Being the target of Sergeant Drake’s suspicions, I feel his hunger for truth like a hot laser cutting through my flesh, peeling it open to pursue whatever truth hides beneath. I respect that about him. It’s in the character of all good cops to expose lies and pursue liars. In this way we are alike. Unfortunately, I can’t let him stand in the way of what must happen here. If he gets too close, a sowing may become necessary and his hunger for truth will be fully satisfied. Whether he lives or dies would be his choice.
Drake continues, “Where were you when Joel fell from the roof?”
“I was with Dave in his office.”
He turns toward Lewis to see his reaction and transmit some ciphered message over the air waves. Lewis nods slightly in receipt and jots a note of his own. I’m guessing it says confirm alibi with Dave, but after what I’ve seen of Lewis it could very well say buy breath mints.
“Alright, last question. Did you notice anything unusual about Joel’s behavior this morning? Was he jumpy, sweaty, loopy, did you smell anything on him? Could he have been under the influence?”
“He was frazzled, but that’s not unusual. I didn’t notice anything else.”
“Well, we’ll find out when the toxicology report comes back. We have a few more interviews to do so we’re gonna move on now. Thanks for your cooperation…”
“It’s Ted Verity.”
“That’s right. Thanks, Mr. Verity.”
We shake hands and the officers smile and bow with disingenuous courtesy. No sooner than they clear the door, Dave appears outside my office, blocking my attempts to watch them. I lean right, hoping for a glimpse of their faces to read their lips or looks, but I can’t see anything around Dave’s medium body.
“Come in, Dave. Sit,” I gently demand.
He clears my field of view just in time for me to see Drake motioning in my direction as they wait for the elevator. Officer Lewis glances toward me, awkwardly meeting my gaze, then moving along to play it off. The men lean in and share another secretive exchange. The elevator bell dings and doors slide open. Sergeant Drake turns to select their floor before sniping me with a blatant scowl that I fearlessly return. The gap in the doors narrows to a close and severs our silent war with a temporary ceasefire.
Regardless of my tenuous respect for Sergeant Drake, he is aligning himself as an adversary to my cause and further complicating an already tedious operation. With more sowings to come, his watchful eye will make avoiding detection even more arduous, forcing me into a delicate dance between finishing my work at Pentastar and preserving my own integrity.
Dave scoots to the edge of the chair and asks nervously, “What did they ask you about?”
“Joel,” I calmly say, still looking at the elevator. I turn my attention to Dave, whose anxiety is pitiful. Yet another benefit of honest living is that when people get nosey, there’s nothing to fear. Clearly Dave is worried about what truths I might uncover.
Dave McConnel’s salty brown hair sits impeccably coiffed atop his oval face in a wavy style that gives him a certain boyish charm. His life of plenty has contributed to the slight doughiness of his midsection, but his custom-made five-thousand-dollar suit implies a more chiseled form. In his mind, his bloated annual salary is the proof of a worthwhile existence, one of importance and meaning. This suit and the others in his four-hundred-square-foot closet are little more than sandwich boards that announce his place in the corporate caste. He reclines in my chair the way he does in every chair, as if it were designed with his comfort in mind. In many decades, I have yet to meet a more dichotomous man. The people in his circle are thoroughly convinced of his likeability while outsiders generally find him repugnant. He looks at me with the emerald eyes of a scared child, desperately in need of comfort and escape.
“Obviously they asked about Joel, but what did you say?” he asks urgently.
“I didn’t say anything that’s going to draw attention to Pentastar, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Okay,” he says with relief. “I’m just doing some damage assessments so I can get ahead of the narrative on this. No doubt the media will make circumstantial connections between the Fosillix trial and Joel’s suicide. I just want to make sure no one here is connecting those dots to the cops or reporters.”
“They were only interested in my interaction with Joel this morning. They didn’t ask any questions about Pentastar or Fosillix.”
“Okay. Okay, good. Just so you know, I wasn’t trying to sic them on you, but they asked if anyone else talked to Joel this morning and you said you had. I want answers too. Joel will be hard to replace. He was my go-to errand boy.” Dave wags his head sadly before realizing how cold his last statement was. “That came out wrong. I’m devastated for his wife and I’ll miss him, but now I also need someone who can fill his shoes, and quickly.”
Dave pauses and digs deep. With squinty eyes, he muscles up a dismal display of theater.
“I never thought he’d do something like this. I didn’t even notice any warning signs,” he whines with a dry sniffle.
I hang my head, hiding my face to avoid offending him with my skepticism. An awkward moment of silence passes, interrupted occasionally by contrived sniffles. After Dave fulfills his quota of public grieving, he stands with a sigh and newfound composure. He clears his throat, buttons his jacket, and tidies his sleeves.
Then, in his most authoritative tone, Dave says, “Ted, I need you to do something.”
I know what comes next: this worthless weasel is about to assign me dirty work. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s suggested I do something disreputable, but his previous suggestions were met with such swift rejection it would be astonishing for him to try again. Nevertheless, his mouth is opening.
“I need you to approve this report,” he dictates as he produces a file folder out of thin air and slings it in my direction.
I stoop to retrieve the folder from my desk, flip open the file, and peruse the document inside. It’s worse than I expected. This report says that they were given the green light from research and development and quality assurance to initiate human trials.
“Absolutely not!” I protest tenaciously as I slap the folder shut and thrust it back at Dave.
His face crumples into a nasty frown as he says, “I was just going to have Joel forge your signature but now that he’s gone it’s just easier if you sign it yourself. I’ll make it worth your while. I’m thinking of a number between ten and twenty thousa—”
“No,” I interject with concrete resolve.
His frown ignites in a flash of red.
“I figured as much you damned Boy Scout! How about this: sign it by tomorrow morning or you’re fired! Leave it on my desk when you’re done,” he snarls as he stomps out of my office.
I sit on the edge of my desk looking at the folder in my hand. The report it contains is an abomination. Not only does it absolve the ones truly responsible for the untimely death of numerous people, but it also inevitably directs the authorities’ crosshairs to me or someone in the lab for fabricating results. Signing this is not an option, but I can’t afford to be fired before my work at Pentastar is complete. Dave has given me no choice but to expedite his sowing.
Planning a sowing is more a question of timing and location than anything else. In an age of low-cost digital surveillance, the latter is supremely important. I pace to my office window and look out over the vast maze of cement, steel, and glass. In the city, the odds of doing anything outside my apartment without being recorded are probably worse than getting struck by lightning. Every cell phone, doorbell, dash cam, drone, streetlamp, and traffic signal form a global network of eyes, always watching, never forgetting. Unfortunately, attempting a second sowing in this building will draw too much attention to Pentastar and myself, so it can’t happen here.
All cities have blind spots, and Port Ellis is no exception. The further from downtown I go, the easier it is to find those places, but luring Dave to the shipyards, or the indus
trial park, or the Cascade Mountains without sounding his internal alarm would be impossible. Even if it worked, it would leave a trail leading that bloodhound Drake straight back to my red hands. With Milburn Tower crossed off the list and without knowing Dave’s plans for the evening, the only predictable opportunity before his ultimatum expires will be tonight, at his home.
The office PA system crackles to life and Jan’s velvety voice floods the office.
“Due to today’s tragic events, I have authorized early release for the office. Please take the rest of the day off to mourn and decompress. We are providing counselling services free of charge for anyone who wants to stay and talk or make arrangements to do so at a later time. If you require additional time off, please visit with your supervisor for approval.”
Profiteering aside, Jan genuinely cares about her people. In that way, and that way only, she and Dave are decent leaders. Unfortunately, like Jim Jones they are leading their people down a path to death and damnation. They wield their charisma like a weapon, incising conscience from spirit and soul from body.
Dave’s tenure comes to an end tonight.
CHAPTER FOUR
Even Nephilim like leaving work early; some might say we especially do. We crave escape and find our bliss in solitude, making us introverts by human standards. Early release frees me from the stagnant stench of my office, the oppressive atmosphere of these halls, and the scrutinous overwatch of my “superiors.” As I exit the ground floor of the building, the warmth of the midday sun permeates my stony countenance. The strident squawks of hungry seagulls echo off the concrete cliffs as they dive to snatch the bits of hot dog bun that have fallen near the vendor’s cart. The rotund man tries to shoo them away, and it works for a few seconds before their courage is renewed. Behind me, the soothing rustle of the potted plants whispers my name, moved by a delicate breeze that weaves through my follicles. I blink slowly, basking in the fleeting serenity.
The moment is shattered as a shoulder jabs into the middle of my back and a car horn bawls abrasively before a stream of obscenity spews from its driver’s mouth. I observe the parade of fabric and flesh and take note as they shove and grind past their fellow beings like cattle in a stockyard. If not for humanity, the earth would be flawless.
The fantasy of an entire planet, or even a small community, of my own kind has flitted around my mind on many occasions. We are a beautiful, honest, and stewarding race truly deserving of the splendor of this place. Alas, we must share it with mankind and suffer their company as they squander this most precious gift. They take it for granted, too preoccupied with acquiring money and manmade creations to take the time to appreciate creation around them.
I weave through the flow of livestock toward the curb and hail the approaching taxi. It slows to a stop as a hand stretches into my peripheral vision and a tall, slender woman in a long gray skirt suit steps into view. Her fingers wrap gracefully around the cab’s door handle as the same gentle breeze that sways the potted foliage tosses and flips her shoulder-length sable hair to the side. With honest blue eyes and a gentle expression, she is unlike any woman I’ve seen. None of this excuses the fact that she’s taking my taxi.
I clear my throat with a hearty “Ahem,” but she doesn’t notice as she pulls the cab door open and prepares to sit. “Excuse me”—she looks my direction—“I hailed that cab.”
“I did too,” she replies with a pleasant, coy grin.
The driver rolls down the front passenger window, so I lean lower to see his face.
“I pulled over for her, buddy. I didn’t even see you,” the driver says, setting the record straight. I turn back to face the majestic creature to my left.
“I stand corrected. My apologies, I didn’t realize. I’ll catch the next one. Have a nice day,” I say with a friendly smile and half-wave. The woman hesitates for a moment before returning the sentiment. A magnificent perfume of fairness and virtue flows into my nostrils, resting gently against my olfactory receptors. Her elegant neck lowers her head into the car before she pulls the door shut and jets away.
An unnatural amalgam of sensations darts through my body as I watch the taxi dissolve into traffic. The warmth of hope and the exhilaration of beauty swirl with the icy chill of mystery and fear. The resulting force of nature bombards my mind with a debris field of questions and fragmented thoughts. Who is she? Does she work here? Will I ever see her again? Was she wearing a ring? More than any of that, I want to know why I feel this way. Before this moment I had never met a human in which I detected so much light. There has never been a person that elicited such a positive emotional response. Focusing on Dave’s sowing and the greater purpose of my existence suddenly feels like a chore that diminishes my prospects for personal happiness. I have never felt more…human.
I reach to hail another cab but the nearest one is a couple blocks and traffic lights away. I’ll be left here to wrestle with my thoughts a few minutes longer. It crosses my mind that, however improbable, this woman may have dropped a clue to her identity, a proverbial glass slipper. While I don’t believe in fairy tales, my mother read them to me as a boy, which apparently planted a seed in my heart that’s now blossoming into delusion.
I replay the brief memory, amplifying every detail, searching for a nametag, a company logo, anything to direct my analysis. Why didn’t I ask for her name or ask if she works here? Listen to me. I sound like a twitterpated, pubescent human. Despite my chagrin, I continue to discreetly check my surroundings, scanning for some hint of her identity.
This leads to the curious but unrelated discovery that I’m being watched. Parked against the curb about a hundred feet to my left is a vehicle whose driver appears to have a special interest in me. I walk back toward Milburn Tower’s glass entrance and pretend to read one of the notices next to the door. A casual glance his way confirms that the man is indeed watching me quite intently.
There exists a fine line between vigilance and paranoia, the operative difference being that paranoia is a psychological and emotional state while vigilance is a state of mind. Vigilance demands that I notice the signs when they’re real while paranoia drives me to notice them when they’re not. As the nearest traffic light turns green, I quickly scoot back down to the street, hail my ride, and waste no time leaping in.
The driver looks back, startled, before asking, “Where to, friend?” with a stout Armenian accent and a smile.
“Uh, can you just drive straight for a couple blocks?”
“Sure, friend. I go wherever you want.”
“Thank you”—I lean forward to read his name plate—“Alex.”
“No problem,” he assures, throwing the gear shift to drive. Alex pulls into the lane and begins to zip ahead before slowing to a stop. The traffic light above burns bright red and gives the slight impression that it’s chosen the side of my watcher, who still hasn’t pulled away from the curb but now has plenty of time. Then, as we start rolling again, the navy-blue Taurus with dark tinted windows jerks into the lane three cars behind us. It’s time for a test.
“Alex.”
“Yes, friend?”
“Could you please go straight for one more block, then pretend to make a left turn at the next intersection?”
“Of course, happy to,” he says compliantly. “Uh, but just to understand, how do I pretend to turn?”
“When we get close to the intersection, hit your turn signal and move into the turn lane. Slow down, stop if you have to, but don’t turn. Then look for an opportunity to get back in this lane and go straight.”
Alex nods an uneasy nod and says, “Okay, friend. You the boss.”
The tick-tock of the turn signal fills the otherwise silent cab as we veer left and begin breaking. Now just one car behind, the Taurus changes lanes as well, and as the arrow turns yellow, Alex signals right and finds an opening to go straight.
“That’s perfect, Alex. Nicely done,” I praise as he slides between a yellow cab and a black Cadillac.
“Thank y
ou, my friend.”
A few seconds later, the blue sedan follows suit.
Whoever’s behind the wheel of that car is definitely following me, and though there are plenty of reasons why that might be, all of them are bad news. My past is a trail of suicide with the occasional, dramatic recovery, but those footprints have been washed away with the tide. My past is an uncharted constellation of nightmares in which I am the bogeyman. No one affected by my work even knows I exist. No, this person is not tailing me for the sowings of old. This person is tailing me because of my work at Pentastar Pharmaceuticals, and I need to lose him.
“Alex, at this next intersection, can you approach slowly until the light turns yellow, then zip through before red?”
“Sure.”
Alex is getting less talkative as he wonders what he’s gotten into. He takes his foot off the gas and coasts to the intersection, pushed from behind by honking horns and the metaphysical power of road rage. When the light goes yellow he floors it, slipping through just before red. The Cadillac behind us runs the red, then whips into the adjacent lane and passes us on the right, waving a stiff middle finger on the way by. The blue Taurus got nabbed at the light and now sits behind a Swamp Suckers Pool Service van, their ridiculous winking gator emblazoned on the hood. Distracted by the angry bird to our right, I almost miss the Taurus using the turn lane to pass the pool cleaner’s van, then brazenly blow through the cross traffic at Nichols Street. Another car merges between us and the Taurus, but it’s clear Alex has noticed them.
“I watched in the mirror since you made your strange request, friend,” Alex says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “That blue car made every move. Who follows you?”
“I have no idea. He was watching me from the curb back where you picked me up.”
Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1) Page 3