Chapter 1

"Mom's home."

No other two words in the English language--put together in such a simple sentence--could have carried as much weight, in my opinion, as those two words spoken to me by my son on that particular afternoon.

I had been checking the online weather forecast for the next few days, when Steven, my seven-year-old son, had come into the larger upstairs bedroom I had been using both for sleeping and as a home office in the temporary two-bedroom apartment in which we had been staying. His simple statement--given with no indication of any joy, excitement, or any other higher level of emotion than someone saying, "Hmm, whaddaya know, the mailman came already"--did not register with me for a few seconds.

When it finally clicked in my brain as to what Steven had just said, I stood quickly and forgot all about the online weather report. I hurried after his retreating little self, noting that this was the fourth day in a row that he had worn his "The Legend of Korra" t-shirt. He was still a bit young to get into that Nickelodeon cartoon series, in my opinion, but the shirt had been a gift from my mother, and Steven had thought it looked cool--"cool" being something an almost-eight-year-old could not truly understand; but he realized, through talking with his school friends, that "cool" was some special attribute about life that the older kids thought was important--thus...

As I came downstairs to the apartment's foyer, I saw Steven holding the door partway open.

He was not saying anything and not moving; just standing there with one hand on the knob.

Through the opening, I could see that FBI Special Agent Gary Fife was at my door, so I opened it a bit farther.

Standing on the sidewalk about six feet behind Fife stood ... Lana ... my love ... my wife ... a very huge part of my life, until her sudden and mysterious disappearance just shy of three years before!

Lana was simply standing there with her head down. A female FBI Agent wearing an FBI windbreaker was with her, helping to hold onto Lana. Lana had an expression on her face that indicated she might be ready to flee at a moment's notice, but was determined to see this meeting through.

Another female--I could not tell if she was FBI or not--was holding a small toddler on her hip. It looked like a little girl; probably not yet two years old. I could not register anything about the child at that point, other than her presence. I was focused on the return of my wife, Lana--brought back to me as if from the dead.

Lana appeared to be slimmer in the face than I had remembered, and had a pasty-looking complexion. Her medium-dark blonde hair was cut shorter than she had worn it before her disappearance. Except for the fact that she had an overall gaunt appearance, and had lost weight, she looked the same as I had remembered her; except that she had a baby bump--Lana was pregnant!

I took in all of this within about five seconds after I had reached the bottom of the stairs and looked out the door that my son was holding open. I was considering an attempt to push past Fife and grab Lana in a huge hug, but my brain was short-circuiting at that moment. After all; it had been almost three years!

Lana did not brighten when she noticed my presence; in fact, she looked even more terrified as the seconds stretched out in silence. She was pregnant--and it was surely NOT my baby. And I simply could not find the words to say at that point in order to break the impasse at the doorway as we all stood there staring at each other.

Back to those words: 'Home' and 'Mom.'

'Home'

Until a few months ago, home had been Rosslyn, Virginia. I had finally come to the realization that hanging around the DC area, waiting for any more scraps of information from the FBI dealing with the circumstances surrounding my wife's disappearance was not just futile. The whole situation there was creating an unhealthy mix of emotions in me--pain, anger, frustration, a desire to lash out--that could eventually lead to physical maladies in me, and emotional and developmental difficulties in my son. My therapist had warned me about how my attitudes could influence Steven's development and well-being--most assuredly adversely, in that analyst's learned opinion--given the constant flow of negative vibes that I was giving off around my son in our house in Rosslyn.

So, I had figured out that I needed to get on with life, beginning with a change in location as well as in outlook. Thus, I had applied for an accounting job in the Metro Atlanta Area, at Jacobson Controls in the well-planned bedroom-community of Peachtree City; a town created out of the piney woods and built around four golf courses, and referred to by the former Navy and Air Force pilots who lived there as 'Base Housing for Delta Airlines.'

I had bought some land in an area a few miles west of there, called Thomas Crossroads, just outside of Newnan, Georgia, southwest of Atlanta and well outside the I-285 Perimeter--but still, unfortunately, within Atlanta's traffic pattern. While the builder as finalizing construction of our new house on that land, I had moved my son and me into an apartment in Newnan, about eight miles west of my newly-purchased property.

It was just my bad luck--or the cagey inside knowledge on the part of the good old local boy who had sold me the land at such a bargain price--to encounter the special limitation of geology that somewhat restricted the property on which I had decided to build. I discovered later, when doing some research, that this limitation manifested itself in an unusual manner for quite a bit of Northern Georgia.

Anyone who is familiar with the tourist sites around Atlanta knows about Stone Mountain--with its famous carvings of Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Jefferson Davis. What these folks may not realize is that Stone Mountain is a huge singular quartz monzonite dome, with subterraneous fingers of its enormous rock formation extending outward for many miles.

One of those fingers of stone extends through and under my property. Most notably--and irritating to me and my General Contractor--that stony finger lies but a scant few feet beneath the otherwise rich topsoil-and-clay mixture of my land--just wonderful. Thus, it caused a major delay in building, and an extra outlay of funds, for two reasons.

First, the GC had to hire someone bonded and licensed in explosive excavation--requiring all sorts of permits and delays (and costs, of course) just so that I could have a basement beneath my house; as well as a hole in the rock just below the soil layer behind the house for a septic tank. Second, it was all on me to figure out a way to get a septic system and leach field put it that would perk sufficiently to convince the county to allow us to live there in the first place; much less continue with construction that was already scheduled.

It took some online research, and a lot of convincing of the powers that be in Coweta County (NOT pronounced like COW-Eater, with a soft R at the end, as it looks to the casual observer; but Cuh-EE-tuh, by the locals, for some reason), along with an official technical research document from one of the professors at nearby Georgia Tech, in Atlanta, to let me continue. I had found a method for environmentally safe and scientifically sound disposal of septic waste, called the Presby Enviro-Septic System; and I had finally convinced the County Engineer of its viability in my situation.

The Presby System, popular in Vermont and other northern regions, involved burying a specially-designed-and-constructed set of parallel and connected 52-foot-long corrugated and treated and wrapped cylinders. These demanded a much smaller footprint than the traditional septic leach field; required no electricity or chemicals or mechanical action; did not have to be deep in the ground (a real benefit, since the solid stone layer was only about three or four feet beneath the spot where the Presby system would go in); and could even be built up into a mound (mine would actually cause a brief small terracing mound in the gentle slope leading down and away from my house in back, once it was complete); and it could be blended in with the lawn and the landscaping.

The only definite indicators that the whole system was there would be one simple upright breather vent tube over the cylinders and one upright observation tube over the tank. And the system would clear out the waste from my house to the point of having clear water running into the ground at the end of the three-cylinder system with as many as eight people living in the house. With only Steven and me living there, the guy who installed it could almost guarantee clear water going into the ground by the time it had just reached the end of the first of the three cylinders.

With all the other typical headaches involved in building a house, I had expected to have my Certificate of Occupancy in hand within three months of the night that Steven had made his all-important two-word announcement. Upon receipt of the CO, Steven and I could move in and establish that most wonderful of places in all the world--Home.

Now for that second word...

'Mom'

Svetlana Savin and I had met during our attendance at the University of Maryland, in College Park. She was the daughter of immigrants from Minsk, Belarus, and I was the scion of a family of Scottish heritage, whose presence in North America extended back to sometime around 1746.

My name is Maddux Brodie, by the way, with family roots in Maryland for many generations. Hell, two of my ancestors had even faced off against each other when the 15th U.S. Maryland Infantry had fought against the 15th Confederate Maryland Infantry at the Battle of Sharpsburg (as battles tended to be named in the South based on of the nearest town or rail head; rather than 'Antietam, ' as those same battles tended to be called in the North because of the nearest body of water or major water feature--other famous examples being Manassas/Bull Run and Shiloh/Pittsburg Landing).

Lana and I had fallen in love almost from the moment we had met. And, while neither of us was a virgin when we met, we became lovers after our third date, and continued to learn all about pleasing each other--both in and out of the bedroom--as we deepened our relationship. We learned how to communicate on so many levels over the next year--and not just those involving physical activities. We discovered that we were truly soul mates.

In fact, Lana and I only had one major disagreement after becoming a couple. And this happened as I was recovering from a beating I had received for standing up for her one day. Hearing one of the Varsity Lacrosse players continuing, despite Lana's continued refusal, to try to hit on Lana in the Student Center as I approached where they were sitting, I had been overcome with a blind rage and had pulled him up to hit him--followed by a sound beating--of me. I had received a hairline crack in one cheekbone and required one dental implant later for a lost tooth for my troubles; he had only suffered a broken nose and a minor sore knee that would only sideline him for two games.

Lana was furious with me! She scolded me for what seemed like hours after my release from the hospital about her ability to look after herself. In my Oxycontin-induced mellow haze, I just did not have the wherewithal to argue with her. But, when she seemed to wind down, I informed her that I would always feel the need to protect the ones I loved, especially the one I loved most of all--her. She relented a bit upon hearing me say that, but only slightly; and comforted me in my apartment over the next three days, during which I missed classes and recovered from my beating. She also assured me during that time, however, that she felt similarly to the way that I did; that she would always do whatever necessary to keep those whom she loved safe and protected from harm.

A few months preceding my graduation from Maryland, I attended a job fair and met the representative sent there by Holland-Sumner Corporation. These guys did contract work for the U.S. government, most notably the Department of Defense--"Beltway Bandits" is the term that most readily comes to mind to most folks when they think about this type of work. The recruiter with whom I spoke was as impressed by me as I was with the job opportunity and the benefits that HSC offered, and we struck a deal for my employment shortly after graduation.

At about the same time, a firm that had recognized Lana's academic credentials, as well as her selection as a member of an on-campus honor society for young women coming into the business world, was actively recruiting Lana. She joined Tamerlane Systems shortly after graduation. Tamerlane, it turned out, was a sub to a larger contract supporting the FBI in a massive multi-billion-dollar effort to overhaul its IT network, database management system, and the supporting servers and network tools; with Tamerlane supporting development of the forensic accounting investigative tools the Bureau needed in this age of electronic finance. While Lana was not very deep into the technology at the time of her hiring, she was very astute at handling the business practices that the IT system supported and rapidly picked up on the technology side of things as her job progressed.

Lana and I had married a month after graduation, with the blessings both families (her folks lived in Northern Virginia, and mine moved frequently between Alaska and California in their RV, now that Dad had retired). After a wonderful honeymoon in Galveston, Texas, we showed up for work with our respective employers with fresh tans and happy smiles.