Chapter 6

“Bach.” Julie stepped in my den with bad news. It was evident from her posture.

“Yes?”

“The Brazilian government is officially condemning your actions in the Tarantula case. They are blaming you for the deaths of the three pageant contestants with the destruction of their property.”

“Call Katamajantz from the New York Times. Give him a copy of the information that the Brazilian Heroes Association and the state military gave to us, all of it. State my belief that both the Brazilian government and their Heroes Association intentionally withheld information of Tarantula’s blood being poisonous.”

“I’m not allowed to contact the press, Sir,” my liaison replied formally.

“Yes, you are while acting as my aide. The army would rather have you dealing with the press than me doing it myself. Unless you believe that Abernathy sent you here just to humanize me?”

“I’ll have to consult with the General first.”

“Do that. Make sure that you impress on him that I would have no qualms giving Katamajantz a complete interview.”

“Yes, sir.” She didn’t look happy. I knew that Julie would have read my last interview. After the Myramar fiasco, the fallout the UN received internationally from their maliciousness came back to bite them in the ass worldwide. Even if the actions of the Terror group were Super backed, the movement was too wide spread and low powered for me to get involved or effectively be able to do anything other than hunt down the leaders and kill them all.

Not that others would not rise up to take their place, the populace had plenty of reason to want to overthrow their own corrupt government. The UN and Myramarian government tried to set a PR trap for me, which I refused to participate in. They had forgotten that I could use the press to my advantage too. And the masses were more willing to believe me, than any standing government. Let alone one known worldwide for corruption and atrocities against their own people.

“You can use my files on Tarantula and all the case notes from our meetings with the Brazilians.”

“Yes, Sir,” Julie replied without emotion.

I returned to my work while my aide left to make some unpleasant calls.

“You called for me, Grandfather?”

“Read this.” George Eastinghouse passed over his laptop to his granddaughter, open with a damning article by the Washington Post regarding Bach’s Manaus City’s ‘failed’ rescue of three dozen teens and their mothers. Seven deaths were placed on his shoulders at the mishandling of the Tarantula kidnapping.

... “This is not what he told me. Leo said that they didn’t provide him with the right information. He didn’t know that Tarantula’s blood was toxic.”

“Who do you believe?” George asked, not so innocently.

“Leo,” Lea replied definitively.

“Why do you think I am showing you this?”

“Because others will blame him for their failures. They will make it public and you want to warn me that it will happen again,” she paused. “You are letting me know that, if I stay with Leo, Bach, I have to get used to the negative publicity surrounding him.”

“What else?”

Making a disgusted face, Lea continued, “Mom’s going to go even more ballistic than normal when I tell her.”

“You can do better than that.” Her grandfather suggested with a hint of disapproval.

“That negative publicity will be aimed at me too and I will be in danger.”

“Will, is correct, young lady. You will be in danger if you continue dating Bach. So too will be your family and friends. Are you sure that he is worth dating?”

“I want to say yes. How much danger do you think we will be in?”

“Plenty. You most of all. This is the risk assessment that I had drawn up for you. I want you to read it and think long and hard. Either way you choose, I will support your decision.” George Eastinghouse, the former President and CEO of Eastinghouse Manufacturing, slid over a large black binder with a USB in the inside pocket, with the symbol of a famous national detective agency emblazoned on it.

If George’s granddaughter backed away from his friend, he would understand. Bach had too many powerful enemies, not only in this country but around the world.

Handing back her grandfather’s laptop, Lea hugged him in appreciation, before taking the bound information and adjourned to her room.

I was eating a green frosted petit fours, reading the London Times, when George walked past me on the way to his usual table for breakfast and quiet. I noted his attention on me and continued reading the latest in the world according to the Brits.

I sat across from George as he finished the last of his morning routines.

“Morning, George.”

“Morning, Bach.” Folding the Post, my friend gave me his full attention.

“Your granddaughter is charming. May I have your permission to court Lea Billings?” I asked formally.

“How do you plan on keeping my Lea safe?”

“You know as well as I that I can only do so much. I’ve already hired the Pinkertons to keep a discreet watch over her. They will start Monday.”

“If I were to say no?”

“Family first.” I replied with the expected response. I would back off regardless of what Lea wanted.

My friend nodded. “I’ll let her decide.” Giving me permission, he inquired about my next step. “What will you do about Margret and Roger?”

“I will make an appointment to see Roger today.”

“And my daughter?”

“I will wait for Lea’s invitation to meet her parents.” I cracked a smile. I had heard stories about George’s willful daughter for over two decades of our friendship.

“You are not one of her circle, and not under her influence. Marge will definitely not approve of you.”

“Then I will see what Roger has to say. I expect Margret to be an obstacle.”

“Good luck with my daughter, Bach. Keep my Lea safe.”

“I will.”

We stood and shook. Agreeing that his granddaughter’s and my new belle’s safety was paramount.

...

Click. “Roger Billingsly’s office.”

...

Roger’s secretary reported he had an after-work meeting before his Friday golf appointment at the country club. Enough time in between to meet me. I didn’t think it would go as smoothly as the one with George. But I would see. Meanwhile, I had a class to catch.

The girl in my class, who had been giving me hostile looks, moved to the back row, two seats away. If it became necessary, I would discover who she was connected to and address the issue. Hostile reactions to my presence were nothing new, that didn’t mean that I did not take note of them.

Professor McCallister continued her lecture on early migration, the strife the religion and politics caused the Indians and previously settled colonies. The thirty-minute test ended the class, with the Professor asking me to stay after.

“Mr. Bach,” she opened once the room emptied, “can you prove any of what you have written here?” She referred to the essays I handed in on our last meeting.

“It was over four hundred years ago.” I shrugged. “The promised provisions from England never arrived and the attacks from the nearby tribes became greater once the harsh winter set in. Food became scarce for everyone.

“The Secotans would trade and interact with the Roanokes but would not allow their women to mingle. Even then, they kept their distance from the colonists. Yet that was true on both sides of the straits. The colonists also sheltered their women and children from the savages.” I was twelve and at the time fascinated by the natives, but not allowed anywhere near them. Not that I had much free time away from my chores, which lasted the daylight hours. Neither side trusted the other. Nor did they have reason to.

“Language was a huge issue. Crop failures a larger one. My father and uncles saw the writing on the wall, so to speak, and broke off from the governor and the stalwarts. We traded our farming equipment for bows, a few extra arrows, and hunting knives. None of the tribes we met were going to survive that second winter unscathed. The harsh winter, cool dry summer, and the poor crops equaled raids. The narrow strait was of little deterrent to the natives.”

“The few soldiers that the governor brought were useless in protecting the colony. That they produced no food only added to the dissatisfaction of the harsh rule of the leaders.”

“You were there?” my professor was shocked.

“I was twelve when we fled the colony that second winter. As for the survivors, there were five of us that made it to what is now western North Carolina. The others are buried near Shirrell’s Ford.”

“Are you saying you are over four hundred years old?” she blanched and flinched away from me.

I don’t think I had spoken of my age in a very long time. Professor McCallister’s reaction might not have been unreasonable.

Sometimes, I forget...

I paused to observe my young professor assimilate my age into her worldview.

“What did you do after leaving Roanoke?”

“We hunted and fled from that cursed isle. My uncles were experienced hunters, teaching the rest of us how to live off the land...” I paused, cycling through my memories, “as we traveled through mostly uninhabited forests. The natives, with each group it was a coin toss if they would attack on meeting us or trade. We avoided them as best we could.”

“And you ended up at Shirrell’s Ford?” she asked in continual disbelief.

“Two of my uncles and my cousin died the year after we settled there to a nomadic warband.” So did I.

I checked my watch. “I have to cut this short, Professor McCallister. I have an appointment that I cannot be late for.”

I read frustration in my Professor’s face. “Can we get together and discuss your early years more?”

“Saturday, 10:00 AM.”

“Thank you.” I exited the classroom with her covetous stare following me...

...

I met Roger in Ula’s Restaurant at 5:30, he claimed a 6:15 tee time and had made time from his busy schedule to meet me after work.

I stood when he entered the dining room, approaching me with his hand extended and a questioning expression, “Bach. It’s been a while.” We shook and sat.