Okay. I’m here. What next? What do you want me to do? It felt like the entire bank was watching him, standing there, aimlessly looking around, but he knew better. It was just his overactive imagination. He tried not to slip into that cynical place he always seemed to go to. It wouldn’t do him any good to get frustrated. He had done his part, now God would do his. Right?
He grabbed a trifold about auto loans and opened it. His eyes bounced from the bold heading to the thinner line of words in the subheading then down into the body. A message formed. Use the phone 6112561. What was he supposed to say to whoever answered? He bounced his eyes around the trifold, but nothing else would come. That was the entire message. Call 611-2561.
He took a step back, looked around discreetly, and reached into his pocket for his cell phone, but his pocket was empty. Where’s my...? It was in the SUV! He’d set it on the seat and left it. Great!
He considered asking the woman standing next to him, but as if on cue, her young son started groping at her purse. “Mama! You said I could have candy if I was good! Mama, I been good, gimme it! Mama!”
Just beyond the woman and the disagreeable child was a line of people waiting to be served by the tellers. The man at the back of the line was already on his phone, and he didn’t look happy about it. The woman in front of him was busy with a stack of paper slips.
He turned and looked around the lobby and noticed a black phone sitting on the edge of the unattended receptionist’s desk a few yards from where he stood. Maybe he was supposed to use that phone? His eyes flitted up to a sign for the loan department. It said, “We are in the business of saying yes.” David’s mind pulled the word yes from it, and the familiar feeling of confirmation settled on him. He was meant to use that phone. He didn’t know why, but he was certain of it.
He strolled over to the unoccupied desk and made a casual scan for the receptionist. If he did this quickly and with confidence, he might be able to make the call without getting in too much trouble. He leaned in, grabbed the receiver, and started punching numbers. On the third number, the phone started to ring. His eyes caught a note next to the phone. It was upside down, but he could still read it. It said, “For internal calls dial 611.”
A male voice picked up on the other end. “Security Desk.”
David froze. Of all places, why had it sent him to the security desk? Could they see what phone he was calling from and find him on a security camera?
Calm down, David.
“Hello? Security Desk.”
He ran through the message in his mind. Use the phone 6112561. “2561!” he blurted, unable to mask his anxiety.
“2561,”said the voice. “Got it. Are there any special instructions?”
Instructions? Was 2561 a code for something? “No,” he said, “no additional instructions.”
“We will inform the authorities and start the evacuation.”
Evacuation? What had he done?! He struggled to think of something to say, but it didn’t matter. The phone went dead.
CHAPTER FORTY
Terrence Peltz gripped his bag in his lap and leaned out to see up the aisle of the 747. Where was she? The itinerary she’d left on the kitchen counter said she would be on this flight to Los Angeles. He wiped at the sweat stinging his brow and leaned out again. In the compartment between his cabin and first class, he could see the male flight attendant’s back as he worked on something. Beyond him was the other attendant speaking with a man in a white shirt and black tie, probably one of the cockpit crew.
Terrence fumbled with the zipper on the front of his backpack and pulled the pocket open. The vial he had stolen from his mother’s office sat tucked deep inside. Unbroken.
He swallowed, and took in a deep breath.
It looked so small and insignificant—not unlike him. In fact, the similarities between him and this unassuming sludge was what made his plan infinitely satisfying. He reveled in the irony. To look at the glop of slime, an ignorant observer would never realize the power it had to take life. Inhaled it could take a life in under two hours; applied to the skin, in less than one. All he had to do was smash it against the hull of the aircraft, and within minutes half the people on the plane would be infected—but he had grander plans for his pets. He pulled the vial from the bag and slid it into his pants’ pocket.
“Terrence? Is that you?”
His body spasmed.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He felt a warm hand touch his shoulder.
His hand slithered out of his pocket and he snapped a glance up into the beautiful, brown eyes of Joyce Simpson, his next door neighbor’s girlfriend. She must have been in the rear of the plane.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were taking a flight to Los Angeles? I could have gotten you a discount.”
He spoke softly into his lap. “I didn’t think I had the nerve.”
She crouched down beside his seat, suddenly aware of the state he was in. “Look at you. You’re soaked.”
“I don’t like planes,” he said into his lap.
“Is this your first time flying?”
He nodded.
“Would it help if I got you a cold soda?”
Her legs shifted as if she would get up, and his heart jumped. “No,” he said, “I just don’t like not knowing who the pilot is. It scares me because I don’t know him.”
They were so predictable, the soft ones—but it wasn’t always the case. And it had taken him a long time to realize that the soft ones didn’t really care. The strong ones were easy to understand, but hard to predict. They would tell him exactly what they thought of him, and, in a way, he appreciated this. But it was hard to get them to do anything in a predictable fashion. The soft ones, on the other hand, had a consistent and quantifiable pattern.
“Well,” she said, “the pilot’s name is Conrad, and he’s been flying planes for years. He even used to fly jets in the Navy.”
He looked up and stared into her eyes. “Could I just see him? Could I see his face?”
She took in a deep breath, taken aback by his uncharacteristically long stare. “Ah, I don’t imagine that would be a problem,” she said, standing. “I’ll ask.”
He returned to staring at his lap.
Within a minute, she returned. He flicked her a sheepish look, and she smiled down at him. “He says he’d be happy to meet you. Come on.” She gestured.
Terrence climbed out of his chair and followed her down the long, thin aisle, brushing against a couple of shoulders along the way. When they reached the bathroom between compartments, he suddenly spoke up. “Joyce?”
She turned and looked at him.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Her eyes snapped to the vacancy dial on the restroom door. “There’s no one in the bathroom. Go ahead.”
He flicked the latch, slid the door open, and climbed inside. He looked at his zombie-like visage in the mirror. He hated it. He hated his sallow, sunken eyes, thin lips, and weak chin. Fate had given him the worst of everything. It was easy for Joyce to find happiness, she had it all from birth. Oh how happy her mother and father must have been to have such a pretty child. They must have loved holding her and kissing her. It’s easy to love the pretty ones, he thought, but there’s no love for the ugly ones. They must scrounge for the bread crumbs of love given by the pretty ones, a love given only so that they can feel even better about their beautiful selves.
He pulled the vial from his pocket and ripped the cork from the top. Without hesitation, he tapped the goo onto his palm and rubbed it in. There was no immediate reaction, and for that he was thankful. He pushed the metal trash door open and dropped the vial and cork into it. It was done. The gun was loaded. There was no turning back.
His hand flicked the latch and he slid the door open.
“You okay?” said Joyce, her eyes concerned.
“False alarm,” he said, looking at the floor.
“You want to go back to your seat?”
“No. I’m okay.”
“Okay, then, let’s go meet Conrad.” She turned and began walking again. Terrence followed.
As he walked along, he rubbed his hands on the seats of first class, grinning internally as he went, wondering what joy would be lost from the world this evening. Would the world mourn a great composer whose unwritten music would die with him? Would the world lament over a movie star heading back to their plush life of fame and fortune? Oh how sad that one of the gods or goddesses of Olympus should perish. But why should they be remembered throughout the ages simply because they could cry on cue?
You will be remembered, his mind whispered.
Up ahead, the other female flight attendants was speaking in a flurry with the pilot. “Are you sure you don’t need me?” she said, spinning around. She had her uniform draped over her arm.
“Get out of here before I change my mind,” said the pilot with a snarky grin.
“Thank you, thank you!” said the flight attendant, disappearing out the side of the plane.
“What’s going on with Emily?” said Joyce, as she approached.
“Her sister’s having the baby.”
Joyce squealed.
“I figured we could get by without her.”
There was a short pause, then Joyce moved to the side. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. He’s a little nervous about flying with us today and he said he would feel better if he could meet the person flying the plane.”
Terrence looked up sheepishly.
“Well, the plane does most of the work,” he said with a wrinkly grin. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man.” The captain put his hand out, and Terrence fought his natural urge to shrink away. This was his moment, his chance to be strong. He reached out and gripped the captain’s hand, staring into his eyes. “My name is Terrence Peltz.”
The captain’s hand slid from his grip. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Peltz.”
“Who flies the plane if something happens to you?” he said, looking past the captain at the cockpit.
“Well, if anything happens to me, my second-in-command will take over.”
“And what if something happens to him?” he said.
The captain laughed. “This plane can practically land itself, so I’m pretty sure we’re going to be just fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have a flight schedule to meet. Let the flight attendants know if you need anything else, okay? They’ll be happy to help.”
Terrence gave a jerk of a nod. “Kay. Thanks.”
“Come on,” said Joyce. “Let’s get you back to your seat.”
Terrence could already feel the bug beginning to boil in his gut. It was only noticeable because he was keenly aware of its cancerous presence. But the pilot would just think it was gas until they were well in the air.
By then it would be too late.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“I know you’re busy, Mr. James, but could I have a word with you before you go?” said Wellington calmly into the phone.
Jon held the gun low and looked warily out the tall windows which offered a view of a brick wall and an alleyway. It would be a ten-foot fall, then a short run to a side street where the cabbie sat waiting to carry him out of the city. But to what future? Canary would still be dead, and he would still be the same luckless loser. Hate boiled in his belly. Hatred for Elliot James. Hatred for life. He clenched his teeth. It didn’t matter if he lived through this or not, death would be a sweet release from the torment of a life bent on denying him anything he cared about.
“Yes, Mr. James,” said Wellington, “It’s about the Van Buren account. I’d rather talk to you in person about it.”
Jon thought of Canary. She seemed to care about everything and everyone. She had built a prison for herself, pretending to be something pitiful so that she could stop her father’s killer from hurting anyone else, even going so far as to keep the secret from her own mother to protect her. So much caring, so much self sacrifice. He, on the other hand, had stopped caring about anyone, except her. And now she was gone. How ironic that she should be killed and he left alive. Turmoil boiled in his chest. He couldn’t bring her back, but he could do what she never could have done. He could put a bullet in Elliot James.
A heavy knock on the oak door caused Jon to jump. He shoved the pistol into his pants and flapped his shirt over it. Wellington looked up at him. He let a warning leak from his flared eyes, and whispered. “Handle this.”
“Be calm, Jon, it’s okay,” said a warm voice.
The door creaked open, and a woman in business attire peeked in. She looked at Jon and offered a warm smile. He didn’t dare to return it, for fear his mustache would lose its adhesion to his lip. Instead, he nodded.
“Thank you, sir, that sounds good. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Wellington put the phone down and looked up. “Yes, Amy, can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to put you out like this, Mr. Wellington. Is this a bad time?”
“It depends on what you need,” he said, in his refined manner.
“The IT department needs to get on your computer to install something. They said they sent you an email about it.”
“Yes, I got it, but I can’t do it right now. I’m with Mr...” he looked up at Jon and selected a suitable name. “Lopez.”
Her eyes shifted to Jon, as if deciding on whether or not he looked like a Lopez. She must have decided that he did, because her eyes flitted back to the manager. “You could use my office, I’m not...”
An ear-piercing alarm split through the air, and Jon’s eyes snapped to Wellington. He was still at the corner of the desk with both hands visible and no way of reaching under his desk with his foot. “It’s the fire alarm,” Wellington said, lifting his hands. “I had nothing to do with it.”
Jon’s frantic eyes shot back over to the doorway. The woman was no longer standing there. What would he do now?! Everything was ruined! He pulled the gun back out and shoved the barrel at Wellington’s horrified face. “Get Elliot on the phone.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “Tell him to come here. Tell him it’s urgent!” Wellington picked up the phone and punched in the number. Jon hid the gun from view of the doorway and looked over his shoulder at the chaos in the lobby.
“He’s coming down the stairs,” whispered a voice. “Catch him in the lobby.”
He put the gun to the general manager’s forehead. “If you breathe a word to anyone...” He gave the gun a thrust. “...she’s dead. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes! I understand!” he said, wincing. “I won’t say anything!”
Jon pulled the gun away, shoved it in his pants, and ran for the door. A steady stream of people poured from the elevators and stairwells and snaked toward the front doors. Three security guards attempted to channel the chaos, while other employees battened down the hatches.
Where is he? Jon thought.
“The stairwell,” said a voice, “next to the elevator.”
Jon locked onto the opening and moved briskly across the lobby, dodging people as he went. The alarm pulsed in the air around him, and his heart joined in the rhythm. Every part of him moved with singleness of purpose, numb to the consequences of his actions. Suddenly Elliot James appeared in the flood. He filed out and stood next to the door, scanning the room, assessing the situation.
What now? Shoot him dead, here in the lobby? If he did shoot now, at least he wouldn’t have to go to prison. Surely he would be shot down immediately.
Prison would not be so kind.
His hand went to the gun on his waist. Off to the right, a security guard emerged from the door that led down to the vault; Jon slowed slightly. He could take Elliot down into the vault room and shoot him there. With all the noise no one would hear.
Kill him now in the confusion, he thought—but the thought felt foreign. It would be easy. Put the gun to his chest and squeeze the trigger. Jon pulled the gun out, rushed in on Elliot, and pressed it to his heart.
Elliot’s face melted into horror as he reali
zed what was happening.
Jon glared into his eyes. You killed her! his mind screamed. You took her from me! How many have you killed? How many more lives will you destroy? His finger tightened on the trigger, but his mind screamed, NO! I will NOT go down with him! “This way!” he said, savagely gripping Elliot by the arm.
“They will see you,” a male voice resonated in his head. “And you will be dead before you get to the door. Elliot will live, you will die.”
Then tell me if they see me! or is that beyond your ability?
“No,” said a female voice. “We will watch.”
He moved briskly to the door. “Open it!”
Elliot fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a key card. Within seconds the door was open. To avoid suspicion, he resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder. He forced Elliot down the stairs, and the door sealed behind them.
“You were seen,” said a voice. “A guard is coming.”
He stabbed Elliot with the pistol. “Does this lock from the inside?”
“N- no,” Elliot stammered. “It’s electronic.”
Jon looked down the stairs. “What about that one.”
“Yes,” he said, “that one...”
Jon gripped him by his silk dress shirt and shoved him forward. “Go!”
Their feet stabbed like pistons as they retreated down the stairs.
“You’re not going to make it,” said a voice. “Shoot him now.”
Jon snapped a look back at the closed door at the top of the stairs. It was heavy. Even if the guard had already swiped his card, it would take him time to get it open, enough time for them to get into the vault room and close the heavy reinforced steel door.
“Faster!” he yelled.
They breached the entrance to the vault room. He shoved Elliot aside and grabbed the door, pushing as hard as he could. It swung around in a slow arch.
“Is this a safe within a safe?!” he screamed.
“Wh- what?” said Elliot.
“Will we suffocate if I seal this?!”
“N- no. It’s- it’s not air-tight.”
Jon pushed with all his might, and the heavy door clicked into place. “LOCK IT!” he screamed.
VOICES: Book 2 in the David Chance series (Suspense, Mystery, Thriller) Page 20
