The Consultant

by Little,Bentley

  “So do you want a salad, a salad or a salad?” Phil asked as they approached the wide serving area. “Jesus. They really are taking this healthy food thing seriously, aren’t they?”

  Craig settled on a taco salad with iced tea, then took his food over to a small table next to a bushy planter, Phil following after. There were tables of all configurations—single seaters, doubles, those that sat four, six, eight, all the way up to a long banquet table that looked as though it could easily seat twenty—and each managed to impart a sense of privacy for their diners, though Craig knew that was an illusion.

  The food was good and, even though a “fee” was being taken out of their paychecks, not having to pay directly for lunch made it seem free. The entire experience was atypically pleasant, the second floor an uncharacteristically calming oasis amidst the ratcheting tension that had enveloped the rest of the building. The atmosphere was so enjoyable and relaxed that Craig almost felt as though he could speak freely here to his friend, that the two of them could have a private conversation. But that would be a mistake. He glanced up to see cameras on the ceiling, between the large powerful lights and the inset speakers from which issued agreeable music. The planter next to them, he realized, could easily hide a directional microphone.

  Phil, he could tell, was thinking the same thing, and the two of them kept their conversation free of content as they ate, commenting on the cafeteria, on the food, not mentioning a word about what was really on their minds.

  The rest of the day was spent discussing a relaunch of OfficeManager with Sales and Promotions, and dealing with the astounding number of intra-division feuds that seemed to have metastasized within the past few days. At the top were Huell and Lorene, who were practically at each other’s throats, and as he tried separately to calm each of them down, he hinted, without spelling out anything specific, that perhaps they should try to be on their best behavior because their jobs might not be that secure. He didn’t want to say anything to them about the list, but he did want to give them a heads up. They were too angry, however, too focused on each other to pick up on anything so subtle as a hint. Ditto for three of the other programmers who came to him with complaints.

  It was after five by the time he finally got out of his office and made his way downstairs. He assumed that Phil had already left but was surprised to meet his friend in the lobby. “How was your afternoon?” he asked.

  “Sucked. Yours?”

  “That’s as good a description as any.”

  Walking out the front doors with a group of other employees, they passed a man in a suit standing in front of the building and wearing a brown paper bag over his head. There were two eyeholes in the bag and a wide smile drawn in felt pen. Craig turned toward Phil. “That’s—” weird, he was going to say.

  And then the gunfire started.

  ****

  Matthews had not gone in to work today. He’d had a dream—a nightmare—about Regus Patoff standing in the middle of his office while furniture flew around him in a circle, and it had freaked him out enough that he’d decided to stay home. After his alarm rang, he shut it off and went back to sleep, not waking up until it was nearly ten. Rachel was off with one of her friends, her clubs or her charities, and he made himself a simple brunch, then decided to give himself a treat, spend the day on the links and not think about work at all.

  The scheme was actually somewhat successful. He called up his brother-in-law, and the two of them spent the afternoon at a course so exclusive that they shot 18 holes without encountering another party. Afterward, they had a few drinks at the clubhouse before going their separate ways.

  It was a relaxing afternoon, and even if he wasn’t able to put CompWare entirely out of his mind, he did enjoy himself, and was glad he’d made the decision not to go in today.

  Rachel was back when he got home, but she was in the spa, and he wasn’t in the mood to join her. Instead, he went into the media room, made himself a martini at the bar and turned on the television. A reality show was on, a gaggle of Botoxed blondes screaming at each other in what looked like an expensive restaurant. Did Rachel really watch this shit? Matthews switched over to the local news, where an overendowed woman was delivering the coming week’s weather forecast. Immediately afterward, a swooshing sound issued from the speakers as a “Breaking News” graphic appeared on the screen. One of the petty crime stories that local stations used to boost ratings, no doubt, and Matthews wouldn’t have paid any attention to it were it not for the word “CompWare” that jumped out at him.

  Immediately, he grabbed the remote and cranked up the volume.

  A lone gunman had entered the CompWare building approximately fifteen minutes ago, at the end of the business day, and had opened fire on employees in the lobby before he was taken down by an armed security guard. Although unconfirmed, reports were that six people were dead and three seriously injured.

  How had he not instantly been informed of this? Matthews whipped out his cell phone. Was it off? No. Had someone called Rachel at home? No, because she would have told him.

  “What the hell…?” he fumed.

  Security footage from the building had already been supplied to the TV station, and it showed a man with a brown paper grocery sack over his head entering the lobby, pulling a handgun from the back of his belt and opening fire at random. It was difficult to tell from the angle of the camera, but it appeared as though a big smile had been drawn on the paper bag.

  “The suspect has been identified as Mitchell Lockhart,” the newscaster said.

  Matthews sucked in his breath, shocked. Lockhart!

  “Mitchell Lockhart is apparently a member of CompWare’s board of directors. It is unknown at this time whether—”

  Matthews’ cell phone rang. He answered it immediately.

  “Are you watching the news?” It was Regus Patoff.

  “I shouldn’t have to watch the news. Why wasn’t I informed of this right away?” he demanded.

  “I’m informing you now.”

  “After it’s already on every station…” He used the remote to flip through channels.

  “Well,” Patoff said smoothly, “if you had deigned to come in today, you would have been on top of this. But as you chose to shirk your duty, BFG had to make an executive decision in your stead.”

  “I’m not just in the chain of command,” Matthews bellowed, “I’m at the fucking top of it!”

  “That’s the type of fire and dedication we were hoping to see from you,” the consultant told him. “Maybe you should have been the first call. My apologies. Anyway, since I have you here on the phone, I thought we could discuss the situation. From a PR standpoint, of course, this is a disaster. At the same time, everyone knows there are lunatics out there these days, and this could garner CompWare some sympathy in the public eye. Luckily, the victims all seem to be individuals we were planning to lay off anyway, so there should be little or no impact on our revised general plan, or, indeed, on company productivity—which is why they were on our list to begin with…”

  He zoned out, the consultant’s voice a vague drone in his ear. Six dead and three injured. And by Lockhart! It was inconceivable.

  No. It wasn’t.

  It wasn’t, and that’s what upset him the most. This was par for the course these days, and the fact that all of the victims had been on BFG’s hit list couldn’t be a coincidence.

  Ultimate plan.

  The anger he’d felt was softening into fear.

  On TV, paramedics were wheeling out stretchers.

  He was suddenly aware, by the singsong cadence over the phone, that Patoff had noticed he wasn’t paying attention. “Austin, what are you thinking of? Austin, where is your mind? Austin, what are you thinking of? Austin, where is your mind? Austin…”

  “I’m right here.”

  Patoff chuckled. “But you weren’t, were you?”

  “Yes, I was,” he lied.

  “That’s part of your problem. You see on your TV there how t
hings are getting out of hand? You need to be a little more hands-on in your management style. If you want to maintain control of your company, that is. And if you want BFG to recommend your continued tenure. I suggest we have another management retreat so we can hash things out, re-establish boundaries with your staff.”

  Matthews said nothing. He thought of Morgan Brandt.

  “The big question is,” Patoff continued, “why you’re on the phone with me, watching this unfold on television, when you should be there. It is supposed to be your company, isn’t it?”

  Matthews terminated the call, hearing the consultant’s mocking laughter in the seconds before his phone switched off. The ass-hole was right. He should be there.

  He quickly headed toward the bedroom to put on an appropriate suit.

  He’d come up with some platitudes for the cameras on the way.

  ****

  “Thank God!” Angie was out of the house and on him before Craig had even closed the car door. She hugged him so tightly it hurt. “I was afraid…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence.

  “Are they showing it on the news?” he asked.

  “Every channel.”

  “You didn’t let Dylan—”

  “No, he’s in his bedroom, playing with his computer.”

  “I was outside when it happened,” he told her. He’d said all this over the phone, but he repeated it anyway. “Phil and I just missed the guy. He was walking in while we were walking out. I thought it was weird that he had a bag over his head, and when I turned around to look…” His voice trailed off. “How many victims are they saying?”

  “Six dead and three injured.”

  “That’s what they said on the radio, too.”

  “It’s stayed pretty stable for a while, so hopefully that’s it.”

  “No names yet?”

  She shook her head.

  Craig held his hand out in front of him. He was shaking more now than when he’d actually been on the scene. A delayed reaction, he assumed.

  “Do you think—?” she began.

  He knew what she was asking without hearing the rest of the question. “I don’t know,” he told her.

  But he did.

  He did.

  THIRTY SIX

  He missed Lupe.

  Craig had known he would—she’d been his secretary since he’d started working at CompWare—but the loss was on a much deeper level than expected. He could complain to Phil about work when he saw him, could talk to Angie when he got home, but he and Lupe had been in the same place at the same time, and it was that minute-by-minute dissection and discussion of events as they occurred that had forged such a strong bond between them. He had no one he could immediately bounce ideas off of anymore, and he missed that solid sounding board far more than he thought he would.

  He remained in contact with Lupe’s parents, her brother, and even her sleazy ex-boyfriend, but no one had heard from her. She was officially a missing person, but Craig had not told the police his real suspicions. He hoped they would discover evidence of foul play on their own, evidence that would lead to BFG, but, coming from him, it would sound too crazy and unbelievable.

  And it might put him in jeopardy.

  He saw Patoff in the middle of the day, glad-handing his way through the floor, greeting everyone by name. The vibe was different than it would have been a few weeks ago, however, and those he greeted responded nervously, carefully, while others scurried out of his way, not wanting to be stopped and singled out. Craig was out of his office, looking through Lupe’s desk for a stapler, and the consultant smiled at him as he passed by. “Are you still here?” he asked, and laughed.

  Later, at lunch, sitting alone at what had become their usual table in the cafeteria while Phil went back for seconds, Craig was startled when Patoff sat down across from him. He hadn’t seen the consultant walk up—the man had just appeared—and his sudden presence caused Craig to jump. The consultant laughed. “Nervous, are we?”

  Craig faced him head on. “No. Why should I be?”

  Patoff smiled. “I don’t know. Why should you be?”

  There was something going on here below the surface, a reason for this conversation that Craig didn’t understand. The consultant never did anything without a purpose.

  He took a bite of his salad, intending to ignore the man, but looking into that soulless face, he put down his fork and said, “Why?”

  “Why what?” the consultant asked innocently.

  “Why me? Why were you at my son’s school and my wife’s work?”

  An expression of sympathy, perfectly composed and utterly fake, crossed the man’s features. “I was sorry to hear that she quit. She was a very competent and dedicated employee.”

  “Why?” Craig pressed.

  Patoff shrugged. “I was hired to consult. I do the jobs I am hired to do.”

  “And it’s a complete coincidence that you were hired by my son’s school and my wife’s medical group?”

  “Apparently.”

  He gestured around the crowded cafeteria. “What about other people here? Are you at their spouse’s workplaces, too?”

  “BFG is very busy,” Patoff conceded with a smile.

  Phil returned with a veggie panini and a refilled coffee. He looked from the consultant to Craig, then sat down in a chair at the side of the small table.

  “Phil!” Patoff said. “How goes it?”

  “All right.” Phil casually picked up his sandwich as though this was the most ordinary thing in the world. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  “We’re just having a little informal lunchtime chat. Life’s not all work and no play. Sometimes it’s nice to relax and…socialize.”

  “Didn’t you specifically tell us that we were not to socialize with BFG consultants? Right after you fired my watcher, John?” Phil took a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly as he waited for a response.

  “Exactly so, Phil. But that phase of the study is over.”

  “And now we’re all friends?”

  “I would very much like to be,” Patoff said, smiling. Again, the proper form of the smile was in place, all of the elements warm and friendly, but the sentiments beneath were ice cold and hard.

  Neither Craig nor Phil said a word, and the three of them sat for several minutes in uncomfortable silence, Phil eating his sandwich, Craig finishing off his salad, Patoff watching them and smiling.

  “Well,” the consultant said finally, putting both hands on the table to push away his chair, “I guess I’d better get back to work.” He stood, started to turn away, then paused and looked at Craig. “Speaking of work, I suspect that your lovely wife will have a somewhat difficult time securing employment—since the fucking bitch is a lying quitter.” Patoff’s normally placid face was contorted, the rage in his voice audible. For the second time, Craig thought he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, the skull beneath the skin, a glimpse of something not at all human and very, very old.

  The consultant turned, striding through the cafeteria toward the exit, and Craig realized that the revelation had been entirely inadvertent. Patoff never did anything unintentionally, but his anger had been exposed, and he’d left quickly so as not to reveal more of himself. Angie quitting had obviously left him furious. Her spur-of-the-moment decision had been completely unpredictable, something for which he had not prepared, and she had upset his plans enough that he had made a special trip out here today to confront Craig.

  Sort of.

  Because nothing had really happened. A rude remark, a vaguely threatening manner…these were nothing. The consultant could have done much worse. But why hadn’t he? Why, Craig wondered, was he still alive? And why hadn’t Angie been attacked? Others had fallen victim to accidents, had committed suicide, had died in unnatural, implausible ways. Why had the two of them been spared?

  For the first time, he thought that there might be rules to this game, lines that the consultant couldn’t cross. He had no idea what they were or wh
y they should inhibit the consultant, but he was beginning to suspect that the man wasn’t free to do whatever he wanted.

  Perhaps the consultant could kill only those people his study had deemed unnecessary to the viability of the company, the people the company no longer needed or wanted, the ones who had been slated for—

  termination

  —and anyone else was off limits. As crazy as it might be, perhaps Patoff could only harm people on the list. The idea seemed plausible to him, and Craig couldn’t wait to tell his theory to Phil.

  But that was going to have to wait. The cafeteria was a hotbed of surveillance, as was the entire building, and there was no way for the two of them to get off campus without arousing suspicion until after the workday ended at five.

  Phil watched Patoff leave. “That was fun,” he said drily.

  Craig laughed. It was a tension-relieving laugh, Phil’s comment only funny because of the circumstances, like a lame joke told in church, but it lightened Craig’s mood, as did his newfound hunch about the limits of Patoff’s authority.

  He returned to the sixth floor feeling oddly good, and the afternoon was very productive. He even managed to get ahead of schedule and assemble a skeleton team for a new as-yet-unspecified first-person shooter game. Unfortunately, Phil was nowhere to be found after work, though his car remained in the parking lot, and when Craig tried his cell, the call went directly to voicemail. He considered hanging out, either waiting by his friend’s car or sitting in his own car and listening to the radio until Phil showed up, but there were security cameras trained on the parking lot, too, and he thought it would probably be more prudent to leave.

  At home, Angie was putting together what looked like a pretty spectacular Mexican meal, while Dylan had finished his homework and was playing on his computer. Craig told Angie about his lunch and his suspicion that the consultant was not free to act entirely as he wanted. “He was really pissed that you’d quit, you could tell that he was thrown by it, and while he wanted to punish me, he couldn’t. I’m…protected, I think. You are, too, because you no longer work at the Urgent Care. My guess is that you’re the only reason he took that job to begin with, and now that you’re gone, he’s stuck with it.”