by Bryan Devore
“Your brother . . . was always the weaker . . . of you two, wasn’t he?” Michael said between short, panting breaths. Conserve your energy, he thought. Save your strength . . . save it for one final burst. “How many times . . . did you protect him . . . growing up? But then, you . . . couldn’t protect him . . . from me.”
With a screech of rage, Lance slammed the gun into Michael’s jaw. Michael’s head turned sideways as he spat blood and part of a tooth into the snow. Lance hit him again. Without the use of either arm, there was nothing he could do to defend himself.
“Look at me, you motherfucker!” Lance yelled. He grabbed Michael’s beaten face and forced him to look at him. “I told you to look at me. I want to see it in your eyes. I want to see the exact moment you fade out and die.”
Michael didn’t know how much longer he could stay conscious. His only hope was to get Lance to lean back far enough that his legs could reach him. If he wanted to live, he had to get him to sit up straight.
“Look at me,” Lance screamed, pulling Michael’s face close to his.
At that moment, Michael saw his opportunity. He tightened his chest and spat a mouthful of blood into the leering face. Repulsed, Lance leaned back.
This was the moment—Michael’s only chance. His right leg whipped up over Lance’s shoulder, heel against his throat, pulling him backward to the ground. In the confusion, Lance dropped the gun. His neck was now between Michael’s knees, scissored around his neck, ankles locked. Squeezing with the last of his waning strength, Michael felt light in the head and knew that the strain was making him bleed faster. Lance scrambled desperately, kicking at the snow as his hands tried frantically to overpower the superior strength of the leg muscles choking him. Michael, meanwhile, fought to keep conscious long enough to squeeze the life out of his enemy.
Finally, he felt Lance’s body go limp. He continued to squeeze as hard as he could for perhaps two more minutes, knowing that his exertions were surely hastening the blood loss from his own wounds. Finally, he felt himself growing too weak to continue. He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn’t obey. He could feel his life draining away. Everything was silent and dark and cold, and his mind began to drift. He was dying, and he knew it, but he was too weak to care. He could feel it coming now. Darkness, and with it, peace.
Epilogue
DON SEATON WALKED through the beige marble entrance of the Brown Palace Hotel. Crossing the open atrium, he glanced up at the stained-glass skylight lofting a hundred feet above the cocktail lounge in the center of the lobby. After crossing the atrium, he entered the hotel’s historic Old Ship Tavern, one of the oldest Scotch bars in Denver. He stood at the far edge of the bar and ordered a Glenury Royal.
After taking a sip, he glanced at his watch. He was ten minutes early. Unfolding his copy of today’s Denver Post, he reread the front-page article updating the world on recent events at X-Tronic. It was the fifteenth installment in the developing story that had first appeared three weeks ago. The Post had allowed parts of the story to be picked up by the Associated Press for national distribution to other papers, and there was already building hype concerning a Pulitzer Prize for a young journalist named Sarah Matthews, who had written the articles.
Seaton had first heard of Sarah from Michael before the shareholders’ meeting. He had been told then that she was involved in investigating the fraud and was the most qualified person to report the actual events at X-Tronic. When she had contacted Seaton a few weeks ago, he generously invited her for a series of long, exclusive interviews to discuss all aspects of X-Tronic for her research. And thanks to a previous arrangement that Michael had made after the shareholders’ meeting, Sarah had also been provided with numerous contacts at the U.S. Treasury Department to report their involvement in the story.
As Seaton reread the article, he noted how concisely it detailed the events of the past three weeks. It noted how he had lost 80 percent of his net worth doing the buyback that prevented the company’s bankruptcy. Many were now calling him the new model for corporate responsibility, and a recent poll in Forbes magazine was voting him businessman of the year. The Post article went on to detail the challenges still facing the company. Now that both Don Seaton’s sons were dead and many top executives were to be charged with various crimes, the future of the company was uncertain. Confidence had been bolstered somewhat by Seaton’s announcement that X-Tronic would enter into a leveraged buyout of Cygnus International. Cygnus’s stock price had plummeted since the SEC had announced formal charges of fraud and insider trading against its CEO, Fredrick Kavanaugh III. Ironically, X-Tronic now found itself in a position to acquire the very company that had threatened to take it over only a few months ago.
Savoring the rich single malt, Seaton looked ahead at the work it would take for X-Tronic to survive the short-term fallout from the fraud. He knew he couldn’t do it alone.
Outside, a man in a long cashmere coat handed his keys to the valet. At the heavy double doors, he carefully grabbed the brass handle before the doorman could react. With a grimace, he strained to open it.
“I’m sorry, sir. Let me get that,” said the doorman, rushing over to the man’s aid.
“No, please,” the man said, motioning him back. “I want to open it.” His breathing grew deeper as he strained against the door. After a brief delay, it gave way.
He strode through the lobby, arms hanging stiffly at his side, and entered the Old Ship Tavern to find Don Seaton reading a paper at the bar.
Looking up, Seaton said, “Michael,” with a warm smile. “Thank you for meeting me. How are the arms?”
Michael Chapman carefully reached out and shook the billionaire’s hand. “Still not a hundred percent, but my doctor says I’ll be arm wrestling in a couple of months.”
“That’s wonderful to hear. Well, should we grab a table by the window?”
Michael followed Seaton to the far side of the bar, where a row of tables and chairs lined a wall with small windows.
“You know,” Seaton began, “a lifetime ago I was a professor at MIT. I did a teaching sabbatical in Europe, and one thing I learned traveling through Russia is that it’s traditional there to drink while conducting business discussions—lovely custom, don’t you think?” He turned to the barman and twitched a finger to indicate the prearranged order. “Then again, Russians drink socially as well.”
“Which is this?”
Seaton looked at him, and beneath those hooded eyes Michael could see despair, the kind that could haunt a man after a great tragedy. Michael realized that the Scotch the barman brought for them was for neither business nor pleasure, but forgiveness—to forgive the father for the deeds of the sons. And in return, the father was offering his own forgiveness to Michael for the role Michael had played in the deaths of his sons.
“My sons have caused so much harm,” Seaton confessed, “I’m finding it difficult to show my face in public these days.”
Michael didn’t respond. There was nothing he wanted to say about the twins.
“I want to be level with you,” Seaton began. “I know that we’ve had difficulty because of my sons.” He pause a moment as if to reflect on the true weight of his words. “I don’t really know the best way to put this, so I’ll just say it plain: I was never close to the twins, but I had always hoped they would become the future of my company. I gave them the best education money could buy, and I tried to give them every opportunity to work their way into X-Tronic, with the hope that at least one—if not both—would one day take over the corporation.” He looked down at the table, as if, in the grain of its wood, he might discern some clue to where he had gone wrong.
“But they failed me, just as I somehow failed them. Now I am forced to move on. My company is at risk of losing more value than it has earned in the past ten years. And for the first time in my life I cannot see the future in it.”
“You still have a good company, with good products,” Michael said. “After the Cygnus merger, there’s no r
eason why X-Tronic can’t be ahead of its competitors and back on top of the industry in two or three years.”
“Yes,” Seaton said. “Right now the company’s reputation is the most important thing that needs fixing. X-Tronic will be going through difficult times these next few years, and I need strong leaders I can trust to guide it through the challenges it will face. Michael, I want you to be assistant chief financial officer at X-Tronic.”
Michael gaped at him in amazement. “Assistant CFO! Don, I’ve only been out of college for five years. You want to make me an assistant officer in a Fortune one hundred company?”
“Michael, I know your background. You had the second highest score in the country when you took the CPA exam your first time. You’re brilliant—a true financial wizard—and your experience in the Treasury shows you have the ethics and leadership this corporation needs. I’ve contacted an old friend, Peter Gerston, and he agreed to take over as the new CFO for the next two years. He was CFO at Sokie Technologies for ten years before retiring a year ago. He would be your mentor during these first two years. He’s a brilliant man and would teach you everything you need to know. At the end of the two years, he would step down and you would become the new CFO of X-Tronic. I’ll start your salary at two hundred thousand a year plus potential bonuses of three times that much. You’ll also get stock options that could be worth millions if we can successfully turn around the corporation.” He paused a second. “How old are you, Michael?”
Michael knew that Seaton already had the answer but wanted to hear it from him. “Thirty-one.”
“By thirty-three you’ll become one of the youngest CFOs in the history of any Fortune one hundred company. And you will have become a legend in the financial world. You will be the future of X-Tronic. What’s more,” he continued, “you will also be the face that restores the public’s confidence in X-Tronic. You will be responsible for reporting to the media the changes and progress that X-Tronic makes as we begin our restructuring efforts. You will become one of the main presenters at future shareholders’ meetings. As the former Treasury agent who exposed the fraud, you would immediately be a trusted voice to the public. You couldn’t be more perfect for the job.”
Michael didn’t need any time to make his decision. “When do you want me to start?”
Seaton raised his glass to Michael’s. “Immediately!”
After discussing his future over another drink with Seaton, Michael left the Brown Palace, planning to go straight home. For too long now he had felt trapped by his undercover life. Lying in bed in the hospital had given him ample time to think, and he had told Glazier he would leave the Treasury. Because Falcon was still at large, Glazier had stationed a police officer outside his hospital room. Michael had had a number of visitors, but there was one person he had refused to see. According to the nurse, Alaska had tried four times to visit him, but Michael had given specific instructions not to let her in.
He drove past the turn to his apartment and kept driving south on Broadway.
True, she had betrayed him, but her repeated attempts to see him in the hospital had made him question things he had been certain about. He still didn’t think he could face her, but he wanted to forgive her.
Pulling into the parking lot, he got out of his car and walked toward the red two-story building with the open patio on top. Inside, he found a long room with a bar on one side and a row of high-backed leather-upholstered booths along the other. The only person in the place was the barman at the far end. He nodded at the barman’s greeting and walked slowly along, studying each of the paintings that hung above the booths. He stopped near the end and looked longer at each of the last three paintings, which had Alaska’s name below them.
“These are great,” he said. “You have any others by this artist?”
“I don’t, but it sounds like she paints a lot. I can’t imagine it would be a problem if you wanted to see more of her work,” said the barman, obviously trying to be helpful.
The guy knew her, Michael realized. They had spoken, and he wanted to help her. He, too, had seen a glimpse of her pain.
“I’d like to buy these three,” Michael said.
“Great,” the man replied. “Look, if you want more, we could get the artist on the phone right now. I know she’d love to show more of her work.”
“No. Thank you, though. I’ll just take these three.”
“Okay. I’ll mark them as sold and give her a call. Maybe she can come down here right now to do the transaction.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have time. I’ll pay you cash now, and I trust you to get her the payment. I’ll give you an extra fifty for your trouble. Otherwise, I’ll just go.”
“Oh, sure, man. We can do that. Whatever you want.”
“Could you also help me move them out to my car? I had an accident recently, and I don’t think I can carry them.”
The barman took down the three paintings and carefully leaned them against the side of the bar. “Just let me go get an envelope for the money,” he said.
As the barman left the room, Michael sat in one of the booths and looked at the nearest painting. It was a hypnotic image of blue skiers gliding down a white mountain with purple trees against a crimson sky. He was still surprised at how captivating he found her visions. He studied the other two paintings carefully before eventually looking back at the one with the ski slope.
The barman seemed to be taking forever. Suddenly, the snow in the painting lit up as if he were on the actual slopes and the clouds had just parted. He turned toward the front door, which stood open. Framed in the sunlight was a figure that became a young woman as she walked inside. When she saw Michael she stopped and stared, breaking eye contact only long enough to see the three paintings resting against the bar beside him.
“I got a phone call and rushed down,” Alaska said. “I didn’t know the buyer was you. What are you doing?”
Having no adequate answer, he just stood there.
“I read about you in the Post,” she said. “I tried to visit you in the hospital.”
“I was still healing.”
Her eyes gleamed wet. “What are you going to do now?”
“I’m taking a new job out here.”
“So you’re staying in Denver?”
He nodded. “What about you?”
She gave a little shrug. “I was thinking about moving back to Aspen to be closer to my dad.”
He was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “I’ve never met your dad, but from what you’ve told me, I bet he would rather you spent time finding your own life.”
“And you think my life’s in Denver?” she said. “I have nothing here anymore. Most of my friends are scattered in the wind. The only real family I have is my dad in Aspen. And my painting career is nonexistent.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “You just sold three.”
She grinned. “Only a lunatic would buy three of my paintings when no one else even notices them.”
“Well this lunatic just might have a few ideas for helping you market your talent to the people of Denver.”
She laughed. “You’re still such an accountant. I suppose there’s nothing you can’t do?”
Michael frowned. “Actually, right now I can’t even carry these paintings up to my apartment when I get home.”
She seemed to consider this. “You’re really that helpless?” she said, and gave him an appraising look. “Then I guess—right now, anyway—you need me.” She had that same sassy grin as the night they first met in the club.
The grin spread to him. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
She carried the paintings out to his car one at a time; then they went back to his apartment. As he drove through the rising neighborhood streets with her sitting beside him, the fading sunset hung over the snowcapped Rockies, its orange glow lighting the bare winter trees that lined the road home.
THE END
About The Author
Bryan Devore was born and ra
ised in Manhattan, Kansas, and received his Bachelor’s and Master’s in Accountancy from Kansas State University. He also completed an exchange semester at the Leipzig Graduate School of Management in Leipzig, Germany. He is a CPA and lives in Denver, CO. The Aspen Account is his first novel. He welcomes comments and feedback, and can be contacted at [email protected].
Novels by Bryan Devore:
The Aspen Account
The Price of Innocence
The Paris Protection
To read the story behind the book visit
www.bryandevorebooks.com
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Quotes
Prologue
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