by Brian Bakos
***
The next day went a lot easier on Tom’s nerves. No flare-ups occurred; they even managed to do a lot of work on the renovations. Billy seemed to have exhausted his reserve of meanness and was staying sober.
The guy had a rough sort of charm that was actually quite engaging. He would have made a good foreman at the plant, Tom thought, somebody the men would have liked and respected – as long as he kept off the bottle.
Tom resisted getting sucked in, maintaining a cool and polite exterior. As much as he desired good relations with his in-laws, he could not get the previous night’s scene out of his mind. The crass brutality of it offended him at the core. What kind of upbringing had Joyce gotten from this family – the dictator father, the timid and frightened mother?
The elopement had been Joyce’s idea. They’d been driving to San Diego for a vacation when she’d suggested they stop off at Las Vegas to get married. Tom had agreed, but he couldn’t help wondering why she would cut their families out of the event. Now he knew why. He also thought he knew why she often slept so fitfully and had nightmares.
His in-laws were upgrading their cottage into a real second home – a remote lakeside retreat, yet not too far from their main house in Bay City. They’d bought the place from an elderly man who’d had to sell quickly without driving too hard a bargain. Tom wondered if the previous owner had been Stanley, a resident at the rest home where he’d worked during his layoff.
More snow came. Pam and Richard began to agitate for a sledding trip to Rocker Hill, and Tom agreed to take them Saturday night for some moonlight runs. The two youngsters were delighted to get outdoors and avoid a boring evening at home with the Florins.
Tom resisted their calls to join the fun and contented himself with watching them hurtle down the steep hill. Sometimes they sat together on the long wooden sled; other times Richard went solo, lying prone and howling all the way.
The world seemed pleasantly serene under the moon and the area lights strung along the trees. Tomorrow would be the last day of this trial. If only things stayed on an even keel until then! Tom planned to work hard until mid afternoon, then make a quick getaway. He’d hardly known his in-laws before this weekend, and he felt that he knew them far better than he wanted to now. Except for the kids – they were great!
Even if it weren’t for his screwy in-laws, Tom would be anxious to leave. He was a city guy, and the quiet solitude of this northern area got on his nerves. The blank, semi-wilderness seemed to lack things that were necessary to sustain life, the same way the family lacked human warmth. This was Bear Country to him. He hoped that he would never have to return.
He stamped his feet against the cold and wrapped his long scarf more tightly around his neck. He was just getting ready to change his mind and venture a ride when the fun ended in a crash against a tree.
Tom trotted down the hill to the two young people sprawled in the snow.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I think so,” Richard said.
He got up and brushed himself off. Tom assisted Pam to her feet; she was equally unhurt.
“That was quite a show!” Tom said. “Is there an admission charge?”
His attempt at levity fell flat. The two siblings merely stared grimly at the sled and its broken runner.
“Dad’s really going to be pissed,” Pam said. “He just bought that.”
“Yeah ... ” Richard agreed.
The boy seemed to be shaking in the dim light, and not from the cold.
“Let’s go,” Tom said.
Sometime later, they pulled up to the cottage. The kids jumped out and started a snowball fight with each other, their good cheer fully restored. Tom lifted the sled from the back of his pickup. Fortunately, the little general store had still been open, and he’d managed to purchase a new sled identical to the old one. Billy would have no reason to go ballistic now.
Pam and Richard burst into the house, breathless and red faced.
“On the back porch!” Janet called, frowning at the sight of their wet clothes.
Her children retreated to the screened-in porch to strip down.
Tom had already doffed his jacket and boots before entering and had hung his scarf on a wall hook. It was a long and rugged scarf, knitted for him by Joyce; it radiated love.
He advanced alone into the house, limping slightly. Billy, with Susie sitting on his lap, was at the kitchen table playing Rummy with Jack Florin. Florin was a large, bald-headed man with an equally big cigar in his mouth. The kitchen exhaust fan was running, sucking the smoke out into the piney woods.
The women were off in the living room chatting over coffee.
“This is our son-in-law, Tom,” Janet introduced.
She glanced at his holey socks with disapproval.
“Thought I’d dress for the occasion,” Tom quipped.
Florin deemed this to be greatly entertaining, and he broke out in chuckles.
“Hey, I can still laugh with cards like these!” he said.
Tom took an instant liking to the man. Jack Florin seemed like a very good-humored and friendly person, somebody you’d feel comfortable around. So why was he pals with a slug like Billy?
He’s been sucked in by the charm, Tom thought.
Then there were his two sons in college that Billy had targeted as potential mates for Joyce. Well, maybe the charm offensive would be coming to an end now.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need a shower,” Tom said. “Those kids put me through quite a workout.”
“Wait a minute, young man,” Florin said, “can you play Rummy?”
“Sure.”
“Grab a chair then,” Florin said. “Billy’s been kicking my tail. Maybe my luck will improve if we play cut throat.”
Tom hesitated. Pam and Richard dashed noisily toward the bathroom, jockeying for first rights.
“See, you’ll have to wait for that shower anyway,” Florin laughed.
He turned toward Billy.
“I’m not going to let you use her next time,” he said, indicating Susie. “She knows more about this game than either of us.”
Billy chuckled and held out a sausage-like finger to the child. Her tiny hand wrapped around it.
“Yeah, deal in,” Billy invited with a wave of his beer can.
He actually sounded friendly. Maybe the past couple of days working together on the renovations had paid off. Maybe Tom was ‘one of the boys’ now.
Again, he resisted getting sucked in by the charm. Tom vividly recalled the fear on Richard’s face when the sled broke, the immense relief he and Pam displayed when they’d obtained a replacement.
Against his better judgement, Tom sat down at the table.
Billy’s luck, which had been running hot, cooled in the new 3-way game. Tom quickly assumed control with Billy in a fading second place. Florin did as poorly as ever.
“I knew you’d bring me luck, Tom,” he said, “and so you did. All of it bad!”
Tom liked to win as much as anybody, but he didn’t like the way this game was going now – the way his father-in-law grew quiet and moody each time Tom scored a good hand. Billy made more trips to the refrigerator for beer, which was also a bad omen. A slight weave was entering his gait, and Janet looked over occasionally with apprehension in her eyes.
Tom tried to ease up, but something inside prevented him from throwing the game. The same spirit which had carried him through tough wrestling bouts and boxing matches came to the fore. Besides, he was drinking now, too, and it was bringing out his reckless streak.
But he wasn’t so reckless as to not realize that he needed a tactful exit from the game. Florin just wouldn’t give him a chance. The man was doing badly but didn’t seem to care. He kept up a constant stream of banter that left little opening for Tom to slip away.
“You know, I’ve lived around here all my life,” Florin observed at one point, “but I still can’t stand the winters. Weather like this makes me wish I was back i
n the Philippines.”
“Oh, Jack, nobody wants to hear your old military stories,” Mrs. Florin objected from the living room.
“Lovely place, the Philippines,” Florin continued, ignoring his wife’s objection. “Always warm and friendly.”
“It certainly is nice,” Tom said.
“You’ve been there?”
“Yeah, when I was in the Navy.”
“Really?” Florin’s eyes took on a devilish flare. “Great women there, eh? I know that’s one thing that couldn’t have changed any!”
A loud throat clearing from Mrs. Florin made him change the subject quickly.
“So, how long were you in the Navy, Tom?” he asked.
“Just two years,” Tom said. “I got banged up in a shipboard accident. They gave me a partial disability because of my leg.”
“Oh.” Florin attended to his cigar. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s not too bad, just slowed me down a little.”
“Yeah, he’s in great shape,” Billy said, draining his can of beer. “He just won’t be running in any Memorial Day races.”
Tom did not try to conceal the contempt in his eyes, although he said nothing. Billy pretended not to notice and busied himself with Susie. The humming exhaust fan tried to fill the tense silence.
“Well,” Florin said, attempting to sound jocular, “I’d say some of us aren’t in the greatest shape either!”
He reached over and patted Billy’s enormous gut. “Deal the cards Big Guy.”
This remark also flopped. Although Florin remained sportive, his opponents had turned sullen. Tom cut loose on Billy and used every trick to do him in, even going so far as to feed important cards to Florin.
“Off Daddy’s lap,” Billy said midway into the next game.
“Can’t I watch?” Susie protested.
“No, go visit in the living room.”
Susie jumped down and went to her mother. Billy moved to the refrigerator for a fresh supply of beer.
“Billy, I’m floating already!” Florin protested, but he took a can anyway.
Tom was starting to float too, and he began to play with greater abandon. In every face card he saw Richard’s terrified visage, Pam and Susie’s fear, Joyce’s contorted face when she swam up from a nightmare. He laughed and banged his fist on the table every time he won a hand. Florin enjoyed the sport and joined in.
Only Billy didn’t like it. He hated losing, as Tom well knew, and he detested even more having it rubbed in.
Beer cans ringed the table when Mrs. Florin finally intervened: “Let’s get going, Jack,” she said. “We have to get an early start tomorrow to see the boys at State.”
Billy glowered at the mention of the college boys. He shot a covetous glance at Florin which the latter didn’t notice. Tom noticed, though, and it gave him perverse satisfaction.
The visitors took their leave. Florin was in no condition to drive, and his wife had some difficulty maneuvering their big Lincoln out of its parking space. She finally made it, coached by Billy from his position in the doorway. Then she was off with wheels spinning in the snow.
“Hope you get stuck,” Billy muttered.
He had barely reentered the house when Janet called out: “Oh, Bill, we’re low on firewood, could you bring some in?”
“Yeah, just a minute,” Billy said irritably. “Let me get my boots on.”
Billy brought in his heavy boots and plopped onto a kitchen chair. He kicked his loafers into a corner with precise, violent motions.
Since he was too fat to reach down very far, Billy used a long pliers type wrench to grip the boot tops. Tom observed the effort from his own chair across the table. He was amused and just drunk enough not to care whether Billy noticed his smirk.
“What’s so funny?” Billy demanded.
“Oh nothing,” Tom said, “you just kind of remind me of the Tin Man with that wrench.”
“That’s real clever.”
“I thought so too,” Tom said.
Billy reddened and gave a final mighty tug with the wrench. The boot slid fully into place.
“If you’re so damn clever, how come you’re still an assembly line stiff?” he said.
“Well forgive me sir.” Tom stood up. “You don’t impress me as any great genius either.”
“I’m smart enough to see that my daughter doesn’t know much about picking men. The little dope.”
Tom was too furious to reply; he ached to knock the fat man right out of his chair.
Don’t hassle with him, an internal voice warned. The bastard isn’t worth it.
Tom managed to suppress his raging emotions. He made a deep, mocking bow and stalked off to his room.
In a few minutes, he’d thrown his things together and was ready to go. It was an easy chore; his duffle bag was only partially unpacked in anticipation of just such a hasty departure.
He was just coming out the bedroom when Billy re-entered the house with a load of firewood in his arms.
Billy pushed the door shut with his foot. The nudge wasn’t enough to close it, though. Sam was quick to take advantage of this, and he wriggled his way in. Before anyone noticed, the little mongrel was at the fireplace, shaking and trying to warm itself from the coals.
“Goddammit!” Billy exploded.
He threw the wood down and aimed a kick at the dog. This time Sam was too quick and managed to dash out of the way. The foot sailed past and slammed into the fireplace bricks instead.
“I broke my foot!” Billy howled.
He plopped to the floor.
“Goddam dog!”
He would have nursed his foot if he could have reached it. The family raced in from their various hiding places and gathered round. Janet advanced to help.
“Keep away, leave me alone!” Billy roared.
The children cowered against a wall. Susie motioned to the dog, but it was hiding under a chair and refused to budge. This was an opportune moment for Tom to slip out unnoticed, but he couldn’t help gaping open-mouthed at the grotesque scene.
Billy was standing again, gingerly testing his injured foot. Janet shrank before him, leaving him master of the situation.
“I said,” he intoned slowly, “that this animal was to stay outside.”
He snatched Sam from his hiding place. With a couple of long, hobbling strides he had the whimpering dog in the kitchen where he rummaged a burlap sack from under the sink.
“What are you doing?” Janet cried.
“What do you think? This mutt’s going for a swim.”
The kids erupted into howls of protest.
“Daddy, you can’t! It’s not his fault!”
Oblivious to the entreaties, Billy tossed the puppy into the sack, added his boot wrench for weight, and tied it shut. Then he bulled his way out through the door.
Susie threw herself on the couch and thrashed about crying, completely out of control. Richard and Pam wept more quietly while their mother sat in a chair, a look of stunned exhaustion on her face.
Tom pulled the drape aside on the picture window. He could see Billy striding in the moonlight, heading across the frozen lake toward the fishing shanties.
My God, he’s really going to do it!
Tom dashed onto the porch. He grabbed for his coat and scarf hanging on their hook. The coat fell away and disappeared behind some boxes. With only the scarf for protection against the cold, Tom flung himself through the door.
As he charged through the biting wind out onto the lake, Tom was trembling – not with the cold, but in anticipation of the blows he’d strike to Billy’s face, spraying blood all over the ice.
He was nauseated at the terror this evil man was creating. My God, what must Joyce’s childhood have been like with this psychotic time bomb ready to go off any moment? And what of the things she refused to talk about. What had been done to her over the years?
This last thought stoked his rage to a fever pitch. Come what may, he was going to pound the
bastard to within and inch of his life.
“Stop!” he yelled.
Billy turned to face him. Tom began to run, but his loafers gave little traction. Several paces short he fell, slamming his knee against a jagged outcrop. Pain shot through his entire body as he writhed on the ice.
“Umph!” Billy grunted disdainfully at his now helpless pursuer.
He turned and continued walking toward the fishing shanties.
“Sunovabitch!” Tom called weakly, his voice lost in the wind.
A loud Crack! reverberated through the ice like a shout from the devil. Billy froze in his tracks ... too late.
The ice, not yet recovered from the warm spell, caved in beneath him. The bag he carried flew from his hands and skidded to a halt several feet away.
“Help!” Billy screamed as he fought to scramble up the edge of a gaping hole.
Tom managed to stand, then immediately flattened himself as another Crack! shot through the ice. He crawled toward the hole. Billy was obviously losing his battle and would soon slip below the surface weighed down by his water-filled boots and parka.
Tom pulled the scarf off his neck and prepared to throw one end toward the struggling man. Billy reached desperately toward the lifeline.
Tom hesitated ...
Back at the cottage, Susie had calmed a bit and was sobbing quietly into the sofa cushions. The other two kids hung onto their mother’s hands. Janet looked utterly crushed and many years older than she really was.
Tom observed them through the window. He was nearly frozen, and his knee throbbed painfully. The dog in his arms was fine, though, wrapped in the scarf all warm and dry.
After a brief hesitation, Tom opened the door.
The White River Terror
When I was a kid, I was a reader of horror stories, a fan of mysterious abominations that creep up in the night and grab you from behind. I never thought I’d meet one in person, however. The concept was simply too outlandish.
Fast forward a few decades and change the scene from the comfortable suburbs to a camp fire in the Ontario woods. The evening meal is finished, and the junk talk is beginning. As usual, it’s about women, getting drunk, and being a generalized prick.
But there’s something else this time – the story of the ‘White River Terror,’ an urban legend of the northern woods. The idiot I have to share my canoe with is doing the talking.
The Terror is something of a serial killer and cannibal, he says. It stalks the wilderness in search of unsuspecting sportsmen and carries them off. I’m usually still up for a good thriller story, and this one sounds interesting. It’s the lousy company I can’t stand.
A word of advice for anyone considering an organized wilderness expedition: Don’t just sign up blindly like I did; make sure you know something about the people you’ll be going with. There are some real yo-yo’s out here.
I decide to avoid this batch.
But just as I’ve nearly completed an unnoticed departure from the camp area, I have to trip over a tent line and crash over a pile of cooking utensils. Startled faces whip around. Their expressions become sneering and sarcastic.
“Hey, Bob,” one of them yells. “Where you off to now?”
“Probably looking for some tail!” another says.
“Well let me tell you, buddy,” says the first scholar. “This is Nowhere-ville, and you sure ain’t gonna find no action around here!”
All five of them laugh now – louts, drinkers of cheap beer.
It’s difficult to avoid people when you’re all stuck in ‘Nowhere-ville’ together with nothing but aluminum canoes to take you out again. The closest I can come to getting these jerks out of my hair is by taking an after-dinner walk. I’m not on cleanup detail tonight, so I’ve got some time to myself.
The theme of this evening’s stroll is the pleasant thought that in just one more day the trip will be over and the outfitter will come to pick us up. I can already feel myself inside my car, speeding away from the presence of these morons.
I plan to return to my tent before dark, but I don’t notice how late it is until night is rapidly advancing. I’m too wrapped up in contemplations of escape to maintain my situational awareness.
Well ... I never claimed to be Mr. Outdoors.
I have a fair idea of where the campsite lies, but stumbling around in the dark – without a flashlight, of course – could not fail to tangle me up to such an extent that I’d never find the place.
In the distance, I can hear the occasional guffaws of my ‘companions,’ but this seems an unreliable beacon with which to retrace my steps. I think of calling out, but the thought of their sarcastic response deters me.
So, Bob, I think, it looks like we’re on our own tonight.
Actually, I don’t mind the idea of sleeping under the stars. It’s been warm lately, and a sleeping bag isn’t really necessary. As an added bonus, there won’t be an uncouth slob sharing my tent.
I park myself under a large tree. The mosquitoes are out, but I have on my rain parka and thick pants, so they can’t inflict too much damage. Besides, I actually remembered to bring a bottle of repellent!
I light my pipe, blow out some smoke to clear the air of insects, and settle in ...
A while later, I discover the pipe lying on the ground beside me with its coals spilled out. If the layer of needles hadn’t been damp from the recent rain, I’d probably be burning like a roman candle.
Did I say that I’m not Mr. Outdoors?
The racket from the camp has ceased, and a ¾ moon is out. I come to the brilliant conclusion that I’d dropped off to sleep. I have just refilled and relit my pipe when I sense a presence.
As clearly as anything I might be able to see in daylight, I am aware of its exact location. It waits a dozen feet away near a big rock, behind my tree. I don’t need to look, I feel it to be there!
Things remain stalemated for some seconds, with neither of us making a move. I remain still as long as I can; its eyes pierce right through the tree trunk and into my back. Finally, without voluntary effort, I discover myself rising and beginning to walk.
I’m like a grotesque marionette with my spastic movements, but somehow my feet discover a path. It begins to follow.
I know it’s in pursuit, can almost hear the ground cry out from the touch of its polluted steps. The urge to fling myself down the path in a headlong rush almost overcomes me, but I manage to beat it down.
I realize that any sign of panic will be my doom, that my only hope lies in appearing calm and strong while I find my way back to camp. Somehow, I disguise my fear and am able to tromp along with measured steps.
The Terror has come considerably closer and seems to be only a few steps behind me when I arrive at a clearing. I remember a clearing – is this it? If so, then the camp is not far. A dank and cold draft, like the breath of some foul being, hits my neck. That entire side of my body convulses and I bite hard on the pipe to keep from screaming.
I suck furiously on my calabash and try to think only of its smoke. I fill my mind with its flavor, welcome it as my only friend and ally. In my terrified brain the camp rises to the status of a holy city and the ruffians in it to the rank of divine saviors. It has to be close now, just a few yards up the path and to the right.
As the spot draws nearer, my feet begin to drag like lead weights. With each painful step, my tormentor draws nearer as well. He is almost upon me when I stagger onto the turn off ...
The moonlight reveals another stretch of empty path. I’ve gone the wrong way! With ghastly finality, my pipe flickers out.
I know the chase is over now. A last spark of resistance flares up in me; I bite down on the dead pipe, steel my muscles, and turn to face my pursuer.
“Would you care for a light?” It asks in the mildest of tones.
“W-why, yes,” I manage to say, “... thanks.”
A long, shadowy arm extends my direction. The being behind it is huge and terrible, but I sense that it int
ends me no harm. An unspoken communication vibrates between us. We seem to have a lot in common, both of us adrift in a hostile environment we do not cherish, despised by those around us.
As I suck the offered flame into my pipe, I think that my new friend will enjoy meeting the guys back at the camp.
Personnel Enhancement Service
Harry Beamon watched the staff members file out of the conference room. Jerry McConville, his assistant director, led the procession wearing his fresh little smile.
Beamon followed them to the doorway and paused. He rubbed his bald head. Today he felt each of his 55 years and every one of the excess pounds hanging from his midriff.
Hell! he realized with a jolt. I never adjourned the meeting.
McConville had just decided on his own that it was over and had led everyone out. A flush of outrage moved across Beamon’s face, then subsided.
He’d fire that McConville s.o.b. tomorrow, but he knew the higher ups would never go for that. The guy was angling to be the next director, everybody knew that, and he was catching influential eyes. But what else could he do? He began walking toward his office through the rabbit warren of walled cubicles.
Thirty years at this damned company, and they’re going for some young buck!
Everything was quiet around Beamon’s office, as if the major events of the Department were taking place elsewhere – like at Jerry McConville’s office on the other side of the floor.
Only Vince’s rapid tapping on the secretary station keyboard disturbed the serenity. Vice was the temporary replacement for the regular executive secretary who was out on maternity leave.
Imagine, Beamon thought sourly, she’s pushing 40 and is out having another baby!
What the hell was the world coming to?
Beamon entered his office and rolled his chair up to his own computer. A dusty glare was coming through the window, making him squint. The window washers hadn’t cleaned this side of the building for quite a while. This resulted in a less than pristine ambiance – unlike in McConville’s office where everything was spic and span, including the windows.
Beamon tried bringing up his e-mail, but it would not appear despite the agitated tapping of his fingers. The monitor flashed the infuriating message:
NETWORK ERROR. CALL FOR SERVICE
“Damn!”
Beamon smacked his fist on the keyboard.
“Mr. Beamon?”
Harry jerked his head around. Vince was standing in the doorway.
“What is it?” Beamon snapped.
In the distorted light, Vince looked even more ethereal than he usually did.
“I’ve finished the report,” Vince said.
“Already?” Beamon said with genuine surprise.
He took the document from Vince’s bony hand. The sheets of paper felt strangely cold, but there was nothing wrong with their content: page after page of meticulous text, tables, and flowcharts – all well formatted and pleasing to the eye.
“This is beautiful!”
Beamon reddened slightly, not being used to praising people, especially not temporary workers.
“Thank you, sir,” Vince said.
Beamon scrutinized the young man. He was over six feet tall, but couldn’t weigh more than 140 pounds. He was like some pale, gangly insect, a praying mantis or something. And the way his hair was brushed back. Stalin had worn his hair like that.
Vince was a hard worker, though, much better than the absent Doris. Since he’d come from the temporary help agency a week before, he’d completely straightened out the chaos that Beamon had come to regard as a given.
Why not just replace Doris for good – send her over to McConville?
“How’d you like to work for me permanently?” Beamon asked.
“Thank you, sir, but I currently have other priorities,” Vince said.
Beamon nodded.
“If everybody here worked as hard you, things would be a lot different,” he muttered.
Vince gazed out the dusty window for several seconds, utterly still and expressionless. Beamon began to fear that the man had suffered some kind of cataleptic seizure.
At last Vince spoke: “If you will forgive my frankness, sir, I have noticed a certain laxity among your employees – an absence of respect for your authority.
Beamon felt himself reddening at the impertinence, but he stifled the angry retort ready to burst from his lips. Hell, why get angry at the guy when every word was true?
He knew that people regarded him as ‘over the hill,’ a bungler stuck in the past. The department was slipping out of his hands and would soon be controlled by others. The staff barely tolerated him, and he often caught the undertones of sarcastic conversations.
But things hadn’t always been this way. Once a younger and more vigorous Beamon had commanded real authority. When he walked through the office people sat up at attention. They called him ‘Sir’ and meant it.
Times change, though, and Beamon, “. . . had not grown with the organization,” as his most recent job review had stated.
He grunted agreement with Vince’s statement. The latter directed his eyes back toward Beamon.
“Perhaps my agency can help you,” he said.
“How so?” Beamon asked.
“Our Personnel Enhancement division has helped corporate management resolve many staffing difficulties.”
Beamon leaned forward in his chair.
“Personnel enhancement?”
“Yes, sir,” Vince replied. “Employees are assisted in locating areas where attitudinal adjustment is desirable. They are then aided in making the necessary improvements.”
Beamon’s eyes narrowed.
“There must be more to it than that,” he said, not trying to disguise the suspicion in his voice.
“It is really a quite simple and effective process,” Vince said. “I must inform you beforehand that discretion is required of those who contract these services, a willingness to accept matters in the proper spirit.”
A willingness to keep their mouths shut, you mean? Beamon thought, but he said nothing.
Vince handed over a business card. It, too, felt cold in Beamon’s hand.
Personnel Adjustment Service, the card read, We put the power back in your hands
Only s single phone number graced the card.
“Have they got a website, an email?” Beamon asked. “What about a business address?”
“They prefer to handle things word of mouth only,” Vince replied. “Experience has shown that personal contact is best kept to a minimum.”
Beamon flipped the card over, nothing on the back. It had been in his hand for some seconds now but still felt cold.
“Should you choose to call, an unofficial phone would be best,” Vince said. “Simplicity and discretion are key concepts.”
“Thanks,” Beamon said, “I’ll keep this in mind.”
Vince made a slight nod, turned, and left the office. From the back, he gave a rather robotic impression. Beamon half expected to see wheels attached to the guy’s feet.
“Odd duck,” Beamon mumbled.
He returned to his computer screen. The bash must have done some good. At least the thing was back at the main pick menu:
windows
email
access mainframe
logout
How about none of the above? he thought sourly.
He swiveled to face the cork-plated wall beside his desk. The papers tacked to it blurred before his unfocused eyes.
Preposterous!
Things just couldn’t be turned around by ‘personality enhancement’ or whatever the term was. He looked at the car again; it had finally warmed up in his hand.
“Personnel Enhancement Service,” he corrected himself.
Sure, lots of outfits these days offered ‘training development’ and ‘employee counseling,’ but what could they do for Harry Beamon?
Things had not been too bad before the merger, but now
, with the new upper management team in place, things were sliding inexorably downhill – and Jerry McConville was the new rising star. People were hot for change.
McConville was not particularly competent, Beamon knew; the guy was more of a back-stabbing politician type. But sooner than later, he’d be the man in charge of the department.
What the hell do I have to lose? Beamon thought abruptly.
He reached for his private cell phone and punched in the number. His call was answered on the first ring.
“Hello, this is Harry Beamon. You were recommended by – ”
“We know who you are,” a cold female voice replied.
“Yes ....” Beamon said, rather taken aback. “I might be interested in – ”
“We know what your interests are, Mr. Beamon,” the voice replied. “Please be assured that we will handle all details.”
