Kage (16 page)

Jackson thought of his vision of the coyote loping ahead in

the shimmering distance, tongue wagging as if in mockery. He

sighed and radioed for help.

96

8

Lair

I was summoned to the dragon’s lair a few days later. I’d

been working steadily, putting together a picture of Eliot West-

mann and the process he used to write his books. In the eve-

nings after I came back from Hasegawa’s
dojo
, I worked my

way through the hidden journals as well. They weren’t directly

relevant to the issue of authenticity in his books, but they gave

me an insight into the man and, as an aside, also fleshed out

what he had been up to just before he joined the Martini Div-

ing Team.

I got a call from Roy just before 10 pm to let me know that

Ms. Westmann would expect me in her office tomorrow morn-

ing to present a status report. In my mind’s eye, I could picture

Roy, poised with quivering pen over a checklist of tasks he had

to complete for his mistress.

“A status report?” I said, and my tone must have betrayed

something of my amusement. It was not an emotion that Roy

associated with his employer, however.

“Ms. Westmann is very eager to hear the details of your

work to date, Dr. Burke,” he told me earnestly. “A brief written

synopsis should do—Ms. Westmann is extremely busy—along

with an oral report. Please let me know whether you’ll require

anything from our business center—a projector for a presenta-

tion, copying services. We’re at your disposal.”

“How nice,” I answered but I could sense that I was going

to be a real disappointment to Roy. There wasn’t going to be a

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John Donohue

PowerPoint presentation in my briefing. No handouts. I toyed

with the idea of multicolored pie charts, but dismissed that

as well. I could pretty much deliver a report on my progress

without audiovisual aids. The only thing I had to work on was

to find a nicer word than “shyster” to describe Eliot Westmann.

I did show up as requested—time has mellowed me some-

what. The Burkes have a lifelong issue with authority. It may

come from the unique cultural experience of being raised as

Irish Catholics. It was composed, in part, of a dramatic emo-

tional oscillation between struggling to stand on your own two

feet and being forced to sink to your knees. Either way, some-

one was always pushing you around.

I had made some quick notes for the meeting, but I left

my laptop in the room. Bad enough that I had to show up

when ordered. There was no sense in appearing eager or overly

efficient—an attitude that is responsible for my notable lack of

career advancement.

Charlie Fiorella was waiting for me outside Lori Westmann’s

executive suite. He was as dapper as ever; looking relaxed and

fit in a lightweight tan suit. He seemed at ease in the corri-

dors of power. The office suites of the powerful smell faintly of

good cologne and furniture polish. There’s a subdued, efficient-

sounding hum pulsing out from secretarial cubicles. The air is

heavy with importance.

I’m always suspicious that the people in these sorts of places

have invited me there to help move furniture. It’s delusional,

of course. The people there are just people, but they’re work-

ing franticly to prove that they are smarter and better than

everyone else. Some of them may be smarter than I am, I don’t

know—I’ve ceased evaluating people in that way. What I do

know is that in places like this, generating a collective sense

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Kage

of importance is vital. The alternative is often too painful for

these folks to contemplate.

Lori Westmann was as smooth and well coiffed and hard as

ever. She was wearing a dark blue business suit with a pink col-

larless shirt of what looked like silk. Her large office was finely

appointed, but the curtains were drawn and muted lights set in

the ceiling created pools of brightness amidst a general gloom.

She sat strategically in a cone of light that made her appear to

glow. We were relegated to a less brilliant zone. Westmann gave

me a cursory smile from the other side of her large desk. Roy

pointed me to a seat. Charlie followed me in and sat down,

crossing his leg casually but being careful to hike up the trouser

leg to preserve the line of the crease. His socks matched his

suit color perfectly. I wasn’t sure what color my socks were. I

couldn’t even remember whether I was wearing any. It seemed

to me that our chairs were slightly lower than Lori Westmann’s.

We exchanged ritual pleasantries. Roy brought us all cof-

fee, but once the fidgeting with cups was over, his boss simply

turned an inquiring look my way. I launched into an overview

of my activities. When Westmann concentrated, a small crease

appeared at the top of her nose, pulling her well-plucked eye-

brows closer together.

“So,” she interrupted at one point, “your work to date has

been in large part a re-reading of my father’s works as well

as commentary from various reviewers?” Her tone was not

pleased. She was a woman in a hurry and the sooner I could

complete my analysis, the better.

“In part, yes,” I answered. “The structure and themes and

images your father employed in his work are central to any

analysis of his …” I hesitated for a moment trying to find the

correct word, “… authenticity.”

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John Donohue

“And?” I thought she seemed a little testy so early in the

morning, but I suppose that a chief executive’s work is never-

ending. Then again, I did notice that her nails appeared freshly

manicured.

“His writing is highly creative, certainly,” I offered. “But

any evaluation of his claims to have used primary sources is

going to be built on a comparison of his writing to published

sources available at the time.” She looked at me skeptically. Her

eyes were very blue, like the slick underbelly of an iceberg. “I’m

not disputing the fact that your father was a talented writer,

Ms. Westmann. That’s not what you hired me to do. I’m look-

ing for elements in his books that could or could not have been

lifted from other sources. It’s the only way to begin to prove any

original scholarship.”

“Your opinion, Dr. Burke,” she put a sarcastic emphasis

on the doctor part. “After reading the material, what is your

opinion?” She began to tick points off one by one, tapping a

forefinger on the desk for emphasis. The pink of the nail polish

matched her blouse. “The whole description of the mountain

temple, the prevalence of deep red color symbolism, fox stat-

ues. Even the name for the trainees there…”

“
Kitsume
,” I supplied. “Shape shifters.” I began to suspect

she knew more about her father’s work than she had let on.

“Precisely,” she said. “I’ve done my homework, Dr. Burke,

“she said scornfully. “I expected something more from you.”

I probably let a little too much energy seep into my answer,

but she was beginning to annoy me. “They’re the type of details

I can dig up in about thirty seconds using the Internet. When

your father wrote his books, it probably took a bit more dig-

ging, but I’ll bet there were sources available that he could have

drawn from. Not his own experience.”

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Kage

“Prove it!” she demanded.

“I will. But there are other things that don’t fit with my

knowledge of the literature. Sure, the Shinto deity Inari was

sometimes thought of as the patron god of sword smiths. But

there’s no record that I know of that speaks of a secret cult of

nature worshipping ascetics training in warrior systems up in

Hokkaido.” I now had a full head of steam up. “And I’m a little

disappointed at the resources in your father’s library. Most of

the stuff there seems to be copies of manuscript pages…”

“My father was very protective of his life’s work. He rou-

tinely made copies and sent the originals off to an archive,” she

noted dryly.

I waived it away. “I can live with the copies. That doesn’t

matter. But the types of notes a scholar would make before

getting to the point of a completed manuscript aren’t present.

Some marginal notes relating to sources appear occasionally,

but not enough to permit a reconstruction. And there are fre-

quent notations that simply say ‘PO’. What’s that all about?”

“My father told me that meant ‘personal observation.’”

“It’s not enough for scholars. Without field notes or jour-

nals from the time to back it up, it’s going to look like it means

‘permanently obscure.’” I couldn’t be positive, but out of the

corner of my eye, I thought I saw Charlie’s lips twitch in a sup-

pressed smile. Roy looked appalled. I had leaned forward in

my chair as my temper got the better of me, so I sat back and

waited.

Lori Westmann took a little sipping breath, swung her chair

around so she could look out at window of her office, perhaps

expecting her laser-like executive glare to pierce the curtains.

She swung back to me, her face flat, but her eyes piercing.

“What else do you need to make the complete assessment?”

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John Donohue

“I need access to whatever field notes or journals he kept

at the time. I know your father kept a personal journal pretty

faithfully…”

“He seems to have stopped that in recent years,” she told

me.I shook my head. “No, he never stopped,” I corrected her.

“I’ve seen them.”

“What!” she demanded. The discovery seemed to shake her.

At the time, I thought it was that she simply disliked being

surprised. She was, after all, a woman who prided herself on

being informed and in control. Not much happened in her

little universe that she didn’t know about.

I described finding the journals, careful to point out that

they shed light on Eliot Westmann, the way he thought, and his

approach to life, but really had not contributed much toward

my analysis of his contested works. Lori made careful notes

about the journals and their location. She looked at Charlie for

the first time that morning. “I’ll want those journals secured,”

she ordered. He nodded in silent agreement.

She turned back to me. “Do you have a report for me?”

I was puzzled for a moment, and then I realized that she

was expecting some sort of formal document. “You just got it,”

I answered.

She was seething, but kept it pretty tightly under control.

“I’d like a written summary of your activities to date and your

observations on my desk by this evening.” The words were pro-

nounced carefully and flew out like bullets from a gun. “Plus a

concrete list of what other resources you’ll need to access and a

timeline for completion. A
short
timeline.”

“I’ll need to see his journals from back then,” I countered.

“The ones you say are in the archives…”

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Kage

“His agent maintains them,” she snapped.

“Fine, I’ll go see him,” I said cheerily. It was fun needling

her. Dangerous, but fun.

“He’s in New York City.” She glanced at Roy. He made

some notes.

“Even better,” I said, my voice bright.
Home
. “The library at

Columbia should give me the other resources I need.”

Lori gave Roy a string of orders. I was dismissed with a curt

nod and Charlie and I sauntered back out into the daylight.

We strolled along the pathways, bordered in the deep emer-

ald of well-manicured lawns.

“You are some piece of work,” he said with a slight smile.

I shrugged. “She hired me to do a job. I know my work. She

ought to let me run with it.”

“She’s used to getting her way,” he noted. “Not many peo-

ple don’t fold when she pushes hard at them.”

“And another thing,” I said, not even bothering to com-

ment on Charlie’s observation, “she’s skewing the data I’ve got,

trying to steer me to certain conclusions—she’s holding back

sources that I need to make an objective assessment. As if I

wouldn’t notice.”

“She’s paying you,” he said simply. “She figures she owns

you.”

“She figured wrong,” I told him.

Charlie smiled again. “I think she realizes that now.”

As we walked up the path toward my suite, I looked at him.

“How do you stand it? Working for her?”

He shrugged. “She needs me and she knows it. She tends

to stay out of my way and I let her pretend she’s in charge.

She’s unpleasant to be around, but the salary is good and every

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John Donohue

morning I can almost count on…”

“…getting in a full round of golf,” I finished for him.

He patted me on the shoulder. “You got it.”

I stopped and faced him. “I’m assuming I should probably

start packing?”

“That would be a safe assumption. Old Roy will make sure

you turn in your little book report tonight and probably have