Blackbird

by Abigail Graham

The roar of the exhaust sounds like an old airplane, thunderously loud in the confined space. The engine smoothes out almost immediately and I feel a surge of joy as I let out the clutch and ease in the gas. The car rumbles forward out of the garage and I whip around the turn, open the throttle and stab the button taped to the roof with my thumb. I hope the batteries aren’t dead.

  They’re not, somehow. The wrought iron gates swing open. I roll the windows down. The rain has stopped and the air smells damp and musty. Mists cling to the ground.

  I jam my hand out the window and give the security camera the finger before I whip out onto the road and two long black stripes of burnt rubber on the asphalt.

  Vic is back, assholes.

  Chapter Two

  Evelyn

  I wake up at four thirty in the morning, each and every day. My morning routine is absolutely the same, down to the minute. First I brush my teeth, then I floss, then I shower, dry and brush out my hair. My hair is, in my own opinion, my best feature. My skin is too pale and lined with blue and red veins. When I get out of the shower, I look like a roadmap from the scalding heat of the water and the freezing chill of a November morning in this ancient house.

  My clothes for the day are already laid out. A dark blue pencil skirt, blazer and black blouse, dark stockings and sensible shoes. I wind my hair into a simple bun and lock it in place with a pair of chopsticks, black. As I said, my hair is my best feature, so I keep it plain, to match the rest of me. Otherwise I am far from remarkable, at least in a good way. My nose is too big, my face too narrow. I don’t get much sleep and it shows on my face.

  Breakfast is waiting for me downstairs. Father fired the Amsels’ cook after Victor’s mother passed away. He replaced most of the staff, in fact. I eat in the kitchen, skipping the overly ostentatious dining room. The cook, a round woman with a thick French accent, has little to say to me. Father keeps her around to impress clients. I eat a bowl of oatmeal and drink a glass of orange juice. The cook must love me. I eat the same thing for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, every day.

  My assistant will be awake soon. After I’ve been served, the cook goes back to the servant’s quarters, back to bed, leaving me alone in the kitchen. Every sound rings heavily off endless expanses of stainless steel. I hate this place; I feel like I’m coming here to be dissected every morning. I put my own dishes in the sink and walk upstairs to the office.

  Peter Amsel -Victor’s father- had a lovely Olde World office, in the very center of the house. I don’t use that. My office was once a bedroom. The house has sixteen bedrooms, though I think the largest brood that ever lived here was a total of eight children. In the old old old days, the Amsels used to house their entire brood here, generations living under the same roof. When Father married Victor’s mother and I moved in here, they lived alone. The house felt cavernous, and it still does. It feels angry. I’m not a superstitious person. I don’t believe in ghosts or any such foolishness. I don’t care how old the house is, it’s just brick and mortar, plaster and paint and wood.

  It hates me anyway. I don’t belong here.

  One day I will approach father about disposing of the estate, but not yet.

  I’ve broached the idea before. The problem is legitimacy. Through a series of rather unfortunate events, I have come to be the heir to the Amsel fortune. My own portfolio is modest, inheritance from my mother. The Amsel holdings make me a billionaire, the ninth richest woman on the planet.

  Peter Amsel’s will left everything to Victor, on certain conditions. When he went to prison, he was disinherited and it all reverted to his mother. His mother’s will passed everything to me. When we lost her to cancer shortly after Victor’s imprisonment, it all became mine. I’d give it all back if I could. I never wanted this.

  I can still hear her breathy whisper. It was a terrible ordeal for her to speak with the cancer ravaging her lungs. Her last words were a throaty rasp.

  Promise, was the last thing she said. Promise me.

  I’m better at keeping my schedule than I am keeping promises.

  Assistants are a pain. I go through them like a dog chewing bones. The latest is Alicia. She’s the first one that hasn’t complained about my hours. I let her sleep in- I don’t expect her to meet me in the office until seven in the morning. She arrives without comment and sits down in the guest chair in front of my desk and spreads out my agenda on her lap. I prefer to keep everything on paper. Electronics are not secure. Alicia is a middle aged woman, a mother of three who needs my patronage. If I were a cruel person I would exploit that. I don’t, I only ask for competence and that she refrain from wasting my time with pointless nonsense. I listen vaguely as she reads out my agenda for the day. I already know all of it. I need to be on a private jet in four hours, meaning we must leave in three. Before that I sit back and listen to her briefing for an hour as she goes over the news.

  That damned feature story on me is causing no end of trouble. One of the financial rags interviewed me last month. They wanted me to show up in a cocktail dress and sprawl out on a desk, like a model in some kind of skin mag layout. I showed up in my usual conservative attire and stared into the camera. The magazine now sits on my desk, my own face staring back at me. I think they Photoshopped it, tried to make me prettier. I think I look like a weasel. Maybe a fox, if you’re being charitable, but not in the vulgar sense. The screaming bold headline proclaims me the Ice Queen of Wall Street. I haven’t read the article. I don’t need to. If I was a man I’d be celebrated. I dare to do this and be a woman, so I must be lambasted for my arrogance.

  As Alicia finishes the morning briefing I finger the edges of the paper. I have a distinct urge to ruin the career of everyone involved in printing this thing, from the editor all the way down to the copy boys in their mailroom. I could, if the urge struck me.

  Amsel is a holding company. Long, long ago, the family got its start manufacturing explosives. Gunpowder, to be precise. The family estate borders a sloping quick running river that used to be lined with mills for miles, fueling the Union war machine while, ironically, some cousins fought on the confederate side. There was never a direct threat to these holdings, but there was a time when this house was strategically important. That ended a long time ago. Gunpowder became chemicals, chemicals became a dozen other products from solvents to adhesives to demolition explosives. Amsel helped in wars, put men on the Moon and create the Internet. Everyone talks about the innovations of this or that computer company but their devices would be useless without fifteen patents that belong to the family for the next sixty years, and in perpetuity if our lobbyists do their job. I can meet with Senators on a whim. Billionaires look busy when they see I’m coming.

  None of this makes me feel anything.

  I suppose that’s my advantage.

  Alicia has a file for me, my latest target.

  They sell biscuits. Actually, powder that comes in boxes that mixes with milk and eggs to make biscuits. That’s the flagship product. Thorpe Biscuit has expanded over the last twenty years into a food and food services empire. Ninety-five percent of the biscuits served in restaurants and eaten in homes are Thorpe and they have a good chunk of the food service industry and manufactured food markets under their control. Walk into a grocery store and something like ninety percent of the goods are produced by one of three companies, if you follow the ownership back up the chain. Thorpe is one of those, with the smallest market share of the big three. They do six billion dollars a year in revenue.

  Yes, I yawn while I’m reading it.

  They’re screwed. The company is going under, due to total mismanagement. Thorpe is run by old money, Jim Thorpe III, great-grandson of the founder. I know more about him than he does. The dossier open on my desk reads like something an assassin would use to study a target. I know all of his habits, his movements. I know what he had for breakfast three weeks ago, what he gave his wife for Mother’s Day and his mistress for Secretary’s Day, which Ninja Turtle each of his children prefer (the youngest
favors Donatello), the names of his boats. I even know about the funds he has squirreled away in Switzerland for when it all goes belly up under him.

  I am not without mercy. I will allow him to remain on in some capacity at the company. He will continue to own stock. Today he will agree to a merger or I will launch my hostile takeover campaign. One word to Alicia and one of the six Amsel conglomerates will put in the maximum allowed bid on the open market for shares of Thorpe stock, as permitted by the Williams Act. At the same time, I will contact the large shareholders I’ve been meeting with for what’s known as a proxy fight. They will vote for me. I don’t even need them all. I already indirectly own twenty percent of the common stock through a pension fund group under Amsel control. Jim Thorpe is, to put it colloquially, screwed. I scratch at the papers with my close-cut fingernails. It feels like sharpening my claws. Once the company is mine the challenge of fixing it might at least make me feel something.

  Six years. That’s the last time I felt something, I think.

  The morning’s work is boring, mostly answering emails, correcting other people’s mistakes, gathering intelligence, arranging for the sell off of an underperforming holding and sending orders to my other assistants to bring me information on new acquisitions. The lawyer will be joining me in New York to meet with Thorpe.

  Once everything is arranged, it’s time to go.

  When I step out of the office, the head of security is waiting for me.

  His name is Harrison Carlisle and he’s one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen. Almost seven feet tall and three hundred pounds of muscle. He comes from some little town up the Susquehanna river. I think his cousin or his uncle or some such thing is a police officer up there. Harrison was a Marine and then a private military contractor. I remember the name of the town, now. Paradise Falls. One of my college roommates was from up there. Jennifer, her name was. There must be something in the water in that town; she towered over me. When I lived with her I always felt like I was in her shadow. She was stunning, with a gymnast’s slender build, a models’ grace, and she was absolutely gorgeous, but she was dating some local boy that went to the same school as us and never talked to anyone else. She rarely talked to me, for that matter. I haven’t thought about her in a long time.

  Something in the air this morning brings nostalgia.

  “Ma’am,” Harrison grunts, knocking me out of my reverie.

  Good. I don’t want to think about college. I don’t want to think about Victor. Not that it ever stops me. Every day for five years, I-

  “One of the cars was stolen this morning.”

  I blink a few times. I glance at Alicia. I look at Harrison again.

  “What?”

  “Somebody broke into the garage and took it.”

  “Yes,” I sigh, “That’s what stolen means. Which one?”

  “The Pontiac.”

  An ice cube slides down my back and I go rigid. There’s one Pontiac in the Amsel collection. A packard, a Rolls Royce, a 1958 Plymouth Fury, half a dozen less valuable cars and Victor’s mother’s Hyundai, and one Pontiac, that ludicrous beast Victor’s father passed down to him.

  “I assume you’ve contacted the police.”

  Harrison nods.

  “Deal with it. Call my father, get more men, double the details. I want foot patrols again. Those damned dogs aren’t doing their job.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  My security chief leaves and I let out a slow breath. I should tell him. Victor loved that car, he’d be crushed to hear it’s been stolen. I can’t imagine why someone would break into the grounds and steal that car. It’s one of the least valuable in the collection. Victor once explained it to me; the numbers don’t match, whatever that means, because of his father’s modifications. The Rolls Royce, a Phantom II, is worth a small fortune on its own. Why would someone steal the Firebird and leave the others undisturbed?

  I suppose I should feel violated. I’ve been robbed. My home has been defiled.

  Except it’s not my car and it’s not my house, and it’s not my car, it belongs to Victor. I don’t care about his damned car. If I never saw it again I would not mind in the least.

  Promise!

  “Ma’am?”

  Alicia stares at me. I realize I’ve been standing around for a good minute staring into space. I shake my head.

  “We’re on a timetable. Have the car brought up.”

  I don’t drive very often. Father pays drivers for that. The BMW sedan out front is my birthday present from last year, not that I care all that much. As long as they run, one car is the same as another to me.

  I slip into the back seat and stare out the window as Alicia works, answering emails and contacts that are not sufficiently important for my extremely valuable time. I spend a good hour of that time brooding in the car, saying nothing, trying to think of anything but Victor.

  My louse of a stepbrother. Even thinking about him makes me furious. I loathe him, after what he did to me.

  That was another life, that happened to another person. She’s dead.

  Long live the ice queen.

  The ride to the airport is about an hour. I’m not flying by airline, ‘with the rabble’ as my father would say. We have a private jet, a sleek black Gulfstream. My seat inside is enormous and plush, and once my seatbelt is on and the plane is in the air, I feel comfortable catching an hour or so of sleep. It’s a short hop from Philadelphia International to LaGuardia, and it feels like no time has passed at all when Alicia wakes me with a gentle, but insistent, “Ma’am.”

  I don’t suffer anyone to touch me. One of my assistants once presumed to shake me by the shoulder in a situation like this. I don’t know what she does for a living now. I don’t much care.

  I snap awake, glad I didn’t dream. After landing I take a minute to sip a cup of black coffee and exit the plane, to a waiting town car. Alicia knows better than to chatter. The driver does not. I silence him with a curt look and watch mostly identical buildings glide by my window. New York traffic is annoying but I am never late. Late implies there will be some consequence for my failure to arrive on time. They will wait for me. My lips curl in a hint of a smile.

  I keep trying to feel something. It’s not working.

  After perhaps forty-five minutes for a few miles of driving, the town car pulls into the garage. Thorpe has sent some chattery underling to meet me. He extends a hand, I walk past him, Alicia in tow. One of the lawyers follows. Sline, I think his name is. Something like that. The others shy away from me in the elevator, even the underling charged with turning the key to take me to the private upper floors for the meeting. I don’t look at any of them. The ride up is quick, the doors open, and I walk through the executive offices. The doors are open, the occupants all look up as I pass, shivering as I walk by. The boardroom is at the far end. I suppose I should be impressed. The view is magnificent, a panoramic, one hundred eighty degree expanse of city skyline and Hudson river. I’m not impressed. I’ve seen it.

  Thorpe is waiting for me.

  I size him up. I’ve seen pictures. This is the first time we’ve met in person.

  Jim Thorpe is about five eight, soft and round but not fat, and looks like old money. They all look the same.

  Except Victor. Victor looks like a model.

  Be quiet, little voice.

  He offers me a soft hand. I deign to shake it, and resist the urge to wipe my hand on my jacket. Alicia discretely hands me an antibacterial wipe as she spreads out our materials at the head of the long conference table.

  I’m good at reading people. Thorpe is scared. He knows why I’m here, he knows he needs me, and he wants to sleep with me. I try to ignore the last part. It’s not me, it’s a power thing. Two-thirds of the executives I meet are obviously picturing me naked. It’s a defense mechanism. They can’t be afraid of a woman, so that’s what they make themselves see. It’s hard to feel predatory and afraid at the same time.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms
. Ross,” he says in a voice that holds no hint of pleasure. “Glad you could be here.”

  “Quite. The others?”

  “The board will be arriving shortly, I’m sure.”

  “Good. That will give me a few minutes to set up. Alicia.”

  There’s a podium at the head of the table. I can tell Thorpe is used to sitting there from the look he gives me when I claim his seat. My face is as still as tranquil waters, but inside I feel a hint of satisfaction. A secretary appears and hands him some files. I recognize her from the pictures the private detective sent me. She’s the one he beds when his favorite is out of town. What do you call it when a man has something on the side and is cheating on his mistress? A double mistress? There should be a word for that, if there isn’t already. Thorpe stands there awkwardly, eyeing me as I lay out my papers. Alicia has our projector in a case and sets it up, wires it to the laptop and aims it at the wall. I sip from a bottle of water and roll my shoulders.

  Here they come. The board of directors. I’ve already spoken with half of them and I control enough of an interest in the company to be one. I’m about to make the case that their current chairman is an idiot and is running the company into the ground and I can save it.

  Six of them file in.

  Then a seventh.

  Victor Amsel.

  The room is utterly silent.

  Chapter Three

  Victor

  I walk into the room and lock eyes on Evelyn. She’s frozen, still as a statue, staring at me. Her eyes trace me to my seat as I sit down at the end of the table and rest my attache on the wood. I run my hands over the tabletop. Antique, I think. I’ll bet it’s as old as the company. The top is perfectly smooth, polished to a high mirror shine. Evelyn’s reflection is dark and wavy in the surface. Her mousy little assistant doesn’t seem to know the score, from the way she looks at her boss. Evelyn recovers, her face going still. I’ve seen that mask before. Her face just sorts of goes blank. Models do that when they run the catwalk, just go still. Your gaze could slide right off her face, except for her eyes. They’re razor sharp, and somehow in the middle of that neutral expression is a cutting look.