by Dermot Davis
Chapter 12
Spending the next few days in a deep, dark funk, Andrew desperately looked forward to the weekend. He planned to take time out for himself and try to figure out some way to get his head on straight. Using the excuse that he would work from home all weekend, he had expected that Abigail insist that he spend a good portion of his time in the office. However, Abigail was so obviously stressed and preoccupied that she accepted his request without argument.
The work week had been entirely stressful; Abigail had begun investigating members of the organization’s core group and it had affected office morale. As office environment tensions steadily increased, Andrew smiled to himself each time he saw an employee from Simon's list summoned to a meeting with Abigail. The longer that those individual meetings took, the more that Andrew believed that the employee in question was in very serious trouble. Attempting to get a read on Abigail's demeanor after each interrogation, he could tell that she was far from being a happy camper. In fact, she was looking more and more troubled by the second. It appeared that Simon had been correct.
Andrew's main concern was reuniting with Fiona, however, so Abigail's difficulties and the possibility of taking down evil members of the organization were minor triumphs. He’d been replaying his recent conversation with Fiona over and over in his head to the point where he was driving himself bonkers. "Abigail is my aunt. She saved me, she's taking care of me, spending time with me," she had told him as if she was truly enjoying her time with her aunt who very much treasured her. Is it possible that, once again, Simon had lied to him and set him up for failure? Was Simon still trying to keep him and Fiona apart?
Andrew didn't know whom to believe. From first-hand experiences, as far as he could tell, both Abigail and Simon were pathological liars and grand masters of manipulation and deceit. Whatever power play was being fought among the siblings, Fiona and Andrew were caught in the middle and most probably mere casualties of their war.
Left wondering who he could talk to about his dilemma, to help him get his thinking straight, Andrew could only think of one person. The one wise person that he trusted who he believed was kind enough to offer whatever assistance was needed: Professor Dowling. Giving the older gent a quick call, Andrew asked Dowling if he could drop by for a cup of tea.
"I have a couple of hours on Sunday afternoon, if you'd like to stop by," Dowling told him in his usual friendly and welcoming manner. Andrew looked forward to their meeting and felt a little burst of energy on Sunday afternoon when he parked his car on Dowling’s street.
"What's going on?" Dowling asked as he directed Andrew to sit down in the kitchen while he boiled the kettle for some tea.
"What's with all the food, Dowling?" Andrew asked as he noticed most of the kitchen counters were covered in fresh produce.
"Oh, I'm cooking tonight," Dowling said with a youthful glint of embarrassment in his wise eyes as his face flushed a bit.
"You're cooking for Abigail?" Andrew asked with a grin. "Here?" he said, looking around at the cluttered and ramshackle house.
"Yes," Dowling answered and looked around with increasing apprehension. "She won't like my place?" he asked nervously.
"Oh, no, I'm sure she's going to love your place," Andrew shot back, immediately regretting asking a question that obviously caused Dowling anxiety. "It's so you, I mean, it's so individual, like maybe nothing she's used to or seen before."
"She does like rustic and individual," Dowling agreed with relief. "She likes places to have a personality."
"Oh, your crib definitely has a personality," Andrew said and nodded his head with a serious look of assurance.
"I'm a bit nervous, to tell the truth," Dowling confessed. "It's been a long time since I cooked for anybody, Andrew. A long time."
"You know what?" Andrew said, checking out the fresh vegetables and expensive-looking bottles of wine laid out on the counters, "It all looks delicious. The vegetables look so fresh, it's like you went out into the back garden to select each one yourself."
"Spent hours in the Farmer's Market this morning," Dowling admitted. "Couldn't decide whether to go French or Italian. Opted for a kind of Mediterranean cuisine, mixed with Californian, I guess," he said, looking around at the produce.
"Looks like a winner to me," Andrew said brightly. "Dinner and a movie?"
"Oh, no," Dowling answered quickly. "Dinner and the opera. I got two very expensive, very well situated, opera tickets. I've been looking forward to it all week."
"Oh, fancy," Andrew said teasingly.
"Tea?" Dowling asked as the kettle boiled and whistled. "Or coffee?" he then asked when Andrew hesitated.
"Either is fine," Andrew answered, hoping for coffee. The older man grinned, knowing all too well which beverage would make the young man happiest.
"So, what's going on with you?" Dowling asked again as he searched for the coffee beans.
"Well," Andrew said and paused. "May be a bit tricky now, considering..."
"Considering that you work for Abigail and that's what you want to talk about?" Dowling asked, his intuition spot on.
"Yeah, pretty much."
"I can be impartial," Dowling assured him as he set out two clean mugs. "Abigail at work is a different animal to Abigail at a dinner party, I'm pretty certain. Fire away."
"Okay," Andrew said and thought deeply about his question. "You knew that Simon and Abigail are related, right? Brother and sister?"
"No, I didn't know that," Dowling answered, obviously surprised. "Makes sense, I suppose," he then mused.
"Well, I guess the main thing I need to work out is which one of them is entirely or partially lying. Or, to put it more bluntly, which one of them is telling the truth about anything 'cause I sure as heck can't figure them out."
"And when you say lying, I take it to mean in connection to Fiona?"
"In connection to Fiona and... everything," Andrew said with a gesture of his arms opening wide. "Work, the serpent society... are they really doing good in the world or just out to make more money and power for themselves, all of it, I guess," he said, sounding exasperated.
"I see," Dowling said thoughtfully. "I have milk or cream for the coffee, whichever you'd prefer," he said and opened up his well-stocked fridge.
"Wow, you did some serious shopping, didn't you?" Andrew asked as he noticed the refrigerator shelves bulging with foodstuffs. "Milk is good, thank you."
"If anything, and perhaps I am biased," Dowling continued, "I would believe what Abigail says over and above anything that Simon has to say. Considering our past experience with him, and his penchant for deceit and obscuration of facts, I would definitely come down on the side of believing in Abigail."
"Yeah," Andrew agreed as he pondered his answer. "I agree entirely except I'm having second thoughts because Simon claims that he's had a change of heart and… he seemed genuine. Being in prison, and everything, changed him, I think; now he wants to make good on everything."
"Ha," Dowling said with a smile. "What a rascal. Never misses a trick, you'd almost admire the man for his devious inventiveness."
"You don't believe that he's capable of changing… and making amends?"
"Do you?" Dowling asked and looked him straight in the eyes.
"I don't know," Andrew answered hesitantly. "To be honest, he did have me convinced. The way he talked to me, the look in his eyes, his demeanor… the whole thing. He looked like he had a change of heart. He gave me names, said he would help me out with Fiona, told me where she was... I don't know, I believed him."
"Well, that would certainly be significant," Dowling considered as he poured the coffee. "It's not unheard of for people to turn their lives around having served some time in prison. Just never imagined a person like Simon..." he said without finishing the sentence.
"Well, now you understand my confusion," Andrew said, pouring some milk into his freshly brewed coffee. "It's driving me mental."
"I have cookies," Dowling said cheerfully.
"How could that be?" Dowling asked, helping himself to a chocolate chip cookie. "What kind of danger?"
"I don't know; our visiting time was up. When I told Fiona what he said she pretty much laughed in my face and hung up. Said she was having a great time with her aunt and told me never to call her ever again. And that goes for her father, for Simon, too."
As Dowling dunked a cookie into his black tea with milk, he paused to think. "What would Fiona possess that Abigail would want?" he asked, as if thinking out loud. "What kind of threat could Fiona pose to Abigail?"
Smiling at the ridiculousness of the question, Andrew ran a hand through his hair and trying to think of something reasonable to say, he failed.
"I don’t know… I just can’t… Honestly, Fiona is so far removed from the real world I doubt if she's a threat to anyone, except maybe herself."
"Perhaps," Dowling said as he ran over conversations in his head between himself and Abigail where Fiona was mentioned, “and perhaps not.”
"What?" Andrew asked as he watched the thoughtful face of the retired professor. "Am I missing something? What are you thinking, Professor?"
"That whole serpent group is a puzzle," he said with an expression of frustration hijacking his face. "It's like a quagmire of... unfathomable secrets."
"That's pretty poetic," Andrew remarked with a smile.
"Like a box within a box,” the professor said, his mind searching for understanding. “For the seeker, each step higher within the secret society is meant to lead to illumination. At every level to which they climb, new secrets are revealed. Their rise in the organization is rewarded with a view into another world of secrets, some of which may expand upon the already revealed secrets, and others that may seem to contradict or void previously learned esoteric knowledge completely.”
“Geez, Louise,” Andrew exclaimed with exasperation. “Where does it all end? Is there an end? One final secret that actually provides illumination or whatever?”
“Only the insiders, those who have attained the highest level in the order, can know for sure… and they are not allowed tell. So, it's impossible for us outsiders to discern truth from lies and what is actually at stake, if anything."
"How do you mean, if anything?"
"The entire reason for being of any secret society could simply be a deceptive exercise in keeping people in line. Having initiates beneath you on the secret society totem pole, people purposefully kept in the dark, while at the same time trained to do your bidding, without question or hesitation, is a form of power. For those at the top it could be a way of controlling and directing their personal army of willing volunteers, all in the name of doing good in the world yet secretly achieving greater power for themselves and promoting their personal or group agenda."
"And what do the volunteers get out of it? The worker bees at the bottom?"
"The initiates get help from the people above them, the more advanced members of the group; most likely in the form of career advancement that they couldn’t achieve on their own. They also get the opportunity of sleeping better at night, convincing themselves that they are contributing their efforts to doing good in the world."
"And Fiona would be a threat to all of that because?"
"I don't know," Dowling admitted with a scowl and a frown. "As I say, unless I know what the true aims of the group are, I have no way of solving that mystery. Seeing as though Fiona may indeed be in some sort of trouble, I should ask Abigail."
"You'll ask Abigail about Fiona?" Andrew asked enthusiastically. "What if she fobs you off or clams up, gives you some pat answers?"
"Subtlety, my boy. I shall have to ask her in a way so that she doesn't know that she's being asked," Dowling said with a faraway look in his eyes. "I don't know exactly how to go about that but that would be the intention. I'll have her to myself all evening. I'll think of something."
"Cool," Andrew said, feeling hopeful and intensely grateful. "Thank you."
"Of course," Dowling said, his face lighting up. "I'd ask you to help me out here," he said, looking around at all the unprepared food. "But I think it best you not be here when Abigail arrives, what do you think?"
"I agree entirely. I should leave you to it," the young man said, finishing his coffee. "I appreciate the chat."
Professor Dowling spent the next few hours nervously preparing a Mediterranean meal with Californian overtones for his date with Abigail. Hoping to have everything timed just right, he placed the foodstuffs on the kitchen counter from left to right in the order in which they would need to be cooked. Even though he was nervously keeping an eye on the time, he became anxious when the doorbell finally did sound out.
"So sorry for being late," Abigail fussed with her purse and a bottle of wine as she quickly pecked his cheek. "It's been crisis after crisis."
"Not a problem," Dowling answered, taking the bottle of wine and quickly glancing at it appreciatively while closing the front door. "It's great that you could make it."
"Ah," she said as she waited for him to lead her into the kitchen.
"Something wrong?" he asked when he realized that she wasn't dressed for the opera.
"You wouldn't believe how crazy things have become at work. The place is literally falling like a house of cards and I don't even know if I can save it. I was going to cancel altogether but I didn't want to disappoint you like that."
"Oh, I see," Dowling said and his face fell like someone had just punched him in the stomach.
"I can stay for dinner but, unfortunately, I'll have to cancel our opera engagement, as hurtful as that is to both of us, my apologies. I hate to do this to you and at such short notice."
"Dinner with you will be terrific," Dowling said, swallowing his disappointment. "I'm so very glad that you could make it for that."
"Well, one has to eat."
"We can get to the opera some other time."
"Certainly, we shall," Abigail said, looking around as if seeing his place for the first time. "Quite the eccentric little place you have here, eh? I love it."
"I thought you might," Dowling responded with secret glee. "If you still have time later, I can give you a tour but, right now, you need to sit before the food gets irreparably over-cooked. A glass of wine?"
"Yes, red would be lovely, thank you," she answered as she sat on the chair that Dowling held out for her.
"Let's forget all our cares and enjoy the good food, what do you say?"
"That sounds lovely but, to be honest, I don't know if that's possible. Cheers," she said, raising the full glass of wine that he had just poured.
"If you'd like to talk about it, that's fine with me also. May help to talk it out and get an independent viewpoint. It’s fine with me," he said kindly.
"Oh, you're so sweet but I'm afraid that I'll only bore you to tears. I'm beyond bored myself with the whole boondoggle, I can assure you. What are we having to eat?" she asked, her nose sniffing some delightful aroma in the air.
"It's something I've never cooked before," Dowling said with trepidation as she uncovered some of the pots. "I hope you like eggplant."
"Oh, I do, I do," Abigail answered encouragingly as she got in touch with her ravenous appetite. "I'm so famished. You won't hear any complaints from me, I can tell you that."
"You've no idea how comforting that sounds."
With every mouthful that Abigail took to satiate her intense appetite, Dowling relaxed more and more. Clearly preoccupied with her concerns at work, she barely spoke, except to ask Dowling a question, as he struggled to entertain her with stories from his life and past work at the university. "And what are you working on now?" she asked as she contemplated her dessert of fresh fruit and ice cream with great relish.
"I've still been working on that precognition study that came out of Cornell originally," he answered,
clearly energized by her interest in his work. "I'm just one person away from filling my sample quota, as a matter of fact. Then I can send it off for publication. I'm excited."
"Precognition, that’s right. It sounds intriguing," Abigail answered in between mouthfuls of fruit and ice cream. "You need one more person to complete it?"
"Yes, it's been hard to find someone that fits the 50-65-year-old demographic. There are only so many young students I can use," he said with a grin.
"How long does it take?"
"Ten minutes."
"Oh, then why don't I be your final person? I do fit your demographic."
"Really? That would be wonderful, Abigail," Dowling said, looking overjoyed. "As soon as we're done with dessert we can take our tea inside and I'll set you up."
"Marvelous," Abigail said, happy to make up for his truncated evening. "It's the least that I can do." A short time later the pair were in front of Dowling’s equipment. Abigail smiled and reminded herself not to judge his antiquated set-up. She knew that university funding was always tight and that, unlike cutting-edge well-funded research in the private sector, professors took what they could get.
Casually hooking up Abigail to the precognition test apparatus, Dowling ensured that she was first connected to the old polygraph machine. "Are you feeling relaxed?" he asked as she settled in the chair. She smiled.
"Yes, thank you. That beautiful wine helps. Remind me to write down the name of it before I leave."
"Certainly. How is Fiona doing? I haven't talked to her in a while."
"Fiona is doing very well, thanks for asking. We're getting on like a house on fire."