Out of Reach (9 page)

* * *

Between thoughts of Gwen I manage to get
little work done this morning. Christine drops by my bench twice to
jest about my mediocre process.

“Get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Laughing, I feign an ashamed expression and
promise to pick up the pace after lunch. This is not my day; my
brain is too cluttered. I make a mental note to plant a thought in
Christine’s mind that I’ve gotten more work done this afternoon,
breaking the cardinal rule of minimal interference for the
umpteenth time this week.

Tossing my pen on the table I make a
stealthy escape and wander down to Gwen’s lab, checking in on her
for the third time already today. I take the long way there,
stopping off at the vending machines to pick up a Coke so I have an
alibi in case I accidentally run into Gwen. As I’m counting out my
change, I overhear two co-workers talking.

“Did you hear about Mr. Johnson?”

“The jainitor? No, what about him?”

“They’re saying he went bat shit crazy.
Started wearing garlic to work and seeing ghosts.”

“Really? Creepy.”

Intrigued, I collect my can and confront the
two men, smiling openly at them. “Do they know why?”

“No one I’ve talked to seems to know why he
snapped.”

“What’d the company do?” I ask.

“Medical leave.”

“Ahh,” I acknowledge. “Does he have any
history of mental illness?”

Both men share a look before the one I’ve
been pumping for information replies. “Honestly, I have no
idea.”

“Okay thanks, I hadn’t heard the news,” I
say, politely disengaging from the conversation. Those two were
feeding me rumors, nothing more. They didn’t really know what
happened. I know Mr. Johnson to be a caring, friendly, family man.
Not exactly the poster child for mental instability. Hitting the
elevator call button, I promise myself to look into the matter more
closely.

* * *

When Z arrives several hours later, I am
buried in paperwork at my desk. “You look to be in the middle of
something I don’t wanna be any part of. I’ll just collect my
package and be off.”

The humor in his eyes is unmistakable: Z
thinks busy work is for suckers.

“Step back, gigantor. I can barely breathe
with you in here. Lock the door while you’re at it.” Once Z has
complied, I rearrange my furniture and retrieve the lock box.
Despite having the area spelled so people can’t find it, I will
feel a lot more comfortable with the sphere out of my office.
Handing the brown paper bag to Z, I straighten up the office once
more and return to my desk.

“Z, look at this,” I say, pointing to the
file in front of me.

“What?”

“One of our custodians was just put on
medical leave for what they’re calling a psychotic episode.”

“So?”

“There’s nothing in his personal file, no
history of this sort of thing.”

Again Z replies, “So?”

“So, I pulled his medical records and ran a
background check.”

“I’m not following you, Kade. I fail to see
how this has anything to do with us,” Z replies. Looking up
exasperated I take a deep breath. I can’t fault Zafir—he doesn’t
know this guy

from Adam

“He’s a friend of sorts. I talked with his
crew members and found out he’s been carrying on about seeing
things around the facility at night. Then a week or so back he
started wearing garlic and crucifixes to work.”

“Ok, go on.”

“Well, there is nothing in his medical
history that would suggest such odd behavior, and he doesn’t have a
police record.”

Brows furrowed, Z’s silent a moment before
responding. “So a work acquaintance of yours goes off the deep end
for no foreseeable reason and you’ve taken it upon yourself to find
out why. But the man isn’t a rock collector, or a Nephilim, or
under the influence of the Sylph as far as you can tell,” Z
summarizes for me.

“Oh, well, when you put it that way, it does
seem like a waste of our resources.”

Chuckling, his big frame
shakes with delight as he says, “
Our
nothing. You wasted a whole
afternoon on this thing, I didn’t.” It’s unusual for Z to be the
more rational of the two of us and I can tell by his gloating he’s
savoring the moment.

“He’s such a nice guy, with a family—it just
makes no sense to me.”

“That’s life,” Z quotes the old human mantra
at me.

Shaking my head, I concede. “Fine, go. I’m a
fool who’s wasted enough precious time today.”

With a smirk Z saunters out of my office,
his usual arrogant swagger in full effect. Neatly stacking up the
paperwork I’ve been rummaging through, I place it in a file folder
and toss the whole lot into a desk drawer.

* * *

At ten to 5 p.m., I still can’t shake how
off the wall the whole ordeal with Mr. Johnson is, so I make it a
point to check out his office before I leave. Taking the stairs to
the basement, I inconspicuously enter the custodial crew’s area.
Much to my chagrin I find that Mr. Johnson doesn’t have an office.
The only one on the team that has an actual workspace with a desk
and four walls is Mike, the head custodian. The rest of the
employees each have a full-length locker in their break room.
Sneaking around when the place is empty I see that Mr. Johnson’s
locker is still there but has been completely emptied of all
personal items.

Damn it
, I think to myself.
This just isn’t
my day.

Halfway up the first flight
of stairs to the lobby, my phone alerts me I have a new text
message. It’s from Gwen:
Friday, China
Palace and The Spotted Dog. See you at 5p.m.

Chapter 12

Marta drags her cart into Lab 4B, heading
for the back corner. She is meticulous about her work, always
starting in the back corner and working her way from left to right
as she cleans. Glenn Johnson weighs heavily on her mind tonight.
The fact Lab 4B was a part of his regular rotation only adds to the
feeling.

Since his medical release from work, the
whole housekeeping crew has pulled together in order to get the
extra workload his absence has created done. Luckily tonight Marta
is a little ahead of schedule and has decided to get a head start
on Lab 4B. Hopefully it’s one burden she can take off Mike’s
shoulders. The poor man was asked to personally oversee not only
his duties but also those assigned to Glenn. Marta would hate to
see Glenn replaced, or Mike any more overworked and exhausted than
he already is.

Turning up the volume of the small radio she
keeps, Marta sanitizes the worktop surfaces. Humming to herself,
she pulls out her mop and starts in on the floors. Along the
opposing wall, a slight glow begins to emanate from around the
seams of one of the nondescript cabinets, like someone had left a
flashlight turned on inside before shutting the doors. Bent to her
task, Marta is oblivious to the glow, which becomes more
pronounced, radiating out into the room itself. Just as quickly as
it started the glowing light fades, replaced by a thin, ominous
mist coalescing at the bottom of the cabinet. Thin tendrils of the
vapor slowly begin to inch their way out across the floor, like
spooky fingers winding their way around table and chair legs in a
uniform pattern. Stretching out, reaching, the mist works its way
ever closer to Marta.

From behind her, a loud, unexpected bang
sends Marta jumping through the roof. Catching her breath, she
turns in the direction of the sound to see Mike standing in the
lab’s entryway. The resounding bang must have been from the door
swinging shut behind him.

“Marta, have you taken your lunch yet?” he
barks out a little harsher than necessary.

Unfazed because she knows he’s overworked
Marta just smiles.

“Not yet ... I finished up early in Lab 3B
and thought I’d get a head start in here first.”

“You know you are required to take a lunch
break within the first six hours of your shift, or HR will be all
over my ass.”

“I’m sorry, Mike, I just wanted to
help.”

“I know, I know, but take your lunch first.
Go on now, I’ll finish up in here. You can help me over in 4A when
you’re done.”

Sliding her mop back into her cart, Marta
muscles the heavy contraption back up the ramp and exits the lab.
Mike watches her progress patiently. After her departure, he
continues to stand alone on the entrance platform, scanning the
room.

Satisfied Marta has done a good job washing
the lab stations, he grabs his mop and heads over to where she left
off cleaning the floors. Working his way over toward the cabinets
lining the right-hand wall, he finds the floor damp in several
places. Not overly concerned, he shakes his head. A few decisive
swipes of the mop later and Mike has effectively erased all
evidence of the mist.

Chapter 13

Melanie and I are all polish and shine as we
exit my car, having undergone several careful hours of preparation
for our night out. She is stunning in a blue tank that ties at the
waist and just covers her tush. Matched with her bedazzled jeans,
the simple top and her soft curls easily make her a ten on any
guy’s list. Rocking my signature black sequins and jeans, my hair
stands out like sun spun fire. I’ve loosely curled it and left it
down, knowing that partnered with my height the combo makes me hard
to miss.

“Should we wait for him?” Melanie asks,
glancing up and down the street looking for Kade.

Copying her movements I reply, “No, he’s
probably just looking for a place to park his bike.” Shrugging my
shoulders, I continue, “He knows where we are headed—he’ll find
us.”

The Spotted Dog, a cheesy little bar, is our
destination tonight. It boasts everything from live concerts to
pay-per-view fights. This particular Friday night a local band I’ve
never heard of is playing. The place is quite spacious, with the
bar and its wrap around counter and cushy barstools dominating the
center of the room. Quiet, circular booths are stashed away in the
corners. Off to the left, where they usually put the stage for
concerts, is a small dance floor. The rest of the space is littered
with small tables, dispersed at odd intervals around the room.
While The Spotted Dog does serve easy grill-style items and we love
the ambiance, Melanie and I do not come here for that. In fact, we
always eat beforehand. Tonight we dined at a hole in the wall
Chinese restaurant we adore down the street. It was the find of a
century. Kade and I stumbled into it about a year ago after a long
day at work. We were both hungry, sick of burgers, and feeling a
little adventurous. They have, by far, the best eggrolls in town.
The three of us have passed many a Friday night in that little
piece of heaven.

What keeps us coming back to The Spotted Dog
is the location. Or maybe I should say the clientele the location
attracts. You see, it’s a stone’s throw from one of the local fire
stations, and on Friday nights the boys from the firehouse usually
come by to play cards and eat. So naturally, on a Friday night The
Spotted Dog is every woman’s fantasy. Which helps explain why the
place is always packed.

Melanie and I have developed a strategy for
our Friday nights here, a strategy that allows us to capitalize on
the eye candy while minimizing our interactions with the gaggle of
obnoxious women that are always parading around. Part one of our
strategy involves an early dinner at an alternate location. Thus we
avoid the potential embarrassment that can ensue when stuffing your
face in front of a hot guy, not to mention the rest of the crowd at
the bar. Part two involves getting in early so we can lay claim to
the best seating. While I normally prefer to sit at the bar, if
there’s a good band playing a booth by the stage can be fun. Since
our seating needs are completely dependent on the scheduled events
at the bar, Melanie keeps a close watch on their calendar.

Tonight, since the band playing isn’t one
Melanie and I are familiar with, we make a beeline for our favorite
spot at the bar, the three stools by the left corner. What makes
this our favorite spot is the angled mirror that resides just below
the eve of the lighting cabinet that encircles the bar. It allows
you the freedom to scope out the tables and booths behind you with
just an upward glance. Since we know which bar real estate the
firemen always reserve for Friday nights, our favorite spot allows
us to drool over them without having to nonchalantly turn around
every few minutes. Since part two of our strategy involves getting
to the bar early enough to claim these seats, we utilize the mirror
for general people watching purposes until the firemen turn up.
This activity has led to hours of entertainment and many hilarious
bets between Melanie, Kade, and me. The best one I can remember was
the night a young blonde woman came back from the bathroom with the
bottom of her skirt tucked up into her underwear. We bet on how
long it would be before she noticed and who we thought would
eventually tell her. It was completely shameful on our part but
immensely funny at the same time. As I recall, Melanie won that
bet, picking a time closest to the actual time of fifteen minutes
and having guessed one of the firemen would chivalrously point out
the problem to the woman.

Sliding onto our stools, Melanie nods to the
bartender. “Do the boys have reservations tonight?”

Rolling his eyes, José says, “Yes, for eight
o’clock.”

Glancing at the clock on the wall then back
at each other, Melanie and I say, “Perfect!” in unison. We order a
couple beers and sit back to scope out the room. Women are slowly
starting to trickle in, anxious for the muscular pageantry that’s
about to begin. We watch and laugh as they vie for seating, trying
to position themselves in line of sight of the tables by the
windows with the reserved signs on them.