Chapter 4: Family Money
The cab ride from Downtown London to the city's priveleged outskirts is practically a journey back in time. Gone are the megacorp skyscrapers, the hustle and bustle of urban post-modern life, and the sense of thrill and danger around every corner. Parks and greenery begin to emerge. The occasional pleasant cottages sit on increasingly-larger patches of land.
And then, like a mountain ridge cresting up through the Earth's crust, the giant condominium buildings rise up along the horizon. Protected by massive iron gates patrolled by armed guards and usually situated next to golf courses, the wealthy of the Sixth World congregate in these buildings for mutual survival and convenience. In a world that they own and manipulate, they live like prisoners in these buildings ? pampered but isolated from the unwashed masses.
The Protector sat in silence in the back of the cab. He was too wired to sleep ? in only a few hours he had fought for his life against armed assassins and battled wills with his old boss in the belly of the beast. That was nothing compared with the conflict that lay ahead.
The sun was now rising from the east. It was going to be a dreary day, the sky overcast and moody.
The cab dropped Devon off in front of Belmont Estates, a mid-sized condominium complex. He was checked and double-checked by the guard at the gate (Devon hardly looked like he belonged there on the best of days, and this morning he still bore visible wounds from his recent battles) before finally being admitted to the building. He then made his way up to the twelfth floor via elevator, then down a short hallway.
Alistair Templeton greeted him at the door. A proper British butler, he showed no sign of emotion and barely any recognition of the prodigal grandson. The man had served Devon's family for nearly twenty years and Devon knew him well. Quietly, Alistair explained that Devon's grandmother was still asleep and he invited him to set up in the guest suite. Devon confirmed that his luggage was safely delivered from the spaceport late the previous evening (much, no doubt, to grandmother's annoyance).
Alistair invited Devon to freshen up (code for look less like you've just been in a knife fight) and left him alone in the guest room. The Protector crash-landed on the comfortable bed and stared out the window at the gun-metal-gray sky beyond.
The Goral guest suite was well-appointed yet artificial. The furniture was old-fashioned (or perhaps just old), the wallpaper seemed trapped in the past. Even the poster bed hearkened back to a simpler time, before orks and trolls and dragons.
Devon had mixed memories of this room. This was his room as a child, until he moved out at age sixteen and got his first apartment in the city. A few years ago he returned to the room for a visit with his wife, where they gleefully mocked their surroundings.
Now the house felt empty. Even with three other people in close proximity, Devon felt alone. The ache in his body was nothing compared to the pangs assaulting his soul.
After a (very) brief nap, The Protector awoke and set about cleaning himself up. He took a much-needed shower and put clean dressings on the wounds on his face and thigh. His shoulder still throbbed but the sling was unnecessary ? he'd be stiff for a few days but no permanent damage was done. He couldn't see his back but he knew that it was covered with bruises and welts, but they would heal. He just had to endure the pain.
Once dressed in a clean suit and satisfied with his grooming, he emerged from the guest room and headed for the inevitable.
* * *
Helen Goral awaited her grandson's arrival as if she were holding court. She was seated at the dining room table, a light breakfast of toast and pomegranate laid out in front of her. But she was not actively eating. She was waiting.
Upon entering the dining room, Devon bowed his head respectfully. In response, Helen's eyes showed only derision.
"Hello, grandmother," Devon bid calmly. "Thank you for having me."
"You have been in town for roughly fourteen hours," she declared. The rest of the sentence didn't even need to be spoken aloud.
"I had to attend some meetings last night. I told you in my letter that I wouldn't be here until the morning."
"Your letter." She glanced down, a disapproving smile crossing her aged lips. "Yes, I remember you saying that, but I didn't believe that a forty-one-year-old man would schedule a 'meeting' in the dead of night." Her eyes shot up again, piercing him in the jaw. "What kind of 'meeting' was this?" she demanded quickly. "Does it explain you looking like you were in a bar fight?"
"I wasn't in a bar fight, grandmother. And you know my line of work."
"Sit and have breakfast," she commanded. "We don't stand on ceremony here."
Devon fought off a smirk, taking a seat. Almost on cue, Alistair appeared with breakfast. An english muffin with butter and some kind of fruit-filled crepe. Devon smiled at the butler, appreciating the gesture.
"How was your flight?" Helen asked absently.
"Long but restful," Devon answered. That wasn't true, and Henry appeared at that moment just to punctuate the point.
"I hope you traveled first-class. I recently took a day trip into Scotland and when I saw the conditions in steerage I was appalled."
"Steerage?" Henry asked sarcastically. "I'm pretty sure they haven't called it that in a couple hundred years."
"In my day, people used to dress up for a flight," Helen continued. "Now they show up in their t-shirts and underwear with their livestock clutched in their grubby fingers like luggage. The whole plane smelled of trash and body odor. I barely made it off in one piece. I had to lean on your grandfather for support."
Devon had no response to the tirade. He began buttering his muffin.
"Did you inspect your luggage? Is it all there?"
Devon nodded. "Yes, thank you for taking delivery. I didn't want to have to worry about luggage at my meeting."
"It arrived past midnight. Woke the whole house up.
Devon knew that his grandmother stayed up late but he held his tongue. Henry, meanwhile, circled his mother, regarding her judgmentally.
"Poor Alistair had to cart it all in himself because the delivery boy refused to help and the maid was too weak. I don't know what I pay her for, she makes the beds around here like they're army cots. Then the delivery boy expected a tip and I told him that he'd better get off my stoop or I'd set the dogs on him." There were no dogs, but a threat like that from Helen Goral carried weight. "I have a mind to call up the delivery company and complain but I doubt they'd even care. Brutes and hooligans the lot of them ? I'm surprised they didn't steal your luggage or worse."
"What's the plan for today?" Devon asked, changing the subject abruptly.
"Do you think that's a wig?" Henry asked casually. Admittedly, Helen's hair was unusually full and poofy.
"I would like to get to the hospital no later than ten o'clock," Helen answered. "Any later than that and it gets too crowded and chaotic. The orderlies there are worthless, they don't do anything and they look at me like I'm speaking French. Just the other day I asked one of the nurses for a glass of water and she had the gall to tell me that it wasn't in her job description. I told her that if I didn't have a glass of ice water in my hand in five minutes, she wouldn't have a job to describe. And I got it, you can be sure of that."
"I'm sure that was a good use of her nursing degree," Henry sneered.
"How are grandfather's spirits?" Devon asked, again trying to change the subject from Helen's endless disappointment in meta-humanity.
Helen scowled. "How do you think his spirits are? Your grandfather is an intelligent, insightful man. He knows what is happening to him and is powerless to stop it."
"She's really on a roll today," Henry observed. "Spitfire and confidence."
Devon frowned, glancing down at his buttered muffin. "Aye, I suppose."
Helen's tone softened somewhat. "Sometimes I think he's only been holding on until your visit."
Devon's eyes darted back up again. Now it was Helen's turn to look down.
"He talks about you regularly. More than before."
"I wonder what she'd think if she knew he talks to you as well," Henry observed with a smirk.
"I? I didn't realize."
"He was always pleased to receive your letters," Helen continued, her eyes meeting her grandson's. "He took great interest in your business success. He was quite disappointed when you ? when things changed."
"I'm not meant to be a businessman," Devon mumbled. "I'm at my best when I'm working for myself."
"You handle responsibility well," Helen insisted hawkishly. "You should have tried harder."
"Hah!" Henry laughed. "She used to say that to me all the time."
"It wasn't right for me," Devon explained. "I can be just as successful working as a one-man operation. Fewer expenses, no one to split the profits. Bigger isn't always better. Grandfather should understand that."
Helen huffed, turning her attention back to her food. She didn't like being told that she didn't understand business.
"I suspect he does," Henry observed. "She's talking for him again."
"He made sure to point out to me that each of your letters ended the same way," Helen continued. "'Give my love to grandmother.'"
Devon nodded, still keeping his eyes on her. "The sentiment was heart-felt."
She glanced up, a cloud of emotion crossing her expression. "And if he should pass, I assume the letters will stop."
Devon tilted his head. "What?"
"In the last few years you've regularly written to your grandfather. At least twice a month. And you always 'send me your love.' But not one letter actually addressed to me. Not even a sentiment."
"The letters were written to you both."
"Really? Shall I go pull them out of the desk drawer?" Her voice came quicker now, the sarcasm flowing. "Because your voice in the letters is quite clear. You are speaking to him and asking him to say 'hi' to me like I'm the family dog."
Even Henry knew to keep his mouth shut at this point.
"It was not my intention to leave you out," Devon answered softly.
"So you'll understand," she continued, "my concern that if your grandfather should pass, the letters will stop. Should I expect never to hear from you again?"
"Of course not, grandmother?"
"Don't say 'of course' like I should know otherwise. Like you didn't reject my teachings for the eleven years you lived here. You barely spoke to us after you moved out, and we didn't hear from you for over a decade after you left London. Not until your grandfather was sick did you deign to come back here and make amends ? with him. And you kept your promise to stay in touch ? again, with him. But nothing changed between us. You continue to freeze me out like you did when you were a boy."
Devon pushed back his chair and stood up quickly. His face flushed and anger was beginning to well up inside of him. Worse, he had no answer to her charges.
"Are you done with your food?" she asked, suddenly changing tone. "You haven't even touched your crepe."
"I came here because I care about both of you. If you don't feel that I show a sufficient quantity of affection, perhaps you should take a look at how I was raised."
Helen narrowed her eyes coldly.
"I had always hoped that they would show you more warmth than they showed me," Henry observed dryly. "You left here at sixteen, I lasted until twenty. I wanted to believe it was just grief, but I suppose some things never change."
"I raised you to respect your parents," Helen practically hissed, rising to her feet. "I raised you for eleven years and I feel supremely disrespected at this moment."
"I mean no disrespect," Devon answered calmly. "But I will not be told that I do not love you just because you are not satisfied with how I express my love."
"You still haven't answered my question. If I lose my husband will I also lose my grandson?"
Devon threw up his hands. "I will not continue this discussion. It's morbid and disrespectful."
Helen eyed her grandson coldly.
"Careful, son," Henry warned.
"Please re-take your seat," Helen finally bid. "You're not done with your breakfast."
Devon paused but did as he was told. He no longer had an appetite.
"After we're done at the hospital," Helen continued as if the argument hadn't happened, "I'd like you to go with me to meet with our attorney, Mister Havisham."
"Attorney?"
Helen paused, collecting her thoughts for a moment, before continuing. "When you left London, your grandfather had our wills re-done. You were removed as a beneficiary."
Devon muttered. He certainly had no expectations of an inheritance but he didn't appreciate the gesture.
"Wow, that's rich," Henry said with a sarcastic smirk. "I bet they did the same thing with me when I moved to Seattle."
"However in light of recent events," Helen continued, "your grandfather and I agreed that we acted too hastily. We had new wills drawn up naming you as our sole significant beneficiary and we need you to sign some paperwork."
Devon took a sip of water. "I don't want your money."
"We know that. You've made that very clear numerous times. When you left our home, when you left London, even when you visited us with your young wife."
"Then why are we taking precious time from my short visit to meet with your attorney?"
"We have no other heirs, Devon," Helen answered matter-of-factly. "If not you, then who?"
"Donate it to charity."
Helen scoffed. "We give plenty to charity. Just last month we made a significant endowment to the opera house so that they can open a new gallery."
"The opera house?" Henry scoffed. "Good to see her really rolling up her sleeves and helping the disadvantaged youth of Europe."
"I don't want your money," Devon repeated. "I wasn't expecting it, I don't need it, I don't want it. I don't care what you do with it."
Helen appeared genuinely hurt. "You don't care? Your grandfather worked nearly every day of his life to build a comfortable living for his family. You deserve to live in comfort."
"I'm plenty comfortable."
"What about Zephyer? If something happens to you, she deserves to be taken care-of. We named you both jointly."
Devon blinked.
"You didn't tell them?" Henry asked. "What did you put in all those letters?"
Devon paused, attempting to regain his footing. "Look, I appreciate the offer. I really do. But I don't want to inherit your money."
"You have to," Helen insisted. "Otherwise it's all been for nothing."
"What's been for nothing? Grandfather's entire life and career?"
"Yes."
"That's ridiculous. You both live in substantial comfort. You've enjoyed your money and should continue to enjoy it."
"We can't possibly spend it all before we're gone. Nor would we want to. That money is yours."
"Then you have too much."
Helen's jaw dropped. "Too much?"
"You'd have an easier time convincing her the Earth is flat," Henry mused.
"Do you have any idea what's going on out there?" Helen implored, pointing out the dining room window in the direction of downtown London.
"Do you?" Devon shot back, perhaps a bit too snarkily.
"Without money you're nothing," Helen declared. "You have nothing. You mean nothing."
Devon narrowed his eyes.
"That explains a lot," Henry observed, "although I can't say as I'm surprised."
"You can't possibly tell me that you don't understand," Helen implored.
"Why the sudden interest?" Devon shot back.
"Because your grandfather is very sick," Helen answered. "This isn't sudden, it's something we've been discussing since your last visit."
"And it has nothing to do with the subject we were just discussing? About you wanting to hang onto me?"
"What do you mean?"
"You can't buy my love or attention," Devon stated flatly.
"Buy your love?" Helen gaped.
"I don't want your money," Devon repeated, staring down at his place setting.
"So be it," Helen responded coldly.
* * *
The car ride to the hospital was mercifully short, although it seemed like an eternity. Helen had her and Devon driven in a sedan by a chauffeur, and the two somehow managed to sit about two feet apart ? no doubt plastered to each others' respective car doors (and leaving no room for Henry in the middle).
The local hospital was a small building, well-appointed and featuring the latest in medical technology. Serving only the rich, it was well-guarded by armed soldiers patrolling a perimeter fence. Devon imagined many a hapless urchin getting shot to death at the main gate because they dared show up at the wrong hospital with a tummy ache.
After being approved by security, Helen and Devon were dropped off at the main entrance where they were met by Sullivan's chief physician ? Doctor Harding. He led them up to the third floor and towards Sullivan's corner room. There was little conversation other than the pleasantries, and Helen only half-heartedly introduced Devon to the Doctor. Somewhere along the way Henry reappeared.
Sullivan's room was large and beautifully-decorated. Picture windows looked out over park and golf course. Flowers filled the room almost to excess, giving the room an oddly-perfumed medicinal scent. Even the hospital equipment was decorated with flowers and bubbles and other ridiculous symbols. Apparently at this hospital, rich people wanted to be treated like five-year-olds.
Sullivan, in contrast, looked anything but sunny and cheery. He was normally a tall man with a large frame and broad shoulders (in some respects, Devon resembled him more than his own father), but he looked unusually thin and small in the massive hospital bed. He was pale and his skin wrinkled. His once-proud face looked vacant and tired. Equipment surrounded the bed and half a dozen tubes disappeared under the covers. A tray table attached to the bed's railing featured a plate of scrambled eggs that hadn't been touched.
Helen sat in the chair next to the bed and Devon stood behind her. Henry ? unable to view his father in such a weakened state ? crossed the room to look out the window.
Sullivan stirred as they entered, turning his head towards them. There was no sign that he recognized them.
"Sully, Devon is here," Helen said softly. Devon had never heard her use his nickname, and it was strangely disconcerting.
"Hello, grandfather," Devon said quietly. "It's good to see you."
Sullivan barely reacted. His eyes seemed to be searching their faces but either he couldn't see them or didn't recognize them.
"He's been having trouble with his vision since the stroke," Helen explained. "We've gone through four pairs of glasses but nothing seems to help." She reached out and took his hand, but he remained limp.
This was the second time in two visits that Devon had seen his grandfather in the hospital. Last time, Sullivan was the victim of foul play and recovered fully. This time the damage was apparently natural and the hopes for recovery were far-fetched.
"Sully, you've hardly eaten anything. You need to get your strength up." Helen continued. "Don't you like the eggs?"
No response. No reaction. Helen swallowed hard and waves of guilt flooded over Devon. He spent all morning arguing with her without appreciating the fragile state she was in.
"Would you like me to get you something else?" she asked. "How about some toast?"
"I shouldn't have come," Henry murmured into the window. "I don't want to see him like this."
"I'm going to get you some toast," Helen said, standing up. She placed a hand on Devon's elbow and then turned and left the room.
Devon sat down in the chair and reached out for his grandfather's hand. He had lost a lot of weight ? too much weight, and his hand was frail. It wasn't how he remembered his grandfather, not even from his previous visit a few years earlier. His grandfather was always a proud man and an imposing figure. Despite all their disagreements, he never lost respect for the man. He never stopped fearing him.
"I should have visited more," Devon started, eyes locked on the man's face. "I've just been so busy."
Sullivan licked his dry lips but did not otherwise react.
"The last couple years have been hard for me. I started a business." Devon smiled. "For a while it was a powerful force. You'd have been proud. But it's not for me. I'm meant to work alone." He paused. "Maybe you could have helped me avoid some of the mistakes I made. Maybe you would have had the sense that I lacked."
Henry turned and took a step towards the bed, finally laying eyes on his father. Then he looked up at Devon. "Son, I can't. I can't be here. I left when I was twenty years old and I never looked back. Now?" he paused, eyeing the man up and down, "?now I've lost my chance. This is your moment. I'm going to go and let you two talk."
Devon nodded discreetly, and his father left the room, leaving them alone.
"Only recently have I started to understand how much I take after you," Devon continued. "For years I just thought I was being British. But more recently I've come to understand that you and I are cut from the same cloth, just living in different circumstances. While you're here, supporting a family and working a successful business, I'm out there hanging on in quiet desperation. I pursued a business at the expense of my family and it cost me my wife. That's right, Zephyer and I broke up."
Devon sighed, looking down, He focused in on their hands, afraid to see a disapproving glance. "And at first I wanted to blame that on you ? that somehow by unknowingly following your example I had broken up my marriage. Grandmother's needs are different from Zephyer's. She needed you to be rich and successful. She needed the lifestyle and the trappings. Zephyer couldn't be more opposite. She resented every dollar I made. And the angrier she got at me, the more I disappeared into work. Being raised by you didn't prepare me for that. My defense mechanism was all wrong."
"But it's not your fault," Devon continued, looking up. "You tried to tell me that family comes first. I took that to mean that supporting a family comes first, because that's how you did it, but I misunderstood the lesson. You did what you had to do to support your family. I didn't. My family didn't need financial support. It needed my time and attention. If I had it to do over again, I'd have given away every dollar I had to charity, moved my family into a cave and started over from scratch." He took a deep breath. "I learned the wrong lesson from you and I let you down, and for that I'm sorry."
"Grandfather, I've always wanted to make you proud. I went to college to make you proud. I got a degree to make you proud. You got me a job at Lone Star and I rose through the ranks to make you proud. And when things weren't working out I struck out on my own ? not to hurt you but to make you proud. And it's to the point that I've tried so hard to make you proud that I never really asked myself what I needed to actually do to make you proud. And I realized that you never asked anything of me than for me to do my best and be happy." He felt himself starting to choke up. "And I don't see how I can ask for more than that."
"The last few months I've gone through some of my lowest lows. And just as I was beginning to descend into despair, you came to me. You talked me through it. And sometimes you were harsh but you were always fair. And I couldn't understand why, of all people, you're the person that my unsteady mind would conjure to bring me back to reality. But it was the right thing. You cut through the crap and whipped me back into shape. And now I'm on the rebound, starting to make sense of my life again."
"So for that, sir, I am here to thank you. Because through it all, the highs and the lows of our relationship and my relationship with others, I've always tried to live my life by your example. But what I had to realize is that I didn't need to do as you did specifically, I just needed to follow the spirit of what you intended. Family. Success. Honour."
Devon paused long, observing his grandfather. No recognition. No acknowledgement. He was too late. A tear ran down Devon's cheek.
"You raised me to be a man. I understand that now. And I promise you to live my life honourably. I promise to work hard ? not for money but for my sense of self. And I promise to do right by my family."
He squeezes his grandfather's hand. "I love you, grandfather."
And for the briefest of moments, he thought he felt a squeeze back.
* * *
That same afternoon, back at the condo and safely ensconced in the guest room, Devon sat quietly at a small desk. He filled out the front of a personal check. Five thousand credits to the RhyDin Domestic Violence Shelter. The check was still printed with his and Zephyer's names and the address of their shared ? now vacant house. He sighed softly, signed the check, and tore it out of the book ? adding it to the others. In only thirty minutes he had written a dozen checks to major charities in RhyDin city and the surrounding environs. Homeless shelters, food pantries, drug rehabilitation centers, animal shelters. He also wrote a sizable check to Mrs. Halliwell which should cover the care and feeding of his dogs for some time to come.
Making sure to reserve just enough for next month's rent and groceries, he carefully and meticulously accounted for every cent he owned ? spending it all.
"Without money, I'm nothing," Devon parroted out loud to no one. He smiled at the absurdity. "So be it. And if you insist on giving me an inheritance," he continued, "I'll do the same thing with it."
He closed up his checkbook and his ledger, and turned in for a nap.
* * *
At that some moment (as well as we can understand the space-time continuum), another financial transaction was taking place. Hunched over a computer in a dark apartment, a figure pecked furiously at a keyboard, carrying on a conversation in text.
"Another fifty thousand credits?" he typed. "That wasn't our deal."
A pause as he awaited a response. "It's going to be tougher to get him than I thought. Since he's been here, he's either been under guard or with armed associates."
The man scowled at the computer screen. Amateurs. "That's what I hired for you," he pecked out on the keyboard. "You're supposed to know what you're doing."
He sighed, lifting a beer to his lips and taking a swig out of the pint glass. Good help was hard to find, especially over such massive distances.
Finally an answer popped up on the screen. "Fifty thousand or the deal's off. How badly do you want Goral dead?"
Eyes narrowed. He didn't appreciate being held hostage, but it was too late to turn back now. He had already invested too much of his own money.
"Deal. I'll transmit the money at once."
This time there was no significant pause. The man smiled as he saw the response appear on his face. "Target will be dead within 24 hours."
It was almost worth the money just to see those words.
Daniel Creighton keyed in the necessary sequence to transmit the money before shutting off his computer for the night. Soon his problems would be over. He would sleep well this evening.
