Tim isn’t sure how he feels about this. Or even if he feels about this. It’s hard to feel anything right now other than pain—crippling, agonizing, inconceivable pain. The kind of pain that comes after an accident or malicious injury; the kind of pain no medicine can really suppress, can barely dull. It’s the pain of a near-mortal wound, the pain of a destroyed bone, the pain of an injury that means losing a limb to save the rest of the body.
He doesn’t even know if he wants the pain to stop or not. Maybe he’ll get used to it, maybe someday it will only be devastating rather than debilitating, but like a phantom limb, he suspects the only way to make it stop altogether is to make the brain forget there was ever a limb there to hurt, let alone lose. There’s a part of him that’s afraid that someday, he may want that, he might be willing to cauterize his brain, to scoop out the memories of the good times if it means not hurting over their absence.
Right now, though, he just wants it to ease back enough that he can feel something other than that unimaginable ache.
Lou seems to think this will help, and he trusts her. After all, she’s the only one who fucking noticed something was wrong when he came back to work, dazed and broken and bewildered. She’s the one who gave him a few days to collect his thoughts, then left a lemon on his desk—a running joke they’ve had since he got shifted to her team four years ago—and made him a cup of sweetened herbal tea. She’s the one who rambled about nothing and everything, about the High Holy Days and what a shame it is that there aren’t any major Catholic observations in September, and then eased him into what was bothering him.
He hasn’t told her everything. Most of it’s too unbelievable. But something about the sharp, piercing look she gave him over her half-moon glasses when he fumbled through his half story tells him she maybe guesses more than he’s saying. And when he finished, she scribbled an address and a name on a piece of paper and slid it to him.
As he looks down at the paper now, cobalt blue ink in its loopy Spencerian script, he hears her voice again, uncharacteristically soft and gentle: Talk to them. Tell them everything that happened, even if you think it’s something nobody in their right mind would believe. And if they believe you, come back and tell me everything, because I’ll believe you, too. Then she laughed and assured him that she believes him anyway, but she knows him and knows he won’t believe himself until someone else does.
She’s right, he has to admit. If he hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have believed it.
The office is closed today, or at least Tim’s department is. The publishing company lets each department head set their own schedules and days off, so Lou’s first act as head of this particular Editing team was to decree that they would be closed on all religious holidays requiring any kind of observance, regardless of the religion, as long as at least one person on her team celebrates that holiday or observance. Today is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and Lou will be at services all day anyway. Since there’s nothing else for Tim to do on a Wednesday except brood, he’s made his way to this place.
It’s…a lot fancier than the office building he works in. It’s old, and there’s something familiar about the architecture that he can’t quite put his finger on, and isn’t sure he wants to. It gives him a creeping feeling of dread. At the same time, it gives him a feeling of…he won’t call it rightness. There’s nothing right about this place. But definitely certainty. Lou’s right. Whatever answers he’s looking for, he’ll find them here.
He glances at the plaque next to the door—THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, EST. 1818—and mounts the steps, then pushes through the fancy, ornate wooden door. He finds himself standing in an open lobby, the floor of polished wood smoothed by countless feet. Doors and corridors lead off on either side, and in the center is an ornate staircase with a lush carpet leading up the middle; another staircase heading down is just visible beyond a door. Situated between the two staircases is a desk surrounded by file cabinets and bookshelves, behind which sits a woman who looks like Lou’s evil twin fixing him with an interested look.
Since she’s the only person Tim can see, he walks over to her desk and switches on the charisma. It feels a bit stiff, but he manages.
“Good morning,” he says, trying to be professional. “Uh, my name’s Tim Stoker, I’m here to see…” He looks down at the paper in his hand again.
“I’ll take it from here, Rosie,” a voice says.
Tim looks up into the eyes of someone he deduces is not named Gertrude Robinson, unless this is a way more progressive organization than it appears from the façade. The someone, in fact, is a man of indeterminate age somewhat older than Tim but not quite old enough to be Tim’s father, in a crisp tailored suit the same charcoal grey as his eyes that looks like it costs more than Tim makes in a month and a tie the same shiny brown as his slicked-back hair. He studies Tim with a benign expression of mild interest that nevertheless fixes him in place.
“Uh,” Tim begins.
The man holds out a well-manicured hand that’s never done a day’s hard work in its owner’s life. “I’m Elias Bouchard. Gertrude Robinson is unavailable today, I’m afraid, but I have everything set up in my office. If you’ll just follow me?”
The inflection at the end of the phrase makes it sound like a question. The look on Elias Bouchard’s face brooks no argument. Tim follows.
The man’s office is…odd. There’s not really another word for it. There’s no computer, no laptop, not even a fax machine. There are a number of very old bookcases lining the walls, full of thick, leather-bound books, and if there’s a window they’re covering it. The heavy wood desk looks like it contains enough drawers, hidden or otherwise, to outfit a warehouse hiding the Ark of the Covenant. Atop the desk sits thick ledger with a green cover emblazoned with EXPENSES 2013 FISCAL YEAR in gold foil, set to one side. There is also a small stack of paperwork, all bearing the same symbol—what looks like a stylized owl set within a circle and clutching a ribbon in its talons, Tim can’t make out the words on the ribbon—set next to a thick-barreled silver fountain pen.
“Please, Mr. Stoker. Have a seat.” Bouchard gestures to a chair upholstered in rich red leather, then sits in a far more ornate leather chair behind his—Tim presumes it’s his—desk.
Tim sits slowly. This can’t be where the man works most of the time—it must be a receiving room or something. There is no personalization to this room whatsoever. It’s entirely possible that he doesn’t mix work and his personal life, which, fine, but still, Tim would expect there to be a picture, a plant, a novelty pen holder, something. Instead, the office is completely bare and soulless.
Numb as he is, he can’t wrap his brain around that. His office, small as it is, bursts with his personality—the wall calendar with pictures of lakes and waterfalls he’s planning to hike to someday, the desk organizer with an image of the man from the Monopoly board leaping out of a flaming pit with GET OUT OF HELL FREE written beneath it the guy he’d been with in uni had given him for Christmas before breaking it off and moving back to Colorado, the lopsided trinket box constructed of flat wooden sticks and glitter glue his neighbor’s son had made for him at summer camp as a thank you for teaching him to ride a bike while his mum was at work, the photograph in a goofy ceramic frame currently lying face down because he can’t bear to look at it anymore but also can’t bear to take it down. Five days out of nine he can also count on there being a lemon with googly eyes glued to its peel staring at him from somewhere, which is usually his cue to go down to Lou’s office, with its photographs of her nephews and nieces and their kids—or at least the ones speaking to her this week—its awards and accolades proudly displayed wherever they’ll fit, its Newton’s cradle, and the knitted shawl draped over the back of her chair, for a cup of tea and a chat or a good laugh about something. Hell, even Howard Jackson, who hardly ever says a word to anyone except to snap about the quality of authors these days, has a pair of small flags stuck in a bud vase on one corner of his desk—the Portuguese flag and a pride flag that Tim’s never worked up the courage to ask him about. But Elias Bouchard’s office has…nothing.
It’s unnerving. Much like the rest of this place. Tim figures he should just talk to this guy and get the hell out of here. Hopefully it’ll help.
“So,” Bouchard begins. “Tell me, Tim. What are you afraid of?”
Tim blinks, hard. “What?”
Bouchard continues smiling benignly. His pen is held between two fingers. “In the Institute we are keenly interested in the anatomy of fear. Much that is stored here is disquieting. It is important to know if anything here might…upset you.”
Tim frowns. He doesn’t consider himself fearless by any means, but his biggest fear—losing his little brother to something he can’t save him from—the fear that’s dogged him since he was five years old—has already come true. What else is there to be afraid of?
“The only thing that might upset me,” he says, biting out the words with distinction, “is if this place doesn’t have the answers I’m looking for.”
Bouchard sits back. He looks inordinately pleased. “Good,” he says.
Before Tim can ask what the fuck that is supposed to mean, he continues, “Now then. Have you ever had a…supernatural experience?”
Tim gestures helplessly. “I mean…that’s why I’m here.”
Bouchard nods, but doesn’t ask him for details. “I see. Well, Louise Wexler was wise to send you to us. Our library is extensive, as are the assets of the Research department.” He uncaps his pen and adds, “In fact, I think that would be an excellent fit for you. Your academic credentials are substantial, and your employment records are quite stellar. Your lack of studies in the paranormal is, of course, a bit of a disadvantage, but not nearly as much as one as you might think.” A faint smile flickers over his face. “In fact, we currently have only one employee at the moment who had a degree in parapsychology before joining the Institute. Although we do have an excellent incentive program for employees who wish to expand their knowledge of—”
“Wait, wait,” Tim interrupts. “I have a job. I’m just here to—I mean, Lou didn’t send me here to—I didn’t apply to work here.” Sudden misgiving seizes him. “Did I?”
“You’ve been through a very difficult week, Tim,” Bouchard says, in a tone that’s probably meant to be soothing. “It’s natural that you would have some doubts about your movements.” He writes something on the paper in front of him, then pushes it and the pen towards Tim. “I’m afraid our library is not…open to the public. We have some very, ah, sensitive material stored there, as well as in other places. We allow students access, on a limited basis, but unless you plan to go back to school in order to study the paranormal, or are producing some sort of scholarly work on the topic, the only way to get those answers you’re looking for is to join the Institute.” He nods at the paper; Tim, looking down at it, realizes it’s a contract of employment. “As I said, Research would be an excellent fit for you, or if you prefer, you could perhaps work in Artifact Storage. I’m afraid we have no openings in the library at this time, and the Archivist usually handles the hiring of her, ah, assistants more directly.”
This is all going way too fast. Tim’s head is spinning. He’s sure Lou just suggested he come here to talk, something about…a statement? It’s fuzzy in his memory. But…Bouchard knew he was coming. He had the paperwork all ready. And even if this isn’t the most conventional interview Tim’s ever had…
“Research is fine,” he mumbles, a little dazed.
Bouchard beams. “Good! Sign here, please.”
Tim signs. And signs. And fills out a few forms. And hesitates when he’s asked if he has any emergency contacts, because his dad all but accused him of having a hand in Danny’s disappearance because he was jealous, of all things, like he’s ever been jealous of his brother in his life, and his mum’s gone off someplace he can’t reach her.
“You can leave that blank for now,” Bouchard says.
So Tim skips over that, and fills out the rest of the paperwork, and signs one last time. He pushes the forms and pen back over to Bouchard, who picks them up and studies them quickly. “Perfect. Well, that all seems to be in order. Do you have any long-term projects you need to complete at your current job, or will you be able to start on Monday?”
“Uh.”
“Ordinarily we would have you wait until the sixteenth, as that is technically the start of the next pay period, but I’m sure you would like to begin your research as soon as possible.” Bouchard raises an eyebrow. “Unless there’s some reason why you shouldn’t?”
“Uh, no. No, that’s good.” Tim tries to smile. “Thank you, Mr. Bouchard.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Tim. Just ‘Elias’ will do.” Bouchard—Elias—rises and holds out his hand. “Welcome to the Magnus Institute.”
Tim shakes his hand, collects his necessary paperwork, and walks out of the office. It’s not until he’s standing on the street in front of the building that he thinks, What the fuck?
What has he just done? He likes his job, likes working in publishing. Lou’s like a second mother to him, or at least like a crazy aunt. Even if he doesn’t really get on with his other coworkers, he’s built a life for himself, he’s building a career. Is he really going to throw it away for a place like this?
He looks down at the logo on the paperwork, paperwork that doesn’t disintegrate into ash on the wind like the flier he held after surviving…that. All that, and he didn’t even tell Elias about Danny. The man doesn’t even know why Tim came, not really, and yet he was so soothing and helpful…
Unless…unless Tim did apply, in some sort of weird fugue state after Lou slipped him the address. Unless in his application he mentioned that he was looking to change jobs after the loss of his brother. Unless this is Elias Bouchard’s way of saying yes, Tim, your experiences are valid, you saw what was true, now come and learn how to stop it.
Yeah. Yeah, that has to be it.
He can talk to this…Gertrude Robinson person sometime once he starts working here full time. Meanwhile, he can make use of the library. He can look up…there are a lot of things he needs to look up, a lot of possible threads to pull. Maybe he’ll give it a week or two to get settled in and learn how the people here do research, and then he’ll know where to start. Maybe he can’t save Danny, but maybe he can save the next guy from losing his brother. It’s worth a shot.
Meanwhile, it’s getting really warm. Tim undoes the top button on his shirt and makes his way towards the river, thinking he’ll go somewhere for a cool drink and then…and then…and then he’s not sure what. Go home and figure out how to draft his resignation letter at the publishing company, he supposes. He’ll need to tell Lou first thing tomorrow morning.
Changes are coming. Big changes. And Tim is pretty sure he isn’t prepared for them.