Read Seen And Not Seen (The Veil Book 1) Online
Authors: William Bowden
Garr watches the muted newscast—the images and titles say it all. The interview with the state trooper at the bridge, speculation over Robert Cantor’s state of mind.
On the other side of her desk a purse-lipped Lucius Gray leafs through a thick dossier. He stops on an unseen page, his eyes widening a tad, accompanied by a little grin. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Garr staring at him and the grin fades back to the pursed lips. He closes the dossier, its cover page from the F.B.I. and titled ‘Robert Cantor.’
“Nothing specific in here. Robert Cantor is bipolar N.O.S. but any psychology student could have told you that.” He tosses the dossier onto Garr’s desk, where it lands with a decisive thud.
“Mania dominating for months at a time, punctuated by short periods of shallow depression, making him seem driven and somewhat eccentric.
“N.O.S.?” asks Garr.
“Not Otherwise Specified. Means he doesn’t fit typed bipolar—other behaviors manifest. Socially withdrawn, shy, awkward with others.”
“And now?” asks Garr.
“Something has caused the cycle to flip. Now we have a short burst of mania followed by an extended period of withdrawal, culminating in deep depression.”
“Is it stress? The Senate hearings, the Afrika Project?”
“Cantor’s the kind of man who thrives under pressure. And the kind of man who would relish a fight with the likes of Senator Blake. Besides, he has huge popular support, though I doubt he’d give a damn if he didn’t. No, this is something else. Something eating away at him. Something he can’t internalize. Like a guilty secret.” Lucius doesn’t notice Garr shifting uneasily in her seat.
“And his current state of mind?” she asks.
“A strong emotional event could trigger a mood swing. It won’t make any difference whether then event is positive or negative, happy or desperately sad. But if it reaches deep enough into him it will flip the bipolar state. That’s probably what’s happened here. But I would say the pendulum has swung as far as it is going to. From here on in he will descend into the abyss until he has little sense of self-worth.”
Lucius observes the despair of Garr’s face.
“We need to find him quickly,” he says.
A disheveled Robert sits at the counter of a small town diner, finishing off a plate of apple pie. There are a few patrons in the diner’s booths, but none pay him any attention.
From the other side of the counter, at the far end of the diner, a waitress watches Robert as she ends an inaudible phone call.
Robert finishes the pie, placing the spoon carefully back on the plate. The waitress approaches, but Robert keeps his gaze fixed on the plate, fidgeting shyly at the prospect of an unwelcome encounter. He had had no money, yet the pie had been given nonetheless.
The waitress says nothing, simply sliding a card across the countertop to Robert. The card reads ‘St. Luke’s Hospice’ and there is an address.
He eyes the card, pawing at his face with angst.
* * *
The entrance to St Luke’s Hospice is dark and deserted. Robert observes the dimly lit reception desk, seemingly just vacated. Dismay washes over him. He shuffles about with indecision—
should he call out, or not?
He settles for tentatively exploring, gently pushing open a swing door to reveal a corridor beyond. It is dark, save for a pool of light spilling out from an open door at the far end.
Having made his way quietly down the corridor, Robert peers into the room—large, with its contents hidden in shadows except, next to a window, a hospital bed surrounded by a number of modern medical devices. He gingerly approaches the bed. It contains a child. It is not clear whether it is a boy or girl, such is the patient’s condition. Robert’s despair deepens at the pitiful sight.
Movement in the shadows. He freezes.
A nurse steps into view, dressed in a modern uniform. Although a stranger to Robert, it is the female from the encounter at St Patrick’s Cathedral—The Veil.
Her manner is just short of sly. Piercing eyes lock with his, before turning to gaze at the child.
“This is Peter,” she says. “He is seven. Not to worry, though—he is sedated to help him sleep. We shan’t wake him.”
“What’s the matter with him?” asks Robert.
“Peter is dying. The why is not important. There is nothing to be done except make his final days as comfortable as we can.”
“This place… he’s an orphan?”
“All his life,” says the nurse.
Robert is lost for words. The nurse watches him intently.
“We have been worried about you, Robert. We thought it might help if you met Peter.”
“Why?”
She returns her gaze to the child, “Peter is in constant pain and he knows that he is going to die. But there are still things that captivate him, just like any other child.”
“What things?”
“See for yourself.” The nurse flips a light switch to illuminate the other side of the room. It is a play area full of toys.
Robert looks over the objects that occupy the space. A model of the
Pegasus
, a book on the Afrika Project, a chart of the solar system showing the Afrika’s proposed trajectory—and many other similar items. He carefully steps into the melee, stooping to pick up a book and flipping through its pages. Complex concepts rendered for a child’s mind. Published by Cantor Satori. He lowers himself onto a small chair, the nurse looking down upon him.
“Your black dog visits your more frequently now, doesn’t he? You need the wheat fields more often.”
Robert is startled, but can’t hold back the despair, “Who are you?”
“Perhaps you and Peter are not so different. He has his pain and you have yours.”
He slumps, hands clasped over his head.
“It’s like a darkness that comes over me. Dragging me down to God knows where.” He stares back up at the nurse, eyes red. “It would be so easy. A moment’s action and it would all be over.”
“It has been said that when the odds are against us a leader of sober judgment might conclude that we are done for,” she says.
“What are you saying? That what I am doing is wrong? That the Afrika is a false hope?”
“I am not saying one thing nor the other. Listen to what Peter has to say. He is speaking volumes.”
“He’s only seven.”
“And in pain. And dying. But you still managed to inspire him, Robert. Sober judgment can play no part in what needs to come to pass.”
Robert swallows nervously, “And what might that be?”
“It’s time to face your black dog, Robert. Time to stop running.”
A private garden. Brightly colored blooms greet the sunshine of a new day in the suburbs of Washington, DC. Tucked away in one corner is a cushioned bench, a man in a creased suit and worn brogues asleep upon it. Robert wakes, opening sad eyes, only to be momentarily arrested by what greets him.
A wide-eyed little girl stands frozen in mid step a few paces away. She holds a safety mug for hot drinks, clasping it tightly with both hands for fear of dropping it.
“I didn’t mean to wake you. Mom and Dad said it was OK.”
Further up the garden, near the house, the rest of the Rose family watch on—a little boy observing shyly from behind a man and woman with warm smiles. Robert catches the parents’ eyes briefly to receive an affirmation from them. Eying the little girl he takes the mug.
“My name is Tilly.”
Robert takes a sip, “Thank you, Tilly. My name is Robert. The coffee is excellent.”
* * *
A clean and shaven Robert emerges shyly from a bathroom, wearing a robe. The children are there. Tilly giggles while the little boy remains behind his father’s legs, staring intently at Robert. The father ushers his children out of the way.
“Downstairs, kids. Now,” their father says. They bound down the steps.
Robert shuffles awkwardly, “I’m sorry about being in your garden. I didn’t mean to… impose.”
“Will you quit saying sorry. Jeez. Just get it together, get to the Hill and tell that idiot Blake where to go. We’re counting on you.”
The father directs Robert’s gaze to a child’s bedroom. It’s the boy’s. A model of the
Pegasus
lies on the bed. A solar system chart and posters of the Afrika adorn the walls.
“For the children, Bob,” says Mr. Rose.
Mrs. Rose appears with a smart suit on a hanger; she sizes it next to Robert, “Perfect.”
* * *
A smartly dressed Robert gingerly enters the living room. Mrs. Rose is very appreciative of his appearance.
“Looks a whole lot better on him,” she says to her husband.
Toor and Landelle are seated in the room. Landelle rises and steps straight to Robert, her inner rage contained as a courtesy to their hosts.
“I can’t protect you this way,” Landelle says. She side steps him and marches out of the room.
“Ouch,” observes Mr. Rose.
* * *
Justice Garr is visibly relieved, “Well, at least the media haven’t got wind of it yet. Just get him to the Senate hearing. I’ll pave the way.”
Garr ends the call. A surprised Lucius is with her.
“Shouldn’t you warn them about The Veil?” he says.
“I want to let this play out—see where it leads.”
A wide-eyed Lucius stares back at her with incredulity.
Landelle and Toor flank Robert as they make their way through the media scrum, officials battling to clear a path. Inside the Senate committee room the situation is a little more under control, but the large hall is packed to the rafters nonetheless and the entourage has to push its way forward.
A clearly uncomfortable Robert takes a seat at the front benches along with Toor. Landelle sits behind. To one side the Cantor Satori board are already seated. They ignore Robert and he ignores them, except for a furtive glance toward Monica Satori—her eyes are elsewhere.
Senator Blake and his fellow committee members settle themselves at the high bench amid a loud hubbub.
Blake quickly brings the session to order with his gavel. The hubbub dies away. He delights at sizing Robert up.
“Mr. Cantor. Are you fit to run your company?”
Robert bristles at the jibe, “I am.”
A scoff from Blake before making a play of reading from a rap sheet before him.
“You disappear for days at a time. You are known to sleep ‘rough’—to use the British vernacular—in private gardens and public parks, and three days ago you tried to throw yourself from a bridge in… in…” turning to a colleague, “where was it again?”
The colleague hisses disapproval back at him, “Julian. For heaven’s sake.”
A solemn hush falls over the proceedings, both Robert and Blake with an awkward look about them and pitying looks for Robert from the public gallery.
But Robert is ready for a fight, “Tell me Senator… what the hell has my private life got to do with this committee?”
“One trillion dollars, Mr. Cantor. One
trillion
. And that’s just what we’re paying. Same again for the rest of the world.”
“The point being?”
Blake wags his finger at Robert, “You hoodwinked the world into this… this… crazy project. Untold billions spent already—on contracts, I might add, that your company directly benefits from.”
“Us among many others.”
“Money better spent solving the current crisis,” says Blake.
“A crisis of our own making,” says Robert, “which we cannot fix with the resources remaining on Earth.”
“And so, what? You think that gallivanting all over the solar system—”
“A grand tour to seek out the resources we need, Senator. Publicly debated for a decade. Ratified by the highest scientific minds the world over. What would you propose to get us out of this God awful mess we’re in? A mess, I might add, that your big business constituents don’t seem to give a damn about.”
Blake leans smugly back into his chair.
“The problem, Mr. Cantor, is that you have the whole world believing it. Believing you. It’s not just that there’s too much vested in you as an individual—now there are serious question marks over the project’s finances.”
Blake lets a silence fall over the proceedings. He glances briefly at his notes before nonchalantly eyeing Robert.
“What is the Five Earths initiative?” Blake asks.
Robert ponders Blake, his fingers lighting drumming the bench. A quizzical Toor looks to him. Some members of the Cantor Satori board shift uneasily.
“That is not a question I was given sight of,” says Robert.
“By hook or by crook, Mr. Cantor,” says Blake. He waits patiently for Robert to answer. Robert, for his part, keeps his eyes firmly on Blake for the longest moment.
“An early code name for an umbrella project that included the Afrika and other… ancillary projects,” says Robert.
“Ancillary projects.” Blake’s delight positively radiates from his smug smile. “Let’s delve into these ‘ancillary’ projects a little further, shall we?”
* * *
Garr watches the proceedings from her office with some dismay. A video call—it’s Lucius.
“There’s something you need to see,” he says.