The Overseer (16 page)
Authors: Jonathan Rabb
“
Jesus Christ!
” A swell of emotion rose up in his throat, unsure whether to burst out in relief, anger, or anguish. “
What
the hell were you
doing
?” Again he tried to get up, but to no avail, his mind still swimming from the throbbing in his shoulder. “I mean what the
hell
were you
doing
?” Sarah reached under his arm and tried to help him to his feet. Almost involuntarily, he pulled back. The indignity of lying supine on the floor, helplessly pinned, could not be forgiven with the simple extension of a hand. He began to feel a sticky warmth seep through his fingers, the slight trickle of blood that ran from wrist to palm. Waiting for the pounding in his head to subside, he slowly pulled himself up from the floor, all the while making sure to stay well clear of her outstretched arms. “I’m
fine
.” He did little to mask his anger and frustration. “I just need to get something for my hand.”
“You’re not fine,” she answered, waiting until he had straightened himself up before moving to the small entryway foyer, flicking on the overhead light, and shutting the door. The sudden brightness only compounded Xander’s discomfort. “And I should take a look at that wrist.” The concern in her voice, though well intentioned, had little impact.
“Oh, so now you’re the doctor.”
“I know what I did. It’s not deep, but it’ll bleed.” She paused, once again trying to help. “I’m sorry. I thought you—”
“I was
what
? What could you possibly have—”
“You did
leap
out at me from the shadows. It’s not what I’m used to.” She started toward the bedroom.
It was his turn to pause. “Well,” the edge to his voice suddenly less brusque, “I thought you were …” He tried to find his anger. “I don’t know.” He made his way to the sofa and gently lowered himself. Speaking in the direction of the bedroom, he continued. “Why did you creep in the way you did? Why didn’t you turn on the lights?”
“Because I heard someone switch off a lamp,” she calmly explained, returning with a small, partially wet cloth. Sitting down next to him, she waited for him to extend his hand. “Why
did
you turn off that lamp?”
“I thought you … might have been two gentlemen I lost earlier this evening.” He gave her his hand. “I also wasn’t expecting you until
later
.” A short jolt of pain raced up his arm as she began to dab at the opening. “And why wasn’t there a
bellboy
with you?”
“I didn’t realize my nails were this effective.”
“They are.” Another short spasm forced a quick breath.
“Because my Italian isn’t very good, remember? I didn’t want to advertize the fact,
Signore Fabrizzi
.” She began to tie the cloth around his wrist, tightly so as to maintain the pressure. “What two men?”
“Just outside the city. We played bumper cars.” Sarah continued to tie the cloth. “Don’t worry, I lost them at the train station.”
“Good.” She got up and moved to her overnight bag, which stood at the end of the foyer. “I’m going to take a shower. And then you can fill me in.”
Xander stared at her in complete disbelief. “That’s
it
?”
“I think so.” She was busy searching for something.
“I just told you that I was nearly
run
down
, that I thought you were some kind of
assassin
, that I might be
bleeding
to death—”
“You’re not.”
“And you’re going to take a
shower
. That’s
it
?”
“Yes.” She stared at him for only a moment—more relieved perhaps than she was willing to admit—and pulled a cosmetic case and a few pieces of clothes from her bag before heading back toward the bedroom. “Keep applying pressure for about five minutes. I’ll be out in fifteen.”
Xander watched as she walked into the bedroom, the sound of running water a moment later strangely calming, given his irritation. Her apparent indifference left him alone to ponder the last few minutes, her uncanny ability to render a six-foot-two, 180-pound man utterly defenseless within a few seconds. And if he tried to fool himself that he had been anything but easy prey, the still jarring pain in his shoulder and the equally dense throbbing in his wrist were proof enough that he had succumbed almost effortlessly. Xander recalled the two men she had mentioned in the alley in New York. It was not difficult now to understand how easily she must have dispensed with them.
Waiting
four
minutes to remove his fingers from the cloth, he decided to splash some water on his face and change his shirt. He lifted it gingerly over his shoulder and let it drop to the floor as he made his way to the sink in the entry hall. The water felt remarkably refreshing, especially the handful he rubbed into the back of his neck. Even his shoulder seemed to appreciate the few rivulets of water that managed to slide its way.
Grabbing a small hand towel to his left, he patted his skin dry, inadvertently knocking over Sarah’s bag as he made his way toward the sofa. His clumsiness brought a short wave of self-recrimination before he dropped to a knee to restore the few items. Opening the flap to the main compartment, he noticed the five manilla folders wedged neatly into the side of the case. He knew he wouldn’t get another chance to take a look at them. A quick glance at the bedroom door, the water still at full throttle. With childlike eagerness, he slowly pulled the well-worn files from the bag.
Staring up at him were the two names he had been researching for the past two years, plus the file on Votapek. The Tieg folder was by far the thickest, but it held the least interest. After all, Sarah had used his own articles to gather the information. Though considerably less impressive, Sedgewick’s file seemed the best place to start. He laid it on the floor and lifted its cover.
Laurence Caryll Sedgewick, age fifty-seven, born into New York’s Park Avenue set. The bulk of the wealth from real estate and small interests in various publishing houses. Parents both died in air crash in 1961. Early years primarily under the eye of housekeepers and a series of tutors.
Five years ago, left his position as chairman of Warren Corp., a highly diversified venture capital concern. Reliable sources confirm it was not an amicable departure, despite press releases. Rumor is that he manipulated several trading venues, some of which made a number of very high-profile banking houses extremely vulnerable. The Warren board discovered the tampering in time to avert any major disasters, then quickly demanded his resignation.
Xander browsed through the rest of the page, facts that seemed either inconsequential or of public record. Schools—Deerfield, Princeton—two marriages ending in divorce, one daughter at a private academy somewhere in Switzerland. Nothing of great moment save for one piece of startling information: two years at Eton—involved in something called “independent study”—prior to his acceptance at Deerfield. The years, 1953 and 1954. Xander stared at the numbers.
Tieg
, he thought. Same time frame. Sarah had evidently noticed the connection, as well. A small red check stood alone in the margin. Flipping the page, Xander continued to read.
Since Warren, he’s created something of a cabal around himself, a mixture of some of the more powerful figures within the world of finance. Some prominent names are Simon Maxwell at Lehman, Diana Cox at Morgan, and Martin Chapmann with the Helpurn Group. What he intends to do with them is left to the reader’s imagination.
Xander wondered why there was no mention of the recent computer venture; it seemed the obvious answer to the question.
Here, the report seemed to jump inexplicably. Several paragraphs had quite obviously been removed, and a very sloppy job of reconstruction had been attempted. The flow of the report became jagged, cross-references back to the missing sections deleted so as to maintain the contrivance. Evidently, something had happened in the last few months that someone considered too delicate to include. The inconsistency was glaring.
It’s the computers
, he thought.
Why had they removed those sections? It’s the obvious link to Tieg
.
The cessation of running water caught Xander by surprise. He realized he had about three minutes to breeze through the Votapek file and make it back to the sofa before Sarah reappeared. Flipping quickly past the other files, he opened to the two sheets that served as the entire report on Votapek. Not much, but certainly more than Xander himself knew. He began to read.
Anton Votapek. Born 1934? Some question as to the authenticity of his early background—parents, date of birth, etc. Records available only after age seven. Unremarkable upbringing, followed by three years at the University of Chicago as an undergraduate, one year as master’s candidate in education. Ph.D. from Columbia in sociology, followed by several years abroad on various grants and fellowships. Returned to the United States in 1963 to take a position with the Cahill Group, an avant-garde educational forum intent on revamping primary-school education. Some question as to Votapek’s relationship with Arthur Cahill. Indications are that a struggle for control of the governing council left Votapek out in the cold. He resigned in 1965. Plans for the Learning Center (later known as the Tempsten Project) began in late 1966.
Xander glanced through the next few paragraphs, a few more details about the tragedy that had taken place in August of 1969, but little to make him stop. And yet, for some reason, he had the sense that, once again, there was a break in the narrative, a rushed job of cut and paste that left too much unsaid but that clearly hinted at more. No mention of any names associated with the Learning Center—children, faculty, sponsors. Nothing. In fact, the information, save for the very enigmatic first sentence about Votapek’s background, was readily available to any practiced researcher. No, the report was evidently leading somewhere, but it had been cut off, as if it was meant only to whet the reader’s appetite.
And no Tieg or Sedgewick. Nothing beyond 1969. No connections made, none implied.
Wanting to scan the last paragraphs for answers, he reluctantly slipped the pages back into the folder and delicately slid the files into the bag. Struggling to his feet—his shoulder more maneuverable than only minutes before—he draped the towel around his neck and, realizing he had no time to make it to the sofa, planted himself in front of the sink, turning on the faucet just as Sarah reemerged from the bedroom.
“I’m glad to see you’re up and about. Didn’t bleed to death while I was in the shower?” She had dressed in a pair of slacks, a turtleneck rounding out the outfit. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, its red tint far more pronounced when wet. It was the first time Xander had noticed the change.
“That’s different, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Your hair.”
“You’re not the only one who’s had unwelcome guests today.” Sarah left it at that as she made her way to the sofa and began to browse through one of the magazines on the coffee table. Without looking up, she added, “I hope you found them interesting.”
Xander flinched for only an instant, then continued to dry the back of his neck. As nonchalantly as he could, he strolled toward her. “Found what interesting?”
“The files. In my bag.” She looked up, no sign of accusation in her expression. “Did they fill in any holes?”
“Some.” He realized it was useless to play dumb. “How did you—”
“I left the flap closed.” Xander turned to the bag. Open. He really wasn’t any good at this, he realized. “How’s the arm?” she continued.
“Better. Thanks.” He was by the bedroom door, ready to offer an explanation. Instead, he smiled, turned into the room, and started to unzip his case. Digging through layers of clothing, he found it hard not to think about the woman who sat calmly in the other room and who had shown no emotion when pointing out his indiscretion. Was she the same person he had met over tea only a few days ago? No. That much was clear. The hair, the candor in her tone, the eyes. There was a self-assurance, certainly not lacking before, but which now seemed to define her entirely. It was, perhaps, best not to ask. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder.
Finding a reasonably unwrinkled shirt, he walked into the living room, at the same time trying to manage the sleeves without lifting his right arm.
“Want a hand with that?” she said, tossing the magazine onto the table.
“Thanks.” This time round, he would accept the charity.
He handed her the shirt, turned his back to her, and placed his hands at his sides. Slowly, she positioned the sleeves by his outstretched fingers and gently pulled the collar to his neck, draping the shirt on his shoulders. As she let the material fall, she momentarily caressed the injured shoulder, as if to apologize. For someone who had tried to maim him only minutes earlier, her sudden tenderness was pleasantly unexpected. “You have a nice back, Dr. Jaspers.”
