Spilling Guts

Part 25 - Patents and Patience

Beni and Reese had spirited away the rabbit by the time Louis returned to his desk. The coco puff turds were gone too. He sat at his desk and went through the patent files like he was shoveling manure, the quicker you went, the sooner you could get away from the smell.

Occasionally he could feel the Beni and Reese's eyes on him, weighing him, judging him. He had apologized already. He didn't need their scrutiny.

Louis looked to the empty desk across from him, the cup of tea he had placed upon it like an offering on an altar still untouched. Where was Will? Still talking to his mother?

Thirty minutes later of clacking keyboards and patent files, Louis grabbed his mug and left with the mental excuse of getting more coffee. He didn't need the quick kick of caffeine, his mind was still alive and buzzing with productivity after the creative session with Rachel. But he liked the taste, and wanted to fortify himself for the next thing on his list.

I'm not delaying the inevitable, thought Louis as he strode down the hallway, mug cradled carefully between wrist brace and chest . I'm doing something on the to-do list. Because today I actually remembered my list.

Specifically the list of self-anointed personality problems in his back pocket. Either he would share it with the shrink or he would go straight back to the inbox full of people's invented nonsense.

Not that a redesigned boxing glove is much better, admitted Louis. But at least its cooler to look at than a pasta pot.

And if he returned to his desk he would have to sit across from the Sugar Fiends that apparently didn't have proper parental units in their adolescence. He didn't want to deal with guilt today.

Too late, said his psyche.

When he had walked away from Rachel's lab earlier that day, his ears had caught Will on a phone call.

"I'm trying, mom. Love you."

Louis could distinctly remember the last time he had spoken with his parents other than text messages. It had been Easter, and the whole family had done a video conference call. His brothers, both on either side of the country, had corralled their sons and daughters in front of the camera to show off their neon colored eggs to their grandparents. And dad had showed off his grilling skills perfected in retirement via two perfectly criss-cross seared steaks.

Louis had shown off the cards mom had sent, as well as the new coffee mug with a bunny on it. "Wish I could be there," Louis had said. And he almost meant it. He had been dealing with a new partner that kept grinning, holding out coffee, and used geek references in every other sentence.

And then the Freewill mission.

He hadn't talked to his family in real time since his body had been cursed to shrink in strong light.

In a moment of impulse, Louis stopped, put down the coffee, took the list out of his back pocket and awkwardly jotted down another issue. Haven't called parents.

Louis reached the door for Balcuwitz's office, knocked once, and then hissed as he was reminded of his bruised knuckles.

Left hand, in a cast. Right hand, bruised. I should be excused from so much bull-crap right now.

The light knock on the door got an equally light response. "Come in."

The office lights were dimmed, as if Louis and his special eyesight had been expected. The top of Balcuwitz's head peaked over a desk burdened with so many file boxes, papers, and folders that it looked like the barricade from Les Miserable. For a moment, Louis wondered if the shrink was also being punished with patent data entry.

Is this what I'll have to look forward to if I don't clean out my inbox every- oh.

Louis froze three steps in. On the new leather couch lay Will, curled on his side and seemingly asleep.

Louis stepped back, whispering. "Bad time."

Balcuwitz rose from his desk, revealing a plum colored sweater vest, and shook his head. "We can still talk." He motioned to the door. "Shall we?"

***

Teegan wanted bury her face in her hands. Instead she placed a palm on Megan's shoulder to keep her from strangling the bank teller. Heights Banking stood as a pale, bumbling, pathetic imitation of a financial institution; from its glaring neon green logo on the door, to its inept bank tellers.

"This man," Teegan pointed at the photo of Jared Rover. "Has already come in for Parker Lenore's safety deposit box?"

"Yes, a few hours ago. And he made a withdrawal." The teller, a woman who looked like she had tried very hard to not offend anyone with her lack of training by blending into the decor of oatmeal beige and green, nodded. "Mister Rover had her information, the key, and a letter from Misses Lenore. She didn't have time to come down and clear out her box because she was moving. So he came in, even though he was injured."

I hope that bite on his leg gets infected, thought Teegan. Wait a minute. "Misses Lenore?"

"She's married," explained the teller, looking around for a manager she could wave over. "Well, engaged, technically, according to Mister Rover. He's very progressive about not needing his spouse to share his name."

"Hard to share a name with a dead woman," Megan snapped.

The teller's eyes went wide and round like gumballs about to pop out of a candy machine. "Dead?"

A manager, wearing a tacky tie and a customer-service-until-it-kills-me smile, walked over. "Can I help you ladies? Trying to open an account?"

Megan and Teegan both sighed and took out their police affiliate badges.