“How is it you know?”
“He told me they had a good lead on wherever this other guy is.”
“If he has this good lead, why not just give him the blind man? They are now long time in that room.”
Brad glared up at the woman. “Do you think I’m that thick, Dessie? I didn’t get to where I am today just bending over backward for any schmuck who walks in the door. I know how to leverage my advantage. Unlike your old boyfriend.”
Desdemona seemed to flinch at the mention of Joffrey Unthank, and Wigman softened his tone slightly, continuing, “Listen, we’re all friends here. Business partners. But friends don’t get the deals. He says he’s got the key to unlocking whatever is going on in the Impassable Wilderness. He says he’s got access. And he says that whoever can get these two guys together, they’ll be like the kings of this place. Well, Dessie, I don’t know about you, but when one of those guys gets caught in my territory, I’m not going to just turn him over with a please and a thank you. No, sir. I’ve got a horse in this race. And I intend to see him finishing first. No place or show for Bradley Wigman here.” He cleared his throat. “As soon as I see this Esben Clampett character, then we’ll talk about turning over the blind man.”
“I see,” said Desdemona. She was about to dig deeper, to find out what the fate of the little girl would be, when her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the large brass doors.
Wigman looked up from his desk. He glanced at the digital clock on the wall: nine thirty p.m. It was too late for any Quartet-related business. He raised his eyebrow at Desdemona and smiled. “See?” he said. “Asketh and you shall receiveth.”
Brad Wigman pushed his square-shouldered frame away from the desk and rose, striding across the carpeted floor of the top-floor office with the kind of presence of mind that only exists in high-powered executives. He reached the door in no time; throwing it open with an almost inhuman strength, he found himself face-to-face with himself.
Or rather, his own face, reflected back to him, surrounded in a dark-gray cowl.
He blinked twice, confused, before realizing that he was only seeing himself reflected in the gold mirrored mask that this strange visitor was wearing.
“What in the devil?” sputtered Wigman, shocked. “Who are you and how did you get in here?”
The figure looked confused for a second, his head cocked sideways. He breathed an understanding “Ah,” before lifting a hand and removing the mask from his head. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot about the outfit. I had to get here fast.”
“Jesus, Roger,” said Wigman. “You really gave me a scare.”
Roger Swindon, clad in a gray robe and gray cowl, pulled a handkerchief from some unseen pocket in the robe and mopped his face of perspiration before setting a little silver pince-nez on the bridge of his nose. “There we are,” he said. He breathed a sigh, clearly relieved to be free of the mask. “Can I come in?”
“We were just talking about you, Roger, my boy,” said Wigman, gamely waving the way forward. “We were beginning to wonder when you’d show up.”
“Good news, good news, my friend,” said Roger as he walked briskly across the office floor toward the bookcase. “I have our second maker. The circle is complete. The construction can begin.”
Wigman trotted to keep up with the man. “Well, that’s fantastic news. Really great, Roger. Now, we’ll just need to . . .”
But Roger was not listening; instead he was searching the bookshelves for the latch to operate the panel. Wigman, catching up, slid between him and the bookcase. “Hold up, there, Roger, m’friend.”
Roger paused and glared at Wigman. “Yes?”
“Where is this guy, this Esben?” He looked around the room. “I don’t see that you brought him with you.”
“No, I didn’t bring him with me,” responded Roger, sounding annoyed. “What a ridiculous idea. He’s safe in the Wood, the Impassable Wilderness, where he will soon be reunited with his old partner and our work will commence. Now: Which is the book that opens the door?”
Wigman laughed. “Which book. That’s rich. As far as I’m concerned, nothing’s changed here. As far as I’m concerned, you still don’t have your guy. I’m not turning over anyone until I’m assured of my position here, Roger. And while we’re at it, what’s with the getup?” He flicked his finger under a fold in Roger’s robe.
“Nothing,” said Roger. “None of your concern.” He seemed thrown by Wigman’s obstructionism. “Listen, the deal remains the same. You can have your access—exclusive ties to the Wood. You will have control over a percentage of—”
“Blah, blah, blah,” said Wigman, sock-puppeting his hand. “That’s just talk. Anything that goes down, any kind of cog that’s going to be made, has to happen right here, in plain sight. Do you hear me? That was the deal.”
Roger massaged his forehead, his exasperation shining through. “Just . . . trust me on this, Mr. Wigman. Between business partners.”
“Trust you? Trust you? Do you think I got to where I am today by just willy-nilly trusting anyone who had the great fortune to call me, Bradley Wigman, a business partner? No! I didn’t get Industrialist of the Year three years in a row from Tax Bracket magazine because I am a trusting soul. I didn’t become the godfather to not three, but four children of Portland’s esteemed mayors because I believe in human goodness. I got to where I am because I am ruthless, Roger. And I don’t think I’ll be stopping now, thank you very much.”
Roger had no response. He backed away from the bookcase and sized up his opponent. Wigman lifted his dimpled chin defiantly. Desdemona, by the desk, watched the standoff with bated breath. Neither man spoke nor moved a muscle. The awkwardness was terrible, all-consuming, and Desdemona shifted uncomfortably in her high heels, trying to think of something to say that might dispel the tension. Thankfully, in the end, she didn’t have to think of anything, because something presented itself that did the job fairly organically, snapping both of the men out of their current states of agitation.
It was the buzzer on the intercom.
Wigman looked at Desdemona. “Get that?”
Desdemona pushed the button on Brad’s desk, and a voice chirped through the speaker. “Mr. Wigman, sir?”
“Yes?” called Wigman; his eyes remained fixed on Roger.
“Someone to see you, sir. At the front gate.”
One of Wigman’s eyebrows broke away and intrepidly scaled his forehead. “Who?” he barked, annoyed.
A pause. “It’s the Machine Parts Titan, sir.” Another pause. “Sir, it’s Joffrey Unthank.”
Desdemona felt her face flush; Brad glowered. He glanced over at the intercom. He nodded to Desdemona, who depressed the talk button while he spoke. “Tell him it’s late. Tell him to come back tomorrow.”
There was a pause; Desdemona let go of the button. She looked at Brad imploringly. “He might be hurt, Bradley. He’s been missing for these months!”
“Joffrey Unthank means nothing to me now, Dessie,” said Wigman. “He should mean less to you. He ran that factory into the ground; he allowed a rebellion to happen on his watch.”
“Please,” implored Desdemona.
“All he wants is to horn back in on this deal. And if you think for a moment I’m going to send the welcome wagon, you don’t know Bradley Wigman,” said Wigman, referring to himself in the third person, which was something he did occasionally.
The intercom buzzed again; Desdemona answered. “Yes?”
Bzzz. “He says it really can’t wait.”
Desdemona, dredging from the depths every last reserve of actorly charisma, fixed Wigman with a look that both scorned and pleaded. “Please,” she whispered.
Brad swore under his breath and shouted, “Let him in, but don’t send him up. Keep him in the lobby. I’ll meet him there.” He wagged a finger at Roger and said, “You stay put. Dessie, keep an eye on this one. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. Though considering what I’m benching these days, I could pro
bably throw him pretty far. So that’s a bad analogy. What I mean to say is: Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“Yes, Mr. Wigman,” said Desdemona. “Thank you, Mr. Wigman.”
The Chief Titan spun around on the heels of his tasseled loafers and strode out of the room, with purpose.
Desdemona turned back to look at Roger, who had begun absently browsing the titles on the bookshelf.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Desdemona.
Smile.
This was the word that Joffrey Unthank created in his mind as a beacon. It was the thing that harnessed him to the rocky shores of his own sanity, his own loose grip on the reality that had been swirling around him, somewhat amorphously, for the past several months.
Smile.
Simple, really, when you thought about it. Which he did a lot.
He’d braved a cold winter, wandering the Industrial Wastes in little more than an argyle sweater-vest and a tattered overcoat. He’d slept in culverts and had his toes nibbled clean by rats; he’d escaped wandering bands of feral dogs and had even befriended one, named Jasper, and the two of them had had a few spectacular adventures before Jasper vanished one morning over breakfast and it dawned on Unthank that the dog had, in fact, been a hallucination the whole time.
Even in the face of this unspeakable (and somewhat jarring) tragedy, Unthank remembered to Smile.
And Sing.
But singing was not supposed to happen now; that’s what Jack had said. Except his name wasn’t Jack anymore, was it? It was Jacques now. His old fellow Titan, his fellow fallen Titan. He’d liked Jack very much, back when he was Jack; they’d both been born to important families in their respective Divisions. They’d both taken a kind of preternatural shine to their respective responsibilities, and where other children of Titans squirmed uncomfortably in the shackles of their parents’ expectations, Joffrey and Jack had worn them like shining crowns. And when Jack fell, when he was shunned and his Division destroyed, Joffrey felt awfully sorry for his old friend. Not that he could afford to say anything to that effect—Wigman would’ve ostracized any sympathizer. But Joffrey always loved Jack. Always trusted him.
And so he trusted him when he told Joffrey not to Sing.
But he could still Smile.
Which was what he was doing now, while the linebacker-like stevedore pressed his stubby finger into the telecom at the front gate of the looming Titan Tower and announced that Joffrey Unthank, former Machine Parts Titan, had returned.
Smile.
A second stevedore stood on the other side of the gate, watching Joffrey closely. He felt studied, there, in the brilliant shine of the klieg lights, a specimen under a microscope. He suddenly felt the urge to sing, something he’d often done in his few months in the wilderness, in his mental wilderness, to comfort himself. But he knew—Jacques had told him—that it was very important that he not sing. That singing, somehow, would give away his disguise. And what was he disguised as? Himself. Shouldn’t his disguise be improved if he were to sing, just to hum a few times? Wasn’t that being himself more? Wasn’t not singing betraying his true self?
The stevedore at the intercom walked over to him and said, “He says he’s busy. He says come back tomorrow.”
Sing.
Don’t sing, he countered. That’s what Jacques said. The role he was playing was not himself, but a version of himself. A long-gone version of himself. The himself who had perished in the factory fire, when the orphans broke the windows and destroyed the machines. The children. Those children, who deserved his thanks and forgiveness. They allowed the chrysalis to open, to let the real Joffrey Unthank uncoil and fly.
“It’s very important,” said Unthank. Tra la. “Could you please tell him that I need to see him now? It really can’t wait.” Tra lee.
Again, the stevedore returned to the intercom; the other stevedore continued his studied stare. Unthank flared his eyes at him and the guard blinked, surprised, and looked away.
“Okay,” came the answer. “He’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Something smarted, deep down. Some crucial piece of his innards made a quick flex and sent a spark up through his esophagus to his cranium. “N-no,” he said. Don’t sing. Smile. He answered his own demand and smiled widely, saying, “No need to trouble the man. I’ll just go up to him.”
“He said he’ll come down to you,” said the stevedore, cocking his eyebrow.
“But it doesn’t work that way,” Joffrey said, before remembering: Don’t say that out loud. It was too late.
“What doesn’t work what way?”
The stevedore on the other side of the gate had resumed his stare; he seemed to be listening in, intently, to the conversation.
Smile. “Never you mind,” said Unthank. “I’ll just meet him in the, as you say, lobby.”
The response seemed to disarm the moment. The stevedore looked sideways at Unthank before letting him pass through the gate, saying, “They all said you went crazy.”
Sing.
Don’t sing. “Well, that’s how rumors start, you know,” said Unthank. “Don’t believe everything you hear.” And then, quite inadvertently, he let slip: “Tra la!”
“What?” The stevedore stopped short.
“Nothing. Nothing. Just. Humming a tune, you know. Earworm. Can’t get a song out of my head. Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
The stevedore stared at Unthank for a moment before giving his grumbling reply, “Whatever. Just wait in the lobby there. Wigman’ll be down in a moment.”
Clear. First hurdle. First obstacle. Walk normally. Unthank had developed a kind of shuffling, hunchbacked gait in his time wandering the Industrial Wastes, owing to the great pile of blankets and discarded coats he’d had to bear on his shoulders to ward off the winter cold. It had become habitual. But he knew: Now it was of utmost importance that he walk upright, back straight. Chin high. It was all he could do to keep himself from toppling his shoulders into the Quasimodo-like stance; he knew it would betray him, it would betray the fact that he was merely pretending to be his former self.
He walked into the glistening, pristine white lobby of Titan Tower and nodded to the night secretary at the front desk. The secretary, a clean-shaven young man with glasses, looked shocked to see Unthank appear through the sliding glass doors. “H-hello, Mr. Unthank,” he said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Unthank froze, unsure of what to say; he hadn’t rehearsed this bit in his run-throughs. Conversation with the lobby’s secretary had not been on the cue cards. “Nor should you have,” he said finally. “I’ve been off.”
“Off?”
“Off. You know.”
The secretary smiled, clearly wanting to give Unthank the benefit of the doubt. “I guess I don’t know. But I’m just a night secretary.”
“No one’s just a night secretary,” said Unthank. Don’t sing. “Do you sing, by chance?”
“Sing, sir? I mean, I do occasionally when—”
“You’ll find it does you a world of good. I’d like to sing right now. Do you mind if I do?”
The secretary’s face had gone pale; he looked over Unthank’s shoulder at the two stevedores just beyond the doors. “G-go for it,” he said.
“Thank you. I will.” Unthank cleared his throat and was about to warble some calming note when he remembered himself. “But first: I’m fairly parched. Awfully parched, actually.”
“Can I . . . get you some water?” asked the secretary uncertainly.
“Water! Yes, that’s just what I need. A nice bottle of water.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Unthank, I’ll be right back with it.” The night secretary seemed happy to have some excuse to leave the room; he jogged off with the briskness of a man who’d arrived at the wrong party and had only found out too late it was a reunion of old Star Trek fan club members.
Unthank glanced at the elevator that stood directly to the right of the desk; the digital panel above the doors gave the location of t
he car as the thirtieth floor. Suddenly, it began to change: 29. 28. Wigman was descending.
Quickly, Joffrey sashayed around the corner of the desk and took in the massive apparatus that was the lobby’s security system. Images swam in his mind: a deck of white cue cards, riddled with notes, splayed out before him. He saw Jacques, calmly coaching, in his mind’s eye. He began tapping on the computer’s keyboard.
26. 25. 24.
ADMINISTRATIVE ACCESS ONLY, read the monitor. PLEASE AUTHENTICATE.
To the right of the screen was a touch pad with the outline of a hand. Joffrey placed his palm against it and waited, praying inwardly that his security access had not been deleted or suspended during his months-long sabbatical in the hinterlands. He glanced at the digital readout above the elevator.
23. 22. 21.
“Come on,” he swore. “Come on, tra la, tra lee.”
ACCESSING . . . , dithered the computer screen. ACCESSING . . . PLEASE WAIT . . .
20. 19. The elevator stopped there, apparently having taken on a passenger on the nineteenth floor. Joffrey envisioned Wigman nodding politely to the new rider, then staring ahead at the array of numbers on the keypad.
ACCESS GRANTED. HELLO JOFFREY UNTHANK. Joffrey let out a breath of relief. He began madly tapping out commands, his two index fingers quietly punching at the keyboard. Suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. The secretary was returning.
Sucking in his breath, he scooted around the front of the desk, getting only as far as the counter before the young secretary reappeared, carrying a bottle of water. A little plastic flower on the surface of the counter caught Joffrey’s attention, and he pretended to be intently studying it.
“Funny,” he said as the secretary came closer. “This is a very funny little flower. Ha! It dances a little when there’s light, huh? What a little contraption. What an amazing little contraption.” He gave the secretary a feigned look of surprise and said, “Oh, hi! I’ve been standing here, looking at this little gizmo, the whole time you were gone. Literally. Just right here. Looking at this little flower.”
The secretary appeared nonplussed. “Here’s your water, Mr. Unthank.”