Frozen Camelot (eBook)

Chapter 1

Thursday, August 25th, 2001

Hanover, New Hampshire

There is a tranquil quality to morning sun. Emily Dickenson had described it as rising one ribbon at a time, allowing steeples to swim lazily in amethyst. However, on this particular morning, the four-and-a-half-billion-year-old ball of fury was being a bit more direct. With the flat of my hand, I shaded my eyes before crossing the street. The blare of a car horn froze me in my tracks. I looked up, only to see the annoyed driver shoot me a stern look of admonishment before driving off. Today I was to report to a new job, and in my nervous haste, I had forgotten my sunglasses. Cursing my stupidity, I looked at my watch: 7:45. Not enough time to go back; besides, I was almost there. I picked up the pace and thought about my new endeavor.

Two weeks earlier, I had discovered the job from a posting in a wadded-up copy of the D, Dartmouth’s student newspaper. The heading read, “Wanted: reliable and trustworthy groundskeeper. Flexible hours. Applicants apply by phone.” When I called the number, an automated machine had drummed on and on, peppering me with a stream of exhausting questions. What was my Social Security number? What was my date of birth? Where had I been born? Had I ever been convicted of a crime? The entire automated call lasted over thirty minutes. Several times, I considered hanging up. Despite my sense of frustration and futility, a few days later, a woman called to confirm that I was being offered the position. She explained the basic nature of my job and where I needed to go to complete a drug screen and—to my dismay—a background check and fingerprinting. Now, almost there, I wondered about the paranoia of my new employer.

From the street, the entrance was like nothing I had ever seen. I pulled a paper from my pocket and checked the address. Four sixty-three Holland, so I was in the right place. The woman on the phone had described it as a private residence, but this was more like the gateway to a theme park or a zoo. A long driveway led inwards towards an enormous gate. Overhead, dark twisted branches of mature white oaks stretched skyward, forming a cool shaded tunnel. As I walked forward, morning sunlight broke through the leaves, causing the ground to come alive.

A small shack, bristling with antennas, stood defiantly in front of the gate. One of three serious-looking guards stepped from the building and made his way towards me.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, sir. I’m Kevin Henry. I’m supposed to start work here today.”

The guard shifted his weight. His boney hand coming to a rest on top of a large gun holstered lazily to his side. The awkward image of Barney Fife, from The Andy Griffith Show, suddenly popped into my head, specifically, the scene in which Andy tells Barney that he can no longer carry a loaded gun. I couldn’t help but wonder whether the little man had a single bullet safely quarantined in the pocket of his shirt.

“What sort of work are you supposed to be doing here?” he asked, turning his nasal voice.

I pulled the paper from my pocket. “Groundskeeper. Mowing the lawn and stuff.”

“Huh,” he said, snatching the paper from my hand. “You say your name is Henry?”

“Kevin Henry,” I repeated slowly.

He studied me for a moment as if I would crack and admit that Kevin Henry was an alias. He shifted his weight back to the other side and studied the paper. After several moments, he said, “You wait right here. Understand?”

“Alrighty,” I said in a slightly teasing way.

He flashed a look of annoyance before he made his way back to the little shack. Through the glass, I could see he was making a phone call.

I turned my attention to the gate. It was tall. Twelve, maybe thirteen feet high, and solid except for a row of square openings the size of pizza boxes along its top. I stood up on my toes in an attempt to peek through one of the openings but could only make out a tree on the other side.

A few minutes passed before the cocky guard stepped back out from the shack. He flung his arm in the air, waving me towards him. The giant gate began to swing open. It made a screeching sound, which seemed to indicate it rarely moved.

“You see that little building up there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s the personnel office. Go straight up there. No wandering around. You understand?”

I nodded.

“Go inside and ask for Mrs. Hines. She’ll get you handled.”

He handed the paper back to me, his eyes never wavering.

“Thanks,” I said. I stuffed the tattered mess in my pocket.

I walked through the gate and made my way up the drive. Its curved path eventually revealed a large Tudor-style mansion beyond the little building. The grass and bushes along the drive were beautifully manicured. Mounded beds of tulips, marigolds, and lilies exploded between red-leafed dogwoods. Everything appeared newly planted, and yet, like any slice of heaven, there was a lasting presence, as if everything had always been there.

A buzzing sound caught my attention. I looked up and spotted a camera perched on a pole. It began tracking me as I walked. I turned my attention back to the small building and noticed more cameras on its sharply pitched roof. The security of this place was intense and left me wondering who or what it was designed to protect.

The little building was done in an English style that matched that of the main house, but its door was glass, like that of an office building. I pulled on it and went inside. Green linoleum crackled under my weight, causing a woman to step from a cubicle.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m here to see Mrs. Hines.”

“You must be Kevin. Have a seat, and I will be right with you.”

Mrs. Hines was an attractive woman in her early to middle forties. Her hair was blonde, and she wore a tight-fitting leopard-print skirt. I wondered whether she was the woman who had called to confirm my hire.

I turned and found a row of plastic chairs against one of the walls. Settling in one, I examined the rest of the room. Like the glass door, nothing matched the opulence of the building’s exterior. Instead, it was the kind of room the IRS would have dreamt up. Olive-green desks, made of government metal. No paintings. No carpet. Just a plain drab work environment. Even the phones were simple and outdated. A humming sound with an occasional clatter came from a small window-mounted air conditioner which was clearly past any kind of a warranty.

The floor crackled again. I watched a man in a dark suit walk in. He stopped, took one look at me, and then disappeared behind the cubicle Mrs. Hines occupied. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but after a few seconds, I heard my name. I strained my neck to hear more, only to watch the man reemerge. This time, I could see that he was wearing an earpiece. It was attached to a curly wire that came down and disappeared into his collar. He glanced in my direction before walking out the door.

“Kevin,” Mrs. Hines said.

“Yes,” I said, standing.

“Go ahead and fill out these forms while I make a copy of your driver’s license and your Social Security card.”

Mrs. Hines handed me a clipboard while I dug through my pocket.

“I see that you’ve already completed your drug screen and background check. Fingerprints are here as well. Excellent. Everything looks good. As soon as you’re done, you can go see Mr. Ferris in the toolshed.”

“Yes, ma’am. Where is that?”

She pointed to a screen door at the rear of the office. “Right through that door and across the lawn.”

Once I arrived at the toolshed, I saw several lawn tractors and lawnmowers crowded near the entrance. Layers of dried grass and dirt were caked to the sides of the machines, giving the shop a musty smell. Against the far wall, bags of fertilizer and topsoil were neatly stacked, while a desk, flanked with garden tools, sat at the other. An older Black man was sitting at the desk stuffing a pipe, his shiny bald head illuminated by dusty spears of light streaming through a skylight.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you Mr. Ferris?”

The man turned to look at me. He was thin but had a muscular build, suggesting a life of hard work.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Kevin. I was told to report to you.”

“Report to me?”

I held out the paper. “Yes, sir. For work. I’m the new
groundskeeper.”

Mr. Ferris stood. He took the paper and threw it on the desk, where it landed next to a pile of others. Without looking, he opened a drawer and pulled out a wooden match. With one smooth motion, he flicked it across the desk and lit the pipe. He took a long draw before speaking. “You ever worked grounds before?”

“Yes, sir. Back home, I worked at a golf course.”

He took another long draw. Light sweet smoke filled the air.

“Where’s back home?”

Lakewood, Colorado; it’s a suburb of...