by Thomas Locke
Lena asked, “When did you cut your hair?”
“While you were away.” Robin’s voice drifted fog-like. “The long was such a hassle.”
“It suits you.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes scanned the blank computer screen. “So your take from this is . . . like . . .”
“After Don’s cut, five mil and change.”
“You’re rich. You got your ticket punched. Way to go.” Only there was no elation to the words.
“It’s not for spending. Well, it is. But . . .” It was Lena’s turn to pause. The basis for all the events leading to this moment, the crux, remained unspoken. Trapped down deep. Where it was bound to fester. Sooner rather than later, she was going to have to tell someone. She was tempted to make that the closest thing she had to a true friend on Wall Street. Other than Don, of course. And Lena needed him too much to risk everything on a confession.
But before she could decide what to do, her phone rang. She inspected the readout, saw a Manhattan code, but did not recognize the number. “Lena Fennan.”
“This is Roger Foretrain. Is it true what your attorney said? Charles Farlow’s been sniffing around?”
“Farlow is most definitely not sniffing,” Lena replied. “He acquired my company. He offered me a job.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I owed it to my present employers to give them an opportunity to respond. Which I did.” Lena took great heart from the calm she heard in her voice. “Your twenty-four hours started at the close of our meeting.”
A note of humor crept into Foretrain’s voice, strong enough to defy the cell phones. “Can you stretch that to Monday?”
There was no reason such a request should cause her heart to hammer so. “I suppose . . . Yes. I can do that.”
“I’m on my way to Boston, something that can’t wait. Sunday evening my wife and I are attending a gala reception at the MOMA. Will you join us?”
“Will I . . . Yes. Of course. I’d be honored.”
“The limo will pick you up at seven. Call my secretary and give her your address.” He cut the connection.
Lena sat cradling the phone in both hands, trying to get her head around what just happened. She realized that Robin was watching her intently, the woman’s slate-grey gaze back in full focus. “That was . . . Never mind.”
Robin said, “So your time here in the Weasel’s bull pen is . . .”
“Definitely over. Either they give me what I want, or I’m leaving for Denver. I might go anyway. But I need to know . . .” Lena stopped and took a very deep breath. So big it managed to release a hint of what was to come next. “I need to know if they value me.”
“Whatever you decide, do something for me.”
“If I can.”
“Take me with you.” Robin tried not to beg. But the appeal was magnetic in its strength. “Every new arrival on the executive level needs a willing slave.”
Lena released the day’s first smile. “Girl, why do you think I’ve been sitting here?”
14
Brett felt markedly better on Friday, partly due to expert treatment at the hands of Doris, the nurse practitioner, and partly because of a night spent in an actual residence. Agnes had woken from her brief rest while Brett was still eating his eggs and toast. In response to her questions, Brett had described the habits that had dominated his life for over a year. Frederick listened at the door and caught everything Brett told Agnes. Brett talked about eleven months spent traveling from hospice to care home, never taking more than his travel expenses, never spending more than a week in any location. One of the websites described him as the vagabond of death.
Agnes’s only response to his confession was to suggest he use the downstairs apartment. Like many New York formal residences, the below-stairs space had been converted into a self-contained flat that was entered from the street. Frederick led him out the front doors, unlocked the metal gate, and descended a set of concrete stairs to a door set beneath its own narrow awning. The apartment was spacious, well lit from windows at the front and back, and beautifully appointed. It belonged, Frederick explained, to an only daughter who was never there. His tone remained bland, but his gaze hardened as he described a woman who could only remember to speak with her ailing mother when the butler placed the call.
When he was summoned late the next morning, Agnes watched him ease into the chair and observed, “You seem much better.”
“I am, thank you.”
“Doris is a gem. How was the apartment?”
“Fabulous. I can’t thank—”
“Stay as long as you like.”
Brett stopped in the process of keying on his equipment. “Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m serious. It’s the least I can do. Frederick approves of you. His gentle hand rules this house. He agrees you need a respite from the road.” She smiled at his astonishment. “Where is your appointment next week?”
“New Haven.”
“You should stay here and commute up.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Think about it. The offer stands.” She shifted slightly and changed the subject. “Have you ever tried to ascend since your episode?”
“Three times.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Not a single, solitary thing.”
“And so you began your quest. The errant knight who takes on the hopeless struggle of others, fighting the dragon that can never be bested, only named.” She sighed. “I am sorry for your misfortune, and I am grateful indeed for your famished spirit.”
He forced his hands to lift the headset. “Shall I put these on you?”
“What are they for?”
“I will introduce a vibratory pattern through sound waves. This induces a state of physical rest combined with heightened mental focus. No one has ever reported feeling anything more than a slight buzzing sensation.”
“Young man, the last thing I’m worried about is discomfort. All right, put it on.”
Brett settled them over her ears. Her skin was clammy and felt cold to the touch. Which was often the case with people who were holding back on drugs for the ascent. “When was the last time you used pain medication?”
“Last night.”
Doris, the main nurse, was seated by the draped windows on the bed’s opposite side. “Actually, Mrs. Lockwood, it was early yesterday afternoon.”
Agnes waved that aside. “The information we found online said it was best not to be drugged.”
“Medication can impact the experience in some cases,” Brett said. “Not all. Are you in pain?”
“I told you. Pain is not the issue. Proceed.” Agnes watched him boot up his laptop. “I for one am terrified of dying. Approaching the final door has not changed that one iota. As far as I am concerned, young man, you are a godsend.”
He did not know what to say to that. He never did. This was part of the problem, or rather, part of his act of penance. Doing this for no gain. Making this as selfless an act as he possibly could. Brett had spent his entire adult life focusing on what took him up the ladder’s next rung. And why not, since he had always assumed that he deserved success. He was handsome, he was brilliant, he was gifted, he was . . .
He stared at the laptop screen as his fingers coded through the start-up process by rote. Even after eleven months on the road, after he’d witnessed the death moment so many times the faces swam together in his memories, all it took was one brief backward glimpse, one recollection of his former life, to hear the vortex’s crypt-like roar. The sound of where blind ambition had taken him.
“Young man, are you all right?”
Brett forced himself to focus on the screen, the moment, the subject watching him from her sickbed. “I’m beginning the count now.”
The nurse’s chair squeaked as she leaned forward. Doris and Frederick had both asked to observe. Brett had no problem with visitors. Especially in a situation like this, where they cared so deeply for the
woman. The problem was, there was nothing to observe. On the physical level, the only activity was Brett speaking softly into his microphone, addressing the inert form on the bed.
“You are entering a state of deep relaxation. Your pulse is now at half the rate of full wakefulness. Your breathing has slowed. You remain in complete control . . .”
The process had been developed by Gabriella Speciale, a psychologist and university professor from Milan. After years of research, she had made three remarkable determinations. First, people in prayerful and meditative states shared a series of identical brain-wave patterns. Second, these patterns could be replicated in others through introducing a graduated series of sound waves matching the brain’s design. Third, through this process she could invite some participants to separate their conscious awareness from their physical bodies.
“You may now open your other eyes. You remain in complete control. You are free to observe whatever it is you need to see. The time is yours to learn. Ask whatever question you desire. You are completely safe. You may return to full consciousness at any point.”
Brett gave her the standard three minutes, then began counting her back. The heart rate and breathing monitors on his laptop showed her smooth return to a wakeful state. As often happened, when Agnes opened her eyes she had to blink away tears.
Brett gave her a few moments to focus upon the physical, then asked, “How was it?”
“Quite remarkable, really.” She had a lovely smile, one that defied her ailments. “I have a message for you.”
Brett felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. This was new. “Yes?”
“It comes from you. At least, that is who it appeared to be. Is that possible?”
His thoughts came in treacly slow motion. As did his words. “It is very rare. But it happens.” And up to this moment, such contacts had only been between the future and current selves. Never a third party.
“He said to tell you your macabre lockstep has now come to an end.” Her smile grew coquettish. “The gentleman speaks quite beautifully. Unlike your current terse manner. He asked if you might reside downstairs for a time. Of course I told him I had already made the invitation. He advises you to say yes.”
Brett’s lungs seemed incapable of drawing in enough air. He sat with mouth agape, gasping softly. Knowing he was free from the endless death watch brought no joy. He had no idea what to do next. He felt terrified.
Agnes turned her attention to the pair seated across the room. “It seems I am to stay around for a bit longer. I hope that’s all right. Young man, would you be so kind as to remove these headphones? I feel like I’m talking inside a fishbowl.”
15
The same limo and driver picked Reese up for her second trip to Bridgeport. Wordlessly the driver handed her a phone, and she spent an interesting few minutes enduring Vera’s icy fury. But somehow the attorney’s threats could not reach her. Perhaps it was the result of having spent a night wrapped in the luxury of a five-star hotel. But Reese didn’t think so. A typical prison nightmare had woken her while it was still dark. She had gone through her workout routine, then sipped room-service coffee and watched dawn turn the river molten. Her sense of being in contact with secret allies had scripted both questions and partial answers over the sky.
Reese endured Vera’s tirade, then replied that they could still shoot her tomorrow if she failed, which she wouldn’t. Vera had gone silent for a full thirty seconds, then cut the connection. Her lack of response granted Reese a satisfaction she carried all the way back to the corporate headquarters.
This time Reese was only kept waiting about ninety seconds. She was ushered into the same conference room as the previous evening, but the two linebackers were nowhere to be found. Bridgeport’s senior lawyer was a full head over six feet and could not have weighed a hundred pounds fully dressed. Their chief operating officer was a precise, buttoned-down accountant in a Brooks Brothers suit. He was aged in his late fifties and wore round black-rimmed spectacles that granted him an air of perpetual astonishment. Both men smoldered at being forced to show up. But somebody even higher up the food chain had been sufficiently impacted by Reese’s news to demand they attend this meeting. This time no one offered her so much as a cup of coffee. She did not complain. She had endured far worse.
The COO clipped off the words. “We’re here. We’re listening.”
She laid two stacks of papers facedown on the table between them. “I have two further items regarding the future viability of your company. Not this division. We are now talking about the entire Bridgeport Corporation. Which is why I asked to meet with people at your level.”
They had clearly been prepped. Reese assumed they had listened to a tape of her previous meeting and checked out as much of her information as they could on short notice. They eyed the two stacks with genuine alarm.
The attorney demanded, “Who are you?”
“I represent a company you need to hire,” Reese replied.
“We have in-house security and intel.”
“I’ve already been sung that tune. And you’re aware of what they missed.”
“Only if what you say is true,” the attorney countered. But his words lacked heat.
Reese remained silent. They were there. They were listening. It was enough.
The COO sighed his acceptance. “Two files.”
“Correct. One you can have for free. The other will cost you nine million dollars. In return, you receive two years of this level of security protection.”
She had been instructed to return with three contracts worth a million dollars each. Anything less would be construed as failure. Termination would follow. Reese was working on the assumption that a single contract worth three times that total would suit her puppet masters just as well.
The attorney asked, “Which is which?”
She showed them open palms. “You decide.”
“This is ridiculous,” the attorney groused.
The finance director, however, leaned back in his seat. Studying her carefully now. “She is offering us solid intel. The first was seismic.”
“If it proves correct.”
“Our preliminary probes indicate she is spot-on.” The chief operating officer was grey-haired and grey-eyed and grey-voiced. And highly intelligent. And far more open to her approach than the lawyer, who continued to smolder.
Reese wondered if perhaps their in-house security answered to the attorney. Which occasionally happened in larger corporations. The legal department kept their intel ops at arm’s length. If that was the case here, the attorney would fear that his superiors saw him as responsible for having missed what she had discovered.
The lawyer said, “This entire episode is one giant charade.”
The finance director shrugged and said to Reese, “Go ahead. Give us your spiel.”
“Inside the documents on my left, we have a Bridgeport board member with a serious gambling addiction.”
The attorney sniffed, “We hardly care about such personal peccadilloes.”
“You should. His debts now stand at over eighteen million dollars. He has become involved with some very serious people who have bought all his outstanding debts. They are now in the process of selling his influence to the highest bidder. And will do him bodily harm if he does not obey.”
They were so aghast it took a full ninety seconds for the finance director to ask, “The other?”
Reese patted the right-hand pages. “Door number two. Your very own in-house spy.”
The attorney actually groaned. “Who is he selling to?”
“She,” Reese corrected. “She has received three quarter-million-dollar payments from your top competitor on what is currently your largest project under bid.”
The finance director turned greyer still.
“Gentlemen, the clock is ticking.” She nudged both piles a fraction further across the table. “Choose.”
It was late afternoon when Reese finally exited the building. A differ
ent limo idled at the curb. At her appearance, a young woman rose from behind the wheel and opened the rear door. Reese rolled down her window and asked, “Where are we going?”
“I’ve been informed that you’re still booked into the Omni, ma’am.”
The wind blew in a faint taste of the distant ocean, warm and caressing as only a Florida spring could be. She breathed the fragrant air, feeling as though this freedom was finally hers to claim. At least momentarily.
The phone rang ten minutes into their return journey. The driver answered, then reached back and said, “For you, ma’am.”
Reese accepted the phone and said, “Clawson here.”
Vera sounded bitterly disappointed. “You didn’t follow orders.”
“I obtained what you were after and more. Your so-called orders were not an option, and you knew it going in.”
“You are hereby appointed head of the group. This is largely a figurehead position. Your number two will in many respects also be your superior.”
“Who will that be?”
“You have the weekend off. He will pick you up at eight the next morning.”
Reese knew Vera was expecting an argument. Demands over salaries, information, locations, etc. She had, after all, just won the first round. “Fine.”
“You are here to serve one specific role. Do you understand what that is?”
That too had become clear over the passage of this day. “I’m your cutout.”
Vera’s displeasure seemed to increase at Reese’s ability to pierce the veil. “Whatever happens, you and your associate take the fall. Your two names will be on all documents.”
“I understand.” And she did. If things went south, Reese and her mystery ally would be on the firing line.
“You are not to seek to identify your ultimate superiors. To do so would be reason for extermination.”
Reese smiled at the highway leading downtown. The limo moved with the heavy smoothness of a beast built to withstand all such incoming threats. “I read you.”
“You better. I am your only contact. I will require regular updates.”
The connection was severed. Reese continued to smile as she handed the phone back to the driver. Having an opponent so clearly in her sights was one of life’s little perks. Her superiors, whoever they were, would also be aware that Vera’s reports would be tainted by her animosity. But results spoke for themselves. And Reese had always been good at delivering. Today just proved she had not lost her edge.
