Final Call, page 20
‘Whatever the fuck that is.’
‘Are you a father?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘That is probably for the best,’ Mary Jo said. ‘But if you were, you would know what the NICU is. You’d have heard of someone whose kid was in there. It’s where we treat newborns with serious illnesses. Heart problems, organ failure, difficulty breathing or keeping food down. We take them from their parents and try to keep them alive. Some of them don’t make it. It’s the kind of job that doesn’t leave much room for anything else. You tend to get absorbed in what’s going on around you.’
‘Just like your dying husband,’ he said. ‘Convenient. I don’t like to be a cynic, but we can all see what’s going on here.’
The nurse held his gaze for a few seconds, her eyes hard and glittering. There was an edge to her that he had not expected, which simply confirmed what he was thinking.
‘What is that, exactly?’ she said.
‘You killed them. Some kind of “Angel of Mercy” deal. In your head, anyway. But you’re just another psychopath, and this fucking pilot somehow found out you’d be on this plane. How, I have no idea. But the thing is, you’re not the person you say you are.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’
‘Yeah,’ Kevin said. He smiled. ‘Here it comes. The confession.’
‘You think I’m kind and tender-hearted. A nurse, friendly and caring, in a profession I love which gives me the satisfaction I need. But I’m not. I’m cynical and bitter. And exhausted. Have you got any idea what the last few years have been like?’ She looked around the plane. ‘Any of you? Yes, you read about it in the news, but I – and my colleagues – lived it. The endless parade of patients, fading and dying, unable to see their loved ones to say goodbye, the days spent sweating in swathes of protective clothing, the shifts bleeding into one another. It was hell on earth.’
She gave a dry, humorless laugh.
‘And you give us a million-dollar check. Less than your annual bonus. It’s an insult. A tiny fee to assuage your conscience. How is it that teachers and nurses and meat-packers got to risk their lives to keep the world moving, while you worked from your home offices, looking out over a view of the ocean? Yet it was you who made millions, while they were paid a pittance, just one medical bill from losing their house, or having to choose between clothes and food.’
She made a sweeping gesture, taking in the jet.
‘Have you any idea how gross this is? How unjust? That you fly around in a private jet, convinced it’s because you’re better and more talented and more deserving than the rest of us? You’re worse. You’re selfish and greedy and back-stabbing. I’ve dedicated my career to helping others; you’ve dedicated yours to getting rich.’
‘Seems to me you’d be quite happy to crash us into the ocean.’ Kevin folded his arms. ‘Dying husband? Nothing left to live for? Why not take down the people you hate? Is that it? Are you working with the pilot?’
‘I feel sorry for you,’ she said. ‘But I forgive you. If these really are my last few minutes, I don’t plan to spend them on someone like you.’
She closed her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap, her mouth moving in a silent prayer.
Marcia Fournier
She had a headache, and she wanted a drink. It was all she could think of. She was empty, a shell. There was nothing left.
Jeff Ramos walked past her and crouched by Chip Markham. Jill put a hand on his shoulder.
‘What are you doing?’ she said.
‘Talking to Chip. Maybe he knows something.’
‘He’s in no state to talk. You might cause him more stress. Make it worse.’
‘I have to try. And it makes no difference now anyway. It’s not like this could get any worse.’
Jill nodded, and Ramos knelt close to him.
‘Chip,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me?’
Chip’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and slow. He seemed to have aged twenty years; his skin was gray and waxy. In truth, he looked half-dead already.
Marcia did not think he’d make it whatever happened.
‘Chip,’ Jeff said. He put his hand on Chip’s wrist. ‘I hope you’re OK, man. You’re going to be.’
Marcia was surprised to see that Ramos was concerned, or at least giving the impression that he was. She had met him on his first day with the company – nearly two decades ago – but had no idea who he really was. All she knew was that he had joined after a distinguished military career, was not married and had no kids, but other than that his private life was a mystery to her – and, as far as she knew – to everyone else.
She had tried flirting with him once, at a conference in Miami. It was the perfect opportunity for a fling: far away from home, no one to see it, her practiced in adultery, him single. What was there to lose? The anticipation was delicious, and then she had made a move, a subtle hint that she was available. A hand on his elbow and a meaningful look, holding his gaze just a moment too long.
He had looked at her as though she was some kind of animal. As though she was worthless, as though the thought of what she was offering was utterly disgusting. There was no emotion in his eyes, just a cold dismissal, no trace of humanity.
So it was a surprise to see him behave like this.
‘Chip,’ he said. ‘We’re in a shit situation here. I need your help, if you can give it. Can you remember anything about the girl that died? Ella? You knew her name. Do you remember anything else?’
Chip’s breathing sped up, and his lips parted.
‘Go on, Chip,’ Jeff said. ‘You can do it.’
Chip’s breathing slowed again, as though the effort was too great.
‘Chip,’ Jeff said. ‘Do you know how the girl died?’
Chip rocked forward. His eyes opened, and he caught Jeff’s gaze. ‘Matty,’ he said.
‘Matty?’ Ramos replied. ‘Who’s Matty?’
‘M-M-’ – Chip was almost panting, his cheeks moist with sweat – ‘M-My son.’ Every word was punctuated by a wheezing breath. ‘Matthew. Tell him. Tell him I love him. And I’m sorry.’
He sat back, his breathing gradually slowing until it stopped altogether.
Jeff felt for a pulse.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘He’s gone.’
‘What?’ Marcia said. ‘What did you say?’
This was impossible. Chip could not be dead. He was a – what? Friend? Colleague? Former lover?
All of them. But mainly he was there. She could hardly conceive of a world without Chip, but it had arrived.
And it was going to arrive for her family. They were going to get a call telling them she was dead, and their worlds would change forever.
‘He’s dead,’ Ramos said. ‘Fuck.’
‘Well,’ Kevin Anderson said. ‘That’s fucking wonderful. If it was Chip, then we’re screwed, because he’ll never say another word.’
She turned to look at him.
‘Have some respect,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘For Chip? I’ll give it a miss.’
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think you’re protesting too much, trying too hard to cast blame on others. Is there something you want to tell us, Kevin?’
He let out a long, harsh laugh. ‘You’re accusing me?’
‘Why not? You were in Barrow at the time. You could have been involved.’
‘Involved in what, exactly? Some kids got sick and a house got burned down. Big deal. Happens all the time.’
‘I don’t know,’ Marcia said. ‘But someone seems to think they’re linked, and you seem very keen to suggest it’s other people who are the reason why.’
‘You still got some hidden booze?’ he said. ‘If you do have some more, feel free to share.’
‘No. I’m done drinking.’
‘Really? Once a drunk, always a drunk. Isn’t that what they say?’ He pursed his lips. ‘How many nights did you black out when you were in Barrow? Plenty, I’d say.’
‘You’d be right.’
‘Do anything on those nights you shouldn’t have?’
She almost laughed. She did nothing on those nights. That was the point. She drank until everything went away and she could sleep a dreamless sleep, at least until four o’clock in the morning, when she woke up with a dull headache and a raging thirst and a promise that this was the last time.
Those 4 a.m. promises didn’t seem to stick, though.
Jeff Ramos stood up. ‘Can you shut the fuck up, Kevin?’ he said. ‘We’d all appreciate it.’
‘Yeah,’ Miller said. ‘Seconded.’
Kevin Anderson glared at Jeff, then turned to Miller. ‘Fuck you, you useless brown bastard.’
Marcia gasped. ‘You can’t say that.’
‘Can’t I? It’s true though, isn’t it? We all know it. He’s a useless bastard who only got his job so Jill can fill her fucking quota.’ He grinned. ‘We’re all going to die, so we may as well tell the truth! And I want that asshole to know we all see through him. Make that your dying thought, Miller.’
She watched Ramos’s face darken. He took a step forward.
Miller shook his head. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I have a better idea.’
Varun Miller
He realized that they thought he was being noble, showing a heroic restraint in the face of unthinkable provocation.
It was nothing of the sort.
He had always known that Kevin Anderson didn’t like him, which was fine. They were colleagues. They didn’t have to like each other. They just had to be professional and work together.
The thing was, Kevin Anderson didn’t rate him.
And that pissed him off. He had a degree from a more prestigious school, he had broader and more relevant experience, his career trajectory was steeper, and he was harder-working and better liked.
But despite all that, Kevin Anderson thought Varun had his job for one reason, and one reason only. Because of the color of his skin.
The degree, the experience, the hours of dedication, the hard-won respect of his peers; none of that mattered to Kevin. It was his skin color that had got him the job.
He was a brown bastard, and Kevin wanted him to know.
Well, there were some things he wanted to tell Kevin.
The outsourcing contract they’d worked together in 2017 when he’d spotted a career-ending mistake in Anderson’s work and corrected it for him? He’d kept the records.
The time Anderson had shown up late for an arraignment, stinking of whiskey and Miller had sent him home, explained he was sick, and covered for him?
He had the records of that, too.
And there were others. Plenty of them.
But that was all a waste of time. He needed a way to get his message across in a more succinct manner.
And he had just the method.
He unclipped his seat belt and stood up.
‘You,’ he said, ‘are a fucking idiot.’
‘Fuck you, Miller,’ Kevin replied, rolling his eyes. ‘You—’
Miller reached out and grabbed his injured wrist. He twisted it a fraction of an inch.
Anderson’s eyes bulged in his eye sockets. He opened his mouth but all that came out was a high whine.
Miller twisted a little more. He felt bones grinding under the skin. It was very satisfying.
Anderson shook his head. ‘No,’ he gasped. ‘Stop. Please. No. It hurts.’
‘I was wondering,’ Miller said. ‘How I could make it clear to you how you make me feel. I was looking for a clear and unambiguous method of communicating to you what happens when I have to be in your presence. And then it came to me.’
He twisted further and Anderson groaned, his face slick with sweat.
‘It was obvious, really.’ He twisted again. ‘This, Kevin, is the effect you have on me, and probably others.’
He let go and Anderson slumped into his seat.
‘Got it?’
Anderson didn’t reply.
‘I’m sure you do. I think I made myself clear.’ He leaned down and whispered into Anderson’s ear. ‘And don’t ever call me a brown bastard again, understand? Or it won’t be your wrist I twist off.’
Barrow, Maine 2018
Stacy Evanston
There they all were.
She looked at the list. She had pieced it together from the company website, news releases, LinkedIn profiles.
She had created a new account for herself to search for them. They would see that Lindsey Sandbrook, Recruitment Executive, had been checking out their profiles. No doubt they would get a thrill: a headhunter, looking at them!
If they knew the truth, the thrill would fade quickly.
Because there was a headhunter in their lives, but it was not the kind of headhunter you welcomed.
She read the names:
Jill Stearns, chief executive officer
Chip Markham, chief financial officer
Jeff Ramos, chief technology officer
Marcia Fournier, chief marketing officer
Varun Miller, chief legal officer
Kevin Anderson, chief operating officer
One of them – or more – but at least one, knew what had happened. Maybe they had been involved; maybe they were just informed. But something had killed Ella, Nathan and Bren, and there had been a cover-up.
And as part of the cover-up, her husband and daughter had been killed.
She knew better than to go to the police. The authorities wouldn’t listen to her. Even if they did, the company would get to them somehow. A commissioner, or senator, or some other person with influence and power would quietly shut down any investigation.
And then she would have an accident. Maybe her brakes would fail. Or she’d have a fall when hiking. Or suicide, a bereaved mother destroyed by grief.
Or maybe she’d simply disappear one night. Who would come looking for her? Who was left?
So no: she would not be going to the police. She would deal with this on her own. How, she didn’t know. But she would.
She tucked the list into her pocket. It was her reason to live. There was nothing else: without it, she would kill herself, that was for sure.
But with it, she had a purpose.
I am a headhunter, she thought. I like that.
2
She sat at the bar. She had dyed her hair a metallic red. She was wearing tight jeans and a crop top. A bit slutty. She figured Kevin Anderson for the kind of guy who might like that.
She’d soon find out. Next to her, he was reading his phone.
She had found his address online and made her way to Portland to take a look. His apartment was downtown; she sat on a bench and waited. Just after 6 p.m. a taxi had pulled up and a man in chinos and an expensive shirt had got out. He had dropped his bag in the hall, then walked toward the center of Portland, and into a bar.
And now she was next to him, sipping a glass of white wine. She glanced over and he looked up. She smiled and lifted her glass.
‘Slainte.’
‘You Irish?’ he said.
‘Aren’t we all?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not.’
‘Shame. I like the Irish.’
He grinned. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Patrick O’Guinness.’
She laughed. ‘Very good. I’m Tara.’
‘Kevin.’
‘You live nearby?’
‘Up the road. I just got back from work.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘Well, today I was in New York.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Quite the trip.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m lucky. I get to take the company plane.’
She widened her eyes. ‘Like a private jet?’
He nodded and sipped his cocktail. ‘Like a private jet.’
‘Wow. You must be a mover and a shaker.’
‘In a way.’
‘You fly a lot?’
‘Quite often.’ He gestured to her glass. ‘Another?’
She looked around. ‘Maybe go someplace else? A bit less stuffy?’
He grinned, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of an easy conquest. ‘Sounds good. I’ll get these.’
He took his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. He slid his wallet back into his jacket and stood up. ‘Bathroom. I’ll be right back.’
She smiled a warm, encouraging smile and watched him disappear to the back of the bar. Then she slipped her hand into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. She palmed it, got to her feet, and left.
He had seven hundred and fifty dollars in cash, plus a bunch of credit cards and his ID. She took the cash and threw his wallet into the Casco Bay.
It was a start. Next she needed ID; that was easy enough. Find someone who looks like you and take theirs. It would be good enough to get her on a bus to Boston.
And once she was there, a thousand dollars would get you a social security number in whatever name you wanted. In the Air Force she had taken a course on identity theft. She had never thought it would come in so useful.
And once she had her new identity, she quite liked the idea of becoming a pilot.
December 23rd, 2022
The Pilot
Commercial aircraft had no radar tracking other planes so the first she knew of the jets was when she saw them.
She jumped in her seat; they shot past the private jet, one on the left, one on the right. She braced herself for the noise that would follow.
It came seconds later, a deafening roar that shook the small plane.
The jets circled back, one going high, one low. She lost sight of them, but she didn’t mind. They’d be back.
How had they known where she was? There were no communications on the plane.
Unless there were. Somehow the passengers had got a message out. Maybe one of them had a satellite phone, or some other satellite device. Dan had had one; he had solo hiked the Hundred Mile Wilderness in Maine the summer before he died. It was a rugged, remote stretch of the Appalachian Trail and there was no way of communicating with a normal phone, so he had bought a Garmin inReach, a lightweight device that allowed him to send text messages, as well as his location, if there was an emergency.
‘Are you a father?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘That is probably for the best,’ Mary Jo said. ‘But if you were, you would know what the NICU is. You’d have heard of someone whose kid was in there. It’s where we treat newborns with serious illnesses. Heart problems, organ failure, difficulty breathing or keeping food down. We take them from their parents and try to keep them alive. Some of them don’t make it. It’s the kind of job that doesn’t leave much room for anything else. You tend to get absorbed in what’s going on around you.’
‘Just like your dying husband,’ he said. ‘Convenient. I don’t like to be a cynic, but we can all see what’s going on here.’
The nurse held his gaze for a few seconds, her eyes hard and glittering. There was an edge to her that he had not expected, which simply confirmed what he was thinking.
‘What is that, exactly?’ she said.
‘You killed them. Some kind of “Angel of Mercy” deal. In your head, anyway. But you’re just another psychopath, and this fucking pilot somehow found out you’d be on this plane. How, I have no idea. But the thing is, you’re not the person you say you are.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’
‘Yeah,’ Kevin said. He smiled. ‘Here it comes. The confession.’
‘You think I’m kind and tender-hearted. A nurse, friendly and caring, in a profession I love which gives me the satisfaction I need. But I’m not. I’m cynical and bitter. And exhausted. Have you got any idea what the last few years have been like?’ She looked around the plane. ‘Any of you? Yes, you read about it in the news, but I – and my colleagues – lived it. The endless parade of patients, fading and dying, unable to see their loved ones to say goodbye, the days spent sweating in swathes of protective clothing, the shifts bleeding into one another. It was hell on earth.’
She gave a dry, humorless laugh.
‘And you give us a million-dollar check. Less than your annual bonus. It’s an insult. A tiny fee to assuage your conscience. How is it that teachers and nurses and meat-packers got to risk their lives to keep the world moving, while you worked from your home offices, looking out over a view of the ocean? Yet it was you who made millions, while they were paid a pittance, just one medical bill from losing their house, or having to choose between clothes and food.’
She made a sweeping gesture, taking in the jet.
‘Have you any idea how gross this is? How unjust? That you fly around in a private jet, convinced it’s because you’re better and more talented and more deserving than the rest of us? You’re worse. You’re selfish and greedy and back-stabbing. I’ve dedicated my career to helping others; you’ve dedicated yours to getting rich.’
‘Seems to me you’d be quite happy to crash us into the ocean.’ Kevin folded his arms. ‘Dying husband? Nothing left to live for? Why not take down the people you hate? Is that it? Are you working with the pilot?’
‘I feel sorry for you,’ she said. ‘But I forgive you. If these really are my last few minutes, I don’t plan to spend them on someone like you.’
She closed her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap, her mouth moving in a silent prayer.
Marcia Fournier
She had a headache, and she wanted a drink. It was all she could think of. She was empty, a shell. There was nothing left.
Jeff Ramos walked past her and crouched by Chip Markham. Jill put a hand on his shoulder.
‘What are you doing?’ she said.
‘Talking to Chip. Maybe he knows something.’
‘He’s in no state to talk. You might cause him more stress. Make it worse.’
‘I have to try. And it makes no difference now anyway. It’s not like this could get any worse.’
Jill nodded, and Ramos knelt close to him.
‘Chip,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me?’
Chip’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and slow. He seemed to have aged twenty years; his skin was gray and waxy. In truth, he looked half-dead already.
Marcia did not think he’d make it whatever happened.
‘Chip,’ Jeff said. He put his hand on Chip’s wrist. ‘I hope you’re OK, man. You’re going to be.’
Marcia was surprised to see that Ramos was concerned, or at least giving the impression that he was. She had met him on his first day with the company – nearly two decades ago – but had no idea who he really was. All she knew was that he had joined after a distinguished military career, was not married and had no kids, but other than that his private life was a mystery to her – and, as far as she knew – to everyone else.
She had tried flirting with him once, at a conference in Miami. It was the perfect opportunity for a fling: far away from home, no one to see it, her practiced in adultery, him single. What was there to lose? The anticipation was delicious, and then she had made a move, a subtle hint that she was available. A hand on his elbow and a meaningful look, holding his gaze just a moment too long.
He had looked at her as though she was some kind of animal. As though she was worthless, as though the thought of what she was offering was utterly disgusting. There was no emotion in his eyes, just a cold dismissal, no trace of humanity.
So it was a surprise to see him behave like this.
‘Chip,’ he said. ‘We’re in a shit situation here. I need your help, if you can give it. Can you remember anything about the girl that died? Ella? You knew her name. Do you remember anything else?’
Chip’s breathing sped up, and his lips parted.
‘Go on, Chip,’ Jeff said. ‘You can do it.’
Chip’s breathing slowed again, as though the effort was too great.
‘Chip,’ Jeff said. ‘Do you know how the girl died?’
Chip rocked forward. His eyes opened, and he caught Jeff’s gaze. ‘Matty,’ he said.
‘Matty?’ Ramos replied. ‘Who’s Matty?’
‘M-M-’ – Chip was almost panting, his cheeks moist with sweat – ‘M-My son.’ Every word was punctuated by a wheezing breath. ‘Matthew. Tell him. Tell him I love him. And I’m sorry.’
He sat back, his breathing gradually slowing until it stopped altogether.
Jeff felt for a pulse.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘He’s gone.’
‘What?’ Marcia said. ‘What did you say?’
This was impossible. Chip could not be dead. He was a – what? Friend? Colleague? Former lover?
All of them. But mainly he was there. She could hardly conceive of a world without Chip, but it had arrived.
And it was going to arrive for her family. They were going to get a call telling them she was dead, and their worlds would change forever.
‘He’s dead,’ Ramos said. ‘Fuck.’
‘Well,’ Kevin Anderson said. ‘That’s fucking wonderful. If it was Chip, then we’re screwed, because he’ll never say another word.’
She turned to look at him.
‘Have some respect,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘For Chip? I’ll give it a miss.’
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think you’re protesting too much, trying too hard to cast blame on others. Is there something you want to tell us, Kevin?’
He let out a long, harsh laugh. ‘You’re accusing me?’
‘Why not? You were in Barrow at the time. You could have been involved.’
‘Involved in what, exactly? Some kids got sick and a house got burned down. Big deal. Happens all the time.’
‘I don’t know,’ Marcia said. ‘But someone seems to think they’re linked, and you seem very keen to suggest it’s other people who are the reason why.’
‘You still got some hidden booze?’ he said. ‘If you do have some more, feel free to share.’
‘No. I’m done drinking.’
‘Really? Once a drunk, always a drunk. Isn’t that what they say?’ He pursed his lips. ‘How many nights did you black out when you were in Barrow? Plenty, I’d say.’
‘You’d be right.’
‘Do anything on those nights you shouldn’t have?’
She almost laughed. She did nothing on those nights. That was the point. She drank until everything went away and she could sleep a dreamless sleep, at least until four o’clock in the morning, when she woke up with a dull headache and a raging thirst and a promise that this was the last time.
Those 4 a.m. promises didn’t seem to stick, though.
Jeff Ramos stood up. ‘Can you shut the fuck up, Kevin?’ he said. ‘We’d all appreciate it.’
‘Yeah,’ Miller said. ‘Seconded.’
Kevin Anderson glared at Jeff, then turned to Miller. ‘Fuck you, you useless brown bastard.’
Marcia gasped. ‘You can’t say that.’
‘Can’t I? It’s true though, isn’t it? We all know it. He’s a useless bastard who only got his job so Jill can fill her fucking quota.’ He grinned. ‘We’re all going to die, so we may as well tell the truth! And I want that asshole to know we all see through him. Make that your dying thought, Miller.’
She watched Ramos’s face darken. He took a step forward.
Miller shook his head. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I have a better idea.’
Varun Miller
He realized that they thought he was being noble, showing a heroic restraint in the face of unthinkable provocation.
It was nothing of the sort.
He had always known that Kevin Anderson didn’t like him, which was fine. They were colleagues. They didn’t have to like each other. They just had to be professional and work together.
The thing was, Kevin Anderson didn’t rate him.
And that pissed him off. He had a degree from a more prestigious school, he had broader and more relevant experience, his career trajectory was steeper, and he was harder-working and better liked.
But despite all that, Kevin Anderson thought Varun had his job for one reason, and one reason only. Because of the color of his skin.
The degree, the experience, the hours of dedication, the hard-won respect of his peers; none of that mattered to Kevin. It was his skin color that had got him the job.
He was a brown bastard, and Kevin wanted him to know.
Well, there were some things he wanted to tell Kevin.
The outsourcing contract they’d worked together in 2017 when he’d spotted a career-ending mistake in Anderson’s work and corrected it for him? He’d kept the records.
The time Anderson had shown up late for an arraignment, stinking of whiskey and Miller had sent him home, explained he was sick, and covered for him?
He had the records of that, too.
And there were others. Plenty of them.
But that was all a waste of time. He needed a way to get his message across in a more succinct manner.
And he had just the method.
He unclipped his seat belt and stood up.
‘You,’ he said, ‘are a fucking idiot.’
‘Fuck you, Miller,’ Kevin replied, rolling his eyes. ‘You—’
Miller reached out and grabbed his injured wrist. He twisted it a fraction of an inch.
Anderson’s eyes bulged in his eye sockets. He opened his mouth but all that came out was a high whine.
Miller twisted a little more. He felt bones grinding under the skin. It was very satisfying.
Anderson shook his head. ‘No,’ he gasped. ‘Stop. Please. No. It hurts.’
‘I was wondering,’ Miller said. ‘How I could make it clear to you how you make me feel. I was looking for a clear and unambiguous method of communicating to you what happens when I have to be in your presence. And then it came to me.’
He twisted further and Anderson groaned, his face slick with sweat.
‘It was obvious, really.’ He twisted again. ‘This, Kevin, is the effect you have on me, and probably others.’
He let go and Anderson slumped into his seat.
‘Got it?’
Anderson didn’t reply.
‘I’m sure you do. I think I made myself clear.’ He leaned down and whispered into Anderson’s ear. ‘And don’t ever call me a brown bastard again, understand? Or it won’t be your wrist I twist off.’
Barrow, Maine 2018
Stacy Evanston
There they all were.
She looked at the list. She had pieced it together from the company website, news releases, LinkedIn profiles.
She had created a new account for herself to search for them. They would see that Lindsey Sandbrook, Recruitment Executive, had been checking out their profiles. No doubt they would get a thrill: a headhunter, looking at them!
If they knew the truth, the thrill would fade quickly.
Because there was a headhunter in their lives, but it was not the kind of headhunter you welcomed.
She read the names:
Jill Stearns, chief executive officer
Chip Markham, chief financial officer
Jeff Ramos, chief technology officer
Marcia Fournier, chief marketing officer
Varun Miller, chief legal officer
Kevin Anderson, chief operating officer
One of them – or more – but at least one, knew what had happened. Maybe they had been involved; maybe they were just informed. But something had killed Ella, Nathan and Bren, and there had been a cover-up.
And as part of the cover-up, her husband and daughter had been killed.
She knew better than to go to the police. The authorities wouldn’t listen to her. Even if they did, the company would get to them somehow. A commissioner, or senator, or some other person with influence and power would quietly shut down any investigation.
And then she would have an accident. Maybe her brakes would fail. Or she’d have a fall when hiking. Or suicide, a bereaved mother destroyed by grief.
Or maybe she’d simply disappear one night. Who would come looking for her? Who was left?
So no: she would not be going to the police. She would deal with this on her own. How, she didn’t know. But she would.
She tucked the list into her pocket. It was her reason to live. There was nothing else: without it, she would kill herself, that was for sure.
But with it, she had a purpose.
I am a headhunter, she thought. I like that.
2
She sat at the bar. She had dyed her hair a metallic red. She was wearing tight jeans and a crop top. A bit slutty. She figured Kevin Anderson for the kind of guy who might like that.
She’d soon find out. Next to her, he was reading his phone.
She had found his address online and made her way to Portland to take a look. His apartment was downtown; she sat on a bench and waited. Just after 6 p.m. a taxi had pulled up and a man in chinos and an expensive shirt had got out. He had dropped his bag in the hall, then walked toward the center of Portland, and into a bar.
And now she was next to him, sipping a glass of white wine. She glanced over and he looked up. She smiled and lifted her glass.
‘Slainte.’
‘You Irish?’ he said.
‘Aren’t we all?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not.’
‘Shame. I like the Irish.’
He grinned. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Patrick O’Guinness.’
She laughed. ‘Very good. I’m Tara.’
‘Kevin.’
‘You live nearby?’
‘Up the road. I just got back from work.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘Well, today I was in New York.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Quite the trip.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m lucky. I get to take the company plane.’
She widened her eyes. ‘Like a private jet?’
He nodded and sipped his cocktail. ‘Like a private jet.’
‘Wow. You must be a mover and a shaker.’
‘In a way.’
‘You fly a lot?’
‘Quite often.’ He gestured to her glass. ‘Another?’
She looked around. ‘Maybe go someplace else? A bit less stuffy?’
He grinned, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of an easy conquest. ‘Sounds good. I’ll get these.’
He took his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. He slid his wallet back into his jacket and stood up. ‘Bathroom. I’ll be right back.’
She smiled a warm, encouraging smile and watched him disappear to the back of the bar. Then she slipped her hand into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. She palmed it, got to her feet, and left.
He had seven hundred and fifty dollars in cash, plus a bunch of credit cards and his ID. She took the cash and threw his wallet into the Casco Bay.
It was a start. Next she needed ID; that was easy enough. Find someone who looks like you and take theirs. It would be good enough to get her on a bus to Boston.
And once she was there, a thousand dollars would get you a social security number in whatever name you wanted. In the Air Force she had taken a course on identity theft. She had never thought it would come in so useful.
And once she had her new identity, she quite liked the idea of becoming a pilot.
December 23rd, 2022
The Pilot
Commercial aircraft had no radar tracking other planes so the first she knew of the jets was when she saw them.
She jumped in her seat; they shot past the private jet, one on the left, one on the right. She braced herself for the noise that would follow.
It came seconds later, a deafening roar that shook the small plane.
The jets circled back, one going high, one low. She lost sight of them, but she didn’t mind. They’d be back.
How had they known where she was? There were no communications on the plane.
Unless there were. Somehow the passengers had got a message out. Maybe one of them had a satellite phone, or some other satellite device. Dan had had one; he had solo hiked the Hundred Mile Wilderness in Maine the summer before he died. It was a rugged, remote stretch of the Appalachian Trail and there was no way of communicating with a normal phone, so he had bought a Garmin inReach, a lightweight device that allowed him to send text messages, as well as his location, if there was an emergency.
