[fic] Occult Couture; or An American in America | 1
It was about 10000 words into my Nano project (about a Victorian-era spinster who solves problems because tackling crime would be un-ladylike) that I remembered I'd done something like this before. I was struggling for inspiration and thought that looking up what I wrote then might give me a boost.
It did, but not quite in the way I expected. Hey guys -- I'm writing a sequel to a fic that hasn't been updated since 2006. Yeah.
I'm going to warn anyone who accidentally stumbles across this now that it's probably going to be very different from it's precursors, simply because six years of distance is obviously going to impact, but also because of the focus -- Vampyre was Bart's, Zhombies was Tim's even if Kon narrated both, and Occult Couture is all about Kon coming home. Stylistically it's different in that there are going to be other narrators, and the reason for that is the biggest difference. The boys are going to be apart for a lot of this fic. Distance isn't necessarily a bad thing -- I think realizations will be made, bonds tested, characters strengthened and proposals refused, but in the end they'll be stronger for it. Necessary -- but maybe not fun.
Scratch that. It's got Kon, Tim and Bart in it. This is going to be all sorts of fun.
The nightmares were always the same. All was dark. There was an indistinct sound, as of voices raised in a chant. Not the harmonious sound of Gregorian chanting, the voices all blending in harmony but a harsher sound, punctuated by a drumbeat that went all the way through his aching head. The voices became more urgent, more pressing just as the pain grew and grew. It was unbearable, a burning sensation. Kon cried out desperately but the pain was always ripped from him in a flash of light leaving his head searing. And then - darkness so intense he felt he’d been blinded. With it a sudden unnerving silence and smoke, and curling thick and heavy on the smoke, the acrid smell of flesh-
There was a gentle crackle. Flames? Kon opened his eyes blearily and choked on smoke. Not the sour smell of his dream, but different, thicker -
Real.
The tattered remnants of the curtain fell. Kon watched them pool on the floor, dully. Flame didn’t work like that. The fabric was blackened, scorched by some great explosion of heat. Much like the damage wrought to wall-paper. It was still extant in part, singed and then -
Nothing. It was simply extinguished by - what?
Kon rested one shaky hand against the doctor’s desk, miraculously unharmed by the wreckage around it, and drew himself up. The smoke was fast clearing, revealing a scene he would very much have preferred not to see. The doctor’s office was utterly devastated, but was destruction the sum of the chaos?
”Doctor? Doctor Hamilton?”
No answer, and Kon’s heart sank. ”Doctor Hamilton, please-”
There was a leather shoe over-turned behind the collapsed chaise longue. Kon hefted the sofa, but there was no other sign of the doctor. Had he escaped? Or had it finally come to deat-
”Doctor Hamilton is in the garden.” The voice was uncompromisingly cold. The black clad figure of their coachman the night of Cobblepot’s ball - no, The Director, Kon corrected himself - regarded him from the doorway dispassionately. ”Unconscious but with only minor injury from smoke inhalation. A week in the country and he will be as healthy as he ever was.”
If any other man had spoken those words, Kon would have been relieved. The Director on the other hand watched him with an unfathomable stare. He was dressed entirely in black, as well turned out as a lawyer - or perhaps a vulture. Kon swallowed his relief with the smoke. ”The secretary-”
”Also outside. The ambulance will arrive soon for the maid and the valet, injured superficially trying to get in here to help Hamilton. You should leave before it arrives.”
Kon stared at him. Where the heavy pressure in his head had been there was only a strange lightness. He felt strangely empty. Drained. “But the wreckage. I should-”
”Apologize? Do you think you can, Conner Kent?”
Kon followed the remorseless gaze to the gaping hole that had been the doctor’s ceiling. ”I was on the couch,” he remembered. ”Doctor Hamilton said I should try and relax." He swallowed, hiding his hand behind his eyes, suddenly extremely ill. ”Hypnotic regression.”
”To get to the source of those strange migraines you’ve been having?”
That the Director had been monitoring Drake’s houseguests was in no way unusual. By the reputation of the man, he made even Drake’s considerable paranoia look like downright carelessness. Given the eventfulness of the six months Kon had spent in London so far, it would have been far more strange if he had not attracted the Director’s special notice. What made this so disconcerting was that Kon had been positive that he’d been able to keep his odd turns from Drake and Bart both.
”You knew?” Kon gasped and then a fresh wave of nausea hit him and he realised. ”No - you expected this.”
”Anticipated.” The ring on the Director’s black gloved hand glinted dull green. He took a step closer to Kon and this time Kon gripped the table to keep from falling down. “Your singular 'cousin' left this with me. He feared there would be an occasion when I should need it.”
“Clark!” Kon’s knees gave way abruptly. He pitched forward, managing to stagger his fall. His vision swam, refocusing on the thread of the flowery pattern, now speckled with burnt patches where debris had fallen off the ceiling. “Where-“
“Where is he?” The Director stepped into the room, the boards groaning slightly in protest. “Not in London. You won’t find the answers you’re looking for here.”
Kon said nothing. As the director stepped closer it was increasingly harder to breathe or move or even think. He struggled to hold on to consciousness.
“Clark left to find his answers elsewhere. You should do the same.” The Director paused, looking around the once fine office. “Don’t overstay your welcome. Next time we might not be on hand to intervene.” He nudged Kon with the end of his cane. “Pick yourself up and follow. Hurry up. It won’t take much longer for the fire engine to arrive.”
Kon swallowed down the bile in his throat and, taking a moment to steady himself, followed. He didn’t need to look back. The room was seared into his mind.
It was a hard feat to get a nauseous, shaken American out of a burning house and into a cab without attracting attention but if anyone could do it, the Director could. His black suit quietly suggested doctor and his crisp manner and Kon’s haggard, shaken appearance did the rest. The cab whisked them away from the staring, curious crowds, and it wasn’t long before they were lost within the ranks of hundreds of identical carriages, winding in and out of the busy London streets.
Less easily lost was the smoke which hung on Kon’s clothes. He couldn’t close his eyes without the room appearing again before him. “Thank you,” he said miserably. “If you hadn’t been there, Dr Hamilton might have been-“
The Director watched him coolly. “Protecting innocents from creatures such as yourself is my lifework, Mr Kent.”
He was too numb for the barb to rankle - and he couldn’t argue with it. Kon bit his lip. It hadn’t been the first time-
“I suspect that today’s exhibition is not the extent of what you are capable of,” the Director continued matter of factly. “As such, I should like to tender you some advice.”
Despite himself, Kon smirked vaguely. “Get the h--- out of Dodge?”
The Director’s stare was impassive as it always was. “The colonial turn of phrase is quaint as ever. Still, if this lapse of control were to repeat itself, it would be better if it took place somewhere less populated. There is a very good reason your ‘cousin’ chose to leave you in Kansas, I believe.”
Kon took his life in his hands, plunged forwards with his question recklessly. “That’s the third time now you’ve mentioned Clark. Do you know anything of his current whereabouts? What he’s doing?”
“Your cousin came to Europe with the intent of finding answers, probably to the same questions you are now asking yourself. He did not confide in me. All I know is that he did not find the answers he sought in Europe and neither will you.”
You old devil, Kon thought bitterly. The roughly jolting motion of the carriage was doing nothing for his stomach. That’s not half of what you know. But after his actions that morning … well, what reason had the Director to trust him?
The abrupt jerk as the carriage pulled up was a surprise. The exterior of Drake’s townhouse looked blandly down at his disconcerted expression. Kon had imagined he was being taken to the docks to be escorted out of the country as quickly as possible. “Why-“
“Those in most danger are those who associate most closely with you, Mr Kent. I trust you will keep that in mind as you make your arrangements.”
“You’re letting me go?”
The temperature of the cab got about three degrees lower. “You have two days, Mr Kent. I’m sure you can come up with a suitable reason to return home. If not …” He settled his gloved hands on the top of his cane meaningfully. “I’m sure I can arrange something. Now,” and the man’s smile was frosty. “I recommend you get the H--- out of Dodge.”
Kon got.
--oOo-
A shower and a change of clothes did not do much for his piece of mind. Kon was thoughtful as he stirred the soup on the stove of Drake’s very modern kitchen. He had the house to himself, for which he was grateful. Drake’s arch knowingness and Bart’s effusive concern would have been untenable just then.
And yet - the thought of leaving was strangely unwelcome.
“It has to be done,” Kon told himself. “It’s for the best. After all, if Bart were hurt-“ (It was impossible for Kon to imagine Drake injured, even having seen it happen.)
And yet he didn’t feel like he was being entirely honest with himself.
He left the soup to its own devices, wandering the empty house. The Director’s logic was sound. Even though the books on the shelves, the ornaments, the furnishings and drapes were all Drake’s, reflecting his tastes, there were subtle proofs of just how much he and Bart had intruded upon his territory. The Daily Planet was set on the reading table next to The Times and a scattering of French novels dotted the house wherever Bart had been when he’d tired of reading one.
He wound up in the little first floor study that had become his room. Kon would not miss the cot. The rest of the room was a different story. The desk at which he’d written his thesis and was now working on the manuscript for a book. The bookshelves which Drake had allowed him to use as his own (and Bart’s novels had crept in somehow without Kon noticing). It wouldn’t take long to remove all traces of Kon’s presence from the room. And yet, he would very much be missed.
What could he say? He couldn’t explain - they’d want to help and that would draw them in further. Was that why Clark had gone, without so much as an explanation or a goodbye? And yet to leave without word - well, it was five years on, and he was still searching. Drake and Bart were nothing if not resolute-
“D--- this!” Kon said with feeling, thumping his fist down upon the desk.
The strange feeling of a shock was no less startling the second time round. Power surged and just as hastily abated as Kon recoiled. It was not entirely without effect however - a portrait had been set askew.
Kon waited a moment to make sure nothing else was going to fall, explode or burst into flame at him, then reached to set the photo aright. “It would be just my luck if-“
He paused. His fingers had encountered paper.
Turning the portrait over revealed a newspaper clipping pinned neatly to the back. Yellowed by time, it was nonetheless legible and Kon could easily make out the picture. Teams of waterproofed firemen tried vainly to douse a veritable fireball. The shadowy forms of people trapped within could just be made out. The headline below provided brief explanation.
Tragic dirigible crash claims lives of London banker and family-
No, Kon decided, replacing the photo. Drake must certainly not get involved in this.
--oOo-
The carriage drew up easily, people moving aside quickly in deference to wealth, fashion, and Lord Queen’s rather liberal manner of steering. “Here you are - the Docks.” The Lord held the horses in place as Kon climbed down, collecting his bag. “You’re sure you don’t want me to wait until you’re assured of a berth?”
“If it’s all the same, I’d rather you didn’t. I’m not terribly fond of goodbyes.”
“I’m with you there, Mr Kent.”
They shook hands, the horses shifting restlessly, already keen to be back out on the streets. “I’m very grateful to all the assistance you’ve given me.”
“Likewise. Mind you look up Roy when you get back. He’ll want to see you.” Queen took the reins in hand. “And what do I tell your Bartholemew and Drake when they come asking after you?”
Kon smiled wryly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t wait, but I’m sure they’ll understand.”
Queen paused. “You’re in trouble? You’re pack now, Conner. Remember that. If you need help-“
“It’s nothing like that,” Kon assured him. “This is just something that I have to do.” He watched as Lord Queen drove off leaving a sense of finality in his wake. No going back now-
But then there never had been.
The fashionable liners were now able to speed across the Atlantic in a matter of a week and a half. It wouldn’t be long at all and he could be home, sitting with Ma and Pa Kent of a summer’s evening, watching the sun sink below the horizon and smell the lulling scent of drying grass.
And still Kon hesitated. He patted the roll of banknotes in his pocket. Payment for assisting the Foundation with a matter the week before. He hadn’t thought it was necessary then, but it was dashed useful now. So why did he feel as though -
“Being paid to leave?”
The Director was smart enough to account for Kon’s pride. He had strong reasons for wanting him gone, stronger now that Kon knew about Drake’s parents’ death. It was very possible he’d arranged for Kon’s involvement and compensation to make sure he had the means to leave. Was it also possible that--?
No, Kon decided regretfully. He could not have predicted the migraines. Even so, he’d fixed on what was troubling him. Kon might have been manipulated, but he was d----d if the Director was getting it all his way.
There was more of the usual Kon in his walk as he strode down the dock, away from the liners, toward the working boats. For the first time that day, Kon knew exactly what he had to do.
--oOo-
The Director was alone in his office when the phone rang.
“Dick.”
“Ship’s ready to sail. No sign of Kent - he didn’t take the room we held for him. I can wait--”
“No. We need you in New York as fast as possible.”
“But Kent-“
“Has made other arrangements. Working passage on a whaler.”
“Better him than me.” As Grayson paused, the announcement of the ship’s impending departure came across the line. The thrum of passengers was clear. A public line in the first class longue, the Director surmised. “You’re sure of him?”
“Conner Kent is no longer part of our equations. Concentrate on the task ahead of you. It will not be easy establishing a branch office in the States.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. A nine day voyage with some of the prettiest women in Europe and me with so much reading to do on business matters and broking that I’ll be lucky if I have time to say so much as ‘how do you do’ to them.”
“Knowing you, you’ll make the time.”
“Yes, but that’s not the point, Bruce.”
The use of the familial term gave the Director a rare moment of pause. He had fixed on this plan months ago. Knew the consequences and regretted them. And yet-
It must be.
“Dick,” he said slowly. “Whatever happens, you know why we do this.”
“You really are going to miss me. It’s just nine days. I’ll wire when I reach New York.”
“Until then.”
The Director replaced the handle but did not immediately take his hand from it.
It was necessary.
It did, but not quite in the way I expected. Hey guys -- I'm writing a sequel to a fic that hasn't been updated since 2006. Yeah.
I'm going to warn anyone who accidentally stumbles across this now that it's probably going to be very different from it's precursors, simply because six years of distance is obviously going to impact, but also because of the focus -- Vampyre was Bart's, Zhombies was Tim's even if Kon narrated both, and Occult Couture is all about Kon coming home. Stylistically it's different in that there are going to be other narrators, and the reason for that is the biggest difference. The boys are going to be apart for a lot of this fic. Distance isn't necessarily a bad thing -- I think realizations will be made, bonds tested, characters strengthened and proposals refused, but in the end they'll be stronger for it. Necessary -- but maybe not fun.
Scratch that. It's got Kon, Tim and Bart in it. This is going to be all sorts of fun.
The nightmares were always the same. All was dark. There was an indistinct sound, as of voices raised in a chant. Not the harmonious sound of Gregorian chanting, the voices all blending in harmony but a harsher sound, punctuated by a drumbeat that went all the way through his aching head. The voices became more urgent, more pressing just as the pain grew and grew. It was unbearable, a burning sensation. Kon cried out desperately but the pain was always ripped from him in a flash of light leaving his head searing. And then - darkness so intense he felt he’d been blinded. With it a sudden unnerving silence and smoke, and curling thick and heavy on the smoke, the acrid smell of flesh-
There was a gentle crackle. Flames? Kon opened his eyes blearily and choked on smoke. Not the sour smell of his dream, but different, thicker -
Real.
The tattered remnants of the curtain fell. Kon watched them pool on the floor, dully. Flame didn’t work like that. The fabric was blackened, scorched by some great explosion of heat. Much like the damage wrought to wall-paper. It was still extant in part, singed and then -
Nothing. It was simply extinguished by - what?
Kon rested one shaky hand against the doctor’s desk, miraculously unharmed by the wreckage around it, and drew himself up. The smoke was fast clearing, revealing a scene he would very much have preferred not to see. The doctor’s office was utterly devastated, but was destruction the sum of the chaos?
”Doctor? Doctor Hamilton?”
No answer, and Kon’s heart sank. ”Doctor Hamilton, please-”
There was a leather shoe over-turned behind the collapsed chaise longue. Kon hefted the sofa, but there was no other sign of the doctor. Had he escaped? Or had it finally come to deat-
”Doctor Hamilton is in the garden.” The voice was uncompromisingly cold. The black clad figure of their coachman the night of Cobblepot’s ball - no, The Director, Kon corrected himself - regarded him from the doorway dispassionately. ”Unconscious but with only minor injury from smoke inhalation. A week in the country and he will be as healthy as he ever was.”
If any other man had spoken those words, Kon would have been relieved. The Director on the other hand watched him with an unfathomable stare. He was dressed entirely in black, as well turned out as a lawyer - or perhaps a vulture. Kon swallowed his relief with the smoke. ”The secretary-”
”Also outside. The ambulance will arrive soon for the maid and the valet, injured superficially trying to get in here to help Hamilton. You should leave before it arrives.”
Kon stared at him. Where the heavy pressure in his head had been there was only a strange lightness. He felt strangely empty. Drained. “But the wreckage. I should-”
”Apologize? Do you think you can, Conner Kent?”
Kon followed the remorseless gaze to the gaping hole that had been the doctor’s ceiling. ”I was on the couch,” he remembered. ”Doctor Hamilton said I should try and relax." He swallowed, hiding his hand behind his eyes, suddenly extremely ill. ”Hypnotic regression.”
”To get to the source of those strange migraines you’ve been having?”
That the Director had been monitoring Drake’s houseguests was in no way unusual. By the reputation of the man, he made even Drake’s considerable paranoia look like downright carelessness. Given the eventfulness of the six months Kon had spent in London so far, it would have been far more strange if he had not attracted the Director’s special notice. What made this so disconcerting was that Kon had been positive that he’d been able to keep his odd turns from Drake and Bart both.
”You knew?” Kon gasped and then a fresh wave of nausea hit him and he realised. ”No - you expected this.”
”Anticipated.” The ring on the Director’s black gloved hand glinted dull green. He took a step closer to Kon and this time Kon gripped the table to keep from falling down. “Your singular 'cousin' left this with me. He feared there would be an occasion when I should need it.”
“Clark!” Kon’s knees gave way abruptly. He pitched forward, managing to stagger his fall. His vision swam, refocusing on the thread of the flowery pattern, now speckled with burnt patches where debris had fallen off the ceiling. “Where-“
“Where is he?” The Director stepped into the room, the boards groaning slightly in protest. “Not in London. You won’t find the answers you’re looking for here.”
Kon said nothing. As the director stepped closer it was increasingly harder to breathe or move or even think. He struggled to hold on to consciousness.
“Clark left to find his answers elsewhere. You should do the same.” The Director paused, looking around the once fine office. “Don’t overstay your welcome. Next time we might not be on hand to intervene.” He nudged Kon with the end of his cane. “Pick yourself up and follow. Hurry up. It won’t take much longer for the fire engine to arrive.”
Kon swallowed down the bile in his throat and, taking a moment to steady himself, followed. He didn’t need to look back. The room was seared into his mind.
It was a hard feat to get a nauseous, shaken American out of a burning house and into a cab without attracting attention but if anyone could do it, the Director could. His black suit quietly suggested doctor and his crisp manner and Kon’s haggard, shaken appearance did the rest. The cab whisked them away from the staring, curious crowds, and it wasn’t long before they were lost within the ranks of hundreds of identical carriages, winding in and out of the busy London streets.
Less easily lost was the smoke which hung on Kon’s clothes. He couldn’t close his eyes without the room appearing again before him. “Thank you,” he said miserably. “If you hadn’t been there, Dr Hamilton might have been-“
The Director watched him coolly. “Protecting innocents from creatures such as yourself is my lifework, Mr Kent.”
He was too numb for the barb to rankle - and he couldn’t argue with it. Kon bit his lip. It hadn’t been the first time-
“I suspect that today’s exhibition is not the extent of what you are capable of,” the Director continued matter of factly. “As such, I should like to tender you some advice.”
Despite himself, Kon smirked vaguely. “Get the h--- out of Dodge?”
The Director’s stare was impassive as it always was. “The colonial turn of phrase is quaint as ever. Still, if this lapse of control were to repeat itself, it would be better if it took place somewhere less populated. There is a very good reason your ‘cousin’ chose to leave you in Kansas, I believe.”
Kon took his life in his hands, plunged forwards with his question recklessly. “That’s the third time now you’ve mentioned Clark. Do you know anything of his current whereabouts? What he’s doing?”
“Your cousin came to Europe with the intent of finding answers, probably to the same questions you are now asking yourself. He did not confide in me. All I know is that he did not find the answers he sought in Europe and neither will you.”
You old devil, Kon thought bitterly. The roughly jolting motion of the carriage was doing nothing for his stomach. That’s not half of what you know. But after his actions that morning … well, what reason had the Director to trust him?
The abrupt jerk as the carriage pulled up was a surprise. The exterior of Drake’s townhouse looked blandly down at his disconcerted expression. Kon had imagined he was being taken to the docks to be escorted out of the country as quickly as possible. “Why-“
“Those in most danger are those who associate most closely with you, Mr Kent. I trust you will keep that in mind as you make your arrangements.”
“You’re letting me go?”
The temperature of the cab got about three degrees lower. “You have two days, Mr Kent. I’m sure you can come up with a suitable reason to return home. If not …” He settled his gloved hands on the top of his cane meaningfully. “I’m sure I can arrange something. Now,” and the man’s smile was frosty. “I recommend you get the H--- out of Dodge.”
Kon got.
--oOo-
A shower and a change of clothes did not do much for his piece of mind. Kon was thoughtful as he stirred the soup on the stove of Drake’s very modern kitchen. He had the house to himself, for which he was grateful. Drake’s arch knowingness and Bart’s effusive concern would have been untenable just then.
And yet - the thought of leaving was strangely unwelcome.
“It has to be done,” Kon told himself. “It’s for the best. After all, if Bart were hurt-“ (It was impossible for Kon to imagine Drake injured, even having seen it happen.)
And yet he didn’t feel like he was being entirely honest with himself.
He left the soup to its own devices, wandering the empty house. The Director’s logic was sound. Even though the books on the shelves, the ornaments, the furnishings and drapes were all Drake’s, reflecting his tastes, there were subtle proofs of just how much he and Bart had intruded upon his territory. The Daily Planet was set on the reading table next to The Times and a scattering of French novels dotted the house wherever Bart had been when he’d tired of reading one.
He wound up in the little first floor study that had become his room. Kon would not miss the cot. The rest of the room was a different story. The desk at which he’d written his thesis and was now working on the manuscript for a book. The bookshelves which Drake had allowed him to use as his own (and Bart’s novels had crept in somehow without Kon noticing). It wouldn’t take long to remove all traces of Kon’s presence from the room. And yet, he would very much be missed.
What could he say? He couldn’t explain - they’d want to help and that would draw them in further. Was that why Clark had gone, without so much as an explanation or a goodbye? And yet to leave without word - well, it was five years on, and he was still searching. Drake and Bart were nothing if not resolute-
“D--- this!” Kon said with feeling, thumping his fist down upon the desk.
The strange feeling of a shock was no less startling the second time round. Power surged and just as hastily abated as Kon recoiled. It was not entirely without effect however - a portrait had been set askew.
Kon waited a moment to make sure nothing else was going to fall, explode or burst into flame at him, then reached to set the photo aright. “It would be just my luck if-“
He paused. His fingers had encountered paper.
Turning the portrait over revealed a newspaper clipping pinned neatly to the back. Yellowed by time, it was nonetheless legible and Kon could easily make out the picture. Teams of waterproofed firemen tried vainly to douse a veritable fireball. The shadowy forms of people trapped within could just be made out. The headline below provided brief explanation.
Tragic dirigible crash claims lives of London banker and family-
No, Kon decided, replacing the photo. Drake must certainly not get involved in this.
--oOo-
The carriage drew up easily, people moving aside quickly in deference to wealth, fashion, and Lord Queen’s rather liberal manner of steering. “Here you are - the Docks.” The Lord held the horses in place as Kon climbed down, collecting his bag. “You’re sure you don’t want me to wait until you’re assured of a berth?”
“If it’s all the same, I’d rather you didn’t. I’m not terribly fond of goodbyes.”
“I’m with you there, Mr Kent.”
They shook hands, the horses shifting restlessly, already keen to be back out on the streets. “I’m very grateful to all the assistance you’ve given me.”
“Likewise. Mind you look up Roy when you get back. He’ll want to see you.” Queen took the reins in hand. “And what do I tell your Bartholemew and Drake when they come asking after you?”
Kon smiled wryly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t wait, but I’m sure they’ll understand.”
Queen paused. “You’re in trouble? You’re pack now, Conner. Remember that. If you need help-“
“It’s nothing like that,” Kon assured him. “This is just something that I have to do.” He watched as Lord Queen drove off leaving a sense of finality in his wake. No going back now-
But then there never had been.
The fashionable liners were now able to speed across the Atlantic in a matter of a week and a half. It wouldn’t be long at all and he could be home, sitting with Ma and Pa Kent of a summer’s evening, watching the sun sink below the horizon and smell the lulling scent of drying grass.
And still Kon hesitated. He patted the roll of banknotes in his pocket. Payment for assisting the Foundation with a matter the week before. He hadn’t thought it was necessary then, but it was dashed useful now. So why did he feel as though -
“Being paid to leave?”
The Director was smart enough to account for Kon’s pride. He had strong reasons for wanting him gone, stronger now that Kon knew about Drake’s parents’ death. It was very possible he’d arranged for Kon’s involvement and compensation to make sure he had the means to leave. Was it also possible that--?
No, Kon decided regretfully. He could not have predicted the migraines. Even so, he’d fixed on what was troubling him. Kon might have been manipulated, but he was d----d if the Director was getting it all his way.
There was more of the usual Kon in his walk as he strode down the dock, away from the liners, toward the working boats. For the first time that day, Kon knew exactly what he had to do.
--oOo-
The Director was alone in his office when the phone rang.
“Dick.”
“Ship’s ready to sail. No sign of Kent - he didn’t take the room we held for him. I can wait--”
“No. We need you in New York as fast as possible.”
“But Kent-“
“Has made other arrangements. Working passage on a whaler.”
“Better him than me.” As Grayson paused, the announcement of the ship’s impending departure came across the line. The thrum of passengers was clear. A public line in the first class longue, the Director surmised. “You’re sure of him?”
“Conner Kent is no longer part of our equations. Concentrate on the task ahead of you. It will not be easy establishing a branch office in the States.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. A nine day voyage with some of the prettiest women in Europe and me with so much reading to do on business matters and broking that I’ll be lucky if I have time to say so much as ‘how do you do’ to them.”
“Knowing you, you’ll make the time.”
“Yes, but that’s not the point, Bruce.”
The use of the familial term gave the Director a rare moment of pause. He had fixed on this plan months ago. Knew the consequences and regretted them. And yet-
It must be.
“Dick,” he said slowly. “Whatever happens, you know why we do this.”
“You really are going to miss me. It’s just nine days. I’ll wire when I reach New York.”
“Until then.”
The Director replaced the handle but did not immediately take his hand from it.
It was necessary.