Chapter 34 - The Iron Perimeter at the University Campus
The Massachusetts Institute of Technology campus was radiant with the golden brilliance of early autumn. Ancient brick facades stood in harmonious contrast with soaring glass modernism, while students carrying textbooks and laptop bags strolled along the wide, tree-lined promenades flanking the Charles River.
Wyatt sat at an outdoor wooden table outside an engineering library cafe on Massachusetts Avenue, reviewing a dense packet of fluid dynamics equations. His laptop was open, his digital stylus moving with fluid precision across the screen. He wore a simple navy sweater and jeans, looking every bit the confident, grounded scholar he had worked his entire life to become.
At two o'clock sharp, a shadow fell across the sunlit table.
Wyatt didn't startle. He didn't flinch. He slowly set his stylus down on the edge of the tablet, leaned back in his wooden chair, and looked up with calm, analytical eyes.
Standing on the brick sidewalk, looking weathered, anxious, and wearing an ill-fitting charcoal suit that smelled faintly of cheap motel laundry detergent, was Preston.
""Wyatt,"" Preston whispered, his voice trembling with rehearsed, theatrical emotion. He took half a step forward, his hands clasped together near his chest, tears instantly pooling in his eyes. ""My God... look at you. The last time I saw you, you were just a little boy holding your sister’s hand.""
Wyatt did not speak. His face remained completely expressionless, observing the man before him as if inspecting a cracked specimen under a microscope.
""I know what you must think of me,"" Preston continued rapidly, glancing around at the passing students and lowering his voice into a hushed, tragic cadence. ""I know your father poisoned your mind against me. But I was young, Wyatt. I was stupid. I made mistakes, and the system punished me for them. I spent years in a cage, Wyatt. While your dad was building towers and raking in millions, I was sleeping on an iron bunk eating slop. But I’ve changed. I found God, Wyatt. I’m clean, I’m working, and I just wanted to look my nephew in the eye before you started this brilliant journey, and tell you that your family loves you.""
Preston reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a cheap silver fountain pen. ""I bought this for you with my first honest paycheck. For your studies. From your uncle.""
Wyatt looked down at the pen on the table, then looked back up into Preston’s eyes.
Without a single trace of anger, fear, or hesitation, Wyatt reached into his sweater pocket. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen to stop an active audio recording, and smoothly slid the device into his pocket. Then, he reached into his leather notebook and pulled out a small, laminated card.
He slid the card across the table, stopping it right beside the cheap fountain pen.
""Preston Vance,"" Wyatt said, his voice ringing out in clear, quiet, perfectly measured cadences that carried effortlessly through the crisp afternoon air. ""You are currently standing within thirty feet of a protected minor under the permanent interstate legal decree issued by the State Superior Court, Case Number 44-B-902.""
Preston’s face froze. The rehearsed tears dried instantly in his eyes. ""What... what are you talking about?""
""The man sitting three tables behind you reading the Boston Globe is Detective Miller of the Cambridge Police Department,"" Wyatt continued evenly, gesturing slightly with his left index finger. ""The woman sitting on the stone bench by the fountain is a senior associate from Marcus Vance’s regional legal firm. The pen you just placed on this table has been logged as unsolicited contact, and the entire audio transcript of your monologue has been uploaded to the state parole board’s digital registry.""
Preston spun around, his jaw slackening in absolute terror as he saw two plainclothes officers stand up from their seats, their badges glinting under their jackets.
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""You... you set me up?"" Preston gasped, backing away until his heels hit the curb.
""No, Preston,"" Wyatt replied, picking up his stylus and returning his gaze to his fluid dynamics blueprint. ""I didn't set you up. I simply followed the safety protocol my father taught me when I was seven years old. You should have stayed in Indiana.""
