The 13th Apostle. Richard Heller
God, this could go on all day.
“And they were such a lovely couple. So sweet. Their golden wedding anniversary was only next week,” the secretary continued.
Gil resisted the desire to grab her by her skinny little shoulders and force her to dial the Director’s extension. Lucy used to say that he didn’t do powerless well. A definite understatement.
Gil jumped at the sound of his name. “He’s expecting you,” the secretary announced. She pointed to the appropriate door with the phone she still clutched in her hand. “Knock before you go in.”
Gil did as instructed. A voice from within told him to enter.
“You can tell a lot about a man from his back,” Grandpa Max used to say. “That’s the part he’s less likely to be able to control.”
The back of the figure that greeted Gil sported a perfectly tailored suit and a head of hair that looked more sculpted than cut. It remained standing and stared out the window, then it spoke.
“I didn’t want you on this project.”
Gil hesitated.
“It’s nothing personal,” the man continued. “It’s just that I think this whole thing is … well, to be blunt … beyond you.”
“Dr. DeVris?” Gil asked, hoping to find that an error had been made.
DeVris turned and seated himself behind his desk and surveyed his guest. Without waiting for an invitation, Gil took a seat and waited.
The office itself appeared to match its occupant, understated to the point of pretension. Gil surmised that it was no accident that the tones of DeVris’ suit and tie as well as the color scheme of the office were in shades of gray. The color scheme perfectly complimented the silver highlights of DeVris’ salt-and-peppered hair. The message from his behavior and office décor was clear and simple. “I am a man of taste. I am confident and cultured. Know with whom you are dealing.”
He’s trying too hard! Gil smiled broadly.
“I don’t have time for games,” DeVris continued. “The point is that your boss and Dr. Ludlow considered you the best choice, so neither you nor I had any say in this matter.”
“Just two kids whose mothers have dumped ’em in a playpen,” Gil said with an easy grin. “Question is, are we gonna play nice?”
DeVris considered Gil’s comment. Apparently, this was not the response DeVris had anticipated.
From Gil’s experience with George, the big guy probably told DeVris he could expect Gil to be hotheaded and egotistical, certain to respond in anger to an antagonistic challenge, but smart as hell; a description not entirely without precedent but perhaps a little over the top. DeVris probably figured that an outburst of temper from Gil would have been just the thing to have him removed from the project. A change in plans that, obviously, would have suited DeVris to a “T.”
I’m not going to make it that easy for you. If you want me out of here, you’re going to have to do better than that.
DeVris seemed to be considering his next move. “Why did you accept this assignment?”
“Because I was told to,” Gil answered simply.
“So, if I understand you correctly, you’re going to help us find any pattern that may reveal a hidden message in the diary which, in turn, may help us locate the scroll, all because you’ve been told to?”
“Well, for the most part, yes.”
“And you expect nothing for yourself? Other than your regular pay and perhaps a bonus?”
“Not really. I mean, I think all of us want to leave something behind. That’s man’s nature,” Gil added.
“Bullshit,” DeVris said simply. “I know who you are. The truth is you’re interested in wealth, fame, and maybe a little adventure. There’s nothing wrong with that. Truly successful men not only admit to their ambition, they embrace it.”
DeVris’ voice softened. “It’s funny, you remind me a great deal of myself.” He resumed the stance in which Gil had first found him. “I wasted a good part of my life pretending that all I wanted was to make the world a better place. In truth, I wanted a whole lot more. But,” DeVris added, with a sigh, “I don’t think it’s going take you half as long as it took me.”
DeVris turned back from the window and detailed what he expected of Gil. A small room next to DeVris’ office would be made available. Gil would be given a photocopy of the diary to examine for patterns that might contain a hidden message. He was to decipher any pattern or message he discovered with the expectation that it might relate the location of the Weymouth Scroll. If Gil proved himself useful, he would have earned the right to continue with the project and to share in the notoriety. If not, CyberNet would be paid for his time and the consultation would be considered terminated.
DeVris turned, once again, to look out the window.
Taking his cue, Gil made his way to the door.
Without turning to face his new employee, DeVris added one sentence of encouragement. “You’re going to do well,” he said with unexpected warmth. “Now get yourself a good meal and some sleep. We’re going to work you hard. I’ll expect you bright and early in the morning.”
Before he closed the door behind him, Gil glanced back at DeVris. The red rays of the setting sun seemed to reflect as a halo. Each silver strand of hair, each highlight of his clothing, glowed with a fluorescent-like red. The grays and silvers of the room radiated crimson and scarlet. The luminescence was so great that, for a moment, DeVris appeared to be encircled and caressed by flames. It was an odd illusion, gone in a moment, replaced by shadows, with the shifting of the final rays of the sun.
TWELVE
A few minutes later
Office of Dr. Anton DeVris
“Hold on.” DeVris spoke into the empty room. After a few moments, he walked to his door, looked down the hall, then returned to his desk.
“Okay,” he announced. “He’s gone.”
The Director smiled to himself, then spoke into the air again.
“Sabbie, on your way in, bring me a cup of coffee.” Reaching down, he switched off the intercom that had been left on during Gil’s interview and waited.
A kick at the door announced her arrival. He rose, slowly walked to the door, and opened it.
“Inconsiderate bastard.” She shoved past him, one cup in each hand. “You could at least leave the door open so I don’t have to claw at it like a dog.”
He took his seat behind his great desk. “Scratch,” he corrected.
“Scratch?”
“Cats claw, dogs scratch,” DeVris said coolly. “Technically, you can’t claw like a dog.”
Sabbie slid DeVris’ cup to him across his desk, fast. She knew it would get a rise out of him, but he was certain she had no idea in what way.
She looked particularly beautiful; shiny hair, flushed cheeks.
“We need a new intercom,” she announced. “Everything sounded scratchy. It was like listening to an old phonograph record.”
“Need a recap?” DeVris asked.
“No, I heard enough. The guy’s a schmuck,” Sabbie concluded. “Dump him. Just tell CyberNet you’ve changed your mind. Worst comes to worst, you’ll lose your deposit. No big deal.”
“So you think he’s not capable of the job. Is that why you walked out on him at the restaurant?”
“That and because I thought we were being followed,” she replied. Her gaze never left his eyes.