Restoring the Castle Ch. 01

When the terrorist attack was pieced together later, it was discovered that the real interviewee had died in a suspicious traffic accident on the very morning of his scheduled interview. The young man who had shown up in his stead was later to appear, grinning ear to ear, on a film clip sent to Al Jazeera television by the never-before identified terrorist organization, the Muslim Spear, claiming responsibility for the bombing.

* * * *

"I have just a few questions, if you please, miss. Very little information was taken when you were flown in from Jordan. And it was an embassy, so the doctors got right to work without requiring some of the authorizations that servicemen need."

"That's fine. What do you need to know, sergeant? It is sergeant, isn't it?" Ally was peering at the woman soldier's name tag, trying to make out what it said. Her left eye was still covered, although she'd been told there was no permanent damage there—just that the blast had been so bright her cornea was bruised and would need to heal some more before it was exposed to light. In fact, she was told that plastic surgery had taken care of all of the bits of shrapnel that hit her face and leg, and that the only visible scaring she'd have would be on her left arm and torso—and that even that would heal so that the scaring would look more like a red rash than wounds from a bomb. Carefully applied cosmetics would pretty much take care of that if she needed to hide it.

What they didn't tell her was that she'd been saved from the worst of the blast because Chad had been sitting to the left of her and had taken its full force. She didn't have to be told that. She had figured that out herself from everyone's reticence to tell her about Chad other than that he was gone. The only mercy was that he must have been gone immediately.

"Well, we have the name Ally Hunt on the admittance form. The paramedics who came with you on the plane were the ones who provided the information—they say you were mumbling that. But the woman who came with them, the ambassador or someone, called you Ms. Templeton. And we can't get you to come up in the government databases. I think we should get that—"

"The woman who came with me is number two in the embassy. But Hunt? No, I think they must have been mis—" But then she stopped speaking, in horror. She swallowed hard and in a small voice, "Perhaps the paramedics heard me trying to say Huntley. That was my fiancé's name. He was killed in the blast. We were supposed to be married soon, and—"

The sergeant put a hand on top of Ally's, letting her know she needn't go on. Ally looked over at the soldier and saw that her face was lowered so that Ally couldn't see her expression. She turned her hand and squeezed that of the soldier, grateful for the gesture and understanding that that woman was in uniform—that hated khaki—and probably couldn't show more emotion than that. She probably shouldn't be showing the emotion that she was unable to conceal.

Ally was so drained by emotion herself that she was just too tired to fall apart. She did manage to add, "I've probably been in the field for too short a time to have been listed in your databases. For your form, you'd better put Alice Templeton. Alice is my given name. I've just been going by the name Ally for so long that I rarely use the other name. Maybe you'll find me in the databases under Alice Templeton." She had purposely made her voice as steady and businesslike as possible—for the sergeant's benefit.

The sergeant wiped her eyes and nose as surreptitiously as she could with the sleeve of her khaki shirt and picked up her clipboard. "Thanks," she said—and both women knew what she was thankful for. "Mother's name?" she asked, back in her familiar groove.

"Miranda. Miranda Templeton."

"Father."

"You'll need to leave that blank."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry. I have never been told who my father was. And no one was stepping up to the plate on that one, as far as I know. My mother always put her own name in the slot when we were forced to put something. And my mother was a big enough presence to qualify. So, if you must—"

"That's OK. I'll put 'unknown,'" the sergeant answered. "That's what the regs say to use."

"Fine. It doesn't bother me," Ally answered in the half-amused voice she had cultivated for just this situation. She had found that it cut off further discussion, which is exactly what she wanted it to do.

"Birthday?"

"Excuse me, sergeant. Could you step out for a few minutes. I wish to speak with the patient in private." An officer had come into the room and was standing behind the sergeant.

"Yes, of course, major," the sergeant said in a clipped, "yes, sir," manner. She rose quickly with her back ramrod straight and quickstepped out of the room.

The doctor, Major Jackson, a solidly built black man who had, the other doctors said, worked miracles on Ally's plastic surgery, had surprised both Ally and the sergeant by slipping into the room quietly, something he hadn't been prone to do before. His arrival was usually announced with trumpets. His demeanor today was serious and a little sad.

Ally was prepared for some bad news on her condition or recovery schedule.

Major Jackson sat down in the chair the sergeant had vacated, right at the edge of Ally's bed, and took her right hand in his.

"First," he said, "I want you to know that you can transfer back to the States as soon as you need to. We can arrange any follow-up that's needed. And you're coming along very well."

"That's good. But, what is this about? I'm I about to be kicked out? Has State Department coverage reached the end here?"

"No, nothing like that. But . . . but, first—another first—I can tell you that she's fine. A bit of smoke inhalation, but she'll recover—probably before you are fully recovered yourself."

"What is it?" Why was it so hard for these people to step up to bad news? Didn't they know that in the face of Chad's death there was nothing that would knock Ally off her pins—not now, possibly not ever again? And she had been trained for this. Her mother had been the champion indoctrinator of staying tough and calm in the face of bad news.

Her mother.

"My god, You're telling me my mother has set herself on fire again?"

The major gave her a strange look. And then, after a short pause, he said, "Well, something like that. But she didn't burn herself—at least not badly. She was in a house fire."

"The castle? Well, yes, she burned most of the second story of that out years ago—and a good part of the downstairs more recently than that. That's hardly news."

"No, the house burned just a couple of days ago. She was pulled out of it by some sort of housekeeper, but she suffered smoke inhalation."

"Mrs. Aylor? Lois Aylor? She pulled my mother out? They were still in the castle? My mother was still living in the castle?"

"Yes, apparently so. But why do you call it 'the castle'? And you don't seem surprised."

"I'm not surprised, no. My mother's a chain smoker and nothing in the world has gotten in the way of that in her life. She goes to sleep smoking, and there's a fire. More than two decades ago she burned most of the second story off the castle completely, and seven years ago ruined most of the first floor too. I had no idea she was still living in it. And I called it the castle, because that's what it is. My mother lives in a castle—in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Crazy, right? But that's my mother."

"So, what is it you want to do?" the major asked.

"I guess I need to go to Virginia at least long enough to see what's going on. As soon as you say I can go. State has given me a year's leave to decide what I want to do going forward. I can't go back to Amman. That's for sure."