Down a few flights of steps and out the turn stiles, I make my way to the street exit where Mae is waiting for me.
15
Old Ghosts
“Glad to be back?” asks Mae as we walk down the street towards the business district.
“You have no idea,” I say with a smile on my face. It feels good to actually be talking face to face with her. I feel like I’m finally back with someone who truly understands me and doesn’t need to pry into things. “But, don’t make me too comfortable,” I continue. “My sentence isn’t up yet.”
“I haven’t forgotten that,” she says, brushing her jet-black hair out of her eyes. “Three more weeks, right?”
“Two and a half,” I correct her, a bit forcefully.
She chuckles, tucking her hands into her pocket.
“I know you expressed your horror in the texts,” she says. “But, how are the woods?”
“Awful,” I say. “There’s nothing to do. Everyone is nosy, and to top it off, I was almost drowned on my second day.”
“That’s a record.”
We take a turn a few blocks down, hurrying to cross the busy street and not get run over. I have to laugh that even being nearly run over by a taxi is more exciting than being in Maine.
Mae glances over at me.
“So, why are we going to the Marshall-Crichton Building anyway? I thought you were taking a break from anything to do with your father?”
I look away. I can count on Mae to remember almost everything that I say, which was why I need her to come with me. She has an eye for details, and perhaps she can spot things that I miss.
But, I don’t want to tell her about the Vestige. Not yet. Not until I know that it is really what I think it is. If I can’t figure out how to use it properly, I am going to hide it somewhere. In the back of my mind I think that I should just hide it anyway, but my curiosity is getting the better of me. That, and the vision of my father telling me to use it well is guilting me into action.
Damn it, Dad, I think. He couldn’t just spell it out for me. He had to make it into a mystery, just like his books. Even in death.
“I need to check something,” I say, trying to be as vague as possible with my answer while still giving Mae enough information to keep her from investigating my motives further. “I’m actually working on a paper for one of my classes.”
“They’re making you do papers?” Mae says with a raised eyebrow. She makes a shocked expression. “Wow. They do know you’re only there for a month, right?”
I shrug.
“I’m doing it as an extra project to try to bring my grades up while I’m not in the city,” I say. “I thought if I did it about my Dad’s writing, then that would be something unique that nobody else would have access to.”
“That’s all depending on if his bosses let you into their archives,” says Mae.
She’s right. I have no idea if they will let me into the areas that I need to go, let alone if I will find anything that will shed light on the Vestige.
I do know one thing for sure, though. My father was a notorious note taker. He wrote on everything. I even caught him writing on a popcorn bag when we went to see a movie once. He saved everything, which is why our apartment was normally littered with boxes of outlines and notes throughout the year. The collection grew and grew periodically and Dad would have his assistants come and collect the boxes once they were filled. Then they presumably went to his office at the Marshall-Chrichton Building. Mom was always happy once the boxes were gone, though the cleanliness only lasted a week at the most.
If there is any information that can help me, it will be in one of those boxes. No doubt the boxes aren’t just old cardboard filing boxes any more. A giant publishing house like Marshall-Crichton will have more high-tech, preservable means of storing old papers. That is even more likely now that my father is dead and any scrap of paper with his handwriting on it is worth a small fortune.
“We will be fine,” I say, more to reassure myself that I am doing the right thing.
We walk on, past a small park, and then around a large apartment building when it falls into view: The Marshall-Crichton building.
Mae keeps on walking, making it a few paces ahead of me. But, I come to a stop, staring.
A wave of emotion washes over me as I take in the glass and steel building. It stretches up to the sky for what seems like forever. In reality it’s only fifteen stories high, but even from the time I was a kid I thought that the building was the highest thing I’d ever seen.
My father’s office is on the seventh floor.
Was, my mind corrects me. He doesn’t work there any more.
Mae notices that I’m not with her and she stops, turning to face me.
“Hey, what’s up?” she says.
I don’t move. My eyes are still locked on the window to my father’s old office. It’s too high up to see anything inside. Images of what his office used to look like flood my brain and I can’t shake them. Questions fire off in my mind like, is his office still the same? Is there a new desk in it? I remember etching our family’s names into the underside of Dad’s desk with my father one late night when I was allowed to go to work with him.
I swallow a lump in my throat.
Mae comes back to me and looks me in the eye with the kind of care that only she can provide. She knows how hard this is for me, and that helps in a way. It doesn’t take any of the pain from me, but it does lessen the blow.
She places a hand on my arm.
“We don’t have to go in there if you don’t want,” she says. “If it’s too painful.”
I shake my head. Even though I want to run and get as far away from here as possible, I can’t. I feel the Vestige against my chest and the cold of the metal sends a tingle of energy coursing through me.
There is no other option but to go in there and see what I can find out.
“No,” I say. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine in a minute.” I let out a massive exhale that probably sounds about as dramatic as it feels. But, the physical act of exhaling relieves the pressure in my chest and I feel my heart rate begin to slow. I glance up at the building once more. The sun glints off the windows and I have to shield my eyes.
I straighten my shoulders and nod.
“I’m ready,” I say.
Mae gives me a wry smile.
“Such a soldier,” she says. We make our way up to the front steps where two revolving doors let guests and clients into and out of the building. “You know,” Mae says before we get to the doors. “You could have saved yourself all this trouble and looked up what you needed on Wikipedia.”
This makes me laugh.
“I don’t think that’s really the same thing,” I say as we push our way through the doors. “Wikipedia doesn’t have all the pictures.”
16
A Warm Reception
The lobby of the Marshall-Crichton building is spacious and full of light. Everything about it is curves. There are hardly any sharp edges at all, and the ones that I do see I can count on one hand. Everything is bright whites and gray.
Though not terribly busy, the lobby does have traffic. People wearing suits and expensive looking business attire are hurrying to and from the elevators. There are three elevators lined in a row to my right, just beside a floating staircase. In the middle of the lobby is a waiting area with the only color in the whole space in the form of fancy modernist red chairs around a circular coffee table displaying tablets for people to browse on while they wait for appointments.
Mae follows me to the large reception desk where a young girl probably in her twenties and probably a college intern is sitting. She’s wearing a headset with the small microphone off to the side of her mouth and she’s staring at an iMac, her hand hovered over the mouse. She must be talking to someone important because she doesn’t say very much. Just the quick bursts of agreement.
“I will make sure to remind you,” she says into the microphone. Then the phone call end
s. She sits back in her chair slightly and sighs, brushing some strands of highlighted blond hair that have escaped her ponytail back into place.
She puts on a smile when she notices Mae and me standing at the counter.
“Can I help you?” she asks. Her voice is soft and pleasant.
“Yes,” I say, leaning my elbows on the glossy counter. “I’m Shaun Boding. I have an appointment with the archives department at noon?”
The girl clicks the mouse a few times, navigating to her schedule. When she finds the appointment she makes a smacking sound with her tongue and says, “Ah, yes. I see you there.” She squints at the appointment as I lean over the counter to get a look at her screen. It’s jumbled with popups and tabs of different pieces of information. It’s mostly a bunch of spreadsheets.
I’m waiting for her to tell me what to do next when she frowns and says, “I think the archivist went out to lunch about ten minutes ago.”
“Can you page them and see if that’s the case?” I ask. I’m used to this sort of thing by now. If I had a quarter for every time that I called to speak to my father last year and was given the run-around, I would probably be rich. With big companies like this you have to be persistent, even if you’re the son of one of their biggest artists.
“Yes, of course I can page them,” the girl says. She holds up a finger as she turns to a set of keys on her phone’s keypad. “Just one moment.”
She turns away from us and begins to speak to someone on the other line. They must be the other secretary at the archive floor.
I turn away from the counter and look at the lobby some more. It’s incredible the amount of artistry there is even in just the entryway to this building. I wonder how much of this was paid for by my father’s work.
It’s not a mystery or a secret that my family is financially solid. It wasn’t always that way - believe me. But, my mother isn’t afraid of paying the bills. Our house in the upscale part of the city is paid for, which my father insisted on doing right off as soon as his stories took off the way they did. And I don’t think our cars have ever been beyond two years old since the big break.
But, I would give all of that stuff back for my father to be with me again.
I fold my arms, determined not to turn into an emotional wreck in the middle of the lobby. It’s been a year and a half. How long will it take before this aching goes away and I can get back to normal?
Well, I think. It won’t exactly be normal. A new normal, perhaps.
The girl at the desk finishes speaking to the other end of the line and hangs up, turning back to us. She leans across the counter to call to me.
“Shaun?”
I walk back over with Mae at my side.
The girl doesn’t look pleased. She sighs again for the second time since we’ve arrived.
“It seems that Julian did head out to lunch. I think they forgot to tell him that you would be coming. He had an opening in his schedule, but of course, he’s not here.” She rolls her eyes slightly, stopping abruptly as if it were a habit that she is trying to break. “I hope he won’t be long, but I have no idea when he will be back. We typically get an hour for lunch, but that’s a long time to wait. You are welcome to have a seat over there in the lobby while you wait, though.”
I’m about to reply that I just need someone to let me into the archives so that I can do some independent research when a man speaks out behind me.
“That won’t be necessary,” says a tall man in a sharp navy-blue suit who walks up to us. His silver hair is combed neatly to the side, not unlike a character from my father’s comics, and his smile is so bright that it could blind us if we aren’t careful. “There’s no need to wait. I will take you up to the archives personally.”
He holds out a hand.
“David Crichton,” he introduces himself. “Co-Owner of the company. You must be Shaun Boding, Jeffrey’s son.”
I shake the man’s hand. I should have recognized him, but it’s been a while since I’ve interacted with any corporate higher up at the publishing house. He is friendly enough and I don’t feel intimidated.
“That’s me,” I reply.
“And you brought along a friend?” Mr. Crichton looks over at Mae who is cool as ever.
“Mae Williams,” she says, offering her hand.
“A pleasure,” says Mr. Crichton. Then he turns his attention to the receptionist. “Peyton, would you mind telling any callers that I am busy for the next ten minutes?”
The receptionist, Peyton, nods and presses a button on her keypad.
“Already done,” she says.
“Good.” Mr. Crichton clasps his hands together and returns his attention to Mae and me. “If you wouldn’t mind following me, I will lead you to the archives. I’m glad I caught you.” He gives me a quick smile. “There are a few things I’ve been meaning to discuss with you for a while. Shall we?”
17
Guarded Knowledge
“I had a feeling that you would come to us eventually,” Mr. Crichton says as we step into the elevator.
I glance over at him with my brow furrowed.
“Did you?” I say.
He nods and presses a button on the keypad, which lights up.
“Yes,” he continues to explain himself. “It’s only natural that after you’ve had time to grieve you would come looking into your father’s business. After all, with a father as high profile as yours, there is a lot that you could learn from him to further your own career.”
I have to smirk and shake my head. This man has it all wrong.
“I think you’re mistaken,” I say. “I’m not here to continue my father’s legacy. I’m just here for personal reasons.”
“Oh?” Mr. Crichton seems genuinely surprised. He raises his eyebrows. “Personal reasons is a pretty general description. Would you mind explaining yourself so that I can understand?”
The elevator begins taking us to the upper levels of the building.
The LED lights flash the floor levels as we go up higher and higher.
I take in a breath and try to make up a good enough reason to give Mr. Crichton as to my intentions while keeping the Vestige a complete secret. After all, even Mae doesn’t know about it. I’m not going to tell a complete outsider about one of the most powerful artifacts in human history. Who knows what he would do with it if he found out? Probably claim copyright and sue me for it.
I shake my head.
“I’m just working on a project for school,” I say. “About my father’s writing process. I was hoping to take a look at his notes and sketches to see if I could learn anything about how he did his job.”
“Ah, see?” says Mr. Crichton. “It’s not really just personal after all. You’re in the right frame of mind to be interested in your father’s thought process. After all, he was a master storyteller. I know your mother was not ready to talk with me when I approached her a month or so ago, but we here at the company see you both as incredible assets to continuing your father’s legacy. Not to push you in any way, but were you to want to write, say, a book that involves Super Guy’s world, we would be more than happy to include it in the canon that is already established.”
I am completely amused. This man is trying to pitch me, to make me a part of the company. He needs my last name to keep his credibility.
I suppose I should be grateful, but right now I just want to chuckle. Perhaps being the son of Jeffrey Boding isn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe I can use this company’s eagerness to woo me for my own benefit.
The elevator stops at the desired floor and the doors slide open.
The three of us get off and the doors close behind us.
Mr. Crichton takes the lead and shows us the way down a fancy corridor lined with futuristic lights until we come to a plain wooden door with a label tacked onto it reading Archives.
“Well, here we are,” says Mr. Crichton.
I nod. I am this much closer to finding some answers to my questions.
“Thank-you very much,” I say. “Is there anything we need to know before we go inside?”
“Only that we ask you to use the white gloves when handling the papers,” Mr. Crichton replies. “You’ll find them in the box hanging beside the door.”
I go to open the door when Mr. Crichton stops me, a hand lightly on my shoulder.
“You will think about my offer?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
I take a moment to seem like I’m thinking it over, then I nod.
“Of course I will,” I reply.
This seems to settle the matter and the man nods, stepping away.
“Be sure to close the door when you’re finished. And let Peyton know that you’re done. She will have someone come up to return all the files where they belong.”
With that, he returns to the elevator.
I glance over at Mae once the man is gone, shaking my head.
“What a crazy world your father worked in,” she says.
“You’re telling me,” I reply. “Now, let’s get in there and see what mysteries my father has buried away.”
18
The Drone
“So, what exactly are we looking for?” asks Mae as she pulls a set of white gloves out of the black box hanging on the wall right where Mr. Crichton said it would be.
“I’m looking for anything having to do with the Vestige,” I answer.
Mae gives me an incredulous look as she flexes her fingers into the first glove.
“Uh, that’s a pretty broad subject, Shaun,” she says. “The Vestige is in every single issue of your father’s work. Is there something more specific?”
I pull on my own set of gloves. They are tight, but not uncomfortable. I flex my own fingers to get the gloves to work around my hand.
The Aberrant Series (Book 1): Super Charged Page 8
