."

Edward nodded slowly. "Did she know where I was? What I was doing?"

"Did she know?" Andrew said, laughing. "Eddie, she had a bloody shrine to you. She would show us photographs and read reports from the papers on what you had done. Your latest accomplishments."

Surprised, Edward stood quickly and turned in Andrew's direction. "You saw pictures of me?"

"Yes, of course we did. Dozens of them. You didn't know that?"

"No, I didn't know for sure that you knew I even existed. I wish I had been shown something substantive about all of you."

"Well, we'll just have to make up for that now, won't we? And I'm sorry to say we really should be going onto the old house. Our grandfather helps fund upkeep by allowing access to private travel companies booking holiday packages. I believe there's a procession scheduled to run through shortly, and I wouldn't want us to be trammeled over by tourists during your first visit."

"I understand," Edward said, once again leaning over to study the inscription, "may I come back here to visit her at a later time?"

"Whenever you wish, Eddie," Andrew said. "This whole estate is your home as much as you will have it."

"Thank you. I really do appreciate that."

"Shall we look at the old house now?"

The walk to the old house ventured through the garden by way of a forged path around an English roses hedge.

"Eight bedrooms, four reception rooms and seven bathrooms at its largest. The family vacated it in large measure in the late nineteenth century and built the new house. It was still occupied as a servants quarters into the early twentieth century. Since then, the various family branches have been arguing about whether to tear it down or carry out very expensive preservation. At the last moment, the conservancy miraculously found our grandfather and here we are."

"I can't even conceive of tearing this down," Edward said softly, stepping forward to wonder at the several corbel-set stairs up to the entry. He nudged the toe of his shoe against the first stone step. "It's almost miraculous."

"Well, it's very expensive to maintain, Eddie."

Edward nodded, staring at the hard rock façade of the doorway arch before finally touching it. "I'm sure, but think of the great cost of losing it."

"This area is the oldest section. The entrance was rebuilt in some other age, 15th century I think." Andrew nudged at his shoulder. "You know, you don't have to only stare at it. You can actually walk into the old hut."

"May I?" he asked, turning around. "That's allowed?"

"Of course. Go in. Just mind the walkway out to the side carriage step. It's tried to kill less foolhardy souls. It's the main reason the house isn't in use."

Edward breathed deeply as if before plunging under water as he stepped through the front entrance door. Much of the inside house had been stripped to its essentials. The construction methods of multiple centuries had been laid bare. The only perceptible feature in the whole space was the gigantic fireplace that overwhelmed the room. In its day, the fireplace was the center of the home – for warmth, for cooking, for survival in the coldest months. The immensity of the room seemed in scale with its age.

He could barely imagine multiple generations of his family marching back beyond truly modern time. He reached a hand toward the mantle, then looked for permission at Andrew.

"Go on," Andrew said, reaching up to thump it soundly. "It isn't going to fall over anytime soon."

Edward reached up to gently touch the mantle that jutted out from the fireplace. He tried to feel for whatever energy of time might be locked inside it, desperate to feel anything at all. He felt nothing. He bowed his head for a moment.

He turned around to gaze back across the house. Trying to grasp the enormity of time – his link to it. Trying to find some speck of himself in the sunlight streaming through these deeply old windows.

From the look on Andrew's face, Edward realized he must have looked distressed.

"Are you all right?" Andrew asked.

Edward knew there weren't any words. Nothing he could say that would translate this into language Andrew might understand without Eddie revealing himself in a way he could never do here.

"What is it like?" he heard himself asking.

"What is what like?"

He had already asked it. He had nothing to do but finish the question. "What's it like to live somewhere like this? Where your ancestors have lived for centuries? What's that like, to really, really belong somewhere? No demands, no proof required, no validation necessary. It's your home. You belong to it as much as it belongs to anyone."

Andrew shook his head and smiled sadly. "I'm not sure how to answer that, Eddie. I don't have any other frame of reference."

Edward nodded. "It's hard to put into words why that's different – at least to me. It's something I miss very much in my own experience. I wanted to feel that here, I really did, but I can't somehow."

"Perhaps you should give it some time," Andrew said.

"Maybe." Edward tried on a smile. He checked his watch. "Tempus is fugiting, as my father says. The group should be forming shortly? We have a presentation to give."

Chapter Four

Edward turned to face the working group as it collected around him. They had assembled in the great room, looking like what Edward imagined a meeting of an old English literary society might resemble. Standing before the wall-sized oil portrait of a distant ancestor, he felt far too connected to this place in time, and yet disconnected from it. The combination made for a perfect aggregate of unease.

Edward strained to look at the display screen he had propped up on a table. The SAGE/Brice emblem encompassed the monitor. "The whole idea of SAGE was to take the existing mind-guided system, Brice, which both Croftdon and Bakunin had developed, together and separately, in recent years, and make it consciously interactive through an intermediary script – not through a secondary agent, but directly and synergistically with conscious participants. We knew that, in this way, we could put power behind the purpose – kudos to my associate Andrew for that phrase – and really achieve something important on a human scale."

"Yes, well, very nice words," said the balding man in the gray suit in the first seat to Edward's left. "But what's it do?"

"What doesn't it do?" Edward asked, clicking the remote in his hand to bring up a grid display of all its functions. "This whole system has the real potential to change everything about how humans interact. About how we understand each other and cooperate. Verbal and written interaction will become a secondary backup unit. We can actually exchange data through a guided interface's central arbiter. It's essentially digital telepathy. No magic behind it, just science."

"And this will help us how?"

"We won't need to rely on abstractions like language anymore. We'll have direct access to meaning, to context. We will be able to feel those impulses in our own nervous systems. We will actually understand each other, with no limitations."

"You don't think that will cause more problems? What about secret keeping, personal privacy?"

"How about preventing wars through eliminating misunderstandings," Edward said. "Creating real trust. A real exchange of ideas as literal digital abstractions, not vague cognitive content. Think of the benefits to education."

Tad, sitting to the sidelines, leaned forward. "I can certainly see a lot of mental health related gains in this, too."

"Conveying sanity – real clarity to the mentally ill," Andrew offered. "In a matter of moments, through an interface –"

"Wouldn't that be brainwashing?" asked the gray-suited guy.

"If you looked at it that way," Edward replied. "You could also see it as healing a sick mind. There would be safeguards against the abuse of the system."

Gray suit guy sneered. "Yes, there are always safeguards, aren't there? Yet we've seen such systems used–"

"No, we haven't," Edward cut in sharply, "we've seen cognitive concepts used that follow along these lines. We have never had direct input and output between minds before. Ever. There would be a safeguard in the central arbiter to prevent any abuse. That's what it's there for. That's why I've spent many years creating it, with Andrew's work as well."

"How do we know this system couldn't be used as a weapon?" another man asked from the back of the assembled people. "Seems to me we could effectively spy on people, with this."

"Of course it could be weaponized," Edward said. "But my sole condition for participating in this project was that there be no military application of it.. It could be a formidable weapon for spying and worse, which is why it has to be strictly regulated through the central interface. Without SAGE, our central arbiter, this would be a weapon of unlimited mass destruction."

"It could turn everyone in any group into a killing squad, if accessed from outside the system," Andrew explained. "Edward and I have worked an extra year to fortify Brice with SAGE – Safety Actuating Gendarme Enforcement."

Edward nodded. "We think we have it to a point where we can begin direct mind to mind testing. We would like to start that within the week. What we'll do today is just a demonstration."

"Are there any dangers to this?" Tad asked.

Edward nodded again. "That's why I'm going to be one of the experimenters. We have several other researchers who are considering being the host-reverse host. It won't be Andrew because one of us has to be safe for further implementation, should something go awry. And also because I'm older and I can pull rank."

Andrew looked around in surprise. "Well, aren't you protective all of a sudden."

"I'd have told you before, but you'd have argued with me," Edward said.

"I'm the other experimenter," Arvo spoke up from the back of the room. Edward, who hadn't seen him until that moment, looked up to watch the man, his arms folded, traverse the room. "It's in our contract."

"Andrew will be monitoring at all times," Edward added. "He won't have access to direct input and output for safety reasons, but he will see anything that crosses the threshold. Anyway, the testing events are very cursory. We're not at a place yet to safely transfer more than isolated chunks of recorded data. No emotions yet. No complex, multi-location content. But we'll get there eventually, if it can be done safely."

Arvo sat down at the card table that had been arranged.

Edward set his laptop next to the secondary unit. He removed from a satchel two objects that looked like baseball caps. He handed one to Arvo and placed the other one on his head.

"No American imperialism intended, these are just the two caps I had at home," Edward said, happy to have garnered a nervous laugh from the group. "It's all done with cross-coded WIFI. No wires necessary, so long as the test subjects are within arm's reach of the unit." Edward sat down in the chair opposite Arvo. "We have arranged a number that only Andrew has a copy of. I will attempt to read the number from Arvo. We'll begin when I tap the touch pad."

Most of the group members remained where they were seated. Tad leaned forward. Edward noticed Thomas work his way toward the front of the group and over to his side.

Edward reached for the touch pad and patted it. Immediately, an image of a cloud condensed in his visual field. It was a ready image part of the symbol set the system used. He knew immediately what it meant.

He opened his eyes and focused on Arvo. "Speaking of being protective – why are you blocking me?"

Arvo sat back sharply. "I'm not blocking anything."

"You are. You're protecting your memory with a distracting technique. To keep your mind moving around information you want to protect. What are you hiding?"

Arvo held up both of his hands as if in surrender. "Honest, man, I'm not hiding anything."

"You are. Either desist your distracting technique or vacate the chair and let someone else be the sender."

"No way," he said, "I'm staying right here."

"Then stop it," Edward said firmly.

Arvo shrugged ambitiously. "I don't know what to tell you, bro. I'll relax more?"

"Do that," Edward snapped. He closed his eyes again. After a moment, his eyes flashed open again. "What is Op TinTin 71.98?"

"That isn't the target number," Andrew said.

"Write it down, though, would you, Andrew? I know it from somewhere."

"I've noted it. Go on."

"77939045182, is the target, I think."

Andrew lifted up the large piece of paper with the target number across it: 977390451821288.

"That is close," Tad said.

"Close enough," said the man in the gray suit. "Very well, to get all of this behind us, combined with the data we have already received, I'm prepared to approve continuation from where we are. When will there be an update?"

Edward was still staring hard at Arvo. He glanced back at the gray suit guy, but then looked suspiciously back at Arvo again, still answering the other man's question, "Soon. We'll alert you. Stay in touch with my brother."

He waited until the visiting men had filtered out of the house.

Still staring at Arvo, Edward finally said, "What does that code mean, Arvo?"

"What code? I have no idea –"

"You do know," Edward said, slowly and carefully. "I know you know. What does it mean?"

"Look, I've got shitloads of work to do for your dad. I don't need to sit around and get accused of crap." Arvo Nurmi stood up. "I'll be back at the hotel."

"Just a while ago, you were doing everything you could to overshadow me. And I didn't accuse you of anything, Arvo. I asked you a question. A simple question."

"You're as paranoid as Wendell," Arvo said, walking out of the room.

Edward followed him into the foyer where Ken was waiting, reading his tablet. Ken looked from one man to the other.

"Ken, what does Op TinTin 71.98 mean?" Edward asked.

Ken shrugged noticeably. "Beats the hell out of me. TinTin is a European comic, isn't it?"

Edward nodded over at Arvo Nurmi and then looked back at Ken. "Why would he have it in is head and want to hide it from me?"

"I don't know. Honestly, Eddie."

Edward considered the two men a moment. Finally, he looked toward Ken. "I believe you."

"But you don't believe me? And I'm the one who is straight with you," Arvo said.

"You're withholding something. I know it."

"Fine, Eddie. Here's what I'm withholding. My presence," Arvo said, walking around the other men. "I'm so fucking out of here."

With that, Arvo Nurmi opened the front door and slammed it behind him.

Ken squinted hard toward the din of the slamming doors. "What is up with him?"

"I don't know. You can go, too, if you want," Edward said. "I have some work I want to do. And I'd like you to keep an eye on him. He's up to something."

"Sure. You want me to come back and pick you up later?"

Eddie shook his head. "No, I'll grab a cab back. Anyway, it's going to be a long afternoon."

After Ken left on his appointed rounds, Edward returned to the library. Andrew had already amassed Edward's necessary energy drinks. There was a standing carafe of coffee. Edward was about to toss back his fist of herbal supplements, pitiful though they might have seemed to him, and then pop a can of Red Rover, when he saw Andrew staring up at him in nothing at all short of amazement.

"What's wrong?" Edward asked.

"You called me your brother," Andrew said, beginning to smile.

"I did?"

"Yes," Andrew said, nodding zealously. "Before. You told the group of money-lenders to stay in touch with your brother. And I'm the named contact."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess I must have. Is that okay?"

"Is it okay? No, it's not okay. It's bloody fucking wonderful. In fact, if you don't sit down quickly, I'm going to stand up and hug you harder than a mother anaconda. Since I'm English, that must tell you something."

Grinning, Edward sunk into the office chair. "Thank you for the warning."

"I hope it happens again."

"Wait, what is this," Edward said, leaning toward the screen. He tapped the screen to bring up the firewall notification. "Someone tried to hack into the system. Your WIFI has a pretty hefty password system. Wait – no, let me correct myself, someone did hack into the system."

"What?"

"Look," Edward said, "they've got some pretty tough tracks behind them, too. They made it all the way to a file –"

"Which file?"

Edward clicked on the file as read-only. It opened – Op TinTin flashed into view.

"Wait, isn't that –"

"Yes, that's the phrase I harvested out of Arvo's memory archive."

Andrew leaned over Edward's shoulder to study the screen. "Yeah, you're right, there it is. Is there any chance it was just a phantom floating around in your head. Maybe the system mistook it for the test subject's archive when it was only in yours?"

"I suppose it's possible."

"This intrusion, though, makes me suspicious."

"Me, too. Definitely." Edward hit the arrow until the file paged down. "Look at the path. It was trying to access it directly."

"What the hell is it doing that for?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Edward said. "This doesn't even make sense."

"I'm afraid it does to me," Thomas said, where he had entered in the library door. "I've just phoned someone to come out and join us. He'll tell you what I cannot."

Standing before him was the man in the gray suit who had sat among them and questioned him so harshly on various phases of SAGE. He was now introduced to him as Sherwood Porch, working in development with Croftdon Industries. He tapped on the overhead display to awaken it and then displayed a digital diagram.

"We had to be fully certain that you had no knowledge of this before we could come to you with it," Porch said. "Your father – Thomas, I mean, felt certain you knew nothing about it, but we demanded conditions of disclosure. We didn't tell Andrew because he's close to you and we were concerned that he might say something. Don't blame Thomas for the secrecy. Blame us for it, as well as the cheap theatrics."

"How about someone just tell me what this is all about?" Edward asked.

Porch nodded. "The bits you discovered are only a portion of a larger and vastly more complicated program. It was created to work in conjunction with the SAGE system, which, of course, was built by you and Andrew. It seems to have been created externally, by another group of programmers. I'm sorry to have to inform you that the purpose of the other program was to weaponize what you fellows have created."

"That's impossible!" Edward said, laughing nervously, "I was promised from the very beginning there would be no weaponization of this. It was a ground floor condition for my even working on this project. My father knew how I felt about that."

Sherwood Porch looked for a moment to the others and then back to Edward. "I realize that, Eddie, but I'm sorry to say he lied to you. We feel his whole purpose for reaching out to embrace this bridging program was to access our inner files to see what we had decoded of his program. He used you to get to us."

"Do you have any proof of this at all or is this some plot to get at my dad?" Edward asked sharply.

Porch looked over to Thomas.

Thomas nodded with a lengthy sigh. "Play it for them."

Porch himself reached over to tap the overhead display. The speakers gave forth:

What about Edward? He went insane when we suggested bringing in the NSA.

Leave Edward to me.

What if he finds out. It could rupture the whole –

I said leave him to me. I know how to keep him in line. I'll keep him on the team. Eventually, he will realize it makes the ideal WMD. It's just a matter of him maturing a little.

It will be hard for him to decode what we're doing. As long as you hold up your end, I'll handle mine.

The first voice he barely recognized as a business associate of his father's. The second he immediately knew was his dad's.

Edward stood up from the chair and walked to the very end of the library – to a corner where he might face the wall for a moment alone. Revelation rushed through his head – a form of gravity compelling into place all the pieces of things that hadn't made sense over the last few months. The voice was indisputably Wendell Bakunin's.

What were the alternative explanations? Could there be any?

"They will play on your sympathies," his father, Wendell, had said. "They will try to engage your affections."

But so did Wendell. And Wendell had gone farther. He had lied to him. Outright lied to him. He was the one in the midst of deception.

Eddie pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Sherwood Porch immediately placed his hand on it.

"Eddie, we have to ask you to not contact Wendell," Porch said. "We do not want to alert him that we know this until all of the information has been gathered. There's a lot we don't know that we need you and Andrew to discern."

Edward shook his head. "I'm not calling Wendell. I'm calling someone whose only loyalty is to me. I need someone to talk this out with."

Sherwood Porch looked toward Thomas who nodded in reply. "That's fine," Porch said.

Edward leaned over, the phone to his ear. After a moment, he said, "Ken, get your ass over here. Now."

The simple act of opening a door hadn't seemed momentous to Edward until the moment he turned the doorknob and opened the front door to Croftdon House for the first time. At that moment, he felt the moments align. He sensed a directional change in the tide. It almost felt like a betrayal of Wendell, but what didn't right now?

Ken held up both his hands. "Before you say anything, I think I know what you're upset about. I don't know much, but I can tell you what I know."

"You know something about this, too?" Edward stormed back at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were in the middle of planning this project," Ken said, his gaze straying toward Thomas who was walking up beside them, "and I couldn't tell you anything for sure. I just had my suspicions."

"Come in, Ken, please," Thomas said from behind them before he led the procession into the sitting area.

Ken looked quickly around at the people around them, but he situated himself in a central chair and turned his first words toward Edward. "You remember when you went up to April Lake with your ex- girlfriend?"

"Sure. About a year ago. Why?"

"Yeah, and Wendell paid for the whole trip, right? To help you get away?" Ken leaned forward, as if to close the circle to just the group of men. "Your father had a big deal business meeting. Multiple bigwigs including a few old guys wearing blue and green jackets with medals and shit on them."

"Military?"

"Not just military. Pentagon. But they were there on the QT. They were all wearing overcoats and hats, like they didn't want the Pentagon to know that they were there. Anyway, you know how your dad always invited me into meetings so I could fill you in on whatever the subject was when you got home? Well, that time, he didn't. He didn't even tell me about it. The cleaning lady did, in passing, wanting to know what it was all about. She thought I'd know. I didn't, and I still don't."

Edward surrendered slowly to a nearby chair. He leaned backward against it. His words sounded as empty as he felt, "You're sure of this?"

"Sadly, I'm really sure, Eddie. Really sure."

Edward shook his head. "There's no innocent explanation for that."

"No, there's not."

"Where is Arvo Nurmi in all this? You don't think they sent him with me just to keep an eye on me?"

"That's exactly why I think they sent him with you, and to also monitor the situation," Ken said. "But Arvo is just a foot soldier in this. He's not where you want to direct your venom. I'm afraid that Wendell is in this deeper than you or I want to believe."

Edward scowled hard at the words. "His militarist friends play on his paranoia. He listens to them because they manipulate his fear. You and I are the only ones who didn't do that. When he started shutting us out, is when the trouble really started. He's gone so far over the brink, I don't know if there's a way to bring him back again. But we have to try."

"What do you suggest?" Thomas asked.

"I have to talk to him." Edward looked toward Sherwood Porch, who was sitting and listening quietly. "I have to try to get through to him. He may listen to me –"

"That audio file is not the voice of a man who may be reasoned with," Porch said.

"You don't know him," Edward said, pleading. "My adopted father means well. He's a good man. He came through cruel circumstances. He's mentally ill because of them. He was made that way. But I have to try to reach him. I think he will listen to me."

"You know my opinion on this. I vote no contact, but my vote is just ceremonial," Sherwood said, "the board members are John, Thomas and Andrew."

"I vote with Edward," Andrew said.

"There's a big damned surprise," Tad said, from a rear corner.

"Shut up, Toad," Andrew replied.

"My vote is with Sherwood," John said, standing near the fireplace, to the other side of the circle. "Which should hardly be a surprise. No offense intended to Edward, but I'm afraid my sympathies with Wendell are very limited these days."

Edward looked over at John. "Maybe because you helped with their limitation?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand your comment, young man," John replied.

"No," Edward said, "I don't imagine you do."

"Mine is the third vote," Thomas said, barging through the disagreement. "Many years ago I made the choice to think of my father instead of my son. I have come to regret that decision beyond any other regret that I have ever felt. As such, this time, I'm siding with my son. My vote is with Edward."

Edward turned around quickly to look at Thomas. He smiled and laughed in what could only be called stupefaction. "Thank you!"

Sherwood looked toward Tad. "You have an auxiliary vote to force a tie-breaker with the secondary board in case you disagree with their decision."

Tad unleashed a loud laugh across the room. "What? And get in this squabble? Forget it. As always, I take the coward's way and vote with the majority. I cast my lot in with the family septic."

"There's a big damned surprise," Andrew shot back.

Edward looked slowly but certainly over at Tad. "Family septic?"

Tad gestured toward the room. "Well, you didn't expect me to side with you without getting a dig in, did you?"

"Not really –– Toad."

"You're really getting the hang of it now."

John walked forward to stand in the center of the circle and thereby take command of the room. "I wish to place on record my disagreement with this approach. I am certain it will not bring about the desired results."

"We know that, Father," Thomas said sharply, "you have registered your dissent very clearly, as you always do.."

"Mark my words, this will not turn out well," John said.

"You have been heard," Thomas replied, looking toward Edward. "Eddie, it's evening in Boston. Will Wendell be reachable?"

"He may be," Edward said.

Thomas looked for a long moment at his own father, and then slowly turned his attention back to Edward. Thomas nodded. "Make your call, Eddie."

"Thank you," Edward said again, his gaze meeting Thomas' eyes, making certain the meaning of his words had been conveyed.

Thomas smiled. "Not necessary, son."

Edward withdrew his cell phone. He clicked it over to display his seemingly endless phone book. He clicked through the necessary sequence and waited for the call to complete. On the other end, the phone rang. Eddie could almost see his father's leather and blond wood desk with its assortment of phones, tablets, other devices.

Wendell's voice mail picked up. His blunt, terse reception message played through.

Edward said quickly, "Dad, it's me, call me at your first opportunity. I'm very distressed at something I've just learned. Please, call me."

He hung up the line.

"So now we wait," Ken said.

"Mark my words," John added from his corner, "we have just set in motion actions which may have great consequences."

"No, Father," Thomas said, turning to the older man, "you help set it in motion many years ago. Eddie is just trying to stop what you started."

Chapter Five

There had to be a cogent pattern he could find to help him define for himself the overall purpose of their discovery. Clearly, the program had been weaponized. But what manner of weapon did they hope to make of it? That was the question that gnawed away at the nerve-bound bottom of his soul. The symmetry behind it seemed clear – it was doing something it shouldn't be able to do, doing it in an alien language he couldn't comprehend, and functioning at a higher level that seemed devoid of any context he might use to predict its purpose.

"So what do you do," he asked the script as it flittered across the screen. "What are you for?"

"Oh, my fucking god, don't you septics ever sleep?" Tad's voice joined in from the hallway.

"I'm awake, too, you know," Andrew replied. "Don't I count?"

"Of course not," Tad replied. "You never count. Just the septic."

"Okay," Ken said to Eddie from the library chair where he was watching from, "what the hell is a septic? He's easily said it fifty times now."

"Rhyming slang," Edward replied drily, "septic tank. Yank. Isn't that clever?"

"Oh, like you're the ones they flushed into – okay," Ken said, nodding, looking over at Tad. "Hey, Tad, pretty much just fuck you."

"I thought you were Canadian," Tad said, squinting over at him. "Anyway, it wasn't directed at you. My familial role is to be a punishment from God to my brothers. I didn't choose the natural order of things, did I? Do not interfere with the hand of the Almighty."

"Well, I am more a septic than you are. So like I said, fuck you."

"No, thank you." Tad looked at then displayed his wristwatch. "It is nearly 2 AM."

"That's true, it's way past your naptime, Toad," Edward said. "You know, Andrew, we need to change his nickname. I'm thinking Big Ben is more suitable."

"Ach!" Tad said, grasping at his side. "Because I'm a clock, isn't that clever?"

"Big Ben is the bell, Saint Stephens is the clock tower," Edward said, swinging Tad a pointed glance. "Not bad for a septic, huh?"

"I have to admit, I'm tired," Ken said, rising from his chair. "I'm going back to the hotel. Eddie, you coming?"

Edward shook his head. "I have too much work to do."

"How the hell are you keeping your fucking eyes open?" Tad asked.

Edward pointed to the trash bin filled with empty Red Rover cans. "That and your godawful coffee."

"Are you serious?" Tad said, suspiciously. "You're a septic. Your tea is stronger than English coffee."

"Once again, Tad, you can shove your septic," Ken said, standing to leave the room. He looked over at his friend. "Edward, call if you need anything. And no, I won't say anything to Arvo."

Ken hadn't been expecting a deep conversation with anyone at all, short of a morning confrontation with Arvo, but the resonant plod of steps behind him as he left the library for the great room told him he might be being pursued. On instinct, he spun around to face-off with his stalker, and Tad maneuvered to block Ken's passage to the front door.

"Do not lie to me," Tad said. What kind of speed is he taking?"

Ken looked at him through a veil of exhaustion. "Speed?"

"What the fuck is he on?" Tad asked again. "He works 20 hours at a time. He's bouncing all over the place except when he crashes. You don't get that from energy drinks or coffee or both. I'm a doctor and, as both Eddie and I will be loathe to admit, he's my brother. What is it?"

Ken turned around, to look in the direction of the library. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "All he's on is herbal supplements right now."

"I didn't ask you that. I mean what is he coming off of?"

Ken surrendered against the door and then leaned into the wall. He watched steadily now in the library's direction. "Privacy is very important to Eddie. Loyalty, too. He is passionate about making his own decisions and protecting his personal business."

"A compulsion for privacy and independence is often guarding a core of shame. From the way he's mainlining the energy drinks and caffeine, and the way he's sucking down that inhaler, obviously he's jouncing off one hell of an amphetamine buzz. What's he on? Tell me or I swear to God I'll forcibly catheterize and piss test him."

Ken nodded in a kind of tired surrender. "All right, I'll talk. I'm not sure. Uppers and downers of some kind. His stuff isn't marked."

"You work with the bastard. How can you not be sure?"

"Because I didn't start him on it!" Ken shot back. "You're yelling at the wrong guy. Wendell and his people hooked him. Eddie was strung-out when I hired on with Wendell. By the time I realized Eddie was an addict, he was too far gone. He wouldn't listen to me or anyone."

Tad sent his gaze to the ceiling. "Wonderful. Fucking wonderful. How long has he been on it?"

"I'm not sure."

"You have some idea."

Ken thought through the tired haze for a valid reply. "Since he was 15 or so. Maybe younger."

"Fifteen? Fifteen years old? Are you seriously fucking telling me that Eddie has been strung out for over half his life?" Tad asked, whispering as loudly as possible.

Ken grimaced with an ultimate reluctance. "That's what I'm telling you."

"When you did find out, you couldn't stage an intervention? You just let it happen?" Tad asked.

"I tried. Wendell is the most hyper-vigilant son of a bitch in the world. You do not understand the fishbowl world that kid lived inside. It may look clear and free, but it's hard and solid. And Wendell is even more fucked up than Eddie is," Ken said.

"Wendell should be in prison," Tad replied.

"Hey, Wendell did the best he could," Ken rebuffed his accuser. "Wendell's father was a cultured barbarian. And, I might point out, he was your grandfather's chief collaborator. When their business dealings broke down, Eddie was trapped on the Bakunin side of the divide, but so was Wendell. He didn't have a lot of options. Wendell taught Eddie the only thing he knew – how to survive at all costs. Even if it meant killing himself."

"I'm sorry, but my primary concern at this juncture is the salvageable one, who happens to be part of my immediate family." Tad paced back and forth again across the entry arch. "How is it this rock-ribbed addict didn't sneak his stash into the country?"

Ken gestured with four parts of darkness and one of despair . "I managed to keep him from bringing it with him. I had hoped, maybe, with all of you around, we could stage some kind of intervention. I thought we would have time. I didn't know any of this would happen."

"So now he's crashing from a sustained twenty year high? Fabulous. The next time you start playing Celebrity Drug Rehab, call in a doctor, will you?" Tad folded his arms and walked up and down the line of carpet again, as if following the deft pattern of a singular line of thought. Tad stopped in his tracks. "Crashing from a twenty year addiction, with a probable massive resistance, he shouldn't be managing half so well as he is. How's he doing it? And don't tell me herbal supplements, positive thinking and prayer."

Ken shrugged again. "I don't know. I agree, he's doing too well. He might have stashed some, he may have bought something here."

Tad's forehead creased in thought. "There are numerous products he could find here without prescriptions, but he would need information. Appetite suppressants, that sort of thing. I'll have Andrew take a peep at his computer. Of course, the illegal trade is what most concerns me. I'm trying not to think of the worst hypotheses, but the possibilities are endless."

"I won't lie to you," Ken offered, "this has me worried. I have to admit it's a relief to have someone to talk to about this anyway. I don't know how he's even on his feet."

"Tad!" Andrew said, suddenly standing in the library door. "Something is wrong with Eddie."

"Perhaps he isn't," Tad said before he bounded for the library with Ken following closely behind.

Slumped over on his crossed arms, Edward had sprawled across his laptop. He was pale and perspiring a little. Tad rolled him back against the chair while reaching for a penlight from his pocket. He drew back a lid to shine the light into Eddie's eyes.

"What's my name?" Tad asked.

"Big Ben," Eddie replied.

"The bastard's fine. He probably blacked out from exhaustion," Tad said, "Ken, help me get him up and to the room we have for him. Andrew, fetch my tote, would you?"

"I'm just really tired. I'll go back to the hotel," Eddie muttered, trying to gain his balance and stand by himself. He immediately slumped against Tad.

"You'll stay where I can keep an eye on you, you worthless septic," Tad said, moving around one side to support him while Ken took the other.

They guided Eddie to the room he had been allotted and helped him to the bed. Edward sprawled across it as Tad lifted his legs to square him in the middle. He pulled a duvet up and dropped it across him.

Eddie blinked his eyes open and tried to focus. "I don't know if I'm hot or cold."

"It's summer in England. It's a cold heat."

Tad accepted the tote from Andrew. He unzipped it and yanked out a stethoscope.

"I don't want –" Eddie coughed out.

Tad stuck the chestpiece against Edward's chest. "Shut up and breathe."

"That's cold!" Eddie gasped.

"Good enough," Tad said, pulling out the blood pressure monitor. He grabbed Eddie's arm to pull it down and open his sleeve. Tad wrapped Eddie's upper arm in the blood pressure cuff and triggered the mechanism to inflate.

"I don't need –"

"Shut up again and breathe again."

After a moment, the unit beeped and up came the number. Tad sat back in relief. "Well, that's only about half as bad as it might have been. At least you're not going to stroke out on us."

Tad withdrew a syringe and a cartridge from his tote. He pulled out the elastic band and tied it around Eddie's upper arm. He pressed at the inside of his elbow to find the best vein.

"What are you doing?" Eddie asked, vaguely.

"Taking a blood sample. We're going to clone you and create a slave race of septics to do our bidding," Tad said, finishing the sample and isolating it. He stored it away in his tote with the rest of the items. "I'll run that up to the lab as soon as it opens."

Tad turned around toward Ken. "You're welcome to use our guest room if you like."

Ken shook his head. "I need to keep an eye on Arvo. I'll head back to the hotel." He gestured toward Eddie. "How is he?"

"Let me check," Tad said, sticking up his middle finger in front of Eddie's eyes. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Fuck off," Eddie replied.

"He'll be fine for now. Tomorrow, we look into what we have to look into."

Ken nodded and, with a last look at Edward, quietly left.

After the sound of the front door opening and closing, Tad actually exhaled, knowing the situation had been contained. And Edward, by some miracle, was actually sleeping on the inside of Croftdon House.

"What do you mean about tomorrow?" Andrew asked pointedly.

"I mean Edward has a long road ahead of him," Tad said.

"He's not seriously ill, is he?"

Instead of answering, Tad asked, "Where's Dad?"

"On the phone trying to sort things out with Croftdon people in New York," Andrew said. "It's a conference call. He said it would be a while."

"I can talk to him in the morning."

"What about Eddie?" Andrew asked, leaning down to touch Edward's foot. "He'll be all right, right?"

"Yes, yes. He'll be all right right. His kind built the world in six days, you know."

Andrew chuckled, rubbing at his own eyes. "His kind is our kind."

Tad held up a flat hand in protest. "It's in my contract that I need not admit that aloud. Now go get some sleep yourself before you start passing out on me. I don't need two semi-conscious computer savants."

"Yes, Brother Toad," Andrew said, heading toward his own bedroom.

Tad moved to stand, but Edward reached up to grab his arm a moment. "Wait, I mean," Eddie murmured, again trying to focus. He swatted at the air like he was dismissing a thought. "God, I hate having to say this, but for everything you did, well... "

"Shall I insult you horribly and make it easier to bear?"

"If it's not too much trouble," Eddie murmured.

"Sleep, dauphin septic prince."

Tad dodged the pillow tossed weakly in his direction. He grabbed it up off the floor. "Thanks, I actually needed this," he said, and made his way to the easy chair in the corner.

Lights flashed in shattered patterns behind his eyelids. It almost looked like lightning across some bleak skyscape in his mind. Any moment, he expected the thunder to kick in. Then the thunder did kick in, and the eyelids became a window, and the skyscape took on the color and shape of the land. He could see out across the expanse of the Croftdon estate. The old house arose like some thing of obloquy out of an ancient landscape. It loomed across the night sky like something out of Disneyland.

"Eddie, sweetheart," a voice from beside him said.

In the dream, he whirled around and the woman in silk taffeta he had seen in the portrait was standing before him. She smiled and kissed both his cheeks.

"Mother?" Edward asked, though he already knew.

She nodded, her eyes shining back at him, as if they contained some bioluminescence. "Isn't this grand? We finally get to see each other."

"Truly. Even if it is just a dream, it's a nice one," Edward said.

"Just a dream?" She pouted a little. "Oh, you're not one of those non-believers, too, like your brothers."

He shrugged. "Sorry."

In the dream, Faith extended her hands as if in divine presentation. "Yes, well, here I am anyway. You won't believe me, but I'm around you all the time, you just don't know it. I have a very special surprise for you, my darling. Go look in the top drawer of that old bureau over there. You never know what you might find. It's my reply to your questioning if I knew about you."

Edward walked forward, sliding out the drawer and finding inside it a big bound volume.

"Go ahead," she said, "look at it."

He lifted it gently out of the drawer and into his arms. The cover was a kind of yellow netting material with seed pearls and small felt chicks. Tiny rattles and plastic baby bottles had been woven into the netting design. Across the top, in carefully delineated letters, was one word: EDWARD.

"It's your baby book. Your brothers all have one as well. Theirs have all the usual in them. Yours I wasn't as lucky with, but I did the best I could."

"I'm amazed you kept this at all," Edward said.

She smiled brightly. "Only because you don't understand a parent's love for a child."

Edward opened the cover. Inside was pinned a faded photo of a very young girl – perhaps 16. Her smile seemed forced into brightness with an undertone of oncoming sadness. She was clutching a newborn infant in her arms.

"That's me and you," Faith said. "All your clothes were yellow, because my mother had dreams that you were going to be a boy and, well, I knew better, just like you do now. So I bought everything in yellow, as one must. You were so tiny and fragile. I wish I could tell you I was happy from the first. Mainly, I was terrified. And I listened to my parents – and to Thomas' parents – which is why what happened, well, happened. But then I suppose it was meant to be this way. It was still heartbreaking."

"You were just a child yourself," Edward said. "I had no idea you were this young."

"Keep looking," she said, "there's more in there."

He turned the next page – it was a society page news story about Wendell and Jennifer Bakunin welcoming their adopted son, Edward. A photograph of the three ran with the story.

"I hated her then," Faith admitted, "I just love her now, though. She's such a card, your other mum."

"You know each other?" Edward asked, smiling at the thought.

"Oh, of course. Everyone is besties with everyone over here. It's like the biggest small town you've ever known. Keep looking."

He turned the page. Next up was a photograph of a 4 or 5 year old boy staring up at the camera with frightened eyes framed in impossibly big glasses. MASSACHUSETTS' ALL-TIME YOUNGEST CHESS CHAMPION.

"It was all chess with your brothers at that age, too. I daresay Thaddeus could have beaten you."

"Please don't tell him that."

She shook her head. "Oh, heavens, no. Mum's my name, remember?"

The next page showed him at a violin recital looking like the world's most reluctant musician. Another showed him at about 15, sitting down at a track meet, his legs stretched out before him. The headline read LOCAL TRACK STAR ENDS FUTURE ATHLETIC PROMISE.

"I could never decipher what that headline was trying to say," Faith said. "But I could have told you that you had your father's knees. Thomas can't jump to a conclusion without injuring something vital."

"Just as well," Edward said. "I hated track. Dad only got me into it because he wanted me to stop spending so much time at the computer. That's ironic, given the circumstances. Quitting gave me an excuse. The computer is where I wanted to be."

"Anyway, there's a lot more all through it. You can look at it for real once you're awake. Speaking of which –"

Eddie could feel the blood pressure cuff seize his arm. With great effort, he peeled open his eyelids. It appeared to be later in a morning. His eyes eventually focused on Tad as he was watching the gauge. The monitor beeped. The other man looked at the number.

"Not too shabby," Tad said, opening the cuff and pulling it off. "You're probably going to live for a while anyway."

"Did I sleep?" Edward croaked out a question.

"Better than I did," Tad said. "That Judas Chair in the corner is going to the charity drop at my first opportunity. Now, time to get up and at them, as they say. Breakfast is being prepared for you."

"You have a cook?" Edward asked, squinting.

"Why, yes, of course. And I'll just ask our butler, Jeeves, to bring 'round your smoking jacket and a spot of tea." Tad slapped at his leg. "The cook is Andrew who volunteered for the chore, God help him. He'll serve it to you in the library, although I'd make you drag your useless septic self to the damned table. You need help up?"

Edward shook his head, sitting up slowly. "I'll manage by myself."

"Somehow I knew that you would."

After a moment, Edward said, as if to himself, "I dreamt of our mother."

"Oh, lovely," Tad said, with a genuine smile. "What did she have to say?"

Edward laughed vaguely. "That you couldn't play chess."

"See, I know you're lying now, Edward," Tad said.

Edward nodded, chuckling a little more. "She showed me a book with my name on it. A baby book. Articles and that kind of thing in it. It was big and yellow and had all these –"

"Oh, I hate it when that happens," Tad said.

"When what happens?"

"When things abrade against my truculent village atheism. Go look in the top drawer on the bureau. Then go shower yourself with some fine British water. I've laid a change of clothes for you, drawn from my least favorite fine clothing, on the chair over there. Breakfast will be served shortly. In other words, stir your stumps and get a move on, ya thick ya."

"Yes, Toad. I suppose you expect me to thank you?"

"Oh, fuck, no. It sets a vile precedent."

"Good, then thank you."

Tad shook a finger at him. "See, I knew you'd go and ruin the moment."

It was the most modern shower he had ever seen in England, but then he had seen all of one of them. After he dressed, Edward slipped back into the room he barely remembered entering in the first place. He had considered going onto the library, but the memory of the dream clung tightly to his mind. He knew what he had to do, before he did anything else.

He slid open the drawer on the bureau. The baby book wasn't an exact match, but it was close. Yellow. Netting. Common enough color for a baby book, especially in the pre-gender-identification age. The Edward was to be expected.

He lifted it up gingerly, touching the cover with its seed pearls, tiny rattles and bottles but no felt chicks. The rattles and bottles would have been predictable. He nearly opened the cover to look at the pages inside, but stopped himself. He was afraid to inquire – just in case it remained empty. That would have made the most sense. A baby book for him was understandable, even to be expected. He preferred to remember it like the dream, even if it was an illusion.

The greater miracle to him wasn't that it existed, but that it had been kept, despite everything, through the years. You don't understand a parent's love, his dream mother had said, but what else would one create a dream mother to say?

"Breakfast, Eddie," Andrew called in.

"Thank you," he called back to the man who had quickly moved past the door and down the hall.

He picked at the breakfast Andrew had made for him, devouring as much as possible in the requisite time. He supposed the eggs and bacon – eggs and rashers, he corrected himself – wouldn't malign his health too severely, given he had taken in very few calories over the last two days or so. Meanwhile, he pecked insistently at laptop keys.

He followed several delusive leads that led into blind corners and empty promises. That took an hour each time. He tried to decipher its purpose from its design – its design from various interpretation of the weapon's purpose – had even combined them for a hybrid approach to a conceptual overview. In programming, form followed function at the same time as function followed form. Sometimes, you couldn't make head or tails out of either. This was one of those times.

He stared, unmoved, at the text on the screen. Over the hours, the question tweaked his concern in an eerie, ill-defined blueprint. He couldn't quite grasp what it was, like the end of a splinter that always evaded the tweezers.

"How could they weaponize Brice through SAGE?" Edward asked himself again.

Andrew leaned over from his own laptop to consider what Edward was studying. "You always say, puzzle through the process. Let's go back to the build question. What is SAGE trying to do?" Andrew asked.

"Digital telepathy."

Andrew nodded. "Influencing people through the interface."

"So they're trying to, what? Spy on people through other people's perceptions? The whole heart of the system is non-violent. SAGE is the protective measure. How can they –" Edward stopped, covering his face with his hands. He fought to collect his thoughts. "How can it –"

Andrew patted Edward's shoulder. "Why don't we take a break, Eddie? We've been after this for hours."

"Andrew, if you need one, take one."

"You need one, too. Not wanting to sound like Toad, but you're probably not thinking with any clarity. C'mon and partake of an ancient weekend tradition of the Croftdon Brothers. It's your first time, and it would mean a lot. We all go down to the Olde Hole Pub and get trashed. We all try to get Toad so drunk, he picks up the tab."

Edward sunk back in his chair, laughing wearily at the thought. "It's an ancient tradition, is it?"

"Absolutely. Ancient by about 30 years. Used to be root beer, now it's the real deal. Wait until you see where the pub is located. It's very convenient."

Chapter Six

"Thank you for arriving so quickly, Ken," Thomas said, as Edward's assistant appeared at the Croftdon House door.

"No problem at all. You sounded worried."

"I am. Please come in."

Thomas showed Ken into the great room where the same amalgam of men he had seen there previously were once again gathered. Sherwood Porch, the man in the gray suit, stood before the same video display where Eddie had stood previously. Displayed on that screen was an image of multiple dead bodies – some on the ground, others draped over theater seats, still others slumped together in piles. The gore was graphic – brains exposed, chest cavities, one was a dead child with half her head blown away.

"Please tell me that's from a movie," Ken said, flinching as he turned away from the image on the screen.

"I wish I could," Thomas said. "Twenty-four hours ago, a gunman entered a theater in Pretorious, South Africa and opened fire on a crowded cinema. The gunman had no history of violence or mental illness. He was a commended police officer with a family. Yet one week before this incident, he collected a submachine gun and ammunition enough to do what you see." Thomas clicked the image off the screen. "Two days before the event, the shooter met with a representative of Graphic Mode Wears, even though he had no reason to do so. Graphic Mode Wears is a company wholly owned by –"

"Bakunin Industries, I know," Ken said, exhaling hard.

Porch continued, "He now remembers nothing from a period of 72 hours prior to the event. His memory was cleaned."

"And you think this was the result of Eddie's and Andrew's program?" Ken asked. "Could the Bakunin link be a coincidence?"

Thomas looked at him with sad and certain eyes. "Not according to the opinion of our experts. I have looked over the data to prove them wrong, for both of my sons' sakes. I can find no errors. I'm very afraid they're right."

"Wendell, you son of a bitch. You did it. You finally did it," Ken said to himself, as he moved back into the chair behind him. He leaned forward as if protecting his gut from a further impact. "You crazy bastard."

"While the actions themselves are Bakunin handiwork," Thomas said, while he deferred his attention to John Croftdon's direction, "we have to recognize our own role in its beginnings."

"Wendell's father and I would never have countenanced this horror," John replied sharply. "This is by the hand of a lone madman."

"One we have encouraged," Thomas said.

Ken slammed a fist against the chair's arm. "This is going to kill Eddie."

"We'll have to make certain that it doesn't," Thomas replied firmly.

Ken shook his head. "No, you don't get it. This was Eddie's dream. His fucking vision. I think it was his way of proving his worth to both his families. He was so proud because Wendell had entrusted him with this whole project. Eddie's the most idealistic person I've ever known and he judges himself very harshly. He will take personal responsibility for everything that happened there. Wendell might as well have killed Eddie along with those people. It'll end up with the same result."

"We'll just have to be there to help him through it," Thomas said, more firmly than before.

"How?" Ken snapped back. "I hope to hell you have some special genetic insight, because I've known the kid full-time for 20 years and I don't have a clue how to save him from this."

Ken pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He clicked a couple of buttons and stuck the phone to his ear.

"This bastard better pick up," he said, through gnashed teeth. After several seconds, Ken blasted the phone with, "Great, I got your voice mail. Call me. Now."

"Where are my boys?" Ken asked, to the other men in the room.

"I believe I heard Andrew say they were headed to that silly clubhouse nonsense of theirs," John Croftdon said. "I have no idea where it is."

"I realize that, Father," Thomas said, "it was designed that way. But I do know where it is."

"You can't get through the original front door from the outside, because of the new wings on the old place," Andrew explained as he and Edward slipped through the foundation rent that gave them ready access to the next bolt hole. "So you have to go through this big fissure in the basement wall to climb up through a hole that was once a staircase about, oh, 400 years ago, just to go into the original front door to access the Old Hole Pub."

Andrew hoisted himself up through the former staircase hole and then assisted Edward. When he finally stood amid the very old space, Edward could see the layout of the original manor house. It reminded him of one of those middle ages movies, complete with huge ceremonial hall for kingly banquets.

"We were originally going to build our own clubhouse, but then we saw the writing on the wall."

"Writing on the wall?" Edward asked.

"The writing on the wall," Andrew said again, pointing to the wall.

OLDE HOLE, someone had written – probably long, long ago.

"It's cold in here," Edward said, hugging himself for warmth.

"Whenever we point that out, Toad always says can you imagine what it was like in the 14th century?" Andrew pointed the way. "Our pub house clubhouse is through there."

The room had been taken over with overstuffed furniture, clearly picked up on the cheap, and a stereo system of suspect quality. An old punk poster sagged halfway off the wall. Across another wall was emblazoned, DEATH TO THE TOAD!

"That's a little extreme, don't you think?" Edward asked, pointing to the printing.

Andrew shrugged. "I was seven."

They rounded a corner to find James and Wilse, seated beside a cooler filled with ice, bottles and cans.

"You realize, Edward, now that you know about our secret location, you are bound by the Croftdon Brothers oath, correct?" Tad asked, coming from behind them.

"Dad knows all about the hole," Andrew said. "He and Uncle George discovered it."

"Still," Tad said, turning back to Edward. "You may not reveal its location on penalty of painful death. Which puts us in a difficult predicament. You see, we don't kill what we don't eat, and we're not cannibals, and brother James over there is a damn vegan, so we can't kill you at all, can we?"

"I'm not inclined to tell anyone anyway," Edward said.

"Good," Tad said, pushing him back against the huge bean bag chair behind him. "Now sit the fuck down before you collapse."

Edward managed to pull himself back up into a sitting position. He slapped dust away from his slacks. "Gee, thanks for the assist."

"Don't feel badly, Eddie," James said, eying Tad with a feigned darkness. "He's a vicious tyrant to all of us in here. He considers the place his."

Tad leaned over, picking up a half-finished bottle of beer and poured the contents over James' head. James slowly swung a look of recrimination his older brother's way.

"Nice going, shithead."

"Don't look at me," Tad said. "I didn't make the natural order of things, did I? Take up your complaints with the Almighty. It was God's choice that made me the oldest –"

"Wait!" Andrew said, smiling brightly. "You're not the oldest one here now!"

"It's true," James said, "Edward is the oldest by two years."

"It's true, Toad has been dethroned," called Wilse from his own corner.

James lifted his pint toward the sky. "The Croftdon Boys have been liberated from our evil oppressor!"

"The Toad is dead!" Wilse cried out, opening a pint and handing it to Edward. "Long live King Edward."

"Wait a moment here, I sense betrayal amid the ranks," Tad said, turning his outrage toward Edward, who shrugged toward him as Eddie accepted the bottle from Wilse.

"Who am I to question the natural order of things?" Edward asked. "Take up your complaints with the Almighty."

"Oh, this is entirely unfair," Tad said. "And yet, strangely comforting. Now you can deal with Dad."

Andrew said toward the others, "Dad terrifies Eddie, you know."

Edward swung a chastening look at Andrew. "I told you that in confidence."

Andrew swatted in Edward's direction. "Oh, go on, we know no secrets in here."

"Why does he terrify you?" James asked, squinting at the thought. "He's such a nice man. An argument's a doss with him. He's hardly intimidating."

"I'm not sure," Edward said, thoughtfully, sipping from his bottle and glowering at the effect. "This is really bad shit, by the way."

"Tad's a grasping old miser," James said.

"And he's got awful taste in beverages," Wilse added.

"Judging by your great love of lemonade, Wilsey," Tad replied, "I will take that as a high compliment."

"Perhaps Dad, because he's your biological father, represents ultimate, ancient truth?" Andrew suggested, considering the earlier question. "Unquestionable, inarguable, unvarnished truth."

"It's true. Dad hasn't been shellacked in years," Tad added.

"Or maybe he's just intimidating and I'm a big wuss," Edward said, laughing while drinking more from the bottle but finally setting it down on the ground. "You know what, I missed you guys, and I didn't even know it."

"Oh, what a twee little sentiment that was," Tad said, picking up Edward's abandoned pint, "I'll have to do something to counter that –"

Edward stood up. "Don't you dare!"

"Baptism is a rite of passage," Tad said, walking closer. "Don't worry, we have water-resistant underlayment. It's in the design of the Croftdon Pub House."

Edward backed away. "So is going through a hole in the foundation to get to the floor and climb up to the door."

"Take it like a man. We've all been dowsed," Tad said, inching forward again.

Edward looked over at Andrew, James and Wilse. He pointed at Tad. "Has exorcism been considered?"

Andrew shrugged. "The Church keeps turning us down. They say the've never seen a case as bad as his before."

"Edward!" a voice came up from the outside, bouncing off the walls of the inner sanctum. "Tad! Andrew! Are you boys in there?"

"See," James said, "I told you Dad knew where it was."

At the mere sound of Thomas' voice, Edward moved. He leapt up to walk around the door and clear the first access to the final one. He didn't know if he had half-suspected the news or if it was merely his inner fear of his natural father.

The moment he saw Thomas' face, something cramped at Edward's gut. Something cold and powerful that he couldn't shake.

"What is it?" he asked, swallowing hard. "What's happened?"

"Come back to the house with me, all of you," Thomas said. "There is something serious we have to discuss. It's best covered at length inside the new house."

After the video had played – after the images had passed along the information they had to relay – Edward couldn't sit up in the chair he now inhabited. The set-up to the video that was played had made the implication clear. There had been something in the finessing – in the gunman's fine muscle movements that the security camera had captured – in the information processing represented in the shooter's eyes – that told Edward more than anyone else would know, except Andrew.

He looked around to his computer colleague. Andrew was smiling sadly, with a despairing kind of sympathy. He nodded as if to say that he saw it, too.

Edward forced himself to walk to a corner, where he could be alone with his thoughts.

"Eddie, man, you know it's just possible," Ken murmured from right behind him, "that Wendell is being used."

"By who?" Edward growled in reply.

"Somebody. Someone we don't know about."

"Who? There isn't anyone. You know that," Edward snapped. "This is nothing but his own madness turned up to the worst possible levels."

"Look, I wish I had something to say to you," Ken said. "I wish I had an alternate theory I've come up with."

"So do I," Edward said. "All there is now is the truth. I have to beg him for the truth, and his reasons. If he doesn't give them to me, well, I'll have to make the choice from there."

"You know, I think," Ken said, "the only side I'm on is yours."

Edward laughed sadly as he covered his eyes with his hands. "It's good to know someone is."

Ken rubbed Edward's shoulder in sympathy. "How do you want me to handle this?"

"Don't worry. I'll handle it."

Edward glanced around wanly in the direction of the others. He could tell they were paying discrete attention. The discretion would give him time and space enough to determine what the hell was going on. He then pulled out his cell phone. He looked at the numbers, striking the right ones, and waited for the line to ring through. It took eight times to answer.

"Wendell Bakunin," a groggy voice came through.

Edward shut his eyes, in an effort to feel alone, and brave, and confident. "Hi, Dad, it's me."

"Eddie?" the voice barked back, all full of sleep. "Do you know what time it is here –"

"I know, and I'm sorry, but I had to call through on your personal line." Edward shut his eyes more firmly, speaking each word like a separate entreaty to his father. "I have to ask you a question. It's a very important question. I'd much rather hear the truth from you than a lie. I need you to be totally honest. No matter the answer, okay?"

"Of course, I always am," Wendell barked back at him. "What have those people been telling you now?"

"I just need to know this one thing," Edward said, forcing a firmness through his voice so it wouldn't seem to break even as it was about to. "Did you militarize any portion of my program, for whatever reason? Did you bring in the Pentagon or –"

"Of course not!" Wendell snapped in reply. "Why would I do such a thing?"

"And if I tell you I've seen evidence –"

"Then I'll tell you that they falsified it!" Wendell said, anxiously.

Edward had to cough to speak again. "Dad," he whispered, "you know I love you, right?"

"Of course!" Wendell said. "What are they doing? Trying to drive a wedge between us? Didn't I warn you? Didn't I tell you that would happen?"

"Dad, please, tell me," Edward begged him, "whatever it is, I'll forgive you, but I need you to tell me the truth –"

"They're doing that, aren't they? I told you they wanted to lure you away from me, from Bakunin. Well, you remember what they did – what they have done, all along. They rejected you. I took you in. I gave you a home when no one else would. You had no one."

"Dad, please, there are things you didn't tell me," Edward said, forcing back tears. "I have to know. Did Mom send them pictures? Did she send them news stories?"

"Of course she did!" Wendell replied. "I've told you that!"

"I know, but you said they sent them back –"

"Which they did, every packet ever sent, news clippings, photographs. Every single one, they wrote return to sender across the envelope. They never wanted any news about you, any information, any part of your life. Any of it, Edward."

Wendell's voice rattled on, in desperate half-tones and extended measures, playing out across his adopted son's sympathies with a skilled prowess. Edward turned in desperation toward the room where he had spent the night. There was something there. Something that could prove the case, one way or the other.

Eddie swallowed a sob whole. "I know, Dad, you've told me," he said, rushing toward the room where he knew the baby book lay, waiting to confirm or refute Wendell's version of the truth.

"Then don't listen to them now!" Wendell raged on. "They didn't give a damn about you all those years ago. Or all the years since. Old Man Croftdon was into eugenics. I never told you that to spare your feelings. But he thought you were substandard. That's why he made his son give you away."

Edward quickly made his way into the room and to the dresser. He opened the drawer and withdrew the baby book. His vision clouded with a stinging warmth through his eyelids. He tried to not listen to the words as they spilled mercilessly out of the phone and into his ear. He was too busy trying to determine what he wanted to find when he opened the baby book.

What was in there was the truth. It would make one case or the other. As deeply as he knew what that truth would be, a little part of him still hoped for something less certain – for something equivocal.

Each page as he passed through held photographs – Edward as an infant, Edward as a toddler, Edward in grade school, Edward in junior high, Edward at high school –

Edward the chess champion, Edward the spelling bee victor, Edward the failed track star, Edward the computer wizard, Edward – Edward.

Edward battled the sobs to keep them silent. He turned away toward the window. He couldn't hear anything at all at first, until the roaring in his head subsided. Then all he could hear was the blare of Wendell's lies.

"Edward?" Wendell said, once Edward could hear him from the other end. "You believe me, don't you? I have to know you're on my team, son."

Eddie swallowed the anger and the pain and the disappointment, the crushing and disorienting shock of it all, every bit of it, and then forced himself to say, "Of course. You know I'm on your team. Always. You know that everything I do is because I love you, right?

"Yes, of course," Wendell said. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Dad," Edward said, "Everything is fine now. I'll talk to you sometime tomorrow. I love you. Good night."

He clicked the phone off and placed it down on the desk. He tenderly lifted the baby book and slipped it back into the drawer, and then closed it.

"I'm so sorry, Eddie," Thomas said from beside him.

Edward looked around in surprise. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you."

"Forgive me for intruding, but I –"

"No, I'm glad you're here," Edward said quickly. "There's something I need to ask you. I've refrained from asking until now. I think maybe I was afraid to. I don't think I wanted to know the answer. But now I must know."

Thomas seated himself in the chair by the door. "You want to know why we gave you to Wendell?"

Edward sighed softly, sitting back on the bed where he had slept the night. He now sat across from Thomas, his father, where they could look at each other on the same level. "Yes. Wendell just told me you gave me away due to John Croftdon's belief in eugenics, that when I was born he –"

"Good God, no!" Thomas snapped. "That's a vile, disgusting lie, and Wendell knows it. There was nothing wrong with you. I was a 16 year old kid who got my 15 year old girlfriend, your mother, in trouble. I wanted to marry Faith, but our parents wouldn't allow it. So I let my father talk me into a pact he hammered out with Wendell's father, in order to keep the peace in the corporate world. Pure politics. A misunderstanding brought about from having been out of touch so long. Estrangement breeds contempt far faster than familiarity does."

"And I was the bargaining chip?"

"Yes, I'm sad to say. Since Wendell and his wife needed a child and couldn't have any, I believed you to be sent there for good reasons. It also helped restore accord, for a while, between them."

Edward nodded. "But eventually you and Faith married?"

"Yes, eventually. I finally learned to stand up to my father. That's why I've been so careful to be different with your brothers. I always knew I'd have to have this conversation with you, so I've tried very hard to be a good father. Although, I'm not sure what happened with Tad."

Edward found himself laughing in spite of himself. "I've heard various theories."

"I'm sure you have." Thomas leaned forward toward Eddie. "You know, it would only be natural if you had mixed feelings about this situation."

Edward smiled and shook his head. "No, I had seen this coming for a while. The breach between Wendell and I had widened. The more I communicated with Andrew, the more I realized Wendell's psychotic fantasies were his own walking nightmares. And I think it was his misguided way of keeping me near. If we believed the forest was full of enemies, we'd stay near the campfire."

Ken stepped into the room. "I can't wait any longer. What the hell is happening?"

"We're staging a counter-offense." Edward stood up from the bed. "If Wendell calls back, don't answer it. Call Arvo and convince him we're still on board with Bakunin. Okay?"

"What are you going to do?"

"What I have to do, correct my mistake."

"It wasn't your mistake, Eddie," Andrew said, as he filled the place in the room that Ken had vacated, to go and make his calls. "It was our mistake."

"It was mine first," Edward said. "I got you into it. I let Wendell manipulate me. I persuaded you of the reality of his trust. I believed what I knew could not be true, because I wanted to."

Thomas sighed. "We all do that to one extent or another, son."

"I know him better than anyone," Edward said. "And he played me. I wrote the vulnerability they're using to kill people into the system. Wendell suggested it and I wrote it in. A shortcut, he said, to expand its utility. I wanted his acceptance, his approval. And now we have this."

"You figured out how they ghosted the program?" Andrew asked.

Edward nodded. "We couldn't figure out how it knew our language, but that was how. It generated its own fly code. It just rewrote the program so it would accept the bridge without any glitches. The layout of the clubhouse triggered the memory. The indirect access was always part of the fucking design."

Andrew leaned back his head as if in a swift and sudden realization. "Damn it. SAGE hands."

Edward nodded again. "We envisioned people in remote regions performing skilled surgery through a link to the system while, the whole time, they wanted to put weapons in their hands." Edward's voice cinched again in into a tight knot that sounded ready to split at any point. "Stopping it will be for Wendell's own good, though I doubt he'll see it that way. The only way to stop what they're doing is to destroy our program."

"You know I'm with you all the way," Andrew said.

Edward's lips bent into a small, sad smile. "Trust me, I appreciate that more than I can say."

"Well, what can I do to help?" Thomas asked, standing.

"We need something to distract Wendell," Edward said. "I have the element of surprise because he won't see it coming from me now. He'll think I'm just updating the server script."

Thomas nodded. "I think I may be able to setup some negotiations between Croftdon and Bakunin. Maybe to continue your work here?"

"That could do it."

"Then I'll see about it immediately."

"Mr. Croftdon – I mean, Thomas," Edward said, pausing a moment, grappling for words, "thank you. For everything you told me. I mean, before."

"It was only the truth, Eddie."

"Yes, well, today, that was especially comforting," he said.

"I'm afraid I can well understand that," Thomas replied, leaving down the hall.

Andrew looked toward Edward, a myriad of possibilities seeming to filter through his expression. Finally, he appeared to zero in internally on the only possible course of action. "You're thinking of uploading the Pandora packet to Epimetheus?"

"Unless you can think of a better solution," Edward said.

Andrew tapped the table beside him in frustration. "No, and I've been trying. It's a horrible thing to consider destroying something you've worked so hard to bring about."

"But the alternative is even worse. I mean, that's why we created the inert malware in the design. We foresaw the potential for the program to fall into less ethical hands," Edward said, breaking up in a dry, humorless laugh. "We just had no idea it would be our own. Of course, we made it extremely difficult to access from outside. And it has to be uploaded from the outside."

"I'll be happy to assist, but there's no better hacker on the planet than you," Andrew said.

Edward laughed darkly again. "Oh, Andrew, there is so much you don't know. But it's better that it's just one of us. No reason spreading around the blame. Wendell will have some hesitation about coming after me. He'll have no similar compunctions about targeting you."

"What do you think he'll try to do to you?" Andrew asked softly.

"At minimum, fire me, disown me, probably try to destroy me. You're either with him or against him. There is no middle ground. I've seen him pound bigger men into the ground like tent stakes. There will be very little left of me, once he's finished. After I do what I have to do to him, I'm not altogether sure I want there to be anything left."

"Then maybe we ought to just leave things as they are," Andrew said. "You know I'll go whichever way you want me to."

"If I don't stop this, I'll do worse to myself than anything Wendell could do to me. And you'll do the same thing to yourself. No, I started it. I have to stop it." Edward murmured a soft, deep sound from the depths of his throat. "It's so fucking ironic."

"How do you mean?"

"The only reason I worked on this project was to win Wendell's respect. His acceptance. His love, I guess. And Thomas', too, if I'm honest with myself. And now it has all come to this."

"It brought you back here to us."

"Yeah, it did do that." Eddie grinned. "For all the good that's doing you now."

Andrew shook his head. "Don't be silly. But I would like to ask, since we're being so direct and open, is it true, what Tad says? Do you really use reds and whites and all that to work like you do?"

Edward paused a long moment in consideration. He nodded. "Yeah. I do. With the schedule I have to keep. I've already told you that you're every bit as good as I am. You just don't drive yourself the way I do. Why, did you think I had a genii in a bottle or something?"

Andrew grinned. "Well, yes, sort of."

Edward shrugged. "Yeah, I'm afraid the superhero thing was a total illusion. Sorry."

"Oh, no, no, I like this Eddie a lot better than the old distant one I barely knew," Andrew said. "I should tell you, though, you don't look well. I have half a mind to call in Tad."

"Please don't," Edward said, "I'll be okay. It's just been a difficult day. I know my system. I know when I'm crashing. I still have time. It's important to me that Thomas not know anything about my habit."

"Why?"

"I don't know, it just is. It's embarrassing enough to me that you and Tad know."

"James and Wilse, too, I'm afraid."

"Wonderful," Edward said, shaking his head to himself and the wall and then the ceiling. "Well, that makes it even more important to prevent the spread of information." He checked his watch. "We had better get this underway if we want to take down the system in the time Thomas is giving us."

Chapter Seven

Edward slipped into the library with a moist cloth pressed to his face. He had already consumed a third of an energy drink. He clutched at a wall to slowly make his way to the chair beside his laptop. His eyes were watering badly, and he wished he could think of a reason to blame it on crying. Allergies would have to do.

"Can you please turn up the heater or something, Andrew?" Edward asked, buttoning a sweater he had just pulled on.

"It's cold to you?" Andrew asked, looking around in confusion.

"It's not to you?"

"Not in the slightest, no."

Edward shook his head, sat back in his chair and focused forward. "Never mind then, it's probably just me. I'll distract myself here shortly." His attention centered on the ASCII text lines replicated on the screen. "All right, we won't have a lot of leeway. Where is Thomas with the time window he's opening?"

"He's on the phone with his New York contact," Tad said from the doorway. "He is cooking up some offer that he will fax the details of in 72 hours. He has experience dealing with Wendell. I'm sure he'll improve on that window of opportunity. How long do you think you have?"

"Wendell was half-asleep," Edward said. "He won't start thinking clearly until morning there. His brain won't start manufacturing theories until after his morning coffee. I'll need a time aperture that will allow me access and allow the Pandora to follow through with the viral destruction of the program – Jesus, I can't believe I'm even discussing this." Edward pressed the cloth to his eyes. "Maybe 2 or 3 hours, tops."

"I've loaded the pop paths for access points," Andrew said. "I thought they might trigger the portal. Maybe through an access trip in a scutter script or something."

"How many skips?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Andrew said.

Tad leaned down beside Edward, staring at him closely. "Why are your eyes watering?"

"Allergies," Edward replied, glancing sheepishly at the other man. "If you don't mind, I'm working here."

"Isn't that something? So am I. And you haven't so much as sniffled since you've been here. I see not one sign of allergic rhinitis, especially the much-vaunted industrial strength kind from which you claim to suffer."

"I don't know, Tad, maybe the drugs are masking the symptoms," Edward snapped.

"And why are you shivering?"

"I'm nervous. I'm trying to stop this thing. Will you please give me a chance?"

"Certainly," Tad said. "I promised Andrew I would stand back until this is all over, however, I will step in if medically necessary. Oh, and Eddie?"

"What?" Edward barked back, finally looking up at him.

Tad brandished before him a computer readout. "I have the results from your blood workup. So don't even attempt to lie to me anymore. And the moment you're done, I'm telling our father everything."

"No pressure or anything?"

"Of course not. Just a reminder."

Edward's eyes slid closed. A residue of tears squeezed out through his lashes. He used the cloth to blot them away. He cleared his throat to whisper, "Understood."

"What's going on in there?" Thomas asked as Tad returned to the group of people that now consisted of Croftdons and Ken.

"A lot of staring at screens, muttering gibberish and typing strings of text that look like bloody hieroglyphics," Tad said. "What did you find out on your phone call?"

"I think I bought them some time. I tempted him with the next nebulous programming venture that could be immensely lucrative for both companies. I think he'll bite." Thomas set down his teacup in a saucer. "So what was this important thing you had to tell me?"

Tad looked from Ken to James to Wilse and back again. "You cannot tell Eddie or Andrew I've told you what I'm going to tell you until after this is over, but Eddie is not coming up with his works of genius without a chemical assist. And I have proof."

"You're certain?" Thomas asked.

Tad nodded. "Unfortunately, yes."

Thomas surrendered to a chair behind him, his fingers sinking into the armrest. His head swiveled slowly toward Ken. "Did you know this?"

"Of course he knew it. He watched it happen," Tad replied.

Ken shook his head, surrendering up a growl of angry laughter. "How the hell did you guys think he managed the killer schedule? That poor kid was strung out on purpose and we all chose to ignore it – all of us. And the saddest part of all is, so long as the racehorse was winning, it didn't matter. Edward has never been anything but a victim of somebody else's bad decisions."

"Ken is right," Thomas said.

"Yeah, I am. And what's going to be left of that kid? That's what we're not addressing."

"I don't know about psychologically, but physically he's crashing," Tad said. "I give him at most an hour before he's going to need to use again."

"What's going to happen when he crashes?" Ken asked.

"It's hard to say without knowing what he's on at this moment. He could be up for three straight days or sleep for a week. More likely the second scenario," Tad said.

"Given the circumstances, we need him to do this," Ken said. "We do. Who else can do it?"

"There has to be another way," Thomas replied. "We have hundreds of programmers in our employ. Some of the best in the world."

"Really, Dad," James said, "that know this program? That have the skill level that Eddie has at the tasks we need to have performed? We don't."

"James is right," John Croftdon's voice rose above the others. He sat down on the settee beside the small group. "What we have begun, we must put to an end. We started this madness, and we must end it. It is our responsibility."

"That's right, it's your responsibility," Thomas rebuked the older man. "Yours. Not my son's. You find a way out of this quagmire that you helped create."

John sat forward with stoic precision, failing to meet his son's eyes. "Thomas, we live in a precarious world balanced upon difficult and dangerous choices. Edward has been a vital asset in keeping us all safe from those dangers. We have all enjoyed the benefits of his work. Now we must have him finish that work."

"Goddamn it, he isn't an asset."

"I wish I had the luxury of being so idealistic," John replied. "You are my son, Thomas, and when it comes to matters of business, you'll do what I tell you to do."

"Not this time. Not again. Never again."

"Hate as I do to argue for something like this," Ken said, "I don't see we have a whole lot of options."

"Then we'll have to find one," Thomas said.

"I need a break," Edward said, standing away from his chair like some anchor he had just divested himself of. He combed fingers through his hair to move it all away from his eyes. He tried to focus on one thing – on any thing – that wasn't a screen filled with text.

"Are you all right?" Andrew asked, reaching for his own mug of tea to follow Edward over to the window.

"I'm conscious," Edward said, gripping his fingers together as he descended slowly into an old red wingback chair, positioned against the window that overlooked the grounds. "That's as good as it gets."

"We've made a lot of progress," Andrew offered. "We've found a number of places the access isn't located."

"That's true, defining my failures, I guess that could be seen as progress," Edward said to his reflection in the darkening window. Between the lights of a distant house and the shadows of this one, the family cemetery back gate loomed darkly, the old posts glittering in the residual moonlight. He leaned forward to stare out across the yard, as if seeking some answer in the deeper shadows. "Rhetorical question to distract myself. Do you want to be buried? Because I don't."

Andrew looked around with a confused squint. "What a question. I've never given it much thought, actually. I suppose so. Father has the new plot in town for the lot of us. That's where Gram and the other grands went. Where the old codger will go, too, once they finally ram a stake through his petrified heart."

Eddie laughed at the thought. "I've never understood the European wish to horde our dead. I'd rather be cremated and scattered to the four winds or seven seas or something."

"Well, you'd want a memorial though for everyone to remember you, wouldn't you?" Andrew asked.

Eddie shook his head. "I don't really want to be remembered."

"Well, you will be. Why wouldn't you want to be?"

Edward shrugged. "Too much responsibility. I think it's best to be forgotten. Death is about managing carbon, you know, the process of forgetting. Things have their moment, but then they're gone. Turned over into the earth."

Andrew stood beside him silently for a long moment. He set aside his tea and then finally spoke, "Eddie, that's so fucking sad, I can't even begin to tell you."

"You think so? I somehow find it comforting." Edward stood from the chair, crossing his arms against another chill overtaking him. "I mean, I can't abide the thought of just hanging around, in whatever form. Dead in a box, or just existing, hooked up to machines. Someone else paying my bills. I'd rather die than be useless or, worse, a burden to someone. I'd rather just be scattered and forgotten."

"Eddie, I'm about one step away from calling in Tad. Are you really okay?"

"Of course," Edward said, laughing. "Are you?"

"I'm not the one pattering morbidly about death and dying," Andrew said.

"Oh, I'm just in a morose mood from everything that's happened. I'm fine. Really."

As Edward turned to walk back to his laptop, Andrew reached out to keep him from moving for a moment. "Eddie, after we melt down the program, what are you going to do? Where are you going, I mean? Have you given it much thought?"

Edward stopped in one place to think for a moment. "I don't have the foggiest notion. Obviously not back to Bakunin. Not after this."

"You might stay on with Croftdon, you know."

"Oh, God, no. That would be presumptuous as hell. Besides, after doing this to Wendell, it wouldn't be right."

"Well, if you wouldn't mind an unsolicited opinion from your kid brother," Andrew said, "I think you should stop worrying about your responsibility to others in any of this. You didn't ask for what you've been given. You aren't beholden to anyone for it."

"You know you're a much nicer person than Tad and I. How did that happen?"

Andrew shrugged. "There are numerous theories."

"Yeah, I've been hearing about those."

Edward checked the darkness beyond the window against the face of his wristwatch. "Well, before anything happens, we have to get this done – or there won't be much of a happily ever after for either of us."

Edward returned to the chair beside his laptop. He pulled the collar of his sweater up, then folded his arms against the intensifying shiver. For a moment, his fingers wouldn't flex. Then he hit the spacebar to bring up the screen. Perspiration spilling down his face, he wiped it away with his sweater sleeve.

"You have the gateways loaded, so all we have to do is try each one in series," Edward said, "then it will provide us the window for the password. Wendell chose it. That's when the fun begins."

"How long will it take to sequence?" Andrew asked.

Edward shook his head. "It could be minutes, it could be hours, it might be –"

The laptop screen resolved and quickly displayed one text line:

Opening Salvo

"That's Wendell's prompt!" Edward gasped, pointing to the screen. "Opening Salvo, that's his favorite prompt. It has to be the way in. I'll bet the prompt text line is keyed to the password phrase. He loves that crap."

"There's a password phrase?" Andrew asked, his voice alarmed.

"Not really. It's a randomly generated phrase that only keys to one word. You have to know Wendell to get it. There will be a series of three. They all must be correct."

"Fabulous. Why didn't he make it difficult or something?" Andrew said darkly.

The next line of text: Antimony born?

"Here's the first one," Edward said.

"Antimony is a metallic element, isn't it?" Andrew asked.

"It's also the name of the town in Utah where Wendell's mother was born." Edward typed in SELENA.

The screen flashed CORRECT. It then displayed –

Dock Square Lodge Site

Edward wove his fingers through each other to grip them together. At last, he typed in KENNEBUNKPORT

The screen flashed INCORRECT – TRY AGAIN?

"How many chances do we have?" Andrew asked.

"Two," Edward said, exhaling. "This one has to be right. Wait – wait, I think I know."

He typed in CAPE PORPOISE.

CORRECT.

"Jesus," Edward said, sighing. "That was close."

"So, what's that?" Andrew asked. One more?"

Edward nodded. "I think."

The screen displayed Clan I Or Deep and Wide.

"What the hell does that mean?" Andrew asked.

"I know that from somewhere," Edward said, sweeping away more sweat from his forehead. "Where do I know that from?"

With a sudden, sharp movement, Edward's arms contorted forward in front of him. He grasped at his right arm with his left. He pitched forward, seized by another wave of cramps in what felt like all his muscles.

"I'm getting Tad," Andrew said.

"No," Edward coughed out, trying to wave away Andrew's concern. "I'm fine. I'll just – I'll be back in a minute or so."

Edward grasped hold of the wall again. One of his legs felt like rubber, the other wracked by a deep-bone twisting pain. He inched toward the library door and into the hall, and felt his way to the room he had been using. The door sprung open and he had to grab for the frame to keep from falling. The sweat spilling into his eyes made it impossible to see.

"Dear God, not here," he murmured to himself, closing the door behind him and the rest of the house. "Anywhere else, please just not here."

The pain dragged his legs out from under him. Edward could barely breathe against the cramps compressing his chest. He sagged silently against the side of his bed while reaching up for the overnight bag Ken had brought for him. He yanked open the zipper and thrust a hand into the case's depths. Where there should have been the one thing he needed in the world just then, there was only a void.

"Looking for this, Eddie?" Tad said from behind him.

Edward had to focus again. He pushed himself up on the bed to confront the invader. "Give that to me, it's mine."

Tad eyed him sadly. He dangled the white plastic bag of powder in front of him before he slid it into his jacket pocket. "I'm sorry, but that's staying where it is."

"You have no fucking right," Edward groaned out, strangled by the pain.

"If you'll consider the situation, I have every fucking right. This is our home and you are my brother. Like it or not, I'm a doctor. As I've said, I know how much you've taken and how long you've taken it. Don't attempt to lie to me."

"If I don't do what I have to do," Edward said, with measured breaths, "it could mean the end of Croftdon as well as Bakunin. Their futures are tied together."

"So? I don't give a fig about the stupid computer companies. I will help you, but you're not getting this shit. You hadn't shot up but a couple of times when I did your blood workup. As hard as Benzedrine is to rehab from, this shit is intravenous poison. I wondered how you were getting by without your stash. Now I know. And by the way, so does everyone. By that I mean, you know, everyone."

Tad stepped out of the way to allow Thomas into the room, then closed the door behind him.

"Oh, my God," Edward murmured, turning away to try to bury himself in the darkness.

"I discovered how he's been balancing himself. Diacetylmorphine," Tad said to Thomas. "Most people call it heroin."

Thomas covered his face with his hands, and then walked around the edge of the bed to face Eddie. Edward's eyes were closed. He was still facing the corner.

"This has to stop now, Eddie. This goes no further."

"You gave up the right to tell me that a long time ago," Edward whispered to the room.

"Then I'm taking it back," Thomas said.

"Where were you?" Eddie screamed out, lunging forward in Thomas' direction, only to make it to the edge of the bed. "Where have you ever been before the last few days?"

"That wasn't entirely my fault, Eddie."

Edward reached for the bedpost to steady himself, still turning in Thomas' direction. "How is it my fault at all?"

"It isn't, son."

"But I'm the one suffering. Through no fault of my own. Because of choices you and Wendell made. The only thing you can do to help me now is give me what I need so I can do what you fucking brought me here to do – save your goddamned company."

"That's not why you're here," Thomas said softly, "and regardless, I'm still not giving that to you."

"Fine, you want me to beg?" Edward asked. "I will beg. I will plead. This task is why I exist. It has always been the sole purpose of my existence. Let me do what I came here to do. If I do not do this, I would rather die."

"Those aren't our only choices. I believe there is a greater meaning to your life than –-"

"You have meaning!" Edward yelled back. "I'm an orphan in history. All I know now is I'm in pain. And I need it to stop. I don't fucking care how." Edward sagged back against the bed. "Father, if you have any regard for me at all, please let me stop this."

Thomas turned toward the corner that Eddie had leaned into. He closed the distance between them quickly. "Don't you dare use that word on me now. That isn't my son saying that, that's the junkie talking. Instead, I'm going to teach you what the word father means, possibly for the first time in your life. No. Not now, not ever."

"You're going to take responsibility for future deaths?" Edward asked, gulping for breaths.

"If necessary," Thomas said, "yes. I have one life I'm trying to protect right now. Just one. Yours."

"I am responsible for that weapon they are using," Edward said.

"Not to my mind," Thomas said.

Edward looked toward Tad. "Please. You're a doctor. Help me with this."

Tad sighed sadly. "Fine, but my concern at this point is your pain and general health. As such, I'm going to assume responsibility and administer what I believe will help you out of the state you're in. If you can work while in it, so be it. But I'm going to sit in there every minute of every hour. One sign of any medical crisis, and I shut you down. I will escort you personally into treatment."

"Fine," Eddie said, exhaling with a limitless relief. "I can live with those conditions."

Tad pulled something out of his jacket pocket. From his shirt pocket, he drew out a shot kit. He reached for Eddie's left arm and pulled it out straight. He pulled a transdermal patch off its backing and placed it on his upper arm. "Give me your other arm."

"What is all this?" Edward asked.

"The patch is buprenorphine. It'll counter a lot of what you're experiencing now." Tad prepared the syringe for the injection. "This is one part naloxon, which will handle the rest of your symptoms. The other part is something I won't tell you the name of, because if I did, you'd be running around the region trying to mainline it."

"Just give me what I need and I'll do what I have to do," Edward said, his voice flat and somber. "Then I can get out of your hair forever."

"Promises, promises. Dad said I'd learn to love Andrew, too, and look what's happened with that. He told me Bucky went to live on a farm and I found him all stiff and maggoty in the garage rubbish heap." Tad grasped Edward's wrist and pulled his arm out straight again. "Don't cry and I'll give you a lolly when we're finished."

The moment the injection was given, Edward's body immediately began to relax. He eased back into the moment with a deeper breath. "I take back almost every other rotten thing I've ever grumbled about you."

"Ah, you're feeling better now. You keep talking like that and you'll turn my head with praise," Tad said.

Feeling even more human, Edward looked at him evenly. "Really, thank you." He then looked over at Thomas. "Thank you, too."

Thomas touched his shoulder. "You can thank us when we check you into rehab. Can you stand?"

"I think so," Edward said, slowly gaining leverage on gravity. He finally reached his feet again.

"Walking, on the other hand, is another matter," Tad said, coming up from behind to support his shoulder.

"I can walk –"

"On your own, yes, I know, but humor me," Tad said, helping guide him to the door.

Tad helped Edward across to his chair beside the operational laptop. Andrew bounded to the door as Edward entered the library again.

"Not wanting to sound like a fucking broken record, but are you all right?" Andrew asked, grabbing the other arm to help him settle in the chair.

"He'll be right as rain shortly," Tad said. "He just accidentally ingested some Kryptonite, that's all."

"I told Andrew," Edward said, tapping the spacebar to bring up the screen again, "about most of it."

Edward focused forward.

The screen continued to display Clan I Or Deep and Wide.

"Clan I Or," Edward said, fighting to think clearly once again. He felt his brain gradually click back into player mode. "That strikes me as an anagram. But for what?"

Andrew typed into his own laptop. After a moment, he said, "Ail Corn, Can Roil, Carol In,

Coral In, Clarion –"

"Clarion deep and wide, or something similar," Tad said. "Those are all words from a poem. A Longfellow poem. The roaring torrent is deep and wide – and loud that clarion voice replied."

"What was the answer?" Edward asked himself.

"I don't remember. It was a strange word, though."

Edward held up a hand in Tad's direction. "No, no, that was something Wendell said. He asked me the question." Wendell Bakunin's voice arose from decades ago, playing in clear sequence across the audible range of memory – roaring torrent is deep and wide! And loud that clarion voice replied – "He always asked me that question, after quoting the poem. What was the answer in the poem?"

"Excelsior, of course," Thomas said.

"That's it," Edward murmured. "And loud that clarion voice replied – "

Edward typed in EXCELSIOR.

The next prompt read COMMENCE UPLOAD.

"We're in!" Andrew said, "Eddie, you did it!"

"No, no, we did it," Edward said, clicking through to upload Pandora. "We actually goddamned did it."

It initiated. What was actually one minute but felt like ten passed them by – the screen flashed to black, then the laptop initiated a series of command codes. After a full minute of lockup with data displays, the screen resolved again to a cool and dark window, then defaulted to a C prompt.

"It's done," Edward replied, exhaling loud and long. "Twelve years of imagining, eight years of work – and now, it's all toast. It's all dust. It's all just gone."

"What a terrible waste," Thomas said, from beside him.

"Not really, not from this perspective," Edward said.

Then Edward's cell phone rang. He didn't even look to know who it was. He knew.

Edward glanced awkwardly up at the other men. "If you don't mind, I'd rather take this bullet on my own."

"Of course," Thomas said, with a reassuring pat on his shoulder as they left him alone in the library.

When he was by himself, Edward tried to gather his courage for the moment to come. He found little at hand, so he just steeled himself and squared his shoulders, then pecked at his smart phone and said hello.

"Congratulations," Wendell's voice came back at him, "I see you've finally, fully defected, as I've always expected. I'm afraid you're out of a job, however."

"Please," Eddie said, fighting with everything in him not to cry, "try to understand, Dad. I did this because this obsession of yours would destroy you. And because I'm your son and I love you."

"I'm sorry," Wendell's coldest voice rolled on, "there must be some misunderstanding. My wife and I were never able to have children."

When the line cut off, Eddie had heard only what he had fully expected to hear – and yet, the last thing in the world he had wanted to hear. He rubbed at his eyes to relieve the stinging that had never fully surrendered.

When he looked upward, he saw Ken was hovering just beyond the library door. "I'm really sorry, man."

Edward, torn between laughter and tears, tried to smile. "I'm really sorry for you, too. We both lost our jobs."

"There are other jobs. Better jobs. We both have savings."

"I'd write you a stellar testimonial," Edward replied, "but I'm afraid my recommendation won't be worth much by tomorrow morning."

"You never know. He might have a change of heart. Rethink things. See your point of view."

Edward slowly looked up at Ken with a stare of incredulity.

"Okay," Ken said, "probably not."

"Definitely not."

"Well," Ken said, "I guess I'd better go alert Arvo that he's going to get called back to Boston. He's going stir crazy anyway playing endless games of Crazy Canaries. Are you going to be okay?"

Edward shrugged. "Okay is relative. The only thing I want right now is sleep. If you would tell the Croftdons that I'll be in the room they provided me, I'd appreciate it."

"Will do. You need me to bring you anything else?"

Edward shook his head and stood, moving like a ghost for the library door. "No, I packed lightly. You brought everything over today. One thing you could do. I purchased a car. I'm having it delivered in the morning. If you'd let Andrew know, I'd appreciate it."

"A car? How come?"

Edward smiled weakly. "I thought I'd drive around Europe a while – whenever I wake up, that is."

Ken nodded. "Sure, I'll tell him. Try not to worry about the future. Tomorrow will take care of itself. Good night, man."

Edward waved a hand in reply. He walked around the corner, and slipped into the guest room. The door closed after him with a muted thud.

Chapter Eight

His next full awakening came after a series of small ones. Between fractured dreams, Edward remembered Tad taking his blood pressure a couple of times. At one point, Tad had awakened him to inform him he had died and gone to Hell. Edward responded that he had already determined that, since he was obviously looking at Satan Himself. He dimly remembered that Tad had dropped a pillow at his face.

When his mind fully surfaced, the sky outside the window had gone a reddish bruised color, as if caught between hurt and healing. For a long while, Edward wasn't sure if the hour had been twilight or dawn. He simply stared at the window like some gauche impressionist painting until it had suddenly grown brighter, or else he had nodded off and surfaced again at a later time.

He washed up, did all of the perfunctory things he always did every morning, probably because there was nothing left to be done. All of life's events demanded propriety, Wendell had taught him, along with all the other madness he had left behind in his wake.

Edward stepped tentatively out of the door and into the hallway. It seemed empty – the house silent and still.

He left a note for Thomas, thanking him, explaining his absence with the short road trip story. It would be easier to do this without saying goodbye.

He had two more missions in mind. One was to gather his few belongings and place them near the door for his departure. The other was a final visit with the dead.

He found his way by himself this time, to the family cemetery. He felt as if he was following a heading out to sea. Surrounded by an array of varying sized headstones, he considered a few of the outlying ones. 1584, one read. The very idea of it was mind-numbing. Someone who walked the earth before standardized English – someone who might have known Shakespeare. And another, EDVARD THOMAS CROFTDOWN. 1602.

He ended up, as he knew he would, beside Faith.

"I doubt that you can hear me," Edward said. "But I've come to say goodbye, Mother."

His voice bounced with an echo effect that sounded like it came back around to rejoin his voice.

"You're the only one I'm going to admit this to, but I'm leaving," he whispered. " I want you to know I wish I had met you – you have a wonderful family of whom you would be rightfully proud. I'm glad I got to know them. They are all good people who mean well." He smiled to himself. "I think that's all you can really expect out of anyone."

He drew a deep breath from the cool morning mist, letting it fill his lungs for several moments to sustain him. "I'm going to give everything I have – all the code, all the backup material to Andrew. I trust him with it. I trust these people, and I trust Thomas, whereas I can't trust Wendell anymore. Not what he's become. That breaks my heart, but it's nevertheless the truth. I hope one day he'll regret our parting. I also hope that, in some way, you and my other mother know each other. And perhaps I'll see you both soon."

From behind him, Edward heard the crunch of measured footsteps, as if each had been carefully taken in some kind of greater design. The footsteps slowed behind him then stopped.

"Good morning, Eddie."

Edward swallowed hard. Of all the intrusions on this moment, this was among the least desired. John Croftdon, the man some would call his grandfather, was standing just behind him.

"Good morning, Mr. Croftdon," Edward said, about to take his first step back to the house – and away from the old man.

"I fear I owe you a considerable apology, young man," John Croftdon replied, stopping Edward's departure.

"You owe me nothing, sir."

Croftdon continued, "But I do. Granted, I'm not a person prone to asking for forgiveness, or feeling that I require it. In this instance, however, it is very much in order."

"What I did, I didn't do for you," Edward said tartly, with a direct gaze that might have taken the other man down. He took a few steps away. "I did what I did yesterday for my own reasons. I wouldn't have done anything else. You needn't feel apologetic."

"I was going to eventually speak of my gratitude for that event, but that is not the reason for my apology," John said, moving around to face Edward again, as the other man had maneuvered for escape. "In an act of incredible generosity, the conservancy that approached me has purchased the old house and deeded it and the land surrounding it back to our family. That is a momentous gift, I need not tell you, I'm sure. It must have set them back a million pounds or more."

"Why are you telling me this?" Edward asked

"Because, in conducting due diligence to discover the identity of our benefactor –" The old man stopped himself. "Very well, to determine to whom I was beholden, I discovered that this magically appearing conservancy had been setup in the United States. In Boston, Massachusetts. It was fronted by a nearly untraceable LLC. It was only after the considerable efforts of a team of researchers that we tracked it to one Edward Bakunin."

Edward shifted his attention toward the newer house. He lowered his voice even though no one else could possibly hear him. "I setup the conservancy to spare you the discomfiture of knowing I was the one who did it – and, to be honest, to spare me the embarrassment of admitting I cared enough to do it. So we don't need to mention it again. Still, it's not bad for an ignorant American with a limited view of history, hm?"

John reached out to almost touch Edward's arm but, when Eddie shifted away, John removed his hand. "Over the last several days I have had to accept that I am, in my own ways, as nescient as anyone. I am sorry. And I am grateful."

"Just keep in mind that some things are more precious because you've never had them. And thank you for your hospitality, but I'll be leaving now," Edward replied, walking back toward the house.

He entered by the backdoor – an act that now seemed familiar and easy when it had, just days before, seemed foreign and strange. Tad met him at the door.

"The next time you purchase a car," Tad said, walking up to shine a penlight in Edward's eyes while pressing fingers to his throat to check for a pulse, "have one of us test it for you. What was delivered to the house may have some chance of driving to the end of the street, but I wouldn't place any wages on it." Tad popped the stethoscope earpieces in and pressed the chest piece against Edward's back. "Shut up and breathe."

Edward inhaled. "I just needed something to drive around a little."

"A little being the operative phrase, yes," Tad said, taking off the stethoscope, then pulling a fob of car keys from his pocket and handing them over. "Your faithful Indian companion said to inform you that the contemptible chap who followed you here is off on the next flight to Boston. Ken also says, should you require any assistance, which of course you wouldn't think of requesting from a house that's bloody filled with immediate goddamned relatives, he will be at the hotel."

Edward avoided Tad's usual inquisitorial stare.

"Okay," Eddie said. "Thanks."

"And I suppose you're going to contend that you don't need clinical rehab prior to leaving on your just announced car trip," Tad said.

Edward shrugged weakly. "I'll only be gone a couple of days."

"So you say."

Edward moved around Tad to fetch his closed and cold laptop from the library. Tad followed after him. Edward walked out into the great room, where he was surprised to find a whole string of Croftdons in a receiving line as if waiting for him. So much for my leaving without saying goodbye, he thought to himself.

"We understand you are heading out for a road trip this morning," Thomas said, brandishing the letter he had left for them.

Edward nodded, setting his laptop beside his suitcase where it waited for him. At the end, John Croftdon stepped up to join the rest of the family. Thomas looked toward John with a pointed stare.

"Father, you had something to say?" Thomas asked.

John Croftdon cleared his throat. "As I was informing Edward, I realize I have made certain errors in judgment –"

"You were wrong, Father," Thomas said. "The word is wrong."

"Yes, very well," Thomas said, nodding. "I was wrong. It is said we make all our mistake with our oldest –"

"Really?" Thomas said, grinning toward Edward, "I hadn't noticed."

"Well, I had," John said. "Apparently this extends to one's oldest child's oldest child. I would like to offer Edward my earnest if much-delayed welcome and my wish that he would reside with us for as long as he might prefer."

The Croftdons looked toward Edward. They resembled for all the world, Eddie thought, a crowd at a tennis match.

"Thank you, Mr. Croftdon," Edward said, "I'm not certain of my plans, but I would obviously have to live where I work. It would be wrong for me to work for Croftdon. Given everything that has happened."

"Not that you need to work," Tad said. "You must have more scratch packed away than Jesus J. Rockefeller. Just from the software you've written alone, never mind the patents. Anyway, all you need do around here is exist. Look at James, he's an otiose slug. We still love him. Well, most of us anyway."

"Fuck off, Toad," James replied.

Edward shrugged. "I need to be useful. But thank you anyway."

He stopped himself when his voice started to waver. He waited there a long moment.

"No need for long goodbyes," Tad said, "We'll see you in a short time."

"Yeah," Edward said, feeling a resounding emptiness in the one word.

He made himself walk out the door, wishing for a moment for the lack of connection, the coldness, he had felt upon arriving. The void he felt now struck him with a cold echo of pain – something that had been summoned that was now achingly missing. Edward compelled himself to keep walking. He had wanted a quick and painless goodbye. This wasn't it. He realized now that could never have happened.

Thomas, Tad and Andrew had all spilled out onto the front walk. They were watching him intently. Their arms were folded defiantly.

It had seemed like an instant, and yet like an eternity, between Edward slipping behind the steering wheel and setting his belongings in the back. He fought not to look back as he shoved in the keys, and turned the ignition. The engine churned. And stopped. He tried again. And nothing. A third and a fourth time yielded the same result.

"Something is wrong," Edward said, climbing out of the car again to yank up the hood.

"Well, I did warn you the odds of your driving it were slim," Tad said, stepping forward as if to assist.

Edward removed the distributor cap, immediately spotting the problem. He looked over at Tad with a thousand suspicions. "The rotor is missing."

Tad peered over his shoulder. "Blimey. You'd think that sort of thing would come standard on these models."

Edward shut his eyes, feeling the first waves of understanding hit him. He coughed out a dry laugh with the growing realization. "It was there when it was driven here or it couldn't have driven at all."

"Oh, that thing. It's little and shaped like a rotor?" Tad retrieved it from his pocket and displayed it in his hand. "Yeah, I found it in the distributor cap."

Edward shook his head. "No kidding?"

"No kidding. You know, there was another odd thing in the car when it was delivered, too."

Thomas came around from behind the car, displaying a revolver before him. "I don't remember this as an option on the last Ford I considered buying. Trust me when I tell you I will find out how you ordered yours to come with it."

Edward averted his eyes from Thomas, looking everywhere but at anyone. "I bought that gun for protection while I was driving around."

"We don't have that many highway men attacking the main stagecoach routes around here, pahdner. Aside from the local police force, I mean," Tad said. "And then, of course, there's the three page suicide note we found that would seem to argue against your self-defense claim."

"You searched my car? Why?" Edward asked, fully understanding how mercilessly long the road ahead of him was now. It had once seemed mercifully short. The future could only now tumble on into the blackness unfolding inside his head.

"Numerous reasons," Andrew said, "chief amongst them our morbid discussion. Your visit to Mum's grave this morning didn't bode well either. To say nothing of your giving me all of your code and documentation with an open source license."

"I had rethought the suicide idea after I wrote the letter," Edward said. "I decided against it."

"Let's test that assertion, shall we?" Tad asked, opening the body of the .22. "They say you can determine the seriousness of a suicide attempt by its earnestness. With wrist slashers, it's one direction versus the other. With hangings, it's all in the knots. With guns, it's in the number of bullets. A standard .22, I'm told by Rocky Raccoon, can hold up to six rounds of ammunition. Shall we count the number of rounds Eddie loaded into his gun?"

"Tad –"

Tad popped the bullets out of their chambers – one, then two, then three, and four, and five, and then the last. "Six. I'd say that's as serious as it gets."

Edward slumped slowly against his car. "None of it is on any of you. There is nothing more for me to do. My purpose was my work –"

"You'll find a new one," Thomas said.

"That was the work of my life."

"You'll find another," Thomas said.

"You can't do this."

Unseen by him, James had moved Tad's car so that it blocked the exit to the driveway. Tad walked over to it and opened its door.

"Oh, yes, Eddie, we can," Thomas said. "In fact, I already have. I've alerted the authorities. You come with us of your own free will or they'll take you to hospital for us. We're going to make certain you get the help you need."

Edward stared up for a moment at the open sky. "Can't I just drive around for a while first?"

"No," Tad said, sitting down in the driver's seat. "Get in the car, Eddie."

"I'll come right back, I swear."

"Edward," Tad said, his palm hovering above the car horn, "we are not seriously going to have this discussion again, are we?"

That time, Eddie was forced to laugh in spite of himself. He knew too well there was nothing to do but surrender. They had been this way before. "No. No, I guess we're not."

"Good. Then get in the fucking car."

Edward slid into the backseat, followed by Thomas. Andrew and Tad took the front.

Thomas leaned near him, lowering his voice. "Why not let someone else be the strong one for a change, hm?"

"I don't know if I can manage that, but I'll try," Edward said. After a few moments, he finally said, "Thank you, Father."

Thomas turned with a slow and steady look of happy surprise. ""I've waited for a long time to hear that from you. Really hear it from you. But all the thanks I need is your coming with us to get help, Eddie."

"See, I knew it," Tad said, pointing toward the field as they pass. "You cannot possibly have severe allergies. We just passed by the lavender farm owned by the mother of my son."

"That surprises me."

"What? That I have a son?"

"No, that I'm not sneezing. In fact, I can even smell the lavender. I haven't smelled a flower in thirty years."

Andrew turned around to smile at him. "As I told you at the old house, maybe that sensing thing is something that comes back after a while."

Edward fought against the nod and lost. "Yeah, maybe."

"I'd suggest we stop so you can smell the lavender, but the mother and I don't get on," Tad said.

"Divorced?" Edward asked.

"Something like that."

Edward actually smiled a little. "Now that doesn't surprise me."

A Room in the House of the Ancestors

*Book 2*

Chapter One

"After three months of addiction rehabilitation, our general physician has released you with an overall excellent bill of health," Doctor Maxim said. "Because you're only 35, you managed to survive long-term amphetamine addiction and short-term heroin dependency remarkably well. Your heart is sound, your brain appears to be functioning normally, your liver and other organs are in top shape. Now we must contend with your emotional equilibrium."

Three months? It seemed more like three years – and yet, somehow, three days. "Okay," Edward said, repositioning himself in the chair to help alleviate his creeping apprehension.

"I am left to make a final assessment about your emotional and mental health," Maxim said, considering Edward over the tops of his wire glasses. "So, how do you feel about returning to your recently rediscovered family home after three months?"

"Admittedly, wary," Eddie confessed.

"You have had weekend trips home. And many visits here with your family."

"I have," Eddie said.

"Still see yourself as something of an outsider, I would imagine," Maxim said.

"It's not that they intend that I feel that way," Edward replied. "It's just a matter of circumstances. They're all very kind. The distance is my own nature."

Maxim removed his glasses, balancing them between his hands. "They certainly appear to be very supportive. I sense you have developed a great deal of affection for them and they for you."

Edward nodded. "I have, yes. They saved my life. They've been very kind, and gracious, especially by inviting me to stay on with them from this point on, into the foreseeable future."

"You consider that kindness and graciousness?" the doctor asked.

"Yes, I do. Wouldn't you?"

"You have no sense of inherent fairness in that? No feeling of appropriateness or justice around their actions?"

"Heavens, no, why would I?"

The doctor's eyes narrowed as if he had merely glanced at something from afar. He seemed to be scrutinizing it – and Edward – more closely. The stare back at him seemed to Edward almost brutally direct. "Would you mind a rather personal question?"

"I thought that was all therapy consisted of."

The doctor seemed to select his words very carefully. "You have told me, have you not, that you didn't consider Wendell a good father to you." Maxim offered a gentle smile. "Do you consider your biological father – Thomas – a good father?"

"I'd say he's an excellent father."

"And good fathers love their sons, do they not?"

"Of course."

"Do you believe Thomas loves his sons?"

"I do."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"You think his is an unconditional love?"

"From what I've witnessed, without question."

The scope of the doctor's stare appeared to narrow to a point. "You are one of his sons. Would that love include you?"

At that question, Edward sat far back in his chair. He had been surprised by it, though he supposed he shouldn't have been. He didn't have a single idea how to answer it – how to begin to answer it. "You'd have to ask him. I don't know what he feels."

"You certainly have – recovered or developed, however you would phrase it – a great deal of affection for Thomas. For your father."

"Yes, I have," Edward said. "But we've been separated for a lot of years."

"So, if you were to give me one absolute, definitive answer, yes or no, to the question do you think Thomas, your father, loves you, which would you feel most confident to say?"

Edward had his answer. He shrugged and merely offered, "If I had to answer one or the other, I would have to say no."

"Really?"

"Well, yes. You find that surprising?"

"Very," the doctor said. "Personally, I would accept it as a given that he does. Why do you think that he doesn't?"

Edward shrugged. "I just think it would be very presumptuous of me to just expect that at this point, don't you?"

"No, I don't. Not at all, really. In fact, I find it appallingly sad that you do."

With those words haunting him, Edward heard Tad's strangely welcome voice booming through the thin walls of the outer office, "I'm here to collect my brother. the septic."

"Thank you, Tad," Edward said suddenly, as Tad had already started the car. "I appreciate the ride. My car is still in the shop."

Tad tossed him a smirk in reply. "That lovely vehicle you purchased is in the shop? There's a shocker. I guess you didn't think to inquire about the engine when you were going to splatter your brain across the upholstery."

"Thank you for the vivid memory," Edward said. "It's not that bad, it's just that the clutch is slipping. Besides, as you know, I'm getting a new car."

"A septic brand fit for a septic man," Tad replied.

Eddie grimaced hard. "Do you have to call me that word? Septic?"

"Of course. Cockney rhyming slang – septic tank equals Yank. You're my brother the septic, so yes, I do. And you can continue to call me what all my brothers call me."

"A punishment from God?"

"Besides that."

Edward nodded. "Yes, yes, Toad, I remember. So, while I'm still feeling drifting bits of gratitude to you, Toad, I will say it was very considerate of you, Toad, to drive up to fetch me. I know it's an imposition –"

"Oh, would you stop it?" Tad said, groaning as if at the sounds of words he had tired of long ago.

"Stop what?"

"Wilse the carless one must call me ten times a day. Toad, drive me to the shops. Toad, drop me at the Park Theatre. Toad, come fetch me from my girlfriend's house before her daddy gets home. You, brother septic, I pick up at the appointed destination because the doctor requested it formally in writing a week ago, and you spend the first two minutes issuing ceremonious declarations of formal appreciation."

"I'm just saying, you know, I could have taken a taxi, that's all. So thanks."

"Oh, of course. It would be such an abruption of honor and pride for you to simply ask your own brother for a fucking ride."

"It would have been an – "

"Imposition, I know, I know. And nobody expects the Edward Imposition." Tad headed out onto the street. "Very well, if you do think it was an imposition for me to drive the whole three damned kilometers to rescue you from the rehab then honor alone would compel you to play a game of chess with me as a reward."

Edward winced. "God, I walked right into that one."

Toad thwarted a laugh into a snort. "Yes, yes, you did, I admit it. And it was such fun to coax you along."

"But I hate chess."

"Of course you hate chess. No one enjoys chess. It's not a party game. It's a personal point of tactical will in reference to the rest of humanity. And with the very slim chance you might be superior to me in abilities, I want to prove that I can vanquish you beyond question."

"Oh, is that all? You should have just said so."

"So, you'll play?" Tad asked.

"Yes, yes, of course. I'm honor bound now, aren't I?"

"Yes. Speaking of being bound by honor, I must confess that Maxim is a cheap bastard with office walls like onion skin. But I only heard parts of your discussion."

Edward glanced around toward Tad and then away. "Okay, what did you hear?"

"Just pieces, like I said, not much. But tell me, what secrets did you impart? Did you confess you believe you're Napoleon? Because at least then you'd be interesting."

Edward laughed roughly, shaking his head at the open road. "Yes, Toad, I told him I was Napoleon. I'm going to depose you and install myself as First Consul."

"What kind of shit First Consul will you make? Corsica is in ruins," Tad said, as they pulled into the Croftdon House drive.

Edward slipped like a reticent shadow into the vast and endless house. To him, the big house still felt sentient, alive, and overly suspicious of strangers. He had arrived there over three months ago, feeling as if he was a lost cavalry member trespassing into Indian Country. Nothing in his life had scared him as much as walking into this house and confronting these people. He had managed a marginal sense of comfort before being spirited away to rehab. And now, faced with returning, the place still seemed a little like he was a tangential homesteader in disputed territory.

More of a stranger again, he made his entry slowly. By the time Edward had barely breached the archway, Tad had already stormed the great room and plunked his tablet down on the center of the game table.

"Firstly, allow me to officially welcome you home. We're a little early. Andrew is obviously still out fetching the food for your welcome home dinner. I reckon Father is finishing work in his study. God knows where the boys are. So, do you need anything? A soft drink? A fairy cake? A quick and comprehensive lesson in chess from a master? You have everything you need?"

"Well, I have to take my suitcase to my –"

Tad wrested the luggage from Edward's hand. He pitched it like a scratch ball into the laundry room. "That's done. It's all for the wash anyway."

"Most of it," Edward said, nodding.

"Good. Now then," Tad said, shucking his jacket and brandishing it like a matador's cape before him. "As the matadors say, toro, my brutha. It's chess time."

Edward glared at the game table like it was an obstacle of tremendous proportions. "You were serious? There is no way I can get out of this? Bribery?"

"You don't have enough to buy me off this battle of titans."

"I can't beg for mercy?"

Tad caped his jacket over the game table chair's shoulders. "What is my role in my brothers' lives again?"

"To make them a living hell."

"On the nosey. With any luck, I'll vanquish you by dinner. You take the black, I'll take the white. London chess rules." Tad sat down and then moved his digital chess piece. "I move first. There."

"So long as it's fair and all," Edward grumbled, surrendering to a chair at the game table. Resigned to his fate, Edward considered the digital chess display and calibrated his options from the chess movement Tad had chosen. Edward made his move. "There."

Beholding the digital boards, Tad's eyebrows collided. "Wait just a damn minute. The Budapest Gambit? Why that move?"

Edward shrugged. "I felt like it."

"That's a wretched first move and you bloody well know it. You're playing to lose. Stop it immediately."

"Stop judging my strategy and move your man," Edward said.

"Stop judging my judging your strategy and play correctly," Tad replied, tapping the tablet to rescind Edward's move. "Make a good one this time. I want to slay you utterly in a fair contest."

"Let me get this straight," Edward said, "I have to play London rules. I have to be the black side. I have to go second. But from the get go, you have to approve my strategy?"

"Precisely. This is Britain. Conduct yourself accordingly, brother septic."

"Okay, just wanted to be sure I had it right," Edward said.

His forehead furrowing, Eddie tilted his head to stare at the chess display one way and then the other. He pursed his lips for a few seconds, pushing back his hair. And he made his next first move.

Tad squinted harder. "Jacob's Toss? That does nothing!"

"It's a well-known time preserving strategy to let me grow my offense," Edward replied, smiling brightly. "Stop interfering with my plan of action."

"You bastard," Tad said. "That was a perfect rhetorical takedown."

"Eat my dust."

Tad looked up at him, narrowing his stare until a spark of mischief lit up his eyes. "And since that was manifestly unfair, and I can render my own stealthy sword of justice, here comes the consummate emotional manipulation ploy. Daddy loves you, Edward!"

"You eavesdropping bastard," Eddie said, aghast.

"Can I help it if Maxim is a miser with paper thin walls? Now that I have suitably flummoxed you, move."

"It's your move, Einstein."

"Oh," Tad said ruefully, considering the tablet board again, "so it is."

The younger Croftdon brother considered the board for less than a second. As if an idea struck him with considerable glee, he smiled and made his move. "There you have it."

"Grott's opposition? You have got to be kidding me!" Eddie snapped. "Stop playing to lose!"

"I will when you will!"

Edward shook his head for several seconds. "So we're going to sit here until one of us wins by losing?"

Tad considered the question. "Yes, I suppose we are."

A rustle of movement signaled Thomas' emergence from his study. Pausing in the doorway, he watched the scene for a long moment before coughing softly and rattling his newspaper in the air.

"Thaddeus," Thomas said, clearing his throat. "Did no one think to apprise me of my son's return home from hospital?"

Tad looked around. "Of course not. We had more important rites to conduct. A matter of honor for Queen and Country. I am trying to slay Edward utterly at chess to prove myself victorious in all things."

Edward shrugged. "And meanwhile, I just don't give a damn. But hi, Dad."

"Welcome home, son," Thomas said, considering their tablet display. "So that's what the argument was about."

"Yes, Eddie won't let me lose," Tad said, pouting pronouncedly.

"No, Tad won't let me lose," Eddie said. "I was trying to lose first and the Toad is stealing my strategy. He forced me into a stupid chess game to prove he can beat me. I'm trying to let him win and he won't let me."

Thomas listened to the entire proposition and then loured faintly in resignation. "Well, there you have me, boys. I can't even glean the meaning of that disagreement, let alone referee the discussion." Thomas leaned over and pressed a tablet button. The screen blanked out. "I'll opt for jury nullification."

"Thank you," Eddie said. "And in an adjudicated game, victory goes to the winning side. I hereby forfeit, thus losing."

"Holy shit, the bugger just won our losing game! In an entirely unethical manner, too." Tad feigned a snarl. "J'accuse!"

Edward extended the middle finger of his right hand. "Bite me, Zola."

Tad applauded wildly. "Oh, Dad, can we keep him? At last, a worthwhile opponent!"

"I think I've just been insulted," Edward replied.

"You two are turning sibling rivalry into a full contact sport. Next I'll be having to purchase helmets and protective gear." Thomas tossed his newspaper aside. "It is my duty to announce that I've just seen Andrew, James and Wilse coming up the path. They are bringing dinner. Pizza, it appears."

"Edward is saved from his inevitable humiliated drubbing by the dinner bell," Tad said, climbing out of his chair to walk toward the entry door and open it wide.

Andrew entered and Tad said, "You saved Eddie."

Andrew handed over the stack of dinner boxes and bags to Thomas. He looked over at Eddie. "What's he done now?"

"He made me play chess," Edward said.

Andrew scowled over at Thaddeus before looking back at his oldest brother. "The Toad knows no pity. Anyway, Edward, welcome home."

Edward sank steadily into the chair that had been assigned to him. It set juxtaposed from Thomas and just beside Tad. He couldn't help but think that placement had been purposeful. So he watched the Croftdons swarm around him, fetching things and doing ordinary tasks. They had a system – a family dance, choreographed over years. They didn't even have to look at each other to negotiate each step. They all knew their own saltations, their own first beat in the waltz. One to one, he felt fine with each of them. When they assembled, however, he still felt totally outside the spectrum – an observer, watching through the glass. Here, he stepped wholly outside the Croftdon dance.

He tried to strike a low posture, sinking into his chair, hoping against hope he somehow became invisible.

James and Wilse dropped into their appointed seats. Andrew sat on the other side of Eddie, and Thomas across from all of them. Tad plunked down to Edward's right. He reached over and yanked up on his collar to improve his posture.

"Your grandfather is dining with friends," Thomas announced.

"Isn't he always?" Tad asked. "Whenever his tweedy posh friends call, he certainly wouldn't slum with the likes of us. Especially Eddie, which goes without saying."

"And yet somehow didn't," Andrew said, popping the wine and beginning to pour. "All that our favorite Italian place on Main had was the local hebetudinous burgundy. Nothing exciting or even inviting."

Tad passed out glasses to the others, except for Edward to whom he presented a bottle of water. "No hebetudinous burgundy for you, of course."

"I don't need anything at all," Edward said, "I –"

"Ate at the clinic, I'm sure you did, a time or two," Thomas said. "But the family meal is a daily social custom in which we all must partake. It's our way of touching base with each other. You are family. You will eat something."

Edward shifted awkwardly in his chair, pulling the pizza he had been served toward him as if trying to hide behind it. "Yes, sir."

"There's no need for that, Edward, it was just an aside," Thomas said, as he raised his glass of burgundy. "On that note, I should like to propose a toast to Edward on his successful graduation from rehab, and to welcome him home to his family."

Edward smiled shyly and lifted his water bottle, his response unceremoniously unscrewing the lid. "Thanks," he whispered dryly.

Andrew offered his glass. "Salud and benvenuti a casa."

Tad picked up his. "Alla mia gloriosa vittoria negli scacchi."

"Not unless I let you," Edward replied.

Tad clunked down his wine. "What, you speak Italian, too?"

"No, I knew scacchi meant chess, and mi gloriosa vittoria is sort of obvious," Eddie said. "I guessed. Correctly, it seems."

Thomas clinked his spoon against his crystal glass. "All right, gentlemen, into your corners please before the next round. Edward, Andrew was telling me you both are working on a new system – synchrosentience or something like that?"

Edward felt suddenly in the spotlight. He shifted uncomfortably again and sipped from his water. He wished he could somehow crawl inside the bottle. Speaking quietly, he said, "Andrew actually did most of the preliminary work on the project, with me where I was. He'd probably be a better person to address that."

Andrew shrugged. "Yes, I guess. Basically the idea is to directly connect people to share emotions and more complex thought processes than just concrete facts."

"That's the goal," Edward added. "There's still a lot of information we don't have yet."

"Such as a rational basis to think it is even remotely possible," Tad said.

"If we feel emotion," Andrew said, "there must be some standard neurological pathway to access it. If the whole brain can process the information, then our system should be able to locate and read it, too. If the form that created the emotion is there, the sensing system can extract it. Sniffing out bread crumbs, you might say."

"Memory neuron morsels, with direct links to language, is one thing," Tad said. "The abstractions are somehow connected to the brain bits. There are your sticky links – your bread crumbs, as it were. But receiving something as randomly accessible as emotion? That's not dancing the fuckin' angels on the head of a pin, that's choreographing the bitches."

"No, it's not," Edward said. "We're talking about conveying and receiving information the physical brain does every day. We have a solid hypothesis. One we can work with now."

"I think it sounds fascinating," Wilse said, from the other end of the table.

"Suck-up," Tad shot back.

"Shove it," Wilse replied.

"I agree with Wilsey," James said. "It's fascinating."

Tad smirked. "Oh, now there's a surprise. All right, Edward, if you and Andrew get this apparatus functional, which is a gargantuan if, mind you, what could you hope to accomplish with it?"

"Sharing insights, experiences, memories, direct emotions," Edward said.

"It might even have punitive applications in correctional systems, by making the perpetrator share the victim's suffering," Andrew added. "It would be a profound creator of empathy. Perhaps even a cure for psychopathy."

"And arguably the cause of a lot of problems, as we saw recently," Tad said.

Edward nodded with a hint of contrition. "True. That is something we need to be vigilant about. That kind of direct contact to emotions would make a person profoundly vulnerable. In a negative and positive sense."

"Oh, brave new world," Thomas said, sipping from his wine. He studied the glass after he drank from it, swishing the liquid around a moment. "I don't know, boys. I'm at the awkward age. Young enough to be fascinated – old enough to be terrified by it."

Edward's eyes flashed with fresh alarm. "I'm sorry, I didn't think the concept would –"

"Eddie, I'm joking," Thomas said.

"Oh, okay, I'm sorry." He slumped back a little and sipped from his water again. "I just don't want to offend you or go against your wishes or anything."

"You don't have to walk on eggshells around me either," Thomas said.

"And speaking of daddy communication problems, past and present –" Tad said, smiling at Edward with hidden meaning. "I know this will probably sound naïve, but why not just communicate emotions with people the old-fashioned way, you know, by talking to them? Granted, there's the trust issue, but couldn't that be worked around with time and experience?"

"Ten years versus ten minutes, and abstract acceptance versus direct experience," Edward said. "Also, that level of communication with language could be embarrassing."

"And someone else might overhear things," Tad said, his lips bending into a more pronounced smile.

Edward set down his water again. "Yes," he said quickly.

"Well, people could conceivably hack into the line you'll create, too. They could overhear things, say, like through a thin wall at an office – "

"Toad," Edward said.

"What?" Tad said. "I'm not saying anything you said. Until, you know, brothers night, after a few bitters. And the great irony is that you're paying this week."

"That was a private conversation," Edward said.

"Oh, please," Tad said. "It's going to get out eventually."

"No, it's not. Besides, it wasn't that important."

"Then why are you so concerned about it?" Tad asked.

"What was it?" James asked, from his end of the table. "You've got us all curious now."

"Yes, absolutely," Wilse added.

"It was a private conversation with my therapist," Edward said.

"Then it shall remain private," Thomas said firmly. "End of discussion."

Edward breathed out in a condensed stream of relief. "Thank you."

Andrew considered his watch. "Edward, if we want to inspect the restorations on the old house south wall, we had best be about it. We don't have but a bit of daylight remaining. And besides, that will rescue us from this conversation. Wilsey, if you are finished, fetch your camera. It's shutter time."

The afternoon had outflanked most of the morning rain, but twilight had gathered the storm clouds for an evening reprise. Even the stone they walked past felt alive with a moist awareness Edward considered spooky. But the surrounding environment permitted him to inhale far better than he had in eons. It still amazed him that the burden of his life, his allergies, had been apparently lifted.

"You know, if you ever need to discuss something about anything, I am always here," Andrew said, as they crossed the big central and somewhat overgrown garden that lay between the new house and the old one.

Edward peered over at him awkwardly. "You mean what Tad was talking about?"

"Yes, that. Whatever else."

"It was nothing. Really. Don't even think about it."

"Wait for me," Wilse said, jogging up from behind them. He walked around to wave around his digital camera at the other men. "All I have is my old crappy camera. Not that it takes very high resolution pictures, but I'll do my best."

"Which is more than we can do," Edward said, walking carefully up the measured steps to the old house entry door.

Edward walked inside, feeling as ever, like a guilty sinner child sneaking into a fragile cathedral of time. The light shafts tilted down from on high, the specters of dust haunting those vivid streams like phantom spiral arms into this universe. The wall that had been structurally shored up and stabilized now seemed more like a solid surface than a skeletonized one. The flat wall surface fit to both sides slickly, without any obvious demarcation.

"A nice fit job, that," Andrew said.

Edward touched the place where the original wall connected to the rebuilt one. "I can't see any difference. And the pictures will help us keep a visual record of what needs to be maintained."

"When you think about all the changes these walls must have seen," Wilse added, stepping back for a picture. "Too bad we can't hook up your device to them."

"You know, there is a theory that memory exists in all matter," Andrew said, out of nowhere, staring up into the damaged ceiling above them – badly repaired after a 16th century fire. "At least in all cells. That if we could just peer into the atoms, we might experience the past."

Edward shrugged. "Hypothetically maybe."

"Yes, but it would be a fascinating hypothesis to test," Andrew said.

"In our new theory, we're reading through a conductor and translation apparatus, based on somatic cells, from living neurons, in one instance," Edward replied. "That's very different from trying to access information from non-neuron cells, especially dead ones."

"But deposited information in matter is information in matter."

"Abstractly. With SAGE there's some direct connection we're mimicking, in the nervous system to neurons link. There's no analog with SAGE and an inanimate object."

"It would still be so cool to try though," Wilse said. "All done taking pictures with my lame old dodgy camera. Of course, I'm hoping for a new and better camera for my 20th birthday in the near future."

"Wilsey," Andrew said, looking down at the ground, "I think you may have dropped a hint over here."

"Oh, don't worry, I've already told James, Uncle Thomas and Grandfather. I'll bring it up thirty or forty more times before then, too. And I'm happy to provide printed and email literature about my cameras of choice."

"I felt certain you would," Andrew said. "Very well, when we get back to the house, send it over. Eddie and I will conspire with the others."

"What I really want, of course, is a car, but Uncle says it's far too expensive, so I'll be pleased with the camera."

"That's good of you," Andrew said, reaching back to yank down the bill of his Manchester United cap.

"I'll email the house shots over to you, Eddie. I have a hot date," Wilse said, jogging off for the old house entry door.

"Bring something with you, if you know what I mean!" Andrew called after him before turning back toward Edward.

Edward was, once again, considering the old house they had just departed.

Andrew nudged his shoulder. "You look far away."

"Me?" Edward asked. "I was just thinking about what we were discussing."

Andrew shrugged a little. "Crazy, but interesting."

"Maybe."

"Come along, it's getting cold and creepy and dark out here in the middle ages," Andrew said, tapping Edward's shoulder. "Let us be thankful for 21st century heating and illumination."

The dark adorned itself with a variety of evening colors in the depths of Croftdon House. Bits of borrowed light from his Ebook reader helped him see the shades, as he tried and yet didn't try to read a book on virtual causation triggers. Edward still felt like a visiting plebeian in a noble house, as he stared out across the room that was assigned to him. On the moonlight shining on the wall, he could see the murky jagged patterns he knew to be the knobby arms of aged trees that encircled the old house. Those made him feel even smaller.

A gentle knock rattled his door.

"Come in," Edward replied.

The door opened slowly. "Edward Thomas," Thomas said, as he entered the door, shaking an envelope in Eddie's direction. "We must have words."

"Uh-oh, first and middle name. I must be in trouble."

"Yes, and just so you know, you are not too old for me to confine you to your room." He brandished the envelope again. "On top of the household budget paperwork, I found this, with your handwriting on it. May I ask what this is?"

"My little contribution to the household budget."

"That's what I thought. It isn't little and it isn't needed. I don't want or need your money, son," Thomas said, dropping it on Edward's side table. "I won't accept another pittance from you. And that is as it shall be, young man."

"Look, I know what this house costs to run. It's important to me that I contribute."

"And it's important to me that I not accept it from you. You don't need to contribute. Your being here is gift enough," Thomas said.

"It's just that I don't want to be a financial burden."

"You aren't."

"Then I will buy something for the house."

"No, you will not. Not in any form."

"Look, I feel enough like a gatecrasher –"

"That's the whole point I'm attempting to make. You aren't one. You are home. Understood?"

Eddie laughed a little in the darkness. "Just so you know, you're impossible."

"Yes, I am. As your brother, Tad, would say, now you know where you got it from. Which brings me to my other reason for interrupting your evening. Wednesday is Wilse's birthday party. I've invited your aunts, Hope and Charity, your mother's sisters, not surprisingly, as well as some cousins. They are all anxious to meet you, your aunts especially. You're barely out of rehab and there are sure to be questions. Is that going to be awkward for you?"

"I'll deal with it," Eddie said.

"There's also the matter of your aunt's husband. He's an idiot. An imbecile. A moron. A cretin. I cannot abide even five minutes in the same room with him."

"Gosh, I get the feeling you don't like him," Eddie said, chuckling softly.

"He is madness stuffed into an old suit spun of unrelenting stupidity," Thomas said. "Unfortunately, he's also married to your aunt, so we must invite him. He is bound to say something obnoxious. He always does."

Edward shrugged. "I think I can handle it."

"Good man." Thomas rose up from the chair and made it all the way to the door before turning to say, "And as you would say, not to sound like your father, but to sound like your father, don't stay up too late. Goodnight, son."

"Goodnight, Dad."

"I can never hear that enough," Thomas said, finally closing the door behind him.

Chapter Two

Morning coffee was more than a ritual now. Since weaning himself off his morning stabilizers of pills, pills, energy drinks and pills, the caffeine had become salvation in a cup. He inhaled the steam deeply into his lungs. The quality of coffee was not strained – it dropped like the gentle rain, so long as the rain flowed hot, caffeinated and strong. He was certain the cafetière of England had been shocked by the sheer strength of his caffeine addiction.

"Eddie's eyes are opening," Tad said, walking past, "just a warning to the general populace."

"Shut up, Toad," Andrew said, as he walked around him to sit down near Eddie at the library table.

Edward sipped from his cup again, barely reacting to the rolling, deeply-pitched doorbell booming through the house like a music box version of a Gregorian chant.

"I shall get that. It will be for me anyway. It's always for me," Tad said, sailing out of the library and toward the front of the house.

After a moment and several more slow and earnest sips from his cup of consciousness, Edward felt a hand on his shoulder. "Fancy that, it was for you." Tad plopped a manila envelope beside his laptop. "And I had to sign for it."

"I didn't know you could write your name by yourself now," Eddie replied, reaching for the envelope. "Major props."

"Shut up," Tad said, adding with a vague unease, "It looks – legal."

Edward loosened the seal. He slipped out the papers within and scanned over them. Was a time, the words on those pages would have formed a dagger thrusting straight into his beating heart. Now the words were dull and light and barely made for a poniard of reply. It wasn't that the words hadn't hurt him – they had. He had just been steeled up and ready for the assault.

He shut his eyes to take in the information and opened them again, plunking the paperwork aside.

"What is it?" Andrew asked gently.

"It's from Wendell," he said softly, with an empty kind of resonance. "He's claiming intellectual copyright violation or something. Basically, he's suing me to stop using his surname professionally. I was expecting something like this."

"Doesn't he realize you just left hospital?" Tad asked sharply.

"Probably," Eddie replied.

Andrew stepped up to refill Eddie's coffee. "What will you do?"

"I don't know. I'll have to think about it." Edward paused in thought. "I could stand my ground and insist on keeping the name, but to be honest, it doesn't mean enough to me to do that anymore. It's only a name. I guess I'll just change it."

"To what?" Andrew asked.

Eddie's cell phone rang out coolly and cleanly. He winced a little at the sudden sound. After a gulp of coffee for sustenance, Edward reached for the phone in his pocket. He looked at the caller ID. K.C. Sharpe.

"It's my old assistant, Ken," he said to the others. "Pardon me a moment."

Edward got out of his chair and moved into the hallway, as he sensed a coming need for confidentiality. He answered the phone saying, "Don't tell me, you got served, too."

"Yeah," Ken said from his end of the line, "he's doing just what you said he would – striking out at everyone."

Edward groaned softly, nodding to himself. "And I'm afraid his enemy list will be growing exponentially. I'm sorry you were added to it."

"There's nothing for you to apologize for. I was a grown man who signed on with my eyes open. You were an infant raised by wolves. I don't even know what he's suing me for since I don't read legalese. I've got an afternoon appointment with my attorney to find out the specifics. How about you?"

"He's demanding I drop his name," Eddie said. "I'm sure this is just the first salvo on a long, oncoming war."

"That son of a bitch."

Edward exhaled, rubbing at his neck. "I agree. Which reminds me, how is the bastard?"

"Batshit crazier by the day, as you predicted. When the universe is your enemy, the earth is your battlefield. Speaking of which, the private detective you hired to draw up the bad deeds report on Wendell is dropping me off his preliminary report today. He says it's 147 pages."

"It's what?" Eddie snapped.

"Yeah, I know. And it's the preliminary report. Can you imagine what the final will be?"

Eddie rubbed at his eyes at the very thought. "I don't want to."

"Did you want me to scan it in and email it to you when it comes in?"

"Yeah, I guess. I asked for it. I might as well read it." Eddie tried to calm himself for a moment, seeking out anything else to ask. "You having any luck in the job search?"

"I'm doing okay with consulting. How's the rehab process going?"

"It's fine," Eddie said. "It's mostly over, I guess."

"It never is over," Ken said, pausing for a moment. "Okay, so here comes the question, you changing your name to Croftdon?"

Eddie glanced backward into the library, at the others who appeared to be trying to ignore the conversation. He still lowered his voice a notch. "To do something like that would be a massive imposition, to say nothing of an encroachment on the rest of the family. It would be presumptuous as hell."

"You can't really think that. Wait, who am I talking to? Of course you think that. Run that sentence past Thomas and see how he reacts."

"Of course he'd say otherwise. He's a nice man, but it's still presumptuous," Eddie replied, "I don't know, I'll have to think about what to do. Until then, thanks for everything. And take care of yourself."

"You, too, amigo," Ken said.

Edward stowed his phone and turned toward his laptop. He had been about to read once more through the paperwork when he sensed someone standing right beside him, watching him. Relief flooded through him when he saw that it was Tad and not their father – the irony of that fact was not lost on Edward.

Tad hovered over his shoulder. "What's presumptuous?"

"Asking you to not eavesdrop," Edward replied.

"Sorry, really, it's just that – " Tad said, muttering disconsolately to himself for a second. "Oh, bugger all, I need to ask a favor of you."

"Not chess again," Edward said softly.

"No, not chess, although you do owe me your proper public humiliation. Instead, I would like you to go to tea with me."

"Tea? May I ask why?"

"We will be meeting my son, Stewart. Obviously, I would like him to meet his Uncle Eddie. You haven't had a chance yet and he happens to have this week off at school. I hope to teach him basic polite social customs, which he didn't have a chance at where he grew up. I also shall require an interpreter."

"An interpreter?"

"He has spent the last eight years of his life in Los Angeles. Whenever we converse, he might as well be speaking in tongues."

Sutterfield's sat on the corner, carved out of very old shops. Even before they were introduced, Edward picked out Stewart, slumped in a booth, his baseball cap slanted down. He stared sullenly out at the world as if he were an alien on a distant planet. Edward knew that feeling too well.

The boy was a brown-haired replica of Tad, with a spray of freckles over his nose. He gave them an adolescent's standard glare of vague distaste. "Hi."

"Stewart," Tad said, "this is my brother, Edward. Edward, this is my son, Stewart. Stewart, say something reasonably courteous to your Uncle Eddie."

"S'up?" the boy asked, nodding his head slightly.

"Translation?" Tad asked.

"What is up, what is happening, how are you, that sort of thing," Edward said.

"Whoa!" Stewart said, sitting bolt upright from his slouch. He looked on in amazement. "Say something again!"

Eddie laughed. "Howdy, buckaroo. What's happening? How's it going? My country tis of thee. Is that enough? Your dad tells me you have a communication problem," he said, grinning as he slid into the opposite end of the booth.

Young Stewart grasped his head with both hands. "No way! No way! You're American!"

Edward nodded. "Way. Born here, grew up in Boston, Massachusetts." He grinned across at Tad. "Your son, the septic, huh?"

"Watch your tongue," Tad said. "He was born and raised here until he was three."

"Your son, the septic, in other words," Eddie said, grinning more widely. "It's very nice to meet you, Stewart. What part of the southland are you from?"

"I already told you, he lived in California," Tad said.

Edward smirked over at his brother. "Tad, in California, east is east and west is San Francisco. The southland is southern California."

"Oh," Tad said, "silly me."

"I'm from West LA, all the way, boo!" Stewart said, leaning forward with what actually passed for a smile on his face. "This is so cool! You ever been to Los Angeles?"

"I graduated from UCLA."

"No shit!" he said, bouncing with excitement. "Clippers or Lakers?"

"Please! Lakers, of course."

Stewart leaned his head back, still a little suspicious. "Kings or Ducks?"

"Ducks?" Edward coughed back, incredulous. "Do I look like a Mickey Mouse man to you?"

Stewart presented his knuckles for a fist bump. "Playuh!"

Edward bumped his fist against the boy's. "You know it."

"Well, I believe I'll leave you two to get acquainted while I place our order. At least the staff and I speak the same language," Tad said, walking away.

Stewart leaned toward Eddie. "Do these limeys say the weirdest shit or what?"

Edward formed a T with his hands for a timeout. "Okay, first of all, watch your language, and not to sound like your uncle, but to sound like your uncle, let's not use rude names for people either."

"I'm rude? They're super rude, boo! They say shit we would never say aloud!"

"I hate to tell you this, Stewart, but they say the same thing about Americans. To them, we're rude, to us, they're rude. It's all in your perspective."

"They tell you your business all the time. Right out on the street. They don't even know you."

Edward shrugged. "It's a matter of the way you look at things. People are different everywhere."

"And they got the word toilet all over the place!" Stewart said. "Just printed on walls. You buy a box of cough drops and it says place in mouth and suck. I mean, you don't say suck on packaging, dude. You just don't say it. And they got ads on their soda cans! It's not normal."

Edward could no longer sustain the serious uncle façade. He gave way to a laugh. "Like I said, normal is what you're used to. Can you imagine how they react when they come stateside?"

"I guess so. But what's with all this lamb and boiled crap? And that haggis stuff. And toad in the hole? And their fish stares back at you from the plate, yo! Don't even get me going on their stupid idea of a hamburger."

"Now, there has to be enough American fast food around here to last you a lifetime," Edward said.

"Yeah, but that's not good food. That's Mickey Dee's shit. Man, I want California barbecue! I need enchiladas! I miss chili fries with cheese and onion! I'm jonesing for some serious tacos."

"That's not exactly health food, you know."

"Hell, I'd trade my favorite treads for a foot-long veggie sub right now!"

Edward couldn't hold back the continued stream of giggles. "Okay, okay, I get your point. You're homesick for food."

"Yeah!" Stewart said. "Man, Uncle Eddie, I can't tell you what a relief it is to talk to you. My mom gets her feelings hurt when I say it to her. Dad just looks at me like I'm spoutin' Chinese or some shit. I feel weird here."

Edward nodded. "Welcome to the club. We'll just have to work through that, won't we?"

Stewart shrugged, shrinking back into the booth. "I guess."

"Speaking of your dad, he obviously loves you. He talks about you all the time."

Stewart smirked. "My dad's pretty okay."

Eddie grinned to himself, tossing a glance around him. "Please don't ever tell him I said this, but yes, he is."

Stewart laughed even harder. "Yeah, he said not to tell you the same thing. I guess that's what it's like to have brothers, huh? I don't know, on account of I'm the only kid."

Edward smiled sympathetically, nodding in understanding. "I grew up that way too. For most of my life, I thought I was an only child. We both suddenly have this big family. It seems strange. So maybe we can figure stuff out together, okay?"

"That sounds like a good idea," Stewart said. He looked around and lowered his voice. "But yo, callin' 'em bangers instead of sausages? Who says that shit? That's nasty!"

Eddie had barely recovered from the laughter when Tad returned to the table. Edward sat back as the server presented their tray and settled the teapot beside it.

"I see my son has been reciting his color commentary on the strange customs of the indigenous English," Tad said, seating himself on the third side of the booth triangle as the tea pouring commenced. "Perhaps you can impart some basic English skills to him. I don't believe I'm saying this, but yours are definitely superior to his."

"Oh, his English skills are fine. He's just street talking. It's a working class hero thing," Edward said. "He's obviously a bright young man. He's smart and funny. Clearly, he must take after his mother."

"Yeah, I get great marks in school!" Stewart said, looking to his dad. "Uncle Eddie is cool! He knows LA and basketball and hockey and everything." He looked back toward Edward. "So Dad says you write really complicated computer software. What do they do?"

"I didn't write it by myself. Your Uncle Andrew has created it along with me. It's kind of a long story, but the program helps people work together. They can just think and share things, through the computer."

"It's like computer telepathy or something?" Stewart said, his eyes grown big again.

"More like empathy," Edward said. "We put a kind of thinking cap on each person and they share vague thoughts and strong feelings."

"Could you put the cap on a dolphin?" Stewart asked, chewing into a scone.

"I suppose. I doubt we'd be able to comprehend a lot of information, though. Or that she or he could perceive a lot from us."

"What about a rock? Or like Stonehenge? Or the Titanic even?"

"Stewart, let your uncle drink his tea before you badger him to death with questions," Tad said.

"No, it's okay," Eddie said, "we've actually been talking about something similar. It's an idea. A theory. Not a particularly workable one, but you never know."

"Some people think all things in nature communicate, you know," Stewart said, "I was watching it on the History Channel."

"Yes, I know that theory," Eddie said, "I don't particularly subscribe to it, but I've heard it."

"You think Stonehenge thinks?" Stewart asked, making short work of the scone before launching into another.

Edward smiled. "I kind of doubt it. I don't think bluestone has much cognitive ability."

"But maybe it does! And we could test it! And we could setup your computer and put the thinking cap on Stonehenge!"

"Well, first," Edward said, "you'd need government permission."

Stewart sat up straight in his chair. "Could we get it, Dad?"

"Do I look like a government official to you?" Tad asked. "I have no clue."

"Probably be more useful to start with the dolphin, though," Eddie said. "At least it's alive."

"What about something that used to be alive?" Stewart asked, guzzling his tea like it was water. "Like a mummy? Or a regular old dead guy?"

"Hold on, Stewart, when you're building a theory, you start at the likely and move out from there," Edward said. "I think you'd waste a lot of time checking out the thoughts of dead stuff rather than focusing on living things like people."

"But it would be so cool to try. You know I might want to do that when I grow up."

Tad laughed. "Here's your next generation."

"Or maybe you'll be a doctor, like your dad," Edward said. "He does really important stuff. He saves people's lives. He saved mine."

"You did?" Stewart asked, looking to Tad.

"Well, sort of," Tad said, laughing.

"No sort of about it. That beats all the cool computer programs in the world. Without people like him, nothing else would get done."

Stewart nodded, looking over at his dad. "Yeah, it does, huh?"

"Yeah, it does."

Stewart noticed something from afar. "Dad, the beatbox arcade game is open. Can I go play? Mom lets me."

"And I suppose this calls for an outlay of cash from my pocket," Tad said, peeling out the bills from his pocket and sliding them across, "Bring back my change."

"I will," Stewart said, grabbing the cash and launching off in the opposite direction.

Tad cleared his voice in dramatic fashion. "It goes without saying, of course, that neither of us will mention outside of this establishment any of the nice things we have said about each other while here."

"Nice things? I didn't hear any nice things."

Tad raised his teacup in salute. "Hail fellow well met."

The bigness of Croftdon House lent it a sense of detachment from time – independent of whatever hour of the day or night it was outside. Edward affixed to his laptop, while he focused on his work, barely noticed the night until his monitor seemed to brighten and the darkness to envelop the room.

Stem cell analogs in nature, Edward typed into the search engine and then hit enter.

After a moment or two, presented with a range of options, he scanned the list. None of them complied with his criteria, except for one. "This is interesting," Edward said to Andrew, where he sat at his own computer. "Somatic cells."

"You mean like stem cells?" Andrew observed the screen over Edward's shoulder. "We were talking about utilizing something like that in the vertical field chamber's fluid compartment, weren't we?"

"Yes. If we scale out from neurons, it would be an obvious focus point," Edward said.

"You were actually considering that?" Andrew asked, laughing while lifting an eyebrow at his brother. "You seemed highly skeptical when we discussed it earlier."

"I'm still extremely skeptical, but I was talking to Stewart about communicating with active versus inactive cells. He seemed interested. I thought it might be an interesting point of inquiry. And we're at a still point with SAGE2 until my gear arrives from Boston." Edward clicked to bookmark the page he was on. "I'll hang onto the link just in case."

As he clicked through, the center of his screen lit up with an email icon.

Edward clicked on the envelope which unfolded into a list – what looked like a table of contents for a larger document. The one note attached read, "Here it is, Eddie. Steel yourself, it's ugly – Best, Ken."

Edward swallowed so hard he could only hope that Andrew hadn't noticed. "This is something I've been waiting for," he said softly, beginning to scan.

Crimes and rumors of crimes, Edward thought to himself, scanning down the list.

The words on the screen pierced past his denial like nettle out of low brush. He only felt the sting at his heels. He let the information through a little. Andrew was still standing there.

After a long pause from Eddie, Andrew seemed to sense something.

"Well, I'll leave you to your reading. That looks to be huge," Andrew said. "If you need anything, you know where I am."

"Yeah, thanks," Edward said vaguely. "Goodnight, bro."

"Goodnight," Andrew said, patting his brother's shoulder before leaving the room.

When he sat alone, Edward leaned closer to the screen. He consciously lowered his shields a little more. He knew it would be necessary and yet he feared the repercussions.

Wendell's paranoia had become increasingly obvious for a period of two years. Things arose that had infused Edward with multiple causes for concern. The man whom Edward had once regarded as his father morphed into a creature he barely recognized – a creature bound by misunderstanding, bitterness, and hatred formed around old pain.

Concerned for Wendell's safety and sanity, Edward had hired the private detective to inquire into places he had been forbidden to look. He thought, for awhile, Wendell was being duped by others. That Wendell had been influenced from outside, spurring on his paranoia – his growing lack of trust – in anyone, in everyone, in him.

Industrial espionage appeared to be the least of it.

Graft, bribes, intimations of possible murder, sin after sin, crime upon crime. It repelled down the page like a cascade of agonies, one just following the other.

Tears escaped him before he realized they were there. He swept away one or two before he surrendered the attempt. The darkness around him was a blessing. His tears could be hidden. His sobs small enough to be absorbed into silence. He thought he had been prepared. Honestly, he had. But the depth of even half of it was beyond his capacity to fathom.

"Eddie." Thomas' voice came from the door.

Edward glanced in the direction of his name. He tried to make himself sound normal. "Yes?"

"Ken sent it to me, too. He thought that I should – know."

Edward grasped hold of the edge of his desk, wondering if the room truly was spinning or if he was just dizzy at the impact. "That was probably wise," he said softly, slowly. "You know, no matter how cynical I become, it's never enough."

"It was dreadful to read – the little I did read of it."

Edward leaned forward, resting his head against his folded arms. "I mean, I let him do this. All of this –"

"Nonsense," Thomas said.

"But I did. I believed him. I believed what I knew could not be true because I needed to believe it. I accepted his delusions. His lies. He used me – my work, my trust, my belief, my youth to do all of this. How am I not as guilty as he is?"

"Because you think you are," Thomas said gently. "You didn't even know about it and you still feel responsible."

Edward shook his head. "Nothing makes sense anymore. Every certainty I've never questioned... every inviolable absolute... It's all come apart at the seams. All of it."

"I'm sure it feels that way," Thomas said, touching Edward's shoulder again. "Would you like to be alone, son?"

Edward nodded weakly, covering his face with his hand as Thomas moved from him to take slow steps away.

"Dad," Edward said, his voice crumbling into dust.

Thomas turned back around. He waited to see to which father Edward had been addressing – Wendell or Thomas.

Edward reaching out a hand toward him. "Dad, don't leave me. Please."

Thomas grasped Edward's shoulders and pulled him against him. "Never," he said. "Not again. I swear it. On my life."

Chapter Three

He had talked to Thomas into the night, finally insisting his father go to bed just before 2 AM.

Edward hadn't slept at all until 3 AM.

Edward sat in his own room, staring out the window at the moon glowing on the surface of a shallow rain pool. He fell asleep sitting up before he finally dragged himself off to bed. Coiled around blankets while wrapped up in nightmares, he surfaced out of one scary mind pageant after another. Dispelling each nightmare felt like casting out demons, one after the other, an exercise in exorcism that involved an hour between each one.

Wendell had slaughtered innocents while Edward had slept serenely under his roof. There was no denying it now. Of course there would be excuses – every madman had his quiver of reasons, no matter how unreasonable they were to anyone else. Edward suffered the My Lais, one by one, as they dissolved into his murky unconscious. He resisted the lonely half-visions of genocides in his name. He realized, all the while, Wendell's insanity had been a shared derangement. Wendell Bakunin had committed his sins with many criminal partners, chief among them John Croftdon.

He barely remembered the evening as he lifted his head from the pillow. It took hot water and warm clothing to burn away the fog forming across his memory.

Morning invading through the window now, Edward awakened to see his younger brothers rearranging outside furniture in the yard. Then he remembered Wilse's birthday the next day – realizing he viewed ongoing preparations. Normal life continued – the world had not burned away. Edward rose to meet it.

He slipped quietly out the backdoor.

"Eddie!" James said, pointing at a box of slender wires in the distance. "Hand me the fairy lights wiring, will you?"

"Sure," Edward said, conveying the box to the younger man. "Need any help?"

"No, Dad said Wilsey and I are responsible for this. It was our idea. We're not to bother you or Tad with it. But he didn't mention Andrew by name."

"Which is why I'm stuck out here doing this," Andrew said, wrapping anchor tape around the trunk of a tree. "That and Dad said I could help."

"Well, then I can help you, Andrew," Edward said. "I won't be helping James, I'll be helping Andrew –"

"You'll do nothing of the kind, Edward Thomas," Thomas' voice sprang on him from behind.

"Like I said, sorry I can't help you, Andrew," Edward said, turning back toward Thomas.

Thomas's eyes smiled back at him with a fondly castigating light. "That's better. Anyway, I need to speak with you. I've just spoken with my solicitor. He tells me there is little Wendell can do to force you to comply with his wishes."

Edward nodded. "Thank you for checking into that. I thought as much."

"Also," Thomas said slowly, "we were correct. Because you were born here to British parents, dual citizenship is a matter of filling out the right forms. It's always a matter of filling out forms, isn't it? That grants you full status here and there as well. He will need you to fax in the form to tell him how you would like your name to read on the documents."

"I understand, thank you," Eddie said, "And I really do appreciate all the trouble you've gone to for me."

Thomas laughed at the comment. He slowly shook his head. "For God's sake, it was no trouble, son."

"Dad!" James called over. "A lorry parked in the drive. Looks like a delivery. Great big packages."

"Possibly my computer equipment," Edward said, heading around the house to the front.

By the time Edward and Thomas reached the truck, the driver had offloaded a couple of stacks of duct-taped bulging cardboard boxes. A number of trips later, the delivered boxes stacked, Edward could see they were all the same size, a vision of precision much as Wendell Bakunin would have wrought. The very image of it said everything that Edward needed to know.

"Who is the delivery for?" Thomas asked, approaching the driver.

The delivery man checked his clipboard. "I must say, this is the strangest address I've ever seen. It's to Edward Thomas NoLastName. There are 24 boxes in total."

Edward shut his eyes, looking away, taking it in. "It's from Bakunin Industries?"

"Yes, it is."

Eddie accepted the contents listing from the driver and scanned it over. Under contents it read "everything you were to me."

"They're for me," Edward said, signing the clipboard and handing it back.

Edward thought again of Stonehenge, as he circled the six stacks of boxes. But this sediment was not comprised of alluvium and time, but of hatred, pain, and bitter memories. More than he ever wanted to remember.

"Well, that it seems is that," Edward said, to the accumulated encapsulation of his old life as the delivery lorry drove away

"Boys, carry the boxes to the storage closet nearest Eddie's room, will you?" Thomas said to James and Wilse.

Eddie shook his head. "That's okay, Dad, I can handle it."

"No, you can't and you won't," Thomas said, "they're younger and have more energy than is healthy for any of us. They will do as I say."

James shrugged. "We've got it, Eddie," he said, passing the first box to Wilse. "No worries."

Edward had reached a hand into a pocket, but Thomas grabbed hold of his wrist. "And leave your petty cash in your pocket, Edward," his father said, "that's an order. It's their family duty. Just like it's yours to listen to me and put away your money."

"Yes, sir." Edward gestured in surrender. "Thanks, guys. I appreciate all the work."

James grinned up at him for a second. "Oh, yeah, we're toting a few boxes. We'll be totes knackered after this."

After the boys had hauled away the first round of Eddie's boxes, Thomas turned toward him with a more serious look. "Eddie, you know that I have forced myself to be impartial about this. It's getting more and more difficult by the day. Now it is taking every bit of reserve I have to keep from striking back at him, but I will follow your course."

Edward smiled sadly. He shook his head. "Don't bother. He doesn't have it in his power to hurt me anymore. I'd have to care about him first. Anyway, I'm sorry for the big delivery and the disturbance."

"For God's sakes, Eddie, stop apologizing. It isn't necessary, son. It is never necessary."

Eddie shrugged in reply and offered a shy smile. "Okay. I'd apologize for apologizing but I'm afraid that would defeat the purpose."

"Uncle Eddie!" Stewart's voice launched up at them from the direction of the road. The boy waved two baseballs gloves in his direction. "Mom dropped me off. Could we maybe play some catch?"

"I guess so, sure," Edward said, grabbing the mitt that was handed to him.

"Stewart," Thomas said firmly, "does your father know you're here?"

The boy drew back two full steps, as if he had just noticed Thomas. His voice reduced to a breathy whisper, he replied, "I don't know, sir. I just got here. I didn't call or anything."

"Stay here, then, I'll go find him," Thomas said. "Perhaps you can teach your father how to play catch, hm?"

When the older man walked away, Stewart finally fully exhaled his intake of air. "Am I in trouble?"

"No, I don't think so."

"He always sounds like he doesn't like me." He lowered his voice and looked around. "This place scares me. It's like I'm supposed to know a whole bunch of rules and stuff. Like I'm always breaking them."

"Yeah," Eddie said, laughing, "I know the feeling. But I think he likes us. It's just his way."

"I'm so glad you're here, Uncle Eddie," Stewart said, chuckling a little nervously, "it's nice to have someone I can talk to other than Mom."

"You can talk to your dad."

"It stresses me out though. I spend most of my time in my room, when I used to be out with my posse."

"You can't form a posse here?" Eddie asked.

"No. The kids kinda treat me weird. I guess because I'm foreign. Some of them don't like me because of where I'm from. Mom says it's my imagination."

"Being in a new place is scary. It'll pass."

"You think?"

"Well, to be honest, I hope so," Eddie said, laughing. "I'm sort of in your same shoes."

"I thought I saw your mother's car pull up!" Tad said as he approached them up the yard and walked around to Stewart's side. "Why didn't you tell me you were here?"

"I only just got here," the boy replied. "It was a last minute kind of deal."

Tad gestured his conditional surrender. "Very well, what is this thing I am supposed to catch?"

"The opening salvos of your eventual smackdown," Edward replied. "C'mon, let's walk down below the mud fence. I don't think any of us want to answer to Dad for breaking a window."

They walked out to the backyard, up to where a dried mud fence had been built long ago to guard the rest of the house from any errant game projectiles. The structure bore the scars of stray balls past It jutted out from behind the old house and ran down the hill to the abandoned stables Edward and Tad's mother had loved. It traveled far enough to protect all nearby windows.

"Firstly, I should school you colonials on the origins of your putative national pastime," Tad said. "What you call baseball is actually called rounders, and it is played by little girls."

"And cricket was a game little kids used to play in the forest," Eddie replied. "However, the game you call rounders, we call softball. It is also played by little girls. The ball that Stewart has brought is, in fact, a softball. However, there's a grown up women's version of a softball that you wouldn't want to get in the way of when they start pitching. It's dangerous."

Edward turned toward the mud fence. He drew back his arm and hurled the softball full muscle at the wall. With a loud crack, the ball split the fence – cracking out a foot of dried mud.

"Baseball is even worse," Eddie added.

Tad smirked broadly. "That's very impressive, but I've seen a baseball game. Like anyone has ever died during one of those unendurable exercises in tedium."

"Raymond Johnson Chapman, 1920," Eddie replied.

"Excuse me?"

"Ray Chapman, shortstop for the Cleveland Naps, up to bat. Carl Mays pitched a line drive that went straight for Ray's head. Boom. Knocked out cold. Twelve hours later, he was dead."

"You're joking," Tad said, grimacing.

"Afraid not. It's one of the reasons batters wear helmets now," Eddie said, handing him his glove.

Edward explained the process in a few words and gestures, showing Tad how to hold the mitt. His brother easily dropped the first pitch. He fumbled the second one, too.

"It seems I have no talent for playing catch," Tad said, handing his mitt back to Stewart.

"You just started to learn," Edward said. "You didn't stop after the first five thousand or so chess matches you lost, did you?"

"Very humorous."

"I thought so."

Stewart removed his glove too, tossing it down beside the one his father had just surrendered. "I've got an idea! Can we play with your computer game, Uncle Eddie? That would be cool! And it's something we could all play."

"First, it's not a game," Eddie said. "And secondly, you two have to stop being scared of each other."

"Says the man who turns white as a sheet whenever his father enters the room?" Tad asked, hiking an eyebrow.

"Shut up," Eddie said.

"Why?"

"Because I hate having my hypocrisy pointed out, don't you?" Eddie pointed toward the old house. "Come on, I actually had an idea of something we could test on."

The idea had come to him in pieces in the night, just as his dreams had. He had focused on the idea to escape the lingering images that had haunted his night.

Eddie led the way, walking onto the terraced portico that circled up into the old house's broad entry, where the remnants of most of the ongoing work remained. He stared through the large window that gazed in across the inner expanse.

Staring up into the structural timbers that overarched the great hall, he felt as if he might be gazing up into exoskeletal time. It stared back at him as mutely, as infinitely unknowable as the pockets of his own deferred history.

He touched his fingers to the outside wall, hesitantly, like he was afraid he might scar the surface with the hunger of his curiosity. But did he really want to know? He wanted to turn away from the knowledge he had gained last night as powerfully as he'd sought to escape the nightmares. Would this history be any kinder? And now he was thinking of accessing it directly.

Not that it would work, of course. Of course it wouldn't work. Silly to even try.

Would this history, their history, devoid as it was of any personal link to him, be equally savage with its coldness? He couldn't hope to know before it touched him.

"So what do we put the cap on, Uncle Eddie?" Stewart asked brightly.

Eddie turned around sharply, feeling for a moment like the walls had just spoken. To cover his awkwardness, he reached for a huge plank of crown moulding that had come from the upper reaches of the great room.

"This is very old wood," Eddie explained, showing it sideways. "The upper reaches of the room combined with the moisture creates a kind of semi-permineralization effect. The wood is almost petrified. All the organic materials have been replaced with minerals while the wood still keeps the same structure. If there is any veracity to our theories, this might be a good piece of the past to start with. It might have preserved the memory just as it did the tissue stems."

"How cool!" Stewart said, his eyes grown wide.

"I cannot believe I'm even entertaining the notion of trying this," Tad said. "But let's give this exercise in futility a workout, shall we?

"Sit there, Stewart," Eddie said, pointing him to a chair. He handed him a unit cap. "Place this on your head. Tad, get over there where you can't hurt anything."

"Yes, Brother Septic," Tad said, perching on a nearby table.

Edward picked up the piece of nearly petrified wood and set it inside the other cap. He adjusted the digital scale. "Watch this. It looks like a heart monitor gauge. When it receives what we call neuro traffic – or indications of information exchange – it registers there. You should pick up something through the unit cap shortly after that."

"Cool!" Stewart said, sitting back, as if waiting.

Edward adjusted the sensitivity. A flatline maintained.

"Nothing?" Stewart asked. "Maybe the wood isn't thinking anything. Or maybe it has to be connected to the rest of the house."

"Or maybe it has a headache," Tad suggested.

Eddie tossed Tad a smirk. "Let me have both the caps again. I'll make an adjustment. It may be an error in the calibration load."

Edward placed the cap from Stewart on his head in order to make the exchange. He removed the petrified wood from the other cap, gently jabbing a fist inside it to flatten out the inner conduits.

Eddie pressed the gauge. "It may have – "

"It flickered, Uncle Eddie," Stewart said.

Which was the moment Edward saw it – for the first time. Not so much saw as felt it.

The soft brush of a kiss on his fingers, with a flash of a woman's pink mouth – and an image of pink lipstick traces on his fingers. But they were baby fingers, banded at the wrist with a tiny white and blue bracelet. As Edward the man pulled his hand from the cap, the sensation and image dissolved.

"Wow," Edward said, reaching out for the table to hold on for a second.

"What's wrong?" Tad asked, immediately on his feet.

"Nothing, I –" Eddie shook his head hard. "It must have been, I don't know, some kind of head rush or flashback or something."

"Is it over?"

"Yes," Edward said, staring into the cap as if he might find an explanation there. "It was damned odd, though."

The boy's cell phone beeped. He pulled it up to read the text. "Oh, crap, Mom's here already. I gotta run. See ya, Uncle Eddie! Thanks, Dad!"

"Stewart, your catching equipment," Tad said, extending to the boy his baseball gloves and softball.

Stewart ran back to grab them and then, thinking a second, he threw his arms around his father and hugged him before he bolted for the car. Tad stood there a moment without moving. He looked shell-shocked.

"That's the first time he has ever hugged me," he said softly, as if he didn't really believe it had happened.

"You're joking."

"No. It was. I mean, none of us are huggers in this family. I can count on one hand the number of times Dad has embraced me. He just doesn't. Neither do I, for that matter. Embrace people, I mean. And that was a first for Stewart. I'm stunned – and chuffed – dead chuffed. That was a rather astonishing step forward. Thank you."

"I didn't do anything," Edward said, shrugging.

Tad shook his head with a genuine look of wonder in his eyes. "No, Eddie, you did, seriously. And now I shall thank you in the ritual way of the Brothers Croftdon. Because you know what today is."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

Edward climbed up through the hole in the floor to reach the front door, followed by Tad and Andrew. As they made their way through the Olde Hole into the inner sanctum, Edward's attention was taken by the sight of James dragging the full ice chest of bottles into the middle of the room. Wilsey, holding a bottle, had already plunked down on an old chair.

Suddenly, and from behind, cold liquid cascaded over Eddie's head. Edward quickly put the puzzle together.

"Toad," Edward snapped, immediately remembering his previous near-miss with the beer baptism. "Do you mean to tell me you saved that pint for three months?

"Of course not," Tad said, showing Eddie the bottle. "I've opened a new one, haven't I?"

Andrew gave Eddie a towel and a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, Eddie. It was only a matter of time before he got you."

"I know," Edward said, sighing, before surrendering to the same corner bean bag chair where he had earlier nearly been doused. He dragged the towel through his hair before mopping the brew off his shoulders. "You're a menace to society, Toad."

"Edward, once again for the public record, what is my life's mission?"

"To make your brothers' lives a living hell," Edward said with resignation, exhaling as he finished with the towel.

"Precisely. So I'm not a menace to society, I'm only a perpetual and unrelenting holy terror to my brothers, aren't I?" He handed Edward a full pint. "Here, that'll take the piss right out of you."

Eddie considered the bottle in his hand. "Sarsaparilla?"

"The primordial cola. A very American beverage."

"In spaghetti westerns maybe," Eddie said, "I've never even seen a bottle of sarsaparilla."

"So you know how hard it was to come by. It's as close to an intoxicant as you're going to get for some time. Show some gratitude," Tad said, lifting his own bottle. "Drink up, me hearties, the brew is on Brother Edward. I must thank him publicly for his earlier assistance with Stewie. He's helping me to get over my dread of dealing with my son. Meanwhile, I continue to help Eddie get over his fear of our father. And so we have everything out in the open, the Brothers Croftdon know all about your talk with your therapist, Eddie."

"Why on earth would I expect discretion from you?" Edward said, as he slowly shut his eyes, and leaned backward into the wall. "That was just icing on the cake."

Andrew shrugged. "You know we have no secrets here, Eddie."

Edward smiled thinly. "I know, but I thought, maybe, a private discussion with my therapist might be off the table. Silly me."

Andrew drank from his own bottle then sputtered out a laugh. "Are you joking? It's the Toad who heard you. You were dead in the water as soon as it reached his evil ears."

"I still haven't told Father, though," Tad said, grinning.

"Thank God. Let's keep it that way, okay? At least that's one public mortification I'll be spared."

"I haven't told him yet," Tad added, continuing to grin. "But that doesn't mean I won't."

"Besides," James said from his own corner, "you must know how we feel, Eddie, we –"

"Don't. Please don't. James, I don't easily talk about feelings, okay?" Eddie covered his face with both hands. He shook his head hard. "This is exactly the incredibly embarrassing discussion I've been dreading. It was just a talk with my therapist. I'm not even sure where it came from."

"From the same depths that compel you to tremble whenever Dad so much as enters the room," Tad announced.

"This from the man who hides when his son arrives," Eddie replied. "Can't we just forget it was ever said? Who am I kidding? I'll be hearing it repeated back to me on a continuous loop for the rest of my natural life."

"He's really catching on now," Tad said to the others. "On that note, I was telling the bros here about our earlier mind-reading of petrified wood and such. Fascinating research."

"It was an experiment for a child," Eddie explained. "I showed Stewart how SAGE2 functions."

Andrew perked up. "Really? Anything come of it?"

"No, nothing, of course," Edward said, considering a moment before adding, "Not from the wood, though I did have something interesting occur when I touched the inside of the cap to stretch it out again. I had a flash of a young woman kissing my fingers. But they weren't adult fingers; they were an infant's fingers. Probably just a stray image from something I've seen, but it was interesting."

"Maybe not," Andrew said. "It might have been crypto memory you have of someone kissing your hand when you were a baby. Mum perhaps."

"Maybe, I suppose," Edward said. "But probably it was just a floating image."

Andrew nodded. "We've had more than a few of those. But it would be an interesting line of inquiry to follow."

"Maybe we can follow up on it toward the end of the month."

"Edward," Tad said, "it is the end of the month. Tomorrow is Wilse's birthday. The day after tomorrow is Halloween. On which we're all going out to Raven's Nest for our yearly revels."

"Speaking of my birthday," Wilse said from his corner, "I have emailed all of you the information on some very top cameras. I mean, since my birthday is approaching."

"Yes, speaking of that, happy birthday," Edward said, reaching into his pocket for keys. He lobbed them over James' head to Wilse who caught them with a surprised grab.

Wilse's eyes widened. "What's this?"

"I'm buying a new car, so I thought I'd give you the old one. You need one."

Wilse's jaw dropped open. "Thank you! I can't believe it!"

"Eddie," Andrew said, looking across at him warily, "did you perchance discuss that idea with Dad?"

"No," Eddie said, shrugging. "Should I have?"

"Well, he's Wilse's guardian and, well, he has said Wilse isn't ready for a car –"

"Oh, it'll be okay," James said brightly, "besides, we need a car. And Wilsey can drive me around in it. It'll be less time that the Toad needs to drive us places." James grabbed the keys from Wilse's open hand. "Come on, let's take it for a spin."

They were gone faster than Eddie could rethink his course of action. A sudden coldness overtook him. The growing crevasse in his stomach told him he was probably in serious trouble. Thomas Croftdon would not be happy.

"I'm really screwed, aren't I?" Eddie asked, sinking back against the wall.

Tad nodded, finishing off his beer. "Undoubtedly. And there's not a chance in hell of you getting those car keys back now."

"I don't suppose you'd come with me to talk to Dad?" Eddie said, knowing the answer to his question before it was asked.

Tad coughed out a laugh. "Ha! Not a chance, Edward. That is one lonesome valley all we Croftdon men must walk alone."

"Somehow I was afraid you'd say that."

"Well, this must be huge," Thomas said, as he fully opened the ajar door past which Edward had just walked for the fifteenth time.

Edward's fist hovered in mid-air, as if he had been prepared to knock. He dropped the hand to his side, abandoning his last wave of resistance.

Edward drew a deep breath. "I'm afraid I've done something you're not going to – like."

"Is that right? Well, come in," Thomas said, sighing, "let's hear about it. Have a seat. Easier to slap at you from that position. That was humor, by the way."

Eddie swallowed hard. "I think I'd rather stand. Look, I didn't think it through before I did it."

"That is usually the way of things before such talks."

"It was an impulsive choice. I didn't think through the ramifications of my actions. I'm afraid I went expressly against your wishes."

"Well, then let's have it. What has happened?"

Edward grimaced, as if steeling himself for a strike. "I gave Wilse my old car. For his birthday."

Thomas sank back into his office chair, exhaling a little more as he reached the deepest point. "Edward –"

"I know. I know."

"I specifically asked you to not do anything like this, and then in short order, you did –"

"Believe me, I realize that now. I don't know what I was thinking."

"I do, I'm afraid. Yet again, you use money and objects to win people over –"

Edward winced at the words. "Please don't make me sound so pathetic. It was nothing like that. It was a foolish, stupid, rash decision I didn't think through. That's all."

"That you thought might gain you some inclusion into a family you believe you don't otherwise –"

"Don't! I get the picture." Edward flinched even harder. "Do you really see me as that pitiful?"

"I see you as that human," Thomas said, folding his arms to think. "I must admit I'm very disappointed in you. I need you on my team, as my eldest, Edward. I need you to follow my example very closely. Heaven knows Tad never has. I know you're only following the one example you had and it wasn't a good one."

"Please, I'm not blaming this on anyone but myself. It's no one's fault but mine."

Thomas laughed to himself, shaking his head. "Yes, you solitary man, you. The problem now is my late brother, your uncle, was too much like you – he was away all the time, so he gave Wilse all the material things to substitute for his attention. That boy was a ruddy spoiled cadger when he came here. He still bears traces of it. It took me years to get him to respect my word. And now you've done this."

Edward nodded heavily. "I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."

"Well, first of all, there's the mission that is easy to say and very much more difficult to accomplish. You can't do it by yourself. However, you are going to assist in the enterprise."

"Which is?" Eddie asked, smiling contritely.

"Getting the damned keys back."

They found the boys where Edward suspected they would be – skulked down in the car in a conspiracy with investigating the august sound system. He felt a sharp pang of guilt at the sight of them, and what he knew was about to transpire.

Thomas walked around to the driver's side and reached an arm through a window to yank the keys from the ignition. He was met by loud and plaintive cries of indignation.

"I knew it was too good to last," Wilse said, sulking as he scowled over at Edward. "You told him."

"Don't scold your cousin," Thomas said sharply. "This is my doing."

Edward nodded, looking down. "I'm sorry, but your uncle is right. I shouldn't have overstepped his authority."

Thomas kept focus on Wilse. "You knew very well I didn't want you to have a car yet. You've barely survived your motorcycle and bicycle attempts. Now get out of there and go up to finish the rest of your report. James, you have errands to run."

"That's where we were going, Dad!" James shot back as they climbed out of the car.

"Yes, and you'll get there equally well on your bicycle. The exercise will be good for you. If James hadn't wrecked his own car, you'd still have it. And one last thing."

"Yes?" the boys said in unison.

Thomas held up the keys. "I will place these in a secret and secure location. Once I have the car examined, stem to stern, and pronounced mechanically fit, and I have determined that you are responsible enough for your own car, you can have the keys back. I will appoint a driving advisor to ride with you for the first couple of months."

"Really?" Wilse asked, his eyes brightening.

"Yes." Thomas scowled at the keys before he pocketed them. "Frankly, I didn't like the bucket of bolts when Edward bought it. If he hadn't purchased a new one, and I hadn't thought he was using this one in trade, I would have already had it trundled off for a thorough inspection. And he's a grown man."

Wilse's pout diminished slightly. "That's a little better."

"Now go, both of you," Thomas said. "Dinner will be delivered in two hours. You're both there, no excuses. We have a family discussion tonight."

"Yes, sir," the younger Croftdons said, in unison, before trundling off toward the house in plodding synchrony.

Edward waited a moment before speaking or moving. "Is that it? No being sent to my room? No hickory stick? I get off that easy?"

Thomas laughed. "Not easy in the least. Guess who Wilse's twenty-four hour, seven days a week on call driving advisor is going to be."

"Me?"

Thomas nodded. "You."

"Go fetch Eddie for dinner," their father had said, as if Tad might scamper over, scratch an itch, then drag Eddie back in the knit of his teeth.

After the details of what had happened, Tad knew where his older brother would be. Given similar circumstances, Tad knew damned well where he himself would have been. Hiding. In his room. Staying silent. Playing possum. Hoping they would decide he had turned in early and therefore wouldn't be wanting dinner at all.

Their father, who was also like them, of course foresaw Eddie's plan of action. "Tell him there will be no excuses," he said, "it's an important family meeting."

Thaddeus first attempted a series of comic invention summons including the requisite "candy gram" and the simple and to-the-point "land shark." This resulted in no internal response. Just a deep, vigilant silence.

"Edward," Tad intoned loudly, after knocking for another time, "resistance is futile. Abandon ship. Accept your fate."

After a long silence, during which Tad knocked once more for an extended period of time, a voice finally answered, "I can't appeal the decision to Dad?"

"The declaration is from Dad. There's smoke out the chimney, son. Alea iacta est. The die is cast."

"I gave at the office?" Edward's voice replied.

"You should know that by now you don't have enough money to avoid a summons from our father. He cannot be leveraged from his position. Believe me, if I could have bought him off, I'd have been sliding for years. Open the door."

"I could just keep it locked?" Edward suggested.

"And I would go fetch the key to the room, which I have. And do not delude yourself, Dad is not above ordering me to tote you down physically. So be prepared for total abject humiliation."

After a lengthy sigh, the sound of a bolt being drawn reverberated. Edward opened the door. He stepped out and shut the room behind him.

"I guess it's official," Eddie said, shaking his head. "I'm dead."

"That's nothing. Wait till you hear the rest of the glad news. Grandfather is joining us. To tell us about this miraculous funding he has received to rebuild this old house. Yes, it's going to be very strained and unpleasant for you on all levels. And no picnic for the rest of us, I might add."

Edward's eyelids slid shut, as he knocked his head back once against the door. "Wonderful."

"Yes, my brother, but take heart. I shall be right behind you," Tad said, patting his shoulder. "Sniggering mercilessly, but behind you."

He had hoped to slip into the room unseen, but Tad's pronounced cough behind him made certain that he couldn't. James and Wilse had returned to scowling a little while slumped in their own chairs. Andrew handed out fish and chips to each place setting. Their father look resigned and accustomed to the fact; their grandfather looked emboldened. None of it augured positively.

"Since I was a one-man party preparation assistant, and with everything else that happened, including working on SAGE2," Andrew said, patting Edward's shoulder supportively as the man filed past to sink into a side chair. "I didn't have time to cook."

"This will be more than adequate, Andrew," John Croftdon said, his voice, as ever, as precise as a sounding clock. "As most of you know, the home we now inhabit is in need of its own update. The old estate is undergoing preservation, of course, all thanks to Edward's great generosity."

It was at this point that Edward realized he was toast – or flambéed, fricasséed, poached, what have you. He was DOA. A dead parrot. A flaming Peking duck of death.

He knew what his grandfather was about to discuss, and he also knew his father, especially following their earlier testy conversation, would not fail to miss the implications.

Edward leaned his head back and quietly groaned. In fact, he had always believed there was supposed to be a kind of inner calm that settled over one in the wake of realizing one was totally screwed. But the screwed over subject had never been the son of Thomas Croftdon.

Eddie rubbed at his eyes. "Christ, I'm dead," he muttered to Andrew, as his brother sat down beside him, patting his arm again in sympathy.

"Really, Father," Thomas said suspiciously, "and how are we to arrange for the enormous funds to do this?"

John said, with absolutely no finesse, "I have sought out and gained a grant from a historic preservation society."

Thomas folded his arms and looked over at Edward. "Have you now?"

"Yes," John said, "it will be enough to complete the work that has been long needed on this house. We should be very grateful."

"I am so toast," Edward muttered.

Tad snickered from beside him. "Yes, yes, you are, brother septic," he murmured in reply.

"And where is this generous society headquartered, may I ask?" Thomas said, continuing to stare at Eddie.

"Elsewhere. I would hand these to you individually, but I'm unusually exhausted this evening," the old man said, passing along a copy of the diagram for each of them. "See to it everyone receives one."

The diagram copies were handed down to each person. Edward peeked out at his through the fingers of a hand.

"What is all this, Father?" Thomas asked.

"A two-part diagram," John said. "You will note the layout by the room names. Thomas' office, my office, Andrew's room and so on. The clear layer stapled over it has the new additions that have been suggested by the architect."

Tad hid a snicker behind his hand as he regarded his own copy when passed down to him. "Well, isn't this something? And so conveniently timed, too."

"Will you please stop enjoying this so much?" Edward whispered.

"No, I won't," Tad replied.

"Now that we all have a copy before us, are there any questions?" John asked.

"No," Thomas said, "but I will certainly have questions for Edward after dinner."

Eddie nodded in understanding. "I know you will," he replied, staring dully down at the diagram, only to see something that took his mind off his imminent fate. "Wait, I didn't realize I'm using your room, Dad."

"You aren't," Thomas said, sighing patiently. "I'm still in the room I shared with your mother."

"Then why does the room I'm using on this diagram say Thomas?" Eddie asked.

"Because when your mother and I finally married, we wanted there to be a room for you, so that if you ever returned, you would know it had always been there," Thomas said.

Edward sat fully back in his chair. All concerns about the previous information disclosure set aside, he was more stunned than he had ever believed he could be. Nothing had prepared him for this.

He shook his head to redirect his focus. "But that still doesn't explain why it says Thomas' room?"

Thomas smiled gently. "Because Thomas was your name at birth. Didn't you know that?"

He had heard the words, but they still lay fallow in his mind. "It was?"

"Yes, Thomas Edward Croftdon, Junior," Thomas said. "I'm sorry, somehow I thought you had been told. When the adoption transpired, Jennifer Bakunin wisely determined to preserve some of your heritage, so they switched the names around. You were born Thomas Edward. You became Edward Thomas."

Eddie swallowed hard. His voice tenuous, he spoke again, "And the room has always –"

"Has always been your room. Yes. You didn't know that?"

"No. I – didn't. I'm sorry. If you'll give me a moment – " Edward said, his voice finally breaking. He stood up slowly, considering all the people before him, before walking around the table and out of the room toward the back of the house.

Both Tad and Andrew rose to follow, but Thomas held up his hand. "No, boys, this one is my calling."

Thomas found him standing in the deep hollows of the twin trees, their old spindly arms twined together at the tips. In the right light, they cast a long shadow across Edward's windows. Faith, as she was dying, would sometimes sit in the room and think about her lost one far away, the images of the trees becoming too great a burden to behold. She had them cut back severely, to minimize the import. Since her death, the arms had grown back to full length.

What was there to say to someone – so near to him and still so far?

"I'm sorry, Eddie, I honestly thought you knew," Thomas said.

"No, I don't know, for some reason, it never even occurred to me," Eddie said, shutting his eyes at another realization. "That's why my baby book was in the room."

"Yes, that's why."

Edward covered his face with his hands, as if for a moment of inner privacy. "You have to understand," he murmured, shaking his head, "everything in my life up to this point has been conditional. Wendell used to say we have no inherent right to anything. That we have to regularly meet our quota, fit the standard, live up to his expectations."

"I wish I could say I'm surprised," Thomas said.

"I know it seems like such a simple thing. But in Wendell's world, there is no grace. Mercy is weakness. There are no special exceptions. No benefit of the doubt." Edward blinked away what he would never have admitted to. "To know I actually always had a room here. In the house of my ancestors."

"Then I'm very sorry I didn't tell you before now," Thomas said softly. "You mean that all this time, you thought you were just staying in a guest room?"

"Yes. I honestly did." Edward, with a second thought, walked back to Thomas again. "Listen, about the funding, I did it before –"

"Never mind, we can deal with it later," Thomas said.

"No," Eddie said firmly, "I want to explain. I set up the funding as a package with the original estate funds. I obviously didn't think it through from your perspective. I never meant it as an insult. It was just my way of trying to help. It's the only thing I thought I could offer. But I should have realized it would be offensive. Context is something I sometimes sorely need. Okay, frequently need."

Thomas laughed a little. "And perhaps I'm a bit too fast to judge."

Eddie nodded. "I apologize for the drama. I guess we should go back in."

"I can have the boys put up your dinner. Take some time if you need it."

Edward stood back for a moment, his face reflecting an inner process of thought. Finally, he looked up with an air of new resolve. "No, Dad, your rules are your rules. I'll respect them. I'm ready to go back in now."

Thomas' small smile grew into a big one. "Thank you, son."

Eddie chuckled. "Well, I'm a slow learner, but I get there eventually."

It only took a moment to realize that the focus of the evening had changed. Edward saw Tad hovering over their grandfather, listening to his heart through the stethoscope he had evidently just pulled quickly from his upended bag of medical tricks. The old man seemed pale and on the verge of panic. The other boys had gathered around.

"What's wrong?" Thomas asked quickly, moving up beside them.

Tad shook his head. "I think we're copacetic for the moment. I just gave him some sublingual nitro. We'll see how that goes. I believe it is just very bad angina."

"It's the beginning of the end for me," John Croftdon said weakly.

"You don't know that, Granddad," Tad said, stowing away his stethoscope.

"In fact, I do, young man."

"Is that your medical opinion?" Tad asked gently.

"It's my opinion based on living more than eighty years in this body," the old man replied. "Like an old clock, I am winding down. My era is at last at an end."

"Oh, I think we can stretch it out a bit more," Tad replied.

"In either case, I want to meet the moment in my own room," John said. "James, Wilse, will you assist me to my bed?"

As the younger boys assisted the old man down the hall, Thomas turned fully toward Tad. "What is it really?"

"Hard to tell," Tad replied. "At his age, every traffic circle is a potential five car pile-up. But for the moment, he's stable."

"I had best look in on him. Excuse me, boys," Thomas said, turning to follow his father.

Tad looked toward his older brother. "So have you recovered from your latest trauma drama, Brother Septic?"

"I'm sorry," Eddie replied. "Did I do something to you?"

"Only the usual. You see, I find most people to be too encumbering," Tad said. "In your case, it's the utter lack of your imposition that frustrates me. But that makes it very easy to remain detached, doesn't it?"

"Wait," Edward said, "I was just at a family meeting where the consensus was I imposed myself too much."

"So long as you can control the game, of course," Tad said, stuffing everything back into his bag.

"Look who's talking," Eddie replied.

Tad stayed silent for a long moment. "And that stealthy move put me right into check. You're right, of course. I'm sorry. Bad day. See you in the morning."

Chapter Four

He vaguely remembered dreaming, but he didn't stay with the memory long enough to later recall what he had dreamed. It wasn't until he was dressed for the day that he awoke enough to hear voices in the distance. Young voices outside; older, more measured voices nearby and within.

A gaggle of strange voices in a home in which he had only recently become somewhat comfortable did not sound welcome. But then a glance out his window reminded him – Wilse's birthday party. Guests had already started collecting in the yard. Most of them were young – Wilse's friends. That was a group from which he might hide.

He slipped silently into the hall to make a break for the kitchen where he had hoped to partake of Andrew's morning coffee. He saw the gathering of great room people, some standing, some sitting, all of them chatting, with Thomas at the center. Edward turned to look back at his room door – at a symbol of certainty and solitude. Before he could return, the great room voices in unison hushed.

"It's him!" someone said.

He stepped back to peer around the door, only to find everyone in the great room staring toward him.

One woman stepped up, looking like someone staring at a head of state, or a royal, or a celebrity. As if she couldn't believe who stood before her.

The first shining-eyed blonde woman, who could have passed for his mother's twin, reached out to squeeze his hand. "It is you – isn't it?"

"I'm Edward," he said, hoping that might answer her question.

"Of course it's him," said the shorter woman, on the verge of tears herself. She looked like his mother, too, except shorter and less fair. She quickly collected herself. "He's a perfect cross between his parents."

One of his aunts walked tentatively forward, embracing him at first carefully, as if he might break, and then as if she couldn't let go. The other one encircled him from behind. Together, he was surrounded. Edward had never been an easy hugger. He just stood there being awkwardly compressed by strangers for several seconds. He never knew what to say in such occasions – he definitely didn't know what to say at that particular moment.

The taller woman stood away, smiling as if in apology. She enshrined his face with her hands a moment, thumbing away her lipstick from his face.

"I'm sorry. This must be awkward for you. We knew you existed. You have no idea who we are," she said, straightening his collar. "I'm your Aunt Charity. This is your Aunt Hope. We're your mother's sisters. And it seems like such a miracle to have you here." She pointed to the taciturn looking man who, while hiking his chin, seemed to jostle a chip on his shoulder. The man beside the other fellow was smiling kindly, looking a little dewy-eyed. "This is my husband, your Uncle Stephen. And this is your Uncle Herbert, Hope's husband."

Herbert. The one his father had warned him about.

Both men nodded at him, one, the one with the invisible chip burden on his shoulder, looking far less receptive than the other. Thankfully, Thomas smiled sympathetically and beckoned him toward the circle. "Eddie, why don't you come and join us over here, son?"

Edward sat down in the chair beside his father, which quickly became encircled by his tribesmen. He felt distinctly like the new Bonobo at the primate cage exhibit. His Aunt Charity sat right beside him, holding his hand like a found kitten.

"It's very nice to meet you all," Edward said, hoping that filled up one awkward moment, with a million more of them still to go.

"We're so very, very happy you're here," Charity said.

"Thank you," Edward said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

One of the men stepped forward to join the conversation, perhaps, Edward thought, out of sympathy for his mother's sisters.

"So, you're a computer person like your brother, Andrew," the man identified as Uncle Stephen said. "Must run in the family."

"I suppose it must," Edward said, fumbling for something else to say.

Stephen nodded. "I remember your mother very well. She stood up at our wedding, you know."

Edward smiled. "I'd like to hear all about that someday," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Everybody seemed to be glancing tensely toward the one called Herbert.

He cleared his throat and spoke in the voice of an orator, "So, Edward, what might your politics be? If you don't mind my asking."

"I mind your asking, Herb," Thomas said. "This is Wilse's birthday party, and Eddie's first celebration with the entire family. This is our home, not Hyde Park. Edward is here as my son, not as the target of your political sentiments."

"It's a simple question," Herbert said, "not an attack."

"It's always the beginning of one with you," Thomas said.

"I don't mind answering," Edward said, "Pro-science, pro-education, pro-humanity. I accept I don't have any answers. I just try to follow my conscience."

Pierce's spine seemed to stiffen in response. Edward could almost see the chip forming on the older man's shoulder. At this point, he was prepared for anything. "Well, that's hardly the political objective of your sort over the last span of years. Especially with this computer weaponry of yours. I'm sorry, but I am on the board and I simply think –"

"Mr. Pierce –" Edward said.

"Uncle Herb, please," the man replied.

Edward drew a deep breath of composure. Oh, good, he wanted to be rude and familial at the same time, Eddie thought. "That was a very complicated matter. It would take a lot of time and, frankly, reflection on events I'd just as soon forget."

"Would we could all forget them," Herbert said. "Certainly those poor people in South Africa cannot."

"Herb, this is not the time or place," Charity said.

"Well, it should be," Herb said. "If someone had drawn the line with this madness some time ago –"

The front door opened and Stewart crept in quickly, only to see the gathered group. He immediately froze in place, a standing portrait of fear.

Thomas smiled at the happy interruption. "Come in, Stewart," he said, standing. "You can meet everyone, too. Everyone, this is Tad's son, my grandson, Stewart."

"Don't you look just like your father!" Hope said cheerfully, beckoning the boy with a smile.

"I – I just – thought –" Stewart whispered, "maybe Uncle Eddie and I could play catch –"

"You may do that later. It's family time now," Thomas said. "Come in and meet your great aunts and uncles."

Edward took advantage of the moment to stand up quickly to take his leave. "If you'll all excuse me, I'll be outside," he said, so brusquely he nearly felt rude in the face of a roomful of smiling strangers.

He left – he just left – and kept walking until he stood beyond the porch and the side yard, near the fence and the stand of trees that partly obscured the road. Edward had almost reached the near gate when he realized that his young nephew had followed him out.

"Stewart, you should go back in," Edward said, "your grandfather told you to visit with the family."

"Hey, I'm not going back in there!" Stewart said. "They were eating you alive! I wasn't gonna stay in there if you left."

Before Edward could answer, he heard the front door open. Thomas' slow, deliberate steps followed in time. "Stewart, go inside now please," Thomas said, in a soft measured voice. "I need to speak with your uncle."

Eddie quickly came to the cold, queasy conclusion that he was about to confront another first name, middle name moment with Thomas. He didn't like the feeling in the slightest. He hadn't felt like this since he was 13 years old. That feeling of being fearful of Thomas, waxing and waning over the last few months, flourished again in a flash.

"Do I have to?" an obviously frightened Stewart asked in just above a whisper. "I'd rather stay out here."

"Yes, you must," Thomas said strongly. "Now do as I ask, please. The others are waiting for you. No one is going to harm you, for heaven's sake."

"Okay," the boy whispered, sneaking a sympathetic look at Edward. The boy mouthed "See ya" and then walked inside with all the eagerness and energy of a condemned man.

"Am I really that terrifying?" Thomas asked Edward, as he glanced toward the house to make certain the boy had gone in. "My only grandson in the world at present constantly looks at me as if I am Godzilla and he is Tokyo. You were frightened of me, too."

"It's the accent, I think," Eddie said. "It's the voice of authority to our ears. I think that's why most of the Hollywood bad guys are Brits." Edward turned around fully toward Thomas. "I'm in trouble again, aren't I?"

"Well, I do have some things I would like to address with you," Thomas said.

"In other words, yes," Edward said. "Very well, lob them at me."

"For one thing, do not countermand my directives to Stewart. I'm his grandfather. In the absence of his father, he should listen to me. I realize you two have a lot in common, but we still have to keep the structure of the family intact. It may not be perfect, but it's the way we've always done things."

"I didn't countermand you," Edward said. "Stewart followed me out."

"He followed your lead, Eddie, just as we've spoken before," Thomas replied.

"And I'm responsible for him following me out?" Eddie asked.

"If you had stayed and continued visiting with the family, Stewart would have followed suit. He took your departure as permission to do the same. He followed your example."

"I did tell him he should go back inside as you directed."

"Good. Thank you for that. Also, Stewart must spend more time with his father than he does with you. I recognize you two have a lot in common, but the division between them will not narrow until they become closer."

"I have encouraged that, believe it or not," Edward said, looking away.

"You must encourage it more. Now, since you're a grown man, I can't order you back inside. But I asked you to sit down with the family and visit with them. I cleared the visit with you beforehand. Your aunts have waited a very long time to meet you. It's your duty as a member of this family to conduct yourself in a civil manner."

"That man insulted me numerous times. I would never have said those things to him," Edward said sharply. "I managed to keep a civil tongue, largely by walking outside."

"I wouldn't have let him go on."

"He shouldn't have gone as far as he did."

"I realize that, Edward, but while you're not a child, you're my child. In this house, you'll act according to my wishes –" Thomas said, walking up closer. "First there was the car, and then the house funding – "

"I thought we had processed that."

"Those incidents stemmed from the same problem we are discussing now. You're my oldest, and I need you to support my decisions, not undermine them."

"Even if I disagree with them?"

"Especially then. We can take up our disagreements apart from the others. But we need to show a consolidated front."

"Are we in a war?"

"In a way," Thomas replied. "Especially when we're dealing with children."

Edward shut his eyes. He took in the words and nodded. "Look, I acknowledge I overstepped my boundaries. I crossed the line. I didn't keep my place. I stepped on your toes. Okay?"

"This isn't about anyone keeping their place."

Edward turned away to plead his case to clouds and open sky. "Fine. Pick the appropriate metaphor. I was wrong. I apologize and I will apologize again. This is not my world. It's not my culture. It's not my place. I feel worse than a fish on a bicycle here, I'm a fish on a Harley Davidson. I'm a pentangular peg in a round hole. I don't even know what the hell I'm doing here – "

"Edward!" Thomas said sharply, circling around to face him again. "One disagreement does not a crisis make."

"It hasn't been one disagreement," Eddie said, turning away again to gaze back at the road.

"What on earth are you two yapping at each other about?" Tad said, as he came around through the side gate. "The whole backyard, not to mention half of Summerfield Drive, is beginning to wonder. Your voices carry, you know."

"I was about to say as much about the inside of the house," John Croftdon said, looking pale and wan in his robe and slippers, as he walked up to join them.

"You shouldn't be out of bed, Granddad," Tad replied to him.

"No, and I wouldn't have been if the noise hadn't commenced," the old man answered.

Edward didn't join the conversation, having focused on the row of cars along the band of Summerfield that belonged to Croftdon House. He focused on one car in particular. The side of the car read Status Associates. It was a Bakunin company car. No mistaking it.

Thomas stepped up beside him to consider the view, too. His voice sounded immediately concerned, "Where do I know that company name from, Eddie? Status Associates."

"It's what Wendell calls his security company. Basically, they're his SS and I really don't like them being here. Everyone stay here. I'll go confront him."

Tad grabbed his arm. "Wait a damned minute. Like hell you will. We'll call the police."

"It's just one guy," Edward said. "I'm the obvious one to confront him. He may have reservations about shooting me. I'll just tell him he's on private property."

"Edward, Tad is correct," John Croftdon said. "He should accompany you."

"Wonderful, and now I am doomed to be William Blazeby to your Davy Crockett," Tad said, pushing Edward in the car's direction. "Lead the way, oh King of the Wild Frontier."

As they approached, Edward slowly realized that he had never seen this guy, and he felt like he knew a lot of them, from their years of haunting the house during Wendell's more pugnacious periods of paranoia. No doubt they had picked someone less recognizable, even though saddled with a company car for legality's sake. No sense losing a foot soldier doing a yeoman's job, Wendell had said more times than Edward wanted to remember.

Eddie walked up from behind and yanked open the door. "Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?"

The man had clearly been watching his rear view mirror. He looked up, unsurprised. "My job."

"This portion of the road belongs to the Croftdon family and is not open to outside traffic," Tad said. "You're not allowed here."

"Oh, really? I didn't know it wasn't a public road, did I?" the man asked, smirking with his reply. He looked past Eddie and toward Thomas. "Hey, Tom, long time, no see. How's the family?"

"I have nothing to say to you," Thomas called back.

"Leave," Edward said. "And don't return."

"I am just here to follow up on the packages you received when Mr. Bakunin packed up and sent along your belongings," the man said. "There was something he forgot, so I've brought it to you."

The stranger pitched a 5x8 manila envelope out of the car and to the ground.

"See you," the stranger said, gunning his car and shooting off down the road toward the open public street.

As the car drove away, Eddie picked up the manila envelope that had been thrown down. It bore no address. It wore no outside message. Just a bulky plain envelope.

Tad considered it more closely. "What the hell is that?"

"I don't know. Probably one of Wendell's head games." He looked back toward Thomas. "You know that guy? He seemed to know you."

Thomas shrugged. "Possibly. From town perhaps."

"He's not one of Wendell's usual goons," Eddie said. "They were all domestic. That guy is English, which means he's not just visiting. I hope this isn't a sign of things to come."

"Don't let the old bastard drive you to paranoia, too," Tad said.

"Are you joking? The only way to survive around Wendell Bakunin is by being more paranoid than he is," Edward said, his attention returning to the envelope. He opened one end. He pulled out the contents far enough so everyone could see it.

"That bastard," Tad hissed.

"Well, I guess it's obvious what that is," Edward said, sliding the packet of fine white powder back into the envelope.

"That's one devil of a legal quagmire for the footman to take on, whoever he was," Tad said.

"Maybe it just looks like heroin," Edward said.

Tad pulled the packet out of Eddie's hand and stuck it in his inside jacket pocket. "I will lock this in my room safe and then carry it into work tomorrow to have it tested. If it's heroin, there will be an easy path to tracking him down. I memorized the identifiers on the car. While I lock this up, why doesn't everyone go back to the party and not let this bastard steal more of our day?"

"Actually," John Croftdon said, "I should like to speak with Eddie in private for a few moments. But it won't take long."

John Croftdon opened the door to his office and, beyond the office, his own room. Besides his desk, a parlor piano stood at office center, covered with lace doilies and a host of variably sized and aged framed photographs. The hood pulled down over the piano keys appeared to bear a fine tatting of dust, as if no one had played it in years.

"That was your mother's," John explained, seeing Edward's consideration of the dust. "In later years, when my wife was ill, she would play for her. After your mother died, and then your grandmother, I hadn't the heart to remove it from the room."

The photographs across the piano were all big, formal portraits. One in a silver frame of Edward's parents when they were young. Another of his parents with his brothers, in one unit, all smiles, no shadows. He wondered, distantly, where he had been that day. What he had been doing. If they had wondered what he was doing too. There were other pictures. People he didn't recognize. Strangers whose blood no doubt flowed through his veins. A pictorial story of his family in which he had never played a part. An age lost to him.

John Croftdon smiled his perfunctory smile and indicated the big portrait of his parents when young. "That is your father and mother on their wedding day."

Edward tried to smile. "I guessed."

"It was a very happy day. For the most part. Overshadowed, of course, by your absence," John said, smiling thinly. "A moment ago, when I said I hadn't had the heart to remove the piano, your expression told me you wondered if I had a heart at all. I know you harbor much ill will toward me, Edward."

"It isn't that simple, Mr. Croftdon."

"No, my boy, you of all people are entitled to hate me. I do wish we had the time to get past the Mr. Croftdon nonsense. I am afraid we won't. Your brothers don't much hold me in particular reverence, but they still manage a Granddad on occasion. If not that, then perhaps John might suffice?"

"I don't hate anyone," Edward said. "Good and bad came from what happened. Even I see that."

"Good, because wallowing in bitterness about the past does no one any good," the old man said, sinking as if in a state of abandon into one of the two wing chairs in the office. "I know that better than most. Which brings me to our topic of conversation. Please, have a seat and be comfortable."

Edward sighed, considering the open door and the hallway that promised deliverance. There seemed no real way to escape. He resigned himself to one of the mauve velvet barrel chairs that sat between the piano and the fireplace.

John Croftdon sat forward. "I'm dying, Edward."

"Tad seems to think you're doing a bit better."

John chuckled sadly and nodded. "Yes, your brother gives me best case scenarios, but I know. It took the wind out of my sails to simply walk outside to speak with you. Like an old arthritic can feel the approach of rain, old men can sense the nearness of death. I waited too long to have my boys, and now I'm going to leave my son and grandsons while they still may need my guidance. Even you, if I may be so bold as to say."

"I think you may just be feeling negatively because you're ill," Edward suggested.

John smiled. Truly smiled. Edward had never seen this much of the old man's smile before – it almost seemed kind.

"You remind me so much of Thomas," John said. "You are very much your father's son. Regardless of the future, I'd ask you to indulge me in a philosophical question. Do you by any chance believe in fate? In a grand design?"

"No," Edward said simply.

"I didn't think so. You're very like your brothers that way. But I must say I do. I believe in destiny. It's my C of E upbringing, I suppose. I think we all have done what we have done in accordance with some cosmic excogitation, if you will. We cannot see its divine mathematic expression, but I believe it exists. What would you say to that?"

Edward shrugged. "I'd say that's a nice way to assuage our consciences when things don't work out the way we want them to."

"Yes, but it rubs both ways. For instance, I had a baby sister once." He stood up with a feeble kind of grace to collect one of the piano photographs and pass it to Edward. "Adelaide. So much smaller than her name when we lost her. We called her Addie. Sadly, she never got much older than she was in that portrait. We were a few years apart in age. The one clear memory I have of her is of her death."

The very old portrait Edward held showed a plump-cheeked young girl with lit-up eyes. Two, maybe three.

"I'm sorry," Eddie said, handing the photograph back again. "What happened?"

John propped the girl's portrait on the table beside him. "We lost her during the Blitz – the London Blitz – you know about that, don't you? The bombings during WWII?"

"Of course."

"Many children were evacuated to the country," the older man said. "My father wouldn't hear of it. George and Mary were staying and so must we. Father was a mad man. To be fair, it was impossible to know when to run for cover. Sometimes there were alerts with no raids. And other times, there were raids with not enough warning. You could never really tell from one day to the next what would happen."

"I've read something about it," Edward said.

"So, to complete the story, my mother was in our little square garden planting flowers in a window box, of all things. We held onto those traditions, as a detour around the horror. You know, planting daisies around the graveyard. And Addie had this little red watering can with a yellow down spout. I remember it so clearly – there was a bright yellow sunflower painted on the side. Funny the things you remember." He shook his head to himself. "I walked out into the yard to tell Mum of a siren. But it all happened before we could seek cover."

"I can't even imagine," Edward replied.

John nodded. "My mother and I fell to one side and my baby sister to the other. On our side, we had been safely sheltered by this long slope of heavy siding from our neighbor's front porch. On the other, my sister had been – crushed. Crushed, Eddie, like a stray cat in the motorway. Her little watering can was sitting there, untouched, beside her."

"That is truly terrible," the younger man replied.

"My mother never forgave herself for having survived. I never forgave my father for making us stay. It took me years to realize I had never forgiven myself either for any of it. Even though I was only a child."

"I'm sorry," Eddie whispered.

John nodded. "I don't mind telling you that I have been a truly wretched father in many ways. I met their needs. I even lent a sympathetic ear on occasion. But most of my heart was set on some greater goal. You cannot behold the events that we in our generation did without being much changed. It made me a relentless, driven man, Eddie. Your adopted grandfather shared my blood thirst in his own way. We never stopped to consider the consequences. I couldn't bear to, I suppose, for fear of accepting the blame."

"I can see how a belief in fate would be comforting," Eddie said.

John leaned forward again. "I dispatched you for my own selfish purposes. I acknowledge that, but it helps me to think that, perhaps, we wouldn't be as well off as we are, if that hadn't happened. Something worse might have resulted. It may be that your sacrifice helped us all."

Eddie shrugged. "If it helps you to think that, so be it. It's nothing I can accept as true."

John's smile was understanding. "Until I lost my son, George, Wilse's father, I never understood the pain I put Thomas through by forcing him to give you up. My relationship with both my sons had never been warm. It eroded even further when you left us. And I now believe George's death was the price I paid for sending you away."

Edward stared backward at the door, vaguely pining for escape. "I think you're overestimating the impact of individuals, Mr. Croftdon – John."

"Please, let me finish. Your mother, too, never recovered from losing you. Her cancer death was just the end point of a long, slow dying of her spirit. My wife saw Faith as the daughter she never had, and I lost her not long after. That, too, was my recompense. And then Thomas crawled into a bottle for some time."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Croftdon, but why are you telling me all this?"

"For two reasons. First, because I heard your argument with Thomas. He's a much better father than I ever was, but when he falters, he is only echoing the atrocious example I set for him. Since you have returned, I've seen a light come back in his eyes that I haven't seen for a very long time. He is so deeply proud of all of his boys. And he has all of you now. For the very first time. Please don't punish him for my mistakes."

"I have no wish to punish anyone," Edward said.

"Even me?" John asked with a slow, tired smile.

"Even you," Edward said. "I can accept that you regret your actions. And if I hadn't gone to the Bakunins, I'd have missed out on knowing my adopted mother Jennifer and so many other things. I don't really hold any grudges."

"Good. Because, whenever I die, I would like to die having made peace with you." John looked down after a long moment. "I hope what I tell you now will reassure you I only want what is best for you."

"What is that?" Eddie asked.

"Please do not believe Wendell Bakunin above killing you if you got in his way," John said.

"Why is that?"

Old man Croftdon shook his head. "I can only say that Wendell's father was as frightened of Wendell as anyone. He realized too late the monstrosity he had created. He had intended to toughen the boy, make him stronger. And instead he destroyed his conscience, his empathy, his capacity to care."

"I will keep that in mind," Edward said.

The old man cast him a frail smile. "Now why don't you return to the party? Let an old codger sit with his memories."

Edward moved tentatively toward the door. "Is there anything I can bring you? Something you need?"

John Croftdon's smile expanded. "That's so like Thomas to ask that. No, I'm as well as I can be, given the circumstances. But please know, Herbert Price is insufferable. The next time he holds forth, you have my permission to haymaker the prat. I'll smooth things over with your father."

Eddie couldn't help but laugh. "Thanks, I'll remember that."

"See that you do."

As Edward walked back through the hallway, he felt like he had stepped out of one reality and into another – and he had the oddest feeling John Croftdon had intimated something to him he couldn't quite grasp. Through it all, Edward could hear the sounds of young people laughing in the distance, flooding in through an open backdoor. Party games, probably, he deduced.

The roar inside him gradually grew louder – loud enough to cloister the sounds outside.

Eddie stepped into the small storage closet just beyond his room. The boxes he'd received with no last name – the ones from Wendell – collected dust in various stacks. Pulling from his pocket a box cutter he had taken from the supplies cupboard, he stabbed into the top one and sliced it open.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for – or if he was looking for anything at all.

He removed from the box a number of things – a photograph of Jennifer Bakunin, that he smiled at and set aside for placement in his room, an old coin bank, an orange toy dog he had won at a long ago carnival, and at last something he had forgotten altogether. His "Native American" bracelet. An old remnant of his days in Indian Guides. It made him smile.

All the cloth remnants and beadwork had been supplied by his adopted mother – a mix of fabric from her scrap bag, tied into leather joinings, with some tiny white and blue beads worked into a child's awkward artistry. He smiled fondly at the bracelet and slipped it into his jacket pocket to be reflected on later.

Next from the box, he withdrew his old medicine bag. Another relic of his Indian Guides days. But it felt like something was inside it.

He opened it and out popped a full pill bottle of reds and whites mixed together. An old stash? But why on earth would he hide it here? More than likely another Wendell head game.

Edward shoved the pill bottle back into the box like an insult. The last thing he saw was a small 5x7 framed photo that had once been in his room. It was of Wendell and Edward. His adopted father stood with him like a champion angler beside the sport fish he had landed. And Edward had been the prize catch of all.

Edward pulled the photo out of the frame. He tore it apart in as many pieces as his hands could manage, until they flittered to the floor like confetti.

He pulled from his pocket his smart phone and texted to one number he had sworn he would never text again. He would do it only once more and then block it from replying.

Wendell, he texted, I wonder if you realize you have created in me your worst enemy.

Then he made himself go back to the party and made a vain pretense of enjoying the day. He kept the bracelet in his pocket for later.

"It's been a long emotional day. You sure you're up to this, Eddie?" Andrew asked, as he set up the SAGE2 sequencer for reception. "You know better than most how draining these sessions can be."

"Yeah, I need this actually," Edward said. "If you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Too much cake, beer and Uncle Herb, but I'll hold up. I think we're the only ones still awake though. Dad's sleeping. God knows the lads have crashed, too. Wilsey looked like he could sleep for days. Did you determine a focus object?"

Edward reached into his pocket and pulled out the bracelet he had discovered earlier. "This is something we could use. It was something I wore a lot. I liked it a lot. Of course, it's a loaded goal, so I'll be critical of anything I receive. I won't go in with pattern-seeking mode."

"As if you could ever be credulous," Andrew said, grinning.

"Just ask Tad," Eddie replied, pulling on the SAGE2 cap. He placed the bracelet in the basket they had geared up for objects, to take the place of the second cap. He nodded to Andrew who then pressed the trigger on the sensing unit.

He felt warm. And safe. He saw fuzzy bright lights above him, as he stared into, perhaps, pillars in an unknown structure. He focused in on a tiny hand, which he somehow knew to be his own hand. His face was soon overshadowed by another face.

"I'm genuinely getting something," Edward said. "It seems to be the same setting as the earlier baby hand flash. It's my own perception, too. Someone is holding me. A young man. I'm an infant."

"Focus on the nearest object," Andrew said. "Bring it into your view."

Edward focused – the face of the person holding him was young, flushed and perspiring. Eddie tried to read the expression on the young man's face. Really, he was just a boy. Edward the man could read nothing beyond it – just his own adult appraisal of the basic impressions of an infant.

"I'm only getting the direct images from the infant. I think it's Dad holding me," Eddie said. "My God, he's so young. I mean, I know he was young, but he looks like such a kid –"

"Yeah, he was," Andrew said.

Hands from outside moved around him, removing him from his father's arms. As the infant, Edward had grasped something in his fingers. To the adult Edward now, it appeared to be a green and yellow necktie, with a singular row of repeated "w's" down the center of the tie. As the infant Edward was pulled away from the young father, the baby's fingers reflexed around the young man's tie.

There seemed to be a tug of war – a kind of war of adult hands over him.

Edward the infant heard a cry go out – something shrill, like a dagger of sound stabbing at the air – no, more like multiple sounds torn apart by agony and then welded back together again in despair. It wasn't the infant crying. That shrill, horrible dagger scream had come from the boy who held him.

Eddie sat up from the chair. To escape the flood of information, he hurled away the baseball cap. It was then he realized he had been crying.

"Fuck," he whispered, still trying to divest himself of the feelings and images. "That was –" He shook his head.

Andrew stood beside him, staring searchingly up into his face. "For godsakes, what the hell happened?"

"I don't know," he coughed out, masking his face with his hands. "God, that was unspeakably dreadful. Terrible. Even that word seems too weak. There aren't any. Words, I mean. Christ,

I don't ever want to feel that again."

Andrew patted his shoulder. "It was a true memory?"

"Oh, yeah, all the conditions met. That didn't come from me. It was too fucking painful. But I was an infant again. How did that recon come from this bracelet? I made it when I was eight or nine."

"Maybe it has some association you're not aware of?"

"Maybe."

"Is there an identifier you could single out that would help us validate the memory?"

The moving images flickered on rewind through his memory. "I remember Dad was wearing this tie. I wonder if there are any pictures of me from that day."

"Have you tried your baby book?"

Eddie spun around and grabbed for the baby book again. He quickly leafed through it to an image in front. One of the first ones, a picture of an infant in the arms of a teenaged boy. The boy, clad in a suit, looked to be in the grip of impending doom – something awful about to happen. The boy wore a tie. As faded as the photo was, the picture of the boy showed a tie that definitely appeared flecked with a pattern of different colors.

Edward squinted at the photograph, trying to discern more information.

"Do you have a magnifying glass or something?" Eddie asked.

"Yes, of course," Andrew said, looking for an object that had been slipped into an office tray. He handed it over.

Edward circled the glass over the top of the picture. The detail began to emerge. The tie seemed more brown than green, but the other color was definitely yellow. Down its center, ran a row of chevron symbols in a single column.

Edward met Andrew's stare. He felt the internal war between the human being he was and the scientist he was. On one hand, he needed to cry – on the other, he stood amazed. A small repeated chevron pattern certainly gave the impression of a w.

"Andrew, it's the same tie," Eddie said, with wonder burgeoning in his voice. "That was a genuine memory. A godawful, horrible, genuine memory."

"It certainly appeared to be. You think we're onto something?"

"Yes, maybe." Edward leaned back against the chair. "At what age do babies see colors?"

"Six months, I think," Andrew said.

"Not that I want to feed into your pathetic fallacy, my bruthas, but that's a myth," Tad answered from the door. "Infants are born seeing all colors, they're just very myopic. Kind of like our Eddie here."

Edward hurled an empty paper cup in Tad's direction but inquired with all seriousness, "Can they recognize shapes?"

Tad tossed the paper cup back at him. "Indeed."

Eddie caught the thrown object, continuing, "But the recognition of the shape had to be by my adult mind. An infant wouldn't associate the pattern with symbol. So how is that not an artifact of perception?" Eddie folded his arms. "How did I not impress that on the memory?"

"Sounds like something for further inquiry," Andrew said, patting Edward's arm. "Are you all right? Because I'm dead knackered."

Eddie nodded curtly. "Yeah, sure. Thanks for staying up to test with me. Go ahead to bed. Good night."

"See you two in the morning," Andrew said.

"Raven's tomorrow," Tad reminded.

"As if you would let us forget," Andrew replied, leaving the room for the rest of the hallway.

Tad laughed in his wake. He gave Eddie an extra moment of quiet. "And if I shuffle off to my room to slumber?"

"I'll be fine. Go on."

Tad grasped his shoulder for a moment, as if in solidarity. "Raven's tomorrow."

Eddie chuckled. "Yes, I'd heard."

Chapter Five

Eddie slept little. Every time he shut his eyes and tried to relax, the boy's scream would echo like a tempest in his head. Even ear buds didn't mute it. Even the drone of a fan couldn't drive it away. Blinders hadn't shut out the overbearing light of the memory. He spent much of the night reading and, when unable to focus, looking up at stars.

He had felt that dagger of pain pass right through his own heart, as if he had suffered the agony himself. How had Thomas survived a grief of that magnitude? Was it even likely for a young boy, probably deeply conflicted at the burdens of early fatherhood, to feel that? Or was Edward merely seeing what he had wanted to see? What he had wanted Thomas to feel? But would he have wanted Thomas to feel something so awful?

Everything in him was leaning toward the simpler explanation – that Eddie had conjured the experience out of his own wishful thinking. Or is that just easier for you to believe, he asked himself.

He managed some sleep and a shower, then wandered with his first sacred cup of coffee down the hallway. He wondered faintly if he'd had enough sleep, when the sweet and humid scent of raw pumpkin reached his nose. It was the morning of 31 October. In the US, that would have been an unsurprising aroma. He had resigned himself to a Halloween devoid of the usual customs, so the smell seemed especially odd.

He rounded a corner to find James and Wilsey at work on the kitchen floor. The tile had been covered with newspaper. The newspaper had been splattered with seed-clinging pumpkin pulp James was ambitiously scraping from the inside of a fair-sized pumpkin. James had pumpkin pulp on his nose. Wilse wore seeds in his hair.

James looked up and displayed their work – an oval-eyed, square-nosed jack-o-lantern with a big round shocked expression.

"It's a surprise. What do you think?" James asked, with a smile of anticipation.

"I think it's a fine artistic interpretation of a jack-o-lantern," Eddie said.

Tad walked up from behind and leaned down to inspect it, too. "In other words, you cocked it up, Jimmy," he said, taking a drink from a flask. He showed Eddie the white packet of powder from the previous day before pitching it into the trash filled already with pumpkin guts. "He sent you sodium bicarbonate. Baking soda. You're right, he was playing mind games."

"That figures," Edward said.

"Eddie," James replied, indicating his pumpkin, "is it really so bad?"

"There's not one right way to carve a pumpkin," Eddie said firmly.

"But if there was one, it wouldn't look like that," Tad said. "The eyes and nose are all supposed to be pyramid shapes. The mouth you cut in with square or jagged teeth. There is very little artistic license when it comes to jack-o-lanterns, little brother. I know, I've had to educate myself for my septic son, of whom I have custody all day long."

"Try not to sound so chuffed about it, Toadface," James said.

"Wait until you have one of your own," Tad shot back.

"There's nothing wrong with your pumpkin, James," Edward said. "There is a long tradition of pumpkin carving that goes way beyond the traditional patterns. Some of them are great works of art."

Tad pointed at the pumpkin in question. "Well, that ain't one of em."

"Well, forgive me for trying," James snapped back. "We have never carved one before. We wanted to do something nice for Eddie. You're the doctor. Despite the fact you smell like an illegal liquor cabinet exploded. Why not grab a scalpel and help?"

"If I did that to a patient, I wouldn't be a doctor for long," Tad said. "As for my state, I specifically arranged it so that I would have no patients today, though I do have to dekko a fucking sea of charts, just so I could get ripped as all fuck because my noxious bitch of an ex is off to some stupid adult costume event near the bloody Borders council area. Lucky duck I am, I get custody of my only spawn all evening long."

"I'm sure Stewie loves that his dad has to get wasted to visit with him," James shot back.

"If you were cleaner, I'd have vomited on you for that remark," Tad said, gulping once more from his metal flask before stowing it in his back pocket. He peeled his jacket off the entry settle, and pulled it on before opening the door. "Remember, men, we have the Raven this afternoon. Eddie's first time. A grand night will be had by all. Later, family." He saluted the room before leaving.

Eddie looked pitifully over at James and Wilse. "Why does his description worry me?"

"Because it should," James said, "he manages to embarrass us all every year in some way. It's the Raven's annual Edgar Allen Poe-try contest, too. People read heaps of their own godawful Poe-like poems. Tad reads his, drinks too much. It's never pretty. Plus he made us eat soup with chopsticks last year."

"Why do you go?" Edward asked. "No, wait a minute, the same reason I am. Because otherwise, you'd have to listen to Tad complain about it."

James and Wilse nodded in unison. "Of course," James said.

Eddie nodded. "I have work to do on the script now. By the way, the pumpkin was very thoughtful of you guys."

"No worries. We aim to bake a pie with the orange sticky, stringy goop, too," Wilse said.

"Actually, you don't make a pie with the goop, but with the inside flesh of the pumpkin you're carving. You can bake the seeds, though. Or save them to plant for more pumpkins."

"What do we do with the orange sticky, stringy stuff?" James asked.

Eddie shrugged. "Compost maybe? Art projects? If all else fails, throw it away."

"How wasteful."

"Sorry. That's the extent of my pumpkin gnosticism. Ask Andrew. He's the family cook. He might know more."

"He knows nothing," Andrew said, from the library door. "That's my standard answer for all such inquiries, or else they'll subjugate me in thralldom to do their culinary bidding. Besides, Eddie, I have something to show you on the computer."

"I was going over the logs from the input last night," Andrew said, reaching for the laser mouse to move the cursor on the overhead screen, "when I saw something interesting. Remember when we started comparing cerebral activity scans with optimum results from SAGE? Years ago?"

"Yeah, sure. We saw some correlations."

"Between cerebrum content and focus content, right?" Andrew asked.

"Yes."

"Well, guess what popped up out of the data from your experience last night?" Andrew said, pointing a finger at the screen.

Eddie shrugged. "I'll look at it, of course, but the cerebrum is the dominant part of the brain. The neo-cortex is where most complex activity will stem from, so to speak. Besides, I've deciphered what happened last night. It was all just projection from me."

"Oh, really?" Andrew said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the desk. "Last night, you said, and I quote, no way that came from me."

"I've reconsidered the information I received last night," Eddie said. "With the color recognition and the pattern perception, I'm thinking I must have projected the emotional content somehow."

"And how did you do that?"

"We don't see things the way they are – we see things the way we are," Edward said, pushing away from the wall to open his laptop and sit down at the long desk. "You know that. It was too easy. Too pat."

"Just like this sounds," Andrew said, looking over his glasses.

"Look, it came from an inanimate object. I was seeing what I wanted to see. I needed my father to feel pain at my leaving. I picked an object from my childhood. I wanted it, so my brain produced that illusion for me."

"You said it hurt enormously," Andrew said.

"It did," Edward said.

"You didn't want to feel that in Dad."

"Of course not, consciously, but subconsciously perhaps. Just as a way to feel like I was wanted in the first place. I mean, Occam's Razor says that's the likely scenario."

"Only if it fits the data, and it doesn't. We don't get to break off all the odd bits that don't conform to the theory. Occam told us where to start looking, not where to stop. It may the likely scenario, but I don't think it's the final one. And neither do you."

Eddie pushed back in his chair. "What do you suggest?"

"Redo the test on something more interactive and therefore able to confirm the data," Andrew said.

"Such as?"

"Dad."

"No, never. That would be an invasion of his privacy."

"Not if he consented," Andrew said.

Edward shook his head hard. "Even so, and to be honest, I don't know that I want direct access to that moment. Who could blame a kid who had become a father too soon? That young man wouldn't be ambivalent? It doesn't reflect on who Dad is now. And it might impact our relationship."

"Yes, but the impact might be positive. I'm thinking of a recent inquiry made of you by your therapist. It might seal something essential and vital. It might heal a lot of things, too."

"Look, I don't want to discuss the stupid therapist thing." He shrugged. "And what you're talking about represents a big risk, either way."

"One I think that's worth taking."

The Raven looked like something plucked straight out of Disneyland and set down on the outskirts of their own little town. Perched upon the pub sign, hunkering over the doorway, sat a huge black wooden bird, with watchful yellow eyes, a straight closed beak and finely carved feathers that splayed out into perfectly formed wedges. The raven was easily twice life size and every bit as menacing as any bird in flight.

"That's Virginia," Tad said, "she's the pub mascot. After Poe's wife."

"I guessed," Eddie said, taking his place at the corner point of an end table.

Stewart wheeled around to lodge himself across from that corner. He immediately began to play a game on his phone. Tad grasped Stewart by the top of the head to drag him up and steer him out of the corner.

"You refused to go to the Halloween costume rubbish I found for you, so you're going into the next room and nest yourself among people your own age. Go be social."

Stewart's face soured sharply. "I just want to play my game with you guys. I don't know those people, Dad!"

"And that's not apt to change if you don't introduce yourself, now, is it?" Tad asked.

"Don't look now, Toad," Andrew said, toting two great mugs of draft lager and one of ginger ale in from the other room and to the table where Eddie sat, "but the youngsters in there have their noses glued to their own phones. No one is saying a word. They look like the head-knocking monks in Monty Python's Holy Grail."

"You're joking," Tad said, looking in that direction.

"Take a look for yourself if you don't believe me."

"No, I believe it," Tad said, gently nudging the boy in the other room's direction. "All right, well, at least you'll be social while being anti-social."

"Do I have to, Dad?" Stewart said.

"Yes, you must, now go."

"Yes, sir," Stewart said, turning like a wounded wooden soldier to strut insolently away.

Andrew set a beer beside Tad and one at his own place. He shoved the soda toward Edward. "Sorry, Eddie, the Toad says still no brew for you."

Eddie scrunched up his mouth in reply. "I have to sit here and listen to horrible Edgar Allen Poe-try and I'm not allowed to drink?"

"And what's more the poem tonight is dedicated to you, big brother," Tad said, drinking from his beer.

"Oh, God," Eddie murmured to himself. "How did I know it would be? There's an experiment in terror."

"Speaking of experiments, Eddie, I asked Dad about what we were discussing. Having him be the focus object?" Andrew shrugged. "He seemed reluctant."

"I can't say I blame him," Eddie said. "It was a thought."

"What do you mean he's reluctant?" Tad asked sharply. "That's ridiculous. There's no way in hell it's going to work. What's at risk? So he puts on a baseball cap and Eddie imagines a bunch of rubbish. So what?"

"Thank you for your rousing support of our endeavor," Andrew replied. "Why don't you go ask Dad?"

"I will, believe me."

"Please, don't," Eddie said. "It's an encroachment on his privacy. He has the right to restrict access to his own thoughts and feelings. He doesn't have to share that with me."

"Like hell he doesn't," Tad said. "With all his talk about family duty? Where is his? Speaking of family duty, where are Wilse and James?"

Edward munched at beer nuts. "James said they'd be here later. James is having a root canal done. Wilse is keeping him company."

"Lucky nutters," Andrew muttered, shaking his head.

"You're telling me."

"They're going to miss my poem," Tad said, sniffing.

"I'm sure they'll suffer the loss somehow," Andrew replied.

With that, Tad took a step away from their table and loudly cleared his throat – all the pub attendees, both at the bar and sitting at tables, turned toward him. If Edward could have chosen a super power just then, he would have found dematerialization very handy.

"My dear friends," Tad said, as if he was about to launch forth on a long verbal journey. "I know you who know me believe me to be the oldest Croftdon son, but that is not true. As the local gossip grapevine has long supposed, there is an older brother. This man there, trying to hide behind his soft drink, is my older brother, Edward. He is the oldest older brother in the family, and so I would like to dedicate this entry in the Poe-try contest to him. It is an homage to the Raven, by Edward Allen Poe. I have entitled it, the Septic."

"How did I know?" Edward asked, looking toward Andrew for some hope of rescue. "Why couldn't I have needed a root canal?"

Andrew smiled contritely and raised the draft lager in his direction. "It'll be over soon," he said. "I think."

Tad once again cleared his voice –

"It was many and many a year ago,

A band of roving septics,

Stole the tiny infant Edward from the Croftdon family..."

And so it droned on, filled with snipes at Eddie's pompous Boston accent, various septic insults, amid a highly stylized version of their family history, with numerous liberties taken.

When it ended, some relief the recitation was over no doubt empowered the audience's brisk applause. Tad seemed contented by it as he bowed with a flourish and then sank into his table seat across from Edward.

"You know, Edgar Allen Poe was from Boston," Edward said.

Tad guzzled back brew again. "Your point being?"

"You insulted me with the pompous Boston voice line," Eddie said. "And this is a pub dedicated to a septic."

"They weren't insulting unless you choose to interpret them that way," Tad replied. "And while you've been bitching, this entirely fetching little number over there has been eyeing you since I introduced you. Why don't you do something life-affirming like go get her phone number?"

"She's not eyeing me," Eddie said. "She was probably looking at me with pity, given the situation. Besides, I just got out of rehab. I need to focus on recovery. Speaking of recovery, how much alcohol have you had?"

"I'm your guardian, remember? Not the other way around," Tad said, looking at Andrew's glass. "Andrew, you up for another?"

"No, I barely have this one half done," Andrew said, shaking his head firmly. "Besides, Eddie's right, you started early and you're showing no signs of stopping."

Stewart stole up quietly beside his dad. He stared down at the empty glass. "Should you be drinking so much, Dad?"

Tad looked around at his son, and then down at the empty glass to tap his fingers against it. He considered Stewart for a long moment. "Probably not. Tell you what, why don't you go get yourself a soft drink of some variety?" Tad pulled a £20 note from his pocket and handed to the boy. "You can play that absurd arcade beatbox thing you like, too, with the change."

"Thanks, Dad!" Stewart piped up, once again sailing away toward the other room.

"Good for you –" Edward said, about to compliment Tad on his fatherly behavior when he noticed the flask Tad pulled from his jacket pocket.

Tad took a swig. "Yes, yes, it's nesh, I know. I flushed him out the room so I can drink. I'm contemptible."

"It's worse than contemptible – it's wretched," Andrew said. "You're afraid of your own kid, Tad. You have to get drunk just to spend some time with him."

"Says the bloke whose girlfriend lives in India," Tad said, taking a drink from his flask again.

"She works there," Andrew replied.

"And you, sitting over there," Tad said to Edward, "munching on nuts, without the guts to get the number off the bumper of that girl who is visually hitting on you."

Edward, alert now, looked around. "One, she isn't, secondly, I'm not even interested in a relationship right now, and three, why are you yelling at me?"

"I'm yelling at you so you'll show some goddamned spark in your life, for fuck's sake." Tad said. "To hell with a relationship, what about a one-night shag or something?"

"What I do with my personal life is my personal business," Edward said.

"Oh, forgive me, would that have been an imposition? How dare I tell my own brother my opinion?" Tad said. "The real question is why you don't tell Andrew to call his girl. Why you didn't tell me to stop drinking."

"Hey, it's none of my business –" Edward started.

"Of course it's your business!" Tad yelled back, swigging from the flask again. "You're our goddamned big brother. You should be up in our business all the time."

"Up in your business?" Edward said. "You're speaking pidgin septic, Toad."

"Fine, then I'm speaking your language. Maybe then you'll listen. I'm brassed off at both you tosspots," Tad said. "And I'm finally drunk enough to point it out."

"You're brassed off at the world when you're like this," Andrew shot back sharply. "Get stuffed. And stop picking on Eddie. He didn't challenge you, I did."

"He should have, and that's my whole point. He lets Dad get away with a total dodge. Eddie should demand his right, his place, his share. Instead he wimps out on every level. Mr. Infinitely Just. He doesn't even have the guts to take his real name back."

Edward covered his face with both hands. He stole a quiet moment alone before answering, "Look, I barely know how to deal with my own issues. Andrew's old enough to handle his romantic entanglements. Dad, I won't even go into. I don't like –"

"You don't like honesty," Tad shot back, taking a hit off his flask again, "like most septics – except my son. He makes his disdain for me all too clear."

"Stewart loves you!" Andrew snapped.

"You can love people and disdain them, too. Look at my relationship with my brothers," Tad said. "Well, my big brother anyway. Edward."

"What the hell did I do to bring this on?" Eddie asked.

"Nothing. That's just it. Look at you, just sitting there. I'm being obnoxious and you're not saying a word."

"I've had enough conflict in my life, thank you," Edward said. "Wendell picked on me daily for as long as I can remember. For myself, I prefer to keep things pleasant."

"No, you just don't give a shit, Mr. Bakunin," Tad said.

Edward rose up from the bench and flung a handful of pound coins across the table. "Here, that'll cover it. I'll find a way back to the house," he said, walking away from the table and toward the door.

"Eddie," Andrew said, standing up to go after him.

"Naw, stay put, I have it," Tad said, pushing him down, "I started it. Keep an eye on my chip off the old while he spends all my money."

Edward stepped out onto the small outside area marked PATIO, with its accumulation of tables and chairs and benches. They had tried to make the atmosphere gothic, although the effect had been more Snow White Haunted Forest than Edward Gorey. Only one person leaned on a railing nearby. He didn't look particularly conscious. Edward looked up and down, hoping to find a taxi.

Instead he found Tad walking up by his side. "All right, I'm sorry, I'm a nasty drunk. And I'm ridiculously drunk, so I'm ridiculously nasty –"

"I don't know what you want from me!" Edward snapped back at him sharply.

"I want a fucking big brother, that's what!" Tad roared back at him, plunking backward to a bench and towing Edward down with him. He drank from his flask again. "You're supposed to slap me upside the head and say you've had too many. You're supposed to tell me it's pathetic that I'm bloody terrified of my own damned son. But you're so thin-skinned –"

"Can we please not do this?" Eddie asked.

"I'm terribly sorry, was I being too presumptuous?" Tad asked. "Forgive my manners. Did I intrude upon your unalienable right to be an independent jackass?"

"All right, that's it!" Eddie yelled back, yanking the flask from Tad's hand. He hurled it into the street. "I grew up with a paranoid madman, Thaddeus. Every day was a constant battle to win a place on his island. I don't do that anymore. I don't like confrontations. I avoid arguments."

"You think I had it so great?" Tad asked. "When Mum died, it sucked rocks. Afterward, Dad wasn't just drinking – he was crapulence personified, and it really sucked rocks. I'd think my older brother Edward would help me with this, if he was here. I imagined you a superhero or something. When the drugs issue came up, I thought, okay, Superman got hold of some Kryptonite. It happens. But here you are, all human and fragile and mortal just like me. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"I'm sorry, I can't help who you thought I was. I can only be myself."

"You could at least act like you gave a shit," Tad said. "You could fight for your right."

"Would I be standing here, taking this abuse if I didn't give a shit?"

Stewart walked out onto the patio. His eyes darkened to highlight the scowl that overtook him as he stared at his father. "Dad, are you drunk?"

"Yes, I'm fucking drunk!" Tad yelled back, standing up straight. "I'm blotto, okay? Because I'm frightened of you while you're scared of me. And I'm sick of your talking to me like I'm some scary animal in a cage! I want you to love me like I love my father, which is unreservedly and sans arrière pensée, despite the fact he's a pedagogical prig."

"What's that mean?" Stewart asked sharply, his eyes dimming with fear.

"Stewart, go back in with your Uncle Andrew," Edward said, answering the reluctance in his eyes with, "go ahead, I'll take care of things here."

"Yes, sir," Stewart said, backing away slowly before darting toward the other room.

"And you," Edward said, pointing at Tad. "Now you've done it. You've pissed me off. You want a big brother to read you the riot act? Fine, here it comes. Yankee Forthrightness. Your son loves you. Love looks different in West LA. To survive, it has to be masked. He may not act deferential, he may be overly direct, he may not behave the way you want him to, but that's not the way it's played where he grew up. You may not recognize it, it may be disguised, but it exists."

"I realize that –"

"No, you don't. You act the way you want him to where he's from and you don't survive for long. Say something like sans arrière pensée in his old neighborhood and see how fast you get a punch to the gut. It's as simple as that. You haven't seen half of what he's seen in his young life."

"I've seen my share –" Tad said, rising to his feet.

"Shut up, you can talk when I'm done. Trust me, if I didn't love you, I wouldn't be standing here right now. I am deeply grateful to you for dragging me out of hell, for always being on my side, even when I wasn't on it myself. I've come to know you pretty well in the brief but intense hail storm of a relationship we've built up. You're a very good man, just like Dad is. But you didn't grow up where Stewart did. You don't understand him. I did and I do."

Tad sank back into the bench. His face turned a pallid shade of gray. His hand moved to his stomach. "I think I'm going to be ill."

"Wonderful." Edward pulled him up again. "Come with me."

He guided Tad into and through the room, past people drinking their troubles away, around obstacles made of pub grub platters. Eventually, he pushed their way into the men's room.

Eddie was grateful for small favors as he found the men's room empty except for them. He plowed backward through a stall door to convey Tad face forward to the toilet.

"Are you okay for a second?" Eddie asked. "I'll get a cold rag of some kind."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," Tad said.

"Not going to puke?"

"No, no, no," Tad said, right before he commenced projectile vomiting into the toilet.

Edward held onto his shoulders while he heard the men's room door behind him open and close. He hoped it was Andrew. He looked around to see Stewart, gawking in horror. "Is Dad so drunk he's throwing up? That's so disgusting!"

Edward turned around sharply. "Your dad is ill. Show some respect. Besides, I thought I told you to stay with your Uncle Andrew."

"Yeah, but I saw you come in here," Stewart said.

"That didn't mean you could ignore what I said," Eddie shot back. "Go stay with Andrew until we're finished. I told you I'd handle things here. Now go."

Edward wasn't sure, but he thought he saw something close to respect arise in the boy's eyes. "Yes, sir," he said, and left.

Tad had stopped hurling. He reached over to flush the toilet. Pulling himself away from the stall wall where he had slumped, he stood up fully, looking more white than gray before he found a relative balance on his feet. "I think the worst is over," he said, moving around Edward to go to the sink. He yanked on the faucet, filled his coupled hands and lowered his face into the water.

He yanked down a paper towel to mop his face. Then he muttered, "I'm sorry, Eddie."

"It's okay. As you keep reminding me, you're human."

"True," Tad said, yanking down several more sheets of paper to towel off his neck. "Let me tell you, when you decide to switch it up to Big Brother, you really deliver the goods. That was impressive."

"I'm sorry. I'm slow to climb up to angry, but when I'm there, I'm king of the mountain."

"I noticed," Tad said, throwing away the paper towels he had used. "Thank you. For all this – and all that. After I dropped a clanger out there in public, too. And hurt your feelings."

"Oh, God, you didn't hurt my feelings," Edward said, laughing. "You have a long way to breach the armor that Wendell Bakunin helped develop."

"That's what you say. Your eyes told a different story."

Eddie smiled. "They always do."

"Well," Tad said, straightening Edward's collar, "I have mortified my family, screamed at my brothers, embarrassed myself publicly, terrorized my son, scandalized the neighborhood and vomited profusely. Clearly, our work here is done."

"Good. Can we please go collect Andrew and Stewart and leave?" Edward asked plaintively. "I guess we should leave a message for James and Wilse."

"Oh, they texted me," Tad said, waving his phone in Eddie's direction. "You'll never take us alive, coppers, or words to that effect. They aren't coming."

"I kind of figured the story would be something like that. Which is fine, it means we can all go home now."

Tad seemed taken aback a moment. He smiled slowly. "You just called it home."

"Don't I usually?" Edward asked.

"No, you always say back to the house – off to Croftdon House – Dad's home – what-have-you, but never home. You said home. That's immense."

"Okay, then I'll say it again, let's get the hell out of here and go home. You sure you're okay to walk?"

"Walk, yes," Tad said, "but thank Christ Andrew is driving."

Eddie moved like a shadow within, as usual, noting that Andrew and Tad blazed the trail into the house and Stewart barely made his way over the threshold. James came up to take their coats as Tad turned in his direction, pointing an accusatory finger.

"Judas!" Tad said. "Betrayer of the Brothers Croftdon."

"Ah, the other apostles would've done the same damn thing given half the chance and you damn well know it, Saint Thaddeus!" James replied. "Anyway, I had to have the teeth cleaning, didn't I?"

"I thought you said it was a root canal," Andrew shot back.

"Like I said," James answered, "I had to have the root canal, didn't I?"

"And you dragged young Wilse into your perfidy with you, you rapscallion," Tad added.

James hiked his chin. "We regret nothing," he said, before carrying the coats away.

Eddie grinned at the ongoing banter before sliding into a chair in a far dark corner of the great room. He leaned fully into the chair before Tad took one side and Andrew the other and they slid the chair with Edward into the light.

"Gee, thanks," Eddie said in response.

"You're welcome," Tad said, grabbing up his mail from the hallway secretaire.

"How did we do with our paternal responsibilities?" Thomas asked, appearing to greet them.

Tad tossed him a droll stare as he dropped all his mail into the waste basket. "We did as can be expected. And while we're talking about not meeting our responsibilities, what is this about your not participating in Eddie and Andrew's ridiculous enterprise? The frodding thing won't work. Help Eddie out with his silliness."

"Oh, God," Eddie groaned, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter, Dad. It was just an idea."

Thomas looked contrite as he walked over to Edward's chair. "It's just there are things in my mind, son, I might not want others to access. It's a confidentiality issue."

Edward nodded again. "As I said, I can see that perspective. Your decision. We'll figure something else out."

"I feel I owe you an explanation."

"You owe me nothing, Dad. I'm just grateful you've opened your home to me. Anyway, I had serious reservations about the whole idea. You were right; it was a lot to ask."

"It's just that it's something of an invasion of privacy, isn't it?"

Eddie nodded. "Dad, I told you, it's okay. I understand."

Tad rolled his stare towards the distant ceiling. He groaned to the gods. "You are unbelievable, you two. It's like listening to graduates of the Chip and Dale Correspondence School of Diplomacy."

"It was my idea, Dad," Andrew added. "Eddie didn't even want to ask you. I can't believe you have reservations."

"I can," Tad said.

Edward's iPhone rang out from his pocket. He pulled out the phone to check the face. "Arvo Nurmi just texted me. What the hell could he want? I'd best go call him back. If you'll excuse me," he said, walking out the front door into the yard.

"You know the exchange I overheard between Edward and his therapist?" Tad asked.

Thomas glanced over at him. "I thought we agreed it wouldn't be discussed."

"You agreed. I didn't. Not to turn this into some insipid, maudlin exercise, but the therapist asked Edward, if he had to give a yes or no answer to the question does your father, meaning you, love you in which answer would he be most confident?" Tad lowered his voice. "Granted he was put to the wall for this, but would you like to make a guess which one he chose?"

Thomas lowered his head and looked away. "Dear God."

"Knowing Eddie, he thinks I had already told you of that discussion. You know what he's thinking you're thinking. What you don't want him to know. If you don't correct him, he'll keep believing that. That's Eddie's nature. That's what he's been taught to expect." Tad looked intently into Thomas eyes. "You have to tell him everything, Dad. Including what it is you don't want him to know."

Thomas shook his head. "I can't tell him everything now. I'll tell him in time. If he finds out we knew where he was, that I'd kept close tabs on him, how do I explain not rescuing him from that situation? It would make him more uncertain than ever."

"Not as uncertain as this does. The explanation, I'm afraid, is your problem to solve. But I shall tell you what I told Eddie about his habit. If you don't tell him, I will."

Knowing Nurmi, Eddie could almost visualize the man on the other end of the phone – sitting in some hotel room, his action center of laptop and likewise at hand. A half-finished sweaty glass of Scotch, rapidly diluted by the melting of ice, would be waiting at his elbow. The phone would be gripped in his hand.

He supposed he had heard Arvo Nurmi in darker spirits than these, but it had definitely been a while. Even then, he had never expected to hear from him again.

"What is it?" Eddie asked when the line picked up.

"Well, hello to you, too," Arvo replied. "I guess you're not that happy to hear from me."

"Not especially, no. What do you want?"

"I'm calling as a favor," Arvo said. "I always liked you, Eddie. I want you to know that. I did some shit to you I'm not proud of, I admit it. But it was never personal. It was strictly business."

"To quote Michael Corleone, everything is personal," Eddie replied.

"Just listen. Wendell Bakunin has gone nuts. As crazy as he's ever been, he's crazier than he's ever been," Arvo said, as if gasping each word through a tunnel in a maze. "He's doing things I have never seen him do. And that, kiddo, is sayin' somethin'."

Eddie studied him with suspicions. "Like have you call to frighten us with all this on Halloween?"

"Shit, I didn't even know it was Halloween. It's not even Halloween here anymore. It's three fuckin' AM. But I'm history at Bakunin. I quit. I don't want any part of what's going on down there now. Hell, he's already filed suit against me."

"Join the club," Edward replied. "Okay, let's say I believe you. Why tell me all this?"

Arvo coughed out a nervous laugh. "Because I'm on my way somewhere where no one will find me. I am dropping off the radar. He has gone psycho paranoid on everybody. I just wanted to warn you."

Edward nodded. "You're in no more danger than I am. All he's done so far is send one of his goons here."

Arvo's laugh sounded like a struggle with a demon inside him. "Like hell I'm not. Edward, you don't know half what I know. Not even a quarter. But I'm just a business person. It's a personal vendetta for him. The scariest part is the only person who can see the battlefield is him."

"Arvo," Eddie said quickly. "You say you know more than I know. Can you tell me any of it?"

"It's not safe for you to know what I know," Arvo said. "Let's just say I wouldn't put any limits on what he's capable of. Watch yourself. Watch everyone. I wouldn't put it past him to burn the whole house down, with all of you in it."

"I've heard similar things recently," Eddie said.

"Well, pay attention to them. I'm now going to vanish. It's been nice knowing you. Just be careful."

"You, too," Eddie replied. "And thank you."

Edward's mind created a kaleidoscope of terrible images out of what had just been said. He knew that Wendell could strike out in a cold and callous fashion, like a two-year-old child, if he was emotionally provoked. Edward had seen it himself, had been the target of it. But Arvo might also have been doing the dirty work for Wendell. Scaring him away, because that was exactly what Eddie was thinking of doing. Leaving.

"From your pallor, that doesn't seem to have been a happy conversation," Thomas said, from just outside the door.

Edward turned toward him. "Nurmi says Wendell is on the warpath. He says he's striking out at everything. That he's gone crazy. Crazier than usual. Arvo quit because of it."

"Well, we were prepared for this sort of thing," Thomas said.

Eddie stared down at the ground, at the leaves blowing across his shoes. "Dad, I should leave. It would be safest for all of you. It's the only way to protect you."

"Like hell it would. And like hell you will. Not for that reason."

"Believe me, I don't want to, but it's best in the long run."

"We'd be in his crosshairs regardless. If you want to stay, you will stay. Your leaving is what he wants."

"If I give him what he wants, it may keep him at bay."

"If you give him what he wants, he'll want more," Thomas said, "It will just embolden him. You know that. We don't even know if we're in his sights. If we are, it's safer if we stick together here. Besides, you said yourself you're the best one to fight him. Who better to head up our defense?"

"It's like Nurmi said," Eddie replied, "I can't see the battleground in his head. I don't know where he's coming from. I don't know how to fight him."

"He'll show himself regardless. If we wait. And watch."

Edward finally laughed to himself, grinning to complete his show of surrender. "God, I can't win with you. You know just what to say."

"That's because I've got the 1.0 model of your brain right here," Thomas said, tapping his head.

`
Chapter Six

"I can't believe he doesn't want to do it," Andrew said, shaking his head. "That doesn't even sound like Dad. I mean, he doesn't hug a lot and he's not a big crier, but he's always been very expressive and open and that sort of thing."

Edward shrugged a little, tapping his mouse to bring up the screen. November 1st dia de los muertos flashed across the monitor, along with a sugar skulls banner that displayed on the search engine page. "It's his choice. End of discussion."

"But why would he not want to participate?"

"Who could blame a 15 year old kid for relief at that huge a burden being lifted? It's understandable. He may be concerned I won't comprehend that."

"But you would. You just did, in fact."

Eddie shook his head. "Objectively, of course. But what kind of subjective damage might that do to our relationship that's only now beginning to form? It might not be worth the risk."

"I'm afraid there is an even more pressing family dilemma at hand," Tad said, from the door to the library. "I think old Granddad is on the way out. As in permanently out. His vitals appear on the downgrade."

"You're certain?" Andrew asked.

"As certain as I can be," Tad said. "He had another minor heart attack last night. And he's not been out of his bed unaided since day before yesterday."

"How long does he have?"

"Maybe days. A week. Not sure," Tad said, rubbing at his forehead.

"And there's nothing to be done?" Eddie asked.

"Nothing but heroic measures he has expressly forbidden," Tad said. "All we can do is wait. He's not ready to go over the side yet, but he's not far away."

"I'm sorry," Eddie said, noticing Tad's motions of discomfort. "But what's wrong with you?"

"Me? Oh, nothing. I just have Bambi's fucking friend Thumper embedded in my skull."

"Translation?"

"I mean my fucking head hurts," Tad croaked back at Edward in a voice very much like a bullfrog. He abandoned all attempts at standing by stumbling toward another library chair that he filled like a badly collapsed tent. "I think it's a delayed Raven hangover. Maybe. Or maybe my brain is giving birth. And mentioning the Raven puts me in the utterly humiliating position of apologizing to you, Edward, out of my own compunction."

"Do tell," Eddie said, smiling a little.

"You won't get many of these from me, so enjoy it. Here it is – I apologize. I admit I'm a colossal jackass. I owe you an apology so vast I could never hope to deliver all of it."

"Is this the whole life review or just the Raven? Either way, forget it," Edward said, chuckling a little. "No big deal."

"Fuck off – it took me hours to muster the courage for this, so allow me to finish. I'm supposed to oversee your sobriety and I transformed into a big drunken sod. And a childish one on top of it. I have never been so emotionally needy in public. I swear it."

"Don't worry about it," Eddie said.

Tad grimaced hard. "Yes, well, I can only hope my patients don't get wind of my behavior."

"I guess we should sit on the mass mailers Edward and I drew up then," Andrew said.

Edward removed from his table space a bottle of Ibuprofen. He slid it across to Tad. "For your headache. It might help your attitude, too."

"Oh, what is this miracle?" Tad asked, plucking up the bottle. "Yes, being a doctor, I would never have thought of this remedy by myself. Thank you so –"

Eddie grinned at the continued sarcastic redress as he turned toward his laptop to see a mail icon flashing. He clicked on it, expecting something benign, but what he saw fairly leapt off the screen at him.

It read: You will have only yourself to blame for what has happened.

"What the hell does that mean?" Eddie asked himself.

"What does what mean?" Tad asked, seeming to sense something different in Edward.

As if in reply, Thomas quickly filled the library door with a concerned expression that caused all three of them to look toward him at once.

"Croftdon Industries owns a small computer conversion company Dad purchased a decade ago," Thomas said. "It's in Delft near the Zuid. I've only been there once or twice on my way to Rotterdam when we work with Dutch companies. This morning, it burned to the ground. It's a massive place, too. Most of it sublet." Thomas looked toward Edward. "They believe it was arson."

"So, that's what that meant," Eddie said, turning his laptop toward Thomas for him to read. "Of course, it's from Wendell."

"We should send that message to the police," Tad said.

"There's no point," Andrew replied. "It probably came from a fake forwarder."

"The authorities will finish their investigation and get back to us," Thomas said. "Happily, no one was hurt and it was insured, but it will mean downtime for the workers there."

Edward sat back in his chair again, staring with focus at the laptop screen. "We need to retaliate."

"That may only make things worse," Tad said.

"I don't think so," Edward said, shaking his head. "Wendell is a bully. He only understands threats. Everything else he takes as weakness. We have to do something that won't transform us into bullies in turn, but that will shove him back to where he should be."

"What are you thinking of?" Thomas asked.

Edward looked over at Andrew. "I'm thinking the riptide program."

"To bring it down?" Andrew asked.

"Yes," Eddie said.

"Anyone care to translate for an old man?" Thomas asked.

"Riptide is something I embedded in the cloud hosting I built for Bakunin," Eddie replied. "It was a script I wrote when I was a kid. An act of rebellion as a cool concept. What it does is pull down the whole cloud host – whether for a minute or forever."

"I thought all the Bakunin files were destroyed," Thomas said.

"Just the SAGE scripting and any of my related files were destroyed. The rest of his business interests and his own files are archived in the cloud server. This is mine, too, but it underlies the entire archive, which is a repository for his whole business."

"Don't they have backups?" Tad asked.

Eddie grinned with a bit of guilty pride. "Yes, but I built the system. It occurred to me, when we put up his cloud servers, where all the corporate data is kept, I needed to protect myself. That's the one I can target, since it's significantly at risk. That's what I meant about the spidering. It was all my work, so I saw it as an act of rebellion, to give myself a vehicle of revenge in case Wendell, well, kicked me out."

Andrew shook his head at the thought. "You were afraid of that?"

"Are you joking? Always. Ever since Jennifer died."

Andrew nodded. "Wouldn't he retaliate?"

"Probably," Edward said. "But if we don't do something, we look like we're backing down."

"Something," Thomas said, breaking his long silence, "but only just. Yank it down but only for a short while. It'll be a show of strength."

"That's what I was thinking," Eddie said.

Thomas nodded as if decisively. "How long would it take to setup this riptide thing?"

Eddie reached across to his mouse and moved the cursor to an icon. He clicked on it. "There. It's done. In about an hour, Wendell will not be happy. The next move he'll make is what concerns me."

"Says the man who is too cowardly to sit down at the board with me," Tad replied.

"Tad, Dad," James said, now standing, breathing hard, in the library door, "the sound you guys wanted me to listen for just went off."

"We'll be back in a moment," Tad said quickly before shooting out the door and into the hall, followed closely by Thomas.

"You know," Andrew said, as they were alone in the room, "you should just play him and be done with it."

Eddie shook his head. "But it would never be done. If he won, he'd keep gloating about it and never give me a rematch. If I won, he would harass me incessantly until I gave him a rematch. However, if I hold off playing him because he won't let me lose to him –"

"Then you win without winning. Jesus, that's diabolically clever. My God, you are the Toad's Toad!" Andrew said, laughing.

Eddie nodded. "I thought we had established that already."

"I know, but it's a revelation worth celebrating all over again," Andrew replied.

"Eddie," James said, suddenly at the doorway. The mood in the room markedly shifted toward the dark with the sound of his voice. "Dad and Granddad say they need to speak with you immediately."

Edward entered the room slowly. It felt like a thousand presences stared back at him from the dark, as his father turned toward him to beckon him inside. A light burned from the bedside table. It reflected in the glass of every large picture in the room, giving the illusion of numerous points of light on a black backdrop. Thomas sat to one side of the old man in bed – an empty chair lay on the other. In the corner, Tad watched steadily from an armchair.

The old man's pale skin seemed shiny under the light, as if aging flesh had finally worn down to opacity. His eyelids had slipped closed, forced open as Edward sat down at his bedside.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Eddie asked.

The old man coughed out a laugh. "Yes, Edward. It seems I'm dying on the day of the dead – how pedestrian."

"I'm sorry," Eddie said.

"Don't be," he said with great effort. "I've served my time in this debtors' prison called life. I am glad we got to know each other though. Please, come, sit."

Eddie nodded with a lack of certainty. He suddenly flinched a little as the old man grasped hold of his hand. John wheezed out with careful breaths, "I told you my clearest memory of Addie was her death. I fear your last memory of me will be this."

Edward stared down at the cold touch of John Croftdon's hand. "What do you mean?"

"There are two things, Edward, one to do directly with your childhood. Another with Jennifer Bakunin, which Dad will address first," Thomas said softly. "We couldn't tell you before now for various reasons, but Dad wishes to tell you himself so it has to be now."

"What is it?" Edward asked again, looking from Thomas back to John.

The old man drew a deep, sustaining breath with great effort. He slowly asked, "What do you know of your adopted mother's death?"

Edward shrugged a little. "She died from breast cancer."

"She had breast cancer," John said. "But there was no autopsy. She was under doctor's care. Was cremated immediately. No one questioned it. Wendell's father always suspected something far worse had occurred."

"What do you mean?" Eddie asked again, his question now more purposive than ever.

Thomas looked at Eddie directly. He said clearly and calmly, "Eddie, Wendell's father suspected that Wendell murdered your adopted mother. I'm sorry, son."

Edward felt his legs go cold all the way to the ground. The chill snaked its way up his spine until he had to tilt backward in the chair just to steady himself. He recalled the words he had just heard, trying to imagine how he might have misunderstood them.

Eddie gathered his thoughts for a moment. His next words came out as little more than a whisper. "I don't doubt he's capable of it. But why is it you think that?"

"In the year before her death," John said, with greater effort, "Jennifer grew more suspicious of Wendell. She investigated. She was primarily concerned with his focus on you. Of his insistence on molding you into an agent for his revenge. She told Thomas of her concerns. Do you remember when Thomas came to see you?"

"Yes," Eddie said, "clearly."

"That was why. I'm sad to say Wendell's father helped hide you in Texas. That was the beginning of the end of my friendship with him. As soon as we knew you were in Texas, I began to sever ties."

Edward's hand slipped around his wrist, feeling for the ghost of a long-ago piece of twine, attached to a phantom balloon. "You're saying my adopted mother died to protect me?"

"Yes, Eddie," the old man said, looking at him steadily, "I'm afraid I am."

Edward took in the words slowly. Then he looked over at Thomas, sitting across the old man's bed from him. "And you knew I was in Texas?"

Thomas, visibly self-chastened, nodded. He inhaled deeply before speaking. "That is how the Status Associates man knew me. That's what I feared you would learn with your experiment. I have never told you this, for fear it would hurt you. But we have always known where and how you were. He followed you for us from a young age."

"You knew what was going on, but you didn't pull me out of there?" Edward asked softly.

Thomas quieted his voice further. "I'm afraid so. Forgive me, son, but I feared what he would do to the rest of our family."

After a moment, Eddie nodded. The flicker of memory passed through his mind. He remembered pain and fear and loneliness. But he measured it against the risk. Finally, he said, "That was wise. You had to think of the family you knew first."

A dry laugh struggled out of the old man on his deathbed. It filtered through his lips with a painful, struggling breath. "Your father was so afraid you would hate him if you knew that. I knew you're too much like him. For what it is worth, I told him you would say his decision was the right one."

"It was."

Thomas exhaled in audible relief, settling backward into his chair. "Thank you, Eddie. That is a burden I am very happy to be relieved of."

"As my oldest grandson, to assist your father, I will tell you I want no final services. I have written down my wishes, but I want no feigned laments or polite words for the dead," John Croftdon went on. "I will speak with each of the boys, but I want no death bed vigil. This will be the last time I will speak with the two of you. My place in your lives is soon to be in the past."

"But, Dad, there is much to discuss," Thomas said.

"There always is," John said, his voice raspy to raise above a whisper. "I've been a wretched parent to you, Thomas. I'll not have you pretend otherwise. I don't merit your grief. You are a much better father than I ever was. Show that by setting the example and leaving me to the ages. Edward, please assist your father."

Eddie stood to walk back around the bed and place an encouraging hand on Thomas's shoulder. Thomas clearly had to force himself out of his own chair, while Edward reached around him to open the door. He pushed at his shoulder gently to urge Thomas to walk through it. Edward positioned himself to block his father's view, so he couldn't rethink the choice.

Eddie turned back once toward the old man. "Can I get you anything?"

"Just my sacred solitude, my boy," the old man whispered, "But before that, please send in Andrew."

"Okay," Eddie said, pausing to ponder if he should, if he would, say the words rolling around his tongue in strong deliberation. Such a simple thing to say. Could he say it genuinely? Not really. But did it really matter? It would be selfish to refrain from saying it, if it might give an old man comfort. And John Croftdon had already told him so many things he needed to know. So finally he just said, "Goodnight, Granddad."

The old man's face lit up for a moment, a smile flickering across his lips and melting away just as Eddie shut the door.

Thomas stood there in the middle of the hall, as if caught between disbelief and a stunned confusion. He touched the wall nearest him, like he was seeking the solace of solidness. "I can't believe this is happening."

"I'm sorry," Eddie said. "Is there anything I can do to help you? Phone calls to make?"

"No, I have to make those phone calls," Thomas said. "It's best I make them from my office."

"Go on and do what you have to do, Dad," Eddie said. "I'll hold down the fort here."

Thomas smiled over at him. "I know you will. I promise I won't be long."

There wasn't a lot for Edward to do but watch the grim procession of Croftdons into the room. One by one, they had been called to the presence. Andrew went first, followed by James and Wilse, all walking in somber and walking away morose. Tad, as physician, maintained his death room vigil.

Eddie moved his laptop to the end of the library table by the door, keeping an ear toward the hallway. He worked on silently, watching for activity in the hall, listening for the telephone, and trying to keep his mind relatively on his work. He troubled at a sequence of code for SAGE2 when another email icon flashed up on screen. He clicked it.

It read: Is that really the best you can do?

Edward typed in reply: You'll know when that happens.

Then Eddie added: They tell me you murdered Mom.

The reply appeared quickly: You believe my worst enemies?

Eddie answered: You have created your worst enemy. Me.

With that, Eddie exited his email.

The door to John Croftdon's room opened slowly. Tad walked out, looking as weary as Edward had ever seen him. He shut the door behind him and walked down the hall for an interlude of minutes.

After awhile, Tad drifted into the library and sank into the library chair nearest Edward.

"He's gone?" Edward asked, without needing to.

Tad nodded. "Right on schedule, too. As orderly and chillingly pro forma as his entire frodding life, the old bastard."

Eddie shrugged a little. "Maybe he had reasons for being like he was."

"Please!" Tad said, shaking his head.

"Well, he did a lot to mend fences," Eddie replied.

"Oh, he'd grown gentler in his golden years," Tad said. "I'll give you that. But he'd grown weaker and less capable of battle. Civility was his sole defense. Don't get me started on what he did to you. He deprived me of the simple joy of harassing you for decades. And you never witnessed how he treated our grandmother. Do you know how many times I saw him bash Dad across the face for absolutely nothing? Can you imagine what that did to Dad's dignity?"

"I don't have to imagine," Eddie said, smiling sadly. "That was one of Wendell's preferred methods of retaliation."

"He might have taken the higher road in recent years, but they were a nasty piece of work, both of them." Tad rubbed at his neck with a weary precision. "Anyway, I made his passing relatively painless. I gave a bell to the meat lorry. They'll call for him. He'll be cremated. Everything nice and neat and expedient, as he preferred."

"Whose life is a bubble, and in length a span," Eddie murmured quietly, massaging a hand across his forehead.

"Sir Thomas Browne? You surprise me, Edward!" Tad said, leaning over a little to reconsider his brother. "I hear the old man parked a load on top of you before he shuffled off. Handling it or must I seek some form of ataraxic? Nothing pharmaceutical due to your recovery, but I could always bash you on the head and knock you out. As a physician, I would be duty bound to not enjoy it."

"I'll handle it without assist, thanks," Eddie laughed wryly, shaking his head. "I don't know what I feel about it yet."

"Well, why not shock hell out of your stomach and actually eat something? That's my prescription as your attending physician. It might make you somewhat less cadaverous, too."

"Look how your prescriptions worked out for your last patient," Edward said.

"Utterly unfair – and perfectly on-point. How dare you be as witty as me?"

"As witty as I?"

"Bite me, Septic."

"Shut up, Toad."

Andrew's shadow entered the doorway and then slipped inside the room, coming to stand between the other men in their chairs. "I can't believe the old tosspot is really gone. He's loomed over my life for so long, it's hard to imagine it without him."

"Oh, bosh, it is not," Tad said, grimacing in reply.

"Don't tell me how I feel. To me, it is!" Andrew said.

"Well, it isn't for me. In fact, I only feel badly that I don't feel badly at all. You two may be prepping to rend fake garments and gnash faux teeth, but I'd be happily dossing on the rose divan if I didn't have to officiate over his death so they may drag away his rotting carcass. You don't see Dad mewling about and wringing his hands, do you?"

Andrew nodded toward the hall. "As soon as you told him about Granddad, he went to call his solicitor. The old man wanted his will read the morning following his death."

"The old bastard must have wanted to get some nyah nyahs in before they put the burners to him," Tad said.

"I think I'll miss him," Andrew said.

Thaddeus shook his head. "I think you're daft."

"I think you're rude and wretched," Andrew replied, sticking out his tongue.

"I think I'm going to ground you both if you don't stop it," Eddie said, as the doorbell sounded throughout the house.

Tad winced in the doorbell's direction as he dragged himself out of his chair. "The old sod must have goosed them from perdition," he said, as he led the three of them out of the library and into the great room.

Edward and Andrew watched as Tad welcomed the men into the house. While Tad signed something on a clipboard, three mortuary men moved the mortal remains of John Croftdon out of his room and across the hall toward the front door. They all drifted after the gurney as if compelled by some unseen force, to see this journey through as far as they could.

Edward had become moored to the Croftdon shore, but every once in a while the tide would rise and he would drift away. The distance would increase the wide-angled turbulence of the rope, further complicating his perspective.

Watching the body of John Croftdon slipped quietly into a mortuary van gave Eddie one such moment – made him feel yet again like an outsider pressed against the glass. He had barely known the man. And yet he had influenced his life as much as any other.

As the lorry waited at the gate, Eddie wondered at the fact it only been months ago that he had stood there with Ken and Arvo, while he nearly shivered in terror at the prospect of walking inside to meet the Croftdons. So much had happened. So much had been said. So much had been discovered.

"I'm here," Thomas said, as he stepped out onto the porch to join the rest.

"Ready?" Tad asked.

"Ready," Thomas replied to Tad, adding, "thank you, son, for handling all that. Thank you, all of you, for helping."

"All part of our service package," Tad replied drily, signaling the lorry to back out of the drive into their private road. They all watched in silence as the vehicle drove away.

"Goodbye, Dad," Thomas said softly.

Feeling awkward, Edward stared up at the odd lens effect spanning trees, created by an early darkness cast against clouds. Rain had blackened the sky and weighted the air all around them. Edward backed up stealthily against the door, relieved to feel the door behind him open a little with the pressure, as it hadn't entirely closed.

Thomas, as if sensing Edward's escape, turned in his direction. "And thank you, Eddie."

Edward thought over the possible reasons for his father's comment. "You mean for calling him Granddad? That was nothing. If it gave him peace –"

"That, but not just that," Thomas said. "My solicitor tells me you returned the paperwork regarding your last name. He said I would have to ask you for your choice, but he felt certain I'd be happy with the decision."

Edward realized he was now being watched by everyone. "Well, I'd have told everyone before now, but with everything going on –"

"It made a resplendent day out of a fairly dark one," Thomas said, smiling up toward the rain that quickly misted his face. The smile faded quickly. "I'm sorry about – what Dad told you –"

Edward shook his head, refusing the thought. "Nothing surprises me where Wendell is concerned."

Thomas looked around toward the older house in the distance. "So, how does that SAGE2 contraption of yours work exactly?"

"Well, it's a very complex apparatus," Edward said, "based on a stem-cell like architecture that simulates –"

"Stop, please," Thomas said, "never mind any of that. I'll never understand it. How about a demonstration? We can do that experiment we were discussing."

Edward looked over at Andrew who mirrored his surprise. "Are you certain about that?"

"Why not?" Thomas asked.

"All right, but it would have to be a controlled study. We'd have to have multiple objects," Eddie said.

"Not just the bracelet, in other words?" Andrew asked.

"Not the bracelet at all, in fact, in the beginning," Eddie said. "Just random objects at first. I can't know what they are. But Dad can be the selector. We can gradually phase into more defined objects for narrow focus."

"Whatever you wish, I'm game," Thomas said. "Shall we say first thing in the morning?"

"Not to fast," Tad said. "We have Granddad's Last Will and Bobbins Toss to suffer through in the morning."

Thomas smiled at Edward. "Oddly enough, I forgot about that. Okay, second thing in the morning."

Chapter Seven

The SAGE2 experiment was not the second thing on the docket that morning, just as the reading of the Last Will and Testament of John Andrew Croftdon had not come first. Fate arrived like a wrecking ball, crashing into their more mundane plans, with the percussive power of things that felt meant to be.

Edward felt himself pulled up by the shoulder out of sleep, his father appearing like a shadow against the window's bright rush of morning. Eddie coughed sleep from his voice and blinked steadily through fleeing phosphenes and shadow lights and faded bits of dreams.

"What's happened?" Eddie asked, blinking steadily to clear his vision.

"A miniature armageddon, I'm afraid," Thomas said, with what might have been the understatement of his life. "We've had another fire at a minor European property. And Andrew said something about our having a computer attack."

In that instant, Edward's phone rang out. He grabbed at it, squinted at the screen and quickly realized the horses were off and the odds were growing.

The text read: Are we having fun, former adopted son?

"The son of a bitch," Edward muttered to himself, reaching for his robe to hurl himself into battle.

Andrew met him in the hallway as they both walked toward the library. He handed off a cup of coffee to Edward. "Looks like he's saturating us with external communications requests," Andrew said. "Forged sender, empty packets."

"You're joking. A denial of service attack?" Eddie said, squinting in disbelief.

Andrew nodded. "How Y2K, eh?"

Eddie shook his head. "He must really be hurting for talent if he's resorting to this shit. I should have overprovisioned us by now. It's not going to help us at this point, but it would have given us some wiggle room early on."

"I started adding filters to drop packets and timeout connections –"

"This is too ballsy an attack for that," Eddie said, dropping down at his laptop and setting aside his coffee. His hands communicated easily with the keys. "I'm pointing us over at Olympus Mons scrubbing center. It'll filter the malicious packets. That will get us back online. We can address the weaknesses that left us vulnerable at a later time."

Tad overshadowed them from the library door. "But war is a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at," he said.

"Wendell is the one at war," Andrew said.

"If he's at war, then so are we," Thomas replied. "He's burned two buildings now and attacked the foundation of our enterprise. But thank God we have Eddie."

"I'm afraid I've only triggered all this by being here," Eddie said, shaking his head. "Leaving isn't going to secure your safety though. He knows I'm on your side."

Thomas smiled brightly. "Just so that you know you're on our side?"

"Of course I know it," Eddie said, his brow furrowing with concern. "Didn't you?"

"Yes, I did, and I do, son," Thomas said softly. "I just wanted to hear it from you."

"It's that communications thingy we were discussing, Edward," Tad said, rising to stand between the two men. "Where you speak words and we interpret them."

"Well, since you've forced your way into the communications matter, my lad," Thomas told Thaddeus, "you can further it by going to the great room and summoning our solicitor to the library."

"Why?" Tad asked.

"Because this all brings up an important matter we have to address about the corporate chain of authority now that Dad is dead." Thomas nodded toward the hall. "While you're at it, ask James to join us."

Malcolm Powder looked like a basic lawyer, Eddie supposed – the same kind of focused distraction, a constant juggler with props made of air. As he rushed into the room, Powder hugged to his chest a hurried document accumulation compressed into a folder. He unsealed the legal document in his hands and quickly dealt out the articles inside it across the library table like a bad hand of cards.

"This is my eldest son, Edward," Thomas said to Powder. "I believe you two have communicated."

"Yes, hello, glad to finally meet you," Powder said, acknowledging Eddie with a nod toward him. "I wish I came better prepared for this. This is very sudden."

"Because of some ongoing events, it would be best to do the full Will reading informally at a later time," Thomas said. "The actual chain of authority within Croftdon must be established rather hastily. If that is allowable."

The solicitor shrugged. "Your father is passed, Thomas. You are the sole executor. We will go by your wishes in this. I will later, of course, give all the heirs copies of the civil document. The corporate codicil applies only to you, Thomas, and to your oldest. Thomas, you inherit your father's role as head of the board of directors. Edward, as oldest, you are appointed CEO, in your father's footsteps."

"Wait," Edward said, "there is some misunderstanding. I'm biologically the oldest, but I wasn't raised here. It really should be Tad who inherits that post."

"I am a doctor!" Tad sniped from nearby. "Don't you dare aim that scepter at me. Can you see me in a suit at board meetings? It would be cudgels at thirty paces."

"Then Andrew should be next," Edward said.

"I'm tech head," Andrew replied with a smile. "But we both know you're better. And we have always needed a better tech head in the CEO's place. Dad is brilliant with business, but he relied too much on my input for the technical end of things. You're older, wiser. It's only right that it's you."

"I was hyped on drugs – that's how I was better," Eddie said.

"But you've said yourself than you and I working together are as good," Andrew said, smiling. "You're the older brother, you take the higher berth."

"Then what about James –" Edward said.

"Dad only let me have a car last year, Eddie!" James said, laughing. "Me as CEO is not gonna wash."

"Definitely not," Thomas said.

"The Will is very clear," Powder said, preparing to read the words as if they unwound from a tightly wrapped hank of yarn around a narrow ring. "And for the business, the iteration of that instruction is simplest of all. Everything in the business is to be run jointly by John's surviving son, Thomas, and his oldest child, Edward. Thomas as head of the board and Edward as CEO."

"And what you don't know yet, Edward," Thomas added, "is that is always how Dad's Will has read. It was not changed recently. If you had any doubts about my father's trust in you, I can certainly understand them. But they should be erased with this."

"Oh, please," Tad hissed in reply, "he was covering his wrinkled old fundament and you know it. Eddie could have sued him to Brittany and back."

"Always around to elucidate a touching moment, Tad," Thomas said, grinning at his second born. He finally turned back toward Powder. "Thank you, Malcolm. You may go on with your day now."

Powder nodded curtly toward all of them in the room. "Again, I'm sorry for your loss," he said, slipping away from the room as quickly and artlessly as he'd entered.

Eddie slowly shook his head. "I'm genuinely stunned."

"Why? It's only how it should be, son," Thomas said. "Family is family. There are no conditions to be met."

Edward laughed to himself. "That's not my experience. Wendell Bakunin has never done anything unconditional. Everything came with a kickback."

"I'm not Wendell," Thomas said. "I'm your father. And I want to act like one."

Eddie smiled. "I appreciate that."

Andrew came around the far table, toting SAGE2 with him. "How long you reckon before we're back up?"

"As long as it takes to propagate. An hour maybe," Edward said.

"Then we have some time before anything can be done. We're not busy. Why don't we drag Dad along and test the new theory?" Andrew asked.

"Dad's probably tired," Eddie said.

Thomas shook his head. "No, I'm not. I'm game."

Andrew grinned in challenge. "Unless Eddie is scared?"

"Damn it," Edward shot back, "I have to do it now."

Andrew nodded. "Yes, I know."

Don't ask a question unless you want to hear the answer, or so the old saying went.

Don't ask a question if you don't already know the answer, Wendell had rephrased it to him too many times in the past.

"In other words, mold your knowledge around your ignorance?" he had inquired once – only once – and had never, ever asked again.

It had always resonated with a strange foreboding at the heart of him, as if the answer might not be what he wanted to hear. But wasn't that the essence of all quests? If you could entirely predict the answer, why bother asking the question? Did we want an answer to all such questions?

Surely trying to predict the answer would doom the results.

From eaves to entablature, light never seemed to reach the fullness of the oldest house, with all its cavernous depths and challenging corners. There was always, to Edward, a heavy chill in the air. He couldn't imagine living in the narrow margins between a roaring hearth and a ferocious winter.

Yet Croftdons had lived that way for an unthinkable number of seasons. They had huddled in the dark like little more than ignorant ancients, bribing the immortals for a return of the sun. Warmth came only in full spring and summer, gilding the landscape like deliverance at dawn. Discovery of the world outside was guided and defined by this seemingly miraculous return of the light.

The modern era, this blip of time, now allowed them to stand on a higher place and look back across all the years they had climbed. The earth still warmed. The skies lit up. As it had on the day his 12th great grandfather had been born – as it had on the day of his own birth – and the day he left – and the day he had returned. But they could measure it all now. Did that make it more meaningful? Were they any less ignorant?

Could they understand it better given a second look? But did they want to look? And the answer to those questions defined the danger in this whole rose-colored glasses rule of discovery.

Edward watched as Andrew gently set down the SAGE2 tote on the cleaned-off paint tray table in the great hall that had evolved into a front parlor.

"As we've said, Dad, the idea is that everything has memory," Andrew explained. "If something exists, it has a rudimentary form of consciousness that is the actual structure of the object. Memory is structure, or structure is memory. Consciousness somehow imbues form. That's the theory."

"The very basic theory," Edward said, as Thomas came around his side. "With hardly any verifiable evidence. Which is why I have had zero confidence in the static item recon."

"Until recently," Andrew said, grinning. "Eddie culled some fascinating recon just yesterday, didn't you, Eddie?"

Edward flipped him a sardonic stare. "Very subjective data."

"Very subjective data that almost made him jump out of his skin," Andrew added.

Eddie added a smirk to his stare at Andrew. "But that's why we're changing the process, so we don't have the experimenter effect added in – to the same degree anyway."

"So, you're saying," Thomas said, "you're concerned about bias toward certain results."

"Yes," Edward said. "Coloring what we receive by subjective expectation. That's why we moved everything here to the old house, into less familiar circumstances. That's why we needed a change of model, as our earlier test indicated had just two experimenters. One of us can color the recon in evaluation, in choice of function, in many ways. The percipient and the apparatus operator will always know what the study object is."

"My brain has just hit capacity," Thomas said. "I glean that a third person helps."

"Exactly. In this instance, it also gives us a way to work up to our enviable goal," Andrew said. "That will be more persuasive to Eddie when he next jumps out of his skin."

"Are you channeling Tad today full stop?" Eddie asked, continuing to smirk.

Andrew grinned in reply. "The Toad would have been much ruder than that and you know it."

"True."

"Very well, boys," Thomas said, "consider me your third team member. What do I do?"

"Edward will be the percipient. I will run SAGE2," Andrew said, handing their father the focus cap. "Dad, you can place the focus cap on or near the object being perceived."

"And I'll blindfold myself so I can't pickup visual cues," Eddie said, sitting down in the chair he had drawn toward them. He pulled the mask over his eyes, adjusting it to shut out all visual information.

"See anything?" Andrew asked.

"The future looks black."

"Excellent. Dad, go ahead and choose a focus object for Eddie to target."

"This is fun," Thomas said. "Now, Eddie, no peeking."

Andrew stared drily over at Thomas. "That's kind of the idea, Dad."

After several moments of sitting there in relative darkness, Edward felt a shock of warmth around his face. He had a sense of gold-red reflected in his eyes. The color kaleidoscoped around his narrow field of vision. The warmth felt palpable, invoking a sense of pressure around his face.

"Are you near the tri-tiered stained glass window?" Edward asked.

"Yes, I am!" Thomas said. "Excellent. You got that one."

Eddie considered the circumstances against the data. "I may have just heard you move that way. Your footsteps make noise over the floor. The sense impressions could have been an easy inference from archived memory."

"Spoil sport, that's no fun," Thomas said.

Andrew shrugged. "That's part of the process, Dad. Tell you what, Edward, keep your mask on and put in your earplugs. I'll direct you with touch. Dad, go outside and select something, just as you and I discussed before. Remember? Then we can test."

Thomas laughed a little. "Just what I was about to suggest, actually. I have just the thing."

"Make sure it's an object I'm not expecting at all," Eddie added.

"Will do," Thomas said. "Give us a moment."

Eddie sat back in the comfortless chair and tried for a moment to relax. He slipped in the earplugs to provide an extra barrier to unintended stimulus. This reassured him he would not be able to track a target through secondary auditory input, even unconsciously.

After a good five minutes and change of sitting there in darkness and near-silence, Edward felt a hand on his arm, signaling to him that percipient impressions might be about to flow through.

The oddest impression he received was the most vivid – an overwhelming odor of sweetness. Baby powder sweetness. They had gleaned olfactory input before from subject to percipient, but never object to percipient. The sweetness blended into a musky lightness. A young man's aftershave, like Brise d'Océan or Arôme de Nuit. And then candles – a heady, circular aroma of hot melting candlewax.

"Olfactory input," Edward said. "Very strong."

Something tiny and cold grasped hold of his fingers, as he realized he cradled near him a whole being as if for warmth. He could feel in his arms the warmth and weight of an infant.

Someone before him, someone he somehow knew to be the vicar, anointed the baby's forehead. Words poured forth, shimmering through as from a tinny speaker at an old drive-in movie:

you may daily be renewed by his anointing Spirit,

and come to the inheritance of the saints in glory.

The blue satin christening gown-clad infant in his arms looked up – bright and shining blue eyes stared up at him. Tiny. It almost felt like the boy and the baby comprised a unity – a past and future bonded in the present. The warm weight against him, as if it trusted him. Nothing had ever completely trusted him before. Nothing had truly belonged to him as much before.

The eyes of the percipient whom Edward was receiving stung with tears – the world around him grew cloudy, all except for the tiny face on the child he held whose forehead now dribbled with its father's tears coalesced with sacramental oil from the hand of the priest.

"Dad, please," he begged to his father who stood beside him. "I've not asked for anything from you, ever before. Please. Just this once."

"We've spoken of it, it's decided," John Croftdon's voice snapped at him like a fall twig breaking deep beneath the brush. "Now be a man and keep quiet!"

"But just an hour or so, Dad."

"An hour will not make the parting easier to bear," John Croftdon said sharply.

"Don't take my son!"

But he felt the pull of hands, hands with absolute authority. There would be no second chance, no added hour, no time to forget for a few moments more.

The SAGE percipient Edward heard a baby cry – a sound like a thousand daggers tearing at his heart. And then a young girl's shrill scream – feeling her crumple beside him, clutching at his leg.

"Dad!" the person whose impressions Edward was receiving screamed out, other arms wrapping around him, forbidding his moving.

"Go now!" John Croftdon ordered someone else, and then hissed at the boy he held, "You are embarrassing us all!"

"God damn you!" he screamed back, pulling himself free to run, feeling a hopeless agony to catch up with a distant fleeing figure.

He could still smell the sweetness, still feel the cool sticky cling of tiny fingers. The warm weight of trust. Of something his own. His very own.

"Tommy, please," he heard his mother's tearful voice whisper beside him. "I know – I know –"

"You don't know!" he snarled back, pushing her away.

He heard the glass church door clatter shut and he could no longer hear the baby's cries. Through the glass wall he watched the woman carrying the infant away vanish behind a car. He couldn't see, he couldn't hear, he couldn't touch – only the scent and warmth remained.

Edward hurled the cap away, yanking the mask from his face, pulling the earplugs out. He kept to the chair for an instant or two more, fighting to compose himself, trying to calm himself. Struggling to not recall.

Climbing from the chair, he rushed into the small bathroom at the end of the house's main room. Edward cast himself across the sink. He bore up against a series of wicked dry retches that tunneled through him like a bomb blast after a pile-driver followed by a German blitzkrieg.

He didn't know how long it had lasted – how much time it took the pain to fade away. He clung to the short porcelain sink, some relic from the 30s. He ran enough water to wash his face clean.

Edward breathed in and it hurt to do so. He had experienced a very real physical reaction to the perceptions of the object – the object he now was certain he knew the identity of.

He pushed through the door to reenter the great room. Thomas, his father, smiled at him, then pulled off the cap from his head. He set it down on SAGE2.

Eddie felt utterly lost for words that could hope to mean enough convey what welled up inside him to say. He whispered, "I'm so sorry–"

"What the devil are you sorry for?" Thomas asked, his voice tightening around the words. "You were an even greater victim than your mother and I."

Eddie shook his head. "Sorry I ever doubted. I just -"

"You weren't in a position to know anything, son," Thomas said.

Edward stood there, awkward and uncertain of what to do or say. Grown men didn't grasp their fathers and weep copiously. Adult men didn't express themselves with the words he wanted to sob out to his father. Didn't cling to him with this depth of realization. And Thomas was not a man to share things openly.

Edward's phone rang out from his pocket. Those prior moments had been burned into his memory like atomic flash burns against a wall, never to disappear. But if Edward saw that day in terms of war, he would always consider the sound of the phone ringing the distinctive carillon of the start of Wendell's war.

He glared in its direction, then yanked it from his pocket. He squinted at its face. KEN.

"God, what the hell is this about?" he coughed out, at the very edge of tears. "I don't fucking need this now."

"I can take it for you, son," Thomas said.

But Eddie shook his head and swallowed hard, as if shoving down everything that had happened in the last few minutes. "I'd better answer it."

Eddie moved out into the great room again, reaching for the chair he had just surrendered. He sunk into it and hit answer on his phone.

Before Eddie could offer a greeting, the voice of his old assistant, Ken, leapt through the phone. "Are you okay?"

"Barely, why?"

"Arvo was run off the road. He's in a London hospital. Major head trauma. It doesn't look good."

It took Eddie a full moment to take it all in. "What the hell happened?"

"I think we all know," Ken replied.

Thomas stood beside Edward again. "What is it?"

Eddie glanced around, talking to Thomas. "Get hold of security. Bring in some people to guard the house. Someone just tried to kill Arvo Nurmi."

"I'll get on it at once," Thomas said, retrieving his own phone and walking away to make his call.

"I'm still piecing things together," Ken said through the phone. "I'll call you later when I know more. Watch yourself."

"You, too," Eddie said, ending the call.

He leaned against an edge of table. He vied with the twin storm fronts building in his head. He had just been possessed by a thousand demons of the past and now he had to do battle with his own full-fledged Prince of Darkness. In between all of that, he was trapped without any way out but war.

Andrew walked up. "Don't take this on now. You need to unwind from everything you went through."

"Wendell's not going to back down," Eddie replied. "I have to figure out a way to retaliate and fast."

"You don't know this is anything more than a terrible accident. Wendell's earlier attacks may settle down into a tempest in a teapot sort of thing."

"Tempest," Eddie said to himself.

"Excuse me?"

"What you said. It just gave me an idea."

"For what?"

Eddie looked up at him. "The riptide script I mentioned. We can deploy it completely. Destroy his whole damned system. Not just some program data like before, but everything. The three cloud servers – the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, and the solemn temples."

"Oh, Tempest, I get it now," Andrew said, his eyes growing wide and almost fearful. "But it sounds fairly extreme."

Eddie nodded, running his fingers back through his hair. "It is. And a massive undertaking. I'm going to have to get alone and focus. It has to be done stealthily and quickly."

"You can't do bloody anything without a long break to decompile, especially after that intense a session. You sobbed. Your pulse rate read full panic."

"I'm fine now," Eddie said.

Andrew grabbed his arm. "You're not fine."

"Just give me fifteen minutes to figure it all out. I will be fine," Edward said. "Meanwhile, do me a favor. Remember what I told you about the riptide script? Go sweep it – dropkick him. Go to the library and pull it down once, all the way, just like we did before. But keep it down for fifteen minutes."

"And then what?"

"And then wait for me to join you in the library."

Chapter Eight

The moment he entered his bedroom, that enveloping quiet his focus demanded encircled him completely. He'd felt the whole of his life condensed into a moment and pumped through his nerves like a shock of hot morphine. And now he was trying to pick bits of paranoia out of the information about Arvo.

He had only a few minutes alone with his thoughts before a text from Wendell came through: Do you know the dangerous game you are playing?

Eddie grabbed his phone again and popped the line open, from text to voice. "I know you murdered Mom," he yelled back through the line.

"Is that what you believe?" Wendell asked harshly, in a raspy tone that suggested he had not spoken aloud in some time. "Well, believe it if you like, but know that I've rebuilt my defenses. To protect them from you."

Edward laughed with an anger that forced itself up from a hidden core. "You rebuilt something? You haven't worked a day in your life, Wendell. You paid me peanuts –"

"I paid you a respectable wage –"

"You gave me nothing while you lived in paradise. You bullied and drugged me. And your sweatshop workers don't believe in the lies you made me believe were true. They don't love you like I used to."

"Nevertheless, they are fully capable of protecting my interests."

"And I'm more than capable of protecting ours. Plus I have a brother who is just as good as I am. All you have is your empire now, and you're about to watch it burn."

"My people will shore up my system in under an hour," Wendell replied, sounding bored by the conversation.

"Then you'd better stop fiddling around, Nero. My money says that in 45 minutes, with what my brother and I can accomplish, your entire brain trust goes down."

Edward killed the line. He shut his eyes, considering the epic nature of the task he had just prophesied and the tiny number of his options.

Forty-five minutes. How the hell was he supposed to do this in forty-five minutes? And he had to. He had to. And there was only one way he could see.

Edward rose unsteadily, considering the dresser before him. He slowly pulled open the second drawer from the top. Reaching in, his fingers lightly ran over a rough soft pouch that felt like the old medicine bag he had been sent in his boxes from Wendell. He pulled it from the depths.

He drew from the medicine bag the container of reds that Wendell had hidden within.

"You have said I'm as good as you are," came a voice from behind him, before he could open the pills. "You said we could do the same together that you did by yourself on speed. I ask you again, was that the truth or was it a lie?"

Andrew's voice impacted Eddie's ruminations, fracturing with a certainty his thinning wall of resolve

Eddie looked with a fraying single-mindedness toward the container in his hand. "No, of course it wasn't a lie."

"Then why are you choosing drugs instead?" Andrew asked, his eyes glowing back at him with hurt.

"Because he just suffered an excitation of his nervous system with your ludicrous contraption," Tad said, following Andrew in, "this was just what I was afraid of."

"You said it wouldn't work at all!" Andrew replied.

Tad grimaced back at him. "Which is why I didn't say anything to stop it, but now he's had a hit off digital speed, I can see it worked."

"You're saying he's an addict again?" Andrew asked.

"He's been sober for three months," Tad said. "He'll never stop being an addict."

"And if you're going to talk about me like I'm not here, I'll get this process started," Edward said, sharply departing the room.

Tad and Andrew followed him into the library where he sat down in his chair at his laptop. Tad reached across Andrew to hold his hand open toward Edward. "And we'll have the little red pills while we're at it," Tad said.

Eddie looked away, more than a little discomfited. "I can do what I have to do twice as fast with those."

Andrew shook his head. "You told me, with Wendell, everything came with a kickback. We don't demand results, Edward."

"We have to succeed," Eddie said.

"No, we don't," Thomas added as he joined them. "Not that badly."

"And if we fail?" Edward asked sharply.

"Then we fail," Andrew said. "We fail together. And together we'll find another way to fight him."

"We love you, Edward," Thomas said.

Edward sighed long and low. He nodded. "I know that. Now. Okay, let's do this. Let's take him down."

"How Clint Eastwood of you," Tad replied.

"Shut up, Toad," Andrew said. "Okay, his cloud servers should be back online by now. He'll have a notion we're attacking. You said we have an hour?"

"Forty-five minutes for you and me if we kill ourselves," Eddie replied. "Although, I do have an old Israeli hacker friend who used to work for Bakunin. And he loathes Wendell."

"Would he be available now?"

"He'll be around," Eddie said. "He's still an old-style sysop. He sleeps with his phone."

"With three of us, it would only be about a half hour?"

"Twenty minutes, if we work fast," Eddie said, beginning to type...

Sev, we have a problem

Edward's fingers thundered over the keys, explaining to his friend Vsevolod in the short, trim microbursts of language that hackers communicated in, what had to be done. Within a minute, Sev messaged back his joy at the upcoming takedown. He was with them.

Eddie looked toward Andrew beside him. "I'm sending you his info."

"Great. What's the password?"

Edward grinned over at him. "It's an initiating phrase, of course. Don't you know me by now? Leave not a rack behind."

Andrew grinned. "Of course it is, what was I thinking?"

It took all of thirteen minutes. The progress charted onscreen over their monitors, Edward and Andrew watched as the chain of cyberlife darkened each field of exchange – across the Dead Sea Hub to Crete, across the Atlantic and then triggering south to veer hard north and ramrod the backbone up to Boston while switching southwest toward Texas. Edward thought sadly, but also with considerable satisfaction, of the angry little man at the other end of that continuum, as he was realizing that the bony labyrinth of his entire business empire was disintegrating – and no one there knew how to stop it.

Link by link. Location by location. Finally targeting the patterns that would take down each cloud.

Edward sank slowly back into his chair. His hand drew away a little from the keys. He felt a shadow passing over his once-bright thoughts at the potential ruination beneath his fingertips.

"Why did this feel so right and now seems so wrong?" Andrew asked.

"Because when you leave not a rack behind, you wreck something," Thomas said. "I had no idea what you had planned, boys. But what I see before me on that monitor looks far beyond compensatory damages."

"He burned two of our buildings, Dad," Andrew replied.

"He almost killed Arvo Nurmi. He staged a temporary DOS attack on Croftdon," Edward added.

"Insured buildings will be rebuilt. Arvo will most likely recover. And our servers are fine now." Thomas moved over behind them. "How many people are about to lose their livelihoods?"

"How many lost their livelihoods when our buildings burned?" Andrew asked.

Thomas looked to Edward. "How would you respond to that?"

Edward shut his eyes. He rubbed at his forehead and looked away for a moment. When he spoke, he sounded like he was almost talking to himself, "He'd destroy everything you worked for in a second."

"Yes, he would," Thomas said, "which is why we think he's a monster. And the reason we think he's a monster –"

"Is why we won't," Eddie said, finally drawing both hands from the keys. He exhaled every breath of resolve he had mustered. "Damn it."

"His callousness is what makes him so powerful," Thomas said. "But there's a Persian proverb – far better to be in chains with friends than in a garden with strangers."

"I was always in chains when I was in his garden."

"Exactly."

Eddie nodded. "But if he throws back at us everything he has?"

"Then we do as you've said earlier. We work together and we go from there."

"Okay," Eddie said, hitting Cancel Process with a slowly comforting resolve.

One month later

"I wish the rest of us could be going with you, Tad," Andrew said, watching as Tad propped up on the hallway desk their plane tickets for the following day. "But Eddie and I have to work on the network. And Wilse has school. While you and James and Stewart get to play."

"We'll go another time, Andrew," Edward said. "Right now, we need to make the system bulletproof."

"Ah, yes," Tad said, "and I will weep for your hard work as I barely survive the happiest place on earth with my son." Tad turned toward Stewart. "And while on the topic, I refuse to wear those ridiculous plastic ears you tried to sneak into my suitcase."

"Dad, everyone wears mouse ears inside the park!" Stewart replied. "It's practically mandatory."

"It is not, Stewart," Edward said, with a cautionary glance at the boy. "Maybe one in ten wear them, Stewart. And most of those people are under 10."

"I'll wear the ears with you, Stewart," James announced, after he had pushed open the front door while balancing the bakery box in his arms. It took three tries to kick the door closed after he entered. "Don't let the Toad dampen your spirits. Mickey ears it is!"

"See, wearing them is fun, Dad!" Stewart said.

"Good, then I shall watch the two of you enjoy wearing them – from a respectable distance, of course," Tad said, plunking down on the sofa beside Edward. "All right, I have this list of theme park torture devices my son is insisting I ride with him. I despise rollery coastery contraptions. You have been to this infernal mouse trap. Which of these do I avoid?"

Eddie leaned across to help James and Wilse deliver the birthday cake from the box to the central table. "Anything with a mountain in it," Edward replied. "Mountains hide roller coasters."

Tad stared at the list in his hands. "But most everything on here has the word mountain in it."

Edward smiled at James and Wilse and then grinned back at Tad. "Just close your eyes and hang on tight."

"You're joking!"

"Afraid not."

"Grow a pair, Thaddeus, and leave your angst for tomorrow," James replied. "Today is Dad's birthday and he'll be here in minutes. Andrew, do you have Dad's gift?"

"Eddie and I hid it in the lower cabinet nobody looks in," Andrew said. "I'll go get it now."

Tad slowly folded up his list and tucked it away in his pocket. He then retrieved his smart phone from the side table. "While you're all about that, I'll setup Dad's annual gag gift."

"Not this year, Toad!" James shot back. "This year is special with Eddie here."

"Oh, please. Grow a pair and leave your angst for tomorrow, James," Tad said. "Dad'll have a laugh, you'll see. I bought one of those snakes in a can things, right? But I know he'll open it, expecting the snakes to pop up. Well, I'm going to only have them triggered when I pop the app on my phone, see? So Dad looks into the can, wondering, you know, where's all the silly snakes and then – bam! Up they pop him in the nose."

James looked at him dolefully. "That's so juvenile. And mind, you, this is your kid brother saying this to you. It's one thing for you to be boorish and cruel to us, Toad, we're accustomed to it. This is Dad."

"Oh, Dad will laugh at it, he always does," Tad said. "And Eddie, we shall then use my phone to play a good game of chess before tomorrow's departure to LaLaLand with my son."

"In your dreams," Edward replied.

"You have nothing else to do."

"I'll find something."

"And I'll help him," Andrew said, reaching over to add the huge white box with the big red ribbon wrapped around it to the table they now surrounded. "I hope he likes it. Heaven knows he needed a new one. The other looks to have been trampled by tapdancing moose."

"The lady at the luggage shop said it was the best one made in the world," Tad pronounced. "Mainly because we had plenty of money in the gift fund once Eddie Warbucks here had to flash his wad, so to speak."

"And you had to match me pound for pound," Eddie shot back.

Tad smirked in reply. "I couldn't have you buying up all the love, could I? Anyway, wait until Dad hears what you spent."

"He said nothing about presents," Eddie added, "anyway, this one is special. And besides, you just had to spend the same as I did, remember?"

Tad's head slowly swung around – his eyes glaring playfully at Edward. "You diabolical bastard. That was your whole idea. Including suggesting we all chip in for one present. By God, I just may keep you around after all."

The front door slowly pushed open. One foot stepped in. A hand reached around the corner and waved in their direction. "May I enter now?" Thomas called in.

"Just a moment," James said, racing to the door to close it, and then stand behind their father to cover his eyes with his hands. "Now walk forward to your left."

"My goodness, here it is my birthday. Whatever might be going on here?" he asked moving in the direction he was prodded. "I don't suppose you boys planned some surprise event or other?"

James brought Thomas to his empty chair at the table they encircled. The boy dropped his hands from Thomas' eyes. "All right, you can look now."

"Surprise!" Tad barked out, hurling a loose ribbon in his father's direction.

Thomas grinned as he surveyed the table before him. He slipped into his chair between Tad and Eddie. "My goodness, what a delightful surprise. Thank you, boys."

"We just knew you'd be utterly boggled," Tad said drily.

Andrew tapped the big ribboned, rectangular box. "We all chipped in. It's from all of us."

"Some more than others," Tad added.

"No one more than you," Eddie replied.

"Swine."

"Toad."

Thomas shook his head at his two eldest as he grinned to himself and guided the white box toward him. "It's certainly a heavy thing," he said, easily pulling away the bow.

"It should be for what it cost," Tad said.

Thomas pulled up the cover and pushed aside the inner tissue paper. Within lie an Italian leather attache case, with brass facets and fittings.

"Boys," Thomas said, his eyes opened wide, "this is stunning, truly."

"It's by Roma Recherché. It's Italian leather-embedded wood," Andrew said, excitedly.

"We are assured that is significant and important," Tad added. "We know it was expensive."

"They call it a mobile office," Andrew said, scowling at Tad. "Kind of a step-up from a briefcase – a self-contained desk with everything. Perfect for the new Chairman of the Board."

"I'm afraid Tad is right about this one. It must have cost you a fortune at least," Thomas said, sliding his gaze across at his oldest. "Eddie."

Edward held up both hands to protest his innocence. "Tad gave as much as I did."

"You really are a snakey divvy when you want to be," Tad replied.

Eddie smirked back. "Talking to yourself again?"

"Ignore them and look at the embossing, Dad," Andrew said, pointing out the deep gold letters across the front leather band. "It's really exquisite."

"Oh, it is," Thomas said, with a hushed voice, examining the lettering closely. "But, well, there is a problem –"

"Did they make a mistake?" Eddie asked innocently, looking closer.

"Oh, it's nothing," Thomas said. "Nothing for you boys to worry about. It was their error, and I'll have it corrected. It's just they, well, have my name wrong, haven't they?"

"We all checked it," Andrew said. "It's right."

"No, it's not – it's, well, it's a nitpicky thing, really, but it says Thomas Edward Croftdon, Senior."

"What's wrong with that?" Eddie asked.

"Simply that I'm not Thomas Edward Croftdon, Senior. I can't be for the simple fact there is no Thomas Edward Croftdon, Junior."

Edward's mouth curled up in a little smile. "What if there was?"

Thomas stared at him in a kind of stunned disbelief.

Eddie drew an ID out of his pocket and passed it across the table to Thomas. "I hope you don't mind. I mean, I'm still Eddie. It seemed like a simple thing. And I thought you might like it. Thought it might be nice, you know."

Thomas looked at it for a long time, standing up to consider it a length, as if he couldn't see it clearly enough. He turned away from the table and walked slowly to the hearth with the huge portrait of Faith. Thomas' hand clasped to the mantle for a moment, then pressed the ID against his shoulder.

"Are you okay, Dad?" Eddie asked, following him over while staying a couple of feet away. "I mean, I hope I didn't upset you."

Thomas pulled the ID away from his shoulder to consider it again. His voice trembled harder at the edges. "You think this upset me? You've only just bloody given me back my baby boy."

Eddie could never remember the exact order of events as they occurred – suddenly Thomas hugged him. Hugged him like he wasn't about to let go.

"Dad, I can't breathe here," Eddie whispered.

Thomas relinquished a little of his grip, allowing Edward to catch a breath, but Eddie realized at that moment the man who embraced him was crying.

"Dad doesn't hug people," Tad said, looking in their direction.

"Dad doesn't cry either," Andrew added, "but he's obviously doing so."

"So he is," Tad replied, nodding. "Odd, that."

Thomas turned toward all of them, "Thank you. Thank you all. Thomas Edward Croftdon, Jr. This is simply the finest present in all my days."

"Well," Tad said, "technically, it's regifting, isn't it? Anyway, he's been hanging around here for awhile now. Now, that we've dispensed with all the sentiment, there is still the matter of my gift to Dad."

"No, there isn't," James replied.

"Thank you, James, for the effort," Thomas said, drying his eyes. He laughed a little while pulling himself together with some considerable effort. "Very well, let us get Tad's silly gag gift over with for another year. What's it to be, Thaddeus? Fake vomit? Exploding chewing gum? Bleeding soap?"

Tad removed his smart phone from his pocket while presenting his father with the fake canister of candy. "Here, Daddy. Happy Birthday."

"You've done this one before, you know. Repeating yourself is the sign of a dilettante." Thomas smirked at the canister, shook it and dutifully opened the cap.

Nothing shot out.

"Bad news, son," Thomas said, "it appears your leaping snakes are dead on arrival. Perhaps the lack of oxygen?"

"Take a closer look inside," Tad said, his thumb hovering over his smart phone.

James covered his face and shook his head as Thomas peered into the can. He shook his head. "Sorry, still nothing."

"Well, try it again!" Tad said, as he squinted at his screen, punching a thumb several more times. "Wait just a damned minute, what's happened to my bloody screen? It's blank!"

"What happened?" Edward asked, looking over at Tad's phone.

"My smart screen is blank. It doesn't show any data."

Edward shook his head with a commiserating murmur. "Well, will you look at that, you'd think someone had hacked your password and deleted all the apps."

Tad's eyes slowly focused, his eyebrows folding together. "Why, you cunning linguist."

Eddie smiled. "Takes one to know one."

Tad shook his head, finally storing the phone away in his jacket pocket. He reached an arm around the other side of Edward's neck. "Father, it's official. I've changed me mind. I wouldn't rather have a goldfish after all."

The End

Other titles by Melody Clark (available at Amazon):

A Room in the House of the Ancestors, Book One

Shamus Bead and the Clockwork Resurrection Man

Shamus Bead and the Cure for What Kills You

Shamus Bead and the White City (coming soon)

A Revolutionary Romance

Defining Moments

Melodyclark.net

