Assumptions

by C. E. Pietrowiak

  "Nothing. We got what we came for. We should leave."

  They walked out of the courtyard. Pritchard watched from the window of his apartment.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: MISTAKEN

  Will tossed in his bed unable to let go of Iain Pritchard. Around three he gave up on sleep and forced himself out of bed for a cup of tea. The study door was closed, but a sliver of light cut into the dark hallway. Will stood outside the door. He heard the faint shuffle of papers then his father picked up the phone and dialed. Will listened as he wished the person on the other end a good morning in Italian and asked for someone in the antiquities department.

  Will stumbled down the hall to the kitchen, relying on dim streetlight and body memory to find his way. He switched on the light over the stove and twisted the knob for the largest burner. The gas hissed for a second until the pilot caught. Blue flame billowed from beneath the kettle. Will leaned against the counter waiting for the water to boil. The stack of his father's files cast a tall shadow on the kitchen wall. Will turned off the stove and went back to bed without his tea.

  Will didn't want to leave his warm blankets. He pressed the snooze alarm one time too many. He showered and dressed quickly, tucking in his shirt on the way to the kitchen. He pulled on his coat and wadded his uniform tie into a ball, pushing it into his pocket. He slung his backpack over his shoulder, inhaled a biscuit on his way down the back steps, and ran for the el.

  Will made it to Geography just as the first bell stopped ringing. Logan sat at the front of the room, arms crossed, glowering. Jilly twisted her gum around her finger and stretched it out in a droopy pink strand. Copper stared at the door. Jordyn leafed through her textbook.

  Will sat down at his desk and leaned toward Jordyn. "What's with them?"

  Jordyn whispered, "Pritchard. He didn't show up. Do you think it had to do with yesterday?"

  "No. How could it?" Will un-crumpled his tie and put it on best he could with no mirror. "How's that?" he asked Jordyn.

  She straightened it for him. "We told Pritchard we were from Eastview."

  "What difference would that make?" Will dug his textbook out of his backpack and opened it to "Mapping in the 21st Century." He skimmed the chapter.

  "I don’t know. None, I guess," said Jordyn.

  "Anyway, it's over."

  The second bell rang. Professor Embry burst through the door. "Always a glorious day to learn about mapping! Books open, please."

  The period dragged. When the bell finally rang, the students tripped over each other racing for the door. Jordyn and Will packed their things and walked out together.

  "I need to go see a Professor before next period,” said Will. “See you at lunch?"

  "A professor? Uh, yeah, sure. See you at lunch." Jordyn watched him vanish into the crowd.

  Will stood outside Professor Barrett’s office. He knocked lightly on the glass. "Professor?"

  "Yes. Come on in," said Barrett.

  Will pushed the door. It swung wide, no box to block the way. Barrett hung up the phone. “Voicemail again.” He neatened his inbox, taking a letter off the top.

  "Looks like you've settled in," said Will.

  "Yes, indeed. Please, have a seat. They gave me some real furniture." Barrett pointed to a plastic chair. "At least it doesn't fold up. I hear my door is next on the list for the maintenance crew." Barrett laid the letter in the top drawer of his desk and closed it, locking it with a small key. "So, Mr. Emerson, is this another social call?"

  "Have you ever heard of The Book of Raziel?"

  "I see. Right to the point."

  "I only have a few minutes between classes."

  "Yes, of course. I understand.” Barrett forced a smile. “I have read about the book. Why do you ask?"

  Will handed Barrett the file. He shuffled through the contents. "Where did you get this?"

  "My father keeps his work files at home. It's his."

  "You took it?" asked Barrett.

  "Well, I . . . I just haven't put it away yet. The case is closed. You can see on the front."

  "I see." Barrett closed the file and handed it back. "Will, The Book of Raziel is a sacred thing. I doubt it would be on display in a small town museum like some sideshow."

  "I went to see Pritchard yesterday," said Will.

  "Iain Pritchard?"

  "Yes. He lives near here. I thought he might be able to tell me about the book."

  "You are full of surprises this morning. What did he have to say?" asked Barrett.

  "He thinks it could be authentic."

  "He does?" Barrett leaned back and folded his hands under his chin. "And you?"

  "I don't know. It could be. The sapphire and the inscription . . . " Will's eyebrows knitted.

  "And if it were? What would you do if you found it?"

  "Me? Nothing. Hand it over to the insurance company, I guess."

  "And your father?"

  "I’m sorry?"

  “Your father. What do you think he would do? After all, it is his file.”

  “It's his job to find it. Anyway, the case is closed."

  "Will, a book like that is not to be taken lightly. It holds power beyond our comprehension."

  “Pritchard made that clear yesterday. Made me a little uncomfortable."

  "How so?"

  "He seemed . . .” Will paused to choose his words carefully. “Well, he seemed a unstable. I think the mix-up with that artifact really affected him."

  "I’m not at all surprised. He lost his job. It destroyed his reputation."

  "My father said it was a mistake Pritchard never would have made."

  Barrett leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "We all make mistakes, Will. You should return the file."

  The period bell rang.

  Will tucked the file into his backpack. "I should go."

  “See you at Vespers this evening?”

  “Oh, right, Wednesday. Uh, yeah, see you tonight, Professor.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE MESSENGER

  Every Saturday morning Timothy Stillman walked to the local coffee house for a double shot of espresso, cream and lots of sugar, no matter the weather. He had missed this habit while he was away. The neighborhood was always quiet, even more so when the temperature dropped near freezing. On his way back, he passed a young woman jogging, alongside her a Golden Retriever. No one else braved the chill, even on such a sunny day.

  Stillman unlocked the door to his apartment, only a little warmer than the outside. He set his coffee on the kitchen table next to a manila envelope and peeled off his winter coat, still musty from being unused for months. He draped the coat over the spare chair and sat to enjoy his drink. Squares of mid-morning light coming in from the garden windows at the top of the front wall of his apartment checkered the living room carpet.

  The intercom buzzed. Stillman got up to answer. "Yes."

  "Messenger," came a young man’s voice.

  "Be right there." Stillman retrieved the envelope from the kitchen. He cracked the door open. The messenger held out a paper and a pen. Stillman took them and put the paper on top of the package, filled in the empty line, and signed. He handed everything to the young man and closed the door. Stillman could see the messenger's ankles walking past his garden windows. The building's apartment manager, wearing worn out sneakers, slouchy Christmas socks, and too short yoga pants, came into view. The messenger stopped. The two pairs of ankles faced each other for a moment then left in opposite directions.

  Stillman went back to his table, sat and put his feet up on the extra chair. He lifted his cup to his lips. The intercom rang again. Not expecting more visitors, he grudgingly put down his coffee.

  “Yes,?” he answered.

  “Messenger."

  “Your guy just picked up the package."

  “You sure?”

  “He was just here. I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”

  “Hold on. Let me call my dispatcher,” said the man.

  “Fine, but your guy just le
ft with the package.” Stillman leaned against the wall on one elbow, looking at the intercom as if it were speaking to him. He tapped a finger on the answering button.

  The messenger buzzed again.

  “Yes,” said Stillman.

  “Sir, my dispatcher’s telling me I'm the only one they sent. Are you sure it was one of our messengers? Because once I leave, man, I’m gone. I got another ten stops before I’m done and there’re only a couple of us working today."

  “I swear, one of your guys was already here. Anyway, the package is gone. There's nothing for you to pick up."

  The messenger’s ankles cast a shadow across the floor of the apartment as he walked past the garden windows and out of the narrow courtyard. Stillman walked back to his table, sat, raised his cup to his lips, and took a long sip.

  He finished his drink and tossed the empty cup into the trash. He dug his wallet out of his pocket and removed the cashier's check, smoothing it flat in his hands. He laid it in the middle of the table. He opened a drawer near the sink and collected an envelope, a pen, and a stamp. Without sitting, he addressed the envelope, inserted the check, sealed it, and carefully placed the stamp in the upper right. He put on his coat and tucked the envelope into the breast pocket.

  The mug in the dish drainer was still damp. He dried it on his pants and took it to his bedroom. His suitcase lay open on the undressed bed, Dotty's bible on top of his possessions, packed in neat rectangles. Stillman tucked the mug into a corner and zipped the suitcase closed. He wheeled it out the front door and locked his apartment, dropping the keys in the small metal box on the wall near the apartment manager's door.

  He stopped at the front of the building and deposited the envelope into the outgoing slot in the big silver mailbox he’d passed everyday for nearly five years. His truck was parked half a block down. The suitcase wheels clunked over the cracks in the sidewalk, steady and predictable, and Timothy Stillman allowed simplicity to fill him up.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ELEVENSES

  Jordyn got off the el and walked a block and a half to Will’s building. Her breath made cloudy poufs in the air, somehow out of place in a clear blue morning. She buzzed Will's apartment. He answered before she could take her finger off the button.

  “Be right down!" Will popped through the door. "I'm ready."

  "How long were you waiting there?"

  "Huh?" Will played dumb.

  Jordyn sniffed at his collar. "You’re wearing cologne." She looked him over. He wore dark blue jeans and black leather oxfords, recently polished.

  “What?” he said.

  Jordyn smiled and shook her head. "Come with me. It's not too far." She and Will walked down the street.

  Will followed her to the middle of the block on the east side of Clark Street. Every storefront was a slightly different shade of brick, weathered brown or red or beige. Except one.

  Jordyn stopped in front of a narrow, wood-paneled façade, painted glossy black. The tall windows were divided into twelve, the gold painted muntins twinkled in the bright morning. Gold leaf lettering on the wood sign swinging above their heads read, “Molly’s Irish Pub and Inn.” The words encircled a three-pointed knot. The glass in the top half of front door was gilded “Céad Míle Fáilte."

  Jordyn looked at Will. “Can we go in there?”

  “Why not? This is the place, right?" He did not wait for Jordyn to respond. “Come on. I’m freezing out here.” He lugged the sturdy door open.

  They entered the dark space. The smell of fresh baked bread and fat sausages welcomed them. Animated conversations filled the room with the melody of Irish brogue, clanking plates and busy forks providing the rhythm.

  Deirdre waved them down. "There you are!” she said and took them both by their elbows. “Let me show you Molly's.”

  The pitted wood floors gave slightly with a tactile creak under foot. Deirdre led them past a stage and a long bar with glasses hanging overhead, past dinged up wood doors set like tabletops on whiskey barrels and old steamer trunks and deep booths upholstered to the ceiling in black leather tufted with brass tacks, past the closed glass doors of a library lined with bookshelves crammed full of bottles, past a room with one large dining table and blocky, tall-backed chairs with ochre-colored velvet seat cushions and illuminated by a rusty iron chandelier that looked as if it were about to bring the plaster ceiling crashing down. She led them past the frenzied kitchen, and finally, at what must have been the very back of the building, she led them into an empty room with dartboards on one wall and an old bellows on another.

  Deirdre stood in the middle of the room smiling and a little out of breath. "So, this is Molly's. We should find a table up front." She turned on her heel and left the empty room.

  Jordyn shrugged. Will smiled and they ran to catch up, following her back to where they had started.

  Deirdre settled into a leather booth across from the bar, her back to the door. “Here, this'll do.” Will slid in next to her. Jordyn sat opposite, across the wide table.

  A young woman stood at the bar. Long wheat-colored hair, held off her round face with a thin purple headband, reached the middle of her back. Jordyn watched it swish back and forth as she talked with a scruffy, middle-aged man behind the bar as he absently dried beer glasses with a flour sack. The man winked at Jordyn. She turned her attention back to Deirdre and Will, scootching down in her seat.

  Deirdre looked at the man at the bar and shook her head. “I want you to meet some friends," she said and hopped out of the booth.

  She walked directly to the bar. A few moments later, she returned with the young woman who was neatly dressed in black pants, a crisp pink shirt, and a spotless white apron. The gentle curves of her face and kind expression lent her an extraordinary tranquility.

  The man stashed the towel behind the bar and followed, moving with unconcerned confidence. The shallow cleft in his chin was still visible through two days’ stubble. The lobe of his left ear sagged under the weight of a chunky earring. He grinned and his dusty blue eyes were surrounded by deep laugh lines.

  “Jordyn and Will, this is Devin and Tierney. Jordyn and Will are my new friends from Eastview.”

  Devin waved, her hand small and plump. Tierney crossed his arms and leaned back. He eyed Deirdre. "You'd be wise not to get involved with this one." He let out a loud guffaw.

  Deirdre smirked. “Tierney harasses me every time I come here.”

  "Devin tries to keep me in line, but it’s a tough job,” said Tierney.

  “You know it,” retorted Devin. Her accent was American and, although she spoke with deliberate clarity, each sound practiced and precise, her words were soft and round.

  "Devin keeps us all in order around here. We’d be completely lost without her,” said Tierney

  Devin giggled. “You’re just trying to get on my good side."

  “Nice to meet you,” said Jordyn. Will nodded.

  Devin grinned at Jordyn. “What beautiful hair. I always wanted strawberry." Devin's eyes sparkled, dark blue flecked with white.

  “Thanks,” said Jordyn.

  Devin's watch beeped. "It's time. Wait here." She disappeared down the dark, wood-paneled hallway at the back of the room.

  “Tierney, has Oisin been in?” asked Deirdre.

  “I saw him earlier. Devin sent him out for something. Not sure what," said Tierney.

  Devin returned with a tarnished silver tray of mismatched cups and saucers, a nested stack of heavy spoons, and a plate of small pastries. The tray clattered as she plopped it onto the table. "I'll be right back." She vanished again, returning quickly with a steaming pot of tea, a small pitcher of milk, and a glass bowl filled to the rim with sugar. She set the teapot at the center of the table and arranged the milk and sugar, one to either side of the teapot. She poured each cup half full. “That’s better.” She stepped back to admire her work.

  “Thanks, Devin," said Deirdre.

  Devin pulled a bar towel from her apron and wiped a couple drips of tea.
"Okay. Back to work for me. Tierney?"

  "Ah, back to work for us." They returned to the bar, Tierney to his polishing and Devin to her chatting.

  The front door opened. A young man in a black hoodie stepped though the morning light, stopping just inside. He scanned the room. His ice-blue eyes caught Jordyn. She looked up at him and her mouth curved into an unconscious smile. She watched him cross to the bar where he stopped to talk with Devin.

  Will interrupted. "Quig?"

  "Huh?" said Jordyn.

  "I was telling Deirdre about the file and about what Pritchard told us."

  "The file?" Jordyn shook herself back into the conversation at the table. "Uh, yeah, the file. I'm still not convinced stuff like that actually exists. Seems like a serious leap to me."

  Deirdre fixed herself another cup of tea. "You should never underestimate the power of faith. Sometimes that is all you need."

  Will leaned back in his seat and watched Deirdre pour in the milk which roiled up below the surface like the clouds before a summer storm.

  Devin nodded toward their table and the young man looked over again. He pushed his hood back onto his shoulders. He had a boyish face, his skin creamy pale against his short cropped auburn hair. He nodded at Devin then walked toward the table.

  Deirdre looked toward the bar. “Oisin!” She jumped out of the booth and wrapped her arms around him. He was about their age and not much taller than Deirdre. She dragged him back to the table. “Will and Jordyn, this is my dear friend, Oisin.”

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Hello.” The palest of freckles dotted his face.

  “Hi,” said Will.

  Deirdre offered Oisin a seat. “Join us?”

  "No, sorry. I have to go out again. Busy today,” his brogue rich and warm.

  Deirdre frowned. “Oh, too bad. Another time, then?”

  “Another time. Nice to meet you.” Oisin's eyes lingered on Jordyn, still smiling involuntarily. She turned to watch him leave through the back of the room.