The System

By Barbara Bondar

Daria Kubelek returns to the scene of a career defeat when her old employer contracts her services from the Detroit think tank where she is now a prized corporate strategist. Facing betrayal as her contract ends, Daria uncovers embezzlement, drug dealing, and a suspicious death. As tensions rise, the system lights a fuse that blows it apart forcing Daria to aid her opponents and track a terrorist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Bondar
• Release date: Jul 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9780920463253

Barbara Bondar

A playwright and award-winning author of over 24 highly praised, educational, and trade books, Barbara Bondar has produced most of her work by commission. This includes development of variable field, relational databases, library and cataloguing systems (public and private), manual and text evaluation and creation, several series (fiction, non-fiction, audiocassettes, educational television), interactive games, and many single titles for publishers across North America. Addicted to technology, she ventures here into e-publication to exercise her eager grey cells.

Book preview

Chapter One

Because he was vigilant, he saw it first, a clumsy darkness moving toward them across the gray asphalt like a child's shadow puppet.

The parking lot was ill conceived as a place of transfer. The Yorkdale mall was never quiet. The restaurant at the corner of the shopping complex was only now closing and no one hurried on so sweet a night as this.

He sighed wearily. His son accommodated their wealthy American comrades because they did not know Toronto. He had delegated authority to his son to plan the place of meeting. He would talk to his son later. A good cell leader learned from mistakes and never repeated them.

At their next assignation, these Americans would have to spend time in the city before such a transfer. What you could learn about one city might be of use in another. And these explosives were worth the commitment of time. When his work was finished here in July, he was to join the Americans in New York to coordinate their efforts with the cell in California. He hoped this rush-rush-rush did not augur poorly for the future. This was not the way of things done properly. Rushing a thing always led to trouble.

With a sharp hand signal, he stilled his son and the Americans. He smiled inwardly to see them lose what little color they had in this murky light. They watched him, hung on his moves like wet cloth. He had now shown them firsthand the benefit of caution. He had seen the shadow first. He knew exactly what caused it and, while they crouched immobilized by fear and fought to control their bladders, he would also demonstrate what one did with witnesses.

Six weeks from now, when he arrived in New York, everyone in the cell would know that his ways were best.

He licked his lips in anticipation and fingered the knife that was always near to hand. They would follow his lead. His blood rushed and there was nothing in the world for him at that moment but his prey. He would get close enough to smell it. And frighten it. And hurt it. Then run it easily to ground, enjoying its stupid panic, feeling arousal and exhilaration all at once as he watched it die.

How he had missed the sport.

He waited, chest deep in the pool of darkness between the closest functioning parking lot lights. As his eyes tracked, his brain counted down the seconds to encounter.

The youth was under the influence of something. See the eyes, he wanted to ask his son and the Americans frozen on the shore of deep shadow? See how it walks? An insect that has removed one of its own wings. Every step proclaiming lack of control. How he despised lack of control. It seemed the hallmark of North American men.

He could hear it breathing now. Shallow, slow breaths. Its eyes peering intently without seeing.

Time. He snapped his arm to the right in a graceful arc, his knife a transient sliver of light.

He felt the contact of the blade – in and away, an expert fillet. He felt the right side of his mouth curve upward, the outward punctuation of his internal pleasure.

His victim examined its own blood on its upturned palms. It spread its fingers and let the liquid drip between them.

Finally, he heard his prey gasp. Watched its eyes squeeze shut, then open again in a squint.

He shook his head slightly. Drugs.

He wondered what it felt. He could see the flared nostrils, the perspiration above its lip. Was it aware of pain? Did it feel the pain consciously or did its drugged brain translate such sensation into some pleasurable phenomenon? He was sorry not to know.

A brilliant light drenched them as a car swung away from the restaurant, the driver, seeking exit. His target lurched unsteadily in the moving light. The driver of the car had not seen them. The car bumped the curb and the headlights flickered up for an instant. When they again flooded the parking lot on their way to the main road, he watched his prey struggle to an alley.

Curious to see how long it would take his quarry to die, he followed it quietly down the garbage-strewn alley toward Dufferin Street. It slipped in the muddy ooze beneath. The shimmer of the city's distant glow on its surface beckoned.

An earthmover loomed up before them. His prey slithered toward the machine, its knees and one hand slapping in the flooded alley.

At the edge of the earthmover, the broken pavement gave way and he watched the dying boy slip into a hole, his body almost lost from sight.

He heard its sigh and imagined the cool mud and ooze from the broken main had brought it temporary relief.

He knelt at the edge of the broken pavement, careful not to touch his slacks to the foul liquid. He watched his prey open its mouth and immediately choke on the mud, its eyes open wide and its body make a desperate final bid for air.

Interesting, he thought, how quietly died a slave to drugs. Perhaps if slave-traders had dispensed drugs, slavery would not have been abolished. A good use for today's criminals, too. Drugged, doing whatever labor needed their efforts.

He shifted until he sat comfortably on his heels and smiled kindly into the boy's twitching face. Then he stood and walked a slab of asphalt over to the earthmover, wrestling it into the hole.

He listened. The constant drone of distant expressway traffic mingled with the convulsive slurp of the broken sewage main. The slurping pleased him. It was a metaphor for Death.

He chuckled once and turned back into the alley to his chastened pupils.

* * *

Rafaello Esposti forced his fingertips to release the harsh brick of the wall. He struggled against the darkness that closed its fist around him. He had to move. He had to vomit. Couldn't vomit against a wall.

Why hadn't he just gone home?

Why had he waited to prove Bruno needed his help?

If he had waited closer to the restaurant his best friend would still be alive.

Rafaello leaned out over his Nike Airs and vomited again.

Bruno. Gutted like a fish. Like a fucking fish. His best friend.

Worse.

This time he did not vomit for the loss of his friend but for his own cowardice. He had seen the attack but had instinctively hidden behind this corner wall flattening himself, cutting his fingers in a panicked effort to be invisible. So no filleting knife would find his guts.

Now he didn't know where Bruno was.

But he wouldn't be alive. Not when you heard the guy's guts peeing all over the parking lot.

This time he heaved over his shoes. He vomited nothing. Maybe it was his soul trying to leave. His soul that had stayed for sin after sin. Only he'd never hidden before, never run out on his friend before, never left anyone to die before, never just watched and did nothing. This was the greatest sin of his life. He swiped at his mouth with his sleeve.

He should call someone.

The police? And be grilled about their drug trade?

He should call someone.

Bruno's parents? Who constantly beat him?

There was no one to tell.

It was a story you swallowed.

* * *

Eddie Jonah shifted his bulk behind the wheel of his Oldsmobile 98. The Olds hid in the oily dark cast by a large construction trailer at the edge of the Yorkdale parking lot. Eddie crammed the last of the Laura Secord almond bark into his mouth. He was not a happy man.

He suspected Bruno was on some drug high. But tonight he better show up, thought Eddie. Wouldn't do for his head junkie to keep missing appointments. If the other kids knew how he tolerated Bruno's sass, his organization would fall apart in no time.

Besides, he'd spent a long time with Bruno, grooming him. Getting better and more stuff for him to push. He hadn't counted on Bruno's getting into the research, though. That's what the smart-ass called his occasional highs – research.

Eddie smiled indulgently. Face it, Man, you're in lust with that damn wop. He felt the stir in his slacks and rubbed himself fondly. Maybe Bruno's desire and his desire could work out for their mutual benefit. If he could get the kid's candy ass into porn films, he could quit his day job. That's where he could be up to his knees in virtually-risk-free money. And up to his gonads in eager sweet ass.

He slapped the empty chocolate box onto the passenger seat and peered out into the dark. Where the hell was Bruno? They always met here. Even high, that kid never went later than the second night.

Shadows danced across the lot to his left.

Thinking it might be Bruno, Jonah grabbed for his Nikon binoculars. Watch the kid's moves over to him. Sweet candy ass. He groaned with rising pleasure.

He focused on the two parked vehicles that had sat by themselves since shortly after his own arrival. One dark van, one long dark American built auto. What was going down after all this time?

He watched, excitement now from knowing this type of quick, furtive activity could not be legal. The vehicles sat dead center in one of the few places unlit by Yorkdale spotlights. He could just make out some men shapes transfer heavy boxes from the van to the car. He knew what kind of appliances would make those boxes so awkward. He just knew. The van guys had some stereos and TVs and the car guys were taking them out of the boxes and repacking the goods into their car.

Well, well. And they didn't know they had a witness. Could this mean he might get one of those TV wall units he'd priced at Leon's?

He'd just slip away behind that dark van, slick as a baby's bum. Then he'd send one of his runners off with a short onetime TV-for-silence note. They'd drop off the unit to one of the schools he knew, he'd have it picked up by courier and watch his porn movies larger than life. In stereo sound.

Eddie clapped his hands together in pleasure. Bruno'd eventually show up and he would for sure plunk his tail down for a spell in front of the new TV. It was get lucky time for Eddie, no shit.

Small time hoods were no match for a guy with his credentials.

Monday May 23

Chapter Two

Almost absently, Daria Kubelek watched her pencil trace over the power pyramid in her systems. Sport psychologists called it visualizing.

In the Futurus system, the top box represented the Chief Executive Officer who had invited her to join the Detroit-based futures think-tank. And invited to enter right here, she cheered herself, tapping one of two smaller boxes underneath the CEO. Each box represented a vice-presidential position – one marked Implementation, the other, Strategies. She was currently in one of five equal-sized boxes in the third row, one for each of the project developers, just a few weeks and only this project removed from the end of the probationary year that would see her move into the more lucrative second row. And more powerful, which was always better. She turned her pencil sideways and shaded in the box. Looking good.

System Two she knew much better since she’d spent half her professional life in it. Correction, in an older version. Until the older system had passed her much-deserved promotion on to another. The long box at the top represented the Chairman of the Board and his Merry Minions, elected trustees all. Underneath sat a smaller box representing the Director of Education that the trustees hired – the current man from outside the system in the chairman’s so-far-unchecked bid for power over employees.

In the third row sat three equal-sized boxes, one each for the Superintendents, senior administrators competitively chosen from the system’s teachers. There was unspoken swank rank amongst the Trinity. Lowest in snob appeal, the Superintendent of Plant was responsible for all physical properties from real estate and tax rates to pencils and paper. With higher cachet, the Superintendent of Personnel was responsible for all staff, teacher-pupil ratios, and hiring and review policy from school libraries to laundry. The plum was Superintendent of Curriculum, arbiter of the what, where, how, why, and when of anything taught from pre-school to professional and adult education.

Her eyes strayed up to the Director’s box that beckoned so. A year ago, when it had opened up – initially unadvertised – Hutton had quietly applied for the vacancy. It was an unparalleled platform for high profile and prime time advocacy. For which position, there had seemed no one better suited than herself. Except, apparently, to the deadlocked trustees who played a wildcard and offered the position to a man outside the system and near retirement. She had switched to Plan B and signed with Futurus. Hutton, planless, had died inconveniently after she’d accepted the Futurus offer. Ornery old git.

And his widow about to descend upon her.

Daria checked the clock. Not for a few more minutes.

She moved the two charts side by side. Definitely better off in system one than she had been in system two. At Futurus, like the muffler place, she was treated as a somebody. And paid with respect for her talent, credentials, and drawing power in the northeast of the continent.

It was no small irritation that she’d had to leave town to be appreciated. Here she was again, phoenix-like. Only this time, because of government restructuring, hired through Futurus by a new super agency responsible to millions of taxpayers. The Metropolitan Education Authority was not a year old yet and unsteady as any infant. But an infant that showed promise, she conceded, since it had hired her to finish the outreach work she’d begun years ago. Work they could have had for a third the price if the swallowed up York Chase Board had valued their resources in the first place. Justice. Har.

The only thing missing was F. F. Hutton. Crotchety old fart. She would have taken such delight in watching his face try to make nice … with her hired back at a power level above his grizzled head.

Startled by the sudden vibrations of the Futurus cell phone in her jacket, she grabbed for it and slapped it open.

Toe Kristoff’s voice boomed into her ear.

They still treating you well?

Quite respectfully.

So you can go back again. How much longer, you think?

She felt the smile on her face as she talked with him. He was approachable, called often and seemed to genuinely value not only what she brought to the company but herself. Maybe that’s what all football Hall of Famers were like. From MVP on a national championship Wolverine team to his final winning kicks in two back-to-back Super Bowls. He probably could have run for president. That was the scuttlebutt on Jefferson Avenue. Probably his pick of any corporate board in any state but he had chosen to stay in his native Detroit. He worked seven days a week to make it a better place to live than it had been in his youth when a talented black male could choose between sports teams for employment. He had her vote locked up.

"Now here comes the capitalist mantra. Keep your eagle eye on the bottom line. We want referrals, future contracts, profit.

In Toronto, remember, they're going to try to squeeze more from you than our contract stipulates because you were one of them.

My scars are too fresh.

OK. But watch out. Problems are your catnip. The closer to the goal, the more problems.

I’m in the red zone now and looking forward to the post game party.

Good. I like that. We'll be flying you back here for meetings in about a month. We are going after New York State!

Daria enjoyed the shock of excitement. I'm up for it.

Great. Because that’s approximately your anniversary. You’ll be veep here by then. At you later.

Daria inhaled deeply as she replaced the cell. Who could not get caught up? The legendary Toe Kristoff. Who’d returned her in triumph to the Board who’d done her wrong. In style. And now the promise of influence in a state like New York? As Vice-President of Strategies. Be still my heart.

A tentative knock on the door brought Daria to her feet.

Ah … the Widow Hutton. What could she possibly want?

Daria extended her hand to Mrs. Hutton.

Mrs. Hutton returned it crisply. She paused, holding the handle of a scuffed old leather case with both hands. I like a woman’s touch in this building, she said after a long look about the room. Her voice was quietly firm. Her gaze when she met Daria’s eyes, steady, relaxed. Myra. The name came to her from long-ago, smoke-filled staff party. She was older, softer than Daria remembered.

Good of you to see me on the last of the holiday.

Daria smiled. Most senior people are in at least part of today for a few hours catch-up without phones, buzzers, and bells.

They sat together on the couch to one side of the room.

I expect you wondered what I might want. Myra smiled impishly.

Daria laughed. And you’ll have to tell me right off because I can’t even guess.

Still smiling, Myra centered the old briefcase on her lap. She turned the luggage tag tied to the handle so Daria could read it.

The label held Daria’s name, printed in pencil, and followed by several question marks. She recognized the calligraphy and let her puzzlement show.

My name in Frank’s printing. I don’t understand. Daria took her eyes from the tag and squinted at Myra.

Neither do I. Myra lifted the case and shook it with both hands. A few items rattled inside. Very few. I also don’t understand why it was bricked into the barbecue Frank built last spring.

Daria felt her eyebrows rise with astonishment.

Exactly.

How did you know it was there? asked Daria.

I didn’t. It was a fluke. Gordie, he’s our oldest, was standing with the workmen. They're extending the foundation to expand my kitchen so the barbecue had to go. Do you know what it is?

Daria shook her head.

Myra handed her the bag. I can’t figure it out either. But it’s obviously something about school and you’re the only one I guess he wanted to have it. It may just be garbage but I leave that decision to you. The briefcase as well. I gave it to him when he made principal of his first school. She looked off across the room to a far away place where even Daria couldn’t see her tears.

Daria extended her hands to take the satchel. She was surprised how moved she felt.

Myra placed it gently into Daria’s hands and rose. That’s it, you’ll be glad to know. She took a step back.

Daria rose. So awkward, she thought. How have you done this year? For yourself and your future, I mean. She fitted her hand into Myra’s arm.

It gets better. Gordie is such a help. His wife. My grandchildren. And Frank worked late so often. Her voiced trailed off.

I’m so sorry. I was back in The States and didn’t hear about Frank until weeks later.

Yes. I remember your card.

It was more than Daria remembered. I often think sudden death is worse on us survivors than the lingering kind.

Myra nodded. She paused at the door. I try not to think about it. I was away at my sister’s and I still haven’t forgiven myself. Gordie found him, arms across the bed table, the water glass knocked over. We think Frank was overtired when he went to bed and forgot to set out his meds. Then when he reached for them in the night…. Her eyes filled.

Daria turned and took her time to set the case, just so, on the floor behind her. When she straightened, Myra’s eyes were dry; her shoulders, back.

Thank you, Daria. She motioned for Daria not to speak. I think that’s why he wrote your name. You do what needs doing.

Daria Kubelek examined the scuffed leather briefcase stamped with faded gilt letters. If you knew what to look for, you could make out the F.F.H. Being bricked into a backyard barbecue hadn't helped its condition.

She tried to put herself into Myra’s head. Why not simply throw this into the garbage? Or give a grandchild the satchel for traveling and fill it with crayons and paper and other quiet fun? Why make the trip through metro traffic, all the way up to the most northerly section of the city some fifteen miles from her home in The Beaches? Perhaps Myra still resented good old Frank falling to the machinations of Board politics.

Perhaps the Widow Hutton had brought these articles in because she didn't like Daria's male counterparts … who had also been her late husband's competition. Former, she corrected herself. Former colleagues. Former competition. Hutton was dead. Now, as an outside contract worker, neither Daria nor her mandate threatened Hutton. Or his memory.

All of which begged the question why F.F. had buried the satchel in the first place.

Daria giggled. In the last place, actually. A dismantled barbecue.

Daria examined the contents again. Two rubber stamps bore the written signature of Ken Rains, whom she remembered peripherally as a high school principal. A foolscap sheet displayed impressions of those stamps progressing to perfect signature imitations by the bottom of the page. An old, punched batch-processing card held the name of the school and Department of Plant printed on it. There was a used resealable plastic bag and a napkin with some kind of bird doodle on it ... maybe a chicken on a spit. In total, absolutely useless junk.

Why on earth would a man as cut and dried and by-the-book as Hutton value these? Then keep them in a safe? With her name on it? She tried to think of their few conversations together. There wasn’t much to remember. He was not important in her professional circle until the last semester of her last year when they had each applied for the same job.

He had been Superintendent of Plant. Probably since cave writing. She had become Superintendent of Curriculum. OK, acting superintendent. It had been no small irritation to visualize her place with a dotted line that represented the acting in her official title. She was acting whereas F.F. had once been the real ticket, a box with a solid line.

Resigning their positions had been the key. Cute, now she thought about it from the safe calm of her present position. The Board had rid itself of both Hutton and her. There had been no advertisement for the position of Director. No intimation that it might go to anyone outside the system. Carefully engineered, that was. She could understand why she needed terminating. She threatened the status quo too many times, used too much money for student programs when it could have been spent on trustee trips and clandestine expenses. But Hutton? He hadn’t done an inventive thing since … well … since before recorded history, as she knew it, however much the Widow Hutton might be tearful over his first appointment.

She held the satchel carefully with two fingers and looked first at the wastebasket, then at her file cabinet. She settled for a space at the edge of the catch-all closet where it could enjoy a short stay and perhaps spare the Widow Hutton's sensibilities if the old dear made another of her impromptu visits.

The telephone jangled. She glared at the light flashing above the word Chairman. Such a sweetheart. She snapped off the ringer. Dr. Fenton could try his muscle on the office pool. Good luck. Muscle was his chief tactic. He wanted her to showcase one of his sidekicks in her Futurus community outreach programs for immigrants. His memo said he knew they could work together. Which meant that as long as she worked, they'd be together.

She returned to wrestling the details needed to bring in her multi-million dollar contract ahead of time, below budget, and with lucrative renewal options. While she developed guidelines for corporate sponsorship, might she not also take a flier at program sustaining endowments from corporations, individuals, and government funding agencies?

Then, too, there was the little problem of her mystery office visitor. Who would bother? Would someone benefit from her failure? Lose from her success? Was she jumping to conclusions? She was paid to jump around.

Too much thinking. Too much passion. Be cool. Stay cool.

The boys didn't like passion in administrators. They thought it was a woman thing. The boys hadn't figured out how to work with women on a team because they'd only seen women one way – on dates, in the sack, in marriages – someone to bully, to control. So the lesson was clear: don't get involved in anything that rocks the boys' boat and you can sit at the back. She enjoyed her seat, at the moment. It was a great place for planning a hijack.

She’d see this project through so no administrator or splinter group was offended. She could forge co-operation when her project programs were up and running. They would speak eloquently of yet another Kubelek success. Much as she enjoyed the challenge, she enjoyed the high profile that one day might translate into partnership and stepped stock options. Was somewhere deep inside a corruptibility factor lurking to trip her up?

Toe was right. Eye on the ball. It paid not to get involved in politics.

Still. Not the easiest thing keeping your passions cooped up. Like a kennel of pitbulls.

Tuesday May 24

Chapter Three

MacPherson Secondary occupies an entire block of prime real estate in the Knuckle.

The main building stands three stories, encased in concrete blocks. Teaching staffs call the style Penitentiary Modern. The basic gray invests the school with indefinite age and it appears to new students and staff to have guarded secondary education forever, once under the rheumy eye of Kenneth A. Rains, B. Ed.

MacPherson's three wings were the Board's experimental archetype in prefabrication.

The first wing houses the wood and metal shops. When this single story of patterned concrete spread out into the worn landscape at a right angle and dead center to the main building, the school had acquired the shape that prompted countless remarks about Rains' Model T.

The commercial and business classrooms, located in the second wing, are enclosed in narrow prefabricated slabs of smooth concrete. Added at a right angle from the north end of the main block, this two-story wing modified the school's shape to F and the countless remarks to Rains' Folly.

The third wing, in prefab slabs of textured concrete, houses the physical education facilities and evened the overall school structure to an E.

Rains' Alphabet.

The trees continue to lose ground to the encroaching asphalt of staff and student parking lots and the organized playing fields. The grass fares better. The stubborn green holds out in a narrow strip on the northeast side of the block where it daily supports most students.

The only other areas available to students are the two cinder courtyards partially enclosed by the three