Grounded (Out of the Box Book 4) (19 page)

“I’m here to see Cordell Weldon,” I said, opening pleasantly. “Please.” See? Best behavior.

The head mook looked me over. “Just a moment,” he said and whispered into a microphone I hadn’t even seen at first. “Mr. Weldon will see you now,” the guy said after a moment’s pause, and opened the door. “Third floor.”

“Of course,” I said and wandered in to find myself in a stairwell. This didn’t look like a traditional office building. Had I accidentally wandered into the back entrance? I guess I hadn’t paid attention.

I saved some time by flying up the stairs and found a young lady holding a door open for me at the top. I floated through and shot her a tight smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re, uh … welcome,” she said, her eyes wide as I made my way through. She scrambled to the next door, and while she did, I looked around. We were in a hallway with dim, beige walls. She scurried forth and opened the next door for me. I waited, trying not to get out of place and make a faux pas by pissing off my presumptive host until he gave me a solid reason to.

I floated through into the next room and found a tastefully appointed office looking out at the Atlanta skyline. I came in through what was plainly a side door, as two wood paneled double doors waited to my left as I came in. There was a giant desk, and behind it was a tall man with zero hair on his head. He stood as I entered, but he didn’t smile. He did not look like he had the humor or ingratiating demeanor of a politician trying to curry favors. His eyes were narrowed, the look of a man constantly assessing both friend and opponent, and when they settled on me, I stared right back. The ebony skin on his bald head gleamed from the light of the window, and he came out from behind the desk to greet me.

“Ms. Nealon,” he said, his deep voice calling me forward. It wasn’t inviting, per se, but it was commanding enough that I obliged. He extended a hand, which I took, and then the flash from my side jarred me. I hadn’t even noticed that I'd been followed by the woman who showed me into the office. She had a camera in hand and was gesturing at me to move closer to Mr. Weldon, which I did only instinctively. I started to say something, but a plastic smile that only moved his lips a few centimeters had sprung up on his face. “Pictures first,” he said.

His assistant took a half dozen snaps of us and then retreated out the big double doors without another word, without offering me a water, nothing. I could have used a water. It was a hot day. I was thirsty. Still, this wasn’t quite rudeness of the level to warrant me beating Cordell Weldon’s brains in, I supposed.

He gestured for me to take a seat across from him and then sat straight upright in his chair, leaning back maybe enough that his body was at a fifteen degree angle. I suspected that for him, this was lounging. “I’m not surprised you’ve come to meet with me,” he said.

“Really?” I asked. “Why?” I figured I’d shut up and let him explain, since I hadn’t known just fifteen minutes ago that I was going to be here.

He pulled his hands apart in a gesture that seemed to me to be either “Isn’t it obvious?” or “Let’s be honest,” or maybe, “I am about to offer something to the rain god.” He settled it for me shortly. “When someone has a public image as badly mangled as yours is, oftentimes they look for ways to do some damage control through outreach, by gaining a favorable endorsement. In truth, I’m surprised you haven’t sought a blessing from someone in the black community sooner.”

I just stared at him, wondering if I’d heard that right. “Wait … you think I’m here to … what? Kiss the ring? Why?”

“Your reputation isn’t exactly glowing at the moment,” he said, meeting me with eyes that had some serious thought going on behind them. “I’ve been hesitant to leap on the bandwagon and make things worse since I’ve had … other concerns … but let’s face it, you’re ripe for replacement.”

“Excuse me?” I asked. I seriously blinked about a million times. “Replacement how?”

“Your record is terrible,” he said.

“My … fighting record? The internet videos?”

“Those are no picnic either,” he said. “But I’m talking your diversity record.”

“My …” I just stared, willing him to finish what he’d started.

“When you had your team together to fight Sovereign,” he said, “it was like looking at a country club luncheon. It was whiter than a Nickelback audience.”

“What the hell are you talking ab—?” I halted mid-sentence. I had completely forgotten that Dr. Zollers had been left out of all the press coverage afterward because he’d carefully manipulated the minds of the reporters and photographers into shooting around him. At the time I’d found it a little objectionable and told him so. Looking back on it now, I wished I’d had him do me the same courtesy. “Oh. Right.”

“Not a single African-American on your team,” Weldon said. “Not one in a visible position in your agency.”

“Well, our press flack is—”

“Now she is,” he said, “when you’re on the bottom of the barrel in terms of exposure. I’m talking about then, when you had some pull, some influence.”

“I don’t think you have the full story,” I said. “I actually had two black men on my team at the time, but neither one of them wanted to be exposed to the limelight. And I doubt they were thinking we’d run into this particular sort of … difficulty when they chose to remain anonymous.” Plus, one of them was now running for president of the United States and seemed like he might have a decent chance of winning, which would probably not be the case if everyone in the world knew he was a metahuman.

“That’s awfully convenient,” he said.

“Not for me,” I said, “at least not at this moment, since you’ve just accused me of racism.” This had gotten awfully uncomfortable, awfully fast. I wanted to clobber him now more than ever, though.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Weldon said, templing his fingers in front of him. “I’m just trying to make you aware of something that’s clearly problematic—and in your blind spot. Something that could be used to drive your nearly destroyed approval numbers further into the negatives.”

“Seems like a legitimate complaint,” I said, a little sarcastic. I had to admit, I was feeling it. I’d been attacked personally quite a bit lately, but this one was making me madder than most of the others.

“There are no ‘illegitimate’ complaints,” Weldon said with a healthy sense of satisfaction, a man with the world as his oyster.

“Really?” I asked, sitting up straight. “Your actions are far too guided by the movement of Mars in Scorpio.”

His expression darkened. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“But totes legit, according to you,” I said. “What do you want from me?”

“Diversity, of course,” he said. “Visible people of color working in your agency.”

“Great,” I said, “I’m all for it. Send as many metahuman minorities as you can my way, because we’re hiring right now.”

“I’m talking about in office roles, staffing positions—”

“Then you want to talk to the head of the agency,” I said. “Because I’m just in charge of the portion that’s responsible for law enforcement, which means people with guns and people with powers. That’s who I have the power to hire.”

His eyes narrowed at me. “Are you trying to be purposefully difficult during these negotiations?”

I felt my jaw drop a little. “‘Negotiations’? Okay. Let’s say I hired a sufficient number of, uh … minorities to satisfy your requirement. What else?”

“We should partner on some initiatives,” Weldon said and stood up, adjusting his suit as he did so. The guy was tall and thin, but he looked like he had some power. “Things to provide opportunities for you get your face out there doing good works. Charitable events, things like that. Chances to repair any damage that might have been done to your name by … intemperate actions and poor hiring choices. Naturally, you or your agency will have to front the cost for these events, but pretty soon you’ll find some more sympathetic press stories to help abate the current crop of … how shall we put it delicately?”

“Perpetual flagellation?” I asked. “Repetitive flaying?”

“That’s not very delicate.”

“Feels accurate, though,” I said. “How much will this good press cost me?”

He smiled, but it was a thin, menacing line. “I can promise you it will be an amount commensurate with your agency’s budget, and it will go to good causes that you can certainly promote your involvement in.”

I sucked in a big old breath of air and then let it out again. “Wow. I had no idea this was why I was coming here. So interesting.”

He frowned, three big creases showing up in his brow as he stood there. “Why did you think you were coming here?”

“Because Flora Romero was killed by a lightning-wielding metahuman, and she worked in a homeless shelter that one of your ‘good causes’ funds,” I said. “I was just going to poke around and ask you some questions. I didn’t exactly expect … this.”

He didn’t take his gaze off me, and it was a power look. I got the feeling that Cordell Weldon had stared a few people down in his time. “How would you describe … ‘this’?”

“How should I put it
delicately
?” I asked. “Oh, yeah—a shakedown.”

“That is false,” he said, “and not at all delicate. I’m apprising you of a problem you’re about to face, and ways you can correct it—”

“By giving you money and exposure,” I said. “But I’m glad you brought up how you’re doing me a favor by letting me know, because that’s actually what I came here to do for you.”

His eyes narrowed again, and I felt like he’d spent half the meeting looking at me like a mongoose looks at a snake. “Excuse me?”

“Well, here’s something tragic you might not have heard,” I said, “they started digging bodies out of Ms. Romero’s lawn last night, and two of the skeletons matched with former residents of your shelter.” I stood because I was so ready for this meeting to be over. “I’m sure you have nothing to do with it, but I thought I might mention it since it could be … problematic.”

I could feel the steam coming off him when he answered. “Are you to here to accuse me of something?”

“Gosh, no,” I said, holding my hand up to my chest and feigning utter surprise. “Like I said, I wanted to warn you. I like how you jumped straight to that, though. It tells me a lot about you, even more than the shakedown—oh, I’m sorry—the ‘warning about my blind spot.’”

He seethed quietly for a beat, nostrils flaring. “You should be careful what sort of accusations you make right now, Ms. Nealon. You’re not in a very good position to be believed.”

“I haven’t made any accusations yet,” I said. “I just stopped by for a chat and got … so much more than anticipated.”

“I think you should leave,” he said and gestured toward the door I’d entered through.

“I’m not allowed to go out through the front?” I asked, feigning hurt this time. “But we took pictures together.”

“Yes,” he said, “somehow I don’t think those are going to see the light of day, seeing as you’re probably about to vanish from public life. After all, it doesn’t matter what you do—it matters what you’re
seen
doing.”

I raised both eyebrows on that one. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m predicting your future,” he said and stepped out from behind the desk. “You’re disliked at the moment, inches away from losing your job. All it will take is one slip, one mistake that can be seized on by a gullible press who doesn’t like you, and you’ll be finished. Lord knows, the president’s close to just letting your past sins all fall out, watching the chips drop all over the table, pardon be damned. The only thing saving you right now is the election.
When
it happens, when your past catches up to you,” his eyes glowed with the certainty, “you won’t want to be around humanity. You’ll retreat somewhere quiet, maybe change your name, and become the hermit that your upbringing practically destined you to be.” His eyes glimmered, and he practically crowed. “Oh, yes, I know all about you, Ms. Nealon. And the difference between us is that accusations made by you will fall on deaf ears while anything I say about you, no matter how trivial, will be swiped up like gold dust as long as it advances the narrative.”

“The narrative, huh?” I asked. “I guess that makes you the storyteller.” I took a step closer to him and watched his eyes widen slightly. I don’t think he’d planned ahead before threatening me while alone in his office. “You know what another name for storyteller is?” I looked him dead in the eyes. “
Liar
.”

The doors behind me opened and I looked back to see the young lady who had shown me in, quivering like a leaf. I guess the bodyguards were still hoofing it up three flights of stairs. “I’ll see myself out,” I said and went for the side entrance, throwing it open with a delicacy that I certainly didn’t feel at the moment. A snake like Weldon would use any property damage I caused against me, though, and I knew that in some reptilian, calculating part of my brain.

I met the bodyguards on the stairwell, almost to the door. All it took was a look and they stood aside, flattening against the wall with expressions that told me everything about the look on my face. I guess I’ve still got it.

A search turned up nothing on a second Cavanagh facility in the Atlanta area. I did another for Cavanagh bioresearch, and then did five searches for variations on that theme. I was walking the whole time, not really paying full attention to what I was doing, playing Edward Cavanagh’s biography (which, incidentally, turned up first in the results when I searched for “Cavanagh bio”) in my head as I went.

Edward Cavanagh was a mechanical engineering guy all the way, from his roots to his education to his corporation. Cavanagh Tech was a mechanical concern. They built processors, automation systems, they had software divisions in Seattle and Silicon Valley. Factories all over the world that built hardware, and server farms all over the country that provided storage. They even had facilities in Texas, Florida and California that were fighting it out with SpaceX and others for who was going to build the next big rocket. Cavanagh had his fingers in tons of pies because his fortune allowed him to.