“So there was nobody at All Nation like Dennis or Alma except for your parents?”
“None. At least none that I remembered.”
“What about other places you worked at?”
Michelle took the question seriously. She thought about it, rattling off those that came to her quickly. “There was a woman I used to work with at an insurance company, one of my consulting gigs. I don’t remember her name. She practically lived at the office. Had no boyfriend, no husband, had never been married. All she talked about was work, even the few times she tagged along with us after work for drinks.”
“Any more?”
Michelle thought about it and related more; a middle-manager she knew at a client’s office who once reported Michelle to her supervisor when he heard a rumor that she dabbled in art outside of work. “Asshole actually believed extra-curricular activities that deviated from the company’s stated goals were in direct violation of the company’s interests. Can you believe that?”
“Bingo!” She heard Jay take a drag on his cigarette. “I was actually dreading those terms, but at the same time I’m glad you said it.”
“Why? Can we stop with the bullshit and just tell me flat out what the hell is going on?”
“I still don’t have all the answers yet,” Jay said. “But I’m working on them. And I don’t want to keep this line open anymore. Go get your stuff and call us when you get back to your room. But before you do that, do you have a copy of Corporate Financial’s Employee Handbook somewhere?”
“I have a pdf copy on my laptop. Why?”
“Read it before you call back. I think you’ll find most of it—especially the section under the heading ‘Conflict of Interest’—to be very interesting.”
“Okay, but—”
“We gotta go,” Jay said. “I think you’re safe for tonight, just call us back when you get to your room.”
“Donald!” Michelle called out.
“It’s okay,” Donald said, and now she could hear that his voice had changed; he didn’t sound nearly as nervous as before. “Call us when you get to your room.”
“I will,” Michelle said, and then the line went dead.
She sat on the bench for a moment, her thoughts running a mile a minute. She was more curious now than ever before; she was no longer frightened, no longer angry at Jay (okay, maybe a little...he’d scared the living shit out of her when she found out he’d showed up at the house unannounced and armed), and despite all that had happened, she was now getting the feeling that something was not right. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but talking to Jay made her think about things she hadn’t thought about in a long time.
Namely her parents.
Were your parents like Dennis Harrington?
Absolutely.
She shuddered at the thought because she knew now, for the first time ever, that something had been wrong with her parents. They hadn’t just been unemotional, uncaring people. They hadn’t just been too self-absorbed with their own careers and goals that they continually ignored their only child or cast her aside. It wasn’t that at all.
Her parents hadn’t been entirely...right.
She thought about this on the walk over to baggage claim, turning it over in her mind. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that the walk was over before she knew it, and then she was scanning the monitors for her flight, trying to find which baggage claim area to report to, and she was still thinking about what Jay said when she found her flight, and that’s when two men she’d never seen before suddenly materialized in front of her. “Michelle Dowling,” one of them said; he was about her age, blonde, well-groomed in a sport shirt, blue tie, and a coat. “I’m Bill Mayer, from Corporate Financial. This is Tom Elliot. We’re here to escort you to your hotel.”
And before she could shift gears they swooped down on her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TOM ELLIOT AND Bill Mayer found her luggage quickly. “We have a car,” Bill said. He motioned for Michelle to begin following him. “Corporate has convened a meeting at the hotel, and we need to get there on time.”
Michelle was still stunned by their sudden appearance. “A meeting? Tonight? For what?”
“Strategy,” Bill said.
Michelle looked at Tom Elliot; he had a blank expression on his face. When he smiled it looked false, as if something unseen was pulling the tips of his mouth up. “I understand you’re probably tired, but this shouldn’t take long. Bill will help you check in and escort you to the meeting, and I’ll get your luggage to your room so you won’t be late.”
“But—” Michelle protested.
“Come on, we don’t want to be late,” Bill said. He took Michelle’s elbow lightly and attempted to steer her toward the exit.
Michelle jerked her arm away from Bill. “Get your fucking hands off me!”
Bill frowned. They were standing near the exit, oblivious to the bustling of activity around them as throngs of airport passengers walked around them, carting luggage and children. Michelle could feel the cold Chicago air as the doors wheezed open and shut. “Excuse me?” Bill said.
“Are you deaf? I said, get your fucking hands off me!”
Tom frowned. “I hardly think this is the type of language to use on—”
“Tom,” Bill said, looking at his co-worker.
“—fellow team members,” Tom said. He stopped, that strange smile crawling across his features again.
“I hardly think you want to be brought up on a sexual harassment charge against a fellow team member either,” Michelle snarled.
The flinch was barely visible but Michelle caught it; Tom blinked and looked at Bill.
Bill’s tone was soothing. “I’m sorry. I just got a little carried away. I’m just very eager to get you to the meeting. I don’t want us to be late.”
Everything had happened so fast that Michelle’s mind was still trying to process it. She felt a huge sense of distrust in Bill and Tom; who the hell were they? Why would Corporate Financial send them to the airport to intercept her like this? Suppose they weren’t who they claimed they were? Her distrust rose and she reached into her purse for her cell phone. “Put my suitcase down,” she told Bill. “And step away from it.”
“I hardly think this is an appropriate—” Bill began.
“Put the suitcase down now or I’m yelling for a cop!” Michelle said, her voice loud.
Bill set her suitcase down. Tom still looked stoical, like he was struggling to react in some way but didn’t know how. Michelle turned her cell phone on and, keeping a careful watch on Tom and Bill, she scanned down to her pre-programmed numbers and found Sam Greenberg’s number. She pressed the Send button and brought the phone to her ear as it began to ring on the other end.
Sam picked up on the fourth ring. “Michelle? What’s up?”
“Did you send somebody to O’Hare to meet me?” she asked, keeping her fiery gaze on Tom and Bill.
“Yes, I did. Tom Elliot and Bill Mayer. Have they found you?”
Michelle felt herself relax a little bit. “Yes,” she said. “What’s this about a meeting tonight?”
“It’s last minute and I apologize,” Sam said. His voice was soothing. At least Sam was genuine; he wouldn’t lie to her. “It’s part strategy, part orientation. You need to be brought up on some last minute updates before your meeting tomorrow.”
Tom Elliot and Bill Mayer were watching her. She held their gaze, not allowing her anger to subside. “Okay. Just wanted to check.”
“Call me tomorrow,” he said. “I’m rushing to a meeting with Mr. Lawrence and some of the other board members.”
“I will.” Michelle pressed disconnect and replaced the phone in her purse. Despite Sam confirming that Bill and Tom were legit, she was still angry at the situation. She was also angry at them and didn’t give a shit if her behavior filtered back to Sam. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”
This time Bill didn’t need to steer her toward their car, and he didn’t
offer to carry her luggage. Her suitcase had wheels and she tugged it along behind her as she followed Tom and Bill into the parking garage.
BILL MAYER AND Tom Elliot were thorough and efficient. The minute they arrived at the Embassy Suites Hotel, Bill escorted her to the check-in desk. When the check-in clerk (Guest Facilitator, the clerk’s name badge read; not Check-In Clerk but a Guest Facilitator; Jesus what a bullshit job title) handed her passkey over, Tom said, “If you hand that to me, I can get your bags to your room.”
“I think I’d rather have a hotel employee do that,” Michelle said, turning to the Guest Facilitator. “Does the Embassy Suites provide that kind of service?”
“Yes, Ms. Dowling,” The Guest Facilitator said. The Guest Facilitator was a young African-American woman, attractive, shoulder length curly hair, dressed impeccably in a navy blue suit coat, a white shirt and dark slacks. She typed on the computer keyboard in front of her. “If you leave your bags here I can have the concierge deposit them in your room for you.”
“Thank you,” Michelle said.
When the concierge arrived a moment later, Michelle nodded at Bill and Tom. She still had her carry-on bag—which contained her business documents and personal effects—and her laptop. “Let’s get this over with,” she said.
Bill and Tom led her through the hotel’s convention area. The hotel was large, with the first level consisting of the check-in area, the lobby, a lounge and restaurant, an indoor swimming pool and gym, and an area for business meetings. There was a lower level that consisted of a banquet and convention area that was probably used for conferences. Michelle had attended dozens of conferences in the past half-dozen years, and most hotels of this size were similarly laid out. The meeting room they were heading to was on the first level, away from the convention area, which told Michelle that Corporate Financial had only reserved a few small conference rooms for the weekend.
They walked down a short, wide hallway past several empty conference rooms. When they got to the end, Bill opened the door and beckoned Michelle inside, holding the door open for her. Michelle entered the room and the people grouped around the conference table all looked up. Michelle paused for a moment, taking everything in—the overhead screen pulled down, the projector directing a beam toward the white screen, laptop computers on the table, papers out, a pot of coffee resting on a small cupboard on the right. The dozen or so people grouped around the table were unfamiliar to her and they were all dressed in business attire. She was just about to dismiss them from her mind and find a seat and get this over with, when one of the people caught her attention. She glanced at the person in question and tried to suppress her surprise which was coming as rapidly as her shock and growing fear.
Dennis Harrington. Sitting immobile and rigid in a chair at the far end of the table. Alma Smith was sitting beside him. She remembered meeting them in El Paso, and they hadn’t made much of an impression first time around. They’d seemed typical of the young urban professionals who were in their late twenties she saw every day, driven by the singular goal to climb up the corporate ladder. Both of them were reasonably pleasant looking, dressed professionally, and appeared well mannered and spoken, but now they both looked like...
Michelle banished the thought from her mind as she quickly crossed the room and sat down at the opposite end of them. She reacted accordingly when Bill introduced her to the group. “Everybody, this is Michelle Dowling. She’s new to the group; just started out of the Lancaster, PA branch.” She heard the group murmur hellos and then she was forced to pay attention as the chair of the meeting, a guy in his mid-thirties with thinning black hair and dark glasses, quickly brought her up to speed. She feigned interest in the stuff that didn’t interest her—what the hell did she care about the behavior patterns of the workforce population? Bill Mayer was sitting next to her, notepad out, and he was jotting down notes. Michelle followed his lead and took her own notepad out and wrote, meeting, April 14, 2008 and nothing else as she listened to the chair drone on, and she tried to keep the questions her conversation with Jay had elicited from overwhelming her and tried to avoid looking at Dennis Harrington, who was sitting at the other end of the room like a goddamned zombie, like he was fucking dead, and then she was trying to fight a sudden wave of vertigo and fatigue and she yawned, trying to fake her interest in the meeting, at least keep the illusion that she was interested in what was being said, and then she was trying to figure out where that strange tune was coming from, it kept circling in her mind, unceasing, and as the chair of the meeting started the Power Point presentation she suppressed a sigh and dreaded the long night that was no doubt looming in front of her.
THEY DIDN’T GET much sleep. Donald Beck finally dropped off in the easy chair sometime after two a.m. and as far as he knew, Jay O’Rourke never fell asleep. They’d sat in front of the television in the darkened living room talking with the TV set turned on at a low volume. Jay brought him up to speed on a lot of what happened at Building Products, told him about how he’d just sort of fell into doing the kind of work he ended up being hired for (“I sure never went to school for this kind of shit; there’s dolts out there who actually spend fifteen grand or more and get college degrees and certifications to learn this shit!”) and at one point they’d stopped talking and Jay had turned the volume of the TV up. CNN was on and a news story about a massacre at an insurance company in Irvine, California was unfolding. Donald had watched silently; the reporters were calling it the deadliest office shooting to ever happen, with twenty-four people confirmed dead and another dozen in critical condition. A thirty-four year old former employee of Free State Insurance in Irvine had walked into the executive suite of the building and killed twelve high-ranking executives including the CEO and CFO of the company, with two Glock semi-automatic pistols. Then he’d roamed the hallways with a Tec 9 semi-automatic assault rifle and gunned people down. “Shit,” Jay said. He groped in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. Donald had set an ashtray out for him earlier—no sense in having him dash outside every five minutes for a smoke. Jay lit the cigarette with shaky fingers and watched the coverage and Donald wondered if the massacre had anything to do with what was going on with Corporate Financial. He’d voiced this to Jay during a commercial break. “I don’t know,” Jay said. He took a sip of coffee. “I hate to think that it does, but...”
They’d watched the news coverage for the next forty-minutes, since it was a big story on all the major news outlets—it was being endlessly recycled on CNN, FOX, and MSNBC. In that forty-five minutes they learned that the killer, Victor Adams, had been despondent over the death of his nine-year old son due to cancer, and reports were coming in that he blamed Free State for his son’s death. Adams had been laid off in an outsourcing initiative that sent his job overseas, and when he was laid off his medical insurance was severed. “He couldn’t afford to cover himself and his family,” a male, middle-aged former co-worker said, fighting back tears. “And nobody would help him and Brent. The people at Free State didn’t care, either.”
Not true, said a youthful-looking male Free State spokesman, who made a brief statement to the press. “While Free State was sorry to let Mr. Adams go, along with hundreds of other emploees, the company is even more sorry that his personal troubles led to the continuing health problems of his son. We extend our condolences to the Adams family for their tragic loss. What the company maintains is that we are not responsible for Brent Adams’s death, and we regret the fact that Mr. Adams decided to take it out on twenty-four innocent people who not only did not know him personally, but were not directly involved in Brent’s death. To assign blame on the death of a loved one who has passed away from something such as cancer is irresponsible. It suggests that the split life or death decisions made by doctors in their everyday work to save and improve the lives of their patients now hang in the balance, that if they don’t do the right thing they will be the target of somebody who feels they weren’t doing their job right. To assign blame on a company for maki
ng a business decision is equally wrong and troubling in this economy.”
“What fucking horseshit!” Jay shouted at the TV. Donald felt his anger flare; once again, those with no medical training were laying the blame on doctors. The media was reporting it, further enforcing this in the mind of millions of gullible people who were already losing their faith in the medical system.
The more they watched the coverage the more angry Donald got, and he turned the TV off. “It figures that the management of the company who let this person go would then blame him for his downfall. It’s sad that this had to happen, but—”
“You’d think these dolts would learn by now that you don’t fuck with people,” Jay said. He took a sip of coffee. “Granted, a lot of people that go bugfuck in the office are mentally unstable anyway, but I’ve been hearing a lot of recent stories about guys just like this one. They get laid off suddenly, can’t get a job that paid them what they made at their old job, debts pile up, they lose their minds.”
Donald shook his head, thinking of the man’s son. “I don’t even want to imagine what he went through in losing his son like that. I guess if I were in his shoes, I would have blamed his former employer, too.”
They’d talked about it for awhile. Donald told Jay about Michael Brennan, the patient he was treating for testicular cancer and how his employer’s HMO refused to cover his surgery. Jay shook his head. “That’s fucked, man.”
Donald tried calling Michelle several times and always got her voice mail. He had grown concerned as the night wore on, and was just about to call her again when she called at midnight. “I can’t talk much,” she said, sounding tired. “We’re having a break now.”
Donald felt his unease grow. “Maybe you should come home,” he’d said. “Maybe—”
Michelle interrupted him. “I’m fine. Let me get through this weekend. I’m here now, and if I feel the same way come Monday, I’m resigning. I can’t deal with it.”
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