by Ted Dekker
The thought brought a sterling cool to his bones, and he let it filter through his body for a moment. He stood, still glaring angrily. “You’re a spineless worm, Borst. And you’re stealing my work for your own.”
They held stares for a full ten seconds. Borst refused to speak.
“What’s the new code?” Kent demanded.
Borst pursed his lips, silent.
Kent spun from the man, exited the office with a bang, and stormed down to Todd’s office. He shoved the door open.
“Todd!” The junior started. “What’s the new AFPS access code?”
Todd seemed to shrink into his chair. “M-B-A-O-K,” he said.
Kent left without thanking him.
He needed a rest. He needed to think. He grabbed his briefcase and walked angrily past Betty’s desk without acknowledging her. This time one of the tellers called a greeting to him as he rushed through the towering lobby, but he ignored the distant call and slammed through the tall glass doors.
CHAPTER NINE
THE MADNESS of it all descended upon Kent one block from the bank. It was then that a burning realization of his loss sank into his gut. If Borst pulled this off—which, judging by the call from Wong, he was doing just splendidly—he would effectively strip Kent of everything. Millions of dollars. That hook-nosed imbecile in there was casually intercepting his life’s work.
Kent’s chest flushed with a wave of panic. It was impossible! He’d kill anybody who tried to steal what was his. Shove a gun in the guy’s mouth and blow his brains out, maybe. Good grief ! What was he thinking? He could hardly shoot a prairie dog, much less another man. On the other hand, maybe Borst had just given up his right to life.
And what of Spencer? They would be virtually broke. All the boasting of Euro Disney and yachts and beachfront homes would prove him a fool. An image of that grinning monkey from the Chicago airport clapped its cymbals through his mind. Clang-ka-ching, clang-ka-ching.
Kent snatched up his cell phone and punched seven digits. A receptionist answered after two rings. “Warren Law Offices.”
“Hi. This is Kent Anthony.” His voice wavered, and he cleared his throat. “Is Dennis in?”
“Just a minute. Let me see if he’s available.”
The line remained silent for a minute before his old college roommate’s voice filled his ear. “Hello, Kent. Goodness, it’s been awhile. How you doing, man?”
“Hey, Dennis. Actually, not so good. I’ve got some problems. I need a good attorney. You have some time?”
“You okay, buddy? You don’t sound so good.”
“Well, like I said, I’ve got some problems. Can I meet with you?”
“Sure. Absolutely. Let’s see . . .” Kent heard the faint flip of paper through the receiver. “How about Thursday afternoon?”
“No, Dennis. I mean now. Today.”
Dennis held his reply for a second. “Pretty short notice, buddy. I’m booked solid. It can’t wait?”
Kent did not respond. A sudden surge of emotions had taken hold of his throat.
“Hold on. Let me see if I can reschedule my lunch.” The phone clicked to hold music.
Two minutes later Dennis came back on. “Okay, buddy. You owe me for this. How about Pelicans at twelve sharp? I already have reservations.”
“Good. Thanks, Dennis. It means a lot.”
“You mind me asking what this is about?”
“It’s employment related. I just got screwed out of a major bonus. I mean major, as in millions.”
Static sounded. “Millions?” Dennis Warren’s voice cracked. “What kind of bonus is worth millions? I didn’t know you were in that kind of money, Kent.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t be if we don’t act quick. I’ll give you the whole story at lunch.”
“Twelve o’clock then. And make sure you have your employment file with you. I’ll need that.”
Kent pulled back into traffic, feeling a small surge of confidence. This wasn’t the first time he’d faced an obstacle. He glanced at the clock on the dash. Nine o’clock. He’d have to burn three hours. He could retrieve a copy of his employment agreement from the house—that would take an hour if he stretched things.
“God, help me,” he muttered. But that was stupid, because he didn’t believe in God. But maybe there was a Satan and his number had come up on Satan’s big spinning wheel: Time to go after Kent. After him, lads!
Ridiculous.
PELICANS GRILL bustled with a lunch crowd willing to pay thirty bucks for the privilege of eyeing Denver’s skyline while feasting. Kent sat by the picture window, overlooking Interstate 25, and stared at his plate, thinking he really should at least finish the veal. Apart from a dip from the mashed potatoes and a corner sawed off the meat, his lunch sat untouched. And that after an hour at the table.
Dennis sat dressed smartly in a black tailored suit, cut with care to hang just so on his well-muscled frame. The jet-black mustache and deep tan fit his Greek heritage. By the Rolex on his wrist and the large emerald ring on his right forefinger, Kent’s college roomy had obviously done just fine for himself. He had listened to Kent’s tale with complete rapture, biting at his steak aggressively and humphing at all the right junctures. The man had just heard of Gloria’s death for the first time, and the announcement had brought his fork clattering to his plate. He stared at Kent, frozen, his mouth slightly agape.
“You’re kidding?” he stammered, wide eyed. Of course he had known Gloria. Had met her at their wedding, three years after college, when they were both just getting started. “Oh, Kent, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. It all happened so quickly, you know. I can barely believe it’s happened half the time.”
Dennis wiped his mouth and swallowed. “It’s hard to believe.” He shook his head. “If there’s anything I can do, buddy. Anything at all.”
“Just help me get my money, Dennis.”
His friend shook his head. “It’s incredible how these things can come out of nowhere. You heard about Lacy, right?”
Lacy? A bell clanged to life in Kent’s mind. “Lacy?” he asked.
“Lacy Cartwright. You dated her for two years in college. Remember her?”
Of course he remembered Lacy. They had broken up three months before graduation. She was ready for marriage, and the thought had frightened him clean out of love. Last he’d heard she had married some guy from the East Coast the same year he and Gloria had married.
“Sure,” he said.
“She lost her husband a couple years ago to cancer. It was quick from what I heard. Just like that. You didn’t get the announcement? Last I heard she’d moved to Boulder.”
“No.” Kent shook his head. Not surprising, really. After the way he’d cut her off, Lacy wouldn’t dream of reintroducing herself at any juncture, much less at her husband’s funeral. She was as principled as they came.
“So what do you think about the case?” Kent asked, shifting the conversation back to the legal matter. Dennis crossed his legs and leaned back. “Well . . .” He sucked at his teeth and let his tongue wander about his mouth for a moment, thinking. “It really depends on the employment contract you signed. You brought it with you?”
Kent nodded, withdrew the document from his briefcase, and handed it to him.
Dennis flipped through the pages, scanning the paragraphs quickly, mumbling something about boilerplate jargon. “I’ll have to read this more carefully at the office but . . . Here we go: Statement of Propriety.”
He read quickly, and Kent nibbled on a cold pea.
The attorney flopped the document on the table. “Pretty standard agreement. They own everything, of course. But you do have recourse. Two ways to look at this.” He held up two fingers. “One, you can fight these guys regardless of this agreement. Just take them to court and claim that you signed this document without full knowledge.”
“Why? Is it a bad document?” Kent interrupted.
“Depends. For you, in your situation, yes. I’d
say so. By signing it you basically agreed to forfeit all natural rights to proprietary property, regardless of how it materialized. You also specifically agreed to press no claims for compensation not specifically drawn under contract. Meaning, unless you have a contract that stipulates you are due 10 percent of the savings generated by this . . . what is it?”
“AFPS.”
“AFPS . . . it’s up to the company to decide if you are entitled to the money.” Kent’s heart began to palpitate. “And who in the company decides these things?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you. Immediately, it would be your superior.”
“Borst?”
Dennis nodded. “You can go over his head, of course. Who above him knows of the work you put into this thing?” Kent sat back, feeling heavy. “Price Bentley. He’s the branch president. I sat in a dozen meetings with him and Borst. He has to know that the man is about as bright as mud. Can’t I bring in coworkers?”
“If you want to sue, sure. But by their reactions, it sounds to me like they might be more on Borst’s side than yours. Sounds like the guy was doing some fast talking while you were out. Your best bet is probably to go straight to the bank president and appeal your case. Either way you’re going to need strong support from the inside. If they all side with Borst, we’re going to have to prove a conspiracy, and that, my friend, is near impossible.”
Kent let the words soak in slowly. “So basically either I gain favor with one of Borst’s superiors and work internally, or I’m screwed. That about it?”
“Well, like I said, I really need to read this thing through, but, barring any hidden clauses, I’d say that’s the bottom line. Now, we can always sue. But without someone backing up your story, you might as well throw your money to the wind.”
Kent smiled courageously. But his mind was already on Price Bentley’s face. He cursed himself for not taking more time to befriend upper management. Then again, they’d hired him as a programmer, not as a court jester. And program he had, the best piece of software the banking industry had seen in ten years.
“So I go back there and start making friends,” he said, looking out the picture window to the cars flowing below. From the corner of his eye he saw Dennis nod. He nodded with him. Surely old Price was smart enough to know who deserved credit for AFPS. But the idea that another man held the power to grant or deny his future sat like lead in his gut.
CHAPTER TEN
KENT WALKED straight to Price Bentley’s office on Tuesday morning before bothering with Borst.
He’d spent Monday afternoon and evening chewing his fingernails, which was a problem because he had no fingernails to speak of. Spencer had wanted to eat chicken in the park for dinner, but Kent had no stomach for pretending to enjoy life on a park bench. “Go ahead, son. Just stay away from any strangers.”
The night had proved fitful. A sickening dread had settled on him like a human-sized sticky flysheet, and no matter what twists and turns he put his mind through, he could not shake it free. To make matters worse, he’d awakened at three in the morning, breathless with panic and then furious as thoughts of Borst filtered into his waking mind. He’d spent an hour tossing and turning only to finally throw the covers across the room and swing from bed. The next few hours had been maddening.
By the time the first light filtered through the windows, he had dressed in his best suit and downed three cups of coffee. Helen had collected Spencer at seven and had given Kent a raised eyebrow. It might have been his palms, wet with sweat. Or the black under his eyes. But knowing her, she had probably seen right into his mind and picked through the mess there.
He had nearly hit a yellow Mustang at the red light just before the bank because his eyes were on those sweeping steps ahead and not on the traffic signal. His was the first car in the lot, and he decided to park on the far row in favor of being seen early. Finally, at eight sharp, he’d climbed from the Lexus, swept his damp, blond locks back into place, and headed for the wide doors.
He ran into Sidney Beech around the corner from the president’s office. “Hi, Kent,” she said. Her long face, accentuated by short brown hair, now looked even longer under raised brows. “I saw you yesterday. Are you okay? I’m so sorry about what happened.”
He knew Sidney only casually, but her voice now came like warm milk to his cold tremoring bones. If his mission was to win friends and influence the smug suits, a favorable word with the assistant vice president couldn’t hurt. He spread his mouth in a genuine smile.
“Thank you, Sidney.” He reached for her hand and grasped it, wondering how much would be too much. “Thank you so much. Yes. Yes, I’m doing better. Thank you.”
An odd glint in her eye made him blink, and he released her hand. Was she single? Yes, he thought she was single. The left corner of her lip lifted a hair. “That’s good to hear, Kent. If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
“Yes, I will. Listen, do you know what Mr. Bentley’s schedule is today? There’s a rather important issue that I—”
“Actually, you might catch him now. I know he has an eight-thirty with the board, but I just saw him walk into his office.”
Kent glanced in the direction of the president’s office. “Great. Thank you, Sidney. You’re so kind.”
He left, thinking he had overdone it with her, maybe. But then, maybe not. Politics had never been his strong suit. Either way, the exchange had given him a sensibility that took the edge off the manic craziness that had gripped him all night.
True to Sidney’s words, Price Bentley sat in his office alone, sorting through a stack of mail. Rumor had it that Price weighed his salary: 250. Only his salary came in thousands of U.S. dollars, not pounds. The large man sat in a gray pinstriped suit. Despite being partially obscured by a layer of thick flesh, his collar looked crisp, possibly supported by cardboard or plastic within its folds. The man’s head looked like a plump tomato atop a can. He looked up at Kent and smiled. “Kent! Kent Anthony. Come on in. Sit down. To what do I owe this pleasure?” The president did not rise but continued flipping through the stack.
If the man knew of Gloria’s passing, he was not going there. Kent stepped to an overstuffed blue guest chair and sat. The room seemed warm.
“Thank you, sir. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.” The bank president leaned back, crossed his legs, and propped his chin on a hand. “I have a few minutes. How can I help you?”
The man’s eyes glistened round and gray. “Well, it’s about AFPS,” Kent started.
“Yes. Congratulations. Fine work you guys put together back there. I’m sorry you couldn’t be at the conference, but it went over with quite a splash. Excellent job!”
Kent smiled and nodded. “That’s what I heard. Thank you.” He hesitated. How could he say this without sounding like a whiner? But sir, his blue ribbon was bigger than my blue ribbon. He hated whiners with a passion. Only this was not about blue ribbons, was it? Not even close.
“Sir, it seems there’s been a mistake somewhere.”
Bentley’s brows scrunched. “Oh? How’s that?” He seemed concerned. That was good. Kent picked up steam.
“The Advanced Funds Processing System was my brainchild, sir, five years ago. In fact, I showed you my rough diagrams once. Do you remember?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t. I see a thousand submissions a year. And I’m aware that you had an awful lot to do with the system’s development. Excellent job.”
“Thank you.” So far so good. “Actually, I wrote 90 percent of the code for the program.” Kent leaned back for the first time. He settled into the chair. “I put a hundred hours a week into its development for over five years. Borst oversaw parts of the process, but for the most part he let me run it.”
The president sat still, not catching Kent’s drift yet. Unless he was choosing to ignore it. Kent gave him a second to offer a comment and then continued when none came.
“I worked those hou
rs for all those years with my eye set on a goal, sir. And now it seems that Borst has decided that I do not deserve that goal.” There. How could he be any clearer?
The president stared at him, unblinking, impossible to read. Heat rose through Kent’s back. Everything now sat on those blind scales of justice, waiting for a verdict. Only these scales were not blind at all. They possessed flat gray eyes, screwed into that tomato head across the desk.
Silence settled thick. Kent thought he should continue—throw in some lighthearted political jargon, maybe shift the subject, now having planted his seed. But his mind had gone blank. He became aware that his palms were sweating.
Bentley suddenly spread his jowls in a grin, and he chuckled once with pursed lips. Still not sure what the man could possibly be thinking, Kent chuckled once with him. It seemed natural enough.
“The savings bonus?” the president asked, and he was either very condescending or genuinely surprised. Kent begged for the latter, but now the heat was sending little tingles over his skull.
“Yes,” he answered, and cleared his throat.
Bentley chuckled again, and his jowls bounced over his collar with each chuckle. “You actually thought that you had a substantial bonus coming, didn’t you?”
The breath left Kent as if he’d been gut-punched.
“Those saving spiffs are hardly for non-management personnel, Kent. Surely you realized that. Management, yes. And this one will be substantial indeed. I can see why you might be slobbering over it. But you have to pay your dues. You can’t just expect to be handed a million dollars because you did most of the work.”
Kent might have lost his judgment there, on the spot—reached over and slapped Fat-Boy’s jowls. But waves of confusion fixed him rigid except for a blinking in his eyes. Niponbank had always boasted of its Savings Bonus Program, and everyone knew that it was aimed at the ordinary worker. A dozen documents clearly stated so. Last year a teller had come up with an idea that earned him a hundred thousand dollars.
