The Book of Joby (62 page)

“Hello?” Tom took quick inventory of the young man at his front door, whose conservative business attire argued against “tourist.”

“You’re Tom Connolly?” the fellow asked a tad too cheerfully.

“I am,” Tom cheerfully replied. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m told you’re the man to see about real estate here.” The gentleman smiled.

Tom managed not to roll his eyes. Undoubtedly another of Agnes Hamilton’s disciples. Tom had already gotten two phone calls and one personal visit from “friends” she had lured here to get in on the ground floor of her
charming discovery.

“That would be me.” Tom smiled, all pleasant professionalism. “Is there some particular property you’re interested in, Mr. . . .?”

“Bruech. Larry Bruech” The man smiled and reached to shake Tom’s hand. “No, I’m here on more of a fact-finding mission. Have you a few minutes, Mr. Connolly?”

“Certainly,” Tom said, glancing overtly at his watch, in case this encounter wanted terminating. “I think I can squeeze you in before my next appointment. Please come in, Mr. Bruech.”

“Thank you.” He entered, peering curiously about. “What a lovely house. That paneling is redwood, isn’t it? And those beams?”

Tom smiled and nodded.

“Been a long time since anyone’s had wood like that to build with, hasn’t it?”

“Taubolt’s an old town, Mr. Bruech. Are you interested in finding a home here?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Oh,” Tom said, surprised. “Then . . . what—”

“I’m here on behalf of my employer, actually. Do you have an office somewhere, Mr. Connolly?”

“Sure. Upstairs. Follow me.” Tom headed up the staircase, and asked, “You a friend of Agnes Hamilton?”

“Who?” Mr. Bruech replied.

“Sorry. I thought you might know her. Who did you say your employer was?”

“I didn’t actually. He prefers to remain anonymous for now.”

“
He’s
looking for a house then?” Tom asked as they reached his office door. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Bruech perused the well-furnished office with at least as much interest as he’d shown downstairs. “Very cozy,” he said. “You must do a pretty brisk business here.”

“Actually, Taubolt attracts a lot more lookers than buyers,” Tom replied, poised to begin his preemptive routine. “Lovely to look at, but hard to love when it comes right down to it.”

“Really,” Bruech said, eyebrows arched. “Rather isolated, I suppose.”

“Yes. That’s certainly part of the problem,” Tom said, surprised at Bruech’s apparent unconcern. “Your employer doesn’t mind isolation, I take it?”

“Oh no. In fact, he’s rather counting on it.” Bruech smiled oddly. “He’s a very successful investor interested in purchasing a rather large amount of land somewhere in this area. Real quantities of unspoiled terrain are hard to come by now, as I’m sure you know, and a few inquiries leave the impression that much of this area is unowned, or at least, fairly unattended to. Would you say that impression is valid?”

It was all Tom could do not to gape. In his whole life here, he’d never encountered anything like this. He hadn’t thought it possible. He sat down, scrambling for some response that would not give away too much while he decided what to do.

“Well, I might be better able to answer your question if I knew what your employer is hoping to do with this property. There are some serious impediments to development here, you understand. Water is a real problem in this—”

“Oh, he has no interest in development, Mr. Connolly. The world has
more than enough suburbs, doesn’t it? No, what he wants to invest in might best be called wilderness, the less disturbed the better.”

“For what purpose?” Tom asked, more bewildered by the moment.

“My employer is a great admirer of the outdoors, Mr. Connolly; of open space, and untouched forest. As I said before, a rare commodity nowadays.” He smiled again.

“To be honest, Mr. Bruech, I’m used to selling little but the occasional lot or parcel, I’m afraid. How much land are we talking about?”

“How much land is available, Mr. Connolly?” Seeming to perceive Tom’s dismay, he added, “Money is not the primary issue. He’s a practical man, but he’ll pay a fair price. So, how much land might be available, say, in that range east of town?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bruech, but I have to admit you’ve caught me off guard,” Tom said, trying to cover his increasing panic. “I can do some research and get back to you, but today, I’m afraid I’m just not prepared to be of much help. And while I certainly don’t want to seem rude, I am due at that other appointment any minute. Perhaps if you could contact me again in a week or two?”

“I’d be happy to. I appreciate your time, Mr. Connolly.” Bruech stood and reached to shake hands again. “I look forward to talking with you soon.”

“Certainly,” Tom said, reeling as much from relief at having bought some time as at the enormity of what had just occurred. “I’ll show you out.” Dared he hope this brush-off might offend the man enough to put him off for good? He doubted it, but hoped so nonetheless, having no better plan at hand.

“ ‘Lancelot put his shoulder to the massive wooden door and heaved. Its iron hinges groaned, but the door remained fast. The clash of swords beyond told him that Gawain still lived, but he did not care to guess for how much longer, alone against so many. Recalling the warnings his reckless companion had chosen to ignore, Lancelot charged the door again, his strength fortified by anger.’ ”

“Good. Stop. You read really well, Hawk. Better than most.”

“Never said I couldn’t read,” Hawk growled.

“Okay, so let’s go over this last part,” Joby said. “Since you know all the basic subject, verb, object stuff, we’ll get right to the tricky parts. First sentence, ‘his.’ ”

Hawk puffed his cheeks out, then said, “Adjective?”

Joby shook his head. “An adjective describes a noun.”

“So?” Hawk protested. “ ‘Shoulder’ is a noun, isn’t it? And ‘his’ describes the shoulder. Can’t I just read it? I wanna know what happens!”

“You like the story, huh?”

Hawk narrowed his eyes, and shrugged noncommittally.

Joby shrugged as well, drew the book off the table, and slid it back into his pack. “Let’s find a more interesting book then. Maybe something on animals.”

“Okay, I like it!” Hawk exclaimed. “Geez! I never heard of an English teacher who wouldn’t let you read.”

“My point,” Joby said, putting his
Child’s Treasury of Arthurian Tales
back on the table, “is that there’d be nothing to read if the author hadn’t known how to write it. If you like this book, then writing matters to you too, whether you knew it or not.” He gave Hawk a pointed look. “Learn to write well enough, and thousands of people could be lapping up
your
stories someday.”

“
Me
. . . write a book,” Hawk said sarcastically.

“Why not?” Joby replied. “Do you think this writer was never a boy who rolled his eyes when his teacher pressed him about sentence construction?” He looked down, pretending to read the
Treasury
’s cover, and said, “ ‘The Adventures of Hawk! Thrilling Tales of Taubolt’!”

Hawk tried to cover his amusement by groaning, “You’re such a narning dopletin!”

“At least
I
have made an effort to learn
your
language.” Joby smiled. “A month ago, I wouldn’t have understood a word of that insult.”

Just then, Swami stuck his head in the classroom door. “You still takin’ us out tonight?” he asked Joby.

Joby looked at his watch. “Wow! I didn’t realize we’d gone on so long. You need to call your mom, Hawk?”

“She won’t care. I’m staying in town at Reed’s house tonight.”

“Okay. What time are we meeting tomorrow?”

“Ten o’clock?” Hawk said. “Cal’s gonna drive us to my place.” He shook his head in mock disgust. “I still can’t believe you don’t have a car.”

“Sorry, dude.” Joby shrugged. “I didn’t know you lived so far from town. Get your stuff. I gotta lock up and go pay my debt to society.” He turned to grin at Swami.

“Damn it, Kallaystra, we need eyes!” Lucifer spat. “Anything at all could be happening in there! Can’t you move them in faster? Three months, and all you’ve secured is one dull letter to his parents, and a handful of postcards from an old crone who babbles of nothing but gardening. What good is that? Has she even met the boy?”

“Actually, we have
three
operatives inside,” Kallaystra insisted with imprudent brittleness, “and more under recruitment, but the place repels many of those we send, and it’s difficult to push people who’ve no idea they’re working for us to begin with.”

“Then perhaps you should be cultivating a far greater flock of candidates,” Lucifer pressed irritably. “A mere handful of blackbirds isn’t likely to drive out that Cup.”

“I’ve wondered, Bright One,” Kallaystra dared ask, “why we don’t just continue to assault the place with storms and whatever other woes can be launched from outside. Might the boy not just leave the place once it became unlivable?”

“What!” Lucifer growled. “Batter blindly at what we can’t even see? What if he were to die under a falling tree, or drown in storm surf? I’d just lose the wager. And do you suppose our Enemy is likely to hand us such favorable terms again?” He paced the room, frowning at the walls, then turned an accusing glare on Kallaystra. “I would never have authorized even that first storm had it not been necessary to appease the rage of our troops after Malcephalon’s unconscionable botch-up.”

Necessary to appease the
troops, she thought in disgust. Everyone in Hell knew who that meteorological tantrum had been thrown to appease. “Consider my efforts redoubled, Bright One,” she said with chilly calm, then left without waiting for dismissal.

Joby and Swami arrived at the Heron’s Bowl to find Cal and Cob sitting on the sidewalk beside a broad bed of flowers like a couple of garden pests, caps on backward, chewing gum, and acting tough. A few rude comments were exchanged as a matter of form before Cob waved Joby toward the restaurant’s bright red door, saying, “Our table is reserved!” But as Swami opened the door for Joby, Cob intentionally squeezed in beside them, momentarily jamming everyone in the door frame, so that they stumbled through together in a small explosion.

“Cob!” scolded a short, scandalized-looking woman, her wry face framed in a wild halo of frizzy black curls.