I can’t imagine more time in the office being therapeutic. Growing up, my parents shared all the responsibilities on our small family farm and took turns doing everything whenever the other was drawn away for a sowing. My mom or my dad would be gone for a couple days—never longer than a week—and would return revitalized. Nephilim eat about half as much as humans, so the farm was able to sustain our family without much trouble, but there were times when Dad took the occasional carpentry job and Mom sold some of our harvest at the local farmer’s market to get cash for the things our farm couldn’t produce. No matter what my parents were busy with, it was only after a sowing that they seemed to thrive and the same is true of me. It’s only by doing that thing I was born to do, the thing that fulfills my purpose and makes an impact, that I can overcome any loss, any pain, any crisis. That is Nephilim medicine. That is my therapy. It’s how I survived my parents’ death.
I turn and begin the three-block walk that will take me past some of the finest restaurants in the city. Gemini Bistro, Palace Square, Cape—the people who dine at these establishments are more than happy to pay hundreds of dollars for a single meal. The food is skillfully prepared by highly trained chefs, the wine is aged for decades, and the customer service is unrivaled, but in a world stricken with so much poverty and hunger this lifestyle seems grotesque to me.
Large glass windows give me a glimpse into a fantasy that most people would sell their souls to obtain. Beautiful people with sharp jaws, flawless teeth, and sculpted noses lounge in trendy designer clothes to enjoy a lavish meal—one of thousands they will eat in their carefree lives. Who wouldn’t want such a perfect existence? It’s no wonder people buy the lie. But on the other side of that glass, their clothes are uncomfortable, they’re stressed by the impossible expectations of their stratum, and they still don’t like their noses.
Those people think that a new vacation home in British Columbia, the latest model of their luxury coupe, or that next surgery is the only thing that stands between them and enlightenment. What they don’t know is that they drift nearer to a black hole with each extravagant purchase and otherworldly experience. Closer than most to having everything they dreamed of, they feel emptier than ever. All human beings spend their lives trying to fill the same void and find fulfillment. The more earthly things that fail to deliver on the promise of lasting happiness, the less hope they have of ever being made whole. The world has offered them everything, but their emptiness remains.
One block left to The Downspout and the sun has almost completed its descent below the horizon. Soon the dome of night will seal off the city, inviting the insects and rodents to fill the streets. The appeal of this block takes a sharp nosedive from the previous two. It’s fascinating that a single street—Folsom Street in this case—can form an invisible barrier between classes. Despite being on the other side of the tracks, The Downspout has become a favorite of Dave’s and several other Pentastar employees.
It’s not a dive bar, but it’s the most blue collar stop you’ll ever see a downtown suit visit. Whenever he’s around the working-class employees, Dave talks proudly about being raised by a steeler who taught him how to work hard and how to play hard. I doubt his father, if he were still alive, would approve of the way Dave has handled the Fosillix trial so far. My phone chimes in my pocket and I slide it out enough to see the name.
“Speak of the devil,” I quietly quip to myself.
Dave’s text reads, I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes. This better be important.
A couple of storefronts away I can already smell the fatty meat sizzling on the grill. The atmosphere is different here. It’s a strange, bipolar brew of motivation and surrender. People want the best life possible, the life they see just one block away, but their subjugation stands in the way. Unwilling to compromise their values in order to gain the world, they yield to the output of an honest day’s work. With rare exceptions, principles and fortune are mutually exclusive.
I elect to sit on the bench outside the bar as I wait for Dave. The relative quiet allows me to collect my thoughts while I plan a deliberate appeal to Dave’s sensibilities. He seems to genuinely care for Bridgette, which sadly can’t be said of all husbands, so appealing to her best interests may get him partway there. If he cares at all about those boys he’ll need to avoid prison, which may prove impossible without a miracle transformation. These are good starting points, but it will take something more to convince Dave to change his ways and forsake his career.
A black town car slides up to the curb.
“What are you doing out here?” Dave asks as he emerges from the back seat. “You should be three drinks deep by now.” Before I can respond, he leans back in to address the driver, saying, “Don’t wait here. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
“I wanted a clear mind and it’s too chaotic in there,” I say, gesturing toward the red metal door that does little to muffle the bedlam inside.
“Well, I need a drink. Let’s go,” he orders with a head tilt.
I stand from the bench and straighten my pants, casually confirming that my vial of blood is still in my pocket where I left it. Just in case. Dave is already two steps ahead and holds the door with an, “After you.”
The sound of music and voices escapes through the opening like air from an untied balloon. Stale sweat, motor oil, and cheese greet me as I cross the threshold. Maybe this is more of a dive bar than I remember. His love for this place certainly paints Dave in a curious light.
The door closes loudly behind me, drawing looks from around the room. I offer a friendly nod of apology then look over my shoulder toward Dave.
Dave leans forward and half-shouts, “I’m gonna get my drink,” then veers toward the bar.
I scan the room and spot a booth toward the back that’ll give us some privacy and put some distance between us and the blaring speakers. This won’t be a conversation for the general public.
“I’ll be back there in that booth,” I yell and point.
Gliding, bumping, and twisting, I make my way across the crowded floor to the booth and slide into the seat. Dave is propped on the bar, chatting with the bartender and a couple of nearby customers. They all burst out in laughter and Dave pats them on the back before he scoops up his drink and heads my direction. I can’t help but wonder if they’d still like him if they knew his secrets. They’d probably like him more. His sins would make them feel better about their own.
Dave reaches the table and slides into the seat across from me. He stares at the brown bottle in his hand, presses it to his lips for a few slugs, and slowly places it back on the table. He raises his eyes from the table to meet mine.
“So, what’s this about, Ted?”
“This is about you,” I respond, doing my best to adopt the tone of a concerned friend.
“What about me?”
“I’m worried about the path that you’re traveling. It won’t end well.”
“What the hell is this, Ted, an intervention?” he scoffs irritably. “If this is why you dragged me down here, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought!”
“Dave, I’m trying to help you. You don’t have to go down with the ship. There’s a mountain of damning evidence piling up at Pentastar and the lawsuit with the Fosillix patients is going to bring it all to light. The truth always comes out.”
“I don’t have anything to hide, Ted. I did my job and I did it so that those patients’ kids won’t have to suffer from their parent’s awful condition,” he righteously professes.
He tips his bottle high and sucks down several ounces before pounding it down to the table. I study his face as he winds up to regurgitate more of the lies that help him sleep.
“Those people are heroes for being brave enough to take the risk. They knew what they were getting into when they signed the waiver. I’m a hero too for persevering through their tragedy and continuing our work for a cure!” he passionately spits. “My dad had early onset Alzheimer’s for God’s sake. He forgot who I w
as before I even made it down the aisle.”
That’s yet another thing I didn’t know about Dave. HIPAA makes family medical history especially hard to research. Still, Dave’s crooked halo glows like a neon bar sign as his lies of self-preservation and personal enrichment morph into hollow hymns of glory and virtue.
He continues, “You know what your problem is? You’re weak. You don’t have the balls to push through this pain for the greater good. People get hurt and your heart bleeds and you give up, making their death meaningless!”
He’s hit full stride now. Slowly he rises from his seat as if looming over me will increase the validity of his argument. I spread my arms out across the back of my chair and watch with one raised eyebrow as Dave completes his application for sainthood.
“The world needs more people like me. I see the bigger picture and I don’t let little setbacks derail progress. I carry the burdens of the masses on my shoulders as I try my damnedest to help the sick and needy.”
I slowly stand from my seat. Even without extending to full Nephilim height, I’m eight inches taller than Dave. He looks up at me and offers a momentary silence.
“Sit down, David,” I demand slowly and calmly with a slightly deeper voice than he’s used to hearing. He sinks down into the booth and sweeps the room to see how much attention we’ve drawn. Several people awkwardly look at their food to avoid making eye contact.
I drop down onto my seat and ask him with a sigh, “Are you done?”
“Ted, all I’m trying to say is that you and the people who see this stuff from your perspective don’t get it. I always end up defending myself because no one on either side of this understands the pressure,” says Dave with a quick hand signal to the bartender.
He grabs the bottle from the table and drains what’s left in a single gulp. He looks at me earnestly and says, “When I started at Pentastar I really wanted to make a difference. It was my dream to be a part of curing cancer or even the damn common cold. Two decades later and it’s all about profit margins, minimizing losses, and covering our asses.”
“Dave, I believe you, but it’s not that simple. How do you think those decades-old good intentions hold up in a courtroom when dozens of sick people and the families of dead patients take the stand against you in your designer suit?” I ask. “You will lose, you will be disgraced, and you will probably get locked up.”
The bartender delivers Dave’s second round to the table. He gives me a quick look before turning back to Dave and asking, “You guys all good here? Looked like it was getting a little heated.”
“Yeah, Matt, we’re good. Thanks for the drink,” Dave replies.
Matt walks away and I continue, “Dave, you have to get ahead of this and do the right thing. Tell the truth before it’s too late. Do you really think the board and Jan are going to have your back and risk the downfall of the whole company? When the axe drops, they’ll all be pointing the finger at you. You’ll be the bad apple that spoiled the bunch. At least, that’s how the headlines will read.”
Dave sips his fresh beer. His contemplative silence births renewed hope that he can change. If Dave McConnell can change, there is hope for the rest of Pentastar.
“Nope. I’m not doing that,” he blurts suddenly.
“Dave, don’t be a fool. Listen to reason,” I counsel.
“No. The company’s lawyers have this whole thing covered. I’ve worked too hard to have my career end that way.”
“The company’s lawyers will lose their biggest client if Pentastar goes down. You are the easy out, Dave.”
“There are emails and memos from Jan and the board of directors documenting their marching orders to me. I’m not the mastermind behind this. If anything, that proves I’m a puppet just like Joel.”
“Dave…”
“I said no!” he cuts me off curtly. Dave takes another swig from his drink, then pushes up from the table. “I gotta piss.”
He walks off, rounding the corner to the bathroom as my hand immediately finds the vial in my pocket. I sit, transfixed on the open beer across the table. While not totally at peace, much of my resolve for Dave’s sowing has returned. If he is unwilling to choose the truth, I have no choice.
One drop of condensation absorbs another before cascading down the side of the glass bottle and splatting on the table. The image of Joel’s body falling along the side of Milburn Tower flashes through my mind. An uncharacteristic impulse drives my arm to remove the vial, pop the cork, and tap a drop into Dave’s beer.
Before I can even replug the vial, regret invades my skin. I’ve acted rashly and that’s not the way my parents taught me to do this sacred job. Dave could still make the right choice. More so, what happens when he passes out cold for an hour in a crowded bar? I have to get rid of his drink! As I reach across the table, Dave’s figure enters the corner of my eye.
“That’s mine. Get your own.”
In an act of convenient ineptitude, my arm clumsily recoils, tipping the bottle to its side. I stand to grab napkins and Dave retrieves his bottle.
“Damnit, Ted. Lately you’re more trouble than you’re worth!”
My head turns to Dave just in time to watch him take a drink. His face turns sour as he grimaces and spits the mouthful back into the bottle.
“Gross, it’s already warm,” he explains. “I wasn’t even gone two minutes.”
I say nothing and continue cleaning the spill. Dave stomps off to the bar where Matt retrieves the bottle from him and drops it into the trash. Above the noise I hear Dave’s booming voice say, “And this time, give me one from the fridge!”
I can’t help but wonder if any of that drink made it down his throat. A single, concentrated drop is strong enough to cause immediate unconsciousness but I have yet to discover the effect of a miniscule exposure. Will there be a delayed effect, a diminished effect, or no effect at all? So far, Dave seems fine and, with any luck, he’ll stay that way.
Dave arrives back at the booth and hoists his beer above the table as he slumps heavily in the seat. He looks at me with a crooked head and irked brows. After another long slug, he sets his beer on the slightly sticky table and focuses his gaze on me.
“Where were we?” he asks.
“You had just refused to do the right thing.”
“Ted, when this whole thing blows over, history will remember us as the farsighted trailblazers who weathered the storm and overcame controversy. If we stop now, we’ll just be remembered as failures.”
“The more often you repeat those lies, the more obvious it becomes that you don’t truly believe them. You were warned that people would die, you withheld that information from trial patients, and patients died.”
“I was ordered to withhold that information. Jan told me to press ahead with the trial or I was a goner. Now I’m caught in the middle and it’s too late. The only way to salvage this fiasco is to press on and hope we can put a stable product on pharmacy shelves.”
Dave’s version of events is eroding my confidence in this entire process. It’s not that he’s innocent—he knew he was crossing a line when he followed those orders—but his eye contact is intense, his tone is resolved, and his posture is consistent; he’s telling the truth, or at least he believes what he’s saying. I need to grab his attention and increase the stakes. His lack of total responsibility for the drug trial fuels my desire to see his redemption.
“If you don’t put a stop to this now, Dave, the only time you’ll get with Bridgette and the twins will be spent talking through plexiglass.”
“Have a little faith, Ted. You’re such a pessim…” he trails off. The gears behind his face begin to turn as he processes my words. “How do you know about the twins?”
I deepen my voice to a soft rumble and draw Dave into my gravity. The fluorescent bar lights by our table gently flicker. Confusion turns to nervousness as he questions his senses.
“How I know about them doesn’t matter. If you value your relationship with them, you will make the r
ight decision now,” I press with finality.
Dave’s breathing hastens and fine droplets of sweat appear on his skin. He searches for something on the table, then the seat, then on his person. Clearly agitated, he yanks his arms out of his suitcoat sleeves and tosses the jacket to the wall.
Standing as he removes his tie and undoes his top shirt button, he offers a breathy, “I need some air. I don’t feel right.”
He stumbles across the crowded room, pinballing off of tables and people along the way, and barges through the door. Numerous possibilities enter my mind, all of them catastrophic. My gravest concern is that he consumed the seed and is having an unprecedented reaction. Such a possibility is especially disastrous since I sensed him opening up to the idea of confession.
After this morning’s events, I don’t want to be too close to Dave if something happens, but it’s too late for that. Everyone in the bar has seen us together and witnessed our argument. It’s best that I check on Dave and try to prevent the inevitable.
I slide out of the booth and politely weave through the crowd. Before exiting, I stop and shout to the bartender that we’ll be back.
My hand touches the door just as the crack of a gunshot penetrates the brick walls of the bar. My pulse quickens, vibrating my entire body. I punch the door open and scan the sidewalk for Dave, but there’s no sign of him.
Remembering the alleyway next to the bar, I take off in that direction. As I round the corner, I’m stopped in my tracks by the grisly sight of Dave, back to the wall and lying on his side in a rapidly expanding puddle of blood. Light from the far end of the alley gleams off the nickel revolver resting just inches from his hand as the oozing scarlet engulfs its silhouette.
Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1) Page 5
