A Bit More St. Peter Ascends Tease

Years later Trevor Tillholm would tell people he was the one to affect the succession, but Ken Gamby was there and his story was somewhat different. Gamby's account stated Tillholm was on the brink of putting his own name forward when Gamby himself cut in with, "Peter Stoller is the natural choice, I would think," earning him a furious glare from Tillholm down the table.

But even before Tillholm could begin to break apart this new wall—and it was clear enough from his agitation he intended to—a Ministry man named Tarlington said, "Peter Stoller? I went to school with someone by that name," and Tillholm shut up as the wind began to change direction.

Agency legend holds Gamby took over from there, smoothly stepping into the gap left by Tillholm's gaping. "Really? Did you know he was one of ours?" And when Tarlington said he had not, Gamby offered Peter's number in case they should like to catch up. It never occurred to Gamby, or so he ever after professed, that Peter might not want any part of such a transaction.

How Peter Met Gordon

A scene I'm working on for St. Peter Ascends.

***

He’d first met Gordon Lessenby purely by accident—Gordon’s accident, not Peter’s own. Peter had been prompt as ever to a meeting with Dr. Davidson in that esteemed old man’s cluttered office, where they were to suss out the finer points of some inscriptions on fragments from Tusculum.

“There will always be a need for turning one language into another,” the professor often encouraged. And that evening Gordon Lessenby had come needing something German broken apart and put back together.

Peter knocked and without waiting for an answer opened the door. Dr. Davidson sat behind his desk, the silver-white hair combed back, the watery eyes and toothsome grin turning Peter’s way. And another, darker set of eyes also turned, and in the second of them raking over him, Peter felt he’d been combed by them, evidence picked off his person in a kind of optical assault. He scowled at the intrusion, and at the stranger who stood in front of Dr. Davidson’s desk.

The man was a couple inches shorter than Peter, but so were many men. Broader, too, but so were many. The man’s coat seemed to Peter too heavy for a fine spring evening, and it covered too much of the man’s body for Peter to determine a shape. But the face was lined and slightly baggy, as if it had once been fuller and had lost weight. Peter guessed the man was of an age with his own father; the dark hair was showing streaks of grey at the temples. But the eyes were most certainly keen, and Peter felt no desire to walk any closer to allow the man any better a look at him.

But Dr. Davidson was waving one liver-spotted hand. “Peter! Yes, we had been planning . . . Oh, but this is Mr. Lessenby, just in need of a little help with an odd . . .”

Lessenby had not taken his eyes from Peter. “Close the door, if you would,” he instructed. Reluctantly, Peter stepped over the threshold into the office and did as requested.

“Mr. Stoller here is one of our best linguists,” Dr. Davidson enthused, and the pride Peter would normally have felt failed to well; he rather wished the professor would not draw attention to him.

The dark eyes made another pass over Peter. “Stoller. Sounds German.”

Peter was not sure whether it was an accusation, but he answered as if it were. “If so, it was long enough ago no one in our family can trace it.”

“I’m sure they could,” Lessenby said, “but my guess would be they wouldn’t want to.”

Dr. Davidson’s head began to swivel between the two men standing in his office. “Well, now, whatever his family, Peter is a solid citizen, I believe,” he said, and Lessenby pegged him with a sharp look. Davidson’s frail hands flapped like a moth that had been pinned while still alive. “It’s not as if I’ve researched him,” the professor went on, “but . . .”

Irritation bubbled up in Peter’s chest. “You can call my father if you like. I’m sure he’d be happy to discuss it.”

            

Lessenby looked again at him. “Do you speak German?”

And for a moment Peter was confused. “At home?” he asked. “No.”

But Davidson was quick to make things clear. “Peter speaks and reads just about everything. Except Sanskrit and Hindi, all those types. But if it’s European, East Asian, or Arabic, he has it covered.”

“If I show you something, could you read it?” Lessenby asked Peter.

Curiosity warred with indignation that this man who had been so rude would now ask for a favor. “I won’t know until I see it,” Peter answered stiffly.

Lessenby turned to Davidson. “And you’re sure you can’t read it?”

“Well, but German isn’t my language,” the professor told him, “and even still, this doesn’t look like any German I’ve ever seen.” His pale hand tapped a paper on his desk. Lessenby slipped it from under Davidson’s fingers and held it out for Peter’s perusal.

Peter didn’t take it; he merely stepped close enough to look. Then after a moment frowned and did take the paper, as if holding it and viewing it more closely would make it make sense. “It isn’t . . .”

And then he saw. “Oh, Jesus. What is it? Like an exam or something?”

“You understand it,” Lessenby said.

“Well, no,” said Peter, “it would take some time to . . . Whoever wrote this used at least fifteen different . . . They took bases from some languages, and—Look, the start of this word is Icelandic, but this bit here is Old Gutnish, and they’ve Frankensteined a whole letter by . . .”

Davidson beamed at Lessenby. “Told you he was bright, didn’t I? He had that sorted in less than two minutes.”

Peter offered the page back to Lessenby. “I feel sorry for whoever has to take this test,” he said. “What kind of teacher does that to his students? What a headache.”

“I think, Mr. Stoller,” Lessenby said without taking back the paper, “you are going to be the one taking this particular test.”

Sherlock's Daughter

The government paid my parents $791 to have me, a lot of money at the time, and especially to my parents. They figured if they planned to have a kid one day anyway, why not let Uncle Sam foot the bill? The fact I was a girl delighted my father but disappointed his supervisors. Still, I was bought and paid for, so the government would do its best with goods received.

There were twelve of us in the class. We went to school at the same time and in the same place as any other kids, but we had our own classroom, a special room designed just for us. And instead of changing teachers every year, we had Mrs. Truehardt. We called her Mrs. T, and there was a lovely confidence in knowing, year in and year out, exactly who would be your classmates each year and what to expect from the teacher.

It was like this from the time I started school at age five until Mrs. T retired when I was ten.

Then they released us into the wild.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Those years with Mrs. T were spent in exploration of our natural talents and inclinations . . . Which would necessarily lead to the exploitation of those gifts in service of the government to which we'd been sold. Assuming, of course, there was anything of worth in us.

But the government had hedged its bets by only purchasing the offspring of its best and brightest, of which my father was one. I recall blueprints spread over his worktable . . . Later, when a "stealth" this or something new for the space program would be revealed, I would look to my dad knowingly; this was his work. To design and create. Where it went from there, he never much cared; he was always on to the next idea, his logic married perfectly to his creativity, so that he could not only dream it, he could make it happen.

Dad's position limited our lives. There were only a few places we were allowed to travel and many more we were not. We were monitored at all times. For our protection, of course. It was a childhood filled with fears of being kidnapped or worse.

But I loved school. And it turned out I had much of my father's logic and creativity, though I leaned more toward words: books and writing. I also had what my father did not: an intuitive understanding of others, their emotions and behaviors.

It was decided I would become a profiler.

Not by me. I didn't decide. Neither did my dad, and my mother had even less say than he did. (She was by all accounts average and of no interest to the government except in their demands for her compliance.) No, this path was chosen for me by men who'd payed to have me born and educated to their specifications.

My dad's nickname in the organization was Sherlock. And I was Sherlock's Daughter.

The Start of Something

I wrote this about ten years ago, and it had been the start of something that eventually morphed into my novella Certain Purpose. (Not currently available, but the main character's name changes from Rob to Rick, and the whole of the story takes on a very different tone. But it started with this idea.)

***

Robert Dumaine stared at the canvas propped in front of him. Then he glanced around the studio at the scattering of paintings against the wall and strewn around the floor. Yes, it was the same person, again and again, the woman he dreamt about. He’d put her in Impressionistic daubs, in violent abstracts, in old-fashioned portraiture. An average customer walking into the gallery to browse might not even notice the similarities. But Rob did. He knew.

Frustration caused him to toss the latest canvas aside onto a pile of discarded work. He was stymied, stuck. He stood and made a lion-prowl around the room, going window to window, looking out at the heavy traffic two stories down, cabs, town cars and limousines—limousines! at this time of morning!—making their way in unfriendly packs towards the downtown of the city. The sidewalks, though, were mostly empty; this side of town wasn’t much of a draw, old industrial converted into a few lofts and studios. His gallery was right downstairs and cheap, which was good considering foot traffic was light. People didn’t find his place by accident.

Rob checked his watch. Nearly nine. But also Wednesday, and he didn’t open on Wednesdays. He’d always hated Wednesdays as a kid, although if he’d ever had a reason for that he couldn’t remember it now.

He’d been born on a Wednesday.

He did another pace around the studio. He wasn’t going to get any work done today; he could feel it. In which case . . .

He grabbed his keys off the table by the door, took his leather jacket from the peg, and headed out.

~*~

Carter Christianson’s plane touched down at 9:16, six minutes late. He gritted his teeth. Inefficiency rankled him.

A blond man of average height and tan from years in the California sun, Carter was the kind of person no one would take special note of. Which was exactly how he liked it.

One of two. After so many years of work, he’d finally have the first one down by the end of the day. He was lucky Dumaine had chosen such an evident career. The picture in the paper, the little article about the gallery. Carter had seen it and known immediately.

He hoped Dumaine had the girl with him. Could they be related again?

Luggage in hand, he exited the airport. “Hotel,” he told the cabbie. "Something close to the art district."

~*~

Rob subconsciously found himself searching the faces of everyone he passed on the sidewalk. The girl, she was here somewhere. She had to be. Because he couldn’t be going crazy, not yet. Artists went crazy, but not at his age. He was too young.

He went to his favorite coffee shop, sat in the window there and nursed something warm. It was chillier out than he’d expected, and his thin silk shirt and leather jacket didn’t quite cut it. Maybe he’d go shop for a sweater. Take his mind off things.

~*~

Carter had gone by once already, but the sign said the gallery was closed on Wednesdays. He’d watched the second-story windows for a while, but he hadn’t seen any movement. If Dumaine was in there, he was being very still. So Carter had come back to his hotel to wait, for what exactly he hadn’t decided. A sign maybe.

~*~

Rob came out of J. Crew feeling stupid with the shopping bag in his hand. He always felt stupid carrying around shopping bags; it seemed like such a girl thing to do.

And people thought artists were supposed to be in touch with their feminine sides. Whatever.

He hoofed it back towards his pad, head down and hunching against the wind, wondering why he hadn’t just put the sweater and new boots on in the store.