The Lock

The Vagrant

Gabriel

He looked down at the map in his hands, then up at the building before him. He scrunched his brow.

The map he'd been given was a replica of one from 1893, three years after the city had been rebuilt in the wake of the Great Seattle Fire of 1890. The city had of course changed a great deal since then, but he'd been assured this one slice of the city, at least, had remained unchanged.

It was a small, nondescript brick building sandwiched between two much taller ones; they stood at least ten stories tall, whereas the brick building was only a single story. It was more unassuming than he'd anticipated, but perhaps that shouldn't have surprised him. The ways of this world often confounded him.

A woman walking her dog broke him out of his reverie. "Excuse me," she barked. "You're blocking the sidewalk."

"Sorry." He stepped aside and let the woman and her little lapdog pass by. He watched as they walked away and faded from view.

He couldn't wait out here forever, of course. He had to go in or leave eventually. He was being ridiculous.

"Screw it," he mumbled to himself and he walked up to the door, turned the handle and entered.

To the right was a reception desk. A middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed mustache and wearing a stylishly tailored blue Paisley shirt sat behind it. He looked up, tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

"I don't have any money and we don't have public restrooms, if that's what you're after," he said.

"Uh ... no, I'm actually here to see Mr. Macklin."

The man's eyebrow raised even further. "So you have an appointment?"

"No, but I-"

"Then I'm afraid Mr. Macklin isn't available. He's very busy -"

"He's going to want to see me."

"I'm sorry." The receptionist raised his voice, his words dripping with indignation at being challenged. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Go now before I -"

"But I have this!" In desperation, he reached his hand into his jacket pocket. When he pulled it back out, displaying the contents, the receptionist fell silent. His jaw fell slack. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.

"Is that what I think it is?"

He nodded.

"Okay. Wait here. I'll go speak with Macklin." He stood, took two steps toward the door into the office behind him, then turned around. "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't. But it's Gabriel. Gabriel Rinehart."

He nodded. "Wait here, Mr. Rinehart. I'll be right back."

The receptionist left and Gabriel gingerly returned his treasure to his pocket. He could hear the receptionist talking to someone - Macklin, presumably - but he couldn't make out what he was saying. Then there was another voice - deeper, booming - apparently questioning whatever the receptionist had just told him. The two voices barked back and forth at each other for what Gabriel felt was far longer than necessary, but then finally, the voices ceased talking and the receptionist emerged from the back, with a tall, heavyset man in a three-piece suit in tow.

"Gabriel, this is Christopher Macklin," the receptionist said. "He's very interested to meet you."

"Likewise." Gabriel stuck out his hand. Macklin grasped it and shook heartily.