Just Another Day: Chapter 8
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DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
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12:41 p.m. on May 14, 2012, At the NuGenetix headquarters in Silicon Valley
"Oh man, what is happening . . . why is everyone staring at me?" Martin Sumners exclaims, as his eyes open, and he begins to focus, quickly assessing the situation.
The situation which finds him lying on the floor, with friends surrounding him, looking down at him, concern painted across their faces.
"And why am I lying on the floor?" he continues. "Did I pass out?"
He sees Jaime Shemar, who is on her knees on his left side. He sees Raj Rastogi standing at his feet. And he sees Chandra Jain, his best friend, kneeling on his right side, both of her hands covering his right hand.
"In a manner of speaking, Martin," Jain replies sadly. Quickly regrouping, and relieved that her friend has, indeed, regained consciousness as expected, she now becomes more decisive.
"Help me get him up, Jaime," she tells the quality-assurance specialist, Martin's second-in-command.
The two women help the very confused man to his feet, as he now starts taking in his surroundings. Tables are overturned, cabinets have fallen over, chairs are overturned, liquids have been spilled on the floor.
"What in the world happened here?" he asks, as he begins to orient himself.
"There was an earthquake," Raj replies.
"Did something hit me, how did I pass out?" Martin asks, now inspecting his head for injuries.
"Come with me," Chandra Jain tells her friend, turning back to Jaime Shemar and Raj Rastogi.
"I will explain everything to Martin, okay?" she tells her colleagues. "What I need you both to do is to take a look at the right side of that board over there. There was something Martin noticed. There was something he saw. Jaime, you know Martin. Probably as well as I do."
Jaime Shemar nods her head, understanding the change in their team leader. For the past twenty or so minutes, Chandra's only concern had been for her unconscious friend. As part of the renewed focus on finding an antidote, Chandra has taken the entire team into the big secret. Because of this revelation, both Jaime and Raj understood what was happening in front of them when Martin Sumners collapsed. And they understood how Chandra was not – in the least – concerned about formulas or whatever it was that Martin had discovered.
However, now that Martin has regained consciousness, the woman is all-business once again. She needs to explain to the unknowing QA leader, what exactly has happened to him, because as of right now, the last thing he knows is that he was in a meeting with Andrew Klein, testing an antidote.
Then, somehow, she needs to get that man back into the Eureka moment that occurred right before the earthquake hit.
Before Martin Sumners passed out.
Jaime Shemar and Raj Rastogi walk toward the board as the other two leave the room, now focused on the task at hand.
"What were you and Martin talking about when he had his moment?" Rastogi asks, his brow furrowed and his fingers rubbing his chin.
"Martin was taking us in a different direction," Jaime begins. "He reminded me that our focus had been looking to treat the memory loss directly. He and I had decided that this may have been the wrong approach."
"Makes sense," Raj agrees. "Instead of it being a direct symptom, what if it was a side effect of the original drug, not a direct symptom . . . but that doesn't change –"
"No, Raj," Jaime corrects him. "What if memory loss is actually a side effect of something else we are doing . . . or have been doing."
"You see this right here?" she questions, pointing at a particular portion of the formula written on the board. "You can tell what Chandra is trying to do, you can tell the result she is shooting for. But –"
"But that's an odd approach," Raj agrees.
"That's exactly what Martin and I were discussing when he had his little inspiration," Jaime confirms.
Both stand motionless for a few seconds – and then a few more – simply staring at the offending equation.
"I don't suppose Martin is going to be of much help," Raj comments, stifling a yawn. It's been a long day already, one that started at 5 am this morning. Essentially, they are a few minutes short of an eight-hour day and it is only just after noontime.
"Doubtful," Jaime replies. "Chandra has to bring him up to speed on the past few weeks, because all of that is gone for Martin, as of . . . oh about half an hour ago. Whatever brainstorm he had is gone. Whatever logic path he was walking down is gone."
"He had to tell you something, Jaime," Raj insists.
"You're right, he did," Jaime agrees. "And I will remind him of that. Except it won't be a reminder for him. It will be the first time he has heard it."
"Perhaps that will be useful," Rastogi argues. "The uncluttered mind. This may work in our favor."
"Perhaps," Jaime comments, still staring at the equation that is baffling the two colleagues.
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12:43 p.m. on May 14, 2012, At a residence on the small, upscale Marina suburb, just southeast of the Golden Gate Bridge
"Problem, sir?" Baskins asks, his tone ever officious.
Seymour Baskins has been in the employ of the Hopkins family for twenty-seven years now, following in the footsteps of his father, and his grandfather. The Hopkins family comes from old money in the city, and the current man on the family throne, Raymond Hopkins, is an angry man these days. A vindictive man.
"There might be," Raymond Hopkins answers his loyal family servant. "I have not heard from Hoffner. And by now, I should have heard something . . . anything."
"Mr. Hoffner has always come through for you, sir," Baskins replies. "Even when given the more . . . difficult jobs, he has not failed you."
"I know, Seymour," Hopkins responds. "You are right. But I am right, too. Here's the thing about Hoffner. He is consistent. Always. He tells me he will check in at 12 noon, he checks in at 12 noon. Always."
The San Francisco financier takes a sip of scotch from the small tumbler. Sure, it's early in the day for scotch. But it is his go-to crutch when concerned.
And right now, Raymond Hopkins is beyond concerned.
"He was supposed to check in," Hopkins continues. "That he hasn't only confirms that something has gone awry. Hoffner checks in, on time, no matter the circumstances."
"Perhaps he is . . . unable to do so, sir?" Baskins questions.
"And that, Seymour, is my concern," Hopkins agrees. "I knew by sending him out there, with the reputation those people have for how they deal with intruders . . ."
He grows quiet, allowing the sentence hang in the air, not wanting to think about what could possibly have gone wrong. It was a simple job, actually, given the jobs that Hoffner has done in the past. It was a simple firebug operation, one that man has done numerous times over the years.
Yes, it is true that Hoffner is slowing down. It's noticeable. But it cannot be helped. The lung cancer is at stage four now, eating away at one of Raymond Hopkins' most valuable resources.
"Well, we have time, sir," Baskins decides in his own mind. "We can only wait for your man to check in."
"Correct as usual, Seymour," Hopkins smiles. "And yes, we have all the time in the world these days."
"I meant no disrespect, sir," Baskins counters quickly, but is rebuffed by the master of the house.
"None taken, Seymour," Hopkins replies, placing a gentle patting hand on the butler's shoulder. "Time is all I have these days, since my fall from grace here in this city's more illustrious circles."
Raymond Hopkins was the Chairman and CEO of one of the largest banks down in the Finance district. For the last decade, he had been somewhat of a kingmaker in the prestigious circles of San Francisco money. That lofty position has been yanked from beneath his feet as a result of the one vice the man had.
Blondes. Young blondes.
He had found his niche, found his way of acting out his most secret fantasies away from the watching eyes of his wife of thirty years, Melissa Banks-Hopkins. Eddie Baker's little playhouse had been a regular stopping place for the powerful man. That is, until his tastes, his appetite grew too large.
Raymond Hopkins got greedy . . . and got burned as a result of it.
"I should never have left the safety of Edward's brilliant scheme," Hopkins thinks to himself for the hundredth time in the past few months. He wishes he never heard of the mysterious Donovan. He wishes he had never considered the role-playing adventure of a lifetime that Donovan promised – and delivered.
He wishes he could do it all over again.
When the television cameras captured Hopkins – with hands in the air – leaving the lair on Angel Island on that horrific evening – well, that pretty much took care of everything he had worked so hard to attain.
His prestigious position as Chairman and CEO.
His wife, and children.
His friends.
His reputation.
And roughly half of his fortune, as Melissa took her share and headed back north to Seattle where her family originated. And his grown children have abandoned their father, not wanting to associate with one who so damaged their mother emotionally, and young women physically.
Only Baskins has stayed true to the man.
Since Melissa's departure over seven weeks ago, Hopkins has mutated from despondent to angry to repentant to vindictive.
As it does so often in life, vindictive has won. Thus, the multi-faceted plan the financier has put in place to bring down the complex situated across the bay that he blames for his fall. The irony that last year, last fall, he and Melissa donated more than two million dollars to the effort Richard Castle was building is not lost on him.
For Melissa Banks-Hopkins, it was a beautiful and charitable thing to do, and very consistent with her family reputation. A reputation that was honest and well-earned.
For Raymond Hopkins, it was blood money to soothe a guilty conscience.
"Fortunately," Baskins finally remarks, interrupting the thoughts of his long-time employer.
"Fortunately, Mr. Hoffner is not the only vessel you have put into play, sir."
"True, Seymour," Hopkins agrees. "But Hoffner is also not well. And it is his wish, his hope to live out his remaining months on his own terms . . . and to go out on his own terms. I hope nothing has happened to alter that."
Instinctively, the former financier glances down at his phone once again.
"Come on, Hoffner," he mutters under his breath. "Check in."
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A/N: As we are learning with this story, Barry Adams is not the only person Richard Castle and his friends need to worry about. Raymond Hopkins is one of many very powerful people whose hands were caught in the cookie jar, so to speak. And as will become apparent soon enough, each and every one of them now have a legitimate axe to grind with Richard Castle, and his friends at the complex for their losses.