Reality by Jeff Havens

Author:Jeff Havens
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chicago Review Press
Published: 2006-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN]

“It’s good to see you again. Please, come in.”

Trent followed Petersen inside. He’d parked in the rear lot, which could only be accessed by a small alleyway. Except for the driver of the street sweeper, nobody would know he was there. Unless, of course, he really had been followed.

“I was afraid I’d frightened you off after our first meeting,” Petersen said. “I hope you’ve been well in the meantime.”

“Fine, thanks.” He was looking at the offices. They had walls, real walls that went all the way up to the ceiling. They’d been painted, too, each office a different color. Burnished gold, vermilion, cinnamon, Georgia peach, Tuscan red—warm colors. Inviting colors, the kind that could make you actually want to go to work.

“Looks nice.”

“We try. This way.”

Petersen led Trent around a corner, past a row of plants—which weren’t made of plastic—and a stone cherub that served as a drinking fountain.

“I hope the water comes out of his mouth.”

“Everybody asks that. It does. You can try it if you like.”

“That’s all right.” Tad would have loved it, though. Or been disappointed, he couldn’t tell.

At the end of the hall, Petersen opened a door and gestured Trent inside. It was a waiting room, small but tastefully furnished, with appropriately boring magazines for people to read while they sat and waited. Nova didn’t have a waiting room. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time a client had come to their office.

“Do people actually come here?”

“All the time. Mr. Dyson prefers doing things face to face. It’s a bit antiquated, perhaps, but Mr. Dyson feels it’s best for everyone. His office is on the other side.” He paused, and added: “I hope I was right in approaching you.” Then he closed the door slowly behind him, leaving Trent alone in Dyson’s waiting room.

For an instant, Trent had an urge to run. He could have done it; Petersen wouldn’t have stopped him. But he decided to stay. He’d already come this far, and he was more than a little curious about his boss’s biggest competitor—and the generator of an idea so uncannily similar to his own. So, with a deep breath, Trent opened the far door and stepped inside.

The room he entered was the same size as P.T’s, but there the resemblance ceased. The walls were paneled mahogany, dark and rich in the dim lamplight. An overstuffed leather couch and two matching chairs were set around a low glass table, a scene that would have fit just as well in an art-house coffeeshop as a presidential suite. Framed pictures hung on the wall, including a large reproduction of Starry Night, which somehow didn’t seem out of place. Along the back wall, near windows that did not face a brick wall, sat Dyson’s desk, large and wooden and more inviting than P.T.’s, if only because you didn’t run the risk of impaling yourself on its edges. And standing next to that desk was Stewart Dyson himself.

“Trent,” he said warmly, as though they’d known each other a long time.

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