Read Online Serpent of Moses by Don Hoesel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Hoesel
Tags: FIC042000, FIC042060, FIC026000, Secret societies—Fiction, Archaeology teachers—Fiction, Moses (Biblical leader)—Fiction, Relics—Fiction, Christian antiquities—Fiction
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couldn’t hope to recollect, they remained the pinnacle of perfection. Over the years, as the grill staff had turned over time and again without a fluctuation in pancake quality, he’d even stooped to bribing the cooks for their secrets, only to discover an undergraduate staff that was either as clueless as he was or who had formed a thin, buttermilk line of silence.
The meal finished, he reached for his breast pocket, his hand running over the two cigars he’d placed there when he left home that morning. However, before he could pull one out, his hand fell away. As habitual as the pancake consumption, the reflexive action of reaching for a cigar at the conclusion of a good meal remained something he could not shake.
As he leaned away from the table, he glanced around the student hangout. Evanston was, comparatively speaking, a small college, which meant that he often saw the same faces around him as he ate. Today, the place was near empty. The slowness of the place matched his own energy level, which had dropped precipitously over the last few months.
While downplaying it, he’d also made a few attempts to analyze it and the only thing he was able to come up with could be summed up in a single word: boredom . But the analysis did not venture much beyond that. He liked his job—and the perks that came with it—and couldn’t think of doing anything else. He suspected that it was just a phase and that it would pass. After all, one did not leave a position with the CIA for idyllic Ellen, NC, and the slower life of teaching at a small liberal arts college without occasionally recalling those more adventurous days with fondness.
Rather than allow himself to contemplate that further, he slid from the booth and reached for his tray—an action that still felt uncomfortable, even after three years. It had always pleased him to leave the tray on the table, knowing that Jack would take care of it along with his own. Like the reach for the cigar, busing his own tray had taken some getting used to.
As he headed for the trash can, he reflected on the fact that the time of year could have something to do with his mood. It was December, and the winter break was fast approaching—and the same time period three years ago had seen Jack Hawthorne teach his last class at Evanston.
On one hand, he was happy that the events that transpired had pushed his friend from teaching and back into the career he was meant to pursue. On the other hand, he had to take care of his own tray.
The air outside was crisp, and he contemplated lighting up a cigar on his way to his next class, but Evanston was not a large campus and the cigars he carried deserved a long enjoyment. He released a sigh and had just shifted his thoughts to his class when his phone rang.
“Duckey?” a woman with an accent said when he answered.
“With an accent like that, I can be whoever you want me to be,” he replied.
The fact that his statement was met with a laugh rather than indignation told him the voice belonged to the woman he thought it did.
“Jack wasn’t lying about you,” Esperanza said, and Duckey could feel the genuine warmth coming through the phone.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “In my experience, a good lie or two makes things a lot more interesting.”
That was followed by another laugh, and without ever meeting her, Duckey thought he was beginning to understand what it was about her that had made Jack swing by Caracas and pick her up three years ago. Because if Duckey knew anything about Esperanza and Jack’s shared history, it was that making that side trip—even though it had improved Jack’s chances of success in securing the biggest payday he’d ever imagined—was fraught with more danger than anything he’d faced during his pre-teaching profession.
“By the way, only my friends call me Duckey.”
In most other people that statement would have generated a pause. In this woman, though, it did nothing but fuel her
The meal finished, he reached for his breast pocket, his hand running over the two cigars he’d placed there when he left home that morning. However, before he could pull one out, his hand fell away. As habitual as the pancake consumption, the reflexive action of reaching for a cigar at the conclusion of a good meal remained something he could not shake.
As he leaned away from the table, he glanced around the student hangout. Evanston was, comparatively speaking, a small college, which meant that he often saw the same faces around him as he ate. Today, the place was near empty. The slowness of the place matched his own energy level, which had dropped precipitously over the last few months.
While downplaying it, he’d also made a few attempts to analyze it and the only thing he was able to come up with could be summed up in a single word: boredom . But the analysis did not venture much beyond that. He liked his job—and the perks that came with it—and couldn’t think of doing anything else. He suspected that it was just a phase and that it would pass. After all, one did not leave a position with the CIA for idyllic Ellen, NC, and the slower life of teaching at a small liberal arts college without occasionally recalling those more adventurous days with fondness.
Rather than allow himself to contemplate that further, he slid from the booth and reached for his tray—an action that still felt uncomfortable, even after three years. It had always pleased him to leave the tray on the table, knowing that Jack would take care of it along with his own. Like the reach for the cigar, busing his own tray had taken some getting used to.
As he headed for the trash can, he reflected on the fact that the time of year could have something to do with his mood. It was December, and the winter break was fast approaching—and the same time period three years ago had seen Jack Hawthorne teach his last class at Evanston.
On one hand, he was happy that the events that transpired had pushed his friend from teaching and back into the career he was meant to pursue. On the other hand, he had to take care of his own tray.
The air outside was crisp, and he contemplated lighting up a cigar on his way to his next class, but Evanston was not a large campus and the cigars he carried deserved a long enjoyment. He released a sigh and had just shifted his thoughts to his class when his phone rang.
“Duckey?” a woman with an accent said when he answered.
“With an accent like that, I can be whoever you want me to be,” he replied.
The fact that his statement was met with a laugh rather than indignation told him the voice belonged to the woman he thought it did.
“Jack wasn’t lying about you,” Esperanza said, and Duckey could feel the genuine warmth coming through the phone.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “In my experience, a good lie or two makes things a lot more interesting.”
That was followed by another laugh, and without ever meeting her, Duckey thought he was beginning to understand what it was about her that had made Jack swing by Caracas and pick her up three years ago. Because if Duckey knew anything about Esperanza and Jack’s shared history, it was that making that side trip—even though it had improved Jack’s chances of success in securing the biggest payday he’d ever imagined—was fraught with more danger than anything he’d faced during his pre-teaching profession.
“By the way, only my friends call me Duckey.”
In most other people that statement would have generated a pause. In this woman, though, it did nothing but fuel her
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