THE NATURAL STRANGER :: BOOK 1, "THE AEON" :: CHAPTER 11, EPISODE 1

Wilson Leonard Senior had been Engineer for the Aeronautical Division of the Signal Corps... the agency that, after the war, evolved into the U.S. Air Force. And, as time would have it, Harry... the juggler with big ideas and plenty of money, acquired nowhere and everywhere... went into business with the scion of the Leonard family of old Virginia, history rich, cash poor. Harry married his partner's sister who bore him two daughters, before T. Wilson's own sons, Junior and Robert, had been born before the war; like T's sisters, Bob never married, though his justification was Epicurean rather than Augustinian... Will Junior married Lauren May Leonard late... he was fifty six when Paul was born.

Harry and Will Senior fell out during and just after the Second World War; Harry had let his partner take credit for their company... perversely he retained the name, even after buying out half of his brother-in-law's interest. Will Senior obtained choice Board seats for Will Junior in oil, finance and electronics and gave Robert an allowance to do with as he pleased, so long as he did not obstruct his brother's progress. Then he died... in 1952, four years before Harry... T. offered to seat Robert on the Lentex board and Junior, figuring it good both for appearance and as a way to keep Bob from trouble, let him vote the remaining Leonard holdings (which had dwindled, by this time, to perhaps eight percent of the worth of the company for Will, six for Bob).

Harry left all his voting privileges to T. Half outright, half as trustee in a foundation for the sisters... Ruth and Rebekah directed almost all dividends be donated to cancer clinics, animal shelters... mild good works favored by ladies of breeding. T. voted the foundation shares as he willed, and as I did after... until Cuthbertson... the sisters walling themselves up like ghosts in the Rhode Island cottage with only housekeepers and about six million cats. Save for that smell, there hadn't been a whiff of trouble since T. died, and I admit I'd all but forgotten the sisters until Bud and I get back from that one weekend in Vermont.

"I fear the situation has deteriorated over the weekend," Sopher pronounced, passing over to me an issue of Flagler's favorite tabloid, The Storm (black and white, still, published in Canada) open to an "expose" of the Aeon and fire, the following passage circled:

I'd scanned the rest of the issue... large chunks of text had been quoted from Hard Times, although socialistic drivel was excised in favor of right-leaning epithets (fascist, parasitical socialites replaced by drug-drenched, disco dancing socialists) and a Niagara of amphetaminous exclamation! points had been inserted.

"Lies," I interrupt. "Nothing but lies."

"Certainly," Sopher said adjusting his glasses. "This New England gentleman cannot dream about overturning T's estate... it's the publicity he thinks might force a settlement."

"Has he said what he wants?"

"There's implication. Harry left half the shares to you, through T., half to Ruth and Rebekah, in common. Fifty, twenty five, twenty five... factor in the property settlement and taxes and holdings would go about seventeen percent your way, fourteen to the Foundation. I think this gentleman... name of Cuthbertson, by the way... isn't someone capable of actions of this magnitude on his own..."

"And his unknown backers may have predatory interest in Lentex?" I guess, Sopher nods.

"I figure Cuthbertson hopes to walk away from the deal with funds enough never to have to represent car thieves, drunken sailors and drug dealers again. I also have no doubt he... and whomever stands behind him... plan further extractions from the sisters. Now... as I am obligated to consider the merits of their offer..."

"There aren't any," I'd said.

"Nonetheless... half the cottage and the rest of the Rhode Island property remain yours, as do other assets with an estimated worth of five or six million.

"And the Foundation?"

"Would apparently be dissolved." Charles coughed, though he knew that I was going to ask this... we're just dicking around. "The shares would be sold on the open market... or more likely to the investors that put Cuthbertson up to this... meanwhile they vote their own shares or select somebody to do it for them."

"No go. Absolutely no go!"

"You understand, I had to ask. Somebody seems prepared to make things messy... the Storm's allegations stop just this side of libel so long as they can document them, which I have no doubt they can do, since the body of dirty work came from Hard Times, which is dead. There's another way, though..."

"What?"

"Buy them out... wholly or partially. Cuthbertson's managed to convince Ruth and Rebekah that the cancer doctors and sick birds can't make it on dividends, they need it all right now. They're old, Evie... want to do something noteworthy before they die. By this notice we have ninety days... until the first of May, give or take... to exercise that provision of Harry's will to tender an offer at ninety percent of the Dow. Or..."

"Or what?"

"Well, let's consider the worst case... that Will Leonard or his brother, or the both of them, stand behind Cuthbertson. If they acquired Foundation stock, they'd have more than you would.

"Between them," I point out.

"Between them. I don't know what Cuthbertson's instructions are, but I could talk to him, at least find out whether that stock's intended to hit the open market. Or talk to the sisters myself... if they'll let me."

Charles stares upwards towards the ceiling. The sisters are rather... well, peculiar is perhaps acceptable, eccentric... (a fat wallet's always the difference between eccentric and just plain crazy). I don't think they've left that rambling, gloomy old cottage full of dust and hair-shedding animals, their fortune tellers and their aches and ailments since VJ-Day.

Of course the Leonards squat atop my list of suspects but, somehow, I think Evan Wright or Oz wouldn't exactly weep at this reversal. But there's also this issue of Leonard family solidarity... when those brothers cross paths, decorum flies off like a horned moon behind clouds.

"I will accept your lack of a reply at face value," said Charles, a little stiffly, "... though both of us understand that you are not entirely without friends with access to considerable funds. If it came down to a cash offer at the proper moment..."

My stomach lurches as if I'd been slammed back into the passenger seat next to Jeff or Brendan... the most and secondmost deadly drivers this world has ever known. "If I intended to prepare an offer by the first of May, how much notice would I have to give?"

"A week," Sopher guessed. "Two at the outside. Do you wish that I pursue this?"

I feel my brainwheels scrape the shoulder, a thousand foot drop six inches from my nose. With his receding hair, parchment skin, Sopher reminds me of skull... Ralph maybe... giving a crystal wink under his nutrient, cooling shower. I have an axon spike of Brendan's dead drummer, Matty Gouas, snickering from the rear view mirror.

Sopher coughs. "As for The Storm, I do not think it will be a factor unless further embarrassing actions arise. How is that former husband of yours doing, by the way?"

"I'm afraid he's still shooting snakes," I reply, seeing Sopher's elbow pump as he surrenders to sirens' call of his itchy crotch. Maybe I should have brought a can of Raid.

"I'm not telling you not to look into it," I say to Charles, "I just have a feeling that an Oatmeal Test might be in order."