HorrorFighter
Member
((This new plot thread picks up the story started with "One Ian Too Many": http://thelowerworld.com/index.php?threads/one-ian-too-many.241/ It's also intended to be my final Ian story.))
1. FATHER AND SON
"You're such a disappointment."
Nathianel Rothcraft had once said that to his son Ian.
"You're such a disappointment."
Ian Thomas Rothcraft had said that frequently to his son, Junior. Or Henry. Or Ian Thomas Glenisle-Rothcraft.
It didn't matter.
A rose by any other name.
A disappointment by any other name.
Yet today, with the promise of spring bringing a hopeful warmth to the streets of Manhattan above them, Ian Sr. and his father tolerated a table together in a private room in a private club beneath the streets -- a place where the staff served without speaking and possessed an uncanny ability to read the minds of members and bring whatever was desired before it was even requested.
Ian and Nathaniel sat with stiff politeness, a very nice bottle of wine between them, their glasses filled and untouched, plates of their favorite delicacies cooling undisturbed. All brought without asking.
Neither man ate. Neither man drank. They simply stayed still and stared at each other across the expanse of table, thin smiles on their faces, no body language betraying their intent.
Which, in the case of Ian, was a pressing temptation to leap across the table and plunge his fork into his father's left eye.
Not an uncommon thought on the rare occasions when he dined with his father.
As for Nathaniel's motives, Ian could scarcely speculate. Suffice to say, it was probably as equally unpleasant as a fork to an eye, although likely not nearly as savage. Ian was much more hands-on than his father was. His father, while no less dangerous, was far more subtle. He didn't like to get his hands dirty, and he could afford to keep them clean.
Not that there was any real threat of violence. Both men rested their hands, palms down, on the table. The mildly pleasant looks never left their faces.
The servers had served in silence and retreated and now the quiet hung in the air with a thickness louder than noise. The lack of conversation said plenty enough.
It was the elder Rothcraft who broke the metaphorical ice.
"You've been reinstated," he said.
"Months ago," Ian responded. "I'm fairly certain you already knew that."
Nathaniel nodded.
"I'm sure you know the conditions of my reinstatement as well," Ian added.
Nathaniel nodded again.
"Welcomed back into your precious Toolbox -- as long as you don't harm your son," Nathaniel said. "And as long you don't dress so formally."
The word "formally" dripped with sarcasm as Nathaniel slowly eyed the suit that Ian wore.
"One out of two ain't bad," Ian said with the slightest hint of irony.
"Rebellious to the end," Nathanial said. Whether this was a statement of admiration or disapproval, it was difficult to know, as Nathaniel's voice never wavered.
"I grew a beard," Ian pointed out. "That's rather informal. And I'm not going to kill my son."
"Not killing your son must kill you," Nathaniel said, his smile spreading to a self-satisfied grin in response to his own wit.
Ian ignored his father's play on words and treated the statement seriously.
"I'm not entirely happy about it," Ian admitted, "but since this is my last chance, I figure it best to adhere to the most important conditions of my new contract. I doubt anyone will object too strongly to my fashion choices. Sparing my son is entirely different. I'll respect that. Besides, it's not as if I could go to a lawyer to help me negotiate the removal of the 'don't kill your son' clause."
"'My last chance,'" Nathaniel repeated. "How many last chances have you been given, Ian?"
Ian winced. "More than one," he said.
'"More than one,'" Nathaniel repeated. "An understatement. I can't believe you've survived this long. How many employers have fired you?"
"Two," Ian said, "although I wouldn't confuse my unemployment with a traditional firing. My first employer ended our relationship by serving me up as an inexhaustible food supply to cannibals. My second organization cut ties after I took a prolonged vacation without approval. Of course, both employers had megalomaniacs at the helm, and I could not feign the part of a sniveling sycophant forever. Moving on was inevitable."
"You worked for women at both places," Nathaniel said.
"I did," Ian said.
"You work for a woman now," Nathaniel said.
"I do," Ian said.
"How's that working out for you?" Nathaniel asked.
"If you're implying that I'm a misogynist, I must correct you," Ian said. "As I once told a prom date decades ago: I'm a misanthrope."
"The one you shot?" Nathaniel asked.
"Yes, the one I shot," Ian replied.
"I'm sure as she bled out she was relieved to know that you didn't hold a grudge against her gender," Nathaniel said, sarcasm once again dominating his tone.
"I didn't shoot her because I'm a sexist," Ian said. "I shot her because she was annoying. I never objected to working for women. I object to working for people in general. I prefer to act independently and behave as I wish. That attitude tends to get me into trouble."
"And here you are," Nathaniel said. "Back at the Toolbox. Where killers go to rot. Rock bottom, even by your standards. Still it suits you. I'm glad someone finally found a use for you."
If Nathaniel meant the observation as an insult, his son didn't take it as one.
"I'm good at what I do, and they know precisely how to respect me," Ian said. "I'm given jobs, and I'm given leeway within reason. It's refreshing."
"I'm sure sleeping with your boss doesn't hurt your standing, yet you somehow almost managed to burn a bridge with the bottom of the barrel," Nathaniel said. "As I said: You're rebellious, almost to the point of pettiness."
"Petty rebelliousness is preferable to the rebellion exhibited by my son," Ian retorted. "Right now, my rebellion is limited to wearing a tie. My son once shot me in the face."
"Given the chance," Nathaniel pointed out, "you would gladly shoot me in the face, Ian."
Ian considered this comment as he reached for his glass.
"That's not true," Ian said.
He paused and added, "I wouldn't let you off that easy, Father."
Ian sipped the wine, nodded his approval, and placed the glass back down.
Nathaniel shook his head and, following his son's lead, picked up his own glass.
"I really do loathe you, Ian," Nathaniel said.
"I know," Ian said evenly. "Which is why I wonder why you invited me to lunch -- particularly as it appears neither of us has much of an appetite. The wine is exquisite though."
Nathaniel sipped and savored. "I quite agree," he said. "As far as the lunch invitation, I had wanted to inquire whether you had followed my advice."
"'Stop killing the maids'?" Ian offered.
"That wasn't advice, Ian," his father corrected. "That was a demand. And it came before you reached puberty. I'm speaking of something more recent."
Ian shrugged and drank more wine.
"In the fall, when I spoke to you in the Hamptons," Nathaniel reminded.
"Ah," Ian said. "You mean when your goons drugged me and dragged me and dropped me before your feet? You'll pardon me if I'm foggy on the details."
"I know you can't kill your son, Ian, and it's probably too much to hope that he'll kill you and spare the family any further embarrassment," Nathaniel said, "but that doesn't mean you can't kill those who set everything in motion."
"You've lost me, Father," Ian said.
"What happened to you required the greasing of palms -- with very expensive grease, I might add," Nathaniel said. "I told you to follow the money."
"So you did," Ian said, "but I abandoned the pursuit once I was reinstated."
"A myopic reaction," Nathaniel said. "You may have spared your son, but what of the men who trapped you in Hell to protect him? Have you forgiven and forgotten?"
Ian frowned at the memory, and immediately hated himself for the reaction. He had shown weakness in front of his father, and so their game of faux civility had ended -- with Ian losing. Ian's emotional reaction -- no matter how slight -- had given his father the upper hand, and Nathaniel smiled more broadly to acknowledge his victory.
Ian regained his composure (no point in making things worse) and asked coolly, "How did you know about that?"
"Oh come on, Ian," Nathaniel scoffed. "Give me some credit. If there's something worth knowing about you, I know it."
Nathaniel reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and slid it across the table.
"Since following the money proved too trying of a task for you and for your playmate," Nathaniel said, "I did the heavy lifting for you."
Ian's playmate: an enemy who had spoken to his father. An enemy who had given Ian a rather amusing fight. An enemy who didn't seem to bother herself with the enemy business these days, likely losing interest after Ian promised to leave his son alone. She had a soft spot for Ian Jr., and since the son no longer required protection, she no longer concerned herself with the father.
Ian picked up the card. There was a name on it and nothing else.
Albert Zidler.
Ian held up the card. "Who is this?" he asked.
"A string worth pulling," Nathaniel said. "One of the so-called men in suits. One of the three who give orders to the woman."
"The woman," Ian said, emphasizing the latter word, "is Alice Glenisle. My fiancée. The boss I am sleeping with, as you so crudely noted. The mother of my current and one-day-to-be-born time-traveling son and daughter."
Nathaniel tut-tutted. "Your taste in women is questionable," he said. "Once you wed beneath your station, your mother will weep for days. I try to comfort her by telling her at least you are no longer engaged to that child Sa…"
"Don't," Ian snapped the interruption, "say her name. Ever."
His father's smile broadened again -- Ian's emotional outburst just enhancing his earlier victory.
Ian continued before his father could gloat further. "Why are you helping me?" he asked as he tucked the card into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Regardless of my personal opinions about you, Ian," Nathaniel answered, "you're still a Rothcraft. We handle our affairs internally. If you killed your son…if he killed you…if I killed you…that's all acceptable. But I'll never stand by idly while someone moves against my family. It would make our empire appear vulnerable, and I simply cannot allow that."
"Self-preservation rather than concern for me," Ian said. "I can respect that."
Ian finished his wine. He stood. His father did not.
"Off so soon?" Nathaniel asked.
"Mr. Zidler isn't going to torture himself," Ian explained.
As always, anticipating a guest's needs, a servant opened the door to the private room so Ian could exit.
"The trail starts with him," Nathaniel said. "If you want to find the source of your misery, follow the money to the men responsible."
"And if you want to find the source of their misery," Ian said, "follow the trail of blood I'll leave behind me."
Ian left.
Neither father nor son said goodbye.
Once Ian was gone, a servant brought Nathaniel a phone and backed quickly out of the room.
Nathaniel hadn't asked for the phone.
He hadn't needed to.
Nathaniel made a call.
He spoke to the man who answered.
Nathaniel said, "Continue with the project, but you may want to prepare yourself for a new boss."
Nathaniel ended the call and held the phone over his shoulder.
A servant was already waiting to take it.
1. FATHER AND SON
"You're such a disappointment."
Nathianel Rothcraft had once said that to his son Ian.
"You're such a disappointment."
Ian Thomas Rothcraft had said that frequently to his son, Junior. Or Henry. Or Ian Thomas Glenisle-Rothcraft.
It didn't matter.
A rose by any other name.
A disappointment by any other name.
Yet today, with the promise of spring bringing a hopeful warmth to the streets of Manhattan above them, Ian Sr. and his father tolerated a table together in a private room in a private club beneath the streets -- a place where the staff served without speaking and possessed an uncanny ability to read the minds of members and bring whatever was desired before it was even requested.
Ian and Nathaniel sat with stiff politeness, a very nice bottle of wine between them, their glasses filled and untouched, plates of their favorite delicacies cooling undisturbed. All brought without asking.
Neither man ate. Neither man drank. They simply stayed still and stared at each other across the expanse of table, thin smiles on their faces, no body language betraying their intent.
Which, in the case of Ian, was a pressing temptation to leap across the table and plunge his fork into his father's left eye.
Not an uncommon thought on the rare occasions when he dined with his father.
As for Nathaniel's motives, Ian could scarcely speculate. Suffice to say, it was probably as equally unpleasant as a fork to an eye, although likely not nearly as savage. Ian was much more hands-on than his father was. His father, while no less dangerous, was far more subtle. He didn't like to get his hands dirty, and he could afford to keep them clean.
Not that there was any real threat of violence. Both men rested their hands, palms down, on the table. The mildly pleasant looks never left their faces.
The servers had served in silence and retreated and now the quiet hung in the air with a thickness louder than noise. The lack of conversation said plenty enough.
It was the elder Rothcraft who broke the metaphorical ice.
"You've been reinstated," he said.
"Months ago," Ian responded. "I'm fairly certain you already knew that."
Nathaniel nodded.
"I'm sure you know the conditions of my reinstatement as well," Ian added.
Nathaniel nodded again.
"Welcomed back into your precious Toolbox -- as long as you don't harm your son," Nathaniel said. "And as long you don't dress so formally."
The word "formally" dripped with sarcasm as Nathaniel slowly eyed the suit that Ian wore.
"One out of two ain't bad," Ian said with the slightest hint of irony.
"Rebellious to the end," Nathanial said. Whether this was a statement of admiration or disapproval, it was difficult to know, as Nathaniel's voice never wavered.
"I grew a beard," Ian pointed out. "That's rather informal. And I'm not going to kill my son."
"Not killing your son must kill you," Nathaniel said, his smile spreading to a self-satisfied grin in response to his own wit.
Ian ignored his father's play on words and treated the statement seriously.
"I'm not entirely happy about it," Ian admitted, "but since this is my last chance, I figure it best to adhere to the most important conditions of my new contract. I doubt anyone will object too strongly to my fashion choices. Sparing my son is entirely different. I'll respect that. Besides, it's not as if I could go to a lawyer to help me negotiate the removal of the 'don't kill your son' clause."
"'My last chance,'" Nathaniel repeated. "How many last chances have you been given, Ian?"
Ian winced. "More than one," he said.
'"More than one,'" Nathaniel repeated. "An understatement. I can't believe you've survived this long. How many employers have fired you?"
"Two," Ian said, "although I wouldn't confuse my unemployment with a traditional firing. My first employer ended our relationship by serving me up as an inexhaustible food supply to cannibals. My second organization cut ties after I took a prolonged vacation without approval. Of course, both employers had megalomaniacs at the helm, and I could not feign the part of a sniveling sycophant forever. Moving on was inevitable."
"You worked for women at both places," Nathaniel said.
"I did," Ian said.
"You work for a woman now," Nathaniel said.
"I do," Ian said.
"How's that working out for you?" Nathaniel asked.
"If you're implying that I'm a misogynist, I must correct you," Ian said. "As I once told a prom date decades ago: I'm a misanthrope."
"The one you shot?" Nathaniel asked.
"Yes, the one I shot," Ian replied.
"I'm sure as she bled out she was relieved to know that you didn't hold a grudge against her gender," Nathaniel said, sarcasm once again dominating his tone.
"I didn't shoot her because I'm a sexist," Ian said. "I shot her because she was annoying. I never objected to working for women. I object to working for people in general. I prefer to act independently and behave as I wish. That attitude tends to get me into trouble."
"And here you are," Nathaniel said. "Back at the Toolbox. Where killers go to rot. Rock bottom, even by your standards. Still it suits you. I'm glad someone finally found a use for you."
If Nathaniel meant the observation as an insult, his son didn't take it as one.
"I'm good at what I do, and they know precisely how to respect me," Ian said. "I'm given jobs, and I'm given leeway within reason. It's refreshing."
"I'm sure sleeping with your boss doesn't hurt your standing, yet you somehow almost managed to burn a bridge with the bottom of the barrel," Nathaniel said. "As I said: You're rebellious, almost to the point of pettiness."
"Petty rebelliousness is preferable to the rebellion exhibited by my son," Ian retorted. "Right now, my rebellion is limited to wearing a tie. My son once shot me in the face."
"Given the chance," Nathaniel pointed out, "you would gladly shoot me in the face, Ian."
Ian considered this comment as he reached for his glass.
"That's not true," Ian said.
He paused and added, "I wouldn't let you off that easy, Father."
Ian sipped the wine, nodded his approval, and placed the glass back down.
Nathaniel shook his head and, following his son's lead, picked up his own glass.
"I really do loathe you, Ian," Nathaniel said.
"I know," Ian said evenly. "Which is why I wonder why you invited me to lunch -- particularly as it appears neither of us has much of an appetite. The wine is exquisite though."
Nathaniel sipped and savored. "I quite agree," he said. "As far as the lunch invitation, I had wanted to inquire whether you had followed my advice."
"'Stop killing the maids'?" Ian offered.
"That wasn't advice, Ian," his father corrected. "That was a demand. And it came before you reached puberty. I'm speaking of something more recent."
Ian shrugged and drank more wine.
"In the fall, when I spoke to you in the Hamptons," Nathaniel reminded.
"Ah," Ian said. "You mean when your goons drugged me and dragged me and dropped me before your feet? You'll pardon me if I'm foggy on the details."
"I know you can't kill your son, Ian, and it's probably too much to hope that he'll kill you and spare the family any further embarrassment," Nathaniel said, "but that doesn't mean you can't kill those who set everything in motion."
"You've lost me, Father," Ian said.
"What happened to you required the greasing of palms -- with very expensive grease, I might add," Nathaniel said. "I told you to follow the money."
"So you did," Ian said, "but I abandoned the pursuit once I was reinstated."
"A myopic reaction," Nathaniel said. "You may have spared your son, but what of the men who trapped you in Hell to protect him? Have you forgiven and forgotten?"
Ian frowned at the memory, and immediately hated himself for the reaction. He had shown weakness in front of his father, and so their game of faux civility had ended -- with Ian losing. Ian's emotional reaction -- no matter how slight -- had given his father the upper hand, and Nathaniel smiled more broadly to acknowledge his victory.
Ian regained his composure (no point in making things worse) and asked coolly, "How did you know about that?"
"Oh come on, Ian," Nathaniel scoffed. "Give me some credit. If there's something worth knowing about you, I know it."
Nathaniel reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and slid it across the table.
"Since following the money proved too trying of a task for you and for your playmate," Nathaniel said, "I did the heavy lifting for you."
Ian's playmate: an enemy who had spoken to his father. An enemy who had given Ian a rather amusing fight. An enemy who didn't seem to bother herself with the enemy business these days, likely losing interest after Ian promised to leave his son alone. She had a soft spot for Ian Jr., and since the son no longer required protection, she no longer concerned herself with the father.
Ian picked up the card. There was a name on it and nothing else.
Albert Zidler.
Ian held up the card. "Who is this?" he asked.
"A string worth pulling," Nathaniel said. "One of the so-called men in suits. One of the three who give orders to the woman."
"The woman," Ian said, emphasizing the latter word, "is Alice Glenisle. My fiancée. The boss I am sleeping with, as you so crudely noted. The mother of my current and one-day-to-be-born time-traveling son and daughter."
Nathaniel tut-tutted. "Your taste in women is questionable," he said. "Once you wed beneath your station, your mother will weep for days. I try to comfort her by telling her at least you are no longer engaged to that child Sa…"
"Don't," Ian snapped the interruption, "say her name. Ever."
His father's smile broadened again -- Ian's emotional outburst just enhancing his earlier victory.
Ian continued before his father could gloat further. "Why are you helping me?" he asked as he tucked the card into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Regardless of my personal opinions about you, Ian," Nathaniel answered, "you're still a Rothcraft. We handle our affairs internally. If you killed your son…if he killed you…if I killed you…that's all acceptable. But I'll never stand by idly while someone moves against my family. It would make our empire appear vulnerable, and I simply cannot allow that."
"Self-preservation rather than concern for me," Ian said. "I can respect that."
Ian finished his wine. He stood. His father did not.
"Off so soon?" Nathaniel asked.
"Mr. Zidler isn't going to torture himself," Ian explained.
As always, anticipating a guest's needs, a servant opened the door to the private room so Ian could exit.
"The trail starts with him," Nathaniel said. "If you want to find the source of your misery, follow the money to the men responsible."
"And if you want to find the source of their misery," Ian said, "follow the trail of blood I'll leave behind me."
Ian left.
Neither father nor son said goodbye.
Once Ian was gone, a servant brought Nathaniel a phone and backed quickly out of the room.
Nathaniel hadn't asked for the phone.
He hadn't needed to.
Nathaniel made a call.
He spoke to the man who answered.
Nathaniel said, "Continue with the project, but you may want to prepare yourself for a new boss."
Nathaniel ended the call and held the phone over his shoulder.
A servant was already waiting to take it.
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