by Jim Stark
"I'm getting rather concerned about—uh—shall we say his—uh—equilibrium,” said O'Connor. “He seems somewhat paranoid. I don't suppose there's much we can do about that, other than make sure he's aware of all the security precautions we've taken. But there's another thing, Randall. The poor bugger simply hasn't ... had any ... for years. He said as much to Helen in the jeep on the way out to the lake. I think he may be on the verge of depression on that score, and now that he's rich, he's going to want to have—you know—relations. So either we set him up, or he'll go—uh—hunting, you know what I mean?"
Randall sauntered along the dirt path with his big hands clasped behind his back. He'd have to think about this, and there was no better place to think than in the woods of his estate.
The best way to silence Cam was to not respond. Randall seemed to fall into a deep and private consideration of this most recent inane suggestion, but his mind was actually elsewhere. He adored nature. There was a pervasive violence here, things dying willy-nilly, seeds withering in infancy, animals and birds and insects attacking each other, devouring each other alive, life destroying life in order to live. But nature represented the ultimate non-zero-sum system, always producing a healthy surplus of life over death. This was an organized, purposeful violence, and the sideshow of pain and suffering was forever eclipsed by a continuing deluge of colors, sounds, and a quadrillion hidden acts of love and fun.
It was well known that Randall Whiteside didn't appreciate it when unpleasantries were forced into his jealously guarded psychic space, but even his great wealth couldn't buy him immunity from the sordid side of human existence. Cam O'Connor had made a proposal, of sorts, and he had to shoot it down. People do things that animals would snort at, he thought, things that they would mock and ridicule if they could speak. Thank God the creatures of the wild don't understand human folly. They'd rebel if they did.
"So we should be pimps now?” he asked, “setting Victor up with a woman?"
"No, sir,” objected Cam. “In fact that would be quite impossible. If you think about it, I'm sure you'd realize that for a guy with Victor's extraordinary insights, a hooker would last about thirty seconds. I'm just saying that since we've got to have security at the lodge full time, it might as well be Annette. Helliwell could be there for months, you know. If they hit it off, fine. If they don't hit it off, that's okay too. We'll just ... replace her ... if things don't ... gel. Annette ... sort of needs somebody anyway. Her parents passed away some years ago. She ... doesn't like doing stuff like that, but her loyalty to Patriot and to you is such that—uh..."
Again, Randall responded by not responding. He couldn't remember when his long-time friend had taken to calling him “sir,” even if they weren't that close any more. And now he had to deal with the policy option that had been proposed.
He was a realist, and he knew that in the opening stanza of the 21st century, good security sometimes required that people do certain ... things, things that he didn't want to know about, things that he really shouldn't know about, in order to protect his “plausible deniability.” He didn't like to think of Annette or any other female agent spreading her legs for some dumb bastard in order to achieve some undefined advantage for Whiteside Tech. Life can be a wicked taskmaster, he thought. Once we've acquired Victor's ability, we can get rid of that sort of outrage.
A fox loped towards the two men from the direction of the lodge, its gait slightly unstable. “Shhhhh,” whispered Cam as he raised an arm to stop Randall from moving, but the fox had already seen them. It slowed visibly, stopped in its tracks and looked blankly at the two humans. Cam drew his revolver and shot the pitiful animal in the forehead from twenty paces.
"Rabid,” he said. “Sorry about that, but they get quite insane from the disease. They can be totally docile one moment and super-aggressive the next."
Much like humans, thought Randall. “You did what you had to do,” he said. “I know you don't like that sort of thing any more than I do. And ... good shot!” He knew Cam practiced almost daily at the firing range he had built in the sub-basement of the company headquarters, and he had always wondered if all that “practice” would ever serve a useful purpose.
As Cam radioed in to explain the gunshot, and to get his agents to come and dispose of the carcass, Randall walked over to the dead fox, looked down, and felt a wave of sorrow. Its eyes stared stupidly and blood trickled from its mouth onto the yellow grass between the dirt tracks. “Life's a bitch, little fellow,” he said sadly. “Now off you go to fox heaven."
Randall's hands were still linked at the small of his back, exactly as they had been before and throughout the whole incident with the fox. It was as if this aristocratic posture symbolized his power to have things done by others.
Good thing we react differently to people who lose it, he thought as he watched Cam tearing a strip off an agent over the walkie-talkie ... for not having spotted and dealt with the rabid animal already. I'm going to have to talk him into early retirement. “Did you find out anything else about Victor?” he asked when Cam had finished his petulant tirade.
"The guy's turning into something of a mystery,” replied Cam as he broke out his notebook and flipped pages. “He was born and raised in Sault Ste. Marie, up in northern Ontario—uh—birthday, May three, seventy-two. The early part of his life was quite ordinary. He was a loner, a bookworm with poor social skills. One of his former teachers, a friend of his family, said he went to the United States after dropping out of Queen's University—engineering. Nobody seems to know where he went or why he left the Sault. He didn't even go to his parents’ funeral. They were killed in an auto accident in 2007, seven years ago.
"His father was a steelworker,” he continued, checking the notations he'd made in the pad he carried at all times in the pocket of his suit, “his mother a home-maker. No other children. Both parents deceased, as I mentioned. In high school he won some kind of math award, and he was a sports nut, though not a player himself. His boss at Blue Line says in twelve years, he never complained—which he said is unusual for a cabbie. Just took his money and left. He never went for a beer with anybody, he didn't even bowl, in spite of the jacket, and he didn't join any clubs or anything. We couldn't even find out who the hell his dentist was. He has some gold teeth, so he must have a dentist. He lived in a farmhouse out past Manotick, south of Ottawa. He drove a rusty old 1996 Cutlass, which turned up abandoned on Parliament Hill, from when he met Senator Cadbury. And ... that's all we know, so far. We'll figure him out eventually, but for now we're dead-ended."
Randall executed a military 180-degree turn and started back towards the manor, his hands still clasped behind his back, listening to what Cam was saying and trying to make sense of it. He took a few heel-and-toe steps, head down, along the left-hand tire track, contemplating the character of the man who now lived at the lodge and promised such changes for the world.
"Good work, Cam,” he said, carefully using his employee's first name. “We'll talk again later, but for now I have to get out to the lodge and sign a contract with Victor. As for him and Annette, or any other woman, agent or not, I'm sure you'd agree that the prudent course would be to let nature take its course, and respond as required.” Randall also thanked Cam for his help in dealing with the lawyers the night before, and he asked about his wife and kids ... all the dopey formalities that seemed necessary to keep Cam happy, or at least out of his hair.
As they emerged from the bush near the Patriot compound, Randall shook Cam's hand and climbed back into the helicopter for the short jaunt out to the lodge. He was thankful to leave the man behind.
* * *
Helen Kozinski smacked the phone down forcefully. She had just had a long-distance argument with Roy Taggart, her boyfriend—over money, of all things. They both made good livings, but he was a bean counter at heart. She loved him, and had great sex with him, but at times she thought he was a five-star jerk. There was a confrontation coming, and she was almost at the point of writing hi
m off, of regarding him as yet another name on her disturbingly long list of “transitional men.” She tried to put her foul mood aside as she walked down the wooden steps of the lodge and back out onto the dock, to the spot where Victor was still casting for bass.
She sat down beside him, took off her shoes, and dangled her bare feet over the water, without a word. She'd changed into a skirt and a blouse at the lodge, after making those “important phone calls” she had fibbed about earlier—several Patriot staff kept changes of clothes there, for when circumstances like this arose.
Victor found himself sneaking peeks at her legs, and enjoying the way her long blond hair seemed to be tickling the wind. He had never thought of security agents as being beautiful. On TV, sure, but that was to sell soap. This was real life, and Helen Kozinski was the “head honchess” of Patriot Security, or at least the “operational” boss. He tried to imagine what she must look like in full make-up, dressed to kill, and shook his head. She's a nine, and I'm a three, he said to himself. Looksist law—there can't be more than a two-point spread unless you're rich. Of course I ... I am filthy rich, or soon will be, but then she already has a steady boyfriend, in the RCMP, and besides, besides, besides...
"Here they come,” she said as the helicopter appeared on the far side of Wilson Lake. “Better reel in."
"They?” said Victor.
"Well, there's Mr. Whiteside, and Annette Blais, one of our agents and my very best buddy. She'll be staying with you for a bit if you don't mind. We just thought that—"
"Don't mind at all,” said Victor, winding in his lure.
"And a couple of your friends,” added Helen.
Victor glanced at her sideways and wondered who she could possibly be talking about. I don't have ... friends.
She put on her shoes while she was still sitting, innocently flashing thigh. “They're white,” she said, looking up with a broad smile.
"Snowball and Kodiak!” shouted Victor as he collected his fishing gear and the five bass he'd caught. “Fantastic!"
"We'd better get off the end of the dock,” she said, “away from the landing pad. By the way, the groundskeeper said he'd build a couple of kennels by the dock here if you want ... a bit up from the boathouse, he figures."
"Terrific,” said Victor.
* * *
"What kind of person has no past ... no adult past?” asked Randall as the helicopter slowed over Wilson Lake.
"Jeeze, I don't know,” said Annette as she held Kodiak by the collar and scratched the underside of his chin. “Spies, psychos, and mystics, I guess, but Helliwell doesn't seem to be any of those."
The helicopter descended towards the dock at a slight angle, nose up. Its powerful engine was thundering and its three wheels were flared like the talons of a mechanical eagle, but Grant Eamer touched down with the grace of a mother placing a newborn in a crib. Randall and Annette ducked and scrambled down the steps, and Grant handed down the two frantic dogs.
Snowball and Kodiak rushed to slurp Victor's face and then sprinted off the land end of the dock, practically bowling over Helen on their way by. “Hi to you, too,” laughed Victor as he watched his two galumphs go about their urgent business. As soon as the gang was safely off the dock, the helicopter wound up and churned its way back into the afternoon sunshine.
Randall, his oversized grin pasted on, made all of the necessary introductions as they walked towards the lodge. “I'm glad to see you're getting into the swing of the place,” he said to his new partner. “Ain't it grand having your very own lake?"
"Dinner!” bragged Victor, holding up the catch of the day for all to see and admire. “The cook says he can make these little guys into a gourmet meal."
"How's your arm?” asked Annette.
"Feels fine,” said Victor. “Can't wait to get the cast off, though."
Noel Lambert came out of the front door of the lodge and welcomed the group by bellowing. “Come up to da porch. No mozzies up here, and good snacks. I fixing dem up jus’ da way you like dem, Mr. Whiteside."
"Mozzies?” asked Victor as Randall waved his thanks to the cook.
"That's a standard line for Noel,” explained Randall. “'Mozzies’ is a local expression for ‘mosquitoes.’ You'll soon find out about this minor shortcoming of our security. They'll be here in a month or so, I'm sorry to say, and all the king's horses can't do a damned thing about it."
They made their way onto the screened veranda of the massive log structure and sat at a table directly under a huge but motionless ceiling fan. Noel had prepared a dish of liver pâté and “smashed lobster,” as he called it, with a tray of assorted biscuits and a huge pitcher of iced lemonade. After some munching and small talk about the relative purity of ceiling fans as compared to air-conditioning, there was a collective sense that they ought to get down to business.
"I must say I'm intrigued by this talent you have, Mr. Helliwell,” said Annette.
"Call me Victor,” he said, “and yeah, it must seem odd to meet someone with my ability. As a matter of fact, it's a little strange to be someone with this—uh—skill. I'm not used to all this attention and all this ... well, money ... my money, his money. It's just that I've always been poor. Now I'm ... what do you call it, a nouveau riche? I'm sure I'll get used to it. How's the kids, Mr. Whiteside—uh—Randall?"
"Oh, they're just fine,” smiled Randall. “Julia was just asking me when Rip Van Winkle can come back and visit her. They'll all be out here on Saturday with Doreen, to spend a little time on the boat ... except for Michael, I'm afraid. He's planning to spend the weekend at his own cabin over there, with his girlfriend, no less. Kids today! What are you gonna do, eh?"
Victor nodded as if he understood all too well, although he wasn't at all sure what he was agreeing with. “Kodiak—come—sit—good dog,” he said firmly.
Noel indicated that he would cope with the canine corps. He gripped both collars and led the dogs into the lodge for a snack.
"But as for you,” continued Randall, “it's going to take us a couple of months before we have a preliminary impact study on this—uh—phenomenon that you represent. And I guess you'll have to tell us how this ability can be taught to others. We'll have to come up with a plan as to how to proceed on that score. In the meantime, I suppose you're kind of ... stuck here. I hope you don't mind. Is there anything you need?"
"Not that I can think of,” said Victor. He sucked in a lungful of air and was about to speak further, but as often seemed to happen, Whiteside had the gavel, and knew how to use it.
"Good,” beamed Randall. “Well, I have a surprise for you. Here it is ... earlier than we expected.” He pulled two official-looking copies of a folded document from inside his jacket pocket.
"Two exhausted lawyers completed this just a couple of hours ago,” he explained. “It gives you a lump payment of two-hundred thousand, over and above the fifty thousand ‘good faith down payment’ you asked for—which was deposited in your account this morning, by the way—plus royalties of four percent of all sales—that's based on the wholesale price of whatever the hell it is that we're selling—plus twenty-one percent of after-tax profits from all activities related to your ability. And there's a stock option thrown in for good measure. Senator Cadbury has a small piece of the action—a bit of my piece, I should say—but that's my affair, and no concern to you. The whole thing is set up so that we can't win unless you win, and vice versa. Disputes are submitted to a neutral panel, jointly nominated, for binding mediation, and we sever relations by the same process, should we ever fall out with each other.
"In return, we get any rights or patents to all programs, courses, written materials, recordings, devices, or anything else related in any way to your ability. Of course all this is dependent on us being satisfied that what we get from you is, in fact, marketable. Our lawyers were upset to find themselves writing a contract when they weren't even sure what it was that we would be receiving from you. I told them it was a special talent that could be taug
ht to others and that I wanted it badly. In other words, Whiteside Technologies gets the intellectual property, the idea, the techniques, and anything else associated with your ability or deriving from it."
Randall plopped the two seven-page documents on the table. “You're supposed to sign each page, where the Xs are, below my signature, both copies. Now, for history's sake,” he said as he offered his pen, “keep your promise."
Victor was pleased that Randall had remembered. “Is the contract fair?” he asked as he accepted the gold pen.
"Both lawyers think it's fair, and I think it's fair,” said Randall.
"Okay. You told the truth. It's fair,” said Victor. Then, true to his word, he took the pen, and without reading a word of the contract, he signed his name, with a flourish, fourteen times ... and pocketed the pen. “There you go,” he said happily as he handed the documents back to his new partner. “You and I are in business, Randall ... and I've got myself a nice gold pen,” he added, patting the pen in his shirt pocket.
Everyone laughed heartily at Victor's act of unrepentant petty larceny. They all shook hands vigorously. Then Randall proposed a lemonade toast to seal the deal. “To Victor Helliwell,” he said as he stood and raised his glass almost into the ceiling fan. “And to the truth. May it make us all free ... and stinking rich."
"Hear hear,” added Helen and Annette.
"I'll drink to that,” said Victor as the glasses clinked, “even if it means I'm toasting myself."
As they sipped, they were all aware that there was still the matter of the other shoe, the one that hadn't dropped yet. “Well?” said Randall, with great expectancy as they all sat down.
"Annette,” said Victor, “could you please get a pair of pliers from that tackle box over there?"
"Pliers!?” asked Randall as Annette complied.
Victor pushed juice glasses and munchies to one side of the table and rolled up the shirtsleeve on his left arm, exposing the plaster cast. “I have something important to tell you, Randall,” he said ominously. “What we have been referring to as my ability, my skill? Well, I'm afraid it doesn't exist. I'm as ordinary as you or Helen or Annette or anybody else."
