—F. Scott Fitzgerald
Wren
On the drive home, Creed filled me in on what she had learned from her confidential sources and it was disturbing.
It seems after the EMP attacks in space the United Nations conducted a series of investigations to trace the perpetrators and bring them to justice.
Rumours were swirling about a right wing cadre of powerful elites who hatched the plan of collapsing the world-wide net and then using the ensuing chaos to establish right-wing governments in western nations that were sympathetic to the National Party's objectives.
All this was innuendo and conjecture, however, until definite proof could be found tracing the attacks back to this powerful group of wealthy mavericks who sought to band together and establish their own autocracies.
It was the old story of how power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Quade O'Brien was leader of the National Party in Canada but the real influence was felt on the local level where the actual leadership was more murky and difficult to discern.
But at the university level, someone was persuading wealthy donors to exert pressure on the universities to implement programs and policies that favoured the National Party's agenda.
Apparently, I was singled out as a symbolic target to send a message to intellectuals and other dissenters not to speak out against the Party.
So far their attempts had fizzled out—our would-be attacker was arrested and the petition the rabble rousers attempted to circulate against me only garnered fifty signatures.
"You dodged another bullet today," Creed observed, "but you know these extremists will keep on trying to stop you."
"I know," I admitted, "but I can only hope they get exposed and arrested for their attempts and then maybe they'll lose interest."
"And you called me positive, "she smirked. "I think you're dreaming in technicolour."
"Hope springs eternal in the human breast," I countered.
She shook her head, "If you're going to quote Ernest Thayer, just remember how the poem ended—the Mighty Casey struck out."
"Don't worry, I'm aware of hubris and living scared every moment.
But once we were home and relaxing before the fire, the troubles of the day seemed to melt away-that is, until Creed's cell buzzed.
She took the call and I could see by her concerned expression it was not good news.
"What's wrong, Love?" I asked as she put down her cell.
"I've got a tip and I've got to follow this lead. I'd rather stay with you and Happy by the fire, but duty calls."
"I get it—it comes with the territory. Just promise me this—you’ll be careful."
"Always," she whispered, eyes shining, "at the end of the night, I want to come home to my family."
Hearing the word, I instantly got a lump in my throat and had to stifle my emotions.
Watching her drive off into the darkness left me feeling desolate, and that told me how much I had come to depend on her.
I could have worked on lecture prep but decided instead to relax by the fire.
Happy, our retriever pup, was already curled up and asleep and so I poured myself a glass of cab sav and stared into the flames as humans have done for millennia before me.
I refilled my glass and was feeling mellow when there was a knock on the door. I figured it was Creed already returning but opened it to Wren, looking more lovely than she had the night before when she was stunning.
She was in her leather jacket with her long hair down and seemed part of the darkness.
“Hey Prof,” she teased, “did you miss me?”
I figured I had stared a fraction of a second too long and she had noticed. I coloured appropriately and she smiled at her small victory.
“Come in, Wren,” I said, “it’s cold out there tonight.”
She walked in and saw the fire, and the single glass of wine.
“All alone, huh? It’s not good for man to be alone.”
“Are you quoting Genesis,” I smirked.
“Nope, just making an observation.”
“Can I get you a coffee or soft drink?”
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
“It’s wine,” I reminded her.
“That’s fine,” she said with a glint in her eye, “I’m off-duty.”
She sat on the couch close to my seat while I retrieved a wine glass from the kitchen and poured out the rest of the bottle into her glass.
“This is very smooth,” she said sipping it, “Cab sav?”
I nodded, “Yellow Tail.”
“I admire your taste,” she smiled.
I couldn’t help but think she meant in more than wine, and I regretted again being seduced by her charms.
“I just dropped by to update you—Mick MacDonald finally caved and admitted he was hired by the National Party to send you a message. You’re up against some pretty hardcore low lifes who’d stop at nothing if they get paid enough.”
“I’m not going to be intimidated by threats of violence,” I hissed.
Her eyes went wide and she stared at me in surprise.
“I’m not kidding—these perps are dangerous.”
I nodded, “Thanks for the heads-up but I can’t back down on a matter of principle. If push comes to shove, I’ve got a Glock and I’m licensed to carry.”
“You don’t want to go there, Prof, believe me. I’m trying to save your skin here.”
“I get that, but a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
She reached across me to put down her glass but ended up kissing me—hard and long.
“You’re a hard-headed fool,” she rasped, “But I like that.”
I was too shocked and out of breath to reply. I felt frozen and just stared at her.
She gave a little chuckle and caressed my cheek. “Don’t get yourself killed,” she smiled bleakly and stood up and left without looking back.
I figured a storm was coming and was prepared for a tempest, but not this storm—she left me shaking and defenceless and wishing she’d come back.