Recruited

During the night's on-again off-again rain, the creatures living in the deep forest ravine piped up with their nocturnal sounds: a few owl's hoots, a fox's bark, the yelp of a coyote to its mate, and the tenore continuo of crickets languidly chirping. These universal sounds heralded and reconfirmed the teeming life surrounding the lonely buildings of a recently built conference center. Small, low outdoor lanterns liminally lit the routes of concrete walkways between the buildings; otherwise, particularly with the night's cloud cover, the campus sat in profound darkness.

The principal building -- an imposing structure of pale red brick and stone in the daytime -- housed several auditoriums of different sizes, various meeting rooms, and offices. Headlight beams announced the approach of a limousine to the garage access at the building's rear. The driver watched the metal gate roll up. When he pulled into a prime assigned space the time was 22:50 hours. In the gray, low-ceiling space, he parked and opened the rear door and offered his hand to the passenger, a tall, hefty woman with expensively styled gray hair and an elegant pale rose skirt suit. A few decades earlier a fox or mink stole might have completed her ensemble, but in this day and age, she wouldn't dream of such a wrap. She didn't even want to symbolize such a thing with faux fur.

She strode to one of the smaller auditoriums with its pale wood paneling, slightly raised dais, and theatre seating, where sixteen of her associates, plus her two fellow Board of Trust members, awaited her arrival. There was a subdued but pleasant din arising in the small auditorium, in a distinctly feminine range, as the ladies -- the gathering was entirely female -- got reacquainted. The final and most important attendee appeared at the door, and there was a gentle fluttering in the group: the attendees moved toward her as though magnetized. Naturally there was no physical pushing, not from these mature, accomplished women. They had heard of the International Chairwoman's practice of greeting them all by name, one by one, and would have a special moment where they were seen and acknowledged. "Claire, How nice to see you!"; "Glynnis, you're looking so well."; "Dorothy, how good of you to come. That is a lovely suit you're wearing." etc. etc. This took several minutes; it had become de rigueur, baked into the amount of time these convocations took. Clotilde, the Managing Trustee, the one arriving last, had made a point of it -- a signature of her progressive tenure. After her arrival and social moment, she stood at the dais and patiently waited for everyone to be seated and come to order.

She led the assembled sisters at the outset in a minute-long moment of silent meditation; the silence was complete. Finally she began: "My personal thanks, tonight, to each of the Sisters of the Sentry Coast Assembly. I am especially heartened by the personal efforts of our sisters from Willamette, Klamath, and even Umatilla, to attend -- so wonderful that our fellowship from all areas are represented. And, as I always so, I remind everyone that recording our meeting is not prohibited, provided any files generated are securely erased within 24 hours, from any mobile device or laptop, regardless of the device's owner or custodian, and saved if necessary on our secure server. Thank you again."

She went on to highlight the agenda items (no copies printed): the usual financial report from Alice McKeachern, the tall, thin Trustee from New Zealand with the long and leathery face like a man's, and a voice to match -- she had nothing new to report; as in most other local or regional Assemblies, the prosperity of the local group was a direct reflection of the net worth of its individual members, and their willingness to donate to their regional Assembly, which were impressive, and gratifying, respectively. One other item required particular focus before the Managing Trustee's address: the report of Hélène Morel, the Assembly's third Trustee.

A woman in her 70s who carried significant extra weight, she clothed her generous curves in a long Navy blue suit jacket, whose fashionable bias cut and flow extended to her mid-thighs. In her clear French accent, audible in her throaty 'r,' she rose to the dais. "The tour," she said, "on which we invited your local Special Agent in Charge went well. We visited two of our facilities, Rose Idyll and Sentry Gate, along with three clinics for women in distress that we support, and finally let him witness a few of our other charitable activities. Of our commercial interests, we supplied books of record to the Bureau's accountants to review, complete with audit reports." And she removed her glasses and addressed the assembly: "Of our recruiting policies, I could only reiterate that our intent is to develop promising male initiates who could grow into a role of leader in the community. This extends to placing some in positions of internship, paid or unpaid. He pressed me on the potential for suffering the same criminal outcome as we unfortunately experienced in St. Louis, and I told him in the most matter-of-fact terms, that naturally not all recruits remain with the course, and the natural way of things is to fall out of touch with some of the individuals. This applies to the majority of cases, as one might expect. What happened in St. Louis was unpredictable, the result of one individual's shocking behavior." She paused.

"Of course," she said in her mild, lilting French accent, "this is all a review for everyone here. However, I made these points and others to Mr. Shaughnessy, and, believe me, not for the first time. He appeared to be persuaded, particularly as regards the Assembly's work with women of all ages and nationalities in need of shelter. But I am struck as always by the American Bureau, that these managing investigators are politicians as much as a policemen, perhaps more so, and to trust their word is foolish and not to be done. I am quite certain that the outcome of the Allard case still bothers the Bureau and galls Mr. Shaughnessy personally. We all regret the events that led to the settlement. Naturally I did not bring it up or make further argument about it...All in all, we succeeded in showing him the face of our charities, the worth of which he is now convinced, and I referred him to the state Department of Labor for records of individual cases. I told him our staff is stretched thin as it is. Our local administrator, Mrs. Holcomb, is however, preparing exhibits and assembling files under my and Miss Clotilde's direction, but you all know how busy a person she is. I hope I bought enough time for her to assemble the records, a precaution outlined and recommended by legal counsel. We hope they will not be necessary."

Hélène responded to one or two questions, but her presentation had been plain enough. Not much to do but wait, see, and hope for the best.

Finally, Clotilde, tall and imposing, square-jawed and square-shouldered, stood and smiled to the group. "Thank you, Hélène, and thank you Alice, for your thorough updates." She smiled to the assembled group. "Now let us turn to more pleasant subjects." She paused briefly. "Rather than bait you and cause frustration, I will simply say that we appear to have found, here in the Sentry Coast Region, the next Sanctioned One!"

An excited murmur moved through the gathering, small though it was. "Joyce Holcomb gave me this footage, which is unfortunately brief, but the charisma of this young man -- well, let me just show it to you. I apologize for the lack of audio."

Standing at the podium, she dimmed the lights and opened the automatic curtains behind her to display a very large monitor. Although not quite three quarters of a minute long, the video showed a very fetching young man with dramatic blue eyes chatting and laughing with an old woman seated in one of a series of chairs along a wide hallway. He sat and leaned intimately toward her; he spoke and they both erupted in laughter. He jumped to a stand and said something more, and she threw her head back in delight. When she covered her mouth while laughing, he reached for it and held it in the fondest way. The gathered Assembly could see she was struggling to catch her breath, laughing hysterically. His smile as he looked down on her -- just radiant. His face was everyone's focus, all felt captured, drawn to it. The video jumped a bit as the door at the far end of the hall slid open and a wheelchair patient approached. The sweet boy jumped to their assistance; the video was interrupted again and the boy was now crouched in front of the wheelchair in a different room. His face and smiling eyes were clearly evident.

"Apparently this woman in the wheelchair was just being admitted to the Rose Idyll facility," Clotilde said, "and the young man made her feel completely at home. Of his own accord. She was a total stranger to him."

The attendees murmured again; they felt the appreciation, the excitement.

"He's still in recruitment; an agent named Gentry's his liaison. I have heard excellent things about her; I have high hopes as I always do, but I expect we'll know more next week." Clotilde froze the video at the end, a fairly close shot of his face as he crouched before the woman in the wheelchair. His gorgeous blue eyes were open wide, sympathetic, enticing.

"And now, dearest sisters," she said, "those of you staying over, please check with the attendant in the hall for your room assignment. Otherwise, please take care on your way home or to your accommodations. Your Trustees will withdraw and confer." The Sentry Coast Assembly stood and, happily conversing, filed from the auditorium.

Clotilde, Hélène, and Alice walked to a cloakroom nearby and, after taking off their jewelry and leaving their phones in a cabinet, each took a pair of industrial grade ear plugs out of their little plastic bags. They twirled them down to the proper shape and placed them snugly in their ears and then put on industrial noise-blocking ear muffs. They donned their wraps, pulled on heavy wellingtons and made their way to an exit door. They emerged into the bracing night and walked together along the paved path until they left it, and the buildings, behind. They stepped through wet grass, and after perhaps 120 feet, entered a grove of trees. They walked deeper into the copse and into a dark thicket, a dense wall of bushes and brambles through which they made their way with ease.

In the middle of this surrounding forest vegetation on a shivery, rainy night, they emerged in a small clearing, a scant twenty feet across. In its center were three half-submerged granite boulders, close together but not close enough for the Trustees to reach out and touch one another. Nature had arranged them in a rough circle. Each of the Trustees stood behind one of the boulders, which rose to a little lower than waist-height. The darkness was almost complete, but the three women had no trouble navigating their way. Each looked down at their respective stone, sensing it more than seeing it. After a moment they closed their eyes in unison and went around and stood in front of their boulders. Each sat at the exact moment her two sisters did.

They remained seated for a few moments, silent. Clotilde raised a hand off her lap briefly and they lowered their heads, each in her own deep private silence; they each concentrated on repeating to herself the ancient formula. The chirping crickets and the nocturnal owls, the distant coyotes and the darting and swooping bats, all paused their night hunting and their cries. All wildlife crouched edgily or hung hesitating as the ground vibrated and rumbled with an energy only they could feel. The breeze picked up and the three women's mental focus shifted to a specific point in the clouds perhaps two hundred feet directly above them. They could feel the heat that began emanating from among them, around them. They chanted in unison quietly together, although none could hear any of the others; the heat grew in intensity, it radiated down on them, they opened their hearts and minds to it, and felt its regenerative power. They looked down, at their hands in their laps, and shut their eyes tight. Instantaneously an impossibly bright, buzzing, DEAFENING explosion shot its energy from the ground between them and up into the sky, and thunderously echoed against the steep mountainsides surrounding. The sisters slowly brought their heartbeats under control and the air rapidly cooled, and they could hear, rather than feel, the light rainfall. The ground calmed, the crickets resumed their chirping, and the bats took up again their airborne foraging.

Several weeks earlier

On a grey Saturday morning in mid September, a truck with a food-service logo on the doors beeped continuously as the driver backed it slowly to the front doors of a sports arena downtown. Perhaps a dozen students who had come out to volunteer watched and waited, half expecting it to start sprinkling, but unconcerned about it. After parking the truck in position and killing the engine, the driver climbed down, came to the back and lowered the metal lift gate -- a clanging crash! -- so it was extended from the rear of the trailer, parallel to the ground. Using the handles and footholds he climbed to a stand on the gate and he raised the roll-up trailer door. Clearly he'd done this hundreds of times. He said, "A couple of you guys climb on up here, and we'll start shifting this load out onto the liftgate, okay? Grab a hand truck from inside the trailer and load it up." Two or three sturdy guys clambered up and got to work.

It was the first food bank function of the school year. The trailer was loaded full with donations: boxes, trays, and cases of foodstuffs. They dragged and stacked the material onto hand trucks and staged them on the lift gate. In a few minutes, they'd assembled the first load. The machine whirred and the metal platform slowly lowered; the boys who'd been waiting on the sidewalk approached until they could grab a hand truck to take the goods inside.

A heavyset, bespectacled young woman in a jeans skirt, black leggings, and lace-up Docs directed traffic inside the building. Items were categorized and needed to be placed in tables arranged in the large, high-ceilinged lobby. The clattering of the hand trucks, the distribution of stacks of food and groceries, an occasional shout of direction as the driver helped, a lively, efficient back-and-forth. After twenty-five minutes of smooth comings and goings, she pulled into step alongside a young man whose striking, vivid blue eyes she wanted to get a closer look at. His bright, quick smile, which seemed to set off a sparkle in those eyes -- also a major attractant. "So," she said, "another produce load, eh?" They both glanced down at his hand truck, on which he was not carrying produce but a miscellaneous hodgepodge of goods since the trailer was almost empty.

"Looks like kind of a mix," he said. "I've got produce, I got canned goods, cereal, hand lotions, the works!" Except he pronounced it "woiks," and had told the whole inventory in a kind of put-upon New Yawk Jewish merchant patois. It delighted the hefty young lady and she broke into a broad smile.

They started out toward one of the tables. She said, "So...how's the peddlin' business, Hoischel?" At this the young man barked out a laugh.

"Vell," he said, "I gotta lot of stops to make, knowwhatImean!? Can I interest you," he stopped and bent to survey his hand truck, "in some sugary cereal, a can of peaches, or maybe you've got your discerning eye on some dish detergent -- dish detergent, I'm feeling sure. You have that sharp, modern look, like you like things nice and sanitary."

The young lady laughed loudly at his creditable imitation. They toured the tables, dropping goods off at various places. The boy tried valiantly to keep the shtick going, the young lady smiling and laughing throughout.

At length, they stood momentarily by his empty hand truck. Those impossibly bright blue eyes -- they made her almost lose her balance. With her big smile, which had become constant, she extended a hand and said, "I'm Hannah."

He took the hand and -- oh my god the bright blue eyes held hers and positively twinkled. "Tris," he said. "Tris O'Connor."

A crash and sudden yelling at the exit grabbed their attention. Hannah, the ranking representative of Sentry Coast Charities, rushed to the scene to find a young man waving his arm, pinned in a comical, impossible way between his hand truck and the door. He kept insisting he was OK, just stuck. Since he was prostrate on the ground and looked in pain, Hannah directed everyone to take their time lifting the stupid hand truck and releasing him. Tris watched from the rear of a small group, as the whole awkward mishap -- college guy, hand truck, and door -- was put right. When pressed, the young man complained about his rib cage and his ankle, so, since he was moving under his own power, Hannah drove him to the ER for evaluation. After learning that nothing serious had happened, she dropped the volunteer at his dorm. On the drive she realized, and regretted with a pang, that she didn't know when she'd see Tris again, or how she'd get his phone number.

A few days later, she parked in a downtown municipal garage and marched a block or two in the light rain. She moved quickly, excited, with her hood pulled up over her head. She knew the way well; she entered an office building and took the elevator to her customary floor. Out of the elevator, she nodded to the powerfully built Black security guard, who nodded back.

To the receptionist seated in the hallway she said, "Hannah Gentry to see Mrs. Holcomb." Beyond the desk was a secure plexiglas partition and a metal detector.

Once admitted into the office suite, she went directly to Joyce Holcomb's office. Mrs. Holcomb, in middle age, wore her dark hair cut quite short and stylishly, and had on a crimson blouse with a satin sheen. She was handsome in her face, where her skin was vibrant; she had prominent breasts, and below them her torso was on the stocky side. Her knee-length gray skirt confirmed the relatively generous portions of her rear. She stood and greeted the younger woman, shaking hands. "Hannah!" she said. "You sounded excited. What've you got?"

"Well," Hannah said, "I noticed a boy at the food bank last weekend. Very cute, very funny, a blast to be around."

"Mm-hmmm," Mrs. Holcomb said, sing-song and expectant.

"Well, I was drawn to him, like any cute young guy who was helping at the Food Bank...I felt bad about losing track of him -- I'd had to leave in a hurry...But!" she announced. "Would you believe it, I saw him again at Rose Idyll, only three days later!" Mrs. Holcomb raised her brows as Hannah came around her desk and set up her tablet so they could both see.

She said, "The sound is crap, you can hardly hear it, I don't know what happened, but the video is okay. I didn't want to try and zip the file and email it. So I just brought to you personally. And, I thought it would be fun to watch together." The video showed a young man with an alluring smile and flashing, arresting, blue eyes. He sat in a wide hallway speaking to an elderly woman seated in one of a row of chairs lining the wall. The sound was indeed muffled. "I had to have held it covering the mic or something. Sorry." The young man was smiling and both were laughing. He sat down on the far side of her, leaned in to say something, and they both erupted in laughter again.

"Too bad we can't hear what they're saying," Mrs. Holcomb said. "Although I don't suppose it makes much difference. They're having a good time, clearly."

As they watched the video, they saw the wide door at the far end of the hall slide open and a haggard woman pushed a wheelchair through. In it was a fat elderly woman on oxygen. A wooden cane fell to the floor from the passenger's lap as they crossed the threshold, and the pusher stopped abruptly, bending her rider forward. The boy sprang over to pick up the cane, and stood aside for them. He said something to the woman pushing the wheelchair and after a moment's hesitation, she let him take the heavy-looking duffel off her shoulder. Cane in hand, duffel strap over his shoulder, he accompanied the two women down the corridor. Watching this video, Hannah and Mrs. Holcomb glanced at each other.