The Veritas Conflict (60 page)

Oh, is that what they call it now?

Below that was space for lots of data, but most of the lines weren’t filled in. His work address and phone number were there, but his home spaces were blank. There was a work e-mail address listed, but nothing else … home e-mail, pager, cell phone, all blank.

She considered for a moment, then pressed print.

She looked at the Pike Fellowship printout from Murphy Barkers year and typed in the next name on the list.
Johanna Godfrey
.

The list smoothly scrolled down to the
Gs
. Unlike Murphy, this girl listed lots of data. Her home information, e-mail addresses, pager, and cell phone were all listed. She even listed two work numbers.

She looked at the employment section.
Helion Pharmaceuticals
. Never heard of it.

Claire printed the page, then typed in the next name. She yawned, stretching. Was this even the right path to pursue? Ian had better get here soon.

She leaned forward, only half-interested, as she scanned the summary for Gregory Granville III. She looked at his Bel Air home address, then back at his name. She gave a cynical snort. She’d bet anyone ten bucks that he insisted “the third” be used on everything.

Her eyes sought
employment
, and her eyebrows rose. Mr. Gregory Granville
the third
was working at a well-known Los Angeles publishing company, helping to manage, the summary said, a small division of a popular weekly magazine.
Cool job, at least
.

She peered more closely at the sparse contact information on the screen. A second work number was also listed, but that had to be a typo. It had a New York City area code. She shrugged as she pressed print. Who knew, these days. Maybe Mr. Granville was a real hotshot, and the company gave him an office on each coast.

Claire got to her feet and grabbed the few pages off the printer. This wasn’t getting her anywhere.

She hesitated, then sat back down. She entered the last few names and printed out the data for each. One was in a company she’d never heard of, doing hotel management. Another was in an industrial supply and distribution business. The final name worked for a credit card company.

She stood again, staring at the screen. If there was something Anton Pike didn’t want them to find, it wasn’t here.

They crested the top of the escalator, and Stefan drew Sherry rapidly by the hand out into the afternoon light. She hurried along behind him, a strange sensation growing in her gut.

He stopped abruptly and she slammed into his back, giggling. “Stef—!”

He turned, the phone to his ear, and held up his free hand. Then he pointed to a bench off the path of pedestrian traffic. “I’m going over there to make a quick call.”

He paused, listening, and his mouth tightened. Sherry could hear a voice mail system picking up. He punched a few more buttons and put the phone to his ear again.

He smiled briefly. “Why don’t you get us a map from the information counter over there?” He gestured toward a nearby kiosk as he started to walk away. “I’ll just be a couple minutes.”

Sherry stalked toward the kiosk, picked up a map, and got her bearings. They were just a few minutes’ walk from Boston Harbor and the famous Fanueil Hall and Quincy Market shopping areas. Her mind began to turn with ways Stefan could make up for his behavior on the train.

Across the river in Cambridge, Ian stopped walking in the middle of the path. His classmates flowed around him on all sides, but he didn’t notice. The skin on his neck prickled, and he had a sudden urge to pray.

What, Lord?
Immediately he knew. Go home. Go home.

He turned and made tracks for home. The urge to pray grew stronger, and he broke into a half jog as he crossed Massachusetts Avenue and headed west toward his apartment.

The jog became a sprint as prayers for protection, for guidance, for
anything
coursed through his mind. What was going on? He bolted up the outside stairs to his second-floor apartment and stared around the room, half expecting to see some sort of disaster.

The room was hushed, quiet. But not normal. The tense feeling did not dissipate, and Ian walked into the center of his living room as if some monster would jump out at him.

He took a deep, slow breath and spoke aloud. “Lord, please show me what’s going on. Please show me what I’m supposed to do.”

He turned a slow circle, scanning every corner of his studio apartment. His eyes fastened on the telephone sitting on the kitchen counter. The message light was blinking.

Stefan stood still, the phone pressed hard to his ear. The bench sat vacant nearby. No way could he sit down.

He listened a moment, then spoke quietly. “Sherry said she was probably over there right now. She wasn’t totally sure, but there aren’t that many areas in that building to check, so you can probably find her pretty easily.”

Another pause. “I don’t know. Its already two-thirty. She could’ve been over there for an hour for all I know.” He held the phone away from his ear. “Don’t get mad at
me
, Father. I’m trying to save our tails here.” He glanced across to where Sherry was
looking at a map. “I’ve got to go. If I don’t get back, Sherry’s going to start asking questions again.”

He hesitated, then spoke haltingly. “Look, don’t … 
do
anything, okay? We just can’t afford that kind of trouble right now. There’s too much else going on, especially now that Murphy has fallen.” He listened briefly, then sighed in exasperation. “I’ve got to go. Good-bye.”

He hung up the phone with a click. His thoughts roiled. Impulsively, he turned and kicked the bench, hard.

Standing right beside him, a dark presence watched with narrowed eyes. What was
this?
Katoth growled an order, and several lackeys jumped to attention.

“What is this weakness, this faintness of heart? This is the heir! What accounts for this?”

Several demons shot wary glances at each other. The heir was Katoth’s territory, as it had been for generations. If there was a problem, he was the one who should know the answer.

Katoth looked around at them, knowing full well what they were thinking. His face contorted with rage. “What accounts for this!”

A lanky demon stepped forward, and his features bore the scars of long experience. “My lord, if I might suggest—”

“Speak!”

“The record of this family may bear some clues. I have been long in the service of Krolech. My memory is faint, my lord, but I recall a dispute from a time long past. It involved an ancestor of the heir.”

“What dispute?”

The lanky demon bowed. “I beg your mercy, my lord. As I said, my memory is faint, and I was involved only on the periphery. I’m afraid I’m not the one to fill in the holes.”

“Meaning that you probably know very well what the news involves but do not want to be the bearer of bad news.” Katoth narrowed his eyes. “A wise choice.”

The other demon inclined his head and stepped back into the ranks.

Katoth swept the others with a hard stare. “You would all do well to emulate your comrade’s loyalty to me. His fealty will be rewarded.” He turned to an aide. “Get me the records.”

He turned to watch, brooding, as Stefan returned to Sherry’s side with a charming apology and set off toward the harbor.

Claire wandered out to the front desk, papers in hand. The receptionist was sipping from a bottle of soda and reading a newspaper.

“Can I ask you another question?”

“Sure”.

“Do you know what the difference is between your proprietary alumni database and the one that Career Services puts out?”

The receptionist leaned on her elbows, thinking. “Well, not entirely. But I do know that the Career Services one has less information in it.”

“Why?”

“Well, they ask the alumni what they want listed. If an alum doesn’t want to be bothered at home by some Harvard senior looking for a job, he won’t list his home number.”

“Ah.”

“And our proprietary database has a lot of extra information that may or may not be totally accurate because we add to what the alums actually tell us.”

“What?”

The receptionist rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I have to do that all the time when alumni call in to check on the status of their student loan payments or something. Our phone system here is set up to recognize the number someone is calling
from
. And if they tell me they’re calling from work and our proprietary database doesn’t have that number listed, I press a button and-bingo—we now have a second work number for them. Of course it could be that they’re at a consulting project or something, not their main number. That’s why we can’t release that database to anyone without high-up authorization.” She smiled. “Like yours.”

Claire thanked her and started to walk away. What was she supposed to do? Where was Ian?

“Oh, by the way, the clerk just called in. He’s on his way back.”

Claire smiled. “Great.”

“Hey listen, you look like you could use a break. Do you want a soda or some coffee?”

“You know, I really could use something with caffeine. I’m a bit rudderless until Ian gets here.”

The receptionist vanished into a small doorway near the entrance, then reappeared with a cup of coffee in her hand. She beckoned to Claire. “Cream, sugar?”

Claire nodded as she entered a tiny kitchen. “Both would be great.”

“Why don’t you just fix it how you like it.” She gestured to where the fixings were
as she headed back out the door. “I can’t be away from the phones.”

“Thank you.”

Claire set her papers on the limited counter space, balancing her Styrofoam cup on top of them. She stretched up to the shelves for the sugar and brushed the balancing cup. It tipped and coffee cascaded all over her papers, the counter, and down to the floor. Infuriated with herself, she jumped back and grabbed some napkins.

Her voice rose in frustration, although there was no one else to hear. “Do I have some sort of coffee curse or something?”

A tall man with dark hair approached the receptionists desk. “Is Claire Rivers in here?”

The receptionist looked up and smiled. “Yes, sir. And you must be Ian Burke.”

“That’s right. Where is she?”

“Right in there.” She gestured toward the door to the kitchen. “She’s getting some coffee.”

The newcomer chuckled. “We wouldn’t want to interfere with that, would we?”

“No sir.”

“Why don’t I just go wait for her where she was working.”

“Okay.” The receptionist told him where to find the proper room. “And sign here, please.”

The man signed in and headed down the corridor.

Within moments, a young, preppy man pushed a moving dolly through the door. He was followed by three other men in work clothes. One had a dolly, and the others left a wheeled flatbed right outside the doorway.

“Hey.” He nodded to the receptionist. “Sorry we’re late.”

“No problem.” Her phone rang, and she spoke quickly, reaching for the handset. “And you have someone needing help in the resource room, by the way.”

“Okay.”

The young man headed down the corridor, trailed by the three movers. He poked his head in the appropriate doorway and spoke to the dark-haired man sitting by one of the terminals. He was rummaging through a backpack, looking for something.

“Hey, I hear you need some help.”

The man put the pack down and turned toward the terminals. “No, I think I’ve got it. Thanks.”

“Okay. We’re going to do one more load on this move. I’ll be at my desk if you need anything. Ask one of these guys to get me.”

“Great.”

The young man shrugged, gave a few orders to the movers, then headed back to his desk.

The movers began transferring boxes, ignoring the man at the terminal and griping about Sundays Patriots game.

Claire dabbed at the sodden papers, trying to get a handle on her anger. She finished cleaning up the mess and tossed the dripping pages in the small wastebasket. Impulsively she bent down, separating the pages with her fingers. Were there any dry spots?

She shook one page free—it had been in the middle of the stack—and tore off the sodden part. The top half, listing the six recipients from Murphy’s year, was relatively dry. She stuffed it in her pocket, washed her hands, and headed out of the kitchen. She’d have to reprint the others.

The receptionist was juggling phone calls, but caught Claire’s attention, mouthing the words at her.
He’s back
.

“Great.” Claire headed down the corridor, passing three men rolling boxes toward the door. She entered the glassed-in room, and a tall man rose from the chair in front of the terminal.

She walked over and held out her hand, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re back. The resource director said you’d be able to help me. I wasn’t sure what I was doing.”

His eyes flickered, and then a smile appeared on his face. “You seem to have found quite a bit, young lady.” The pages from the printer were lying on the desk beside him. The terminal screen showed the Pike Fellowship recipients from Murphy Barker’s year.