The Mosaic Swallow

PROLOGUE
Toronto Airport, Canada


Sunday 19th May 2019

Alison Hudson apologised as she bumped into the man.
He smiled, was about to make some sort of witty remark, but she had turned and was gone. He watched as she reached a nearby departure gate and noted that she was heading for Halifax. He himself turned and walked along to his gate, unlike the lady who was in a rush and who’s face, he now recalled, registered stress, he was in no rush. Plenty of time to get to his next flight, Seattle. He had ordered a car and would drive to his destination in Oregon from there, staying overnight in Portland.


Myrtle Creek, Oregon, USA, Monday 20th May;

“Who are you?” The tone of her voice was challenging. As he was walking up the pathway, the door had opened and she had come out. She now stood on the porch. Her stance defiant. Even though he was still at some distance, he could see her eyes were focused and glaring. There was a determination that clearly flowed from her. A determination that suggested strongly that she was not to be crossed. He frowned slightly, but kept walking towards her, wondering who she was. Smiling as he drew closer he then stopped, three feet away from the bottom of three steps that led onto the porch.
“Hi, I am Thomas Klaassen, and who might you be?”
“Saw your car stop outside,” she answered, indicating the vehicle he had arrived in moments ago. “If your selling, I ain’t buying. Better you leave,” she finished, her eyes never once wavering. He looked into those eyes, a very deep blue, kept the smile on his face and reached into his jacket pocket. She was wary of his movement, but stood still and firm.
He took out a bunch of keys. “Here, catch these keys” then threw the bunch at her. Her reflexes were quick, she caught them deftly with her right hand, her eyes only very briefly leaving the man that had come up the path.
“One of those, fits the front door,” he said “I’ll step back a bit, let you try,” and keeping eye contact with her, took two steps back, all the while still smiling at her. She held his gaze for a bit longer, then looked at the keys in her hand. She selected one, then, throwing him another glance, turned and inserted the key in the lock. The key slid in smoothly and as she turned it, the tumblers worked. She took the key out again and turned to face him.
He stayed where he was; studied her. This was an unexpected turn of events.
Who was she? He guessed she would be in her mid-twenties, around five foot four, though scruffily dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that bore the name of a football team, revealing a rather scrawny figure, he was in no doubt that it wouldn’t be wise to mess with her.
“Robert was a good friend of mine,” he said, deciding to stay where he was, hopefully putting her at ease.
“How come you’ve these keys?” she asked, glancing down at the bunch in her hand.
“I had a letter from Robert, shortly before he died,” he answered, then moved towards her again. “I have the keys; picked them up this morning because he has given me this house.” Reaching the bottom step, he looked up at her, “So, the question is now, who are you, and what are you doing, in my house?” Thomas held out his hand as he mounted the first step. She threw the bunch back. He caught it.
“Claire,” she said, her faced slightly flushed now, her stance more relaxed and he noted her eyes had softened. “I … I live here.”
“How about we go inside. I really would like a coffee, and you can tell me your connection to Robert.”

She led the way inside, through the hallway, then turned to the right into the front room, which, through an archway, led to the dining room at the back and then, turning left, through to what was a modest, kitchen. He had closed the front door behind him and followed her, relieved that he had gained her trust, at least a little.
She turned, having grabbed the ready brewed coffee and retrieved a mug from a nearby tray, pouring the liquid, she asked, “How do you have it?”
“As it comes, no sugar, thanks.”
“Are you … are you going to sell the house?” she asked, her voice no longer defensive but quiet, pushing the mug towards him, then pouring one for herself.
“I don’t really know, to be honest. I received the letter from Robert, via his solicitor. It was a shock to find out he had written it only a few days before he passed. The letter, giving the name and address of the solicitor where to collect the keys, is somewhat cryptic, but that wasn’t a surprise, knowing his condition. How long have you lived here then?”
Thomas took hold of his mug and took a careful sip.
“Three years. He saved my life you know. Said I could live here. I do the housecleaning and the cooking. Did have a job for a while across the road at the gas station, but it closed, about six months ago.” She paused, then went on, “I could do the same, you know …”
He noticed her look of concern, then decided he would like to have a look around the house.
“Show me the house, please,” he asked her.
Placing her mug on the kitchen counter, she said, “Okay.” Thomas could see that the house was indeed very tidy, and clean. It had a second lounge on the ground floor, as well as a toilet off the entrance hall. Upstairs were four rooms. She first showed him the master, explaining she had fully cleaned the bedding and had taken all Robert’s clothes, as per instructions, to a local church. She then showed the room in which she slept. Again it was tidy and clean and had a cheerful look about it. The third room was a guest room with two single beds and the fourth was locked with a numbered keypad.
Thomas looked at Claire, questioning with his eyes.
“I don’t touch this room,” she said, pressing the combination on the pad. “It’s where Robert worked. He gave me the code for the door only a few days before he died.”
She opened the door and stood aside.
Thomas took it all in. It was a big room. It had two large desks, one by the window and the second at a ninety degree angle to it. There was a leather high-backed chair and Thomas could see by the marks on the carpet that Robert would obviously wheel from one desk to the other. Two walls were lined with six bookcases, then there was a couch with room for two, and a low coffee table separating the couch from a large and comfortable looking leather chair. Furthermore, as well as a desk lamp on each solid wooden desk, there was a standard lamp next to the coffee table and the last item Thomas noticed as he scanned the room, was a small refrigerator. Then, taking in more details he saw that on one of the desks stood a large monitor in front of which was a keyboard and on the other desk numerous trays and folders, a printer and a laptop.
“Wow” he said softly. Then, still taking it all in, he said, “I recall a sentence in the letter he wrote to me,” turning to look at the young blonde woman next to him, “it said, ‘Find case 1988, and look’.”
“This is what he does,” Claire said. “This is how he saved me. He found me, it’s what he does, he finds people.” Then, as an afterthought, she said, “he never mentioned you.”

Thomas said nothing, taking it all in as he stepped further into the room. He knew how his friend was, knew that this was precisely how his mind worked.
“I was his best friend, at school,” he answered, still looking around the room and at the many books on the shelves, “many years ago. We kept in touch, but not so much over the past few years. I moved to Sweden.”
“I guess that’s why you weren’t at the funeral?” Claire asked. Thomas looked at her; answered “I was away. Long haul flights, Shanghai, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Melbourne, Sydney. By the time
I got home, there was a letter from the solicitor, which contained the letter from Robert. I left home immediately, flew across yesterday, drove down from Seattle and I went to the graveyard last evening … sorry I missed the funeral.”

Claire nodded an understanding,
“They called him ‘The Searcher’,” she said.



THE PRESENT;
Myrtle Creek, Oregon, USA


Sunday 26th May 2019

Thomas stood on the front porch. A quiet morning in a quiet town. Sipping his first coffee of the day he reflected on these past days. The letter from Robert had been quite a shock. Over the years he had kept in touch, usually once a month, just a quick call, a quick chat. Robert wasn’t much for chatting, this he knew.
But in those brief conversations, he had never mentioned what he was really up to.
Thomas had assumed, as Robert had on occasions said he was really into history that it was general history that he had been referring to.
What he had really been doing for the past two decades, since early 2000, according to Claire, had been delving into the history of missing people cases.

Six days ago, when he had first arrived, had met Claire, and been shown around the house he had inherited, he had been blown away by Robert’s room with all the shelves and shelves of folders and books. Later that day, upon another look at, and investigation of, this room where, according to Claire, Robert spent practically all day every day, he noticed the sign that was placed on one of the two large desks. ‘Search Engine’ it simply stated. In the evening, having spent time in talking with Claire, she told him that over the years Robert had successfully tracked, traced and found more than thirty-five missing people. She also explained that Robert would not take on any cases where the person had been missing for less than a year. She, however, didn’t elaborate on her own story of how she had been found.

That evening Thomas made up his mind. Robert had asked him, in that letter, to look at a case. It was time for a change. This was the opportunity. Staying the night, he had left the following day to head back to Stockholm in Sweden, to his apartment there. He was a pilot for the Swedish Airline SAS. He informed his boss of important family business he had to attend to and so resigned.
Thomas then organised a firm to pack his belongings and an agency to place his apartment up for sale arriving back at the house in the town of Myrtle Creek, just under two hundred miles away from Portland, his home town, where he had met Robert at high school, on the Saturday. On his return he had again contacted Robert’s solicitor in nearby Roseburg and had been able to finalise the paperwork, despite it being late afternoon on a Saturday. He also then discovered that, not only had Robert given him the house, but there was a substantial amount of funds coming his way. Claire was very happy to be staying and keeping house for him. She was a nice young lady and he looked forwards to the day when she felt that she could tell him her story.
Thomas, now forty-four, was single. Piloting jets all around Europe, he had spent his younger years with an attitude of work hard and play hard, conquests on his mind with a string of fair maidens scattered throughout western Europe. This was while working for a Spanish Airline. There had been a time though that he thought he had found the one. Someone to create a stable life with. But, as he had played with the heart strings of many women, she played with his. One day she was gone.
Taking stock of himself that day, he resigned, left Madrid and looked for a new job, a new home, a new him. Landed up in Stockholm. The birthplace of his great-grandfather and mother.

He heard the door behind him open and turned to see Claire coming out.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered, finishing his drink. Then looking at her, said, “I was once again looking for a new direction – a new start. Robert has given me one, I’m going to look at case 1988 as he asked me to. First though, breakfast.”
“You must have been a very good friend,” Claire said, expertly preparing an omelette for Thomas, “I mean, to give you a house and all.”
“Do you have any idea about his sister?” Thomas asked, “I believe she went to San Francisco many years ago, but, then disappeared? Is that why he started this search activity?”
Claire placed the omelette in front of Thomas, “No, I think his sister moved away to San Francisco in 2009. I also know that he wasn’t close to her. He started looking for missing people, around the turn of the century, maybe it was a New Year’s resolution. I don’t know. He was, well you know I guess, he was not very good at talking, he was caring, but, well, you know, lived in his own little world really, what is it that he had?”
“A type of Asperger’s Syndrome,” Thomas answered, tucking in to his breakfast. “He wasn’t diagnosed until he went to high school. He was always very good at focusing on certain things, good at maths, a logical mind, but lacking in social skills. It meant he was an easy target for bullying. I liked him, thought he was a great character. We got on well.”
He was about to reflect on the day they met, when Claire broke into his thoughts, “I’ll need to get some groceries and other stuff. Also, perhaps you can tell me what you would like to eat, so that …”
“Claire,” Thomas interrupted, “I appreciate your willingness, doing the housework, the cleaning that’s plenty, getting groceries and stuff, all good, but you don’t have to cook. Well, apart from these omelettes, which taste great, but, you know,
I can look after myself. Want to look after myself. Cook for you sometimes. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that, well as far as I’m concerned, this is your house as much as is it mine, okay?”
Claire, nodded. Not knowing what to say, she smiled and nodded, fearing that if she were to try and talk that she would burst into tears.
Armed with his second coffee of the day, Thomas went upstairs and into the room he now referred to as, ‘The search engine’, and sat at the desk by the window.
The case that Robert had mentioned in his letter was in a folder on the desk clearly labelled at the top right-hand corner with the title; Case 1988.
It was there, ready for him. It had been there when he had first entered this room and had been overwhelmed by the bookcases full of folders and books and had not even taken in the very file that lay in plain sight.
Robert had obviously been aware of an illness that would bring an end to his life. The way he had written the letter, confirmed that.
Giving the combination of this room to Claire a few days earlier, also confirmed that. It was also obvious, for whatever reason that this case was particularly important. Sitting down in the comfy leather desk chair, Thomas placed the mug on a coaster, then reached over and took hold of the file, opening it.
He began to read.

Outside someone was watching, observed the young woman leaving the house and getting into her battered VW Passant station car and set off in the direction of town. The figure then exited the car, strolled over to where the car belonging to Thomas Klaassen was parked, quickly ducked down and placed a gadget of sorts next to the exhaust pipe, stood upright and walked on, almost in a fluid motion, then turned, crossed the street, double backed to where their car was and got back in. The ignition turned the engine on and the car moved away.



THE PAST;
Period 1 – Part 1


The year 1814 – Colombia

With snorts and heavy breathing, the four horses stopped almost simultaneously.
The four men, perspiring as much as their horses, looked down from the hill upon which they had arrived with sighs of relief. Below lay the river. The Sumapaz river.
Water for the horses, a little bit a shade from some low shrubs and rocky outcrops. The leader, a man named Philippe Castagnet, looked across to his companions and smiled broadly, then set his horse in motion, slowly stepping down the hill towards the river, whose sounds reached their ears. The horses too, smelled and heard it, their ears turning towards the sound. With an occasional snort the four dark brown coloured horses stepped almost in single file, and upon reaching the river’s edge, the riders dismounted, with an effort took the saddles and saddlebags off and led the animals to the edge, choosing a spot where they would be able to safely drink.
Philippe and the others then set about filling their water flasks with fresh and cool water, also splashing themselves. The evening was coming. The light was fading.
The horses, having had their fill of the water, wandered around and began to graze on the light covering of some type of pampas grass.
They had been riding all day. Sometimes just at a walk, but often a light trot. Resting briefly only three times prior to their arrival at the river’s edge.
They would set up camp here. Philippe stood and looked at the flowing water and looked at a map in his hand.
They were doing well and he was pleased. They would cross the river in the morning and tackle the next stage of their journey.
All carefully planned. All worked out in the finest detail …