“You promise?” I asked. As if that mattered…
“I promise,” he said. “Now, get out of the car, and don’t make me ask you again.”
Chapter 30
I unlocked the doors of the Camry, stepped out, and followed Sid toward the abandoned warehouse building. Like I said: What choice did I have?
By this point of our morning together, I had gathered that he wasn't going to give me information before he was ready, but eventually he would tell me something. So I stopped peppering him with questions. I couldn't forget that he had the gun.
I also briefly considered lunging for the gun when and if he dropped his guard, and immediately abandoned the idea. Sid would have already thought of that. And if I physically attacked him in any way, he probably wouldn't hesitate to shoot me.
Our feet crunched in the gravel of the parking lot. I could tell that he knew where he was going. He headed for a side entrance, a single metal door.
When we reached the door he pulled a keyring from his pocket that bore a single key. He inserted the key into the keyhole, jiggled it in what was probably a rusted tumbler lock. Finally he pushed the door open.
He stepped back and pointed the gun at me again.
“You go first, so I can keep an eye on you.”
“It’s dark in there.”
“I’ll take care of that. Just go. Now.”
I did as he said. The interior of the factory was dark, the air thick with ancient dust and old chemical smells. I saw Sid framed in the sunlight of the open doorway. He stepped inside, then threw a light switch on the wall.
A series of overhead lights—all of the now obsolete hanging type—came on and filled the room with a weak light. I didn't much care about the contents of the warehouse, but it was nothing unexpected: The walls were made of the same plain brick as the exterior. There were old crates in various states of decay, and what looked like the rusting innards of long defunct production machines.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, against my better judgement. “What is this place?”
“Think of this as a company retreat. This is just a place away from the office, where you and I can have a little talk. You see that elevator over there?”
I looked. It was a freight elevator, covered by a dark green metal door that was flecked with rust.
“Yes.”
“You’re looking at our ride from here.”
“That doesn't look safe,” I said. It didn’t really.
He pointed the gun at me. “Get on the damn elevator.”
I was surprised that the elevator still functioned; but it carried us up to the third floor—the top floor—of the warehouse building. Once there, Sid flipped another light switch and directed me toward a small metal ladder leading upward.
“Up there,” he said. He pointed the gun at me while I climbed. Then he gave me further instructions.
“There’s a trapdoor at the top. You should be able to push it open. Go on outside, onto the roof, and step away from the trapdoor.
“I know that a part of you will see this as your chance to make a bold move, to try to take the gun away from me, or kick me in the head or something. If you do anything like that—or if I even suspect that you are about to— I’ll shoot you. So don’t try anything stupid. Climb up, and step away. Remember, Frank: I am always one step ahead of you.”
Once again, I did as he said. The trapdoor wasn’t heavy, and when I lifted it, I was greeted by sunlight and the chill of the outside air. I lifted myself onto the flat roof, the surface of which was tar and gravel. I stepped up and back. I thought: Yes, I might be able to knock him out with the trapdoor as he’s climbing. And then I thought: Yes, but not before he shoots me.
Sid climbed up and gestured at hilly horizons that were visible from our new vantage point: I would not have noticed it, given the circumstances, but we had a panoramic view of the North Carolina countryside. In one direction, I could make out the distant skyscrapers of Raleigh.
“Quite a view up here, isn't it, Frank? As you’ve probably gathered by now, there is no supplier visit. This isn't a real business trip. Like I said downstairs, I wanted us to get away from the office for a bit, so that we could have a talk. Manager to subordinate, yes, but also man-to-man.”
“Listen, Sid, I—”
“Shut up.” He brandished the gun at me. “I said a talk, not a conversation or a question-and-answer session. This is a talk in which I do the talking and you do the listening. I’ll tell you when and if you can ask questions. But mostly I want you to listen. Is that clear?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Now, you’re a smart guy. I know you’ve been connecting dots; and you’ve probably already connected the dots that tell you you’ve screwed up. For whatever reason, you chose to eavesdrop on a meeting that didn't concern you. And you thereby heard things that didn't concern you.
“But then instead of ignoring what was none of your business, you decided that you were going to set things right, as you saw them. But you didn't really understand the situation. So you went and blabbed to Ellen Watson.
“But that seems to have backfired on you. That’s why we’re here, Frank. This didn't have to happen. We could both be back at Thomas-Smithfield right now, getting our work done. If not for you.”
He waved the barrel of the pistol at me in an up-and-down manner. Then he shook his head slowly. Somehow, this was my fault. I had disappointment him. Gravely.
“Not very smart on your part, Frank. So here we are, because you did all those things you should never had done. Now: you can ask a question.”
Chapter 31
I asked the first question that was on my mind: The first logical contradiction. I needed to know: Had I brought all this on myself for nothing?
“Is there in fact a plot to kill Ellen Watson?”
Sid laughed. “It was Ellen Watson who blew your cover. Ellen Watson is back at the office right now, and you’re on a rooftop in the middle of nowhere in North Carolina, with a gun pointed at you. Does that answer your question?”
Actually, Sid’s response didn't answer my question. It only opened up new ones. But I wasn’t going to push him.
“I guess it does.”
“Excellent. I’m glad you finally got clear on that. But you see, it isn't that simple. We have an impasse, don’t we?”
“‘Impasse’?”
“I don’t trust you anymore, Frank. This time a week ago, you were my star purchasing agent. You were going places. But because you had to eavesdrop, you’ve become a liability. That’s the problem that we need to solve. Like I said, you’re a smart guy. Can you think of any possible solutions?”
“I’m hoping that the solution doesn't include your shooting me,” I said. If that was what he had in mind, I wanted him to let me know— because I had made up my mind to charge him, to go for broke. I wasn't going to die on this rooftop without a fight.
“I hope it doesn't come to that. I really do. But we can’t go on as we were before. I think you know that.”
“So what are you saying?”
He smiled coldly. “And here I thought you were a bright guy. You disappoint me, Frank. Disappointment on top of disappointment.”
I forced my brain to work. He hadn't brought me here to kill me, but he wanted me out of the picture. That meant—
“You want me to quit my job at Thomas-Smithfield.”
“Bingo. See—I knew you would come up with the right answer. I could engineer your way out, of course. But that would require me to build a case with HR. Gone are the days when a manager can simply dismiss a problem employee with a single pronouncement. There are all sorts of checks and balances in big companies nowadays, given our litigious legal environment.
“I’d prefer not to go to that trouble, if I can avoid it. I think you’ve already caused me enough trouble.”
Sid clenched his jaws together. He was angry at me and he didn't want me to forget it for a second. Well, despite my fear, I wasn'
t exactly happy myself.
“And what do I get out of this?”
I was pushing my luck, in light of the gun, but my thoughts were now shifting to the bigger picture. Sid had put on a grand show today—the silent treatment in the airport in Cincinnati, the ridiculous pace and the verbal abuse in the Raleigh-Durham Airport. Then the reckless drive. Finally the gun and this little tête-à-tête on the rooftop of an old warehouse out in the boonies. It had all been planned to make me compliant—to make me willing to agree to anything.
And it was completely unfair. Sid, Donnie, Bethany—and probably Ellen, I now believed—were involved in something unethical. I didn't know what it was, but they were obviously desperate to hide it. Sid wanted me out of the company while I knew almost nothing about what they were doing, so I couldn't make any trouble.
“What do you get out of this?” Sid finally said. “What you get out of this is that I don't use this gun on you, or toss you over the side of this building.”
“What about a letter of recommendation?”
Sid thought for a moment.
“No, sorry. Can’t do that.”
My first thought was that Sid was simply piling on the vindictiveness. But no, there was more to it than that. Throughout his career as a manager, he had probably written any number of letters of recommendation. What I was requesting—under more normal circumstances— would be no big deal.
What was far more likely was that his refusal was based on a desire to maintain plausible deniability. If I chose to leave the company and report him later, I could refer to the letter of recommendation as a part of a deal. Sid wouldn't want to give me that leverage; he wouldn't want the risk that a loose thread like that would entail.
“You leave immediately, and you leave with nothing. Fresh start.”
If he hadn't held the gun, I would have gone at him with both fists, even if it would have meant a conventional clobbering.
“Yeah. Some fresh start.”
“Those are the terms.”
Terms. It was all a big scam. In order to protect Sid, I was going to have to lose my livelihood.
“Some terms.”
“If it’s any consolation to you, Frank, this pains me almost as much as it pains you. I would rather not be here. As I’ve already told you, you could be back in the office today, doing your job in peace as a senior buyer. But you got yourself into this when you poked your nose into matters that didn't concern you. These are the consequences. Do we have an understanding?”
Sid looked at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.
I had some questions of my own: Had Sid ever had any intention of using that gun? If I defied him, would he simply back down?
I had no way of knowing. And as long as Sid held that gun, I couldn't afford the risk involved in giving him the wrong answer.
“I understand,” I said. “So—what happens now?”
“We drive back to the airport, and fly home. You say nothing to anyone about this trip. I mean nothing and no one. It’s Friday; and you have a lot to think about this weekend. I’m going to trust that you’re as smart as I think you are, Frank, and that you follow through and do the right thing.”
“And if I don’t?”
Sid paused for a few beats before answering me.
“Then I act for you. But let’s not go there, Frank. Let’s not make that necessary.”
Make what necessary, exactly? When Sid said that he would “act” in my stead, did he mean getting me fired from Thomas-Smithfield, or did he mean killing me?
I had no idea—exactly Sid’s intention.
“Now,” Sid said, “I think we’re done here.” He held the gun up. “Go back the way we came, and we’ll drive back to the airport.” He grinned at me. “Slower this time.”
Chapter 32
True to his word, Sid drove at a reasonable speed during the trip back to the Raleigh-Durham International Airport. He never told me who the warehouse belonged to, or how the pistol had mysteriously shown up in one of the rear footwells of the rental car.
There was much more that he wasn't telling me, and I was struggling to put the pieces together. Sid had help—and not only of the Donnie, Bethany, and Ellen variety. What he had pulled off today—the gun, the warehouse—had required some logistical feats.
When we pulled in to the rental car lot and exited the vehicle, I couldn't resist taunting him a little. Now that we were back in the world, in a public place, I figured there was no way he was going to shoot me.
“Are you going to check your gun at the Hertz counter?” I asked him.
“What gun?” Sid asked. He ran his hands down both sides of his overcoat. There was no bulge of a gun in any of the main pockets, from what I could see.
I hadn't seen him place the gun back in the rear driver’s side footwell, nor had I seen him drop it in his attache case, which he had left in the back seat while we convened atop the roof.
Sid had dropped the gun somewhere in the warehouse, I realized. Probably someone—whoever had planted the gun in the car and arranged our access to the warehouse—had retrieved it after our departure.
Sid had thought of everything: He knew the risks associated with bringing the gun back to the airport after I knew about it: There was always a chance that I could deviate from the script and report him to one of the many law enforcement personnel who have been especially ubiquitous at airports since 9-11. Sid was always looking for the double-cross, and always taking steps to preempt it.
As we passed through the airport entrance from the ground transportation lot, Sid said, “You’d better be careful, talking about guns in an airport.”
I looked over at him to see if he was smiling. There was no irony in his face.
“Remember what I told you, Frank: I’m always one step ahead of you. So play this smart. Don’t let our trip today be in vain. I don’t like to waste my time. And hopefully I don't need to tell you: This was your first and your last warning. I’m being generous with you today, because I did think highly of you at one time.”
We had been in North Carolina for only about two hours. My original itinerary had me returning very late in the day, as would have been expected had this been an actual supplier visit. I wasn’t even surprised, really, when I discovered that Sid and I had been rebooked on a much earlier return flight to Cincinnati.
Sid had thought of everything.
I was walking out to my car at the airport in Cincinnati when my phone began to chime.
It was Claire. I hoped that my ex-wife was in a mood to be conciliatory. I couldn't handle any more bad news.
I was supposed to drive to Dayton tomorrow to take my daughter to lunch. I had been looking forward to seeing Olivia all week, even though my attention had been derailed in recent days.
“Hey, Claire,” I said. Then, without preamble: “Olivia and I are still on for tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, Frank. You’re still on with Olivia.”
I had known my ex-wife long enough to know that there was something else she wanted to talk about, but she would tell me in her own good time. There was nothing to do but listen. So I let her talk, and I continued walking.
To make a longish story short, Claire hemmed and hawed around for a while, as I made my way to the parking garage. Then she finally got to the crux of her phone call.
“I wanted to let you know—to prepare you—so that you won’t go ballistic when you find out, but—”
I knew what she was going to say even before she told me.
“Ryan is definitely going to move in. Soon. Probably next month sometime, depending on how quickly he can get out of his lease.”
A half-dozen responses reeled through my mind. None of them would have added anything productive to the conversation. So instead I punted.
“Listen, Claire. I’ve just returned from a business trip, and I haven't exactly had the best day of my life. I’ve had a pretty horrible day, in fact. I don't want to discuss this now.”
“But we’ve
got to talk about it, because—”
“Claire, I’ll call you back later. Or, better yet, I’ll see you tomorrow when I pick up Olivia. I’ve got to go now.”
With that I terminated the call.
I hadn't told Claire everything, but I hadn't lied to her, either. It had been one of the worst days of my life; and it was barely mid-afternoon.
Chapter 33
I suppose that I could have called it a day after I returned from Raleigh. Sid had already told me that my career at Thomas-Smithfield was over, for all intents and purposes. What difference would it make if I blew off the last two hours of the workday on a Friday afternoon?
I couldn't bring myself to do that, though. Now that the initial shock and awe of Sid’s performance was wearing off, I was more resentful than scared. After leaving the airport, I headed not for home, but back to the office.
Sid had been instrumental in my recent grade promotion; that much was true. But I had worked for it. I would have received some sort of recognition under almost any other manager, I believed. Sid had helped me, but he hadn't made me. I had made myself.
And now he wanted to me to chuck it all, because he was hiding something that he didn't want me to fully discover, and perhaps reveal. He believed that I could be intimidated by what amounted, perhaps, to a series of cheap parlor tricks.
I was seized by a sudden fury at Sid Harper. I wanted to take him on, to show him that I wasn't a pawn he could move around and dispose of at will.
Nevertheless, I had no proof of what had occurred today; and in any appeal to higher authority within the company, Sid would be believed over me. I had been with the company for less than two years. Sid had been with the company for fifteen years, at least.
Sid might have been play-acting today—at least in part—but he was obviously desperate; and I still didn't know exactly what I was dealing with here.
There was a case to be made for simply cutting my losses, for doing what Sid wanted me to do. I would struggle for a while, but I would probably find another job.
The Eavesdropper Page 9
