Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Sixty-Nine

"Mr. Wigand, thank you so much for attending." The officious young man who handed Tommy his nameplate gave him an honest smile. "The reception will be starting soon. If you want to get a drink, the bar is at the far end of the lobby, and if you have any questions, there are young people in red vests throughout the building who are here to help you." Still smiling, the man turned to the next person in line.

Tommy made a show of putting on the nameplate in front of the young man, before moving through the lobby toward the bar. The room was not quite full but was getting that way. He scanned for anyone of interest, and listened in on the nearest conversations. He'd gotten good over the years at scanning rooms, foot by foot, slowly examining every person and peeping in on every conversation.

Now, though, there was little of interest.

It seemed the former vice president, or simply Mallory, as people were fond of calling her, wouldn't be attending, despite rumors to the contrary. The fact that the former vice president had been to The Range still galled him. What was she there for? He thought the answer was obvious, given her gross love of hunting, but wanted certainty.

He wanted Amy back most of all. That thought kept inserting itself, seizing him by the short hairs with more and more regularity with each passing day.

One thing at a time.

It should take him no time at all to locate Meeker, even among the throng. In fact, the sound of the CEO's pompous, somewhat nasally voice caught his ear, and, after determining the voice emanated from one of the small rooms between the lobby and the Atrium, he moved in that direction.

A quick survey of the door from whence the voice emanated, showed two bulky security guards in blue blazers stood on either side of the entrance, across which was draped a thick burgundy rope between two stanchions.

To enter this exclusive room at an otherwise exclusive gathering, Tommy decided he needed a prop. But as he turned to retrace his steps back to the bar, he came up short. For the second time that day, he very nearly ran straight into Mindy Meeker. Tommy suddenly realized he'd forgotten to remove the nameplate that clearly identified him as Kyle Wigand.

Well, shit ... amateur, he scolded himself.

The beautiful young woman glanced at the nameplate, hesitated, and then gazed up at him with a look of confusion.

For a split second, he weighed whether he should pretend merely to have taken the wrong nameplate. No. The last thing he needed was to be evicted as a party crasher. He was stuck in the Wigand persona, even if the face he now wore was different from the one she remembered.

But such dilemmas were commonplace in Tommy's life. If his new appearance was not significantly different from his old, he could pass it off as a trick the light, played on a pair of eyes that only had seen him once. Otherwise, explanations would be more taxing.

Might as well make the best of it ....

"Mindy Morse-Meeker," he said warmly. "My favorite alliteration. Thank you very much for leaving the nameplate. I'm glad I came."

For just a moment, she looked at him, and then her eyes flitted twice more between his face and nameplate.

He moved a bit closer. "I sort of wanted to see this D.C. muckety-muck you were telling me about, but mostly I was hoping to see you again."

A sudden flash of recollection came to her eyes, and she moved to talk. But nothing came out.

He regarded her with a sidelong glance. "Mrs. Meeker," he said in his most playful voice, "have you forgotten me already?"

"No," she began. "No, I haven't ... I just don't remember you being so ... handsome."

"I distinctly remember you being so beautiful."

It was her turn to move closer. "Where are my manners?" There was a bit of a quaver in her voice, but the smile seemed sincere. "You don't have a drink."

She interlaced her arm in his and turned him toward the bar. He felt her eyes brush him several times during their short walk.

"It must be the light," she said after they'd ordered, "but I swear your hair was darker." Her voice was somewhat uncertain.

"I've never heard that," he said, mustering as much surprise as he could. "Though people have always told me my eyes change color in different light."

The beautiful young woman's body visibly eased. "That explains so much," she said with a short laugh. "I could have sworn they were brown this morning. Now they're green. The most amazing shade of green."

"And sometimes they look grey or hazel," he added. It wasn't a lie. "You didn't think I put in contacts, did you?"

"No!" She spoke so loudly that she cringed and then began laughing. She continued more quietly and a tad self-consciously. "No. I thought maybe after I told you how ... perfect you were ...."

"That maybe I put on a wig and contacts to pull your leg?"

She gave him an enormous, close-lipped smile and picked up her drink.

"Trust me, Mrs. Meeker," he said in a voice that was just above a whisper, "you'll know when I am pulling on your leg."

She nearly spit out her drink and gave the first inelegant laugh he'd heard from her. "You are a handful, Mr. Wigand. Just for that, I'm going to introduce you to the muckety-muck ... and to my ghastly husband." She didn't attempt to attenuate her voice when speaking. "Oh, and you get to meet daddy, too."

She again intertwined her right arm in his left and led him down to the secured room, her warm, pleasant form pressed against his side.

"It sounds like a frat-house," he said as they approached.

"You have no idea," she whispered, her words so quiet that he couldn't fully gage her intent.

The barrier fell and the door opened before Mindy and her new companion. Inside the large, finely appointed room stood about 40 people, all men, in various stages of inebriation. All sported dinner jackets or fine tuxedos and had glasses in their hands. Most smoked cigars, and the place reeked of wealth. Meeker was standing on the far side of the room, loudly engaged in an animated narrative.

"My husband," she said, unable to veil her disappointment. "The man to his right is the muckety-muck, secretary such-and-such of something-or-other." She waved her hand. "I lose track. My husband is in the middle of one of his unbearable stories. I'll introduce you two later."

She guided Tommy toward a small knot of men. "This is daddy," she whispered, before tapping the nearest man on the shoulder.

The man turned.

"Daddy, Mr. Wigand. Mr. Wigand, daddy."

"Mr. Morse," said Tommy, holding out his hand. And sure enough, he was a bit greyer, and a smidge more wrinkled, but standing before Tommy was none other than Ulysses Morse, soldier-of-fortune and gentleman adventurer. And things began to fall into place.