Page 4 of Consumed
“Tell me, son. Why did you join the Bureau?”
“I was recruited.”
Townsend snorted softly. “Yes, I’ve read your file. You were working on a road crew when there was a collision between a tractor-trailer and a bus. You ran onto the bus and helped the passengers evacuate. You continued to reboard the bus and carry out the injured even when the vehicles were engulfed in flames. And you also instructed the rest of your work colleagues in how to provide assistance. Very heroic.”
When Con shrugged, it wasn’t with false modesty. He’d never felt as if his actions had been that extraordinary. “I was just there at the right time. And I’m pretty strong—Iwaspretty strong—so it wasn’t that hard to help people out.” In fact, his memories of the entire event were cloudy. He didn’t remember actively deciding to help, and at the time he hadn’t been scared. It was just instinct and adrenaline.
“You saved over two dozen lives that day. And when Chief Bettaglia heard about it, he determined you were a good candidate and offered you a position with the Bureau.”
“Sir, with all due respect. If you know all of this already, why are you asking me?”
Townsend widened his grin. “I know why you were recruited, but that’s not what I asked. What I want to know is why you agreed to join.”
Oh. Con considered saying it was because he had been twenty-three with a GED and few marketable skills, because road work was always too hot or too cold, because the Bureau paid much better. But those reasons, while accurate, weren’t the whole truth, and he had the feeling that Townsend would know it. “I felt like maybe I could… make a difference. Do some good in the world.” Oh man, that sounded stupid.
But Townsend nodded. “Indeed. You may no longer use the name your parents gave you, but that doesn’t mean your original name isn’t apt.”
Suddenly Con was incredibly tired, and his body ached. The doctors had weaned him off pain meds to prevent him from becoming dependent, but the hurt remained. Probably always would to some extent, according to the frank discussion he’d had with one of the docs.
“I’m not going to save anyone anymore,” he informed Townsend wearily.
“You believe you must have physical strength to be of use?”
“I’m sure there are plenty of people who can accomplish all sorts of things with their brains. I’m not one of them.”
Townsend laughed. “Really? You’re ready to dismiss your potential so easily? I’d say that a person who was raised with strict religious dogma while isolated from nearly everything else and who still managed to build a life for himself—byhimself—at a very young age is someone who’s capable of accomplishing a great deal.”
“Look, sir. Did you come all the way from California to give me a pep talk so I don’t sue the Bureau or something?” That seemed unlikely, but Con couldn’t come up with another explanation for this visit.
“No.”
“Well, good. I built a life for myself because I was strong enough to do heavy work on the road crew. And when I got a big break, a chance for something more, look what I did. I screwed it up.”
Seemingly unperturbed, Townsend took out the flask again and repeated his little ritual. Con wondered what it would be like to get drunk. He could have had unlimited booze once he escaped his family, but every time he’d seriously considered trying it, he’d heard his father’s voice.Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead, be filled with the Spirit. Maybe when Con got out of the hospital he’d take up drinking. He might as well at this point.
There was a chair in the corner of the room, possibly intended for guests. Now, grunting softly, Townsend lifted the chair and carried it to the bedside. Once he sat down, he somehow made it seem more like a throne.
“You made a mistake, son, one with grave consequences to you. But people much older than you, with considerably more life experience and who certainly knew better—they’ve made worse mistakes. Their errors have harmed others. Even killed them. Andsomeof those people have learned from what they did and have gone on to do great good.”
That was a pretty story, but Con wasn’t fooled. “Did they do great good even though their body was all messed up and their face looked like something out of a horror movie?” It came out sounding bitter, but then, Confeltbitter.
“Those people are deeply damaged. Their scars aren’t necessarily as visible as yours, but they may be even more debilitating.”
Con wasn’t in the mood to play a round of Who’s Got It Worse. He was positive that plenty of people were, in fact, worse off than he was, and in most of those cases it wasn’t even their fault. But he’d been eaten alive, his life was ruined, and he figured he was entitled to a good dose of self-pity. He didn’t want an inspirational speech.
“Chief Townsend, I’m sorry for being rude, but why are you here?”
Townsend chuckled. “My apologies. I have a habit of speechifying. My agents endure it because they must, but they don’t find it appealing. I’m here because I have a gift for seeing potential in others. I find diamonds in the rough. And you, my boy, are exactly that sort of jewel—with some polishing, you’ll shine. So I’ve come to persuade you to move west and work for me.”
That was not something Con had even remotely expected to hear. He would have blamed his meds if he were still on them. Instead, he gaped. “Work for you?”
“Yes. At West Coast HQ. We have a nice facility in Los Angeles. Frankly, it’s better than this one.” He waved his hands, seeming to indicate the building as a whole.
“Sir, look at me. I can’t even walk.”
“Your doctors tell me you’ll be ambulatory after some physical therapy. But even if they’re wrong and you need to use a wheelchair, that’s fine. We’re ADA compliant.” Townsend looked smug about that.
“You can’t have an agent in a wheelchair!” Con tried to imagine chasing after goblins while navigating uneven ground. He’d be dead within minutes.
