Exit, page 11
Most would’ve focused on the lack of those protections. Lukas Doyle wasn’t most, though. He weaved through the aisles created by the hulking mail carts, his sensor device extended out in front of him. Searching for the explosive. Naked of any protection.
“Boom!”
Something careened off of Lukas Doyle’s forehead. He touched his skin with his three innermost fingers. Dry as a wood chip. He looked down at his feet. A ball of crumpled writing paper lay by his shoe. Several steps beyond him were the sounds of a chair, its joints in desperate need of oil.
Doyle looked up but nodded down. “Rusty joints,” he said calmly. “Sounds like the chair from the motel the other day.”
Michael frowned, swallowed, and then quickly squared his shoulders. Lukas Doyle chuckled, set the bomb sensor down carefully on a nearby desk. Bent to pick up the crumpled paper, and tossed it back to Michael. “You’re committing Class H felonies now, Michael Allan Palmer? Bomb hoaxes are quite frowned upon. 9/11 has made everyone jittery.”
“You aren’t human,” Michael managed.
Lukas Doyle nodded. “Unfortunately…for you…you are.”
Michael’s nostrils flared. His hate was a palpable thing. It filled the room like the smell of leaking gas fumes.
“Please tell me there was a purpose for this little hoax, Michael,” Lukas Doyle said, crinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “I bet you stayed up all night thinking about it. Running it through your little head. It probably invaded your dreams. Rachel’s probably at home right now, whistling as she tends to your home, because I know you well, Michael, and I’d just imagine your dick was as hard as Chinese arithmetic last night. The thought of throwing me off balance must’ve sent your blood coursing.”
“What you’ve done…what you’re doing to me. You…you. You’re not going to get away with this,” Michael said. Each word was a labor. Like swallowing with strep throat.
“I already have gotten away with it, Michael Allan Palmer.”
Michael didn’t reply.
Couldn’t.
What had he hoped to gain with this stunt? At this moment, he couldn’t even remember himself. Whatever the goal, it hadn’t been met. This was as abysmal a failure as any he’d ever had.
A Class H felony failure.
Lukas Doyle read the worry in Michael’s eyes. “This pitifully impotent display will remain between us, Michael Allan Palmer. You have my word as a man and a gentleman.”
Despite himself, Michael nodded.
Grateful?
Lukas Doyle crossed the floor, shiny hard cement lacquered gray. He stopped in front of the chair where Michael sat. “A tactical error,” he said. “One of many you’ve made today, I’m afraid. Never put yourself at a vantage lower than your opponent. Now, stand up.”
“Opponent?”
“You’re right,” Lukas Doyle said. “We’re on the same team. In this together. Stand up.”
Michael stood, expecting the worst.
Lukas Doyle placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder. Michael flinched at the movement. Doyle smiled, squeezed and patted the shoulder. “Relax. I don’t usually bite.”
Michael released a deep breath.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We need you calm, relaxed.”
“I am.”
“And Michael…?”
“Yes?”
The punch kicked Michael back into the chair. He almost toppled over it. Breathing became something he had to think about, had to focus on, rather than a natural process.
“Don’t ever fuck with me again,” Lukas Doyle said. “I don’t have the patience for foolishness.”
And then he left, Michael gasping for a teaspoon of air behind him.
CHAPTER
NINE
Michael returned to his office and locked his door and closed his blinds and endured the searing pain that sliced through his abdomen. He pulled his wastebasket near his feet, and more than once retched into it. A string of salty saliva hung from his lips. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. His eyes were rimmed with tears. The physical pain was punishing, but his feelings of foolishness and weakness were even worse. He’d strived to shift the balance of power from the Bellatoris to himself and instead managed to come away even less empowered than he’d been before.
It had seemed like a good idea when he conceived it. Kick the hornet’s nest and send the Bellatoris scurrying for cover, and in that chaos, take the reigns in this deadly game.
On the paper of his mind, it was written so beautifully there was no doubt it would prevail. He could stop looking over his shoulder. His fear of sleep would ease. He’d drop down into the driver’s seat yet again. In control.
But…
Lukas Doyle was more than he anticipated. If the new rumors were that Doyle was a Cyborg, created in some secret Russian lab, frostbite winds howling outside a smudged warehouse-style window, Michael wouldn’t scoff at the notion. Lukas Doyle might not be an actual Cyborg, but neither was he human. He was the stuff of science fiction.
Michael was in over his head. These were people capable of murder. Cold-blooded killers unmoved by the sounds of a squeaky chair, rocking frantically, or the Kotex muffled screams of a dying woman.
Michael couldn’t take them on singlehandedly. That was for certain. He couldn’t take what he knew to the police either, for all of the obvious reasons. And though the bomb threat hadn’t worked, he’d had the right idea.
He couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He couldn’t imagine looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. No. Something had to be done. But what?
He took a pad, a ballpoint pen. Items for memos. And he started to write, to brainstorm ideas. A word algorithm to solve the greatest problem of his entire life. Two-thirds through the sheet he ripped it from the pad, folded and folded and folded it. Ripped the folded sheet into confetti and let it rain from his fingers into the wastebasket.
Only one thing to do.
Malcolm.
He had to tell the old man everything. Details about the original meeting with Liz Sutherland in the conference room. Waking up in the near dark of the roach motel to find Karla bound and gagged in a chair at the foot of the bed. The Kotex they stuffed into her mouth. Liz’s gleaming blade. Karla rocking the chair frantically while Doyle disrespected her and barked orders.
Then.
Karla. Still.
Never to be found again.
Yes. He’d tell Malcolm and the old man would be forced to do something. It would be out of Michael’s hands at that point. He’d tossed a softball at Malcolm the other day. Of course the old man would shrug off any notion that the Bellatoris were a threat. But once Michael gave him the full story…
How could Malcolm remain inert?
He couldn’t. He didn’t get where he was by remaining still. Still. No, that wasn’t Malcolm Ferrer.
Michael pushed from his desk. Fast-walked across the carpet, for his door. Unlocked and opened it. Stepped out, only to have a hand press into his chest and push him back on his heels. The door eased shut. The lock reinstated.
Just the two of them.
“You want to tell me what you’re doing?” Michael asked.
“You want to tell me, Michael?” His voice cracked at that moment, nothing masculine about it. He wrung his hands like a wet mop handle. Paced the pile carpet.
Michael said, “Joe, seriously. I have something to attend to.”
“You’ve attended to enough, dude. You need to explain some things to me. And stop attending, please. My bowel movements haven’t been regular since our first lunch together. And now this thing is touching other people, too.”
“What thing? What people?”
“Cassie, dude. Cassie.” Joe rushed over to windows that looked out onto the floor, edged the blinds aside an inch, peered out. His shoulders shook like palsy. He breathed deeply through his nose.
“Cassie…” Michael ventured.
Joe bolted around. “She quit, dude. Her office is empty. Too empty. I’ve called her cell. No answer.”
“Quit when?”
“Supposedly yesterday. Just left a signed resignation letter on her supervisor’s desk. I heard some word about it this morning. After our little fire drill.” He did something near a smile. “So I went to check. Everyone in her department is puzzled. Meredith is shitting bricks. Cassie left a lot of unfinished work on the table. I’m hearing Meredith’s more of a terror than usual. If I thought she wouldn’t puree my dick in that blender hole of hers, I might swoop in and…”
Michael plopped down in his chair again. Joe did the same, in a seat directly in front of Michael’s desk.
“What are the odds someone in HR would quit their job and not give proper notice?” Michael wondered aloud.
“Exactly, dude. And we’re talking Cassie here. She counts rubbers.”
Michael looked up, frowning. “What?”
“Rubbers, dude. She has a drawer full of them at her place. And she keeps track of the running inventory. Says shit like ‘fifty-six, that should last me another month or so.’ And then she smiles like it’s a big fat joke. But it isn’t, dude. Cassie likes order. Thrives on it. She’s a planner. She wouldn’t just up and quit a job. Too rash.”
“What’s being said?”
Joe’s eyes lit up; he stabbed the air with a bony finger pointed at Michael. “That’s the thing. There’s a rumor that she was involved in something heavy. That she left the way she did to cut her losses because they were on to her.”
“Maybe that’s so.”
“Uh-uh, dude.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Those porn downloads you mentioned…”
“Yeah?”
“Cassie’s aware of my uh…affinity…for the art. She confronted me after that happened. Wanted to know if it was me. Threatened to tell someone. I had to swear on a stack of Bibles and my grandmother’s grave that it wasn’t me.”
Michael nearly smiled. “She backed off?”
“Reluctantly. But I had a dream right after. These dudes, must’ve been twenty of ’em. They were plowing this broad. Giving it to her every which way but loose. Mouth, the usual spot, her shit hole. And then after they’d all milked all over her…she turned around…”
Michael knew where this was going.
“…and it was my grandmother, dude. I brought that bad mojo on her by lying.”
“You’re sicker than I am, Joe. I probably shouldn’t be around you.”
“Point is: I had to lie. Cassie’s a serious chick, dude. She has integrity.”
“So what do you think happened?”
Joe looked at Michael, incredulous. “Are you dense, dude? The fucking Bellatoris.”
Just what Michael had been thinking.
He swallowed, hard.
There were several people in the corridor of Malcolm’s floor, mostly low-level staff. A few men with off-the-rack suits, but custom ambitions. One had the basics of possibility, more than six feet in height. That actually mattered. Very few upper management types were short. An attractive woman in her early thirties walked the hallway with a clipboard pressed to her chest. In addition to her looks and age, she smelled good. All of that mattered the same as height did for men. She had strong possibilities as well.
Michael strutted past them while they drifted by at the edges of the corridor, close to the wall and highly aware of him. He didn’t know any of their names, or their faces even, and that saddened him. He had few allies in the company.
Malcolm.
Joe.
That was the extent of it.
He rounded the wall bend, weaved through a mess of cubicles, and came upon the old man’s office. Just outside was Malcolm’s secretary’s desk. Vera wasn’t there. The woman in her place clacked at the keys on a laptop. She looked up as Michael slowed. Smiled.
Gray jacket, gray shirt, white blouse, cranberry-colored eyeglasses.
Michael said, “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Fancy.”
He moved to pass, but Liz stood and blocked the front of Malcolm’s door. “Something I can help you with, Michael?”
He shook his head. “Just need a quick word with Malcolm.”
“Mr. Ferrer is not taking any appointments at this time.”
“I don’t have an appointment.”
“Of course not,” Liz said. “And you couldn’t obtain one…at this time.”
“You must not have gotten the memo. Malcolm’s my father-in-law.”
“Which is why you get those great meals the last Thursday of every month.” She smiled. “But today’s not Thursday.”
Michael inched forward. “Step aside, please.”
“We both know I won’t be doing that,” she said, her hand slipping into her pocket. “And you’d be advised to take a step back.”
Michael looked down at Liz’s pocket, thought of Karla, her throat slashed. “I can pull out my cell phone and call Malcolm,” he said. “Let him know I’m out here.”
Liz Sutherland’s smile widened. “I’m pretty certain you couldn’t.”
“Oh no…?” Michael pulled it out as promised, and dialed. An automated voice informed him that all circuits were busy. He dialed a second time. Got the same result.
He dropped the cell phone back in his pocket.
“Don’t tell me,” Liz said. “A problem with the line?”
Michael said, “Cassie Hart.”
“Cassie Hart? Can’t say I know the name. It does sound familiar, though. Actress? Singer? I’m really not up on pop culture.”
“Cut the bullshit, Liz. I believe you and your gang have done something to her.”
“How did you develop such a negative impression of me, Michael?”
Her hand had slipped out of the pocket. He glanced at it. Empty. No stiletto. He made some mental calculations. He was taller than Liz, undoubtedly stronger. It was lunch hour, so virtually all of the cubicles at his back were unoccupied. No witnesses then.
“Thinking about rushing me, Michael?”
He didn’t respond.
“You might want to look over your shoulder before you do,” she said.
Reflexively he did.
Namako, the D.C. Sniper, was fast-stepping this way. A scowl etched into his face. A posture that spoke of bad intentions and endless pain.
Michael said, “You won’t get away with this.”
“Experience says we will.”
Experience. Her word choice wasn’t lost on him. The Bellatoris had done this kind of thing before. Michael hadn’t. The realization made his shoulders slump, but to his credit, he immediately straightened his posture.
Namako had reached him, the heat from the big man’s skin warming Michael’s back like a lamp.
Liz’s face softened. “I have a feeling your cellular service will be operational later this evening. You can call Malcolm after seven and speak about whatever your little heart desires.”
The defeat wounded him, but Michael had no choice but acknowledge it. He turned, slowly, brushed past Namako. That was the closest contact they’d ever had. Namako smelled of soap and sour milk. Sweat coated his forehead. His eyes, dead.
Michael couldn’t beat them. They were always two steps ahead. They also had the obvious advantage in numbers and experience with this sort of thing.
He left Liz and Namako there, content with the fate of the moment. But tonight, come seven, he’d call Malcolm and speak his peace.
Six calls.
All straight to voicemail.
Anxious, a little before nine o’clock that evening, he warmed up the Chrysler and drove by Malcolm’s house.
All there was quiet. No lights burned from any window. The doorbell went unanswered.
Tomorrow he’d reach the old man, by hook or crook. For now the Bellatoris had another victory.
CHAPTER
TEN
It was a scene from a horror movie. Rain pattering the roof as skinny tree branches pawed at the windows. The sky dominating the background a black curtain, void of stars. The air colored by a stench that smelled curiously like scorched electrical wire. And down in the house itself, a haphazard old basement that resembled a makeshift Radio Shack. Gadgets and such, many in unworkable condition, scattered all about. A satellite dish propped against the brick wall in one cobwebbed corner, several AM/FM radios, a camcorder mounted on a tripod, a DVD player, compact discs strewn about in jewel cases, a cordless telephone base, and a Wii game system, its green POWER light burning bright as a bulb.
A mouse skittered about frantically inside the walls, imprisoned between two support beams. Music blared from some unknown place in the dusty basement. Jay-Z’s “99 Problems.” Mindy McCready’s “Guys Do It All The Time.” Competing sounds of hip-hop and country and western.
At the rear of the basement a thwack thwack thwack. Thwack thwack thwack. A tennis ball punching holes in the brick wall, spitting up red dust on contact. Lukas Doyle, covered in sweat, a racket in his hands. Doyle stopped abruptly, wiped at his forehead using the wristband on his wrist, and let the yellow tennis ball bounce to a stop at his feet.
“Shrouded forms that start and sigh as they pass the wanderer by,” he exclaimed in a booming voice with echoed off of the brick walls. Edgar Allan Poe. Dreamland.
Then laughter.
Lots of slow, calm, maniacal laughter.
And the scene fading like a drawing on an Etch-A-Sketch.
Michael had two more dreams. Driving in an ice storm, sharp blades of ice making spider webs in the Chrysler’s windshield, the glass leaking blood from the cracks in its surface. And the second, making feverish love to a woman with no eyes, nose, or mouth.
