A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. They're somebody else's. I'm just playing. Enjoy!
Author's note: Happy holidays, everybody! Much joy, peace, and good health to all this holiday season and for the New Year (and for life in general). I'm going to do my best to churn out the next couple of chapters before the end of the week, so keep checking! The action quotient is about to be upped considerably (I promise)!
Chapter 30.
Eschewing the sidewalks, Ian Nottingham took the rooftop route to his destination. This required quite a bit more exertion than walking the streets would have, but for some reason he could not quite put his finger on, he decided to err on the side of caution. Unfortunately, by the time he reached the building he wanted, he was feeling very hot and flushed. He rested for a few minutes in the cold air, and felt a little better if not any cooler. Easily disabling the rooftop door's alarms prior to picking the lock, he made his way down to the third floor.
The door to the apartment he sought was ajar, and Ian silently slipped inside, the loud music blaring from within masking any sound he might have made. The main room of the dwelling was empty, so he made his way down the hallway that led to the bedrooms, one of which had been converted into a home office.
Gabriel Bowman sat at his computer, writing an e-mail and humming along to the song playing on the stereo in the other room. He was not dressed as outlandishly as the day before, opting instead for a tie-dyed T- shirt and a pair of burgundy corduroy jeans. Ian stood in the doorway for almost two minutes before the younger man noticed him.
"Holy shit!" Gabriel yelped, starting so violently he splashed the coffee he had just picked up all over his desk and hand. He swore colorfully in Bulgarian at this and then leveled an annoyed glare at Ian. "Ever hear of knocking, Nottingham?"
"This way is much more amusing," Ian replied, deadpan, which earned him a sharp look. "Besides, your front door was open. I simply could not resist. You might want to rethink that habit. It is highly unsafe."
"Yeah, well, I'm expecting a client to stop by any minute," the young entrepreneur said, snatching some tissues from a nearby box and blotting up the spilled liquid. "He lives in this building, so . . ." Gabriel frowned as he studied his unexpected guest's appearance more closely. "You look like shit, Nottingham," he observed bluntly.
"I need your help, Mr. Bowman," Ian told him, ignoring his comment.
"What, do you need me to persuade your prick of a boss to give you that antidote before you spontaneously combust?"
"No. Perhaps I should clarify: it is Sara and her nephew that need your help," Ian said.
"Does this have anything to do with that Witchblade vision she had in which the kid got killed?" Gabriel asked, tossing the sodden napkins in the garbage and briefly examining the reddened skin on the back of his hand.
"It has everything to do with that vision," Ian responded. "If, as I suspect will come to pass, Sara is unable to escort young Joseph to the rehab facility, I will need you to go get him and take him there. Then, I want you to park and go inside. Wait until the boy's visit is finished, exchange clothes with him, and then pretend to be him when you leave the rehab facility. You and he are approximately the same size and weight, and if you pull up his coat's hood, your face will be hidden. Joaquin Medina will be none the wiser."
"Hmmm, sounds like a good plan," Gabriel said when Ian was through speaking. "Except for the part where I get shot by the crazed brother of a drug lord."
"You will be wearing a bulletproof vest. Your chest may be bruised, but you should be fine," Ian told him.
"Easy for you to say, Mr. World-Famous Assassin. How can you be certain this Joaquin guy will only aim for the chest? And what if he uses armor-piercing bullets or something like that?"
"I, too, saw the vision, Mr. Bowman. The gun he uses is a .22- caliber handgun. It may even be the same weapon that his brother used to murder Paco Gutierrez."
"See? That guy caught two in the head, right? I don't mean to sound all wimpy, but if Joaquin decides to aim higher, I could be killed. Or, worse, if he aims lower, I could be singing falsetto for the rest of my life. Plus, Sara is not gonna be happy when she finds out you recruited me, one of her dearest friends, to act as Joey's decoy."
"I understand your fears, Mr. Bowman, and you have a valid point about the Wielder being upset when she finds out that I placed you in harm's way -- "
"So you do admit I could end up getting killed!" Gabriel interrupted him.
"Based on what the vision showed me, I can honestly say the chances are very slim you will be fatally injured, but, yes, there is a distinct element of danger to this whole enterprise. Perhaps it will reassure you to know that I am exceedingly familiar with the damage a small-caliber handgun, such as the one Joaquin Medina used in the vision, can inflict, as well as how a person reacts when struck by a .22-caliber bullet. From what I saw in the vision, young Joseph was struck four times in the chest, but nowhere else. Two rounds missed him entirely. You would simply have to turn slightly toward the shooter as Joseph did when Joaquin called out to him from the car, presenting the widest possible target, and act like you are mortally wounded as you fall to the ground."
"Yeah, but it might not be an act. I want to help the kid out, but shouldn't we leave this to the experts, like, say, the cops? What if I called in an anonymous tip and alerted the police to the danger the kid is in. Then maybe they could set up a decoy operation and nab Joaquin while they're at it. Seems like he gets away with murder in your plan," Gabriel pointed out.
"I had thought of that, but then I came to the realization that Joaquin and his brother may not have made the pickup of the drug shipment by the time this goes down. And if the police apprehend Joaquin, they may lose all chance of catching Angel with that shipment. When Joaquin fails to check in with him after his 'errand,' Angel will realize that he has been apprehended. I have no doubt at all that he and the shipment will then disappear. But Angel will want to cover his tracks first, which means the undercover detective's life will be forfeit because he was a witness to Paco's murder. I think it is best if we leave the police out of this," Ian said.
"Do you really think Joaquin will risk getting caught just to kill Joey?" the younger man asked.
"I think he will do anything to please his brother, including risking capture, and it would certainly please Angel were young Joseph killed. Angel intends to send a message with this murder. Also, I read Joaquin's file. He is fiercely loyal to his brother, almost fanatically so, and he would never betray him. So, should the police capture him, they would not get anything out of him. I believe he would rather die first."
"I see your point. Well, I guess there's nothing for it. I'll do it," Gabriel said. "But just make sure I'm cremated instead of buried. I don't wanna be buried."
"I will endeavor to remember that for the distant future, Mr. Bowman. If you will allow me a few moments' access to your computer, I will bring up a recent photo of young Joseph so that you may readily identify him at his school."
"Be my guest," Gabriel said, getting up. He watched as Nottingham swiftly accessed his own database, bringing up what looked like a school picture of Joseph Siri, Jr., and printing out a color copy. "Maybe I should ask you what your final wishes are, too, seeing as that fever is gonna kill you, and fairly soon from the looks of it. Why didn't your boss give you the antidote, if you don't mind me asking?" the younger man inquired.
But just then, Ian's sharp hearing picked up the sound of footsteps headed in their direction. "It seems your client has arrived, Mr. Bowman," he said. He rose and moved to stand in the darkest corner of the room.
"Gabriel? Are you back here?" a man's voice called.
"Yeah, Henry, I'm in my office. Come on back," Gabriel yelled, sitting back down at his computer.
A man who looked to be somewhere in his early 50s appeared in the doorway a moment later, carrying a small box. "Must you really have the volume turned up that high?" Henry muttered, peering at the youthful entrepreneur over his reading glasses.
"Whatcha got for me today, Henry?" Gabriel asked, ignoring the complaint.
"Some very nice -- Oh! I didn't realize you already had company!" the older man interrupted himself upon noticing Ian Nottingham standing in the corner.
"Ian Nottingham, Henry Traherne, antiquities dealer," Gabriel made the introductions.
"Pleased to meet you," Henry Traherne said, crossing the room and extending his right hand.
Ian shook hands with him, but when he would have withdrawn his gloved hand, the older man suddenly tightened his grip and then grasped Ian's right wrist with his other hand, his blue eyes widening.
"Where did you get -- Umphf!" Henry grunted as he abruptly found himself shoved up against the wall, his right arm twisted up behind his back at an uncomfortable angle and a cold, metallic object pressed against his temple.
"Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa! It's okay, Nottingham! Please don't shoot Henry," Gabriel said, jumping up. "His specialty is antique jewelry. He's kinda enthusiastic about it. I take it you noticed his ring, hunh, Henry?"
"Yes, I did," Henry said. "It's quite a nice replica. I suppose I should have asked first if I could examine it."
"That would have been wise," Ian murmured, releasing him and holstering his Glock, but keeping his hand on the grip just in case.
"It is just that, from what I could see, it looks exactly like the real thing," Henry said, turning around as if nothing had happened and staring at Ian's coat, which now hid his right hand. "Or at least just like the few artistic renderings of Excalibur that I've seen. No known photographs exist. Where did you get it?"
Ian shrugged. "I do not know. It has been in my possession for as long as I can remember. It may have been handed down through my family, but since I was orphaned at a very young age, I do not know for certain. I wore it on a chain around my neck until I grew big enough to wear it on my finger," he told him.
"Hmmm. Do you mind if I examine it?"
"I will not remove it."
"Very well."
Ian extended his right hand. Carefully clasping his hands behind his back, Henry peered at the heavy silver ring. "Come closer to the light, please?"
Nottingham acquiesced, moving closer to the desk lamp. Henry bent over and examined the exquisite workmanship, first with his naked eye and then with a jeweler's loop.
The designer had been a gifted artisan and silversmith. The shank of the ring was the incredibly detailed body of a dragon, very similar in appearance to those found on the swords and armor of samurai warriors during the late Edo period of Japan. Its scaly body sinuously curved around the wearer's finger, doubling back on itself so that it was difficult to tell where it began or ended. Two tiny red stones, possibly rubies, were set in to the beast's eye sockets, and one of its clawed feet clutched a small, unidentifiable blue stone, perhaps two or three carats in size.
"Remarkable," Henry Traherne breathed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was the real thing. It is very, very old. Possibly silver, but it could be platinum, given the absence of any tarnish. The workmanship is fantastic and the condition is superb. Simply stunning."
"What makes you so sure it's a replica, Henry?" Gabriel asked curiously.
"Well, legend has it that the real Excalibur was thrown into an active volcano by its last owner."
"Why did he do that?"
"Unfortunately, he was wearing it at the time, so no one could ask him that question."
"When was this?"
"Allegedly before the birth of Christ. There is precious little information out there about it, and none more recent than the Crusades."
"I've only come across bits and pieces about Excalibur in my own research forays," Gabriel admitted. "Wasn't it supposed to possess some sort of mystical power or something?"
"Only if its wearer were a True Wielder, or Protector, or some such title, whatever that means. It is closely linked with another legendary object of power, the Digitablum Magae, or Witch's Glove."
"Yeah, I noticed that, too," Gabriel murmured, catching the sharp look Nottingham threw Henry Traherne. "I've never been able to find a description of the powers Excalibur supposedly possessed, have you?"
"Just once. While studying at Oxford as a much younger man, I came across a rather obscure reference to Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d' Arthur, which said that Malory came up with the idea of the legendary sword in the stone, Excalibur, from a fragment of a document he found in the catacombs that told of the powers of the real Excalibur. That document, which has since been lost or, more likely, disintegrated, allegedly suggested that the ring could be transformed into a sword by its Wielder, much like the Witch's Glove is said to be able to do."
"Very interesting. Isn't it, Nottingham?" Gabriel said.
"Fascinating," Ian agreed. He glanced at the clock on the computer. "However, I must be going. Thank you for agreeing to help out, Mr. Bowman. I will contact you later this afternoon. I apologize for my rough treatment of you, Mr. Traherne," he told the owlish older man.
"Oh, that's quite all right. No harm done. As Gabriel said, I can be a little too enthusiastic about my work at times. If you are ever interested in selling that ring, Mr. Nottingham, please, give me a call. I'd make you a very generous offer." He handed Ian a business card.
"I will never sell it, but perhaps we could talk again when I have more time?" Ian suggested.
"It would be my pleasure, although I'm afraid I've told you virtually all I know about the real Excalibur. However, I am constantly doing research. One never knows what I might come across."
"Good day then. Gabriel, might I avail myself of your facilities before I leave?" he asked Talismaniac's youthful owner.
"Sure. Oh, and don't forget to bring the, uh, vest thingy when you stop by later," Gabriel said absently, already turning his attention to the box that Henry Traherne had brought with him. "Now, let's see what you've got, Henry."
Ian crossed the hallway to the bathroom, half-listening to their conversation as he took off his ring and set it on the sink before stripping off his gloves. He smiled as he thought about the fanciful tale that the older man had just told. One of the nuns at the orphanage he'd been placed in had once told him that he'd arrived there with the ring on a leather cord around his neck. She said that even as a tiny child, he would get terribly upset if the ring were taken from him for more than a few moments. Eventually, the cord had disintegrated, and the nuns had replaced it with a simple silver chain that Ian still had. The ring had not fit him until the year he had turned 21. One last growth spurt had filled out his shoulders and chest and added another inch to his height. Ian remembered awakening one morning to find that the chain had become caught on something during the night and snapped. Several moments of panic had ensued when a frantic search of the bedclothes failed to turn up the ring until he discovered that it had somehow ended up on his right index finger, where it fit perfectly. This was where Ian always wore it during the rare occasions that he went gloveless.
He flushed the toilet and washed and dried his hands. After putting on his gloves and ring, Ian turned to go, but then hesitated. Opening the medicine cabinet, he took out the digital thermometer. Without bothering to disinfect it, he activated the device and put it in his mouth. The fast double beeps that sounded 90 seconds later seemed deafeningly loud in the small bathroom, and he quickly silenced it. The readout said 102.2. Sighing, Ian put the thermometer back in Mr. Bowman medicine cabinet and left Talismaniac.
More to come. Thank you for all of the wonderful and inspiring feedback. Please, sir, may I have some more?
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. They're somebody else's. I'm just playing. Enjoy!
Author's note: Happy holidays, everybody! Much joy, peace, and good health to all this holiday season and for the New Year (and for life in general). I'm going to do my best to churn out the next couple of chapters before the end of the week, so keep checking! The action quotient is about to be upped considerably (I promise)!
Chapter 30.
Eschewing the sidewalks, Ian Nottingham took the rooftop route to his destination. This required quite a bit more exertion than walking the streets would have, but for some reason he could not quite put his finger on, he decided to err on the side of caution. Unfortunately, by the time he reached the building he wanted, he was feeling very hot and flushed. He rested for a few minutes in the cold air, and felt a little better if not any cooler. Easily disabling the rooftop door's alarms prior to picking the lock, he made his way down to the third floor.
The door to the apartment he sought was ajar, and Ian silently slipped inside, the loud music blaring from within masking any sound he might have made. The main room of the dwelling was empty, so he made his way down the hallway that led to the bedrooms, one of which had been converted into a home office.
Gabriel Bowman sat at his computer, writing an e-mail and humming along to the song playing on the stereo in the other room. He was not dressed as outlandishly as the day before, opting instead for a tie-dyed T- shirt and a pair of burgundy corduroy jeans. Ian stood in the doorway for almost two minutes before the younger man noticed him.
"Holy shit!" Gabriel yelped, starting so violently he splashed the coffee he had just picked up all over his desk and hand. He swore colorfully in Bulgarian at this and then leveled an annoyed glare at Ian. "Ever hear of knocking, Nottingham?"
"This way is much more amusing," Ian replied, deadpan, which earned him a sharp look. "Besides, your front door was open. I simply could not resist. You might want to rethink that habit. It is highly unsafe."
"Yeah, well, I'm expecting a client to stop by any minute," the young entrepreneur said, snatching some tissues from a nearby box and blotting up the spilled liquid. "He lives in this building, so . . ." Gabriel frowned as he studied his unexpected guest's appearance more closely. "You look like shit, Nottingham," he observed bluntly.
"I need your help, Mr. Bowman," Ian told him, ignoring his comment.
"What, do you need me to persuade your prick of a boss to give you that antidote before you spontaneously combust?"
"No. Perhaps I should clarify: it is Sara and her nephew that need your help," Ian said.
"Does this have anything to do with that Witchblade vision she had in which the kid got killed?" Gabriel asked, tossing the sodden napkins in the garbage and briefly examining the reddened skin on the back of his hand.
"It has everything to do with that vision," Ian responded. "If, as I suspect will come to pass, Sara is unable to escort young Joseph to the rehab facility, I will need you to go get him and take him there. Then, I want you to park and go inside. Wait until the boy's visit is finished, exchange clothes with him, and then pretend to be him when you leave the rehab facility. You and he are approximately the same size and weight, and if you pull up his coat's hood, your face will be hidden. Joaquin Medina will be none the wiser."
"Hmmm, sounds like a good plan," Gabriel said when Ian was through speaking. "Except for the part where I get shot by the crazed brother of a drug lord."
"You will be wearing a bulletproof vest. Your chest may be bruised, but you should be fine," Ian told him.
"Easy for you to say, Mr. World-Famous Assassin. How can you be certain this Joaquin guy will only aim for the chest? And what if he uses armor-piercing bullets or something like that?"
"I, too, saw the vision, Mr. Bowman. The gun he uses is a .22- caliber handgun. It may even be the same weapon that his brother used to murder Paco Gutierrez."
"See? That guy caught two in the head, right? I don't mean to sound all wimpy, but if Joaquin decides to aim higher, I could be killed. Or, worse, if he aims lower, I could be singing falsetto for the rest of my life. Plus, Sara is not gonna be happy when she finds out you recruited me, one of her dearest friends, to act as Joey's decoy."
"I understand your fears, Mr. Bowman, and you have a valid point about the Wielder being upset when she finds out that I placed you in harm's way -- "
"So you do admit I could end up getting killed!" Gabriel interrupted him.
"Based on what the vision showed me, I can honestly say the chances are very slim you will be fatally injured, but, yes, there is a distinct element of danger to this whole enterprise. Perhaps it will reassure you to know that I am exceedingly familiar with the damage a small-caliber handgun, such as the one Joaquin Medina used in the vision, can inflict, as well as how a person reacts when struck by a .22-caliber bullet. From what I saw in the vision, young Joseph was struck four times in the chest, but nowhere else. Two rounds missed him entirely. You would simply have to turn slightly toward the shooter as Joseph did when Joaquin called out to him from the car, presenting the widest possible target, and act like you are mortally wounded as you fall to the ground."
"Yeah, but it might not be an act. I want to help the kid out, but shouldn't we leave this to the experts, like, say, the cops? What if I called in an anonymous tip and alerted the police to the danger the kid is in. Then maybe they could set up a decoy operation and nab Joaquin while they're at it. Seems like he gets away with murder in your plan," Gabriel pointed out.
"I had thought of that, but then I came to the realization that Joaquin and his brother may not have made the pickup of the drug shipment by the time this goes down. And if the police apprehend Joaquin, they may lose all chance of catching Angel with that shipment. When Joaquin fails to check in with him after his 'errand,' Angel will realize that he has been apprehended. I have no doubt at all that he and the shipment will then disappear. But Angel will want to cover his tracks first, which means the undercover detective's life will be forfeit because he was a witness to Paco's murder. I think it is best if we leave the police out of this," Ian said.
"Do you really think Joaquin will risk getting caught just to kill Joey?" the younger man asked.
"I think he will do anything to please his brother, including risking capture, and it would certainly please Angel were young Joseph killed. Angel intends to send a message with this murder. Also, I read Joaquin's file. He is fiercely loyal to his brother, almost fanatically so, and he would never betray him. So, should the police capture him, they would not get anything out of him. I believe he would rather die first."
"I see your point. Well, I guess there's nothing for it. I'll do it," Gabriel said. "But just make sure I'm cremated instead of buried. I don't wanna be buried."
"I will endeavor to remember that for the distant future, Mr. Bowman. If you will allow me a few moments' access to your computer, I will bring up a recent photo of young Joseph so that you may readily identify him at his school."
"Be my guest," Gabriel said, getting up. He watched as Nottingham swiftly accessed his own database, bringing up what looked like a school picture of Joseph Siri, Jr., and printing out a color copy. "Maybe I should ask you what your final wishes are, too, seeing as that fever is gonna kill you, and fairly soon from the looks of it. Why didn't your boss give you the antidote, if you don't mind me asking?" the younger man inquired.
But just then, Ian's sharp hearing picked up the sound of footsteps headed in their direction. "It seems your client has arrived, Mr. Bowman," he said. He rose and moved to stand in the darkest corner of the room.
"Gabriel? Are you back here?" a man's voice called.
"Yeah, Henry, I'm in my office. Come on back," Gabriel yelled, sitting back down at his computer.
A man who looked to be somewhere in his early 50s appeared in the doorway a moment later, carrying a small box. "Must you really have the volume turned up that high?" Henry muttered, peering at the youthful entrepreneur over his reading glasses.
"Whatcha got for me today, Henry?" Gabriel asked, ignoring the complaint.
"Some very nice -- Oh! I didn't realize you already had company!" the older man interrupted himself upon noticing Ian Nottingham standing in the corner.
"Ian Nottingham, Henry Traherne, antiquities dealer," Gabriel made the introductions.
"Pleased to meet you," Henry Traherne said, crossing the room and extending his right hand.
Ian shook hands with him, but when he would have withdrawn his gloved hand, the older man suddenly tightened his grip and then grasped Ian's right wrist with his other hand, his blue eyes widening.
"Where did you get -- Umphf!" Henry grunted as he abruptly found himself shoved up against the wall, his right arm twisted up behind his back at an uncomfortable angle and a cold, metallic object pressed against his temple.
"Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa! It's okay, Nottingham! Please don't shoot Henry," Gabriel said, jumping up. "His specialty is antique jewelry. He's kinda enthusiastic about it. I take it you noticed his ring, hunh, Henry?"
"Yes, I did," Henry said. "It's quite a nice replica. I suppose I should have asked first if I could examine it."
"That would have been wise," Ian murmured, releasing him and holstering his Glock, but keeping his hand on the grip just in case.
"It is just that, from what I could see, it looks exactly like the real thing," Henry said, turning around as if nothing had happened and staring at Ian's coat, which now hid his right hand. "Or at least just like the few artistic renderings of Excalibur that I've seen. No known photographs exist. Where did you get it?"
Ian shrugged. "I do not know. It has been in my possession for as long as I can remember. It may have been handed down through my family, but since I was orphaned at a very young age, I do not know for certain. I wore it on a chain around my neck until I grew big enough to wear it on my finger," he told him.
"Hmmm. Do you mind if I examine it?"
"I will not remove it."
"Very well."
Ian extended his right hand. Carefully clasping his hands behind his back, Henry peered at the heavy silver ring. "Come closer to the light, please?"
Nottingham acquiesced, moving closer to the desk lamp. Henry bent over and examined the exquisite workmanship, first with his naked eye and then with a jeweler's loop.
The designer had been a gifted artisan and silversmith. The shank of the ring was the incredibly detailed body of a dragon, very similar in appearance to those found on the swords and armor of samurai warriors during the late Edo period of Japan. Its scaly body sinuously curved around the wearer's finger, doubling back on itself so that it was difficult to tell where it began or ended. Two tiny red stones, possibly rubies, were set in to the beast's eye sockets, and one of its clawed feet clutched a small, unidentifiable blue stone, perhaps two or three carats in size.
"Remarkable," Henry Traherne breathed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was the real thing. It is very, very old. Possibly silver, but it could be platinum, given the absence of any tarnish. The workmanship is fantastic and the condition is superb. Simply stunning."
"What makes you so sure it's a replica, Henry?" Gabriel asked curiously.
"Well, legend has it that the real Excalibur was thrown into an active volcano by its last owner."
"Why did he do that?"
"Unfortunately, he was wearing it at the time, so no one could ask him that question."
"When was this?"
"Allegedly before the birth of Christ. There is precious little information out there about it, and none more recent than the Crusades."
"I've only come across bits and pieces about Excalibur in my own research forays," Gabriel admitted. "Wasn't it supposed to possess some sort of mystical power or something?"
"Only if its wearer were a True Wielder, or Protector, or some such title, whatever that means. It is closely linked with another legendary object of power, the Digitablum Magae, or Witch's Glove."
"Yeah, I noticed that, too," Gabriel murmured, catching the sharp look Nottingham threw Henry Traherne. "I've never been able to find a description of the powers Excalibur supposedly possessed, have you?"
"Just once. While studying at Oxford as a much younger man, I came across a rather obscure reference to Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d' Arthur, which said that Malory came up with the idea of the legendary sword in the stone, Excalibur, from a fragment of a document he found in the catacombs that told of the powers of the real Excalibur. That document, which has since been lost or, more likely, disintegrated, allegedly suggested that the ring could be transformed into a sword by its Wielder, much like the Witch's Glove is said to be able to do."
"Very interesting. Isn't it, Nottingham?" Gabriel said.
"Fascinating," Ian agreed. He glanced at the clock on the computer. "However, I must be going. Thank you for agreeing to help out, Mr. Bowman. I will contact you later this afternoon. I apologize for my rough treatment of you, Mr. Traherne," he told the owlish older man.
"Oh, that's quite all right. No harm done. As Gabriel said, I can be a little too enthusiastic about my work at times. If you are ever interested in selling that ring, Mr. Nottingham, please, give me a call. I'd make you a very generous offer." He handed Ian a business card.
"I will never sell it, but perhaps we could talk again when I have more time?" Ian suggested.
"It would be my pleasure, although I'm afraid I've told you virtually all I know about the real Excalibur. However, I am constantly doing research. One never knows what I might come across."
"Good day then. Gabriel, might I avail myself of your facilities before I leave?" he asked Talismaniac's youthful owner.
"Sure. Oh, and don't forget to bring the, uh, vest thingy when you stop by later," Gabriel said absently, already turning his attention to the box that Henry Traherne had brought with him. "Now, let's see what you've got, Henry."
Ian crossed the hallway to the bathroom, half-listening to their conversation as he took off his ring and set it on the sink before stripping off his gloves. He smiled as he thought about the fanciful tale that the older man had just told. One of the nuns at the orphanage he'd been placed in had once told him that he'd arrived there with the ring on a leather cord around his neck. She said that even as a tiny child, he would get terribly upset if the ring were taken from him for more than a few moments. Eventually, the cord had disintegrated, and the nuns had replaced it with a simple silver chain that Ian still had. The ring had not fit him until the year he had turned 21. One last growth spurt had filled out his shoulders and chest and added another inch to his height. Ian remembered awakening one morning to find that the chain had become caught on something during the night and snapped. Several moments of panic had ensued when a frantic search of the bedclothes failed to turn up the ring until he discovered that it had somehow ended up on his right index finger, where it fit perfectly. This was where Ian always wore it during the rare occasions that he went gloveless.
He flushed the toilet and washed and dried his hands. After putting on his gloves and ring, Ian turned to go, but then hesitated. Opening the medicine cabinet, he took out the digital thermometer. Without bothering to disinfect it, he activated the device and put it in his mouth. The fast double beeps that sounded 90 seconds later seemed deafeningly loud in the small bathroom, and he quickly silenced it. The readout said 102.2. Sighing, Ian put the thermometer back in Mr. Bowman medicine cabinet and left Talismaniac.
More to come. Thank you for all of the wonderful and inspiring feedback. Please, sir, may I have some more?