Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [12]
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says in a voice that’s still strong. There’s a spark in his eyes too, which defies whatever it is that is seeping the strength from him.
“Thank you, Mr. Reese. But please call me Jack.”
“Only if you call me Gordon.”
He releases my hand and gestures to the display of bottles.
“May I offer you a drink?”
I decline and Gordon drops ice into a tumbler and fills it with bourbon.
“I’m not supposed to drink anymore, but I have a great deal of good liquor in my home and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
He gives me a wink and heads for the couch closest to the fireplace. I follow, a slight smile on my lips. This is a man I could like, despite the gaps in our economic and social positions. As he settles into the cushions, I take a seat on the couch opposite him. In the muted light of the room, the flickering flames of the hearth highlight the deep creases in his face.
“Thank you for coming down here on such short notice, Jack. I know that your break from the university is a scant three weeks and the project I have for you may take some time.” He speaks as if my acceptance of the job is a foregone conclusion.
“I didn’t have much choice about coming, Gordon. It’s not as if billionaires are breaking down my door to offer me jobs. If nothing else, I have to find out what you have in mind.”
“Curiosity is the paramount character trait for those in your line of work,” Gordon says with a chuckle.
“I won’t argue that.”
Gordon is silent for a moment, his eyes on the fire. Suddenly he turns to me, casting a thoughtful eye my way, and says, “You haven’t done any fieldwork in almost five years. Why?”
It’s a germane question, but not one for which I have a ready answer. There is the obvious one, of course—that Will’s death drove me from my profession, along with the weeks of trying to get first the Egyptian government and then the American consular office to investigate it as something more than an accident, only to run into one wall after another. Even Jim counseled me to let the matter drop, despite the fact that there was an obvious blast pattern, and that the strange visit by the SCA minutes before the accident could not have been coincidence. As I consider these things, Gordon’s eyes hold mine, convincing me that he already knows everything I’m thinking.
“I was tired,” is my only response.
Gordon remains silent through the time it takes him to drain half of the glass. The fact that I’ve been less than forthcoming— even when we are both aware of the other’s unobstructed view of the playing field—bothers me, but I remind myself that I do not know this man, and I owe him nothing—not even honesty. I don’t have to validate public record.
“Are you well rested now?” he asks without a hint of judgment.
Despite what I have already told him, I’ve had a few offers during my time at the university. Some of them were unique enough ventures to tempt me into returning to a world outside of the staid confines of academia. In the end, I turned each of them down. I was not ready and, in truth, I’m not certain I am now. Perhaps Gordon Reese is catching me at the right time; maybe there’s something in the wintry air that is making me antsy; or maybe I’m at some watershed moment in a long and undefined grieving process. Whatever it is, I’m here.
“That really depends on what you have to tell me, Gordon.”
The expression on the billionaire’s face indicates he appreciates my answer. He lapses into a thoughtful silence, his gaze back on the dancing flames, and I wait for him to speak. He brought me here for a reason, and he will tell me in his time.
“I trust you know your Old Testament,” Gordon says.
I nod. “As well as most people do, I’d guess.”
“A good deal more than most, I’d venture,” he says, and a laugh