I smile to myself when I think of this conversation. She never gave me her number. She told me that Mike has her number. Meaning, if I really want to talk—talk, not hit on her—I need to get her number from her big brother. Well played, Stacie, I think to myself.
I want to slip out of the house, but decorum prevents that. And besides, I have a mission on my mind. I quietly find Therese, who fortunately is alone.
“Hi, Therese. I had a lovely evening. Thank you,” I say.
“Ah, you have to leave so soon? We loved having you,” she responds.
“Before I leave though, you don’t happen to have Stacie’s cell number, do you? I think the one I have is old. I would ask her, but I don’t want to interrupt their conversation.”
I lie, and Therese sees right through it.
“Thomas, dear. You know better than to fib to me. If you want her number, just ask me,” she says as she writes it down for me.
“Thanks,” I say. “Sorry about the pretense.”
“No worries. Just remember, I didn’t give you the number. And if you hurt her, you have me to deal with,” she remarks with furled eyebrows.
With that, I kiss her cheek and let myself out. Nothing major happened the rest of the night, save for the fact that I lie awake in bed like a schoolboy thinking about a girl and possibilities. I decide not to turn on any music for fear of what songs I might select. God forbid I complete the cliché.
CHAPTER 9
Monday Morning Coffee
I wake early Monday morning and quickly go through my routine. By the time I sit down in my office, I have almost convinced myself that my run-in with the demonic world is attributable to a bad mix of pills and alcohol. I must have had an acute case of alcohol poisoning or somebody slipped something into my drink. Then I look at my left wrist. The mark is still there. I recall that people often find patterns where there are no patterns. Surely, there are no emblems or writing within the symbol. It must be a cigar burn. Nothing more.
My morning schedule is clear, which is a nice change. I’ve been too busy lately, and it is always a relief to have an open morning, especially a Monday morning. Actually, the rest of the day is relatively light. I have only one class, modern philosophy, from one to two thirty, and I need very little prep time for it. Today’s class is a review of some student essays. I earlier highlighted some of the essay material I think will be provocative. I jot down some questions for the class.
Soon other staff and administrators arrive. I go to shut my door, as I’m not interested in the usual Monday morning greetings. I hear someone say, “How was your weekend?” Luckily, another person answers, “Too short. Sure was hot.” But I don’t shut my door completely. This routine conversation is strangely welcoming for me. It brings a sense of peace that things are normal, that whatever happened this weekend, as real as it seemed, is in the past.
That thought shatters when I feel a push at my door. What follows crushes my feeling of peace.
Andrew Mayfield is a high-intellect professor with an even higher aptitude for political gamesmanship. He is an Ivy Leaguer from old money, though after listening to him, it sounds like his family has little to do with him, and he with his family, save for the money. If ever there was someone who found themselves on the winning team more than Andrew, I never heard of them. Democrat, Republican, liberal, conservative, or independent, Andrew is all of them and none of them. His politics fluctuate with the ups and downs of money and power. Eight years ago he was a staunch Republican with conservative principles, but after the last election, he presents himself as a progressive Democrat bordering on socialism. When I called him on his sudden about-face, he winked and said, “I was drafted by the winning team.” He has had a very successful career. He gained tenure at the university, and he has powerful friends in important places.
Andrew and I use each other, but we know it. There is a kind of comfort and trust in our unspoken agreement. There are no false expectations or let-downs. To be honest, I consider Andrew a friend, but not a good friend or one I could count on in a pinch. Still, I enjoy his company and the perks of knowing him. There are friends you have in good times and friends for the bad times. Andrew’s friendship falls in the good-time category.
“Good morning, Thomas,” he says.
“Morning, Andrew,” I reply.
“I’m meeting a few business acquaintances for coffee this morning, and I’d appreciate your company. These individuals are well placed and are very fond of your work. Strange, I know, but no less true. It would behoove you to accompany me.” His voice has a strange insistence.
Recent events slam against my mind. The episode plays over in my memory. Lucifer had specifically mentioned this to me: When you return to work on Monday, a colleague will ask if you would like to have coffee with him and a special guest. Accept the invitation. I feel sick to my stomach.
My shock is apparent to Andrew. “Thomas, did you hear me? I think you should clear your appointments this morning. We’re meeting at Starbucks on Twenty-fourth at ten. I’ll grab you at nine thirty. Okay?”
“That sounds fine,” I respond.
Andrew leaves me to my thoughts. I look at my clock: four minutes after nine. In twenty-six minutes I will begin the journey that apparently will change my life. This is a ride I will never be able to get off of, and it all starts at Starbucks at ten. The invitation is for fame, fortune, and pleasures I can’t begin to comprehend. All it takes is coffee with some of Andrew’s business partners. How easy it all sounds, and yet here I sit, more scared than I have ever been.
I begin to wonder why Lucifer pulled me into his lair. Had he simply left me alone, I most likely would have accepted the invitation to coffee. I would most certainly have expounded my philosophy to important admirers of my work. Surely he had to know this would play to my ego and my talents. Why force the discussion with me?
I try to put all of the questions behind me and focus on my work, but it is useless. The weekend experience floods my mind.
I recall the broken wrist, nakedness, my face rotting before me, the terrible stench, the horrible creatures, and terrible noises. Mostly, though, I think of him and his voice—how it bored into my head. I can feel my chest tighten, panic sets in. And then I hear a familiar voice.
“Good morning, Dr. Fields. I put all of your references and documentation on your SharePoint site,” says Leslie Donovan, the staff administrator. She is a quiet, gentle, unassuming person who never fails to perform above expectations.
“What?” I ask.
“Those things we talked about on Thursday. I finished them. If you go onto your SharePoint, you will see them. Let me know if you want me to add anything,” she says.
I look blankly at her, which is probably confusing her. I imagine she is accustomed to my ignoring her with a grunt and a dismissive thanks, but my staring seems to have caught her off guard.
“Are you okay, Dr. Fields? Can I get you anything?” she asks with a caring sincerity that she shows every day.
I smile. “No, thank you, Leslie. But tell me something. Did I overhear you telling someone that your husband resigned his position as a director at Dell to study theology?”
“Yes sir. He’s in school now,” she grins.
“Why would he do such a thing? It sounds as if he had a promising career,” I say.
If she is offended by my question, she doesn’t show it. “The money or career was never that important to us. He left because he believed God called him to it. That’s probably something you don’t understand or would agree with right now.”
“Right now?” I ask.
“I would prefer not to talk about it, Dr. Fields. Although we realize that money is not what is most important, I really like my job and I would like to keep it,” she says with a half smile. “I wasn’t trying to offend you. I just know what you believe.”
“Leslie, there is nothing you can say to me that would put your job in jeopardy. Ask anyone. I am your biggest advocate,” I reassure
her.
“I know, I know. I just know how you feel about religion,” she says.
“What do you mean about this being something I won’t understand right now?” I ask.
She takes a breath. “I once had a lovely, older Christian woman tell me how she prayed for a national news anchor, who constantly denigrated Christianity, to someday know Christ and be saved. Because she prayed for him every day, her heart changed. She began to really care about him. She refused to let anyone say anything bad about him. Let’s just say I don’t let anyone say anything bad about you around me.”
“So people say bad things about me?” I chuckle.
“You give them lots of reasons,” she says with a twinge of sadness. “Have a nice day, Dr. Fields. Let me know if you need any help with the files.”
“Thanks, L,” I say.
As she turns to walk away, something reminds me of Josephine and the vision I had seen in Lucifer’s lair. I tried to keep the memory from returning, but I couldn’t escape it. “Wait, Leslie. I do need a favor.”
“Sure. Name it,” she says in her typical eager tone.
“Um . . . never mind,” I say, wondering how I could ask her for this favor.
“What is it? I can tell something is bothering you.”
“This isn’t work related, so I’m hesitant to mention it to you. I thought if anyone could help, it would be you. Honestly, I’m not sure if there is anything you can do, but . . .” I pause again.
“Go ahead,” she encourages. “Look, I do personal things for the staff all the time.”
“I know. But this is different. You mentioned that I give people plenty of ammunition to say bad things about me. Well, do you remember Josephine?” I ask.
“Sure. She is one of those reasons I mentioned earlier,” Leslie says.
“Yeah. I don’t know what you can do or why I am even asking you, but let’s just say that she needs someone to talk to right now. She’s not in a good place,” I quietly say.
“What do you mean ‘not in a good place’?” she asks.
“No one in this office can know, and I can’t tell you how I know, but I think she may want to take her life,” I say in a whisper.
“Oh my, Thomas. That is serious. Have you called someone for help?” she asks, putting a hand to her mouth.
“I’m asking you now.”
“I’m not trained in stuff like this. She needs a professional.”
“Forget it,” I say, realizing I shouldn’t have brought it up.
“No. She needs help, and we can get it for her. All I’m saying is that we need to get her in touch with a professional. In your business, I would think you know a lot of them.”
I remain silent, watching her walk through her thoughts.
She says, “If you can make the arrangements with a psychiatrist or counselor, I’ll do my best to get her there. I’m assuming you still have her contact information. Right?”
“I have it. I’ll e-mail it to you. I can get the psychiatrist. Thanks,” I say. As I have most of my life, I’m able to put this problem onto someone else. Yes, I will have to pay out something for the psychiatrist, but my investment is minimized with the help of Leslie. I’ve become an expert at unloading my burdens. I walk into the office carrying a huge boulder, and after a three-minute conversation, I’ve passed that boulder to someone else. She didn’t have to accept it, but she did. Now she is as much involved, or more so, than I.
Leslie leaves without a word. No doubt she is trying to figure out how she can connect with Josephine and realizes the burden now on her shoulders. For a moment I feel sad for her, but I understand she is a better person to deal with this than I am. And I don’t have long to worry about it, as Andrew promptly arrives at my office at nine thirty. I grab my phone and wallet, and we are out the door, down the escalators, and out of the building.
Andrew talks while we walk, but his words don’t penetrate my thoughts. Though I politely comment and nod in agreement occasionally during the conversation, I don’t absorb anything he is saying. After what seems like a very short time, I see the coffee shop. I pause for a brief moment. This is it. This is the moment where everything changes.
For most people, there isn’t a watershed moment as concrete as this. An accumulation of choices directs their path, sometimes to the point of no return. For me, though, here it is. Is it really a choice, though? I’ve already seen the potential outcomes of my decision. In the end, I feel compelled to move forward . . . without a choice.
“Is everything all right?” Andrew asks as he realizes he’s a few steps ahead of me.
“Yeah, fine. I thought I left my wallet,” I respond.
“His name is Kinsley McKee. No point in asking where he lives. He lives throughout the world,” Andrew says.
“Okay,” I quietly say, thinking that is an odd thing to say before meeting a person.
Andrew startles me by grabbing my arm and turning me to face him. A look of earnestness comes over his face.
“Look, Thomas. You seem a bit outside yourself this morning. I can’t impress upon you enough how well placed and powerful this man is. He knows everyone and has access to resources second to no one. He is very influential. I’ve met him on a few other occasions. I’m not sure why, but he specifically asked about you, and he said it was very important. He can make or break you. You need to get your game face on. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
I look down at his hand holding my arm. “May I have this back now?” I look him dead in the eye with a stern look.
“Oh, sorry. These people make me a bit apprehensive,” he says. He pats me on the shoulder and we continue to the coffee house.
Andrew opens the door, and I immediately feel the cool air. It feels nice. I hadn’t realized how hot it was outside during our walk. Andrew immediately points to a man in the corner and says, “That’s him.”
I don’t need Andrew to point him out, though. He stands out with his attire: blue slacks, blue dress shirt, and an ostentatious Rolex I can see from across the shop. He is talking on a cell phone when he sees us walk in and waves us over. He then looks over at a large man, whom I hadn’t noticed, leaning against the bar along the wall. The man isn’t drinking anything but constantly examines the area. Their exchange is quick, almost unnoticeable. I doubt Andrew saw it. Then the large man’s piercing stare turns toward me.
I can feel Andrew’s nervousness, but I find the whole scene ludicrous. Does this man really believe his life is in danger in a college coffee shop? Does he think two professors could really be so dangerous? I’ve never heard of this man, yet he carries the pretense that he is a very important person. In my mind, he’s trying too hard. But I can tell that Andrew is taking this seriously, so I behave myself.
The man stands up to greet us. He is short, probably five feet eight. He has brown, straight hair that is well cut. He has an engaging smile, dimples, and strong green eyes. Outside of that, he doesn’t have any remarkable characteristics. He is a nice-looking man, but nothing that would make him stand out.
In a slight Scottish accent he says, “Hello, Andrew. It’s been quite awhile.”
Before Andrew can finish his long-winded response, the man turns to me, puts out his hand and says, “Hello, Dr. Fields. I am Kinsley McKee.”
“Hello. I’m told I should be very impressed and honored to meet you, Kinsley,” I say. I can feel Andrew’s gaze of horror at my casual response.
Andrew gives me a strong pat on the back and a hearty laugh. The laugh is not of humor, but of caution.
“No, Thomas. It is I who am impressed and honored to meet a writer and philosopher of your stature. Please, join me. What can I get the two of you to drink?” he asks, pointing out two chairs in front of him.
Before I can tell him that we can wait for the line to thin out a bit, the manager walks over and quietly asks what she can get us. I realize I am in a completely different world. This is not like the weekend, where I found myself in a spiritual world that do
esn’t seem real. No, this is a world where people use money to gain favor in even the smallest settings, like a coffeehouse. In all my years of frequenting Starbucks, I have never seen a manager take an order at a table. I’m curious what price tag that carries with it.
In no time, a barista brings us our drinks. No money is exchanged at that point, but I can tell she has already been taken care of by Kinsley. We exchange some brief comments about Austin before he gets to the matter at hand.
“Thomas, I work for a multinational organization that, among other things, holds several fund-raisers each year. We have many fans of yours, and we’re hoping you will speak at our next fund-raiser in Dallas in early October. Actually, it is the same weekend as the Red River Rivalry. We are hosting some parties that weekend, and we would love for you to attend as well. We would compensate you well for your troubles. Everything would be done first class, door-to-door service.”
Andrew jumps in. “I can attest to their level of service.”
We both stare awkwardly at him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I missed the name of your organization.”
“The parent company is a financial and governance shell. It oversees a loose affiliation of various organizations. The one holding the charity in Dallas, the one that should matter to you, is First Orchard. Its sole mission is philanthropic. You can google it. I also brought along some information.” He hands me some marketing material.
“And what charity will be the benefactor of this event in Dallas?” I press. “I apologize for my questions, but it’s important for my reputation.”
Without hesitation, he responds, “Actually, there are a few. They’re all organizations that advocate world peace, something that is dear to your heart. It is dear to your heart, isn’t it, Thomas? Or are you one of those philosophers who speaks about things from a distance and is unwilling to risk any personal stakes in their philosophy?”
“No. Peace is certainly dear to my heart and fundamental to my lectures. I have been on the forefront of that battle for a long time,” I answer.
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