Dorothea sprang from the chair with the abruptness of a striking cobra. "I don't believe you." she snapped.
"Lawrence and I discussed it on more than one occasion," Jack conceded. "His conscience bothered him to no end because he couldn't tell you… so… I was his confessor as it were. He was haunted by having to deceive you. But… he did want me to stress to you, if you ever found out, that he was using his gift to try and make our society, the world a better place. Now, if in fact he was murdered then that could have been the reason."
Dorothea walked over to the kitchen window, stared thoughtfully out of it at the veils of mist wafting over the calm dark waters of the river and a disturbing sensation of deep foreboding flooded her senses. It was a feeling over and above her current concerns and with it she experienced a vivid though brief image in her mind's eye of the sleeping stranger in the motel with a tsunami of guilt following in its wake.
"I want you to do me a favor," Jack continued. "I… know I don't have much time left on this earth."
Dorothea turned abruptly toward Jack; on the one hand grateful for rescuing her from the unpleasant musing, but regretful at having to face the hurtful prospect of his cryptic admission. Again her eyes pleaded, but this time for mercy.
Jack went on, "I would like to leave here, Dorothea, knowing that my last living son and his mother reconciled their differences. Don't allow your disagreements to overshadow the love I know you feel for one another." Jack stepped closer to Dorothea, whose eyes moistened with emotion. "Can you promise me you'll work on that? Will you do that, not just for me but for Leonard and mostly for yourself?"
Tears trailed Dorothea's cheeks. Jack thumbed away the first stream but it was only followed a another unabated. "You… always said… Jack," she sniffled softly, "the word impossible becomes a little shorter if you just remove the first two letters."
Jack smiled as they embraced, though Dorothea felt no relief from the augur that haunted the tortured sanctum of her soul.
Bill Polar rushed into the waiting elevator and pressed the close button repeatedly with impatience. As the door started to close a mail-room worker, a young black man around twenty years old, was heading toward it pushing a cart full of mail. "Hold it," he called out. To no avail. Bill coldly ignored his plea and let the door shut. He was the only passenger and grateful for it, because now the elevator would journey to the sixth floor uninterrupted. Bill had been summoned to report to Director Kevin Hollister's office on an urgent message from his secretary. He watched anxiously as the red digitized numbers on the elevators button panel changed in semi-rapid succession from 'L' to '1' to '2' to '3'…
Bill knew what the subject of meeting was going to be about. He was not fearful of losing his job. It was thus far not in jeopardy, or so he told himself, but his pride would be held to the flames of embarrassment for the abysmal failures that had recently occurred on his watch. Three of their best agents had been assigned to watch and follow Leonard Strahm since he arrived at Kennedy Airport and all of them had been thrown off their trail by the subject in question. '4'….
The Chinatown agent left the restaurant behind Leonard to follow him. Moments later what to the agent felt as if world war three had suddenly commenced inside his gut forcing him to do a speedy about face back to the restaurant's men's room to answer the urgent call. In the interim tan ambulance had to be called by a worker in the restaurant after the agent complained of severe dizziness and became unable to stand much less walk. The agent was brought to the hospital and though his prognosis was nothing more serious than a sudden onset of diarrhea he was held for observation before being treated and released several hours later. Agents Kawalski and Dobbs however remain in the hospital on the ICU unit in a semi-comatose condition. When they do regain consciousness they will have to face a rigorous internal investigation that will probably make them wish they were still unconscious.
To add to the dilemma, an intense New York City-wide manhunt, starting in Rego Park, Queens where Leonard had last been seen turned out to be all fizzle and no pop with not a clue of his current whereabouts. Things had certainly gotten out of hand for the agency and those involved. '5'…. What really ramped up the heat a notch or two higher than a mild sweat for Bill, however, was that he was going to meet Hollister in his 'special' office. This meeting place was not Hollister's official office within the buidling. He had this space secretly designed to particular specifications adjacent to his authenticated office and it was a place Hollister usually reserved for himself, of which he spent a great deal of private time, and on extreme reserved occasions he met with associates. There was of course endless unfounded rumors, gossip and speculations as to what the contents were and the activities that took place in the confines of this 'special' space. The hearsay included everything from possibly medieval torture devices to bodies buried within the walls. It all bordered on ridiculousness, thought Bill. '6'….
But whatever mystery awaited within those walls he was about to find out firsthand.
The elevator door slid open softly. Bill took in a deep breath of air and stepped into a deserted hallway as the elevator door silently closed behind him. Turning left he saw the cherry-colored Hickory wood door to Hollister's office approximately fifteen feet down the hall. Unlike the door to his official as well as all other office doors in the building there was no door sign present, but everyone that worked in the building knew of the occupant. It had been reported that the limited number of guest or visitors privileged to have entered the place can be counted on one hand and were sworn to secrecy from revealing any physical description of the interior or conversations that had taken place by way of signing an NDA (non-disclosure-act) legally binding by Hollister's private lawyer. A confidence none of visitors would dare breach knowing that Hollister was not only head of one of the most powerful and potentially dangerous intelligence agencies on the planet but was also one the wealthiest men on the planet.
Bill headed toward the door, acutely aware of the soft scraping the soles of his black loafers emitted across the smooth sparkling tiled floor; and he was equally aware of the jack-hammer thumps of his heartbeat in anticipation as he got closer. Standing before the door now he tugged assuredly on his gray Jos. A. Bank Merino wool suit jacket and adjusted his silk two-toned gray/black neck-tie and pressed the buzzer. A gap of silence persisted longer than he anticipated and just as he was about to press the buzzer a second time he heard a soft click, indicating that the electronic lock-release mechanism had activated. Hollister had been expecting him thereby eliminating the need for a pre-screening inquiry. Besides, there were no casual or unexpected visitors to this room. All, without exception, were by special invitation only. Bill pushed open the door. Though constructed of heavy, durable Hickory the door opened on its hinges as smoothly and silently as if it were made of satin. Bill stepped inside.
Upon entering the office he instinctively though briefly felt a need to back out thinking he had come to the wrong place, but he was so captivated by the sight before him that he found it impossible to peel away. The false and more often than not maliciously inspired rumors were instantaneously dispelled. Here there were no exotic torture devices from the Dark Ages, and he would have bet his life that not a single cadaver had been secreted behind those fire-proof metallic-silver painted walls. Bill had not the slightest clue what to expect prior to walking through the door, but in his and possibly anyone else unbridled imagination he could not have expected what his eyes beheld. An eerie feeling crept over him that he had somehow been magically transported into a Star Wars enthusiast wet-dream or perhaps Twilight Zoned inside the fanciful imaginings of George Lucas during the peak of his creative conceptualization of the multi-award winning film. The office was constructed of executive size dimensions measuring four hundred fifty square feet with a single bay window that was at the moment covered by an electronically controlled shade panel serving as a stationary 3D screen of the Star Wars introduction text. Complimented with an alighted decorative ceiling arrangement of recessed and track-lighting, the room had the ambiance of an exhibition or showcase display instead of the typical traditional office. Parquet wood floors glossed to a reflective wet sheen and placed in the middle of the floor was a 9'.0" x 7'5' wool carpet woven into an impressive detailed image of the Star Wars Galaxy. Atop the carpet sat a cherry-hardwood desk artfully carved into Han Solo's famous Millennium Falcon spacecraft topped with tempered glass. Besides a state of the art Dell laptop computer decorating the desk, set in a display stand was a realistic version of a light-saber that served as a USB telephone with built-in microphone.
Breath-taken, Bill inhaled.