Out of Reach (8 page)

Staring straight at Melanie for a moment, I
concede, “Alright, point taken. I’ll pick something new to
read.”

“You should really see things my way more
often,” she beams, returning my Kindle. In one final act of
defiance, I shove the thing to the farthest recesses of my desk
drawer while she isn’t looking.

“Now what brings you to see me this early in
the day?” I ask.

“My company car is in for routine
maintenance so I’m onsite today taking care of paperwork. Needless
to say I’m bored and it’s lunch time.” Melanie never was one for
office work; sitting still for more than an hour at a time
physically pains her.

“I’ve already eaten,” I lie.

“That can of soda doesn’t count. Come on,
Gwen, please, let’s go get some real food,” she pleads, bobbing her
head up and down in enthusiasm. “I’m dying in my office,” she adds,
fainting into the chair opposite me for dramatic effect.

“Oh, alright,” I agree, starting to pick up
on her energy and good humor. It’s hard not to be in a good mood
when Melanie is around. Her battery never runs down and her
perpetually joyous spirit is infectious. Leaving my lab coat on my
chair and snagging my purse, I follow her out the door

* * *

Sneaking back into the command center
fifteen minutes or so past our agreed upon deadline, I silently
take my seat. Joe is at the board with Charlie immersed in quiet
conversation. Glancing around I notice we are still waiting for
several key team members to come back from lunch, and I breathe a
sigh of relief. I’m not a rule breaker by nature and being late
physically pains me. Stowing my purse under the table, I smile,
reflecting on lunch and how time with Melanie is great therapy and
just what I needed. In firm possession of a satisfied stomach and a
positive outlook, I grab my pen and head for the board.

“Hey, Gwen, listen to this,” Charlie says,
immediately pulling me into the conversation. Taking the lead, Joe
begins to go back over the inspiration I assume Charlie and he have
just been discussing. Ten minutes into his spiel, I lean back
against the conference table, relieving some of the pressure on my
feet so I can think.

“It makes sense, but I feel like there’s
something missing between steps eleven and twelve,” Joe speculates.
After a brief span of reflection from the three of us, I stand up
and reach for the dry erase marker. Handing it over, Joe steps back
as I approach the board to make a few notations.

Rereading what I’ve done, I erase the second
line and revise it slightly.

“So if we wait and introduce the stabilizing
agent after step three instead of before the drying agent in step
five, yeah, I think that’ll work. Great work, Joe,” I say.

“You don’t think we’ll get hung up between
steps eleven and twelve?” Joe asks.

“No. As long as the transfer isn’t rushed, I
think it’ll be just fine,” I reply. “At the very least this gives
us a great starting place.”

“Wonderful!” Joe announces. “I’ll sleep so
much better tonight knowing we have a game plan.”

“Me too!” I exclaim while doing an
abbreviated version of my happy dance. Laughing at my outrageous
disregard for decorum, the three of us turn around to address the
rest of the team who have all trickled into the conference room
over the last thirty minutes. Over the next few hours we explain
the new procedure we will be using to bring compound 253B to room
temperature and maintain stability, taking longer than necessary to
review the details of each step involved in the process and answer
any questions the team members may have. It is extremely important
everyone performs the required steps exactly the same and that they
are able to replicate the process numerous times.

In this respect, working in a lab is like
baking. When you’re inexperienced, you follow the recipe as closely
as possible so your end product will look like the pretty cake in
the example picture. Most of what we do is routine recipe work.
Once Joe, myself, and the lead chemists have developed a
procedure/recipe for stabilizing and then synthetically replicating
a compound, it can move into the testing phase.

Sometimes this process is easy and sometimes
it’s extremely difficult. What’s tough is we never know the
potential of the compounds we are dealing with. Maybe the compound
we couldn’t adequately replicate last month would have gone on to
cure cancer. That’s one of the reasons we take our failures so
seriously and exhaust every foreseeable option before throwing in
the towel.

Exiting the command center after the
conclusion of our meeting, I feel better than I have all week. Not
only have we developed a new strategy for working with compound
253B, but the team seems just as eager as I am to get started in
the morning. Riding the intellectual high, I make a quick stop by
my office to drop off some equipment before slipping out of the
building. In the parking lot, as the warmth of the late afternoon
sun embraces me, I don my black sunglasses and rock a smile all the
way home.

Margie, the receptionist, must be at lunch
because no one is manning the counter in the waiting room. Mike
looks around to be sure the place is spotless, noticing the potted
plants could use watering, before proceeding across the foyer to a
large set of double doors. He softly knocks, and steps back to wait
patiently to be admitted. The possibility Mr. Taylor won’t
acknowledge him isn’t a concern; Mike knows he will see him.

But the seconds drag by, leaving Mike with
nothing to do but stare at the wood grain of the large doors. The
longer Mike stares at the door, the more obvious the smudge marks
from multiple sets of finger prints become until they are all Mike
notices. Pulling a rag from his cart, he begins to polish away the
offending fingerprints. He has just finished with the nameplate
when he is summoned:

Mr. Taylor

Preston-Ward Pharmaceuticals

CEO West Coast Office

“Come in, please,” says the muffled voice of
Mr. Taylor from beyond the outer doors. Mike enters the office and
takes a brief moment to appreciate the understated elegance of the
room. He has always had an appreciation of nice things. The quality
of the furniture and the sparse artwork around Mr. Taylor’s office
are above reproach.

“Good day, Mr. Taylor,” Mike says.

“And good day to you, Mike. What brings you
to my office this fine morning?” Mr. Taylor asks.

Mike drops his gaze to the floor for a
moment, gathering his thoughts before responding to Mr. Taylor’s
question. Looking back up into Mr. Taylor’s expectant face, Mike
begins.

“There’s been another incident, sir.”

Staring back at Mike for a moment, Mr.
Taylor finally responds, “What do you mean?”

Taking a deep breath, Mike launches into his
story, trying to stick clearly to the facts.

“Mr. Johnson with the night crew has been
seeing things.”

“Wait,” Mr. Taylor interjects. “Who is
Johnson again?”

“Mr. Johnson is part of the night custodial
crew. He is usually responsible for the section B labs.” Mike
continues, “Anyway, like I was saying, he believes that he’s seeing
things. All manner of things from people to animals to things that
can’t possibly exist. He has become quite paranoid of late, always
looking over his shoulder, muttering under his breath about people
out to get him. Last night he even wore garlic to work.” Mike
pauses, shaking his head. “The guy hid it in his pockets so he
wouldn’t break the dress code.”

“I see,” Mr. Taylor responds.

“Sir, he’s starting to make the staff
nervous. Many of them are worried he’s off his medication.”

“Has he ever shown any instability in the
past?”

“Well, no, not at work, but it’s no secret
he battles mood disturbances and regularly sees the company
counselor.”

“Well, Mike, I think Mr. Johnson needs to be
put on medical leave, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I agree. I’ll speak with HR
personally and have the paperwork taken care of right away.”

Mike begins to turn and leave when Mr.
Taylor interjects, “Mike, I’d like you to assume responsibility for
Mr. Johnson’s sections until we can find a suitable
replacement.”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

Mike turns and departs the office. Closing
the double doors behind him, Mike pulls the rag from his back
pocket, this time to polish out the fresh set of fingerprints he’s
left on Mr. Taylor’s door, before collecting his cart and moving
on.

Chapter 11

I find myself staring at the ceiling when I
wake up in the morning. Lying flat on my back I intensely
scrutinize the textured surface. Instinctually my body knows its
6:30 a.m.—I need no verification from the bedside clock. My chest
is heavy with dread, the three-week deadline weighs heavily on me.
With the end of the world close at hand, I find it truly ironic
that getting up to take a shower and keeping up appearances at my
pretend job rank at the top of my priority list today.

With a sigh, I throw back the covers and
swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Unencumbered by pajamas I
stroll into the kitchen and start the coffee before heading to the
bathroom. While I hate the feel of the apartment in general, the
shower is quite luxurious. Completely open with a simple glass
block wall to shield spray from the rest of the room, the massive
showerhead hangs down from the ceiling. Soft water drops drench you
as though you’re standing outside in a tropical rainstorm.

If I ever had a woman up
here, the delicate silhouette visible through the glass wall would
be exquisite
, I think to
myself.

Flipping the nozzles on I step back and
allow the temperature of the water a few minutes to heat up.
Grabbing a fresh towel from the linen closet, I hang it on the
towel rack and step into the spray. I look up and close my eyes,
allowing the downpour to wash over me. Wiping the last of the water
from my face, I shift positions so the bulk of the stream cascades
down my broad shoulders. As the heat seeps through my skin, I feel
the tension in my muscles loosen and relax and I let my concerns
temporarily drain away. Working the bar of soap into a lather, I
cleanse myself. When the last of the suds washes away, I reach for
my towel, shut the water off, and step back into real life.

While finishing my daily ablutions in front
of the vanity I contemplate ways to force Gwen into using her
powers. Most of my ideas are absurd, and, short of threatening her
life (which I refuse to do), I’m not sure what to try.

I stuff my wallet and keys into my pockets
and grimace. Maybe Gwen will surprise me. There are still three
weeks left, and anything could happen, right? Determined to keep an
extra close watch on Gwen these next few weeks, I lock the
apartment and head off to work.

* * *

Turning off the bike’s engine I dismount
effortlessly and stow my helmet. Carefully opening the saddlebag, I
remove the small package stashed inside. The brown paper bag is
reminiscent of when children carried sack lunches to school instead
of the brightly colored plastic boxes they tote around these days.
Caught up with the morning shift entering Preston-Ward, my parcel
looks no more sinister than the coffee cups and bags of baked goods
carried by the other employees. Firmly gripping my prize I take the
entryway steps two at a time, not stopping or pausing for anything
until I’m safely locked behind my office door.

Setting the sack down on the top of my desk,
I slide my bookshelf away from the wall, exposing the frayed carpet
beneath. Pulling up the corner reveals the lockbox I’ve hidden
underneath. Quietly I remove the lockbox, placing it next to the
Sylph sphere in the brown paper sack on my desk. In the last two
hundred years, Z and I have only come across two such spheres. The
one in the brown sack has been in a wall-safe at my apartment for
the last couple of years, nicely spelled to repel humans and keep
it hidden from sight. Z has the other. He’ll be by later today to
collect this one and prep them both for transport in a few
weeks.

The angels did us a great disservice when
they scattered the spheres to the four winds. I choose to believe
it was done to prevent a single man from obtaining too much power
by stumbling onto a convenient pile of Sylph spheres. Halim
believes it was done to give the Wanderers time to develop and
understand our powers. Whatever the reason, it took us the better
part of our first 500 years to track the bulk of them down. No one
knows the exact number of Sylph in existence, but finding the
spheres is rare nowadays. Z located the two spheres in our
possession several years ago.

He had dragged me to a geological
collector’s convention in Dallas. I forget exactly what they called
the event. Basically it was a large event center filled with
collectors showing off their rocks. The two Sylph spheres had
actually been in the same collection. The guy, with an enormous
display of naturally formed mineral spheres, wasn’t aware of what
he had.

To the human eye, Sylph spheres look no
different from any other rock, but enough of a connection remains
between us and the Sylph that we can actually feel their essence
inside of the stone.

Utilizing the power of suggestion, Zafir
bought the two gems off the guy. It became apparent while he was
wrapping up Z’s purchases exactly why he’d never figured out what
he had: The man always wore gloves when handling his collection in
order to keep the surfaces of the spheres clean and free of
fingerprints.

Without even opening the paper bag, I drop
the sphere in the lock box and return it to its resting place under
the bookshelf. Grabbing a lab coat off the door hook, I head out to
start my workday.