The Fortunes of Nigel by Walter Scott (good summer reads txt) 📕

men. Well, to some men, they were. But he had solved the mystery long ago, and knew just what to say and just how to say it.

Betty declined his offer to take her home. That was acceptable to Talbot, since he had accomplished everything he needed to. He knew that originally she had rejected Atheon out of hand; now she wasn’t so sure. And she was going to push that uncertainty onto Krenzler, which was exactly what Talbot wanted. And Glen Talbot was very much in the habit of getting what he wanted.

Arriving home at his apartment building, Glen pulled into his reserved space and killed the engine. He stepped out of the car, paused a moment, then suddenly reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek blue metal Smith & Wesson. He turned and aimed it straight at a shadowy figure that had been approaching him, and now froze in its tracks.

Then he squinted into the darkness and lowered the gun, speaking in a voice as convivial as if he were encountering an old friend by chance while strolling the boardwalk in Atlantic City. “Agent Krenzler, as I live and breathe . . .”

“And as I almost didn’t,” replied Krenzler. She stepped from the shadows into the pool of light emanating from the overhead lamp. Her face looked a bit more careworn than when her adoptive son, Bruce, had last seen her. “A little trigger-happy these days, aren’t you, Mr. Talbot?”

“One can’t be too careful, Monica. There are monsters everywhere.” He slid the gun back into his shoulder holster and draped his jacket over it. “So what are you doing in Berkeley? Have you been reassigned?”

“No. No, merely passing through. I just—” She cleared her throat, then came closer to him. Her hands seemed to be moving in vague patterns. “I just . . . was wondering how Bruce was doing.”

“How would I know?” replied Talbot.

Her face hardened. “Mr. Talbot, don’t treat me like I’m an idiot. I know about the listening posts. I know you have his movements monitored 24-7. I know what you want of him. If Bruce gets so much as a toothache, you know about it before he calls his dentist.”

“Well, tell me, Monica, if you’re so anxious to find out what Bruce is up to, why not just go stop by and see him yourself? Or give him a buzz? You know he’d always like to hear from dear old Mummy.”

“You know why not,” she said tonelessly.

He smiled a wolfish smile at that. “I’ve no idea . . . oh! Wait! Perhaps it has something to do with your superiors feeling that you’d gotten too close to your assignment.”

“My assignment.” Monica Krenzler acted as if those were the funniest words ever spoken, except the humor involved was bleak and depressing. “You try it sometime, Mr. Talbot. You try being ‘assigned’ to be the adoptive mother of a child by a government organization that keeps waiting for the child to manifest some sort of . . . of aberrant behavior on a genetic level. You try caring for him, supporting him, steering him in career and life directions that are mandated not by what you feel is best for him, but by superiors who have their own agendas for him. You try doing all that without getting ‘too close’ and see just how successful you are.”

“I just might,” Talbot said without a trace of sarcasm. “It sounds like a stimulating intellectual exercise.” Then he took a few steps toward her, until he was almost in her face. “You’ve got to learn when to let an assignment go, Monica. It’s over. He’s not your problem anymore. He’s mine.”

“His whole life has been one of having his fate determined by others acting behind his back,” Monica said, her simmering anger almost boiling over. “When does he get his own life?”

“When do any of us?” Talbot asked reasonably. “Many people will tell you that their lives are guided and determined by God.”

“You and your people aren’t God,” Monica told him.

Talbot’s smile widened. “As far as your adoptive son is concerned, Monica, we’re God, Satan, heaven, and hell all rolled into one.” He started to reach up to pat her on the cheek in a patronizing fashion, but she brushed the hand away with a quick movement and simply glared. “Have a good career, Agent Krenzler,” he said, and then walked off, leaving her smoldering in the parking lot.

He continued to chuckle to himself as he went up to his apartment. But instead of entering, he turned and, producing a key, entered the apartment next door to his. It was dimly lit and he saw an assortment of electronic equipment off to one side. There were boxes from pizza delivery and Chinese restaurants scattered about. There was no sign of anyone around. He called out softly, “Sitwell?”

There was the sound of a toilet flushing and moments later, a thin, blond man with oversize glasses emerged, tucking in his shirt. “Nature calls to us all,” he said apologetically. “How was dinner?”

“More or less as I expected it.”

Sitwell grunted as he returned to the array of electronics and slapped a pair of earphones over his head. Apparently reading Talbot’s mind, he said, “Don’t worry, I had a recorder going just in case anything interesting happens with Bruce. Although nothing ever seems to.”

“Is he at home now?”

“A-yuh. But he’s not doing much of anything. No phone calls. No company. Typically ripping night at the Krenzler household. Or should we call him Banner?” Sitwell asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Whatever,” said Talbot, shrugging. “And, yeah, I know he’s not the most exciting guy in the world. Why do you think I worked so hard to get Betty into his life? Made sure she was offered a job at the same lab Banner was working at. Pulled strings to guarantee she was assigned to work with him. I practically did everything I could short of passing notes for them in study hall.”

With a bitter