Legion

by Robert Swartwood

  Pulling out my phone, I check the time.

  Christ, the package that’s now missing was due at Bachman Payne forty minutes ago.

  Now that my phone has a signal, it vibrates with notifications of text messages and voicemails. Thirteen text messages, six voicemails. Before I can check any of them, my phone vibrates again, this time with an incoming call.

  I answer it.

  “Reggie, you are not going to believe what happened to me.”

  But it’s not Reggie.

  “John”—Hank’s voice is fury itself—“where the fuck have you been?”

  six

  Ashley had just sent off her piece for tomorrow—after sifting through all her emails, having even spoken to some contacts and reps on the phone, she ended up with the Paris Hilton sighting, blah—when Eric poked his head over the top of her cubicle and said, “Tom wants to see you.”

  “About what?”

  “In his office right now.”

  Eric’s head disappeared and she sat there at her desk, wondering what this could be about. She was almost never called into Tom Fisher’s office. Usually whenever he needed to talk to Ashley—on those rare occasions—he came and found her.

  She rose from her desk, feeling an uncertain dread bubbling in her stomach, the kind a student usually feels when she’s just been called to the principal’s office.

  Eric was waiting for her. He was a small, balding man with a plump face. He had been working at the paper for over thirty years and rightfully should have had Tom’s job, but Eric wasn’t one for office politics, and his career would forever suffer for it.

  Ashley followed him, passing all the cubicles, everyone at their desks trying to make tomorrow’s deadline, some even editing or posting their stories that would immediately go to the Web. She passed Jeff’s cubicle and saw him at his desk, his phone to his ear. Their eyes met briefly and then she was past him, still following Eric, still wondering what this was about.

  Tom’s office door was closed. Eric went in first, holding the door open for her. Tom sat behind his large desk, the top cluttered with papers. He was currently typing at his computer, but smiled at her when she entered and asked her to take a seat.

  Ashley sat in one of the two chairs facing Tom’s desk. Eric stood off to the side by the window.

  “Ashley,” Tom said, his voice a bit overly enthusiastic, “how have you been?”

  “I’ve been fine, Tom. You?”

  “Hectic as always. The life of an editor never slows down.”

  She smiled. “What’s up?”

  “Right, so let me cut to the chase. It’s come to our attention that you are in fact very good friends with ADA Baxter.”

  Ashley forced herself to keep smiling and not blink. “Is that right?”

  “College roommates, in fact.”

  “And your point?”

  “As you know, ADA Baxter is prosecuting Timothy Carrozza.”

  “Yes, Tom. I may be an entertainment reporter, but I am up to date with current events. I thought you said you were going to cut to the chase.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, it’s also come to our attention that you had lunch with ADA Baxter this afternoon. That you two meet for breakfast at least once a month, in fact, if not more. That you are, should I assume, in frequent contact with her.”

  “Again, Tom, the chase.”

  The plastic smile on the editor’s face finally cracked. The light in his eyes began to dim. “Ashley, let’s not play games. Is there anything you can tell us?”

  She had been bracing herself for this question, but still she couldn’t believe it. She shook her head, glancing at Eric, and said to Tom, “I can’t believe you’re asking me this.”

  “I’m not asking you to give up state secrets. All I’m asking is if you happened to talk about the case.”

  “No, we didn’t, and even if we did, why would I tell you?”

  It hit her a moment too late that her tone was one an employee shouldn’t use with her boss. She considered apologizing—she liked Tom, after all—but decided no, she was way too pissed to do that just yet.

  Tom took a breath to compose himself, folding his hands on the desktop. “Ashley, do I have to remind you how we currently work in a dying medium?”

  She did her best not to sigh. “No.”

  “And how subscriptions are declining rapidly?”

  “No.”

  “And how our business has become even more cutthroat than ever before? To matter anymore, we have to be the first ones on the scene, the first ones to report what’s going on, the first ones to do our fucking jobs. Our business is to bring people the news, and, more importantly, to make money. Do you think I like having to bring you in my office to ask you this? Of course not. But my bosses, they’re breathing down my neck, and when it comes down to it, all of our jobs are on the line.”

  “Are you saying that if I don’t do this my job is in danger?”

  “All of our jobs are in danger. There’s a reason why I’ve had an ulcer for twenty years. Now look, I’m not asking you to betray your friend’s trust. If she told you something in confidence, she told you something in confidence. I get that. I understand that. I certainly know Eric understands it, too.”

  Eric, from his place by the window, nodded silently.

  “But here’s the thing, Ashley. In our business, we can make people heroes, and we can make people villains. Now I’m not saying we intend to make ADA Baxter a villain. Of course I’m not saying that. She’s bright, ambitious, and, I have to say, quite attractive. She’s a star. And this case, it’s going to raise her star even higher. What she could use, though, is a news outlet that’s willing to make sure her star shines as bright as it can. She helps us out, we help her out. It’s the same quid pro quo that’s been happening since the beginning of time. If we contacted her office, they would just ignore us. But coming from a friend? Well, that would mean something.”

  Ashley waited five full seconds—holding Tom’s gaze the entire time, still fuming—before she said, “Are we done?”

  Tom didn’t answer. Neither did Eric.

  She said, “Well, this was certainly a pleasure,” and rose from her chair, started for the door.

  “Remember what I said about this being a dying business?” Tom asked. “Budget cuts are coming at the beginning of the new year.”

  She turned back to the editor-in-chief. “Are you threatening me, Tom?”

  “Not at all. But I do want to remind you that most of the reporters here were hired because of their experience and expertise and ability to network, not because of who their daddy is.”

  There had been a moment where she considered letting them know about the death threat placed on Melissa, and how the ADA had twenty-four-hour protection from the city police. It was news that wasn’t really news, but it would break at some point, and why not let it be from her newspaper? But after what Tom had just said to her, there was no way in hell she was going to tell him anything.

  “You keep talking about a dying business, Tom. Maybe about most of this paper, sure, but what I do? People crave celebrity gossip. I keep working here because I enjoy it, but I could get a job at any tabloid I wanted, and without any help from my father.”

  “We don’t want you to quit, Ashley. We simply want you to extend the invitation to your friend. That’s all. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

  “Thanks for the chat, guys.”

  The moment she was outside the office she immediately felt herself shaking. Her hands, her legs, her entire body—everything trembled from end to end. She was thankful for small miracles she hadn’t been shaking in Tom’s office, and she marched straight for her cubicle, wondering if maybe she had been shaking after all, when she nearly ran into Jeff.

  “Listen,” he said, his hands raised, “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Ashley, I’m serious. Eric saw me talking to you earlier, and then he came to me and asked me what t
hat was about, so I told him, and then ...”

  She didn’t hear the rest, already past him, his words hitting her back. She bypassed her cubicle and went straight for the women’s room. Through the door, into an empty stall, she sat down on the toilet seat, placed her arm to her mouth, bit down on flesh, and screamed.

  seven

  They have me sit outside the conference room, just sit there like a complete tool, until finally the door opens and Ed motions for me to come inside.

  “Thanks for waiting, John,” he says, shaking my hand. He’s wearing his usual office attire, khakis and a blue polo with the company name embroidered on his chest. He pulls out a chair from the table and motions for me to sit. “Do you want anything to drink? Water, coffee, tea?”

  My boss, the owner of the company, acting like an assistant.

  I tell him no thanks, then regard the two other men in the room, both sitting across from me—Reggie and Hank. Reggie, just like Ed, is on my side. Hank, well, not so much. I can tell just by Hank’s body language—his slouched shoulders, his crossed arms, his perpetual scowl—that he isn’t happy. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe that means I get to keep my job.

  Ed takes his seat and clears his throat to begin.

  “For starters, John, I want to make sure you’re okay. I know I asked you before and I’ll probably ask you again. You had quite a day, didn’t you?”

  I nod.

  “So let me just get the main thing out of the way. Bachman Payne isn’t happy with us losing their package.”

  “Us?” Hank’s voice rises like an angry geyser. “We didn’t lose their package. He did.”

  It takes everything I have not to give Hank the bird, especially as he’s now aiming an angry index finger in my direction.

  “Now that’s enough,” Ed says, and I have to force myself not to smile or wink at Hank, something to set him off. I could do it, too, especially with how we’re positioned at the table—Ed to my left, Hank off to my right—but I remain quiet and still.

  “Anyway,” Ed says, “Bachman Payne has decided to terminate their contract with us. At least for the time being. They won’t say what the package was, but apparently it was very important—as are all of our clients’ packages, of course—and the fact that now it has been lost ... well, let’s just say they’re quite upset. Which is understandable. We’ve had a great working relationship with them for years, and we hope to one day work with them again.”

  I had been expecting there to be some kind of consequence to losing the package, but losing the account was an extreme I had been hoping to avoid.

  “Ed, I’m sorry—”

  He holds up a hand. “No reason to apologize, John. Sometimes shit happens in our line of work. Sometimes it happens a lot. Say, how long have you been working here?”

  I swallow, understanding that this meeting will be my last. “Four years.”

  “Four years,” Ed says, not to me but to Reggie and Hank, impressed. “And in all those years, have you ever lost a package?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever delivered a package late?”

  “Unfortunately, it happened two times. But only by minutes.”

  “Still, you have a pretty remarkable record. How many times would you say you’ve been doored?”

  I smile, thinking about all the times I was riding along stopped traffic and suddenly a door opened right in front of me. In those situations there isn’t much you can do. Slam on your brakes, sure, but that doesn’t always mean you’ll be safe. Swerve and avoid is another option, but the same applies: doesn’t always mean you’ll be safe. So sometimes, you have no choice but to go right into the door.

  “More times than I care to admit,” I say.

  Ed smiles, nodding, then all at once he goes solemn. “It was pretty scary today, wasn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “I spoke personally to Detective Baniels.”

  Huh, I think. The dude’s name really is Baniels.

  “He explained what happened,” Ed says, “and he explained what you claim happened. That someone pushed you.”

  I start to defend myself, thinking that if anyone in the world will believe me, it’s Ed, but he holds up a hand again.

  “Right now, how you ended up falling off that platform isn’t what’s important. What’s important is why you were there in the first place.”

  “Someone jacked my wheels.”

  “Yes,” Ed says slowly, something changing in his eyes, “we’ll come back to that shortly. For now, from what I understand, you called Reggie about your problem.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you asked Reggie to call Bachman Payne and explain you would be late.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then”—Ed shoots Hank a glare—“your supervisor told you to ... ‘start running,’ as I understand it.”

  I nod again, forcing myself to not even glance at Hank.

  “So in theory, if someone had called Bachman Payne and explained you were running late, you would never have been in that subway station.”

  “Sir”—Hank leans forward, his voice unsteady—“did I tell John to start running? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I told him to take the train. It’s purely coincidental that—”

  “The point here,” Ed says, “is that Bachman Payne was not contacted about their package running late. The point, too, is the package is now gone. So is John’s manifest, which means we can’t account for any of his previous runs today, which means we don’t get paid. And all of that adds up to being one massive mess.”

  Nobody says anything. In fact, I realize Reggie hasn’t spoken a word this entire time.

  Ed says, “John, is there anything you want to tell us?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why you were in that train station.”

  “I told you. Someone jacked my wheels.”

  “Yes, and now we’re back to that.” He pushes away from the table, stands, and walks to the door. “How did you get here?”

  “Taxi. When Hank called me, he told me to get in the first taxi I saw and come straight here.”

  “So you left your bike behind.”

  I nod slowly, not sure where he’s taking this.

  “Tito finished his runs early today,” Ed says, his hand on the doorknob. “He finished up right when you called. So while you were on your way back here, I had him go down to retrieve your bike. Figured after everything you had been through, we would save you the time and hassle. But then when he got there, he called and told me he found something quite ... odd.”

  Ed opens the door, snaps his fingers, and steps back. For a moment nothing happens, and then Tito appears, decked out in his usual shorts and shirt, rolling a bike into the room.

  “How ...” I start to say, but that’s it. I have no words. I rise, slowly, and approach the bike—my bike. It has the same wear and tear that it did when I saw it last. It has the same worn tires. Everything about it is the same, except it’s impossible that it’s here right now, like this, complete.

  “So, John,” Ed says, his gaze steady with mine, “I’m going to ask you one more time. Why were you in the train station?”

  eight

  Typically after work Ashley took the train downtown to her apartment in Greenwich Village, but tonight she took the F train up to Lexington Avenue, got onto the 5, and rode that up to 96th Street, walked two blocks, nodded to Brock, the doorman, who smiled and said he hadn’t seen her in a while and hoped she was doing well, and took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor where her mother was already waiting for her.

  “Ashley”—her mother opened her arms for an embrace—“what a pleasant surprise.”

  Ashley hugged her mother and kissed her cheek. “I didn’t expect you to be the welcoming committee.”

  “Brock called and said you were headed up. I was worried something might be wrong. Is something wrong?”

  Ashley followed her mother into the apartment. “No, not at all. It’s just ... we
ll, it’s been a long day. I wanted to see you and Daddy.”

  Her mother smiled. “That’s so sweet.”

  The apartment was as immaculate as it always was. She met with her parents once every two weeks, if not more, usually for Sunday brunch. She hadn’t been to the apartment in a long time, and she missed the plush and ornate decorations, the expensive furniture, and, more than anything, the view. She walked up to a patio window, one that looked out over Central Park.

  Her father’s reflection filled the glass. “Sweetie, what are you doing here?”

  She turned, smiling, and embraced him. “Hi, Daddy.”

  Her mother was headed toward the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Just an ice water would be fine.”

  Her father stood next to her, facing the park. “You always loved this view, didn’t you?”

  “It’s one of my favorites in the city. Especially around this time of year, when the leaves start to change.”

  “When you were a girl you’d go out on the patio with a book and read for hours.”

  She smiled. “During the summer, it was a great place to tan.”

  “Even better than the place on Martha’s Vineyard?”

  She gave it a moment’s thought. “It’s tough to decide which was better.” She saw something in his eyes and said, “What is it?”

  “We might be selling the house.”

  “Why?”

  “We hardly ever go up there anymore. The place is empty most of the year, so it seems foolish to keep it.”

  She wondered if that was the real reason, whether the decision was more financial than anything else, but decided not to bring it up.

  “So what is it?” her father asked.

  “What is what?”

  “Ashley, you know your mother and I always love seeing you, and while we’d love for you to visit more, it’s Monday evening, and you almost never visit during the week. Something’s bothering you. What is it?”