Severance Package

by Duane Swierczynski

  Vincent sighed.

  It was Terrill Joe, your friendly neighborhood crackhead.

  What was interesting was that this neighborhood—if you could call this corporate canyon of towers a “neighborhood”—had any crackheads at all. Center City West was heavily policed, scrubbed, swept, and kept nice and clean for the business set. It was a far cry from the area forty years ago, when it was full of broken-down storefronts and porno theaters on one side, and a huge monstrosity called the Chinese Wall on the other. Actor Kevin Bacon’s dad was the city planner back then, and he decided to rip out the Chinese Wall—rail lines leading out of the city—and replace it with a corporate playground. By the 1980s, Bacon’s dream had been fully realized. Concrete, glass, steel, and sheer height were the order of the day. If you wanted to see what West Market Street looked like in the 1960s, you had to venture up past Twenty-second Street. But even that was going fast. Condos were moving in, even though nobody was buying them.

  Crackheads like Terrill Joe would have loved it back in the 1960s, had there been crack to purchase. Of course, back then, they would have just been hippies.

  Vincent had no idea where Terrill Joe holed up at night. Couldn’t be neighboring Rittenhouse Square—too fancy, even though Terrill Joe was the right shade of white. Probably some corner of Spring Garden, which lay to the north.

  He thought about asking Terrill Joe where he holed up, but decided it wasn’t worth it. It was tough enough getting him out of the building.

  “Mr. Marella,” he said. “You’ve got serious trouble.”

  “Every day,” Vincent mumbled.

  “Huh?”

  “What can I do for you, Terrill Joe?”

  “You gotta take a look around back.”

  “Do I.”

  “You’d better. Otherwise it’s your job.”

  Terrill Joe’s skin was a spiderweb network of broken veins. His teeth were like tombstones in a graveyard that had been bombarded with short-range missiles. And the stench rolled from him like a tsunami, engulfing countless innocent nostrils. In short, Terrill Joe was an absolute wreck.

  Usually, Vincent’s MO with Terrill Joe was to get him out of the building as soon as humanly possible, lest he disturb the taxpayers. He saw no reason to change his MO now, even though it was a humid, swampy mess outside.

  “Show me,” he said.

  There were two entrances to 1919 Market. The main entrance faced Market, and across the street was the symbol of Philly financial strength: the stock exchange. The place took itself so seriously, it was pretty much licking its lips after 9/11, thinking Wall Street would migrate southeast by a hundred miles or so. Yeah. Like that had happened.

  The other entrance faced Twentieth Street, which faced another corporate tower. Terrill Joe led him out the Twentieth Street side.

  “What’s the deal?”

  “You see, you see.”

  Yeah, I’ll see, I’ll see.

  The crackhead led the security guard around the back to the small alley between the corporate tower and the apartment building behind it. It was too small to have a name—it was only ten feet wide. Maybe a real street had run through this spot at some point. Not forty years ago, certainly. Then, the Chinese Wall dominated. Whatever street had existed before then had been obliterated by years of paving and repaving and demolition and construction. The object lesson: If you’re not careful, they can take away your name.

  “Lookit that.”

  Vincent saw what the crackhead was worried about. Shattered glass, on the dark asphalt of the nameless alley.

  Where had that come from?

  Vincent craned his neck up, even though he knew it was a silly gesture. Like he’d be able to see if there was a single pane of glass missing from one of the thirty-seven stories.

  “You see this happen?”

  “See it?” Terrill Joe asked. “Thing nearly cut my head off comin’ down.”

  “How far up, about?” He squinted. The sun was blazing this morning.

  “Real high up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  He squinted for a little while longer—the sun was bright, shining over the top of the white building—then turned to look at the apartment building on the other side. More than likely, the pane of glass had fallen from that side.

  Still, he had to check.

  Which meant a grueling floor-by-floor check on this side of the building.

  Thanks, Terrill Joe.

  “You want a smoke?” the crackhead asked.

  “Those things’ll kill you.”

  “Like I want to live forever?”

  His Saturday, ruined by a crackhead. Typical. But what really pissed him off was that it’d probably be at least an hour or so before he got back to Center Strike, and he wanted to know how the torture thing turned out.

  Thirty-six floors above, Ethan Goins was sprawled out on an uncomfortable slab of concrete with a pen tube sticking out of his throat.

  He was breathing out of it. And he was thankful for it. Don’t get him wrong.

  Pens were wonderful.

  He loved pens.

  But still: He was breathing out of the plastic tube of a ballpoint pen. Even an eternal optimist had to admit that life for Ethan Goins had taken a serious downturn in the past fifteen minutes.

  Once Ethan had heard Amy’s voice, and he’d confirmed that there was actually hope of rescue from this friggin’ fire tower, the decision had been clear. He needed to open his throat.

  There was pretty much only one way he knew how to do that.

  Granted, his imagination may have been limited by his time in Iraq. Maybe that experience prevented an easier solution from popping into his head. Some quick and simple way of opening up his throat, so that air could make its way into his lungs and bloodstream and muscles and brain.

  If there was an easier way, it wasn’t coming to him. Blame his oxygen-starved brain.

  Pen to the throat it was.

  Ethan worked quickly so he didn’t have too much time to dwell on it. Fished the pen out of his bag, pulled the tip and ink stem out of the pen, yanked the neck of his black T-shirt so it wouldn’t get in the way, and then started feeling for his Adam’s apple, and then the cricoid cartilage, and back up to the cricothyroid membrane. Bingo.

  Do it, Goins, do it fast.

  He wished he had any kind of blade to make an incision. He wished hard. But he knew the contents of his bag, and there was nothing even close. His car keys, maybe, but by the time he sawed open an incision, it might be too late.

  Ethan had dots appearing in front of his eyes as it was. So enough messing around. He knew his target: the valley of flesh on his neck.

  He knew there would be no do-overs, no second chances.

  He had to strike powerfully and cleanly.

  First, though, he had to shatter the tip of the pen on the concrete landing. A flat tube would do nothing to his throat … except hurt.

  Ethan jammed it against the ground. The plastic chipped as he’d hoped.

  There.

  Nice and jagged.

  Ready to go.

  He imagined the air he’d be breathing through that pen tube. Sweet, cool nourishing air. His for the taking, all for one little stabbing motion—

  Now!

  That had been fifteen minutes ago.

  Ethan was still alive, and breathing sweet, nourishing air through the pen tube in his neck.

  At first, the pain had been fairly astounding. It was probably a good thing he’d been unable to scream. But the shock to Ethan’s nervous system was far worse. He’d quickly drifted into a semi-catatonic state, most likely his body’s way of defending itself. It wasn’t every day the body’s right arm decided to do something as foolish as take a ballpoint pen, pull the ink stem out of it, then jab the tube into the throat area. If Ethan’s body were the United Nations, then his right arm had become an unstable terrorist state, one that had lashed out—without warning—against a neighboring country.
The right arm could say all it wanted about the stabbing being in the throat’s best interests—It was sealed up, Secretary General; I had to destroy that throat in order to save it—but to the remainder of the body, this was an incomprehensible act of aggression. The body imposed sanctions. The body condemned such violence. The body decided to shut down.

  For a while.

  Now Ethan was on the concrete slab of a landing, regaining his senses, pondering his next move.

  Calling for help: pretty much out.

  Climbing back up the stairs and opening the door to the thirty-sixth floor: Um, yeah, right. He’d had enough of the chemical agent for breakfast, thank you very much. Ethan’s luck, he’d figure out a way to disarm the thing, then realize at the last second he was wrong, and then have to spend the next ten seconds scrambling for a spork so he could scoop out his eyes to stop the poison from reaching his brain. No thanks.

  He wasn’t even sure what that chemical was. It didn’t taste like ricin.

  So that left down. Thirty-six flights of down.

  Are you down? Ethan was down.

  Down to the lobby, down to a security guard, where he’d have to put it down on paper. Unless a game of charades would be faster. Though it would be tricky to convey the events of the past thirty minutes with a few simple hand gestures.

  How do you say “chemical nerve agent” in American Sign Language, anyway?

  Worry about communicating later, Ethan told himself. Focus on climbing down this fire tower. One concrete half flight at a time. With a pen tube bobbing up and down in a hole in his throat, like a throat cancer patient leading an orchestra.

  Down, down, down.

  This, among other reasons, was why Ethan hated working on Saturdays.

  Molly led Jamie down the hallway, past the conference room, then down another short hallway and through the main lobby.

  A desk of deep oak dominated the room, along with a brass-plated logo of Murphy, Knox & Associates affixed to the wall. Jamie never walked through the lobby. Never had any reason to, really. The side entrances led him straight to the hallway closest to his office.

  “Did you say Amy’s down here?”

  Molly said nothing. Kept right on walking.

  That didn’t surprise Jamie. Molly had always been an odd duck. Her social awkwardness put him at ease, actually. Whenever they were gathered in a meeting, Jamie could count on Molly to make some kind of weird nervous mistake, or refuse to make eye contact with any other employee, save David. This was good, because it made Jamie look like less of a geek. It was probably why they got along so well. Two fellow inmates on the corporate island of misfit toys.

  “Look, Molly,” Jamie said. “All we need is a double-A battery, and we’re pretty much saved. No matter what Amy has in mind.”

  Jamie had no idea why Amy would be down this end of the hall. It didn’t make sense. This part of the floor was populated by empty offices and cubicles, a remnant of Murphy, Knox’s gogo years. Or that was the way David had explained it. The company had been buzzing during the dot. com boom, only to succumb to postmillennial downsizing. Now, the only people who ever used this side of the office were the occasional auditors who passed through from time to time, and building inspectors, who insisted on updating it with the latest in OSHA requirements, even though nobody used it.

  Without warning, Molly stopped. Turned to the left. Opened a door. Ushered Jamie inside. Closed the door behind them.

  Then she did the strangest thing.

  Molly looked into his eyes, with a soft, almost doting expression. It wasn’t a sexual look—no C’mere big boy and I’ll show you a good time. It was more, Come here, my sweet friend, and let me give you a hug.

  It reminded him of a night a few months ago. A night after a long drunken evening …

  “Um, Molly?” Jamie asked. “Why are we in here?”

  Molly didn’t reply. She held out her hand. It was small and pale, with thin, elegant fingers. Her breath smelled good. Pepperminty.

  Before Jamie knew what he was doing, he reached out and took her hand, as if to give her a handshake.

  He felt her fingers slide against his skin. Molly’s fingers danced over his, searching. Then she latched on, and—

  Jamie fell to his knees, crying in pain.

  His thumb and middle finger were on fire.

  What was she doing?

  OH GOD.

  More pressure now, more agony, nowhere to hide.

  STOP OH GOD PLEASE STOP.

  Jamie may even have thought he said this out loud.

  Keene fixed himself another cup of tea.

  He heard McCoy in the other room: “Will you look at this!”

  McCoy, again with his Philadelphia people.

  They should be focusing on Dubai.

  Keene and McCoy shared operational space, and more often than not, operations. But this Philadelphia thing was all McCoy. As a “human resources man”—his words, not Keene’s—he liked to dabble in new talent, build his little network within the larger networks. Having “his” people in various places all over the organization increased McCoy’s power exponentially.

  This was how Keene paired up with McCoy in the first place. A series of e-mails, sent back and forth between San Diego and Edinburgh, hinting around the edges. You never come out and say what you do. You sense it in each other.

  A few months later, a chance meet-up in Houston had worked to their mutual benefit. Similar adventures in Chicago, and then later, New York City, had been successes as well. So when it came time for a series of operations that needed special attention, it was McCoy who had suggested Keene to his bosses, and from that, thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment had found its way into a Portobello flat.

  The primary operation, as Keene saw it, was this Dubai deal. It was still in its infancy, but needed coddling.

  Philadelphia was little more than a distraction, but McCoy was engrossed with it.

  “C’mere and look at this. Check out what our girl is doing.”

  “Aye.”

  If Keene didn’t, McCoy would only continue to pester him.

  Might as well engage him.

  Would do him good to pay attention, probably. If McCoy were to be believed, they could be working with Girlfriend in the near future.

  The pain was so blinding, Jamie found himself detached from his surroundings. He was aware that Molly was moving behind him, sending fresh waves of agony up his arm and into the hot pain centers of his brain. Jamie’s hand and arm felt like a thick mass of rubber, alive with agony, able to be bent any way his torturer wished.

  His torturer—his friend Molly.

  His office spouse.

  Suddenly, he was being lifted up. Jamie was startled to discover that his legs could support some of his weight.

  Molly had positioned herself behind him. He could feel her body heat, her chest pressed up against his back. The long sleeves of her blouse brushed against his bare forearms. They’d never touched before, except for the occasional handshake or shoulder pat. If he wasn’t in so much agony, he might have been aroused by the touch of her unfamiliar body.

  She was a lot smaller than Jamie, but that worked to her advantage. She could tuck in behind him, do what she wanted, and Jamie would have no prayer of reaching around and stopping her.

  Not that he knew how to do something like that.

  Molly nudged him to the left, left, left, pointing him to a corner of the empty office.

  “That’s it, Jamie,” she whispered.

  “Whyareyoudoingthis,” Jamie said. His voice was raspy. Wheezing. Desperate. It startled him to hear it.

  “Shhhhhh, now. The pain will stop soon.”

  Keene said, “What’s she doing?”

  “Holding him up for us to see.”

  “Like a slaughterhouse employee showing off the chicken.”

  “That’s exactly right.”

  “She going to slice his throat, hang him up by his feet now?”

  “I woul
dn’t be surprised.”

  “Does it matter that I’m vegetarian?”

  “I don’t think she cares.”

  Molly hurled Jamie to the floor.

  Jamie caught himself on one hand—the numb one, unfortunately. His arm was too weak to support his body weight, so his face hit floor. Sucked in air and dust from an industrial carpet that hadn’t been vacuumed in at least a month.

  He saw that Molly was slipping off her shoes, delicately sliding them into a corner of the office, where they’d presumably be out of the way. But for what?

  What was she doing?

  Jamie pushed himself up to his knees, then reached out his good hand to the desk. He’d pull himself up, bolt, and leave it to the guys with the cozy white jackets with the buckles and straps to figure out. Molly had lost her mind; that much was clear. Had she lost it after she shot her boss in the head, or was it a good while before that? Who cared? Jamie needed to get out of this office. Off this floor.

  Home to his family.

  But as he reached out his hand, Molly grabbed it. Yanked it toward the ceiling a few inches.

  Then pressed two of his fingers backwards in such a way that it paralyzed him completely.

  She did this with one hand.

  “Ow,” Jamie said, more out of surprise than pain.

  Molly looked at him and smirked. She mouthed something to him, and applied more pressure.

  Okay, now it really, really hurt.

  “Oh God please let go. I can’t move.”

  She mouthed something again.

  Maybe Jamie was losing his mind, because he could have sworn she mouthed: “Just play along and don’t pass out.”

  But aloud, she said: “Tell me everything you know about the Omega Project.”

  “What?!”

  And now Molly pressed her fingers against Jamie’s, and Jamie found himself making a hideous sound that tried to accomplish three things at once:

  Suck in air.