Dark Rule (COIL Book 3), page 13
Flinging his arm forward, Brad led with his hip, his chest, his shoulder, then, like a whip, he snapped the apple from his fingers. An instant later, the apple exploded over the knot in the birch tree. He didn't imitate the cheer from the crowd, but it was still loud in his ears.
Tomorrow was the day. The whole State of Oregon would be at the evening game. Why? They'd read the papers. They'd heard the stories. Now, they would find out for themselves. Could the teenager just out of high school really throw a fastball like the Major League pitchers? Brad hoped so. Everyone Brad knew was rooting for him; everyone in Bandon, anyway. The tourist town's natives needed a hero, and they'd found one in the tall, two-hundred-pound lefty. With a nicely trimmed goatee, few believed he was only nineteen. The goatee itself was dark with hints of red, though his hair was dirty blond with long bangs.
"Hey, does Bandon's savior have time for a home-cooked meal?"
Spinning around, he saw his mother standing in the back door. She was a strong woman, a hiker, and headstrong enough that anyone but Brad's father shied away from tangling with her.
"Mom, how long have you been standing there?" Brad started toward the house, hoping his face wasn't too red.
"Long enough to know we're going to have to feed you and your ego tonight." She laughed with him, and playfully pushed him into the house. Though she was shorter than his six-foot frame, he would bet against himself in an arm-wrestling match. "Get your dad. Sweet potatoes are on the table. Gotta get you carbed-up for your big day tomorrow."
Brad yelled for his father, Frank, as Brad washed his hands. He stared at himself in the mirror. Tomorrow was the big day. Should he lose the goatee? No, he looked older, maybe even tougher, with it. His mother wanted him to get a haircut, but the girls liked his longer hair. All eyes would be on him tomorrow. Especially Josie's eyes.
Josie was the only girl Brad had ever cared about through high school. He hadn't figured out how to say goodbye to her, though. She was going to a Bible school in Illinois. Brad was going to the highest bidder. Different priorities pulled them apart.
He left the bathroom of their middle-class home and opened the door to his father's study. His dad worked from home as an editor for a book printer in Portland. The studious man didn't look up as Brad poked his head into the dimly lit office. Many who didn't know the family often mistook father and son as brothers, since Frank was a young-looking forty-three with brown hair. And he was fit enough to play the part, too. But when it came to wisdom, Brad relied on his father.
Frank was an elder in their local church, and even preached occasionally. Brad didn't know how his father did it, but the man balanced being a friend and a conservative father at the same time. Now that Brad thought about it, he didn't know any other father who regularly fished with his son, or played racquetball at the club. Actually, every bit of Brad's pitching skill he owed to his father. If they hadn't played catch when Brad was still in grade school, bought him his first mitt, and taught him not to fear the ball, Brad would be a nobody. He was Brad the Pitcher now.
"Dinner's ready, Dad." Brad noticed his father was deep in thought over something on his desk, or maybe he was praying.
Looking up, Frank met his son's gaze. Brad swallowed over a lump in his throat when he noticed the concern on his father's face. Something was wrong. He slipped the rest of the way into the office and shut the door.
"What's going on?" Brad eased himself into the chair opposite his father. "Still no call?"
"Nope." Frank sighed and leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. "For twenty years, your Aunt Sarah's never missed a call-in."
Brad sighed also, his baseball fantasies fading away in light of this greater concern. Frank's sister, Sarah, had married Albert Jamison twenty years ago, and the two had become overseas missionaries, most often in Asia and Africa. They'd be strangers to Brad since they were always in the mission field, but their daughter, Lacy, had lived with the Aldens during every school year. Lacy was more like a sister to him than a cousin, and if something had happened to his aunt and uncle, Lacy was certainly in trouble, too.
Shame suddenly swept over Brad. He searched his memory for a hint as to which country the Jamisons were currently reaching for Christ, but he couldn't remember since he'd been too focused on his own success. But this was all different. His father wouldn't be this concerned unless something was seriously wrong.
"Um, how do you pronounce that country again?" Brad asked, masking his ignorance. "Where are they?"
"Zalzuna. I checked a few websites, but all I've found are the normal governmentally controlled press releases characteristic of a communist nation. Nothing about foreigners or political prisoners, which is usually how they're classified when caught."
"What're you gonna do?"
"Not much I can do, Brad, but pray. I called Washington and talked to a Christian public relations liaison for international crises. They're too swamped to pay any mind to it. Albert and Sarah picked one place this time that's so out-of-the-way that the US government isn't going to waste their time on it. Besides, they were told not to go to Zalzuna. It was too dangerous."
Fidgeting in his seat, Brad knew all too well the stories. There were dozens of countries where the Bible and Christians were simply not permitted. If caught, torture, imprisonment, or death often followed. Brad's own future seemed insignificant when considering the danger Lacy could be in at that very minute.
"If you're not doing anything else, maybe you could talk to the Kassvineys. Walt's dad knows a lot of people, Dad. He's been around the world a time or two."
"They were the first ones I thought of, too," Frank said. "When all else fails, ask for help from the genius family who goes to your church, huh?"
"It's worth a shot."
"After dinner then." Frank stood and stretched. "We'll pay them a visit, you and I. They were in church last week, so they're probably still in town."
Brad's anticipated game the following evening quickly faded as a priority. If he wanted to pitch at his full potential, Brad needed a full night's sleep. But tonight would be a late night if they were going to the Kassviney mansion. Well, sometimes sacrifices had to be made. And he felt it was the right kind of sacrifice to make, even though it regarded his own future.
Dinner—usually a rally time for the family to discuss the day—was solemn as Frank shared his concerns with Jennifer. She was usually optimistic, but this time, she didn't have much to say except that she supported him in getting to the bottom of his sister's silence.
"Little Walter might even be of more help than you think," Jennifer said. "He knows Greek. During Sunday school, he used to always scribble in that tablet of his, making notes in Greek. That was years ago, though."
Frank and Jennifer continued to talk as they ate, but Brad was lost in thought over the Kassvineys. William "Bill" Kassviney was a retired physicist, having won a Nobel Prize a few years earlier. He was a balding, sixty-year-old widower. Many younger, well-known scientists relied upon him as a consultant.
But it wasn't necessarily the genius of the father that made the Kassviney family unique. The older man had a son, Walter, who'd been in Brad's class in school—before he was found to be a chess prodigy. At one time, the two had been playmates, but once Walter had been "discovered," the two had grown apart. Walter had graduated from college with three degrees before Brad had picked out a prom suit. However, when either of the two Kassvineys wasn't traveling the world and sharing their wealth and knowledge, they attended the small fellowship down the coast in Bandon, Oregon. No matter where they went, Bandon was always home to the Kassvineys, and that gave Brad a sense of pride—that he knew Walter.
"Don't let your dad keep you there all night." Jennifer wagged her finger at Brad. "You can't throw straight if you're sleeping on the mound!"
The Kassviney estate was up the coast from the Bandon Lighthouse where Brad, Walter, and Lacy had played as children. The white lighthouse—now a museum—was barely more than a gazebo with a roof and a short tower, but it drew Brad's attention as they passed it, forcing him to remember a more carefree time of his life. Then his eyes were drawn to the house that hung over the cliffs far above and to the right. Even in the closing darkness, the house seemed to be teetering on the edge. As children, the three had often joked that Walter's father had accidentally built the house on the wrong cliff, for it was in fact overlooking the highway rather than the ocean's crashing waves. Whether the right bluff or not, the Kassviney mansion was the nicest house anyone in Bandon had ever seen. Brad had played there as a child, but hadn't been inside since.
There were many theories and rumors in Bandon when it came to the origin of the Kassviney fortune. Inheritance, stock market, or just plain genius money management were among the top guesses. Mrs. Kassviney had died when Walter was a baby, which further added to the mysterious nature of the secluded Kassvineys. Whatever the case, Brad knew their fortune wasn't squandered on themselves. Guests from around the world frequented the mansion, and at least once in the early years, Mr. Kassviney had taken in a homeless family after their house had burned down in the harbor city of Bend. The estate itself had no fence or gate, though as Frank drove their family blazer onto the elevated property, Brad noticed cameras mounted on a gardener's shed and the garage roof. He also noticed an additional wing he'd never seen, which nearly doubled the size of the mansion on the eastern side.
Frank parked in front of the walkway next to a dry fountain. A butler exited the front door, leaving the door open, and walked on bowed legs toward the visitors. Behind the butler, the mansion's tall windows glowed with white light as if a banquet were underway.
"Hope we're not interrupting anything," Frank mumbled as they climbed out of the car. "I don't see any other vehicles."
"Me, neither." But Brad noted the garage seemed large enough to hold more than a dozen SUVs.
"Good evening, gentlemen," the butler said. "How may I be of assistance?"
Brad thrust his hands into his jean pockets and couldn't help but grin. They hadn't thought to wear anything but their casual, afternoon clothes. The butler was suited in his Sunday best, outclassing Brad and Frank on their best day. Frank didn't seem to mind, though. Anyone who attended the Bandon Brethren Church regularly knew better than to judge a man by his clothing.
"We were hoping to talk to Bill," Frank said. "It's not too late, is it?"
"Bill?" the butler asked, glancing at Brad.
"Mr. Kassviney," Brad said, covering for his father. "Is he home? It's pretty urgent. We'll just be a couple minutes if he's busy."
"Of course. Follow me, if you please."
Frank stepped in line behind the butler and Brad brought up the rear. As they neared the open front door, Brad glanced to the left and noticed a parking lot behind the spacious garage where two limos and a number of BMWs were parked. They were interrupting something after all.
The butler led them into a den that seemed under-furnished in comparison to the grandeur of the exterior. There was only one soft chair and two padded benches—the type a barbershop might afford its customers. Brad and Frank each sat on a bench. The rock hearth was cold, though the mantle displayed the true riches: numerous pictures, mostly black and white, of unsmiling men, women, and children.
As soon as the butler left the room and his steps could be heard moving toward a giant library from where voices were heard, Brad was on his feet to inspect the photographs on the mantle. Mr. Kassviney was in most of the photos, though he was much younger. Brad recognized several senators and even one president. He was about to say as much to his father when a shadow filled the doorway from the rotunda. It was Mr. Kassviney, looking a lot older than Brad had remembered him, even though he'd been at church the week before. Usually, Brad was too preoccupied with Josie or the guys his age to notice such things, but he noticed now.
"Bill!" Frank jumped to his feet. "Good to see you."
"Hello, Frank, Brad." The older man was dressed in a sharp suit. He shook hands with each of them. "What a surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"First of all," Frank said as the three took seats, Mr. Kassviney in the soft chair, "I hope we're not pulling you away from anything too important. We'll make this as fast as possible. We just need a little input. Figured you're the man who may have the answers, Bill."
"Take your time." Bill dismissed his other guests in the library with a wave. "They're all Walter's crowd, anyway."
"It has to do with Sarah, my sister, and her husband, Albert Jamison."
"Oh? How are they?"
"That's the thing. I'm worried. They missed their monthly check-in. Sarah's never missed it in twenty years, not since she married into the missionary life. Jenny and I've been a sort of mission board for them, unofficially, of course, arranging packages, mail, and finances from time to time. Lacy has lived most of her life with us, as you know, and she's with them right now. My point is, it's not like them to miss a check-in."
"What kind of window have you arranged?" Bill asked.
"Twenty-four hours, give or take. It's been almost thirty-six now. Even if Sarah couldn't send me a digital, Albert or Lacy would. I contacted Washington, a few different people, but I've run into only dead ends—all on account of their present location."
"Which is?"
"Zalzuna," Frank said.
"I see. That would cause some to shy away from the issue." Bill looked away to gaze up at the mantle photos, as if he sought the wisdom of his youth, or the men pictured with him. "Zalzuna's government is sponsored by old Soviet money. The Chinese have made their mark on the little island, not to mention the Libyans. It's a complicated country."
"But you know people, right?" Brad folded his hands as he leaned forward. "Maybe everything's okay over there, just downed phone lines or something. We need to make a few inquiries that don't get screened out by bureaucracy."
"Yes, I understand." Bill stood and placed a hand on the mantle. He stared at the photographs in silence for such a length of time that Frank and Brad's eyes met with uncertainty. Suddenly, Mr. Kassviney turned to face the two. "I'll be honest with you both. You've been direct with me, and it wouldn't be right unless you knew the truth, though I ask you to guard this from others until it becomes public."
"Of course, Bill," Frank said. "What is it?"
"Though it's nothing official yet, I have the beginning signs of Alzheimer's. It's more of a self-diagnosis, but I know the symptoms well enough. As such, Walter has assumed many of my responsibilities. God has blessed him with more wits than I ever had, anyway. I don't trust myself enough with phone numbers, so it would be wrong to lead you both to trust me with any information I may volunteer regarding your relatives in Zalzuna. As confident as I might be, I could still be relaying twenty-year-old data as sure as if it were yesterday's news, and I'd only steer you wrong, maybe even on a deadly course. Walter's your best move. He knows the Aegean Sea's politics better than most, and even played chess in Athens and Izmit."
"Well . . ." Frank cleared his throat and glanced at Brad. His father was a trusting man, but Brad could see the internal struggle in his eyes—Walter was only nineteen. What could a teenager do to help? "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to hear what he has to say, Bill. Might give us a lead we wouldn't otherwise have thought about."
Mr. Kassviney called the butler to fetch Walter, then Frank and Bill made small talk about the previous week's sermon as they waited. When Walter arrived, Brad barely recognized him. He was five-ten, about one hundred and fifty pounds. His short-cropped, black hair was greased and combed straight back. The thousand-dollar suit and cuff links gave the chess prodigy the look of a cheap gangster or card hustler. But it was his thin lips and robotic-like movements that gave the young man an air of awkwardness. Brad had once joked that the boy was really an android, but the days when they'd chased the surf's bubbles were long gone. Walter Kassviney was now a man.
Rather than ask the butler to fetch another chair, Walter claimed a spot on the rug between Brad and Mr. Kassviney. Taking his time, Bill methodically repeated the details of the dilemma. Walter's eyes didn't stray from his father's face until he was finished speaking. At that point, Walter tugged a bulky calculator out of his breast pocket and pecked away on it for a few seconds. Satisfied with his findings, he pocketed the device and stared at the floor in front of him.
Frank cleared his throat.
"What do you think, Walt? Is there something you know that might help us proceed?"
He looked Frank in the eyes. Everything about the young man was intense, completely focused.
"When foreigners arrive at one of the three ports on Zalzuna, all belongings are searched. Electronics like cell phones and computers are confiscated. Magazines that promote freethinking, religion, or independent thought are seized. Depending on the contraband with which a visitor arrives, charges may be filed against the accused. A place like Zalzuna—international calls are monitored if not banned altogether. Tell me—I know Lacy, but her parents . . . they're experienced enough to know better than to have Bibles in their property and whatnot, right?"
"Absolutely," Frank said. "Even if they were going to smuggle some into the country, they'd run a few dry-runs first. Like your father explained, they just finished a five-year term in Myanmar. They know the politics involved. They wouldn't risk anything that would jeopardize their ministry on the island."
"Then, we can safely conclude . . ." Walter stated slowly, "if they weren't allowed into the country, they would've returned to a Greek island whence they came to make the scheduled phone call. Since this didn't happen, we can assume they're on the island. Not only are they on the island, they've been cut off from any outside contact, on which missionaries rely heavily. The probability is high they would've tried to find a way to make this scheduled call. The attempt itself would've raised flags for the government, and it's probable their request for an outside line is why they're still held on the island. If one of them was able to leave the island, would you be the first they'd contact?"
