Chapter 12 - The Type and the Bedrock
The smell of black oil ink and fresh cedar sawdust filled the restored workshop on Ashland Avenue.
It was late May.
The warm afternoon breeze swept through the wide roll-up bay doors.
The heavy concrete floor had been sealed with dark gray industrial enamel.
In the center of the room, the restored Heidelberg cylinder press hummed with a deep, steady rhythm.
The steel arms moved back and forth with hypnotic precision.
Each stroke pressed crisp, cream-colored cotton paper against the inked metal type.
Frank Bellweather stood beside the feed board.
He wore his canvas shop apron, stained with fresh blue ink on the front pocket.
His face was full of color again.
The haunted look that had shadowed his eyes after the fire had vanished.
Beside him stood Nora.
Her hair had grown back past her ears.
She was wearing short sleeves, unbothered by the pale, ridged graft scars on her right shoulder.
She caught each printed sheet as it came off the delivery grippers and stacked it onto the drying rack.
Emma walked through the side door carrying a cardboard roll of blueprints.
She wore a simple linen shirt and dark trousers.
Her wedding ring finger was bare, the pale impression left by eight years of platinum completely gone.
“Look at this run, Emma,” Frank called out over the rhythmic clatter of the rollers.
He pulled a fresh sheet from the stack and held it out for her to see.
The print was immaculate.
The sharp, elegant serif typeface was pressed deep into the heavy cotton stock.
It was the inaugural publication of the Ashland Youth Arts Guild: a volume of poems written by local high school students.
“The impression is perfect, Frank,” Emma said, feeling the embossed lettering with her thumb.
“Better than the old press,” Frank said with a broad grin.
“The cylinders on this 1974 model have zero play.”
“It’ll hold register down to a thousandth of an inch.”
Nora wiped her hands on a shop rag and walked over to Emma.
“Grandpa says we have forty commercial orders booked through September.”
“The community clinics want all their patient directories printed here.”
Emma smiled, placing a gentle hand on Nora’s shoulder.
“You have enough paper stock for the summer?”
“Two pallets arrived from Wisconsin this morning,” Nora replied proudly.
“All paid for by the enterprise fund.”
There was a light tap against the doorframe behind them.
Robert Hayes stood in the entryway wearing a rumpled summer linen blazer.
He carried a thin leather legal envelope under his arm.
Emma noticed the serious set of his mouth and stepped away from the clattering press.
“What is it, Robert?”
They walked out onto the sunny sidewalk along Marlowe Street.
The neighborhood was bustling.
The corner bodega was open.
Children were riding bicycles past the newly planted street trees that Emma’s foundation had funded.
Robert leaned against the brick exterior wall.
“Vance called me this morning.”
Emma’s expression did not change.
“What does Marcus want?”
“Adrian wants a visiting order.”
Emma looked down at the sidewalk where dandelion weeds were pushing through the expansion joints.
“I have nothing to say to Adrian.”
“I know,” Robert said.
“But Vance gave me an interesting piece of information.”
“Adrian offered to enter a blind guilty plea to all three federal racketeering charges.”
“No trial.”
“No appeals.”
“He’ll accept a fifteen-year sentence at Terre Haute without contest.”
Emma looked at her attorney with narrow eyes.
“In exchange for what?”
“For fifteen minutes with you in the visiting room at the MCC.”
Emma took a slow breath of the warm city air.
She could hear the steady thump-clack of the Heidelberg press echoing through the brick wall behind her.
She remembered the dining room in Lake Forest.
She remembered the sound of the December sleet hitting the glass.
She remembered the absolute, casual arrogance in Adrian’s voice when he looked past her and declared her completely disposable.
“Why does he want to see me, Robert?”
“Because a man like Adrian Vale cannot tolerate an unanswered question,” Robert replied.
“He lost his money.”
“He lost his board.”
“He lost his freedom.”
“But what’s destroying him inside that cell is the fact that he cannot figure out where he miscalculated you.”
“He spent eight years thinking you were a decorative bird in his golden cage.”
“He wants to know who you really are.”
Emma looked toward the downtown skyline.
Two miles away, the black glass shaft of Vale Tower caught the afternoon sun, reflecting the city like a giant obsidian mirror.
“Set the appointment for tomorrow morning,” Emma said.
Robert raised an eyebrow.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Emma said quietly.
May you like
“Every ledger needs a closing entry.”
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