Takeover

by Diana Dwayne

  We’re still waiting for Jillian’s guy on the force to give us an update on the investigation, but I know what happened. Someone tried to kill me.

  This isn’t a game and it sure as hell isn’t a fantasy. What I need to figure out is why. If I can figure out why someone would want me dead, then I might be able to figure out who. Maybe I can even find a way to make it through this mess alive. Here’s hoping.

  Jillian’s phone rings, and it’s kind of amusing to be able to actually see my heart rate increasing in anticipation. James is by my bed now, and I think he’s starting to calm down a little bit. The thought that someone’s trying to kill me seems to have pretty well shut him down though, so I’m not sure if he’s actually calm or just in shock.

  I pat his hand and reassure him that everything’s going to be all right. Before too long, I’ll have to call my insurance company, but hopefully Jillian has some good news for me now that she’s hanging up the phone.

  “Your master cylinder is fried,” she says.

  “I don’t know what that means,” I answer.

  “It means that either it’s been hanging on by a thread while sustaining long-term damage over the past few years, and it simply didn’t go out until today or—”

  “Or someone is trying to kill me.”

  “I don’t think they’re trying to kill you,” Jillian says, rolling her eyes. “My guy said that what most likely happened is that someone put brake fluid in your power-steering and power-steering fluid in your brake lines.” She goes to pull out her cigarettes, but I shake my head.

  “There’s no way they’re going to let you smoke in here,” I tell her.

  “I know,” she says, repositioning the pack in her bra while James tries not to notice.

  “You know,” James says, “it makes sense that brake fluid would jam up the steering wheel and that power-steering fluid would make the brakes slippery, but how would all of that happen so quickly? I had a girlfriend in high school whose brother did the same thing to her. I still don’t know if it was because he was a psycho or if he was just stupid, but it took a couple of weeks for everything to get really bad with it.” He looks over at me. “You didn’t notice anything until today?”

  “No,” I say. “Last night, it was fine. I drove it home without any issue. Whatever happened must have happened last night. I mean, someone did let the air—”

  “He found your phone, by the way,” Jillian interjects. “He said that he’d try to get the number traced, but it’ll probably be a few hours.”

  “Great,” I say. “We have a theory as to what happened, but no clue as to how, and a possible lead on who might have done it, but we have to wait to find out if the number’s going to tell us anything at all.”

  “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” James says, gripping my hand in his. “We’re going to—”

  James is interrupted by the sound of the door opening. The doctor is carrying some x-rays. That can’t be good news.

  “How are we feeling today?” he asks, doing his best to avoid eye contact.

  “Other than the car crash, I’m doing great,” I respond. “What did the tests show?”

  “It looks like you have a bit of whiplash, so I’m going to suggest you wear a brace for a while. Come back in a week and we can see where you’re standing with all of that. What concerns me most is that you got in a crash in the first place. Your tox screen came back positive for methamphetamines, marijuana, alcohol and PCP. I need to ask you a question, and I need you to be completely honest with me. I’m not a cop, I’m a doctor.” He looks at Jillian and James and then back at me. “Maybe your friends should wait outside.”

  “I have nothing to hide. Besides,” I say, a little more than irritated, “you’ve already said that I tested positive for two things that I’ve never put in my body and one thing that I never put in my body within at least eight hours of driving anywhere. Are you sure you have the right file? Someone came in a while ago and said that my test was clean.”

  “Sometimes people remember things better when they don’t feel so much pressure.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” I repeat. “Ask your questions.”

  “Do you do any drugs that may not show up on a tox screen? Often times, people who have this active a drug addiction are prone to trying things outside of the general pantheon of common drug use.”

  “No,” I say. “The only ‘drug’ that I put into my system is the occasional drink of alcohol, but never before I drive. One of my brothers got a DUI a few years back, and I didn’t think it looked like the kind of behavior I wanted to emulate. Other than that, the occasional ibuprofen for headaches, and I do take a multivitamin, but I can’t think of anything, especially illicit.”

  “I see,” he says. “How is your sex life?”

  “How is that pertinent?”

  “Certain venereal diseases can have neurological effects—”

  Jillian interrupts before James can, “I’m assuming you’ve run an STD panel?”

  “Yes,” the doctor says. “It looks like you have chlamydia, but sometimes symptoms show before a disease is testable. Syphilis might—”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I yawn.

  James adds, “I don’t have chlamydia. I got tested before she and I ever slept together. I would have known if I had gotten something.”

  “Have you found yourself to be extra irritable, drained of energy, unable to enjoy things which you used to enjoy?” the doctor asks, completely ignoring my fiancé’s objection.

  “No. It sounds like you’re digging for something which either means that you don’t believe me, or you have something in one of those files that contradicts what I’m saying.”

  “Not at all,” the doctor says, noticeably uncomfortable.

  “Have you ever been diagnosed with any mental disorders? Anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, anything?”

  “No,” I say. “In high school, I was a bit depressed, but I think that had more to do with my high school experience rather than an underlying mental issue.”

  “It looks like you have a good amount of lithium in your system,” he says. “That’s usually indicative of bipolar treatment. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “I’m pretty sure—actually, I’m positive that you’ve mixed my results with someone else’s.”

  “I really don’t think—” The doctor finally opens one of the files in his hand. “Oh dear,” he says.

  “What?” James asks in a sudden near panic, and I’m half-tempted to hook up my stat monitor to him just to make sure he’s not headed for a stroke.

  “It’s nothing,” he says. “I looked over the wrong file before I came in. It looks like all of your tests came back clean. From this x-ray,” he says, holding it up to the light, “I don’t think that you’re going to need that neck brace after all.”

  At this point, I just want to get out of here. “Do you think it might help if you took a few minutes outside to look over my file so we don’t have to waste any more time on ridiculous theories?”

  I think I’ve offended the man. I don’t know that I’ve ever actually offended someone; well, not on purpose. “Now that I’m looking at the right thing, I think it’s safe to say that you’re good to go. Just let me get the discharge papers written up.”

  “Whose file were you looking at?”

  “The other guy who came in, the one you rear-ended,” he sighs. “I think that your attorney has a much better case than I thought.” He closes his eyes, rests his head back and sighs, “And I really shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “I get that a lot of people lie to you, especially about drugs and STDs, but do you think next time you can take a look at the name on the file before you start spouting false information to me and my family?”

  “I’m very sorry,” he says. “But there’s no damage done, right? We’ll get you discharged here in a few minutes.”

  The doctor leaves without another word but where
he stops, Jillian starts, “You know, we might have a case against him,” she says, “negligence, malpractice, breach of doctor/patient confidentiality.”

  “I’m not going to sue anyone,” I say, yawning again. Why do I feel so tired? “Maybe whoever fucked with my car and tried to kill me, but other than that...”

  “Rose,” James says.

  “What?” I ask, curtly.

  It takes him a second to respond. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I know this is a rough time for you, but I’ve just never heard you talk this way. You’re usually so calm, forgiving. It’s like—”

  “I’m just a little stressed,” I answer. “I think you would be too.” That last one seemed to sting him a little. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. I’m just so... I don’t even know, frustrated, angry, scared, annoyed—at the doctor, not at you—and—”

  The doctor comes back into the room. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such quick service. I think it’s safe to say that he wants me out of here. I can’t say that I blame him though.

  “Here are your discharge papers,” he starts, still avoiding eye contact. “You’ll probably be sore for a few days, but it’s nothing that some rest won’t fix.”

  “Did you call my office?” I ask James.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “I totally forgot.”

  “Give me your phone.”

  “...okay...” he answers timidly as he pulls his cellphone from his pocket. “Who are you calling?”

  “My boss,” I answer. “I don’t know if it was Melissa or him or someone else involved in what happened to McDaniel, but I’m not really in a position where I can take too many chances. We need income, and I don’t want to lose my job just because someone tried to have me killed.”

  I dial the number and wait for a response. I have nobody over me except for Mr. Waite, so it’s not like I can avoid talking to him right now.

  “Sam Waite,” he answers.

  “Mr. Waite, hi,” I start. “I’m sorry that I haven’t gotten ahold of you earlier, but I was in a bad car crash this morning. I should be able to make it into work after I’m discharged from the hospital—and don’t worry, I’ll bring in a doctor’s note.”

  The line is quiet for a moment. “How are you doing?”

  “I’ll be fine. I should be there in about an hour or so, depending on how quickly the doctor decides to hand me my discharge papers.”

  The doctor takes his cue and hands over the papers in his hand. “I understand that things happen,” Mr. Waite says, “but you should have called me sooner.”

  “I’m sorry, they had me in for a lot of tests and—”

  “Just get here as soon as you can. The shit is hitting the fan over here.”

  “All right,” I say. This is not a good time to snap at my boss.

  The line goes dead, and I toss the phone back to James.

  “So,” I start. “Who would like the distinct honor of giving me a ride to work?”

  Neither Jillian nor James is quick to answer.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Separation and Reconnection

  I know it’s a bad sign when I get to the fourteenth floor and I can see Mr. Waite’s office door wide open. I understand that we had a talk about punctuality, but given my present circumstances, I had thought that maybe, just maybe, he might be a little understanding here. Oh well. I guess Shangri-La isn’t a permanent thing.

  Jillian arranged for a rental car to be delivered to the hospital before I was released. I may not feel too much like driving but, in her words, at least I know that car hasn’t been fucked with.

  I get to my desk and set down my backup purse slowly. (Yes, I have a backup purse.) The doctor wasn’t joking about the soreness, but I’m pretty sure I’ll survive the day, so long as I can make it through the reaming that I’m about to get.

  “Miss Pearson?” Waite’s voice comes from inside the office. “Can I see you in my office for a minute?”

  “Sure,” I answer, making sure that everything’s ready for me to get back to work as soon as our conversation is over.

  I walk into the office and he asks me to close the door. I do, and he offers me a seat.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  “Been better, I guess. I had quite a scare this morning.” I hand over the discharge papers.

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “From what little they’re able to deduce so far, it looks like someone put the wrong fluid in the wrong places, almost guaranteeing that I’d get in a wreck. What we don’t know is how they got it to work so quickly.”

  Mr. Waite stares out the window. “Do you know how I got this job?” he asks.

  “You were the most qualified?” I ask.

  “Hardly,” he chuckles. “No, the person who ends up at the top is very rarely the most qualified for it. I got this job because of my tenacity. I don’t let anything stand in the way of my success and the success of this company.”

  “I see.” That pit in my stomach is returning.

  “Now, some people may not approve of my methods, some people don’t like me and never will. That just comes with the job. The one thing that I can’t abide in this company is people who are out to sabotage it from within,” he looks at me with a look I haven’t seen before, at least not on his face. “Are you trying to bring this company down, Rose?”

  “Why would I—”

  “I understand you’ve had a rough week or so, but there are some things which can help us and some things that can hurt us. I think your continued involvement in behavior that brings attention to what happened to my predecessor isn’t going to help anyone.” He looks back out the window. “How has it worked out for you so far?”

  “Are you saying that you had something to do with what happened to me this morning?”

  He looks over at me and laughs. “You can’t be serious. No, I would never do something like that—even to someone that I feel is trying to undercut everything that I’m working so hard to rebuild.”

  “Then I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me, sir.”

  “We had a conversation about punctuality, didn’t we?” he asks.

  “I was in a car wreck. It wasn’t my fault. You’re concerned about sabotage, well, someone messed with my car and I almost died because of it.”

  He sighs. “You don’t understand. I need you to be at your best, Rose. If you’re not going to be able to tell the difference between what’s good for the company and what may destroy it, then I think we have a problem.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to stop pointing fingers at members of this company,” he says. “I suppose you know about the phone call I received from your attorney this morning?”

  “Jillian called you?” I ask. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but what did she say?”

  “Nothing too specific,” he answers. “She didn’t want to show her hand, but she did intimate that there are things that you know and that she knows that could bring this company to its knees. Her words, not mine.” He turns away from the window again and, more quickly than I could have imagined, he’s a few inches from my face, his hands on mind. “Is that what you want? Do you want to destroy something that took years to build and even longer to get to the top? What I’m trying to do is bigger than you, it’s bigger than me. It’s bigger than all of the employees, contacts, acquisitions and structures related to it. We are doing something special here, Rose. I thought you understood that.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  He stands and puts his hands over his face, breathing deeply, his face either vermillion or crimson; I never know which is which. “Melissa told me what the two of you discussed last night,” he says. “What am I supposed to do here? She started something with her lies about you that put this company in a very difficult position, and I can only imagine that you know what would happen if these accusations and speculations continue.”

  “
What are you going to do about it?” I ask, much more combatively than I had intended. “I talked to Melissa about getting back on her medication so hopefully what happened with me won’t happen again.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Well, what did you hear? I’d be fascinated to hear what she’s come up with.”

  “She told me that you were planning to take care of me the same way that you took care of McDaniel. Is that true?”

  I scoff. “You can’t actually believe her. The woman is certifiable.”

  “Maybe so,” he says, “but bad publicity is bad publicity, and if you’re trying to intimidate me or subvert what I’m trying to do with this company, I don’t think there’s a future for you here.”

  “I’m not trying to do anything of the sort!” I exclaim. “To be honest, Mr. Waite, you’ve been nothing but an inspiration to me since we first met in your office a few days ago, and I believe in what you have planned. It’s been a long time since I’ve said that and meant it. If you’re going to believe every lie that comes out of the mouth of a compulsive liar, then I think we have a problem. I thought you were more astute than that.”

  “Would you like a drink?” he asks.

  There’s something wrong. It’s not in the words that he said, but the look in his eyes as he said them. Those eyes are projecting mischievousness at best, thinly veiled contempt at worst. “No,” I say.

  “See?” he slams his open hand on his desk. “That’s what I’m talking about. A few days ago, I thought we hit it off. I thought you trusted me. What happened?”

  “Where is your pen?” I ask.

  “What pen? What are you talking about?”

  “The pen you got at the ALS fundraiser.”

  “I told you that I broke it a while ago. Why are you asking me?”

  “No,” I say. “The one from the day that McDaniel was killed.”

  His mouth drops open. The man is speechless. “How dare you?” he asks. “Do you really think that I would have or could have anything to do with the murder of a colleague? It’s no secret that he and I didn’t get along, but there’s something you don’t know about Rory McDaniel.”