CHAPTER TWELVE

“Most people stumble over the truth, now and then, but they usually manage to pick themselves up and go on, anyway.” Winston Churchill PPenelope Spence didn’t hesitate. Throwing the sheet off her bare legs she opened the door to the bedroom. The hallway was fi lled with smoke and for the first time she realized the odd buzz she had heard in her dream was the blaring of the smoke detectors in the kitchen. Th e back staircase that led to the kitchen was fully engulfed in flames, while the main staircase was filled with dense smoke but no fire. Dropping low to the floor, she filled her lungs with air and bounded down the stairs, three steps at a time. Flames licked the foyer, forcing her into the great room off to the right. She bolted toward the rear patio door but stopped short when she saw it. The privacy fence around the propane tank was a blaze. It could only be a matter of seconds before the 250 gallons of propane in the recently refilled tank exploded. All doors in the front of the house were blocked with flames and the last place she wanted to be was in the backyard anywhere near the propane tank. Her only chance was the front window. As Penelope gained speed for the impact with the glass of the oversized front window, she relaxed and thought of Michael Walker’s words about letting her mind take her to a diff erent place. . 96 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin I put all of the things that could go wrong out of my thoughts; as I approach the window, I feel time begin to slow. I feel an inner calmness that this is going to work out just fine and I surrender to this feeling. I close my eyes, jump and wait for impact, but there is none. I open my eyes and discover I’m sitting in the middle of my front yard. A quick inventory shows no cuts or bruises; I don’t have a scratch on me. . PPenelope glanced back at the plate glass window. No, that wasn’t possible; the glass in the front window appeared intact. Th e groan of sagging timbers accompanying the collapse of her covered side porch into a pile of burning rubble caused her mind to snap back to reality. “The propane tank…!” Regaining her footing, she charged toward the street and the only object of any size and bulk she had a chance of reaching, her neighbor’s silver Buick Park Avenue Ultra that was parked on the opposite curb. If she could just get behind it. She didn’t make it. As if being lifted by invisible hands Penelope felt herself leaving her feet as the force of the explosion sent her flying through the air. She cleared the roof of the Buick by several inches and had her fall softened by the lush lawn that had been watered only a few hours earlier. She tumbled a few more feet along the wet turf before finally coming to a complete stop in a heap just shy of her neighbor’s front porch. Dogs barked. Car alarms went off . The quiet neighborhood was as bright as midday when the huge fireball erupted from behind the house that had been her home for 26 years, and instantly vaporized most of the walls and roof. Splinters of wood, none larger than a toothpick, began raining down on her. She shielded her face from the heat as fl ames began consuming what little was left of her home. . IIf anyone else told her how lucky she was, Penelope vowed she was going to deck them. What’s lucky about losing the only house you had called home your entire adult life? All of the kids pictures, all of her clothes, her beautiful 97 The Fourth Awakening shoes, her computer, purse, shoes, cell phone, shoes. Every material item she had on this planet, including her precious Prius, which she had made a special point of moving into the garage because she didn’t want to leave it on the street overnight, were all gone in the blink of an eye. The sun was just starting to rise in the east, casting golden fi ngers toward Charleston. As she sat on the tailgate of an EMS wagon with a blanket draped over her shoulders, dressed only in ratty terrycloth running shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, she knew that ignoring her mom’s advice to always wear clean underwear would come back to haunt her someday. All things considered, she was in pretty good shape. Other than smelling like a chimney sweep, she didn’t have a mark on her. Th e fire was under control but the smell of burnt plastic and rubber would linger for weeks. What hadn’t blown up with the house had been incinerated to ash and lay on top of the concrete slab. Other than the chimney and a few wall supports and water pipes, there was absolutely nothing left of Penelope’s home. It was odd to be able to look straight into the backyard from the street and see the sun coming up over the Ashley River. She almost cried when she noticed the two-foot high lump of metal on what had once been her garage floor. All non-metallic parts of her car had long since gone up in fl ames. The heat from the fi re had been so intense it had melted the roof supports, and the sheet metal of the car’s body was now covering the engine and transmission in a blanket of lumpy scorched metal. The houses of her neighbors on both sides were far enough away they had suff ered only minor damage, and thankfully no one was injured. The live oak that threw afternoon shade on the front porch was missing all of its branches on the house side and those that were still attached after the blast were black and charred. Neighbors fi ve houses in all directions had wood splinters and other tiny bits of building material too small to identify littering their roofs and lawns. Penelope looked up as the Captain in charge of the West Ashley fi re station approached. “I’m sorry for your losses, Ms. Spence,” he said as he removed his helmet. “Now you say you went through the window in the family room.” “Yes. Why? “Well, we’re all baffled as to how you got out at all.” “How so?” “You had hurricane-grade windows throughout your home. Th ose 98 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin things are designed to take 190 mph wind. Unless you’ve got solid brick, in most cases those windows are stronger than your walls. In your fi re, with the force of the explosion, many of them blew out as a unit with the frame and glass still intact.” “So.” “Ms. Spence. There is no way a woman your size could have broken through a triple pane hurricane-rated window without breaking the glass fi rst.” “I was having a pretty good adrenaline rush.” “I understand, but in the confusion you may have gone out an open window or door somewhere else.” “What are you saying?” He watched as his men continued to roll up their hoses. “What I’m saying is we found the window you believe you went out but it is still in one piece. The glass is not broken. We don’t know how you got out alive.” “Are you accusing me of arson?” “Lord no, ma’am. We’re all just going to call this one of those miracles we see from time to time and leave it at that. But, I’ll tell you what, I’d put a few extra dollars in the collection plate this week, if it were me. You’ve got a lot to be grateful for this Sunday morning.” Penelope was stunned. If she hadn’t gone through the window, how did she end up in the yard? Was it possible? No. It wasn’t. “We’re going to keep one unit on the scene for a few more hours in case there are any flame-ups. You’re a very lucky woman.” Despite her earlier promise to deck the next person to tell her how lucky she was, she had to admit he might be right. . AAfter her shower, Joey found Penelope some clothes and a pair of running shoes about a half size too big, but they were better than nothing. The two sat in the kitchen sipping coffee with a generous shot of Irish whiskey added. Penelope had managed to reach all of her children to give them the bad news and to let them know she was all right. She hadn’t been able to track down Bill, he was probably out on the boat, but she had left a message on his voice mail. Penelope cradled the cup in both hands and was surprised they were not shaking more. A strange feeling was coursing through her body. She didn’t feel angry or even sad. Despite 99 The Fourth Awakening everything that had happened, she felt grateful. She was still alive; she wasn’t injured, and no one else had been hurt. All of the material things could be replaced, and none of the important things had really changed. Plus now that damn house was gone. Grateful. How odd. Penelope took a sip from her coffee cup and held it out for Joey to top off with more whiskey. Joey poured another jigger and when Penelope didn’t retract her mug, kept pouring. When it threatened to overfl ow, Penelope gingerly drew the ceramic mug to her lips and sipped off enough of the liquid to ensure it wouldn’t spill when she sat it down. She got a mouthful of almost straight Bushmills. Penelope glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall; it was 8:45. In fi fteen minutes Senator Horn would be on Meet the Press and she would see exactly how big of a story the Hermes Project actually was. Right now that didn’t seem so important. She took another pull from her mug. “You make a great cup of coffee, Joey,” she said, finally starting to relax. Joey smiled but didn’t speak. They had been friends long enough that times like these didn’t require words to lend support. Penelope and Joey had met in kindergarten at Charleston’s exclusive school for young women of proper pedigree, Ashley Hall. For over 100 years, the campus located on the peninsula near the College of Charleston and the hospital complex had provided a well-rounded classical education for those who could afford to attend. Penelope and Joey were born to be close friends, being sired from two of the most famous bloodlines in Charleston: the Middletons and the Draytons. Middleton Place and Drayton Hall have stood shoulder to shoulder on the west banks of the Ashley River since before the American Revolution. The two women had followed similar paths their entire lives: excelling in school, then leaving promising careers to marry early, have children, and be active in the community. Each watched as the last child left the nest and the man they had expected to grow old with departed as well. It took Penelope a year to get her legs back under her aft er Bill announced he was leaving. Her weight fl uctuated in a 30-pound range; she fought bouts of depression, with suicide occasionally contemplated. Church didn’t help and most of her “couple” friends gradually stopped calling. If it hadn’t been for Joey, there’s no telling what would have happened. She would drag her to concerts and plays she really didn’t 100 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin want to see. She would take her shopping to “spend the SOB’s money.” When Penelope tearfully called at midnight, Joey came over with a bottle of wine and stayed the night. The friends had grown like two vines on the same tree. Sometimes they would grow in different directions for awhile but they always ended up back together. Now their lives were so intertwined, Penelope couldn’t imagine her life without Joey. The last two days were starting to blur in her memory as her conscious mind began rearranging the facts in such a way to have her quit questioning her sanity. The prison escape clearly couldn’t have happened the way she remembered. People can’t just walk through a wall, although she had appeared to pass through a plate glass window. Maybe Walker hypnotized her in some way; that would explain a lot. Her concentration was broken as her ex-husband, Bill Spence, charged through the front door and into the kitchen. “What the hell happened to the house?” Bill was close enough to being the six feet tall that he had put it on his driver’s license without feeling like he was fudging. An athlete in high school, but not quite good enough to play any sports at the college level, he had kept reasonably fi t until he turned forty. The day he got his first pair of bifocals at forty-two, he started to go to seed. Each passing year or two since had added an inch to his waistline and a bit more volume to his multiplying chins. Now he seldom exercised and his cholesterol score was awful. Normally his complexion was doughboy white from slathering on sun block whenever it was impossible to avoid being in the sun, but right now he was bright pink from agitation. Penelope took another sip of her “coffee” before glaring at her ex. “Oh, I’m fine, Bill, thanks for asking.” Bill, realizing how stupid he sounded, turned back to his normal pale color. “I’m sorry. I just drove past the house and it’s just gone.” The high school sweethearts locked eyes. Where had it gone wrong? They’d had a fairytale life. Three great kids, they were comfortable financially, and she had thought they would love each other forever. Gradually, time and responsibility had sapped it all away. Th ey never actually fell out of love with each other; it had just atrophied. Yesterday, they’d still had two things in common, the kids and the house. Now, another fragile link that had connected them was gone. 101 The Fourth Awakening Joey, wanting to give them privacy, slipped into the adjoining family room. She turned on the television to hear what the distinguished Senator from South Carolina had to say about Michael what’s his name, and maybe explain those bowls. She fl ipped one channel. Then another. Then another. Her left hand flew to her heart as she dropped the remote. “Penelope! Get in here!” The tone and urgency of her friend’s request caused Penelope to slip off her stool and immediately hurry towards the family room. When she saw what was on the television screen, Penelope felt the strength leaving her body like the air from a deflating balloon. The ceramic coffee mug slipped from her fingers, hit the Italian marble tile and shattered. She was on her way to the floor when Bill hooked his arm under hers, breaking her fall. There was a live video feed on CNN originating in front of University Hospital in Columbia. The volume was too low to hear, but a graphic across the bottom of the screen told her everything she needed to know. “Senator Clayton Horn (R-SC) Suffers Massive Stroke. Not Expected to Live.” . IIt took Penelope half an hour before she felt she was composed enough to make rational decisions and take any sort of action. She had to reach Mark Hatchet. Picking up Joey’s phone she dialed the disposable cell phone number he had given her. He answered on the fi rst ring. “Nellie? Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Did you hear about Horn?” “Yes. Did you hear about what happened to me?” There was a long silence. Hatchet could hardly imagine anything Penelope Spence could tell him that would top the sudden collapse of a senior U.S. Senator hours before he was going to lift the sheet covering a secret project he had helped conceal. “No, what happened?” “My house burnt to the ground last night.” “My God, are you hurt?” “I’m fine. I got out just in time.” She wanted to give credit to Michael Walker but had no idea how she could explain it without sounding crazy. Walker! That’s it! Her shoulders straightened and she tossed aside the maudlin funk she had been about to wrap herself in. “Are you still interested in the Hermes Project story?” 102 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin “Are you kidding me? After your story hit the wire and people fi gured out what Horn was going to talk about this morning the entire town started going nuts. Horn refused to give any details ahead of time, and now every news organization in the world is on this story.” “Will Horn’s illness have any impact on my putting everything I saw yesterday on the record?” “I don’t see how. It was a pretty straightforward release, but I’ll run it by legal again. What are you thinking, Nellie?” “Is it still my story?” “I don’t like coincidences. A senator is in intensive care, and your house burns down with you in it.” Penelope Spence pushed aside the fresh cup of alcohol-laced coff ee Joey off ered and reached for the toast that she had refused earlier. She needed to get some solid food in her stomach. Her voice was fi rm, her resolve fixed. “If I can get an exclusive interview with Michael Walker and find the Hermes Project before anyone else, is it still my story?” “Nellie,” Market Hatchet said, “this is getting too dangerous.” “He picked me, Mark. He looked me straight in the eyes and said he had picked me to write this story.” “This is a man who 24 hours ago was in Federal Maximum Security! I can’t let you do this!” Bill Spence and Joey Rickman both gawked at Penelope, trying to figure out what was going on. “Then,” Penelope’s voice was ice cold. “You are releasing me from my obligation to give The Washington Post the story and I will be free to sell it to the highest bidder?” “Nellie…” “Are you releasing me from my commitment?” There was a long silence. “I have already assigned eight other reporters to the story.” “Then I’m freelance?” “Nellie…” “I have a noon appointment to meet the most sought after interview in the free world, Michael Walker.” “You have a what!?” demanded Bill Spence. Penelope glared at her ex-husband briefly, then turned her back on him and continued talking to Hatchet. “Mark, I’m going to do this story with you or without you. It is your call. In or out?” 103 The Fourth Awakening “I’m not going to talk you out of this?” “No. In or out?” There was another long pause. “In.” Penelope checked the clock on the kitchen wall; she had less than two hours. “I need to go. I don’t have much time. I’ll call you when I can.” “We’ve already got the basic stuff from your interview with Walker and his confrontation with Senator Horn ready to go but I’ll hold ten more inches on tomorrow’s front page for you, Nellie. Please be careful.” “I will.” Penelope turned and saw her ex-husband and best friend staring at her with openmouthed wonder. Neither had seen her act like this in years. “Who are you?” Joey said. “And what have you done with Penelope Spence?”