Autumn (Four Seasons Book 1) Read online

  Autumn

  By Robert Sullivan

  Copyright © 2017 by Robert Sullivan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover photo by Joseph Marney

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  To the Bishop Carroll Class of 2010, as I promised so long ago.

  Prologue

  After over two and a half centuries of growth, the United States was faltering.

  As the 21st Century limped into its middle years, American prestige and hegemony had started to dwindle globally. As 2040 began, the world was beginning to devolve into local and regional conflicts that American power could no longer forestall. The European bloc had been brought to the brink of destruction as Russian aggression threatened the whole continent. The Middle East was in the hands of an Islamic nation that stretched from the Jordan to the Persian Gulf down to the Arabian Peninsula. China and Japan were at each other’s throats over Korea. With the powers of the world looking the other way, Africa began to devolve into tribal control once again.

  The United States was powerless to stop it. Domestic unrest was roiling the American homeland from end to end and the government in Washington was powerless to do anything about the turmoil overseas. As the century had worn on, the two-party dichotomy that had controlled the United States almost from its inception had fallen apart. The Republicans were fractured between Evangelical, Center, and Conservative wings and the Democrats either joined the Center or became the new Progressive Party.

  The four parties proved to be ineffectual at governing. No party had had an outright majority in over a decade and decision making increasingly came from a burgeoning bureaucracy instead of the halls of Congress. Even the revolving door of Presidents could do little to stop the growing control of these unelected officials. In the 2030s, a new political party made up of castoffs from the other four arose promising to end the corruption in Washington and make the nation strong again. They were named the Globalists.

  The Globalists were an enigma in a party system where one political belief defined the entire party. Their members composed of all walks of life, of all creeds, races, and classes. They only shared the common desire to restore American power and prestige in the world and bring order out of chaos.

  In the 2038 elections, the Globalists had made a modest showing, gaining 60 seats in the House, mainly in districts in the Northeast and Great Lakes regions, along with a handful of Senators. They were still fourth, only ahead of the Evangelicals who only had enough members to be a part of a coalition. When the 126th Congress convened in 2039, a coalition of Center and Evangelicals controlled it. Fortunately for the moderates, one of their own happened to be the President, who name was Alfred Hoch. Despite this advantage, the ruling majority coalition could not stop the economic morass, nor the civil unrest that still pervaded the nation.

  As the 2040 Presidential election campaign started in earnest, the Globalists looked to expand on their fourth-place finish and get control of the White House at the very least. With caucuses and primaries a month away, the Globalists had good reason to look forward to the New Year.

  Chapter One

  Greg Carlton

  A weak shaft of the winter sunlight snuck through a hole in the moth-eaten curtains and landed on Greg Carlton’s face. The light, weak though it was, was just enough to wake the hungover man. Greg lay there for a moment, moving only to get the light out of his face. The alcohol he had consumed in last night’s New Year’s celebration, if it could be called that, was making a painful exit from his system and the light was not helping.

  Greg clambered out of bed and struggled to get his medium frame to the bathroom to take pain medication. He reached the bathroom and dry swallowed the medication, hoping to alleviate the pain rampaging through his head. For a moment, he stared in the mirror, looking at his worn face, though he was only 30. This brown hair had a fleck or two of grey already and wrinkles were already developing around his eyes. He sighed heavily and returned to the bedroom.

  To his great fortune, the New Year had fallen on a Sunday and he did not have to be at work at all that day. Though his job as a spokesman for a small federal agency in charge of maintaining peace in his home city of New York made him want to drink more often, he showed some restraint as it would look bad to the perpetually outraged or worried denizens of the huge city. His agency was supposed to work in tandem with local elements such as the NYPD to stop the riots, demonstrations, and other acts of violence that pervaded the city. The only problem was that his agency was terrible at their job and he was forced to explain away their ineptitude often. Hence the drinking.

  Greg had initially sought a more active role in the agency after he had seen what the unrest was doing to his city. He had been very proud to be a New Yorker and wanted to do some good for the city. Initially he had accepted the spokesman role as an entry level position of sorts into the agency. How he would go from there to an investigator had been unclear, but he at least had his foot in the door. Even as the job soured rapidly, he still held out hope that he would be able to do some good.

  At least, that was what he thought until his world was shattered.

  When he started his job as a spokesman, he met a young woman named Veronica who was also in the agency. They quickly hit it off and within a few months were engaged. Before the wedding could happen though, a riot that their agency had no prior knowledge of broke out in Brooklyn. Greg stayed behind as Veronica went out to try to quell the violence.

  Even two years after the incident, the agency still had her officially listed as missing, but Greg believed that she was not coming back. He had held out hopes for months that she would come back, but as time wore on, that hope dwindled towards nothingness. There had been no official word from the agency about when and where she had gone missing; the riot had been too chaotic when she was known to have arrived on scene. Officials lost track of her soon after that and it had taken d
ays for the riot to be quelled.

  Greg was only now recovering from the loss. He had no motivation to carry on with his goal of advancing in the agency at that point and merely stayed as the increasingly disillusioned spokesman. The drinking came not long after Veronica’s disappearance, but to his credit it never directly affected his performance on the job. Even though it was ineffectual, the agency was still constantly badgered by media outlets and families trying to seek safety for their city. Greg needed to be coherent at his job to be able to handle that constant attention the agency received.

  Now laying back on the bed, Greg let the pain of the hangover begin to ebb away slowly. He was not tired enough to fall back asleep, nor would he have wanted to, given that taking a nap would interfere with his regular sleep. For a moment, he toyed with turning on the TV to watch football given it was a Sunday, but before he could move, his phone suddenly rang.

  Greg glanced over at the ringing cell phone, bemused. No one from his family would be contacting him, that much he knew. It had to be his work, although they did not usually bother him on the weekends. He reached over, picked it up, and clearing his voice said, “Hello?”

  “Mr. Carlton? This is Special Investigator Thomas with the FBI. We need to set up an interview concerning the conduct of Task Force NYC,” a gruff voice said.

  Greg was confused, but kept his wits about him as he said, “Okay, what about?”

  “It’s likely you were not a part of this, but we have reason to believe that your agency’s poor performance in keeping the peace in New York may be deliberate. We have been tasked with finding the truth to this issue as it is a matter of national security,” Agent Thomas replied.

  Greg was having a hard time processing what he had just heard, but he kept his voice even as he said, “Yeah, I can do that, but I don’t know how much help I will be.”

  “We understand, but we do appreciate your cooperation. We will be in New York this week conducting interviews with you and your coworkers. Thank you for your time.”

  The call ended abruptly, leaving Greg to ponder what he had just been told. That his agency had been doing a poor job was no surprise, after all he been explaining it away for years now. It had not, however, occurred to him that it may have been intentional. What purpose would it have served? He could not think of one.

  One thing he did know was that this week was going to be a pain. Federal investigations were notorious for being as protracted and thoroughly annoying for those that were the subject of such investigations. It was likely that little would be done this week as the department’s resources would be tied up dealing with the federal agents that would be swarming his workplace.

  Greg sighed as he finally did turn on a football game featuring the Giants and the Cowboys. He could only hope that the investigation would prevent him from being able to give a press conference this week.

  As Greg walked into the offices in Midtown that his agency occupied, he could not help but notice that the atmosphere seemed a bit grimmer than it normally was. Granted it was always a bit morose in here, but today it seemed even more so. It did not take long for him to notice the extra suits that were there, stopping people to verify their identities. Most of his coworkers either looked worried or annoyed at the extra scrutiny they were receiving, but Greg could not bring himself to care much. He did not have anything to hide after all.

  One of the federal agents noticed him and beckoned Greg to come over to her. He obliged as the agent said, “Hello, Mr. Carlton. If you could come with me.”

  “You want to get me out of the way early?” Greg said dispassionately.

  “You are one of the people under the least amount of suspicion,” she replied as they walked in the direction of what Greg knew to be a conference room. “Plus, also you are the only person I recognize off hand, since you’re the spokesman” she added sheepishly.

  Greg indulged himself with a small smile as they continued down the hallway towards the conference room. They reached the room and the agent said, “Go right on in.”

  Greg muttered, “Thanks,” and went in. He closed the door behind him as he noticed two FBI agents that were sitting on the left side of the conference table, looking over their notes. He looked at them and said, “Do you mind if I go ahead and sit down?”

  “Go ahead,” one of them said, not looking up. “Who are you?”

  “Greg Carlton,” he replied shortly, moving toward the chairs across from the agents.

  The other agent looked up and said, “Ah yes, we spoke on the phone yesterday. This won’t take long Earl, he’s low priority.”

  “Fair enough,” Earl replied. “Although since we are conducting an investigation, Agent Locke would be more appropriate.”

  “Yeah sure,” the other agent replied. “Greg, I’m Agent Thomas and this is Agent Locke. We will be conducting interviews of the people in your department about possible collusion with local gangs and militias.”

  Greg finally sat down and said, “I really don’t know anything about that.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” Agent Locke said. “It is likely that if there was any impropriety on the part of this agency, they would have not let you in on it as you were too close to the public.”

  “I guess,” Greg said, listlessly.

  “Anyway, we do have a few things we can ask you. Do you prepare your remarks that you give at press briefings or do you have them sent to you?” Agent Locke asked.

  Greg replied, “I’m given points to read, but I improvise from them a little, depending on whatever dumb question the media has at the time. It’s hard to explain away the bullshit sometimes.”

  “What bullshit would you mean by that, Mr. Carlton?” Agent Thomas asked curiously.

  “Oh, just the gross incompetence I have to try to explain away,” Greg said heavily. “I mean I’ve been their spokesman since 2037 and pretty much nothing has changed. The streets are still unsafe, I don’t even try to leave Midtown anymore…”

  “Did that ever strike you as suspicious?” Agent Thomas asked.

  “No, not particularly,” Greg replied. “I also didn’t really give a fuck either.”

  “Why?”

  Greg paused. He did not think he would have to talk about Veronica, but there was not really a way to get around it either now. “A couple of years ago, I was engaged to one of the investigators here. She went missing in a riot and I didn’t really care about this place anymore after that. Other than the convenience of having a job that is.”

  Agent Thomas looked up and said, “This task force lost an agent?”

  Greg said, perplexed, “Yeah. Veronica Lopez. She went missing after a riot in Brooklyn in April 2038. Did you not know that?”

  “It was not something that was brought to our attention in our initial findings. Not that you would have known, but this investigation was opened months ago,” Agent Thomas explained. “We were not made aware of any deaths in your department directly related to work.”

  Greg did not reply, which Agent Thomas took as a cue to continue. “While it may not have anything to do with the direct purpose of this investigation, the fact that Ms. Lopez’ death was not disclosed to us is concerning. I’m sure that our investigation will show misconduct if there is any to be found.”

  Greg rolled his eyes and said, “If you get it done by the time this century ends.”

  “It would be of great value to us,” Agent Locke said coolly, “if you had any additional information speed along this process.”

  “I really don’t know what I could tell you unless you want to know who keeps stealing the stapler,” Greg replied sarcastically.

  “I don’t think that will help us any,” Agent Locke said shortly. “We’ll be here for the rest of the week if you think of any suspicious activity you wish to report.”

  “Alright,” Greg replied. “Can I go?”

  “Yes, go ahead,” Agent Thomas said.

  Later that day, as Greg was back in his cubicle reviewing the transc
ript of the next briefing he would conduct sometime next week, the only person he could remotely tolerate in the office came to see him. Patrick Rogers looked over the top of the divider in front of the computer and said, “The Fed has come for you. Give us access to your liquor stash.”

  “You assholes would have to find it first,” Greg replied, cracking a grin. Patrick was the only person whom he could trust himself to be open with. It was his laid-back nature that got people, even cantankerous people like Greg to be at ease around, even if he could be a bit annoying.

  “Have you already been interviewed yet?” Patrick asked, coming around the partition so Greg could see him properly.

  “Yeah. It’s okay, I didn’t tell them you keep stealing the stapler.” Greg replied.

  “I, uh, don’t know what you are talking about,” Patrick said evasively. “What did you tell them anyway?”

  “They didn’t know about Veronica,” Greg told him.

  Patrick looked at him shrewdly. “Did you tell them anything else?”

  “No, why?” Greg asked.

  “If the Fed didn’t know about Veronica and you told them, they’ll have reason to stick around longer.” Patrick said evenly. “They’ll be up our ass now.”

  “It’s not exactly my fault the higher ups didn’t tell them the person I was going to marry went missing on their watch,” Greg said crossly.

  “Yeah you couldn’t have known,” Patrick said.

  “Are you all right? Greg asked suddenly.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You’re acting weird,” Greg said, simply.

  “I don’t like the Fed up our ass,” Patrick replied.

  “We work for the Fed though,” Greg explained.

  “You know what I mean,” Patrick said impatiently. “I have to go. I have a Salisbury steak downstairs with my name on it.”

  Greg watched him curiously as he moved away to the elevators. Patrick was not usually so evasive, though admittedly the investigation was bound to cause consternation among his peers. He did not expect Patrick to be so concerned though; he had thought it more likely he would have laughed it off.