The Binding

by E. Z. Rinsky

  “No kidding!” I say. “I used to live in Arizona myself. Whereabouts?”

  “Tucson,” he responds blandly.

  “Beautiful city,” I say.

  “I hated it.”

  Strike two . . .

  Doors open onto the twenty-third floor. Justin steps out first, waiting for me to lead the way.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  I choose right. Justin lets me walk ahead of him. I don’t like that, him padding along behind me at a safe distance. I think he might be more perceptive than I gave him credit for.

  “Law office, right?” he says, behind me.

  I turn back and grin, stopping in my tracks to see if I can spot the name of the firm on any of the doors behind him.

  “Nah, architecture firm.”

  Justin nods.

  We don’t pass the architecture office. I have to take another right, and then another. If we end up back at the elevator bank, the gig might be up.

  Only thing going for me is this guy is young, doesn’t want to screw up this job.

  My heart drops. I see the glass entrance to Rogers and Stern now, but we’re almost back at the elevators . . . it obviously would have been faster if I’d just turned left initially.

  Just ignore it. Own it.

  I stride purposefully to the glass double doors of Roger and Stern, as if I’d known my destination all along. Stop at the place for the card key, and turn and grin at Justin.

  “You know, I don’t think I remember seeing you guys around before,” Justin says, little tremolo in his voice.

  My stomach knots, and I turn back to the door so my face doesn’t give anything away to him.

  “Yeah, that’s cuz you work nights,” I say, forcing some humor into my voice. “I’m usually outta here at four.”

  “Right, right.”

  A little more reluctantly than I would have liked, Justin bends down and touches his key card to the lock. I hear a little magnetic click, and immediately push in the door to the firm and enter. Lights flick on automatically.

  It’s a beautiful waiting room. Stylish white leather couches, some interesting potted trees trimmed into perfect spheres. The wall across from the entrance is all glass, offering a stunning view of the Denver skyline. But as soon as I step in, my heart sinks. I know there’s no way pallid Rico could have weaseled his way into this classy office unnoticed and just left a bag somewhere.

  Never second-guess yourself in the heat of battle . . . I think . . . Maybe I’m just trying to convince myself to bail, because I’m scared.

  I act like I’ve seen this waiting room a million times before. Turn left past the reception desk, to where the offices will be.

  Oh boy.

  It’s a really big space—will take a while to thoroughly search. The good news is that it’s an open-office type layout, looks like employees work a lot at big library-style communal tables—so I won’t have to break into many offices. Bad news is there are hundreds of file cabinets, and some of the tables even have built-in cabinets. No single cabinet could hold the duffel bag, but if someone took the books out, they could easily file them one at a time . . .

  But who would put them in a file cabinet? Not Rico . . . not with those guys close behind me. I’d buzz into the office, hand the duffel bag to the receptionist, then scram.

  I grind my teeth. I’m being overtaken by a feeling of futility. Can’t really blame Courtney, the idea had a certain amount of logic, but we acted pretty impulsively. Would Rico realistically have entrusted the books to a total stranger?

  Maybe he dropped them off with a note . . . saying this is for someone in particular. Maybe it is in someone’s office or file cabinet.

  I haven’t even scoped the entire office yet. There appears to be a communal space—maybe a kitchen and break room—on the far side—and who knows, maybe more offices. Even if this is all though, it would take me at least a half hour just to do a cursory search.

  I hear Justin shift behind me.

  Fuck.

  “You just gonna stand there, man?” he asks, finally growing annoyed. “Get your stuff and let’s go.”

  I turn back to him. I wonder how aware he is that—being in a private office space—we’re no longer being observed by his partner’s CCTV. I glance down quickly at the walkie-talkie clipped to the pocket of his suit jacket.

  Old model. Won’t sound too crisp.

  “Yeah, sorry, just had a few drinks at dinner,” I say. “Actually I’m just gonna use the restroom a second, sorry.”

  I have no clue if there’s even a bathroom in this office, or if they use a communal one in the halls. Doesn’t matter. I rush around the edge of the maze of cubicles, toward the break room.

  Justin comes after me.

  “Sir, please. This isn’t my job.” He’s half pleading, half losing his patience. “I need to get back downstairs. I’m not even supposed to leave the desk during my shift.”

  I speed up, dash around a large pillar and drop my duffel bag and pull out my ceramic knife. As soon as he rounds it after me I go straight for his right arm—the one that would grab his gun. Pull it behind his back, then wrap my right foot around his right calf and push him forwards. He face plants on the crisp white floor with an ugly smack. I fall down on top of him, keeping his arm pinned back.

  “What the fuck,” he cries . . . One hard tug back and I’d break his arm in about four places. Instead I reach inside his jacket, pull out his gun and toss it away, then turn him over onto his back and tickle his neck with the tip of my knife.

  “Justin,” I say softly. “I’m honestly very sorry about this.”

  His arm is pinned beneath him, obviously causing him great distress. He makes a sound like a dying animal. I put the sleeve of my suit jacket in his mouth.

  “Listen, kid,” I say slowly, seriously. “You’re going to be fine. I won’t cut you up unless you do something stupid. I’m just gonna lock you in an office. You’ll probably be there until morning, okay? But you’ll be fine. Okay?”

  After a moment, he gives an unenthusiastic nod.

  “I mean, I could break your arm if you want,” I say. “Would probably get you a few months of workplace leave. You want me to?”

  His eyes go wide and he shakes his head frantically.

  “Alright.” I shrug. “Just trying to be helpful.”

  Keeping the blade nuzzled against his neck like a tender lover, I pull my duffel open with my other hand and remove my roll of duct tape.

  I stand up. “Roll over,” I command.

  “Don’t kill me, man,” he says, rolling over onto his stomach. I bind his hands behind his back with duct tape. Tie his legs together, then put the knife down and roll him back over onto his back.

  “What’s your friend’s name? The old guy?”

  “Fuck you,” he says.

  I crouch down next to him.

  “Look,” I say, looking into his terrified eyes. “Tell me the old guy’s name and you’re going to wake up tomorrow morning in one piece, alright? We both know this is way above your pay grade.”

  “Fu—” he starts.

  “Justin,” I say. “If the next word out of your mouth isn’t a name, I’m going to have to cut—”

  “Ed,” he says.

  “Smart boy.” I smile and pat his cheek. Then I gag him with duct tape and pull his walkie-talkie from his pocket.

  “Ed?” I say into it, trying to imitate Justin’s mild Latino accent, slightly high-pitched tough-guy voice.

  “Yeah.” Ed’s tired voice comes back, as staticky as I’d hoped. Doubt he’ll be able to tell I’m not Justin.

  “This guy got sick up here. Throwing up. Drank too much. We’ll be a little while.”

  “What? Sick?” he responds, sounds inconvenienced, but not in disbelief. “Goddammit. You gotta get down here. Can’t be alone at the desk for longer than a bathroom break.”

  “Yeah, I know, but this guy is puking his guts out. Be back when we can.”

  A pause.

/>   “Everything okay up there? You want me to call this in?”

  “No, it’s fine. He’s just puking. Needs a few minutes.”

  “Goddammit.”

  “Sorry, Ed.”

  I take off my suit jacket and throw it over Justin’s face so he can’t see what’s about to go down. Grab his legs and drag him into the break room. I hear a grunt as I clip his head against the door frame.

  “Sorry.”

  I drop his legs, take a second to catch my breath. Then go out into the hall to do a lap. Figure out the best way to go about this methodically. Past the break room are four locked offices: Partner, Partner, Accounts, HR, two conference rooms and . . . a dark library. My heart speeds up.

  If they were anywhere, they’d be here.

  Lights in here aren’t automatic. I find the switch and an enclosed domed light fixture on the ceiling flips on. It’s a round room paneled in cherrywood bookcases. Reading tables, loungey hyper-trendy bean bag chairs, glazed wood floor.

  Good news is this space is so uncluttered that I’d be able to spot them pretty easily. I do a slow lap around the perimeter of the room, scanning up and down each bookcase for unmarked spines of that sickly shade of yellow leather. Don’t spot them. Do it a second time, to make sure, then leave the library.

  “Justin?” It’s the voice on the walkie-talkie. “What the hell is going on up there?”

  Shit.

  “Hey Ed,” I say. “Sorry will be just a few more minutes. This guy is really sick.”

  “This is not okay.”

  “I know, I know.”

  I probably have fifteen more minutes, maybe twenty, until Ed realizes something is seriously wrong. Wonder if Courtney would risk drugging him with all those cameras around . . . ?

  “Can I talk to Greg?” It’s Courtney’s voice.

  “Yeah . . .” I say in Justin’s voice. Then, in my own, I croak: “Hey man. Sorry, just, those martinis hit me all of a sudden.”

  “How long you going to be, man? We’re supposed to be at Hannah’s in fifteen.”

  He’s telling me to hurry up. Doesn’t think he can hold off Ed for much longer.

  “Okay. We’ll be down in ten,” I say.

  I run back through the communal work room, to the reception area. Dive behind it, and search frantically for anything resembling the duffel bag. Nada.

  I comb the work area, looking under every table. Will just have to leave the file cabinets—unlikely someone would have taken each book out and filed it individually anyways.

  No bag.

  Where Sophnot will never go. Where they belong.

  My face is bathed in sweat. I undo a couple buttons on my suit jacket.

  I check my watch. 11:19. We have sixteen hours until we’re supposed to get the books to Sampson. I don’t think they’re here.

  Wait.

  Maybe there’s something else that can help.

  I rush back to the hallway with the four locked doors and try the one to HR.

  It’s locked, obviously. I peer into the lock. Courtney could pick it in five minutes, or I could bust through with my electric torch, but that makes a mess and is likely to set off the smoke alarms. The rest of the office, however, is a glass wall. Closed curtains.

  Rush back to the break room, where poor Justin is writhing on the ground. I pull my suit jacket from his eyes. He glares up in terror.

  “Don’t worry, just needed this.”

  I snatch up my duffel bag and rush back to the HR office. Unzip my bag and find my hammer. Wrap my suit jacket around fist and hammer and bring it down as hard as I can on the glass.

  The first blow cracks it. Second goes through smooth, making a head-sized hole. Takes me about two minutes to clear enough out for me to enter the office.

  Automatic lights inside come to life.

  There are four file cabinets. Something of a relief, actually, considering how many HRs keep their files exclusively digital these days. I rip open one at random and grin.

  Personnel files.

  Takes me about three minutes to move through alphabetically until I find Oliver Vicks.

  Nice and fat.

  I grab the walkie-talkie.

  “Greg is heading down now, I’m gonna stay up here and clean up for a sec. He made a real mess,” I say.

  “What?” Ed is furious. “No, you get your ass down here now goddammit!”

  I turn off the walkie-talkie, damming up Ed’s stream of curses. Head back through the work room, reception office, back into the hallway. Take the elevator down using Justin’s card, and shoot out into the lobby.

  Both Courtney and Ed are staring at me in shock.

  Realize I left my suit jacket upstairs, the top few buttons of my shirt are undone, and I’m absolutely dripping in sweat.

  “Oh wow,” Ed says. “You do look sick.”

  “Yeah.” I smile weakly. “Justin will be down in a sec.”

  He notes the personnel file in my hand.

  “That was what you needed?”

  I nod.

  “Yep. Have a good night, Ed.”

  Courtney and I rush out of the Wells Fargo lobby before Ed has a chance to question us any longer. Once we turn the corner, I toss the muted walkie-talkie in the trash and collapse onto a park bench. Don’t realize how badly my hands are shaking.

  Courtney sinks down beside me.

  “No books?” he asks.

  I look at him.

  “Very perceptive.”

  “How thorough—”

  “As thorough as I could be in twenty fucking minutes,” I snap. I hand him Oliver Vicks’s file. “I got this, but it’s small consolation.”

  Courtney wordlessly snatches it from my hands, and opens it.

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Alright,” I say. “We need to get out of here. Ed’s gonna figure out pretty quickly that Justin’s indisposed.”

  Courtney stands up.

  “Which way did you leave the car?” he asks.

  I can’t tell if he’s serious.

  “I thought you understood,” I say. “I left the car blocking in thousands of sports fans in downtown Denver, during a Rockies game. I’d say the odds of it still being there are—”

  “Like a mouse completing a game of solitaire on the surface of the sun?” Courtney raises an eyebrow, an almost smile.

  “Right, right . . .” I say, suddenly dying for a drink. “Don’t expect a miracle every night though, champ.”

  My skull might as well be filled with porridge. I’m trying to read the contents of Oliver Vicks’s file, but the words refuse to cooperate; swimming around on the page like little fish.

  We’re sitting in a Starbucks inside the Denver Health Medical Center. Mostly because it’s open 24/7, and nobody will hassle you for loitering. I think a sick part of me also wanted to be around people who have it even worse than us—just to keep things in perspective. To this end, I also picked up a half liter of the cheapest whiskey I could find. It’s absolutely vile. Or at least, it was vile when I cracked it open. Four glugs later I’m starting to warm up to it.

  We’ve been sitting here for hours. It’s already nearly four in the morning. I’ve “read” the whole file myself, but have processed perhaps a dozen words—none of them consecutive.

  “Got anything?” I ask Courtney, as I have every ten minutes for the last few hours, with largely disappointing results. Initially when he doesn’t respond I assume he’s in The Zone. Then I realize his eyes are nearly shut and there’s a thin thread of drool oozing from the corner of his mouth. “Courtney?” I snap my fingers in front of his face and he calmly opens his eyes.

  “Interesting. Mmh. Yes,” he says slowly, rubbing his eyes. “Yes. Just saw some interesting things . . .”

  Courtney’s right eyelid starts twitching and he seems to be staring intently at something on the chest of my shirt. His head droops. I snap my fingers in front of his eyes again and he perks up, smiles in co
nfusion.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Courtney? What was interesting?”

  “Right, right . . .”

  “Have another Red Bull,” I say.

  “No.” He lazily swats away at nothing. “I’m good. Um, what I was going to say . . . oh, his first interview. He faked recommendation letters from real people. But there was no reason to doubt him, because of his portfolio.” Courtney yawns and continues. “Listen to this note the interviewer jotted after looking through Oliver’s portfolio: Absolutely world class. Never seen such simultaneously brilliant detail kept in context of big picture. Clearly genius.”

  “Okay . . .” I say. “That’s not really surprising though is it?”

  “No,” says Courtney. “But in the first interview, Oliver already made demands. One demand specifically: He wasn’t going to do paperwork of any kind. No letters to clients or the city, no tenders . . . he said this stuff bogged him down. He said all he did was design. I think that kind of chutzpah would normally be a non-starter, but because of the quality of his work in his portfolio, and the sample assignment they gave him, they hired him.”

  I scratch my chin.

  “So now we know, that’s probably because he had no clue about the bureaucratic process relating to buildings, eh? He was a prodigy at these sorts of designs, but had no idea about the logistics because he skipped school.”

  Courtney nods slowly, which I initially take as assent, but then realize it’s his head bobbing to keep from going smack into the tabletop.

  We have so many papers. In just a few days, Courtney has taken hundreds of pages of incredibly detailed notes, on everything from Sampson’s story, what Mindy told us about the books, details from the scene of Rico’s murder, the interview with the warden, the story of Joseph . . . Now we have Oliver’s personnel file. So much data, but my data processing unit just won’t function. And not only is my once potent Red Bull/coffee/whiskey tandem failing to jack me up, I think it’s tearing apart my stomach lining.

  Wait a second . . .