Free The Tower of Endless Worlds by Jonathan Moeller Page B

way better job than I could have found otherwise.”  Maura had thrown a fit when she found out he worked for Thomas Wycliffe. She had voted for Senator Fulbright for years. 

    “That Wycliffe is a bad man.”

    Simon hoped Wycliffe didn’t have the phone lines tapped. “He’s a politician. Someone will always think he’s evil. And he’s not a bad guy, really.”

    “The devil’s always a charmer,” said Maura. “Do you think it’s just a coincidence that reporter went crazy, or that Senator Fulbright, God have mercy on his soul, killed himself? Wycliffe had something to do with it.”

    “Mom!” Simon sighed. “That’s just silly. And how can you like Fulbright so much? He and that crazy reporter were into some nasty stuff.”

    “Whatever Wycliffe’s into, I’ll bet it’s nastier,” said Maura.

    Simon sighed. “I don’t have time for this right now. I’ll be home by two.”

    “Don’t forget there’s church tomorrow.”

    “Mom,” said Simon. “When I have missed church?”

    “Three years ago,” said Maura.

    “I had the stomach flu,” said Simon. “I don’t think it would have been good if I had vomited into the sacramental wine.”

    Maura paused. “That’s blasphemy.”

    “It would have been, so I didn’t go,” said Simon. “I’ve got to get back to work. Love you, and see you tomorrow.” He hung up before she had a chance to answer. 

    He sighed and walked over the window, staring at the docks. Why did she have to give him such a hard time? This was the best job he had ever had. It meshed with his class schedule, and after he finished his coursework, he would have time to finish his dissertation. She just didn’t understand. She had never worked a real job. She didn’t understand what it was like to go day after day to a miserable, low-paying job, to sink time and energy and effort into something so hateful.

    Simon pushed the thought away. His mind felt blank, and he needed a break. He picked up a book, locked the office door behind him, and set off for the lounge. Perhaps some coffee would refresh his mind. All the other offices were dark and empty. Everyone had gone home for the weekend, and Senator Wycliffe wouldn’t return from Washington until tomorrow. 

    But there was a light on in the lounge.

    The lounge held a half-dozen round tables, and a row of soda and snack machines stood next to a counter with a sink and a coffee machine (not, thank God, a Marchson Appliances model). Some thoughtful person, probably the janitor, had put on a cup of coffee. Simon retrieved a mug from the cupboard, poured himself some coffee, and sat down with a sigh. He paged through his book, a copy of Cicero’s treatise on oration. Perhaps it would give him some ideas for Senator Wycliffe’s speech.

    “I wasn’t planning on sharing that, you know.” 

    Simon almost jumped out of his chair. Katrina Coldridge stood in the doorway. She wore a T-shirt and jeans. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, and her eyes glared at him.

    “Well, sorry,” said Simon. He held out the mug. “You want it back?” 

    Katrina snorted. “No.” She carried a bundle of papers and a box under her arm. She dropped them on a table and snatched a mug from the cabinet. “I’d hoped I’d be able to make a goddamned pot of coffee without someone stealing it from me before I’d even sat down, you know? Guess not.”

    “I said I’m sorry,” said Simon. “Do you want a signed document of apology?”

    She smirked at him and poured out some coffee. “That would be a first. I’d frame it and put it on my wall.” 

    “Sarcasm is hardly becoming,” said Simon.

    Katrina raised an eyebrow. “Really?” She took a sip of the coffee and leaned against the counter. “So. Have any more problems with your computer shutting down at random?”

    Simon scowled. “That was an accident. How was I to know I had knocked the power cable out of the wall when I stretched?”

    Katrina rolled