CHAPTER 7 ENCOUNTER
SEATTLE, June 5, 2040
(Author’s Note: In chapter 6, Kathryn is reading the first chapters of Leroux’s book, “The Phantom of the Opera,” which Collin gave her so she could familiarize herself with what is known about Erik. She has just read the passages about the young woman at the opera house, Christine, who allowed Erik to mentor her voice. Christine pulled Erik’s mask off to see his face, and Leroux described both Christine’s and Erik’s traumatic reactions in graphic detail.)
Kathryn:
An armed guard waves us up a ramp, and my Vette enters a space just large enough for a single vehicle. When the doors close behind us, a security scanning light hums as it moves beneath the car. I feel the jerk as the car elevator pushes us upward. When the door lifts, we park in a private garage. The meeting was at four and it’s well past that, but court ran late today. I almost expect an oversized white rabbit to appear and remind me of the time.
Riding up the elevator, I glance uneasily at Ryan. His intense hazel eyes say he’s all business, but I feel more disturbed than comforted knowing he’s got a gun under his suit jacket. The doors open onto a circular foyer crowned by a crystal chandelier. Murals cover the walls and gilded chairs bookend antique consoles with marble tops. Several bodyguards flank the elevator.
A native-American man, solidly built with hair cropped short, military style, steps forward and says, “I’m Tom Cheveyo, head of security.” He leads us past gallery walls adorned with French Impressionist paintings, then into a spacious office where two men are seated at a conference table. One has his back to me. I wonder if he’s the man Leroux so graphically wrote about, but Tom draws my attention in the other direction. At first all I notice is an enormous desk with legs supported by carved lion’s claws. Then, beyond the desk, I catch my first sight of him.
He faces away, gazing out panoramic windows at steely skies that seem like an extension of his dark silhouette. Although he stands motionless, there’s an aura of intense, restrained power about him. Noting that his suit is modern, I suppress a nervous laugh. What did I expect? A nineteenth-century evening suit with waistcoat, cravat, and cloak? Actually, I did. But he is wearing black leather gloves, and one hand rests on a gentleman’s cane.
He turns his head slightly. I can’t see his face, just glimpse a corner of his mask—black, just like Leroux described. Tom introduces me to Mr. Mercier’s back. Without turning around, the shadowy presence nods his head in acknowledgement.
“An honor to meet you,” I volunteer, hoping to put him at ease.
“An honor is it?” His caustic laugh sends chills through me. “A lawyer with wit. How rare.” Tom and Ryan exchange knowing looks. Well, I’ve handled difficult clients before.
Turning to the band of bodyguards, I ask them to leave so I can begin my conference with Mr. Mercier. Tom hesitates, surprised by my request. “We’d prefer to stay,” he says firmly.
“The conversation between an attorney and client is confidential and privileged, so I’d appreciate having privacy,” I reply pointedly.
“We would keep everything that’s said here confidential,” he insists.
No, that won’t do. I have to gain Mr. Mercier’s trust and even getting him to open up to me, his attorney, will be a challenge according to Dr. Adler. Having others present makes that much more difficult.
“Perhaps you need a different attorney, then.” I start walking toward the door. From the corner of my eye, I notice Mr. Mercier’s head turn sideways as he listens intently.
I have taken several steps when Tom raises his hand, indicating for me to stop. I wait as he thinks over the situation, gazing all the time at the back of the man who stands silently at the window.
“All right,” Tom finally says, then points to a console on the conference table. “Just press the button on the right when you’re done.” Or is he implying in case of an emergency?
Looking worried, Ryan glances back at the dark figure as he leaves with the others. Have I already made a mistake sending them out? I walk over to the desk and put my briefcase down. “Mr. Mercier, would you like to sit at the table and talk?”
“No,” he responds gruffly. “Is it Mademoiselle or Madame Copeland?”
“Uh, neither, actually. It’s Ms. Copeland.”
“What does that title signify?”
“It’s neutral and doesn’t distinguish.”
“How uninformative,” he growls.
He remains planted, staring out the window, so I can’t see his face or the legendary mask. One thing is certain—Leroux was wrong about his age. He’s much younger, with ebony hair. And he’s not skeletal—in fact, he’s quite tall and imposing. But his body language communicates barely contained hostility. Putting him on the spot by asking questions might make him more intractable. I decide to take a different approach. “So, do you have any questions you would like to ask me?” I begin.
“Your actions yesterday bespoke your true feelings. So why are you here?”
Well, that’s one I didn’t expect. “What do you mean?”
“We were to be introduced following your, shall we say, ‘meeting’ with the Wheatons. Your hasty departure made that problematic.”
“So you’re the one I saw in the hallway behind me?”
He freezes, but does not reply.
“I take that as a yes,” I say.
“You refused to accept this case,” he replies with a challenge in his voice, “yet today you are meeting with me. What changed your mind?”
“Based on a discussion with Dr. Adler, I agreed to this meeting.”
“So, they blackmailed you.” Abruptly he turns his head to the left. For a moment the black mask comes into view. I can’t see an eye. Just a dark hole in the leather. Leroux described his face as having “black holes that are his eyes.” And I don’t see a nose.
“You really believe the Wheatons would blackmail me?” I reply, hoping he didn’t detect the quaver in my voice.
“You rejected the king’s ransom that Wheaton offered you. So was it blackmail or a larger bribe that persuaded you to accept?”
“You don’t know me well enough to make such accusations,” I spit back, indignant.
“But I have dealt with men like Wheaton. Even if you cannot be blackmailed or bribed, you most certainly could be threatened.”
“You think Mr. Wheaton would threaten me?”
“Did he not assign a guard to watch you at all times?” He looks in the other direction. Briefly I glimpse his other side. The mask covers his forehead, but not his cheek. I had assumed it covered his entire face as Leroux described.
“So you’re implying they’ve assigned a bodyguard to control me?”
“Just as they do with me every minute since I arrived.” Bitterly he adds, “Guards control where I go and what I do.”
“They are probably meant to protect you. Our world is unsafe.”
“The world has never been safe for me. My entire life. The Wheaton cage may be lavish, but it is a cage nonetheless.”
“So you don’t trust them at all?”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know. But let me clarify that I haven’t been hired by the Wheatons. I told them I had to see the information they have and meet with you. Be assured that if I accept your case, it will be my choice and not coercion. And if I accept, also be assured I’ll make every effort to defend you to the best of my ability and uncover the truth.”
“The truth is, I do not belong in this place,” he snarls, “or this century.”
“Your anger for being placed in this situation is understandable, and it’s only right that you—not the Wheatons—have the final decision about your attorney.”
“Decision? That is certainly novel. I have not been asked my opinion at all. Not since I was brought here.” His voice rumbles through the room, filling it like a lion’s roar. It’s the Voice.
My hands go clammy. “Oh.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t know.” This is a major problem. The situation has been imposed on him, and he resents it. Maybe he needs to vent. “Must have been difficult to travel into the future as you have. I can hardly imagine experiencing that.”
“No, you cannot possibly,” he hisses.
Good god, how many disorienting shocks has he dealt with adjusting to our world? “It must be a challenge to adjust to so many differences between our cultures. Maybe you were chosen as the first person brought from the past because of your intellect and abilities.”
“Perhaps.” His voice contains a tinge of civility.
This might be an opening. I decide to test the waters. “They learned about you from a diary written by Madame Giry. Is she a friend?”
“And what difference would that make to you or my defense?” The cutting edge is back. He shifts his weight and leans more heavily on the cane. Strained silence falls between us.
Unless we can talk face to face, this is going to be like using pliers to extract information. Not easy for him or me. Maybe if I can get him to sit at the conference table, that’ll put him more at ease and we can talk. I move slowly toward him, hoping he’ll acknowledge me. He’s so engrossed in his thoughts, he doesn’t seem to notice. When I’m a couple feet away, I reach out to touch his shoulder and get his attention, but his hand flies to his mask and he spins around.
Suddenly, I’m overshadowed by a dark presence looming like a black bird of prey. Burning eyes bore into mine, his teeth bared in menace. I gasp. In an instant, I understand Christine.