The Stair

By Brian Harrison

Architect Paul Dial creates his most famous building in Ava, Missouri. Its the first building his brother didn't help him with and its the building Paul murders a woman in. He is sent to Dr. Cylus Pine's facility moments after the end of PROGENY for a very specific reason. While there, he begins to unravel all the work Maguire, Elissa, Lester, Charlie have made. And in doing so, reveals a secret connection with one of them. What is Dr. Pine hiding about his facility that Paul Dial knows? Will Dr. Pine lose his own grip on reality?
The life and death fall are not just for the patients, even Dr. Cylus Pine isn't safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Harrison
• Release date: Sep 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310912757

Brian Harrison

I'm a Southwestern Michigan resident and grocery clerk for over a decade, being trained in nearly every position. I am a grocery manager by day, musician, writer, tie collector, and Oreo enthusiast by night.

Book preview

The Stair

By Brian Harrison

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright @ 2015 by Brian Harrison

This building is like a book.

Its architecture is the binding;

its text is in the glass and sculpture.

Malcolm Miller

The space within

becomes the reality of the building.

Frank Lloyd Wright

Chapter One

Architecture was not Paul’s passion. Drawing and designing the walls of a family’s heart is hard because a home is the heart of the family; the mother, the blood, the father, the muscle. On rare occasions Paul had the benefit of feeling the appreciation from a family of his work but only because they felt their love reflected in the walls of what the carpenters hammered, glued and cemented into place.

Architecture for Paul was like being a plastic surgeon; it wasn’t as respected as it should. The level of detail one must take and the artistry one must create in symmetry was lost on those applying to be ‘rearticulated.’ It was like a scalpel on a drafting table. The pens drafting lines on the paper like a surgeon making his marks on her body of what they will deflate and other places they will inflate, creating specific places to draw the eye.

Paul knew his father appreciated all the hard work he put into becoming an architect, and a respected one at that. Paul loved the instruments of drafting more than the work itself. He loved the 12" equal spacing divider he had hanging on the wall as if it were a piece of art, which it was, as it aided in creating a beautiful home. Just as beam compasses, regular compasses, dividers, proportional dividers, ruling pens and rulers were; including the calipers, micrometers, flat scales, graph rulers, plan and map measures, specialty and standard rulers, tally counters, triangular scales and tape measures were. Then there were all the different templates at all the different scales. The dozens of colored pens and pencils that lined the shelf, of which he didn’t use, and never kept in any resemblance of order, they were scattered like Skittles in a bowl. He only used black, blue and red so the small drawer of blending stumps was unnecessary. Just as when he was starting out he realized hiring an architect cost so much because you had to pay them for all the variety of tools they needed: rotary trimmers, guillotine cutters, stack cutters, cutting mats, handheld and foam cutters, cutting straightedges (they never had just one), replacement blades, miter boxes and razor saws and half a dozen different sized scissors. All the parallel bars, regular and adjustable triangles, irregular curves, dusting brushes, different sized light boxes, protractors, T-Squares, weight bags, and board covers took up unnecessary room. The electric, stick and hand held erasers, shields and erasing pads and even erasing powder. It amazed Paul Thomas Dial, who all his classmates said had the perfect name for an architect, how many different types of markers there were besides sharpies: Chartpak, Copic, Tombow, and Prismacolor, as well as the technical, fiber tip and ballpoint pens, let alone the twenty different types of paper he had to buy that he assumed were made just for him, just like he didn’t know there was a paper made specifically for origami. He needed an office for his office and being a student he was expected to haul all this crap or store it in the locker in the architecture department that was the size of his old gym locker in middle school. Not to mention the hundreds of dollars of storage equipment, linen testers, magnifiers, projectors, Velcro, glues, and the thousands of push pins he had to purchase.

Of all his possessions though it was a gift from his fourth client that meant the most:

One night he was working on a draft, late, in his new studio, his first office, with his name on the door, albeit it taped, but it was his for the time being. There was a knock on the door; he thought it was his girlfriend, Ginny. It’s open, he shouted.

Inside walked a man wearing a 3 piece blue pinstripe suit with aviator mirrored sunglasses. His salt and peppered hair spiked as if he were young, but was in his early forties.

I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else, can I help you? Paul asked, sitting up, trying to look professional, while wiping his hands on his pant legs to shake the man’s’ hand.

I’m told you can design a house for me. The man did not shake hands with Paul though.

I can, I’m currently closed, but if you want to come in the morning we can meet. Of all the classes he took, he never took a customer service class, it wasn’t his strong suit. He just hoped he earned enough to be able to afford a secretary to do it for him.

I need to right now, before I leave for South America in the morning.

Ok um, Paul replied reaching for a sketch pad to write notes. You obviously have some thoughts; tell me what you need in your home.

I need opulence, peace and an office with a sailing theme.

Paul paused a moment waiting for more, but the man in the suit just took the sunglasses off to stare at him with the green of his eyes matching the pride in them as well. Paul finally asked, breaking the awkward silence he realized he himself had caused, Is that it?

Yes. The man replied, confused, annoyed that his ‘obvious’ reply wasn’t expected.

Ok, how much square footage would you like?

The man looked across the dark studio office cleaned his glasses and replied, asking, How much do you need to get it done Paul?

Surprised, Paul asked, How many rooms do you want?

How many can you give me?

How much do you have to spend?

How many acres do you need? The man again replied. Clearly you do not understand that money is not an option Paul.

Ok? Paul moaned, still not believing him. Is this a joke?

Fine, here’s a deposit. The man pulled out a stack of $100 bills with a mustard colored band tight around it. I’ll be back in a week to pick up the blueprints. And he walked out of the office. Paul looked at the band on the stack of bills, it read ten thousand.

A week later, the man came back. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt, blue pocket square, and blue cufflinks. Paul admired the cuff links until he saw the watch on his wrist, it appeared to be made of glass. Paul too was in a suit, it was the only thing he bought from the money, and it was a cheap suit no less, nothing like the tailored one the aviator-glass wearing man wore. Evening Paul, how are you?

Hello sir, I’m well, and yourself. This time Paul didn’t reach out his hand, but he did stand ready for his presentation.

You get it done?

I designed three options, yes.

I don’t want options Paul. I didn’t ask for three houses. I want a home that is opulent, peaceful and has an office with a sailing theme that is all I asked. I told you and showed you everything you needed to know about me. Which of these three plans is the one you think I would most love?

Looking down at the three tubes, he considered what was in them, hesitantly; he reached for plan 3, but changed to plan 2, This one.

Why? The man with the glass watch asked.

I love it.

Why? He quickly asked back.

Because it’s everything you asked for.

Then why’d you make the other two?

Paul didn’t answer at first; he was at a loss, Practice I suppose.

Good. The man with the piercing green eyes replied, he reached inside his breast pocket to pull out his checkbook, So how much do you think I owe you?

That deposit was more than enough, I can’t accept this.

But you used some of it to buy that cheap ass suit.

Here, Paul replied, giving him half back."

So you’re saying your services for those three blueprints in one week were worth five-thousand dollars? You’re saying its ten times as much as you’d normally charge?

Paul felt challenged, he felt threatened and yet he knew this man wasn’t there to negotiate. You want to pay ten times my normal charge. I think you want me to overcharge you because you’re worth it, are you not?

Touché Paul Dial. He grabbed the second tube and felt it in his hands. Weighty, I like it already.

Aren’t you even going to look at it?

Why?

To see if it’s to your liking? Paul replied, If it’s worth your five thousand dollars.

First off, you wouldn’t have charged me five thousand if you didn’t think it was. Second, what makes you think it was for me? Don’t assume anything Mr. Dial. I like it if you tell me I should. You said it yourself it was everything I asked for.

Ok. Paul replied, Can I get your name at least.

No, but if there is anything else I need. You’ll hear from me, The man in the jet black Italian suit replied as he extended his hand for the first time shaking Paul’s hand. Paul eyed the glass watch again and the man put his aviator glasses back on and swiftly left. Exactly a month later, there was a delivery to his new office, one of those that Paul had a sign on the building for. Inside the box was a handwritten note that read simply:

My time is worth more than my money Mr. Dial

I saw you checking it out. Enjoy. – TY

Under the note was a mahogany box, there were no discernible hinges and as Paul began to pull and tug he found how the box was constructed. As he pulled the two separate sections of Narra Philippine wood assembled together to create a wood box, inside was a perfectly packaged watch, the same glass watch the man wore. It was actually a Corum Golden Bridge Tourbillon Panoramique men’s watch made of grey sapphire crystal. Paul didn’t even bother looking up to see how much it was worth, let alone wear it, it was too beautiful. A custom made transparent watch made to your wrists dimensions, with an anti-reflective sapphire dial window, alligator leather, everything about it was rare and expensive. Even listening to it tick and tock was sexy, smooth, opulent. That payment made Paul feel he’d become successful.

Chapter Two

He became the home designer of the stars with modern and simplistic designs; his innovations won him the American Institute of Architecture Gold Medal 4 years in a row, but it wasn’t what gave him purpose. He was married to a job and was life’s bitch and yet he was happy simply working, just working; there was nothing about it that made him want to do anything else. He hated designing though. He hated measuring and exacting. For a reason he could not determine, he became renowned for creating lines where they should exist and creating proportions that while were unnatural were still inviting, comforting and made a room a home.

He was fine.

He was content.

He was fulfilled

He was rich.

He was successful.

He was respected.

He was alive.

He searched for opportunities to challenge himself and to challenge the ideas of conformity that rooms imposed into homes. Even the skeleton of buildings he challenged. But all that changed when he received a yellow Mylar envelope. It was dirty, it was postmarked two weeks prior and out of Oregon, he immediately knew who it was from.

Sitting in his home office, Paul cut through the envelope, smooth, like a pivot through momentum. The moonlight diffused through the amber off his whiskey as the letter opener clanked on the glass desk like ice cubes in an empty glass. Pulling the stack of papers out of the padded envelope, he briefly remembered the contract he had yet to sign and send to the new Kansas City Museum of Modern Art he was commissioned to design and begin building the following year.

There was a stack of 75-100 pages, clamped together by four large fold over clips, one on each side of the page. In the middle was simply typed out in old typewriter font.

Last Will and Testament

The paper felt grainy, dusty maybe. It felt old, rustic, not like the smoothness of fresh paper or the protective covering on his smart phone screen. It simply felt alien.

Paul didn’t want to read what was inside, he knew who it was from and didn’t want to know what happened to Richard. He loved him dearly but after their argument, Paul hadn’t talked to him in over five years.

Pouring himself another drink, Paul looked up at the wall above his desk, a blueprint of the State monument his great-grand father designed. As he read the papers he could hear the ticks from the Sapphire watch he kept on the shelf behind him, in the same bookcase with all of his awards, accolades and certificates.

I, Richard James Humboldt, of sound mind and health leave all sole possessions, property, money and body to my half-brother Paul Thomas Dial.

Sadly, what you hold between your hands, in these pages, are all of those things. While I could easily write my life story, that is not what I request. I do not want my story to be told, I want the following pages to live on. My brother, Paul, you see is an award winning architect, the best the world will ever see. Better than our great-possibly-greater grandfather.

I was Paul’s sole contractor. Every building, home, structure he ever designed I built, even when he was in college, all the way up until I moved to southern Oregon to break out on my own. I fell onto hard times and became homeless, I lived in the Red Wood Forest in northern California for the last 5 years of my life, designing and tinkering on my own projects.

My brother knows of all this, and in all likelihood doesn’t give a damn but I write this for anyone whose hands these papers may fall in, in hopes of getting to my brother, Paul Thomas Dial.

I could never design like my brother, but he couldn’t think like a contractor.

Paul threw the papers in his bottom drawer and continued working. His brother and he were always at each others throats. The final fight came over blows, all because of a fireplace. They threw punches over whether or not the mantle should be curved or straight. For Paul, it really didn’t make any difference.

Why are you so indifferent? This is your design; this is your work of art. Lines are your livelihood. Richard said at the end of their scuffle, out of breath, holding his stomach from the blows.

But the home owners want a straight mantle Richard, our job is to make the homeowners happy.

At the expense of artful design?

A home is not art Richard! Get over it! It’s the room designers’ job to do that, he just crafted the skeleton, that’s what Paul felt at least.

Richard stood there, punched in the stomach, and asked simply, But a blueprint is art.

This again, Rich, come on! No, I do not think what I do is anymore important that what you do. Paul replied. Honestly he respected his