Bianca Raborman
Bianca leaned against the rail of the speeding boat, arm hugging arm against the cold wind. She loosened her hair. Dampened with salt spray, it whipped around her face. She turned to look at the rocky island jutting out of the cold waters, its lighthouse gleaming in the noonday sun.
Pelican Island's long history of democratic ingenuity had always intrigued her. First sighted by the Spanish in 1772, the presence of a large colony of brown pelicans on the rocky island prompted the name of Álcatraces—pelican, most often referred to by its English name Alcatraz. The island, which came under U.S. control in 1850, became the site of the first U.S. fort on the West Coast and was used as a U.S. military prison from 1859 until 1934, when it became a federal prison housing the most dangerous criminals; it was closed in 1963. Nicknamed "The Rock," it was a symbol of the impregnable fortress prison with maximum security and strict discipline.
Over the centuries, a motley crew indeed had called it home: batteries and barracks in anticipation of civil revolt, Spanish-American war prisoners, army deserters, Native Americans; all had spent their isolated time there. The Twentieth Century watched it transform from a military prison to a federal prison to a must see tourist attraction. A creative—and profitable—enterprise, Bianca thought. As was everything else associated with that chunk of real estate.
In 2014, after a little political maneuvering, Congress removed the island’s National Park status. Alcatraz no longer existed; Pelican Island once more reigned. Less than a month later, tax rolls listed the Tartarus Foundation as legal owner. Tartarus cleaned the island of old buildings, installed a new power and water system, ferried in yards of soil, planted exotic trees and gardens, and built the most advanced research center in the world: twelve cream colored buildings, twelve science disciplines.
In one of those buildings, Doctor Victor Dakota had created a highly specialized zygote and implanted it into his wife's womb, and delivered the famous Dakota twins; in another, the power grid had been devised; yet another housed the team developing organic homes for mini-environment living. The scientists who worked in those structures were the ablest of all in their field, and now she had been added to that roster.
Bianca sucked in cold air.
A long way, this, from Connecticut tobacco and a vain old woman. Her mouth tightened as she thought of Lydia Raborman. Such a pathetic female, her mother. Lydia's love affair with youth had put her in the hospital on more than one occasion and probably would again. Still, she made her trips to Washington and climbed the marble steps of Lamont Towers for one more face lift, one more butt pad. Surgical complications, Doctor Lamont always explained smoothly after each hospital confinement, but Bianca knew better. Raborman money would have been the honest answer. She trembled at the sudden surge of fury flooding into her mind. If it hadn't been for Doctor Frederick Lamont, Cage Honeycutt would never have looked twice at Lydia, would never have . . .
Her head jerked to and fro with denial. Bit by bit, she forced the rage back into its black hole. Bit by bit, she regained her flush of pleasure at being hired by Ellery Jensen. Only then did she realize she was shivering uncontrollably, chilled to the bone by the whipping wind and spray. She went below deck to the cabin warmth, removed her damp coat, and hung it up. Opening her attaché, Bianca pulled out a thick folder labeled Dakota. Much of the information in the file had been gathered for her doctoral thesis. However, her intense curiosity about the Dakota regime soon changed to envious wonder and she had continued to add to the folder everything she could get her hands on, no matter how minuscule or unimportant it seemed.
She glanced casually at newspaper clippings: the famous twins on their first birthday, Selena Dakota's coming out party, the Presidential Inaugural Ball when Jeremiah Dakota was seventeen. The young man’s boldly stated political comments had sparked a heated exchange between President Garland and Doctor Victor Dakota. In a show of camaraderie, they shook hands for reporters, but the afterglow of anger was clearly visible on their faces.
A color photograph from a newspaper dated April 3, 2090 dropped to the floor. Bianca leaned down and picked it up. She studied the thirty-five year old photo sealed in a protective cover. A petite woman with brilliant blue eyes and corn gold hair faced a handsome Nordic blond; they toasted each other with champagne, eyes wide and mouths smiling.
She hasn't changed much, Bianca thought. Her figure is a little thicker, the face has a few more crow's feet, and her hair is beginning to silver, but the energy is still there—and the passion.
The copy below the picture glowingly reported the marriage of Ellery Magdalena Dakota Forester to Clinton Arly Jensen, then summarized Ellery's accomplishments to date in genetics advancement: a Nobel Prize in 2088 and 2089. The week before the wedding, she had taken the prestigious award for the third year in a row.
"I'd be smiling, too, with that under my belt," Bianca muttered to herself. "I don't know any other twenty-nine year old with that kind of record."
Where had she picked up this rare bit of Dakotan background? She turned the clipping over and read her pasted note. 2116: Clipper Museum of History. She chuckled as the image of dusty file cabinets in the museum's storage room flashed across her mind. She had almost been caught taking this one from the files. A throb of pleasure darted across her groin as she remembered the museum guard's startled arousal when she pressed against him. How quickly he had forgotten why he had stopped her. Bianca set the picture aside and turned back to the clippings.
She glanced at first one, then another: Matthew Jensen's birth in 2096, John's three years after. Ten years later, the daughter was born. God, what a shock that must have been, Bianca thought. Even for a woman like Ellery Jensen.
Clint Jensen's obituary was simple. Three lines about his drowning in a boating accident and a half column on his position as husband of Ellery Dakota Forester—firstborn of the noted Dakota twin, Selena Victoria Dakota. I wonder how he felt about that? Bianca thought. Living his whole life as the husband of.
She listened to the purr of engines and the slap of water against the hull and her thoughts returned to Pelican Island. At one point in the conversation, a subtle change had flitted across Ellery's face—vanishing almost as quickly as it had come. What had caused that change? What was it she had said? Closing her eyes, Bianca envisioned the morning interview. Her eyes flew open. The grandmother's pride. That's when the pain and sadness had crossed Ellery's face. Strong emotions, those. Strong enough to break through Doctor Jensen's calm exterior. She glanced at her collected information. She didn't recall reading anything that would explain such reactions. Could she have overlooked it in the welter of notes and clippings she had gathered? She stared at the dossier. Impossible, she thought. She would never have missed something like that. Obviously, there was more to this saga than she had so far ferreted out.
Bianca quivered with anticipation as the thrill of a chase rippled up her spine. She knew she was obsessed with the Dakotans, but she didn't care. She had to know what caused Ellery Jensen's dismay. Her breathing deepened. Whatever it was, she would not be content until she'd tucked it into her file.
The monotonous hum of the motor dropped to near silence and the forward thrust of the cruiser abruptly stopped, replaced by a gentle tip and roll motion. A crewman's head poked through the cabin door. "You may disembark now, Doctor Raborman."
She gathered up the Dakotan clippings, closed the dossier, and placed it back into her attaché case. "How long do I have before you leave?"
"However long it takes, Doctor Raborman. The second boat should be docking back at the island within a few minutes, now." He chuckled at her confusion. "I radioed we were coming across. Pelican's captain headed for the island five minutes after we started for the city."
"Oh. Of course. The director did explain there were two of you." Bianca slipped into her coat. "Efficient system."
"Doctor Jensen set it up years ago." His teeth flashed. "I guess she got tired of waiting for the back and forth of one boat. Have a pleasant day, Doctor Raborman." He disappeared.
Bianca slung her bag over her shoulder and strolled up the ramp. One block down the street was a taxi post. As she waited, she pressed her hands tight to her abdomen. The gnawing desire that had started on the launch was growing more urgent, more demanding. Her mouth twisted. Always there, aren't you? she thought. Five years of therapy and you're still there. Will you never give me peace? She looked at her watch. I have time if a damn taxi ever gets here—the right taxi. As if sensing the nearness of satisfaction, the need flamed and Bianca felt a sudden spurt of moisture. Hands clenched inside coat pockets, she paced back and forth along the curb like an addict in withdrawal.
A spotless white vehicle with neat signage slowed, blinked its intention to change lanes. Bianca turned her back and the vehicle continued without stopping, blinkers off. A second, bright yellow with white letters, slowed. She shook her head. The cab sped away. Down the block, she saw the one she would take. She yanked her hands out of the coat pockets and waved her arms frantically.
A grimy green and white vehicle with purple fenders swung into the stall. On the car door a magnetic sign blazed: Ace Taxi, Proprietorship. Bianca hurried to the cab and climbed into the back seat, surprised at the strong scent of lavender. A valiant attempt to hide other, undeniable odors that permeated the interior, she thought, one that fails miserably. On the floorboard, an old newspaper and an empty beer can crunched beneath her feet. She shoved them under the front seat with the toe of her shoe.
"Where to?" The driver watched her from the rearview mirror.
"Twenty-first and Bartlett," she said.
"Twenty First and . . . " The driver twisted round, his look appraising. "You must be new around here. That's a pretty rough neighborhood."
"Are you afraid?"
"Ha! Not hardly. This cab travels darker streets than those, lady." He chuckled, hard and mirthless. "A lot darker."
"Oh?" She looked at his small eyes and slicked back hair. Her gaze traveled to the rough hands with their slender brown fingers, traveled back up, lingered on the thin-lipped mouth. She licked her lips. Her gaze met his.
"Maybe the park would be better," she whispered.
His eyes widened, then narrowed.
"The park." He nodded. "The park can have dark streets, too. Are you sure that's where you want to go?"
She looked back to his mouth. "Yes," she said, her voice thick with hunger.
His tongue flicked. Twisting back, he put the car in gear.
Bianca leaned against the back seat and closed her eyes. She listened to a zipper being carefully lowered and smiled. Hurry, hurry, hurry her body cried.
The cab accelerated, the driver whistled off key.