“Widgets,” said Jack Reese. “The first time we spoke about this you called them widgets.”
“Shorthand for small but versatile components,” Bennett affirmed. “You understood what I meant.”
“Of course I did. I also understood that you weren’t applying for ‘dual-use’ export licenses because they’re expensive and time consuming, but you had a more compelling reason. Your widgets could be employed in a wide variety of weapons systems. In other countries they can go into equipment that can’t be imported but has to be built from scratch. By supplying those simple components—”
“That’s all we do,” Bennett interjected. “We supply small components that, as far as we’re concerned, can be fitted into dishwashers or tractors. The whole world runs on machinery made up of bits and pieces: they’re indispensible. I wouldn’t do anything illegal, believe me.”
“Then why are you hiding out here in the forest?”
“I’m not hiding. In a way, I’m continuing a tradition like the one Elias Daggett established. I’ve built something here that I can pass on to my son and his sons. If you had children yourself you’d understand, Jack.” Bennett paused. “You don’t have any children, do you?”
“I’m not married.”
“What does marriage have to do with it?”
Silence.
Bennett leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Let’s get down to business. I know the international situation’s complicated right now, but can you do any more business abroad for me?”
Jack said nothing.
Bennett tried to conceal his annoyance. “Well, then. With your contacts, can you at least discover who’s behind the so-called Change? It’s industrial sabotage, that’s for damned sure. The stunt’s very clever, but there’s greed written all over it. Someone intends to make a hell of a killing by marketing the solution to the destruction of plastic.”
“You think there is a solution?”
“Of course there is; the whole thing’s a gimmick—so maybe there’s some way we could cut ourselves in on it. You know the shakers and movers; not the Gnomes of Zurich, that was last century. This is a different ball game now. Find out who’s behind the Change and you could become a rich man.”
“I’m sure plenty are on that hunt already.” Jack cast a covert glance around the office, wondering if Bennett had the place bugged. For a heartbeat he was returned to the shadowy world of billionaire arms dealers and secret intelligence organizations controlled by forces playing deadly games with the future of the planet. “I’m not equipped to compete with them,” he said aloud.
Bennett felt his blood pressure rising. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’ve lost your nerve, right?” Before Jack could respond he continued, “There is something else you can do for me. A pack of crazy tree huggers in this town is out for my scalp. I’d feel better if I had reliable personal protection, if you know what I mean. Is it something you could handle? You do have contacts for that sort of thing, don’t you?”
After Reece left his office Bennett replayed their conversation in his head, looking for possible mistakes on his part and vulnerabilities the other man might have revealed. Then he sat for a while, staring into space.
No one appreciates how hard I worked to achieve this. Or how easily I could lose it. If I sweat blood, who cares? Nell and the kids spend money as fast as it comes in and never say thank you. Maybe Jack Reece has it right, don’t tie yourself down with other people.
But I love them, damn it. They’re my family.
I give them everything they want.
Fred and Louise Mortenson were anticipating their wedding anniversary. “Twenty-five years of wedded bliss,” Fred announced as he entered Gold’s Court Florist shortly after three in the afternoon.
“Isn’t that lovely, Walt,” cooed Martha Frobisher, a birdlike little lady in a rayon dress that hung halfway down her shins. “If only my Phil had lived, we—”
“I’m double-parked in the lane, Martha; mind if we get on with this? I want a dozen red roses delivered to my house this afternoon between four and five. No later. If they’re any later I’ll send them back. Got it?”
Her lips tightened to a thin line. “I have it, Mr. Mortenson.” And I hope you spear your fingers on the thorns, you nasty old so-and-so, she said silently to his departing back as he left the shop. How could a sweet-tempered woman like Louise Mortenson put up with such an unpleasant man for twenty-five years? And there’s my poor darling Phil up in Sunnyslope Cemetery.… She thrust two fingers into the sleeve of her dress and pulled out a wadded handkerchief. Dabbing her eyes, she looked out the front door of the shop to make sure no customers were approaching, then went into the back to check the stock in the walk-in refrigerator.
Nine red roses. Only nine. Martha did a quick mental calculation. There was not enough time to send for more from the commercial flower market in Nolan’s Falls. By the time the order went through it would be tomorrow, knowing those people. As she returned to the shop area she noticed an elaborate flower arrangement in a celadon vase beside the credit card machine. The arrangement included several long-stemmed red roses, full blown and gorgeous. They were artificial, but in these days when flowers could be replicated so easily no one could tell the difference. Certainly not Fred Mortenson, who refused to have the basic eye surgery that people of his age usually did. “No kid fresh out of medical school’s going to laser my eyes!” he declared.
The florist selected three magnificent blooms to be included in the Mortenson order.
Fred Mortenson stopped to compare his AllCom with the clock on the front of Goettinger’s department store, nipped into the pharmacy for a bottle of antacid, then walked around the corner into Miller’s Lane.
There was a parking ticket on his windshield.
“Damn that everlasting bitch to hell!” he cried, snatching the ticket and tearing it into tiny independent republics.
His outburst startled a mother passing by with her little boy. The child began to cry; the mother gave Mortenson a dirty look. “Language!” she reproved him.
“Bitch!” he shot back.
He was not referring to the child’s mother, or the traffic warden who had written the ticket, but the wife for whom he had just ordered a dozen red roses.
For most of their marriage the two had shared an abiding passion. Even their closest friends were unaware of their true feelings. The tumultuous love that brought them together had faded to be replaced by a different emotion; one which brought just as much sustenance and would last longer. Both Fred and Louise possessed a talent for hating.
They hated everything about each other. Down to the smallest detail Louise loathed her husband and he loathed her. Their joint acrimony defined their lives and fueled a flame so steady they relied on it as an asset. Neither had a sense of personal responsibility. Anything that went wrong in one person’s life was the fault of the other one.
A quarter century of such constancy deserved commemoration. Such as a dozen red roses for a woman who was allergic to flowers.
At four thirty a van bearing the name of Gold’s Court Florist delivered a stunning floral arrangement to 29 Patterson Place. Framed in cellophane were a dozen perfect red roses set off by green ferns and a large satin bow. The delivery boy admired them as he carried them up the sidewalk. He wished he could afford such a treat for his girlfriend. Maybe then she’d put out.
At five minutes after five Fred Mortenson opened the front door of his house and walked in.