Chapter 9: The Dorian Collective
The Winds Are Changing, My Friend
From the stairwell, the hallway stretched before Harvey like an endless sea of tiles. Even the dim overhead lights faded to dark color-torn shadows as he passed. It forced a shiver to break from Harvey’s spine as he struggled just to put one foot in front of the other, nausea still chipping away at his insides.
He scanned the hallway gravitating towards the grime that lined the base of the walls. It congregated most near the worn chair rail running parallel with Harvey’s feet. Everything about the place, albeit seedy, could’ve been ignored if it weren’t for the subtle odor that clung to the stagnant air. That did it in.
Despite his better judgement, Harvey limped his way to a cluster of doors huddled tightly around a rotunda at the farthest end of the hallway. He scanned each door in order for apartment numbers—some easily accessible, others scraped from the wall and erased from existence.
He paused at a particularly unusual door. It was missing the mechanism to deadbolt, replaced with a single rip of duct tape across its opening. The door itself had been slathered with multiple new coats of red paint, the chipping flecks of past work still remarkably visible underneath. Harvey traced the sweeping strokes of the paintbrush with his fingers, running along the crests of motionless waves until he reached the uppermost panel. Just right of the door, a rusted bronze name plate announced:
ROBERT EMERSON, ESQ.
32E West Harding Road, Richmond Hill, NY
Harvey lifted his fist to knock, but the door swung open before his knuckles met the wood. A sullen, anxious man entered the frame, half-shadowed by the backdropped darkness of the office within. He said nothing, only stared through the space he’d made.
“Robert Emerson?” Harvey asked. “Were you at the—”
“Keep your voice down,” he whispered.
The door swung inward and Emerson stepped into the hallway, suddenly face-to-face with Harvey.
“You’re him alright,” Harvey confirmed. “I recognize your voice.”
Something in Emerson’s stature—the way he stood with his arm perpendicular to the wall, his weight leaning into his left hip, the disheveled half-tuck of his short-sleeved shirt, the strange magenta retro-seventies tie to compliment—reminded Harvey he had no business chasing this man through the city, particularly in his current state.
“What are you waiting for? Come in,” Emerson pleaded. His arms motioned Harvey with rigid, angled swipes. “Quickly, please. Quickly.”
He slid the door shut until the handle clicked, then slid two silver chain locks into place with a series of metallic scrapes.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” said Emerson.
“Me either,” Harvey replied.
Emerson’s faux-friendly tone struck Harvey as more than just bizarre. It felt intentional. It toed the line between enigmatic and insidious, akin to a total stranger offering someone a bag of cash.
“You’re a lawyer?” Harvey asked.
Emerson shuffled to the window, peering out to the street below. He answered as he worked.
“Fifteen years and counting.”
He caught Harvey’s wandering stare, scanning the two-room office space with cautious eyes. Centered at the end of the foyer sat a standard rectangular desk littered with stacks of rummaged legal documents, a mug of overused and mismatched pens, and a boxy desktop computer covered in a generous display of multicolored sticky notes.
“Interesting place,” Harvey continued. “Been here long?”
Wires snaked from the desk in almost every direction, feeding power to a dingy keyboard, a bulky printer on the floor, and an out-of-place flatbed scanner stuffed precariously onto the top of an already cramped filing cabinet. Save for a stained swivel chair and two collapsible non-swivelers, the room lacked the confidence a veteran lawyer should have.
“Listen Robert, I don’t want to sound rude, but—”
Emerson lifted a hand to hush Harvey. He shook his head and closed his eyes as he did it, perhaps more vigorously than Harvey expected.
“I know what you’re about to say,” Emerson answered. “I know it’s not much, but it’s mine. To me, that’s enough.”
Harvey chuckled to himself. There was a reason why Dom chose Emerson to keep his secrets over other, more prominent attorneys but, until now, Harvey couldn’t understand why.
“I’m sorry. I meant no offense. It’s just—”
Another lift of Emerson’s hand and a shake of his head.
“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Harvey,” he interrupted. “In fact, I’m the one who should be doing the explaining. You’re here for Dom’s last wishes.”
“But that’s the thing, I’m not sure—”
This time, Harvey stopped himself. A nervous uncertainty overcame him to the point where his thoughts felt displaced from the words meant to explain them.
Emerson stepped forward.
“Dom hired me for one reason,” he explained, “and that reason was you.”
To the farthest corner of the room he shuffled, sliding a waist-high bookshelf from the wall with a grunt. He glanced over his shoulder before kneeling beside an enclosure at his feet. Its half-moon opening extended far enough into the wall to be swallowed by its own shadows.
“Your friend kept a lot of secrets. He knew the danger he was in. As far as I know, he documented it all,” he said. “Every last bit.”
Harvey stepped closer, but Emerson timidly shielded the enclosure with his body.
“Please step back, Harvey,” he said, tone bordering on intimidation. “Dom’s secrets aren’t the only secrets in here.”
Harvey stepped backward until he felt his shoulders make contact with the wall. Emerson, assured by Harvey’s deference, slid something inordinately heavy from within the enclosure.
“Dom always loved how meticulous I could be,” Emerson chuckled. “I can’t count how many times he told me I was the right person for the job.”
The object was a nondescript safe—painted black and pushed far enough into the wall to blend in—hid among its own shadows. It wasn’t much to look at—particularly from Harvey’s angle—but its foreboding nature was enough to prove the worth hidden inside.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to turn around,” Emerson said, “for peace of mind, at least.”
Emerson turned so that his shoulders barricaded the safe, his fingers working vigorously at the first of two dials. He spun the left clockwise and the dial to the right counterclockwise simultaneously until he found the correct position of both. The metal handle settled into a definitive click. He listened closely as he narrowed in on the third and final dial, dropping his ear until he heard the deadbolt pull itself away from the lock.
“There,” he said, cranking the handle to pull open the door. “We’re in.”
Emerson shuffled through the safe’s contents with both hands until he found what he was looking for and, immediately, slammed the safe shut.
“What kind of lawyer are you?” Harvey asked.
Emerson chuckled at Harvey’s sudden interest.
“Just your standard, run-of-the-mill probate lawyer,” he said, “but every once in a while, I attract some interesting clientele...like Dom.”
Emerson noticed Harvey’s infatuation with the safe.
“I made it myself,” he said. “It’s state of the art. One of a kind.”
“It’s…” Harvey answered, searching for the right word, “...remarkable.”
Emerson raised a tri-folded packet of lined paper replete with Dom’s recognizable chicken scratch longhand.
“He wanted me to read this to you, but only once. He made it clear that I must dispose of it upon conclusion,” Emerson explained, “and I intend to respect his wishes.”
Harvey wanted more—needed more, actually—but knew whatever information he craved would not come from Emerson, so despite the flood of questions muddling his thoughts, Harvey simply nodded while Emerson unfolded the flaps of worn paper clasped between his fingers.
“Harvey,” Emerson began. “If you’re reading this, something’s happened to me. This may have come as a surprise to you, but rest assured, not for me. From the very beginning, I understood exactly what I was getting myself into when I went down this path. I knew the dangers. I knew the risks. So don’t think—for one second—that I was caught off-guard, okay?”
Emerson lifted his eyes to scan for emotional cracks in Harvey’s deadpan stare, but found nothing. Harvey listened as stoically as any man could.
Emerson continued.
“There are only two people in this world that understand the full scope of what I know—you and me—which is why I’ve chosen you to carry on the work. It’s a burden I wish on no one, but letting it die along with me is not an option. Harvey, it’s our responsibility to undo what these people—these monsters—have done and correct the world’s order…” Emerson paused, “...before it’s too late.
“Right now, the world is in flux. We’re standing on the edge of a cliff with our eyes closed, hoping the wind won’t topple us to our deaths, but Harvey—”
Emerson paused for a second time, anxiety constricting his already shallow breathing. What he read was fresh for his ears, too. Harvey leaned forward.
“Please,” Harvey said. “Continue.”
Emerson exhaled, calming his shaking fingers enough to center his eyes to the page.
“The winds are changing, my friend, and if we’re not careful, it’ll send us all off the ledge before we can do anything about it.
“What I’ve found is not for the faint of heart. I’ve paid Robert Emerson a substantial amount of money to keep this between you and I. He’ll be receiving that money only once you, Harvey, have confirmed he’s completed his task. He’s been instructed to destroy every shred of evidence, anything that could be linked back to you in any way.”
Emerson swiveled to his desk and raised a miniature brass key into the waning sunlight filtering through the westernmost window.
“Mr. Emerson will hand you a key. Keep it safe. It unlocks everything you’ll ever need to know about the Dorian Collective. I wish I could tell you where, but even that is too risky. Hopefully my clues will be enough to get you there. The future of our country, of our world, depends on you now, Harvey. I can only hope I’m doing the right thing.”
Emerson handed Harvey the key. He allowed it to tumble through his fingers, watching the light from the window reflect in its subtle orange hue. Across its base—attached to its grated trunk—a chipped plastic covering hid an inscription lasered into the surface, just above the upper ridge. He lifted the lip and ran his finger across it, but whatever had been written there had been long scraped away.
“I’ve stashed everything you need in a place that only you and I would know,” Emerson read, “a place the Collective would never think to look.”
Emerson found the corner of his desk and sat there in a half-leaning, one-legged pose. The letter sent nerves winding through his shoulders.
“This is bigger than all of us, Harvey. I’ve taken you this far, but it’ll be up to you to finish it.”
Emerson slid his forefinger across the page as he read each word. It kept his place in the reading when his eyes could not.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t get emotional, but it appears as though that won’t be happening. So here it goes—
“I wish we had our chance to reunite, Harvey. There was so much I needed to tell you, so much left unsaid. I guess deep down I just knew we were on different paths. You wanted a family. I wanted justice. You and I both know those things don’t usually mix.
“I understand why you left Boston after the incident, but if I’m being honest? I wish you stuck around. I wish you helped me fight. I was angry for the longest time, but the universe works in mysterious ways. Our falling out meant something and, one of these days, we’ll understand exactly what that is. Everything comes full circle, whether we like it or not.”
Emerson lifted himself from the corner of the desk and retreated to the swivel chair, its lonely appearance made worse by the displaced bookshelf jackknifed from the corner of the wall. He leaned his elbows onto the surface of the desk so that he could focus every bit of his attention on Harvey.
“It says to stop here and ask if you wish to continue. He has more to say, but he feared this may be too much, so he’s offering you an out.”
Dom’s voice rattled through Harvey’s brain like an infinite recording—the apologies, the affirmations, the requests.
“Harvey? Did you hear me?” Emerson asked. “I need an answer.”
Harvey had somehow collapsed into his knees, lowering his entire upper body enough to press his face into the seat of his lap.
“Keep reading,” he answered. “I need to hear it.”
Emerson nodded.
“When you think of me, Harvey, don’t feel bad. I knew exactly what I was doing. I—and no one else—decided to charge those monsters head-on. I’ve always believed in the truth, never just someone else’s version of it.”
Tears finally overwhelmed Harvey’s eyelids. Dom’s words felt like a final embrace, the closure he needed. Emerson peered up from the letter before he continued.
“Okay, Harvey. Listen carefully to what I’m about to say. Mr. Emerson will only read it once. It’s the last bit of information you’ll need. Are you ready?”
Harvey nodded.
“The key’s for the one place you and I never once traveled together, but always knew apart.”
Emerson’s fingers squeezed tighter at the paper’s edges.
“Farewell, Harvey. Good luck,” he said. “Sincerely, Dom.”
Emerson snatched a lighter from the nearest desk drawer and held the corner of the paper over the outstretched flame. The fire caught quickly and climbed, sending a smattering of shriveled ashen flakes to the desktop, smoldering in the ashtray Emerson had dragged from the opposite corner of the desk. He didn’t stop until the entire letter had been torched.
“Do you have any other questions for me?”
Harvey peered up at Emerson. His eyes had found tears, too.
“That’s it? What now?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I suppose you finish what Dom started, like he asked.”
Harvey pried himself from his chair and paced the room, toying with the stubble at his jaw with the pads of his fingers.
“I don’t even know where to start, but—”
The blank stare across Emerson’s face cut his words short. Beads of sweat rolled down his face to his neck where it pooled in the collar of his button-down shirt.
“Robert?” Harvey asked. “Are you okay?”
But Emerson didn’t respond, merely lifted his eyes to the clock.
“Do you have someplace to be?” Harvey asked.
Several eerie seconds passed before Emerson freed the moment with a congenial, yet melancholy sigh.
“I think it’s time to say goodbye,” Emerson answered. “I have a few loose ends to tie up before I go.”
It was not the response Harvey expected. He rose from the metal chair and peered down at the lawyer who sat uncomfortably stiff, unmoving.
“Robert? Are you...okay?”
“I do need one more thing from you,” he answered.
He scribbled a phone number onto a sticky note and handed it to Harvey.
“When she answers—” Emerson explained, “and it has to be a she—tell her I’ve forgotten what I’ve come here for.”
Harvey nodded.
“Of course,” answered Harvey. “Who’s on the other end?”
“Repeat it back to me.”
The newfound growl in Emerson’s voice shook Harvey more than he let on.
“I’ve forgotten what I’ve come here for.”
“Good,” Emerson nodded. “Don’t forget.”
Harvey shuffled to the door, stopping before his fingers reached the doorknob. He glanced over his shoulder, just enough to catch Emerson in his peripheral vision.
“You’re sure you’re okay? Thank you for everything you did for—”
Emerson lifted his shoulders to straighten his posture, but the gloomy, almost morose, expression shifted into one of annoyed frustration. It burned holes into Harvey, even from a distance.
“I’m fine,” Emerson answered. “Thank you. Get home safe.”
The silence beyond his words stretched into the space between them, into the void of the voiceless. There were words Harvey wanted to speak, but he had very little energy left to push them forward. Whatever had changed Emerson had also changed him.
So instead, Harvey nodded farewell, then shut the door behind him, listening to—what he thought were—heaving sobs coming from behind the drywall.
***
The landing gear touched down with a flurry of heavy bounces before making a dramatic squeal across the runway. Harvey clutched at his armrests with enough force to rip the plastic clean from its screws—a nasty habit that reared its ugly head whenever he traveled by plane. Only when the overhead lights brightened and the captain’s all-clear barreled through the speakers did he release his swollen fingers and relax.
A heavy New England downpour let go from the blanket of gray clouds above. Streaks skidded sideways across his window as the plane turned itself around and connected with the long caterpillar tendril of a terminal connector.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of our flight crew and the captain today, we’d like to thank you for choosing us to get you where you need to be. We hope you fly with us again very soon.”
The blonde-haired, pixie cut of an attendant smiled as she replaced the microphone and set her attention to the open hatch at her side.
Bodies rustled out of their seats. The clanking of seat belt metal filled the cabin as dozens of latches came undone simultaneously, drooping to the floor in between seats, some hanging into the center aisle. The collective mass ahead of Harvey formed a single line that had already begun migrating towards the terminal bridge.
But Harvey could not tear his eyes away from the flight attendant at the front of the plane. She’d been locked in a whisper conversation with someone just out of sight, hidden by the seal of the boarding bridge. Whatever they discussed had quickly taken a heated turn and raised the hair on Harvey’s skin. He tried to convince himself to think nothing of it, but the naturally anxious shift in her eyes returned to Harvey again and again, sometimes even lifting her hands to half-gesture in his direction.
Harvey slid his duffle bag from the stowaway and stood in the aisle behind the line of passengers ahead of him. As he inched closer, the woman distanced herself, repositioning her body away from the bridge and into the cockpit.
Now why would she go in there? Harvey thought.
He reached the front of the plane and slipped by the open cockpit, but couldn’t see her. She’d vanished amongst the controls and black leather seats.
Harvey kept his eyes low, walking cautiously behind an elderly couple pulling roller-luggage behind them. As his feet met the boarding bridge, a burly man dressed in an unbuttoned suit stepped in front of him, holding an object that appeared to be a badge. His other hand rested on the hilt of his holstered pistol.
“Mr. Divvy, please come with me. We need to talk.”
Adrenaline had already filled every inch of Harvey’s system, enough to keep him from thinking. He swung his duffle bag across his shoulder and into the man’s hip, sending the man barrelling sideways into the railing, groaning a slew of obscenities as he reached for the pain.
Panic inflated Harvey’s chest like a balloon.
This is it, he thought. Agatha sent him. I’m dead…
“Stop him!” the man screamed. “Someone stop that man!”
Harvey pushed his way through the crowd of exiting passengers, sending some scattering to the floor. The airport opened before him—an angled arch of ceiling stretching through a lobby of fast food counters and rows of waiting areas. He slid out from under the ticket kiosk and into the open walkway.
“Harvey Divvy,” the overhead speakers announced, “please report to Terminal B1 immediately. That’s Harvey Divvy, please report—”
Planning was no longer an option. The inflating balloon in his chest had clawed its way into his brain, filling it with a barrage of foggy, turbulent thoughts. He sprinted into a stumble until his vision surrendered to the passing matrices of shapeless bodies. He went toppling across a stretch of carpet into a full skid near an empty waiting area while several onlookers gasped, disappearing behind the nearest curve in the corridor they could find.
“Help me!” he growled. “Help—”
He managed to climb to his feet, but lost control of his arms as someone much stronger ripped them backward and sent him forward into the closest wall.
“Quit fighting,” his restrainer grunted.
But Harvey squirmed as much as he could muster, fighting against the set of hands that felt more like blocks of cement than fingers.
This is it, Harvey thought. Please, God. Help.
“Hold his head still,” Harvey heard.
An elbow pressed deep into his shoulder blade while a forearm pushed into the crown of his skull, fingers tightening through bundles of his hair like a spider descending onto its prey in the tangles of a web.
“Don’t move.”
A syringe slid deep into the soft part of his neck until his veins filled with something more sinister than blood.
“What’re you doing!” Harvey screamed. “Let me go!”
But it was already done. Woozy blurs took hold as Harvey’s legs lost balance. His eyes went to work clawing away at colors. He meant to scream again and again, but his words only sloughed from the corner of his mouth like drool.
“Just relax, Harvey” he heard. “Everything’s fine.”
They brought him down to the laminate floor where he felt nothing but cold twisting into his muscles. Silhouettes of several men loomed overhead, unidentifiable.
This is it, he thought. This is where I die.