A few minutes passed and the phone on the receptionist’s desk rang. She picked up the receiver, listened momentarily, and hung up.
“Mr. Holiday?” She rose and beckoned. “This way, please.”
She led him into a corridor that opened up behind her work area. The corridor ran past a series of closed doors and branched left and right. That was all the further Ben could see.
“Follow the hallway back, left up the stairs to the door at its end. Mr. Meeks will be expecting you.”
She turned and walked back to her desk. Ben Holiday stood where he was for a moment, glancing first at the empty corridor, then at the retreating figure of the receptionist, then back again at the corridor.
So what are you waiting for? he asked himself admonishingly.
He went along the corridor to where it branched and turned left. The doors he passed were closed and bore no title designation or number. Fluorescent ceiling lights seemed pale against the pastel greens and blues of the corridor walls. Thick pile carpet absorbed the sound of his shoes as he walked. It was very still.
He hummed the theme from The Twilight Zone under his breath as he reached the staircase and began to climb.
The staircase ended at a heavy oak door with raised panels and the name “Meeks” stamped on a brass back plate screwed into the wood. He stopped before the door, knocked, turned the sculpted metal handle and stepped inside.
Meeks was standing directly in front of him.
He was very tall, well over six feet, old and bent, his face craggy, his hair white and grizzled. He wore a black leather glove on his left hand. His right hand and arm were missing completely, the empty sleeve of his corduroy jacket tucked into a lower pocket. Pale blue eyes that were hard and steady met Ben’s. Meeks looked as if he had fought and survived more than a few battles.
“Mr. Holiday?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. He sounded a good deal like his receptionist. Ben nodded. “I’m Meeks.” The head dipped slightly. He didn’t offer his hand and neither did Ben. “Please come in and have a chair.”
He turned and shuffled away, hunching as he went as if his legs no longer worked properly. Ben followed him wordlessly, glancing about as he went. The office was elegant, a richly appointed room furnished with a massive old desk of scrolled oak, matching chairs with stuffed leather seats and backs, and workbenches and endtables covered with charts and magazines and what appeared to be work files. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined three walls, filled with ancient tomes and artifacts of all kinds. A bank of windows comprised the fourth wall, but the curtains were drawn tight across them and there were only the ceiling lamps to give the room its oddly muted light. Deep pile carpet of earthen brown sprouted from the floor like dried saw grass. The room smelled faintly of furniture polish and old leather.
“Sit down, Mr. Holiday.” Meeks beckoned to a chair drawn up before the desk, then shuffled his way around to the overstaffed swivel chair on the other side, easing himself down into the worn leather gingerly. “Can’t move like I used to. Weather tightens the bones. Age and weather. How old are you, Mr. Holiday?”
Ben glanced up, midway through the process of seating himself. The sharp, old eyes were fixed on him. “Forty, come January,” he answered.
“A good age.” Meeks smiled faintly, but without humor. “A man’s still got his strength at forty. He knows most of what he’s going to learn, and he’s got the strength to put it to good use. Is that so with you, Mr. Holiday?”
Ben hesitated. “I guess so.”
“That’s what your eyes say. Eyes tell more about a man than anything he says. Eyes reflect a man’s soul. They reflect a man’s heart. Sometimes they even tell the truths a man wants to keep hidden.” He paused. “Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee, a cocktail, perhaps?”
“No, nothing, thank you.” Ben shifted in his chair impatiently.
“You don’t believe that it’s possible, do you?” Meeks’ brows furrowed deeply, his voice soft. “Landover. You don’t believe it exists.”