The door opened into a completely darkened room.  As she reached blindly around the doorway with one hand, the other holding her gun ready, the sleeve of her just purchased and very expensive jacket snagged on the rough wood of the frame.  Miss Parker swore aloud.  She was sick and tired of the never-ending parade of hotel rooms and apartments that she had been forcing her way into over the past three years.  This one was a little different; at least it seemed so once she had found the light switch.  Usually the rooms were empty except for a few cryptic droppings.  This time he had left something more impressive, she had to give him that.

 "Hey, Syd," she called behind her.  "What do you make of this little creation?"

 The older man walked cautiously into the room behind her.  He was never really sure of where he stood in a situation such as this.  Who was he to help today – the hunter or the hunted?

 As he moved from the darkened hallway into the large room, his eyes attempted to adjust to the brilliant spotlights coming from above.  They were trained on the center of the room on – well, that was creative.

 Miss Parker strolled around the, what could they call it, sculpture?  It certainly took up a great deal of the room.  She estimated the number of blocks, toy wooden blocks, at somewhere around 5000, stacked and placed in an eight-by-ten-foot space at least seven feet tall.  Each rectangular block had been carefully arranged, one on top of another to create a miniature version of the brooding edifice they called The Centre.

 Sydney stayed off to the corner, his arms crossed casually, leaning back on his heels and marveling at his protégé's abilities.  He had to smile, it must have taken Jarod days to do this.

 Making her way around the back side of the structure, Miss Parker noticed a long strip of paper hanging out from between the blocks at eye level.  Not surprisingly, she saw her name written on it.  Jarod did like to play his little tricks.  She pulled the paper out with disgust.  All that, just to tease her with a ridiculous note.

 Inside the wooden monstrosity, where neither she nor the man she was with could see, a single block moved.  That movement caused two other blocks to shift, and then four more, the movement increasing exponentially until the entire side nearest her resembled a wave with hundreds of wooden blocks tumbling toward her feet, to be followed by the company of the other three walls.  Thousands and thousands of wood shapes tumbled to the hard floor, crashing into each other and her legs.  It was a challenge to remain standing, especially in the high heels she wore, and the noise was deafening, bouncing off of the bare walls around them.

 Finally the last block finished its ride, and Miss Parker found herself surrounded up to her shapely calves.  Her ears rung with the cacophony of the crashing blocks as the last reverberations finally abated.  When her hearing returned, she identified the only other sound in the room – it was Sydney, laughing.

 

 The Pretender crossed the street toward the long brick building, his head bowed against the chill wind.  The icy November rain and feeble sunlight conspired to make the sidewalk slippery and he was forced to watch his footing as he carried the black bag toward the institutional looking metal doors.  A strong gust tried to prevent him from opening them but his determination prevailed.

 Once inside, he tried to shrug off the cold that had seeped down behind the collar of his dark leather jacket.  The lights in the lobby were low, but he could hear voices and a constant thump - thump, coming from behind the wooden doors on the other side.  Sitting on a chair alongside the wall, he removed the tools for his next venture: a stopwatch, length of rope and a pair of cross trainers.

 Inside, the bright overhead lights glared onto the polished floor of a high school gymnasium where a dozen young men in various states of undress and sweat practiced shots on four baskets.  A middle-aged man, no less sweaty than the teens and dressed in gray shorts and tee shirt walked up to greet the new arrival.  "You must be the new conditioning coach," he called as he neared to within a few yards.  He used the last few feet of his journey to look over the tall, clean-shaven man before him, then offered a firm, appraising handshake.

 "It looks as if I am.  The name is Jarod Johnson."  Releasing himself from the other man's grip, Jarod looked around the room at the various players.  There was a motley mix of youths, tall, short, and everywhere in-between, practicing their lay-ups and dribbling skills.

 "Welcome to St. Bonaventure, Jarod. I’m Steve D’amico, the head basketball coach.  I’m the one who requested that the school board bring you in."  He gestured around the gym. "We’ve got a great bunch of kids here, and they play a helluva game, well, at least for the first half.  The powers that be thought a little conditioning might help us get through a full game.  If truth be known, I’m a pretty good play-caller, but I don’t exactly lead the team when it comes to physical fitness."  He looked down at the sweat stains on his shirt, and the spare tire around his middle, laughed and tapped Jarod's abdomen with the back of his hand.  "It doesn't look like you've got more than 2% body fat on you, you'll be a good example for the boys.  Come on, Ill acquaint you with the team."

"Coach Johnson" was officially introduced to the group of boys, to more than a few groans and half-hearted complaints.  He countered with question about the teams recent games, first half versus second, and was rewarded with silence.  When he introduced a drill to determine each boys strengths and weaknesses, they grudgingly followed his lead, and as the testing continued, he could see that each one was trying to prove what shape they were in.  By the end of the hour, it was obvious to everyone, especially the boys, how much they would need Jarod's help.

As he worked his way through the group, Jarod's attention was drawn to one particular youth he saw sitting high in the bleachers along one wall.  The boy sat motionless, watching with intensity, but dressed in street clothes.  Neither Coach D’amico nor the other boys seemed to pay him notice.

 After practice, both men headed toward the coach's office.  "I’d like to give you your own office," the coach opened up a door to a small but tidy room with desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet and a wall full of pictures, awards and trophies, "but we're a little tight with space.  If you want, you can use the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, but we're going to have to share the desk."

  "That's alright, most of what I need I carry with me in here."  Jarod lifted his black bag up onto the chair then looked around at the wall of memories, reading some of the engravings on different items in a display case.  "This is quite a collection of honors you've got here.  Division championships, tournament championships.  There's got to be twenty five different trophies here."

 Coach D’amico smile ruefully.  "At least.  Those were the glory days for St. Bonaventure.  Twenty years ago there wasn't a school in any division that could beat us.  We sent more than a few kids to college on scholarships.  Back then, the school practically lived basketball.  Businessmen were giving grants, endowments; you name it, all in the name of the game.  Kids wanted to come here to play; we actually had to turn away boys that would have made the team at any other school.  Basketball put this school on the map.  I was lucky enough to be involved in those teams."  He paused to point out a scrawny looking youth in an aged picture.  "That's me, if you can believe it, twenty-five years and fifty pounds ago.  We were Division I champs."  He smiled at the memory.

 "But none of these championships are less than fifteen years old.  What happened to the basketball program?"

 "Greed, I guess," came back a quiet answer.  "People started doing stupid things to guarantee a win.  The game became more important than the school; things just got out of hand. There was some cheating, some grading scams, a few kids with problems.  On top of everything else, the neighborhood around here started changing, so when the school didn't consistently win, the kids stopped wanting to come here.  It was a real mess."  The coach stood shaking his head, staring at the photos, then suddenly cheered.  "But all that's in the past. The school board decided to take a pro-active approach, and given the school's past history, they decided to put some of their money back into the basketball program. This year we've got a good team with a lot of heart, and people are starting to take notice of us again.  Folks are coming to the games, talking about sending their kids here again.  We're not as good as those glory teams," he waved toward the trophy adorned wall, "but I think we're doing things a little smarter this time.  That's one of the reasons you're here."

 Jarod scanned the numerous team photos while the coached talked.  He stopped at one and pointed to one of the player's.  "This boy, he looks just like the one that was sitting on the bench, but here he's in uniform.  Is he injured?"

 Coach D’amico sat behind the metal desk and poured a glass of water from a large thermal jug.  "That's not the same kid.  That one there is Jack Dawson, one of the best forwards we ever had.  Had a great college career too.  Could have had a shot at the NBA, but that year the scouts wanted someone a couple inches taller.  Nowadays, with talent like his, he still would have made it, but back then, they were pretty big on size.

 "Now his son John, he's got the size and the talent, but he doesn't have the heart.  Every couple of days, he comes in and watches practice, but he refuses to suit up.  The thing of it is, I know that deep down inside he wants to play, but since his dad died, he just won't.  He's been like that for over a year now, no matter what I say to him.  The worst thing is, we could really use him on this team, he could make a difference."  The coach finished his water and stood up.  "I'm going to hit the showers now that the kids are done.  If you want to stay, just pull the door closed when you leave.  Otherwise, Ill see you again tomorrow night."  Once again he put out his hand to shake Jarod's.  "It's good having you around, I think you're going to have some real positive impact here."

 "I hope so," Jarod answered as the older man walked past him out into the hall.  Once alone, he sat on the other chair, reached into the black bag and pulled out a red notebook.  The newspaper articles were taped inside, each with their bold script headlines and accompanying pictures.

   "Man Killed In Freak Construction Accident"

  "Father's Unrealized Dream Alive in Athlete Son"

Jarod read through the articles once again, then replaced the book in his bag and with one last look at the picture of Jack Dawson, walked out into the hallway.

 

 When Jarod walked out of the elevator on the fifth floor of the Coneely Building the next day, he was dressed in a stylish but subdued suit, his coat over one arm and a portfolio in the other.  He looked at the empty reception desk in front of him, and the gold letters that spelled "Arthur Coneely & Associates, Architects" against the rosewood wall behind it.   On either side of the wall was a hallway leading back to offices.  Jarod was just about to start down one side to look at the gold name plaques on each door when the first of them on the left opened up and an older, distinguished looking man stepped out.  He, too, wore a suit, a dark gray that contrasted starkly with his full head of white hair.  His eyes, bright blue and friendly, instantly found his visitor's and were joined by a full smile.

"You must be Jarod," he called out, unknowingly echoing the coach from the day before.  "Come in, come in.  It's good to finally see you in person.  I've been looking forward to meeting with you since our last phone call.  I appreciate you coming in so early.  Come in and sit down," he offered, leading the way back toward his office.  His voice had only the slightest hint of an accent, something learned from parents who had grown up in the old country, more than one who had spent much time there himself.  He pointed toward two comfortable high-backed chairs and a glass coffee table near one wall.  "I've been re-reading your resume’, its quite impressive.   You're just back from Europe then.  Have you had the opportunity to settle down anywhere yet?"

 "You could say I've been wandering," Jarod replied.

 "I see you've brought your portfolio along.  Let’s see what you've got."

 Jarod opened the case and took a moment to glance around the office as the older man leafed through the oversize papers.  The room was elegant but functional, with a drafting table along the same wall as the table and chairs.  A few choice photographs and sketches of buildings graced the other wall, and three large windows looked out onto the lake.  In front of the windows, a computer and monitor sat on a large desk, the same rich wood as the walls.  Other than a few papers, the only other item on the desk was a frame, inside of which resided a photograph of a man and a young child.  Jarod was not close enough to see a resemblance to the man inspecting the drawings in front of him.

 For a few nervous minutes, the older man was completely silent as he scanned the items in front of him with a practiced eye. Suddenly his head snapped up and stared at Jarod.  "Did you do all of these by yourself, alone?"

 Jarod was taken aback but he did not allow the other man to see it.  "Yes," he said cautiously.  "I haven’t had the opportunity to work with other people on this type of thing."

 His face relaxed into a smile.  "You do some fine work, Jarod, it reminds me of Frank Lloyd Wright’s.  I see a few elements of the Prairie School in some of these, and this cantilevered structure is intriguing.  Have you studied at Taliesin?"

 Jarod also relaxed.  "No, I haven’t had the opportunity, but I have studied some of his designs."

 "Well, I'm just as impressed with your work as I am with your resume’.  I think that it’s safe to say that, if you would like it, there’s a place here at Coneely & Associates for you and your ideas.  Mind, you'll have to get used to working with a group here.  Many of our projects are a collaborative effort, and Ill expect you to be able to work as a team player."

 "I don’t think you have to worry about that, Mr. Coneely.  I have little problem adapting to new situations. In fact, I’d like to get started as soon as possible."

 Both men turned to look as the door to the office was unexpectedly knocked upon and opened at the same time.  A woman walked in, holding a long roll of blueprints.  She stopped abruptly just inside the office, startled to see a stranger in the room.  "I'm sorry, Arthur," she apologized, confusion mixed with a certain amount of wariness in her voice. "I didn't know you had a meeting.  Ill just leave these on your desk."

 "Not at all, not at all."  Arthur rose from his seat and motioned for the woman to come over to the table.  "I'm glad you came in.  I want you to meet Jarod.  Jarod Johnson, this is, Hannah Braun, my right hand here at the firm."

 As the woman slowly moved out from behind the door and toward Jarod's outstretched hand, he had the chance to get a better look at her.  She looked to be in her early thirties, perhaps a bit above average in height, and below in weight. The long skirt and blouse she wore were functional, but not fashionable.  Not exactly in the same league as Miss Parker, he thought to himself.  Her dark hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck in a severe ponytail, and her face showed only a minimal amount of make-up, but her gray eyes held an intensity that in a happier face might have been a sparkle.  Instead, she seemed watchful, defensive.

 Her handshake was firm, but her eyes never left his, as if she were trying to wrest some secret from his gaze.  Her voice was coolly cordial.  "My pleasure.  What brings you to ACA?"

   Arthur Coneely jumped in before Jarod could get a word out.  His quiet words were couched in soothing, almost apologetic tones.  "Jarod is going to be joining us."

   Hannah’s eyes widened, and she glanced down at the open portfolio. Her voice was now icy, sarcastic.  "Oh really.  Welcome to the firm."  She turned away abruptly and headed toward the door.

   Arthur’s voice, now stronger, stopped her in her tracks.  "Hannah?"

   She did not bother to turn around, her hand on the doorknob.  "Yes?"

   "We need to put Jarod in Number 3.  You have the keys, don’t you?  Could you open it up for him?"

   She made no move for a long moment, but they could see her shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths.  Finally she spoke.  "If you’d like."  She walked quickly out of the office.

   The older man shook his head sadly as he watched her leave.  "You’ll have to excuse Hannah.  She has some issues to work through, just as we all do.  She’ll show you to your new office.  Why don’t you get acquainted with everything, fill out the necessary forms and you can start tomorrow morning."  He cast a fatherly smile toward Jarod as he handed him his coat.  "I do want you to know how happy I am that you'll be joining the team."

   Jarod caught up with Hannah Braun at the front desk as she pulled a key off of a large ring.  "Follow me," she commanded as she walked in front of the mirror-like elevator doors and down the opposite side hallway.  "The bathroom is all the way to the back, the breakroom is right in front of it, and the coffee is free.  You can use the refrigerator to store your lunch, or else there’s a deli across the street."  She spoke everything in a strained monotone, never looking back at him as they passed two doors and stopped at the third.  She seemed to pause to take a deep breath before she finally put the key into the door lock.  Jarod wondered about the reason for her reticence.

   Inside, the office was not spacious, but a good size.  Like the room he had just been in, it had both a drafting table and a desk with computer and monitor.  Along one wall was a large plotter, capable of creating the oversize plans that Jarod would be expected to create.  Two moderately sized windows looked out onto another shorter building and across the skyline.  Jarod set down the portfolio and walked to the window.  "This is a nice view of the city."

   For a moment the woman stared past him out the glass, and when she next spoke, her voice was soft, as were her eyes.  "It's really beautiful at night, with all of the lights.  When it snows, you can watch it swirl-" She stopped suddenly, and Jarod watched as her face fell, then transformed once again into a hard mask, her mouth set, her body rigid.  "Ill get you the password for the computer along with your employment forms.  You can fill them out and leave them at the front desk."  She turned quickly and walked out the door.

   Jarod stood for a moment in the doorframe of his new office, holding the red notebook in his hand.  He turned past the page with the story of John Dawson and his eyes were greeted with the bold lettering of another headline:

     "Area Architect Blamed for Death of Local Basketball Hero"

Below was another picture of Jack Dawson and one of Hannah Braun.  His eyes followed her as she walked down the hallway toward the front desk.

 

   Hannah held her body taut as she walked down the carpeted aisle.  She watched in horror as her hands visibly shook, she held them in front of her so that he would not be able to see.  As she neared the front lobby, she felt the hair on her neck stand on end, that familiar feeling of being watched, of being judged.  She glanced up at the elevator doors, not perfectly reflective but shiny enough that she could see all the way down the hall behind her.  He was watching her, not only watching, but he seemed to be glaring at her!

   Spinning around, she looked back down the hall.  There was no one there.

 

 In a short time, Jarod had met five other architects and some of the miscellaneous staff who worked at the firm.  There were eight offices like his own, and the floor above where the meeting room, library and accounting offices were.  The other staff were warm and inviting, in marked contrast to the chilly Ms. Braun.  She remained obviously silent as she walked past him as he stood in the doorway of his new office, tossed a sheaf of employment papers on his desk and walked back out of the room.

 Jarod was still staring toward the hall in disbelief when a corpulent man in a rumpled suit walked past him as he stood in the doorway of into the office.  As he passed through the doorway, his eyes followed Jarod's and he shook his head as sat down in the chair opposite the desk.  He handed Jarod a long cigar.

 "I see you've met the she-tiger," he joked while he worked to light his own cigar, then handed the lighter to Jarod.  "She’ll have a fit when she smells these in here."  He took a few puffs, then stood up to close the door.  He returned to reach across the desk with his beefy hand as Jarod sat down behind it.  "Hal Brockton, senior underling here.  Everyone calls me Brock."  He sat down again, leaning back in the chair and luxuriating in the ring of smoke that soon encircled his head.

Jarod eyed the cigar, sniffing it like a connoisseur as he studied his uninvited guest.  The man in front of him certainly enjoyed his cigars. His pale blue eyes squinted into the folds of his fleshy face, his lips pursed with determination as he inhaled once again.

"If you don’t mind, I’d like to save this for later."

"That's fine.  Not everyone goes for a good cigar first thing in the morning.  Personally, I prefer this to a cup of coffee."  He waved his hand toward the door.  "About Frau Braun there.  Don't let her walk all over you.  She thinks that she runs this place, but just between you and me, she's caused more trouble for the firm than she's worth.  Still, she got hold of the old man's heartstrings, so you don’t want to get on her bad side right away."

 Jarod tucked the cigar into the breast pocket of his suit, and looked up conspiratorially.   "Oh, really.  Just what kind of trouble has she caused?"

 "Well, " Brockton started, seemingly hesitant to divulge information.  "I don’t like to spread rumors, but the old man told me that he hired you on, so I figure you might as well hear the story right up front, just in case you might want to change your mind or something when you know the truth.  About a year or so back, Miss High and Mighty back there screwed up the design for an office building.  One of the construction workers was killed in a collapse at the site and the firm took a pretty serious hit.  Insurance covered the damages and the like, but our credibility took a beating, clients were leaving like rats off a sinking ship. We used to have twice as many people on staff, but the old man had to let some retire, the other half of them move on.  Against everyone’s better judgment, old softhearted Coneely decided to keep Frau Braun on, though I don’t honestly know why.  She likes to make trouble, she’ll do anything to make herself look better, while the rest of us have been working our butts off to keep this thing afloat.

 "Ill watch my step around her.  Thanks for the info," Jarod paused slightly, "Brock."

 Heaving himself out of the chair, Brockton headed toward the door.  "No problem.  I always say ‘Know thine enemy.’  That goes for your friends as well.  Listen, buddy, if I can help you with anything else, or you just want to stop in for a smoke, I've got the big office next to the old man's.  If the door is closed," he waved his smoking cigar, "you'll know I started without you."

 

 Half an hour later, Jarod walked toward the front desk looking for someone to discuss the employment forms with.  The door to Arthur Coneely’s office was only partially closed and he could hear a murmur of voices from behind it.  Suddenly one grew louder and he could pick out a woman’s distressed words.

 "I understand it had to be done, but why today of all days?  I have enough to deal with without you throwing this on top.  Couldn’t you have waited until tomorrow?"

 The older gentleman’s response was indistinguishable except the conciliatory tone.

 "I'm sorry, but I don’t care," her nearly hysterical voice replied.  "I have done everything I could to get past it, but I just can’t deal with him in there!  Not today!"

 The door to the office opened suddenly and Jarod was caught watching as the drama finished.

 Arthur was patient but firm.  His hand was on the woman’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort.  "I'm sorry Hannah, but I didn't want to take the chance on him going somewhere else.  You know as well as I that the firm needed some fresh blood.  Jarod is a talented young man, I'm sure he's had other offers since he came back from Europe.  I had to take the opportunity to hire him while he was here, I'm sorry, I didn't do it to disturb you.  Listen, dear, why don’t you take the rest of the day off, just get away for a little while?"

 The younger woman wrenched her shoulder from beneath his attempt at consolation, her actions making it obvious that she saw the older man's suggestion as an order.  With a malicious glare, she strode past Jarod to the closet, grabbed a long, gray coat and smashed the elevator call button.  To everyone’s relief, the doors opened almost immediately, and she stepped inside.

 As the elevator closed, Arthur glanced up at Jarod, then motioned for him to follow into his office.  He offered him a seat in front of his desk and sat down behind it wearily, casting his eyes at the picture on the corner.  He picked up the frame and held it in his lap as he rocked gently in the chair.  To his frustration, Jarod could still not see the picture clearly.

 "Once again it seems that I'm apologizing for Hannah.  I want you to know that her behavior today is not normal, at least for her.  I should have sent her home before you came; I don’t even know why she came in today.  Unfortunately there is such a thing as too dedicated."  He glanced up at the man across the desk.   "Now, apology aside, you were standing there with a handful of papers before this whole episode exploded in front of you.  What can I help you with?"

 Jarod explained that the employment forms asked for an address and as of yet, he had not rented an apartment.  He did not wish to put down an address that might be changing in a few days.  As a stalling tactic, he thought that he could win at least a week’s time with this excuse before someone insisted on his vital information.

 The gambit only worked so well.  The older man insisted that Jarod take all the time he needed to hunt for a new home.  "I’d rather not have you worried about viewing some apartment building when you should be designing one instead. Take the time you need, and when you've found your place and gotten all moved in, come back and be ready for some hard work.  I've got a project that's stalled and I think that you're just the impetus it needs."

 

 

Part 2