Timing, page 32
He told me to tell you he'd written it after your day together at Driftwood Falls.
He also mentioned that he would have read this to you on your wedding day.
I know you meant the world to him.
I hope it helps you heal.
Yours Truly,
Lonnie Grassle
PS-I am honored Boone chose to give you his mother's ring. It was meant for you. Treasure it always and perhaps someday you'll be able to pass it on to your daughter. Boone would have wanted that.
Her hands shook as she unfolded the other piece of paper, and her heart sank as she recognized Boone's handwriting. It was written in pencil on a yellow sheet of lined paper.
September 23, 2029
To: Hannah Bailey
From: Boone Grassle
Time
Space between the hands of time
Each reminders you are mine
Never forget love sublime…
—
Words to fill the vacant space
Feel the trace of an empty embrace
Time remains to take your place…
—
For when the breeze comes your way
A gentle kiss of dawn's new day
Think of me, your friend, and say
Love me always, forever stay.
Hannah must have read it a hundred times.
CHAPTER 45—SUCCESS
The United States was on its knees. Crumbling. Desperate. A wounded animal begging for someone to come along and put it out of its misery.
Everything had worked just as planned. Operation Snowflake had taken hold, spreading disease and death into every corner of the nation, and the ensuing panic that followed had been as predictable as the next day's sunrise.
Naturally, Operation Santa had followed, with President Dobbs' declaration of martial law. The circumstances had all but made the choice for him.
Now, Aralk had the strongest nation in Earth's existence exactly where he wanted it—right in the palm of his hand.
America had needed to weep and cry out in agony. They'd needed to endure pain… live it… know it. Just as he had.
In all of its history, the Golden Child of the world had never really been made to suffer. Hadn't ever truly tasted the bitterness of defeat or been forced to swallow the pill of despair.
Until now.
He'd found their Achilles Heel.
He'd used their freedoms against them and conquered them using the guise of equality—from the inside, out.
And now, in their hour of desperation, Americans had readily, willingly traded their freedoms for security.
Experience had taught him a priceless lesson: The gateway to unlimited power was through the alleviation of pain and suffering.
Giving comfort had, once again, given him everything.
Aralk was now the most powerful man in the world.
He'd been to the top once before—in 1940—but this time around he had experience on his side. And although his time at the pinnacle of success and power had been significant… it hadn't been nearly enough to satiate his appetite. Ultimately, those closest to him had betrayed him.
The year 1945 had spelled disaster. In real time, almost a century had passed since then. But for Aralk, it was only a handful of years ago. Even now, it made him cringe just to think about how everything had ended. Fortunately, in his hour of need, the Protectorate had been there to guide him.
And then, of course, there was Olga von Bach. She'd given him hope in his darkest hour, convincing him of his potential for greatness… in the future. She'd been a savior, a saint, an angel… revealing to him the secrets of Timing for a resurrection of his life's work.
From that point forward, his was a purpose renewed. A destiny reborn.
He moved closer to the mirror before him, his hands gripping both sides of the sink just below it. For a fleeting instant, in the reflection of his own image, he saw his mother staring back at him, her ice-filled pools of crystalline blue almost as soothing as they'd been during his childhood. Even after all of this time, she still entered his mind at least once every day. And when he'd started his new life, he'd honored her with the choice of his namesake.
Aralk was Klara backwards.
He couldn't help but feel her presence, her blessing, her pride in him for all he'd accomplished. And had yet to accomplish.
Aralk stepped back and let loose the breath he'd been holding. Using the pads of his fingers, he strummed the length of his chin several times, immediately grateful for some time without his mask. He wore it everywhere, and it itched. When he was without it, his face felt similar to his body without clothes: free, open, loose. He looked forward to the day when he would no longer need the disguise. In fact, he'd already planned for the occasion where he would destroy the damn thing. It would be a ceremony, a commemoration of sorts where he'd build a bonfire and set the mask on top of it, letting it melt and then drip into the flames of copper and gold, in a sizzling sound which he liked to think would remind him of the revenge he was now taking… and the redemption he so desired.
For the time being, he allowed President Dobbs to gloat in his glory.
Aralk left the bathroom with a wrinkle in his lips.
Yes, let the pompous bastard think he'd scaled the summit all on his own.
No one knew of his elaborate plans for the Transition from this point onward. The Contineo was now in sight, just within reach of his fingertips. Most of the fools around him were short-sighted, narrow-minded.
Little did they know of the preparations he'd made for the ascendency of Jackie Bailey.
She was his greatest asset, his most carefully crafted tool, always willing and ready to sacrifice anything necessary for the Cause. And she'd passed his loyalty tests with flying colors.
He rejoined Hagan in the Great Room, neither of them exchanging a word as he made his way over to a small table where he took a sip of tea. He set the cup down, folded his arms, and looked out the window of his mountain chalet, high in the French Alps above Chamonix.
The magnificent view reminded him of home.
Hagan was used to Aralk's bouts of silence. It was not unusual for the two men to spend hours together without a word said between them. He took a long drag on his cigar and blew it out. That kind of thing only happened, he supposed, when you were the Supreme Leader's most loyal comrade, most trusted confidant.
After all, he alone knew that Aralk was Adolf Hitler.
Hagan's voice carried across the room's expansive space, echoing off its walls of timber, glass, and stone. "Well, Mein Führer, what are you waiting for?"
Aralk didn't even turn to face him. "I am not waiting. Any longer." He crossed to a corner of the room and picked up the phone.
A man promptly answered, "Yes, Supreme Leader?"
"Phase IV is complete," Aralk said evenly. "It is time to initiate Case Hummingbird."
CHAPTER 46—BRIDGE OF NO RETURN
Over the last couple of days, Hannah had gone back and forth about whether or not to meet up with Alexander.
It was just one day after Boone's funeral, and she was still undecided. All she knew for certain was she had absolutely no desire whatsoever to see or talk with anyone.
After sleeping in, she'd gone out on her UTV, flooring the gas pedal harder than she had in a long time. But instead of the ride calming her—as she had hoped—it only seemed to have heightened her emotions, reminding her of Boone's death and everything she'd lost with his passing.
For the rest of the afternoon, she'd tried to escape in the pages of a novel, but even then, she'd periodically glance at the clock with thoughts about Alexander and wind up angry at herself for not being entirely able to forget about him.
Once evening set in, Hannah finally came to the realization that she had only been putting off the inevitable decision facing her: Should she go?
She went downstairs and managed to put on a smile while she forced herself to choke down some dinner.
Now though, it was a quarter to eight, and Hannah was back upstairs in her room. She'd thrown on some jeans and a black, long-sleeve shirt, and she was sitting on the edge of her bed. Her fingers were tapping the tops of her thighs, and her mouth twitched randomly to the left, right, and then left again.
She got up and began to pace the room, the whole time absently turning the locket between her fingers.
Paul and her mom were downstairs, cuddled together on the living room sofa with the lights dimmed low and glasses of spirits in hand. They'd asked her if she wanted to join them, but she'd made up some lame excuse—something along the lines of being exhausted—and had retreated back up to her bedroom.
Every so often, she could hear laughter funneling its way up the staircase.
A small group of people were coming over later for a Christmas party, but Hannah wasn't even remotely in the mood to join them.
She sighed and looked at the clock. Ten minutes to eight.
She'd already snuck her mother's pass, figuring that she'd have no problem getting it back into her office before she noticed.
Some instinct deep inside of her told her not to go. And that pesky voice had once again chirped like a cuckoo clock in her brain, warning her of the consequences if she did go.
It will only hurt you.
Why was it always giving her advice when she didn't even ask for it? Goddamnit, she wasn't going to let it scare her. With everything she'd gone through lately, it would take a lot more than an obnoxious, invisible Tweety Bird to keep her from doing something she wanted to do.
But did she really want to meet up with Alexander?
Was it worth it?
Was he worth it?
She hadn't heard from him in days, and the sting she felt from his neglect had turned into a dull and constant ache.
Or was the ache from losing Boone?
She wasn't entirely sure.
All she knew was that Alexander was, most likely, going to break everything off with her and tell her he'd found someone else.
So, why in the world would she go and open herself up to the possibility of being hurt even more?
She wasn't really even certain if she could take any more heartache.
The odds were clearly stacked against her, and there was no doubt about the fact that she'd been on a permanent losing streak for what was starting to feel like an entire lifetime.
But then again, maybe there was more to it. Maybe she should at least listen to him and give him a chance to explain the things he had yet to be candid about.
There was only one way to find out.
As she snuck out the back door off the kitchen, a surge of adrenaline flowed into her extremities. She didn't dare go down the icy latticework out her bedroom window with her boot cast on.
Just as soon as she turned the key in the ignition of the ranch pickup, Hannah came to the somewhat irritating realization that, deep down, she'd intended on meeting up with him all along.
*
Towering against the backdrop of darkness, the old brick cathedral stood defiant to time and nature. Snow piled at its feet in surrender to its clay and mortar skeleton, stained glass eyes kept watch over the sky's Do-si-do of sun and moon, and its spires and bell tower shrugged away the unremitting nudges of ice, wind, and moisture.
Hannah had been here many times as a child. Eliza's father was the pastor, and she'd mainly gone to church with her on holidays. She'd loved to sing the traditional church hymns and had been especially drawn to the Christmas carols. And although she'd never told anyone, singing had been one of the only reasons why she'd ever wanted to go in the first place.
Then, for a stretch of time somewhere at the junction of childhood and adolescence, Eliza had persuaded Hannah to go with her on a more consistent basis. After about half a year of catching up on her sleep during the sermons, Hannah had determined that church on Sundays simply wasn't for her.
By about then anyway, she'd come to the conclusion that she'd experienced just enough of church to prefer God without it.
So, it was somewhat ironic, she thought, that her Judgment Day with Alexander would be here of all places.
Her steps squeaked on fresh snowfall, and the heavy, thick air which surrounded her hung pregnant with the likelihood of more. Except for her vehicle, the parking lot was empty and there wasn't a trace of anyone around, not even Alexander.
Hannah thought she looked fairly ridiculous, almost like she'd borrowed the lower half of her body from the Abominable Snowman. On one foot, she wore her normal snow boot, but on the other side, she had on her walking boot. The walking boot was somewhat awkward as it was covered, except for the bottom tread, by a puffy, weatherproof sleeve made of tent-like material. What made it look so goofy was the fact that the coverlet was white and plastered all over with black Scottie dogs. The only other print choice she'd had was hearts, and she wasn't exactly a heart person. And even though she'd made considerable progress with her leg since the accident, her gait was still somewhat slower than before. But hey, at least she was walking and not still stuck in a hospital bed.
She inhaled and exhaled loudly through her mouth. The nippy air made her feel wholly alive for the first time in a while, and her head was suddenly spinning with all of the possibilities awaiting her.
At the very least, she would know where Alexander stood and where she stood with him. Nothing was worse than not knowing. She wanted answers and needed to know about him, once and for all. She wasn't going to tolerate any more secrets or mysteries.
Life was too short for games.
Boone had demonstrated that.
She was definitely through playing them with Alexander—and with everyone else, for that matter.
Hannah stepped into the church foyer and was met by a rush of stale, almost fermented air, a cross between library and nursing home. To one side of her, a blow mold nativity scene was set among bales of straw, each figure lifelike and glowing with their eyes positioned on the Christ-child.
She passed by a kneeling shepherd to reach the chapel doors and once she'd stepped inside, she stopped at the mouth of the aisle like a bride awaiting the signal to advance.
The space was grand and beautiful with tidings of the season in every direction. Evergreens flavored the air. Clusters of tiered, flameless candles pulsed with orangish-yellow light—one was situated below a statue of Mary, and another beneath a large print of Jesus nailed to the cross, and still others were around various points of emphasis, most of which highlighted scenes out of the Bible.
Garland ran along the length of the sanctuary, accented every ten or fifteen feet with giant wreaths. On each side of the pulpit were Christmas trees, each of them covered in lights and topped with an angel. And along the center aisle, strands of ribbon connected boughs of greenery attached to the side of every pew.
With each step down the walkway, Hannah could feel her pulse quicken. Her eyes strained to see past the dim lighting.
She nibbled on her lower lip and wiped her palms on the sides of her jeans. She tried to muffle the clunking sound her walking cast made on the stone floor, but she finally gave up. Her plan to catch the Russian off guard was probably already out of the question anyway.
Two-thirds of the way down the aisle, she froze in place.
It was Alexander.
He was standing at the front of the church in a crowd of shadows. He'd been watching her.
His voice echoed throughout the cathedral, reaching out to her with a chilling depth of bass that startled her.
"Hello, Hannah."
His eyes were locked on her, but he didn't move.
The dream she'd had—the vision of him as Satan—briefly flickered into her mind.
"Hello, Alexander," she replied, carefully enunciating her words through short, compact breaths. "It's been a long time."
"Too long," he said with a measured degree of sentiment. "I've missed you."
She didn't answer.
He was walking toward her now, moving very slowly.
Hannah paused, anchoring her hands to the top of a pew. She wanted something to steady her. Just in case.
"Did you miss me?" he asked.
He was closer now. His penetrating stare unnerved her, and it somehow forced her to look away.
It was annoying that he had that effect on her.
"I've been busy," she said noncommittally.
She could now see the whites of his eyes. He reached the bench she stood above and sat down, his gaze skimming along the tops of her tight knuckles.
She jerked her hands behind her body, but it was too late.
He'd seen the ring.
With a sudden surge of conviction bordering on defiance, she realized she had nothing to hide. Let him see it, she thought angrily, straightening her posture and centering her left hand right in front of her waist.
She then sat down slowly on the edge of the pew behind her, mindful not to get too relaxed.
Only a waist-high piece of wood now separated them.
Alexander wanted to reach out to her and touch her. But he didn't.
Hannah sensed his reservation, and the silence that passed between them somehow escalated the tension.
The atmosphere was dense, almost weighted down, as if a theater curtain had encircled them and was poised to spring open at any moment.
She wasn't even exactly sure what he wanted.
And if she was honest with herself, she wasn't even entirely certain anymore what she wanted from him.
For what seemed like an eternity, neither of them spoke.
Occasionally, their gazes would align and bridge the distance between them, but each time, after only a few seconds, one of them would look away.
Alexander was lost in his thoughts. How was he going to tell her? He'd deliberated over this moment time and again in his mind, he'd even planned for it and rehearsed it, but now that it was here—now that he was actually contemplating going through with it—everything was way more intense than he'd ever imagined it would be.
Daunting didn't even begin to explain the extreme sense of trepidation which now resonated in his heart.
He could feel her hesitation… it was like she knew something ominous was coming and was doing everything in her power to avoid it.
