Assumptions (11 page)

“I swear, one of your guys was already here.
Anyway, the package is gone. There's nothing for you to pick
up."

The messenger’s ankles cast a shadow across
the floor of the apartment as he walked past the garden windows and
out of the narrow courtyard. Stillman walked back to his table,
sat, raised his cup to his lips, and took a long sip.

He finished his drink and tossed the empty
cup into the trash. He dug his wallet out of his pocket and removed
the cashier's check, smoothing it flat in his hands. He laid it in
the middle of the table. He opened a drawer near the sink and
collected an envelope, a pen, and a stamp. Without sitting, he
addressed the envelope, inserted the check, sealed it, and
carefully placed the stamp in the upper right. He put on his coat
and tucked the envelope into the breast pocket.

The mug in the dish drainer was still damp.
He dried it on his pants and took it to his bedroom. His suitcase
lay open on the undressed bed, Dotty's bible on top of his
possessions, packed in neat rectangles. Stillman tucked the mug
into a corner and zipped the suitcase closed. He wheeled it out the
front door and locked his apartment, dropping the keys in the small
metal box on the wall near the apartment manager's door.

He stopped at the front of the building and
deposited the envelope into the outgoing slot in the big silver
mailbox he’d passed everyday for nearly five years. His truck was
parked half a block down. The suitcase wheels clunked over the
cracks in the sidewalk, steady and predictable, and Timothy
Stillman allowed simplicity to fill him up.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ELEVENSES

Jordyn got off the el and walked a block and
a half to Will’s building. Her breath made cloudy poufs in the air,
somehow out of place in a clear blue morning. She buzzed Will's
apartment. He answered before she could take her finger off the
button.

“Be right down!" Will popped through the
door. "I'm ready."

"How long were you waiting there?"

"Huh?" Will played dumb.

Jordyn sniffed at his collar. "You’re wearing
cologne." She looked him over. He wore dark blue jeans and black
leather oxfords, recently polished.

“What?” he said.

Jordyn smiled and shook her head. "Come with
me. It's not too far." She and Will walked down the street.

Will followed her to the middle of the block
on the east side of Clark Street. Every storefront was a slightly
different shade of brick, weathered brown or red or beige. Except
one.

Jordyn stopped in front of a narrow,
wood-paneled façade, painted glossy black. The tall windows were
divided into twelve, the gold painted muntins twinkled in the
bright morning. Gold leaf lettering on the wood sign swinging above
their heads read, “Molly’s Irish Pub and Inn.” The words encircled
a three-pointed knot. The glass in the top half of front door was
gilded “Céad Míle Fáilte."

Jordyn looked at Will. “Can we go in
there?”

“Why not? This is the place, right?" He did
not wait for Jordyn to respond. “Come on. I’m freezing out here.”
He lugged the sturdy door open.

They entered the dark space. The smell of
fresh baked bread and fat sausages welcomed them. Animated
conversations filled the room with the melody of Irish brogue,
clanking plates and busy forks providing the rhythm.

Deirdre waved them down. "There you are!” she
said and took them both by their elbows. “Let me show you
Molly's.”

The pitted wood floors gave slightly with a
tactile creak under foot. Deirdre led them past a stage and a long
bar with glasses hanging overhead, past dinged up wood doors set
like tabletops on whiskey barrels and old steamer trunks and deep
booths upholstered to the ceiling in black leather tufted with
brass tacks, past the closed glass doors of a library lined with
bookshelves crammed full of bottles, past a room with one large
dining table and blocky, tall-backed chairs with ochre-colored
velvet seat cushions and illuminated by a rusty iron chandelier
that looked as if it were about to bring the plaster ceiling
crashing down. She led them past the frenzied kitchen, and finally,
at what must have been the very back of the building, she led them
into an empty room with dartboards on one wall and an old bellows
on another.

Deirdre stood in the middle of the room
smiling and a little out of breath. "So, this is Molly's. We should
find a table up front." She turned on her heel and left the empty
room.

Jordyn shrugged. Will smiled and they ran to
catch up, following her back to where they had started.

Deirdre settled into a leather booth across
from the bar, her back to the door. “Here, this'll do.” Will slid
in next to her. Jordyn sat opposite, across the wide table.

A young woman stood at the bar. Long
wheat-colored hair, held off her round face with a thin purple
headband, reached the middle of her back. Jordyn watched it swish
back and forth as she talked with a scruffy, middle-aged man behind
the bar as he absently dried beer glasses with a flour sack. The
man winked at Jordyn. She turned her attention back to Deirdre and
Will, scootching down in her seat.

Deirdre looked at the man at the bar and
shook her head. “I want you to meet some friends," she said and
hopped out of the booth.

She walked directly to the bar. A few moments
later, she returned with the young woman who was neatly dressed in
black pants, a crisp pink shirt, and a spotless white apron. The
gentle curves of her face and kind expression lent her an
extraordinary tranquility.

The man stashed the towel behind the bar and
followed, moving with unconcerned confidence. The shallow cleft in
his chin was still visible through two days’ stubble. The lobe of
his left ear sagged under the weight of a chunky earring. He
grinned and his dusty blue eyes were surrounded by deep laugh
lines.

“Jordyn and Will, this is Devin and Tierney.
Jordyn and Will are my new friends from Eastview.”

Devin waved, her hand small and plump.
Tierney crossed his arms and leaned back. He eyed Deirdre. "You'd
be wise not to get involved with this one." He let out a loud
guffaw.

Deirdre smirked. “Tierney harasses me every
time I come here.”

"Devin tries to keep me in line, but it’s a
tough job,” said Tierney.

“You know it,” retorted Devin. Her accent was
American and, although she spoke with deliberate clarity, each
sound practiced and precise, her words were soft and round.

"Devin keeps us all in order around here.
We’d be completely lost without her,” said Tierney

Devin giggled. “You’re just trying to get on
my good side."

“Nice to meet you,” said Jordyn. Will
nodded.

Devin grinned at Jordyn. “What beautiful
hair. I always wanted strawberry." Devin's eyes sparkled, dark blue
flecked with white.

“Thanks,” said Jordyn.

Devin's watch beeped. "It's time. Wait here."
She disappeared down the dark, wood-paneled hallway at the back of
the room.

“Tierney, has Oisin been in?” asked
Deirdre.

“I saw him earlier. Devin sent him out for
something. Not sure what," said Tierney.

Devin returned with a tarnished silver tray
of mismatched cups and saucers, a nested stack of heavy spoons, and
a plate of small pastries. The tray clattered as she plopped it
onto the table. "I'll be right back." She vanished again, returning
quickly with a steaming pot of tea, a small pitcher of milk, and a
glass bowl filled to the rim with sugar. She set the teapot at the
center of the table and arranged the milk and sugar, one to either
side of the teapot. She poured each cup half full. “That’s better.”
She stepped back to admire her work.

“Thanks, Devin," said Deirdre.

Devin pulled a bar towel from her apron and
wiped a couple drips of tea. "Okay. Back to work for me.
Tierney?"

"Ah, back to work for us." They returned to
the bar, Tierney to his polishing and Devin to her chatting.

The front door opened. A young man in a black
hoodie stepped though the morning light, stopping just inside. He
scanned the room. His ice-blue eyes caught Jordyn. She looked up at
him and her mouth curved into an unconscious smile. She watched him
cross to the bar where he stopped to talk with Devin.

Will interrupted. "Quig?"

"Huh?" said Jordyn.

"I was telling Deirdre about the file and
about what Pritchard told us."

"The file?" Jordyn shook herself back into
the conversation at the table. "Uh, yeah, the file. I'm still not
convinced stuff like that actually exists. Seems like a serious
leap to me."

Deirdre fixed herself another cup of tea.
"You should never underestimate the power of faith. Sometimes that
is all you need."

Will leaned back in his seat and watched
Deirdre pour in the milk which roiled up below the surface like the
clouds before a summer storm.

Devin nodded toward their table and the young
man looked over again. He pushed his hood back onto his shoulders.
He had a boyish face, his skin creamy pale against his short
cropped auburn hair. He nodded at Devin then walked toward the
table.

Deirdre looked toward the bar. “Oisin!” She
jumped out of the booth and wrapped her arms around him. He was
about their age and not much taller than Deirdre. She dragged him
back to the table. “Will and Jordyn, this is my dear friend,
Oisin.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the
other. “Hello.” The palest of freckles dotted his face.

“Hi,” said Will.

Deirdre offered Oisin a seat. “Join us?”

"No, sorry. I have to go out again. Busy
today,” his brogue rich and warm.

Deirdre frowned. “Oh, too bad. Another time,
then?”

“Another time. Nice to meet you.” Oisin's
eyes lingered on Jordyn, still smiling involuntarily. She turned to
watch him leave through the back of the room.

Will raised an eyebrow at Deirdre. He reached
across the table to touch Jordyn’s arm.

Jordyn turned around. "Huh? Sorry. Did you
say something?"

"Deirdre was just telling me there's going to
be a ceili the week before Thanksgiving."

"A what?" Jordyn tried to catch up.

Deirdre laughed. "A ceili. Think of it as a
big Irish dance party. You and Will should come.” She picked up her
cup. “Drink your tea. It'll be getting cold by now."

After tea, Will walked Jordyn to the el
station. “You’re still smiling,” he said.

“What? I am not. Am I?”

“You are.”

“Well, that was nicer than I thought. The
tea, I mean.”

“It was.”

Will opened the door to the station beneath
the tracks. Not far away, the train clattered.

“Better get up there. They don’t run very
often on weekends,” said Will.

“See you at school, Emerson.” Jordyn pushed
through the turnstile and sprinted up the stairs.

Will headed for home. When he reached the
door, the mail carrier was just leaving. “Couple of letters for
your dad today, Will,” she said.

“Thanks. You’re early.”

“Little bit. See you Monday. You have a nice
day now," she called out, already halfway to the next address.

Will took the letters upstairs. He laid them
on the credenza with the rest of the unopened mail. The apartment
was quiet. He went to his room, flicked the light switch, and
picked up Pritchard's book. He flipped to the back and removed the
file. Thumbing the corner, he walked it to the kitchen and placed
it on top of the stack.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE SAPPHIRE BOOK

Wednesday morning. Will walked into geography
just before the last bell. At the front of the room, Logan and Alex
compared notes. Jilly tapped the chewed end of a pen on her desk.
Will took his seat unnoticed. Jordyn had her head buried in a book.
He leaned toward her. "He didn't show again?"

"Nope." She looked up and nodded toward
Logan. "Half of them didn't even get here early."

The rest of the day passed uneventfully.
After school, Will met the mail carrier at the door. She handed him
one letter wrapped in an ad from the local carpet cleaner. He
dumped the ad in the recycle bin below the mailboxes and carried
the letter upstairs. The pile of mail on the credenza was beginning
to overflow the edges. Will took a handful to the kitchen table. He
dropped his backpack near the back door and sat down to sort the
pieces by urgency. The ad for satellite television and a renewal
notice for
Biblical Archeologist
went to the bottom, the
letter from National Risk to the top. Utility bills were opened and
stacked by due date, leaving for last a well-sealed manila
envelope. Will picked at the edge of the packing tape, bits of it
broke off under his nails. He took the package to the study. His
father kept scissors in the side table.

Will sat in one of the armchairs. He opened
the scissors wide and, with one blade, slit the tape at the top of
the envelope. He turned the package open side down and shook. A
small leather-bound book landed face down in his hand. He tossed
the envelope onto the top of the already full trash can. The book,
heavy for its size, fit comfortably in his palm. Dust had settled
in the stitching and folds of the binding. Will tightened his
fingers around the edges. Something cold and sharp pressed against
his skin. He turned it over.

The book was held closed by a metal clasp
decorated with scratchy letters and a single rough-cut stone of
deepest blue. Will ran his fingertips over the hard edges of the
dime-sized sapphire. He pinched the clasp open, pulling it gently
so as not to break the old pins inside. It slipped apart without
resistance. Will opened the book. Its pages fell open to a note
tucked a few pages inside the front cover. The handwriting was
tidy.
Dr. Emerson, I think this is what you are looking for.
Forgive me for not returning it sooner. TS