“Then what sort of powerful belief does it take to stop someone like that?”
“Turn left here, please, and don’t take the avenue,” Will instructed the driver, who decided to argue, in true New Yorker fashion, about which route was the best to take at this hour. It wasn’t until well after they’d returned to the museum that Evie realized he had never answered her question.
ÜBERMENSCH
Jericho sat in the private dining room of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel on Fifth Avenue. He’d noted on the way over that the edges of the leaves were changing from green to a faint red and gold. It reminded Jericho of the farm and harvest. Thinking about that always made him melancholy, so he turned his attention to stirring milk into his tea. A moment later, a white-gloved attendant opened the doors, and Jake Marlowe swept into the room like a benevolent prince.
“Don’t get up,” Marlowe said, taking his seat at the table. He was considered handsome. The papers spilled as much ink on his dark good looks, strong jaw, and tall, athletic build as they did discussing his latest industrial invention or scientific breakthrough. “How are you, Jericho?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Good. That’s good. You look healthy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marlowe pointed to Jericho’s battered volume of Thus Spoke Zarathustra. “Any good?”
“It passes the time.”
“I understand you have a lot of time to pass working at the museum. How is our friend Will?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Good. Will and I may have had our differences, but I’ve always admired him. And I’m concerned about him and his… obsessions.”
The silent attendant in white gloves reappeared and poured coffee into Marlowe’s china cup. “I’ll have the Waldorf salad. Jericho?”
“I’ll have the same, please.”
The attendant nodded, then vanished.
“How’s business, sir?” Jericho asked with no trace of real interest.
“Business is good. Business is terrific, in fact. We’re doing exciting things at Marlowe Industries. And California’s beautiful—you’d love it there.”
Jericho bit back the urge to tell Marlowe he had no idea about what Jericho loved.
“The offer’s open—if you get tired of shelving books on magic and ghosts, you can always come work for me.”
Jericho examined the spoon on his saucer. It was real silver, with the stamp of the hotel on the handle. “I have a job, sir.”
“Yes. You have a job. I’m talking about a profession. A chance to be part of the future, not wither away in some dusty museum.”
“You know that Mr. Fitzgerald is quite brilliant.”
“Once,” Marlowe said and let the word linger. “He was never quite the same after what happened with Rotke.” Marlowe shook his head. “All that brilliance spent chasing ghost stories. And for what?”
“It’s part of our history.”
“We’re not a country with a past, Jericho. We’re a country of the future. And I mean to shape that future.” Marlowe put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, his expression serious. His blue-eyed gaze was penetrating. “How are you, Jericho?”
“I told you, sir. I’m fine.”
Marlowe lowered his voice. “And you’ve experienced no symptoms?”
“None.”
Marlowe sat back with a satisfied smile. “Well. That’s promising. Very promising.”