Full Circle
OTHER NOVELS BY DAVIS BUNN INCLUDE:
Heartland
My Soul to Keep
International Thrillers
Imposter
The Lazarus Trap
Elixir
Novellas
The Book of Hours
Tidings of Comfort and Joy
The Quilt
For a complete listing of novels by Davis Bunn,
visit his website at davisbunn.com
© 2008 by Davis Bunn
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherâexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
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Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Managing Editor: Natalie Hanemann
Page Design: Mandi Cofer
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bunn, T. Davis, 1952-
Full circle / Davis Bunn.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59554-204-5 (softcover)
I. Title.
PS3552.U4718F86 2008
813'.54âdc22
2008004089
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Excerpt from the book of hours
A
dam sat in the plush leather chair and tried hard to focus. His future depended on pushing the past aside and concentrating upon the here and now. But the contrast between these elegant surroundings and two years of yesterdays was hard to get his head around.
For the past twenty-five months, he had been imprisoned in a hard hospital chair. The previous day, he had flown from Baltimore to London. Now he was seated in a mystic realm where loudspeakers did not bark and hospital bells did not jangle and smells were not sharp as scalpels. Instead, he sat in a palace, one where the fragrance of fresh-cut flowers filled the air. A cheery fire at the reception hall's opposite end kept the English December at bay. The hardwood floors framed Persian carpets. Chandeliers marched like sparkling sentries down the high-ceilinged chamber, guarding a lovely lady behind a curved rosewood desk.
A lady who was trying very hard not to weep.
Two other women appeared through the rear doors, one bearing coffee and the other an embroidered hankie. They clustered around the receptionist.
A tall pendulum clock by the curved staircase bonged nine times. Adam had been kept waiting over an hour. Which was odd, as he had been awakened from a jet-lag stupor at seven o'clock, when a sullen woman phoned his lodgings and demanded that he present himself precisely at eight.
Time dragged at a glacial pace. Adam knew something was horribly wrong. Employees streamed through the front doors. Their dread-filled glances toward the receptionist suggested the problem was not hers alone. Whatever might be ailing this company, it approached an epidemic.
Adam reached into his blazer pocket and touched the folded note. His mother had slipped it to him as he had left the hospital. The single sheet had been opened so often the creases were tearing. Illness had reduced his mother's hand-writing to a scrawl. But the words were clear enough.
The sign will signify many things. Gifts, and the chance to use them to the fullest. Purpose, and the joy of doing well for yourself and others. Hope, and the illumination this brings to your every day. And love. When you arrive at your destination, I pray you will know clearly that you are doing the right thing. Love, Mom.
Adam rose from his seat, turned his back to the receptionist, and stared at the art adorning the walls. A collection of framed black-and-white photographs rimmed the reception chamber. Adam knew most of them intimately, as they were by his mother's favorite photographer. He stepped forward until he saw his reflection in the glass. A sign, his mother had written.
“Mr. Wright?” A heavyset young woman with a funereal expression paraded down the broad, curved staircase. “I'm Robin Oakes. We spoke this morning. Mr. Dobbins will see you now.”
“I was told to report to Mr. Austin.”
The woman was halted in the process of starting back up the stairs. She chose her words with care. “Joshua Dobbins is the company's chief financial officer.”
“Mr. Austin isn't here?”
“Please, Mr. Wright. Joshua Dobbins does not like to be kept waiting.”
The broad stairs ended in an elegant hall where polished oak doors stood recessed within carved frames. They passed two clusters of people sharing muted conversation and grave expressions. More strident than the company's somber mood was the artwork on the walls. The line of Eve Arnold prints clawed at Adam, slowing his progress.
“In here, if you please.” The woman knocked on the hall-way's last door. “Mr. Wright for you, sir.”
“Come in, Wright. That will be all, Mrs. Oakes.”
Adam stepped into the office and halted before yet another Eve Arnold print, one that held a special poignancy. The office was high-ceilinged with plaster scrollwork around the chandelier. A pale silk carpet rested upon the polished wood floor. Between him and the desk stood a marble fireplace. The desk was rimmed by tall bay windows.
“Come sit down, Wright.”
“I'm fine where I am.”
“I didn't ask for your sentiments. Come over here and take a seat.”
The man behind the desk was made a silhouette by sun-light. For two years Adam had faced cameras he couldn't see because of the surrounding spotlights. He showed the man a professional calm he did not feel. “You're going to fire me, right? So get it over with.”
The man responded with a double-beat of hesitation. “What makes you say that?”
“Your secretary told me Mr. Austin was not in. Your chair-man personally offered me the job, and he's my only contact with your company. Your secretary said you are the finance director. You're probably the man who must approve all new hirings. And by the scene I've been watching downstairs, I'd say your company is in serious crisis.”
There was only silence from the other end of the room.
Adam went on, “You ordered me here at eight so you could get rid of me before the boss arrived. But then you made me wait for over an hour. I'm thinking you decided to check with him, but he wasn't reachable. Now you've either argued your case, or you've decided to take matters into your own hands. It's doubtful Austin would make an issue over his number two firing a low-level peon. Especially when your company has been hit by incoming fire and is hemorrhaging badly.”
“What have you heard about our company's problems?”
“Nothing, until this very minute.”
The man, who rose from his desk, held one shoulder slightly lower than the other, or perhaps it was merely the result of his ill-fitting dark suit. A narrow tie was offset by a starched white shirt. His features were pockmarked, his mouth a thin slit. He was a man made to wield the corporate dagger, and without remorse.
“Come sit down, Mr. Wright. No, over here. Will you take coffee?”
“Will I be here that long?”
“I'll take that as a yes.” Joshua Dobbins settled into the sofa and waved Adam into the suede chair opposite him. He phoned for coffee, then replied, “I won't deny it, Mr. Wright. I had intended to dismiss you out of hand.”
Adam caught the slight inflection. “And you still might.”
Mud-gray eyes flashed with something that might have been humor. “This ability of yours to read subtle signs is impressive.”
“I'm an analyst,” Adam replied. “A good one.”
“Are you indeed?” A moment's further inspection, then Dobbins asked, “That print on my wall, the one you noticed upon entering. No, don't turn around. What can you tell me about it?”
“The photograph was taken by Eve Arnold.”
“We are hosting a retrospective of her work. You might have read the plaque downstairs. Anything else?”
Adam saw no need to explain how a copy of that very photograph had adorned his mother's studio. “Eve Arnold shot the picture in 1963, on her first trip to England. She was over to do the promo stills for a movie version of
Becket
. Richard Burton played the starring role. The photo was taken of his death scene. The photograph shows Elizabeth Taylor off camera with their three children. Their daughter was terrified, watching her father die. Eve Arnold took the photo just as Taylor cradled the child in her arms and explained that Burton was acting. The child refused to leave the set until she saw her father get up again, Burton's death was that real.”
A curious secretary laid out bone china and poured coffee. “Be so kind as to bring me this gentleman's file from my desk, Mrs. Oakes. Help yourself to cream, Mr. Wright.” Dobbins accepted the file from his secretary, read for a time, then said, “There is very little here to commend you for a position with our company.”
The morning's initial shock was wearing off, leaving Adam hollow. “Those pages don't include why Mr. Austin spent two days with me in Washington.”
Adam had met the chairman of Oxford Ventures, a boutique investment house, at a conference in Washington. Oxford Ventures handled about half a billion dollars, mostly from Oxford college endowments. They were also involved in spin-off companies based upon research done within the university system. Peter Austin had started the firm sixteen years earlier. Oxford Ventures was moderately successful, a steady but not spectacular earner. Over the past five years, returns averaged about fourteen percent. They were known to take the long-term approach. Adam knew this because he had checked. He knew a great deal more besides.
Dobbins slapped the file shut and tossed it on the table. “So tell me what the file does not say, Mr. Wright. Such as, why you chose not to complete your university studies. You left after your second year, I believe.”