“I’d like to speak to you about the projection room venture, the equipment and installation we acquired from you several years ago.”
Bruce smiled politely, and cleared his throat, “I don’t give refunds, Mr. Jameson.”
Derek looked surprised and then smiled. “Oh no, that’s not the issue. We’d like to put the room back into operation. You see, I looked over your paperwork and the transcript of your last meeting with our former board. It was uhh...needless to say, an interesting read. Anyway, you stipulated that you would not provide the supporting software or technical expertise as long as Bosque’s “Angels of Death” were still on the premises. Well, as you know, we lost those paintings en route to the Portland Cubist Exhibition not long after your departure.”
“Did you recover them yet?” Bruce ventured.
“No, and still no leads on those thefts. And now we have in storage-room tiles and such. We still have the space in our museum, but we can’t use them. We don’t want a refund, we want it back up and running so we can try to recoup some of our losses. What with losing the paintings and the room too...”
Bruce took off his glasses and leaned forward. “And your board is okay with working with me again?”
“Mr. Mallory, much of our current board is not the same group of men and women you worked with. They’re good with this decision...really.”
“It’s been my understanding that some of the tiles have gone missing. You’ll need to either find or replace those at your expense of course.”
“Of course, Mr. Mallory. The board has agreed to renegotiate your consulting and support fees too. We did contact the authorities the moment we determined some of the tiles were missing, but alas--nothing.”
“I’ll have to check my schedule and see if my assistant and I will be able to reconstruct...”
“Oh, no need, Mr. Mallory. The room is back up and is only missing your computers, software and the tiles that are missing, and of course, your genius.”
Bruce hid his amusement at the comment about the museum having contacted the authorities regarding the pilfered tiles since he was pretty sure it was the “authorities” that had stolen them in the first place. But the room already being reassembled and waiting--that piece of information genuinely surprised him. He didn’t know if he should be pleased or annoyed and a little disturbed with this man’s presumption.
Jameson got up from his desk. “I’d like to show you what we’ve done. If you’ll follow me?”
Derek Jameson was out the door before Bruce knew it. He got up to follow, but that Tang guardian figure reflecting back at him from the window caught his eye again.
He wondered at that moment if perhaps they really weren’t so much guardians after all. It never dawned on him till this very moment that perhaps these images were just another culture’s version of the angels of death that gathered the souls of men for good or for ill. And another artisan, much like Georges Bosque, gave them form too.
* * * * *
When Derek Jameson deposited Bruce back into the projection room within the Milwaukee Art Museum, he sensed that Bruce wanted very much to be alone. He looked around the room, reliving that night in stops and spurts. For a brief moment, he was back there when that point of light grew on the back of the tiled wall and two somethings or someones walked within that projected cone of light as they entered this world.
Jameson watched Bruce, keenly aware of his discomfort at being back here, especially back in this room.
Bruce walked over to the back wall that had a handful of tiles missing and pulled out his cell phone. “Jonah--you know that operating system that’s in the vault.” Bruce covered the phone with his hand and looked at Derek. “I hope you don’t mind...”
“Oh, of course, you need to discuss something privately, I understand. I’ll be in my office, when you can, just come by and let me know if you can see us doing business or not.”
Bruce smiled politely at the man, and with that he left. He waited until the sounds of his footsteps had faded from hearing before resuming the conversation with his assistant. Jonah Burnham waited patiently on the other end of the call. He knew where Bruce was, and by the sound of his voice, there was a rare, grave tone. He had been Bruce’s employee since Bruce landed back into Chicago. He didn’t know the whole story about the deaths at the museum, but he had just enough of the story’s puzzle pieces to know what Bruce was asking him to do next would be sort of a big deal.
“Yeah.”
“I’m texting you the access code. Use it, delete it, and then I want you to hand deliver it to me at the Milwaukee Art Museum.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. Today, but make it the second thing you do after this call.”
“Okay, The first thing?”
“Call Baker and tell him where I am and I want to talk to him right away. I’ll be waiting, so tell him not to drag his sorry ass.”
“Should I use those exact words?”
“Yep. Why not. Those exact words.”
Bruce Mallory ended the call and put out his hand. It was trembling.
To burn off the anxiety he was feeling, he paced the room for what seemed like an eternity. He silenced his inner voice, wondering if then he could hear them, those two and their cold, parchment-dry lifeless whispers, but all he could sense was a very average silence instead. For that he was grateful.