In the Dead of Night (10 page)

Friday was really going to suck...bad.

Chapter Nine

Traffic along I-65 north was unusually congested. Or, at least it seemed like it. I mean, doesn’t it always when you’re running a few minutes later than normal?

That’s all it took to get my Friday morning off to a frigging great start. Well, actually it happened earlier, during breakfast, when Fiona told me a little about what happened around 3 a.m. My tired ass needed yet another cup of coffee to keep the fire going after that. It takes a lot of ‘self-lifting’ to get ready to face any day gig, I’m sure—definitely true for any call center supervisors I’ve ever known. The working consensus from my peers is that it takes two cups to get in the ‘right’ frame of mind.

So it took three cups that morning. A terrible dream visited my wife, and she woke up crying. I guess my earlier estimation that I’d hear a mosquito taking care of a primal itch was exaggerated. Certainly Fiona’s take, since she told me how Gypsy climbed up on the bed between us and snuggled up close to her in response. Meanwhile, I slept through it all as if nary a care.

Candi Starr’s latest nocturnal visit kept Fiona awake afterward, sniffling while the dog licked the underside of her chin. Hard to go back to sleep with that going on, and me lying there in dreamy peace only annoyed her more.

Of course I apologized—what else could I say? I even paused before finishing my bowl of Honey-Nut Cheerios, though I had little choice to do otherwise. She wouldn’t divulge anything else without my complete and undivided attention.

Dreams can be funny things. It’s hard to discern an honest omen from a nocturnal fantasy. But after listening to what Candi told her, it sure sounds like a real warning from the other side.

Candi appeared to Fiona wearing her preferred stage garb, donning her favorite black Stetson hat and a rodeo-style belt buckle to go along with her pastel-blue viper shit-kickers. She walked around the fountain in the front driveway at her exclusive Belle Meade estate.

“Hey, girl,” she addressed my wife, moving up to where she waited, clad in her nightgown and standing next to Candi’s five car garage.

Despite her awareness this was a dream, tears from immediate joy overwhelmed Fiona and she rushed up to embrace Candi, who stopped her.

“Not yet,” she said, and chuckled with the Jersey huskiness she shared only with her closest Nashville friends. Her country-star persona a heavy burden, she kept several female pals very close, apart from the rest of her entourage. “Your time ain’t coming for quite awhile, girlfriend, and our essences must remain separated until then.”

Candi went on to tell Fiona that her killer isn’t finished yet, and looking to take out others who are, or were, close to her during her brief three-year stay in Nashville.

“You’d better take cover, Fi,” she warned. “That goes for everyone you’re close to…including Jimmy, your boys, and your ‘ghosting gang’, too. The killer will strike again, soon.”

Before my wife could ask for pertinent info, like the identity of the killer, or at least a physical description, Candi’s image faded away. Fiona felt agonizing sorrow and guilt emanating from the country star’s spirit. I guess the full burden for what’d happened and who might join her next in death sits squarely on her slender shoulders. Candi’s anguished weeping is what jolted Fiona from her sleep.

After that, the floorboards outside our bedroom door creaked—enough to elicit a low growl from Gypsy, who jumped down into her own doggy bed at the foot of ours. When Fiona got up to investigate, with Gypsy following close behind, no one was there. The kids slept soundly down the hall, and no stir yet from the man sworn to protect her and the family.

Later at breakfast, it did me little good to bring up the fact that from 12:30 a.m. to roughly two o’clock I laid awake, listening for anything unusual. I must’ve drifted off shortly after that.

Seeing the weariness on Fiona’s face, and aware of the growing strain on her heart and peace of mind, I decided not to tell her about last’s night’s incident up the road from us. Hell, I’m surprised that commotion didn’t wake her or our boys. Nevertheless, I checked the outside perimeter of our home before I left for work, finding no obvious signs we were visited again during the night. On the way to work I couldn’t help noticing every van and SUV, especially the darker vehicles. The only Buick I saw was a gray SUV driven by your standard soccer mom transporting her pups. No menacing ninja-dude with a mesh-cloaked face in that one.

I pulled my Harley into one of the spaces reserved for bikers by the main entrance of the call center. Matilda waited there for me. She seemed frantic about something, and I wondered who’d peed in her Wheaties that morning.

“You’re
late!”
she scolded, glancing anxiously around her. “They’re supposed to be here at any time!”

“Who’s supposed to be here?” I asked, my tone indignant while I removed my jacket and helmet. I looked around but didn’t see anyone else, other than a few reps coming in to begin their 8:00 a.m. shifts, a good thirty minutes before my team would arrive. “Not the group from corporate? I thought you said they’d be arriving around ten o’clock.”

I straightened my tie and brushed my dress slacks. No way in hell was I getting outshined by the two male prisses under her direction—not this time. I even brought along a pair of patent-leather loafers in my duffle bag.

“Well, they decided to get started a couple of hours early,” she explained, moving back to the main entrance, hurriedly motioning for me to keep up with her. “I need for you, especially, to not cut up during the ceremony.”

“Ceremony?”

That sounded weird. I thought we were just having a normal inspection of the premises, followed by a quick overview of each team’s business results from January through June led by the managers. My only responsibility was to participate in a quick question and answer session with my fellow supervisors. It sounded easy yesterday, when we did our group’s final walkthrough.

She stopped just inside the entrance, and pulled me over to a small office next to the security station. I nodded to Zack and Cade, our daytime guards, before disappearing into the room with my boss.

“Peter wanted us to go all out for Susan and Christine this time around,” Matilda whispered, again looking past me to make sure no one stood in clear earshot. “We’ve laid out a red carpet, and our team will be outfitting both ladies with rhinestone tiaras soon after they arrive inside the building. Then, we’ll lead them to the main conference room on the west side, and all of the other managers, supervisors, and leads here today will shower them with rose petals.”

I tried to maintain a serious expression. Really I did.

“I need your support on this, Jimmy!”

Without a doubt the most pained look I’d ever witnessed from anyone in leadership. Priceless, and if only she’d given me an earlier ‘heads up’ for this incredible moment, I’d have captured the image with my latest phone’s camera. Luckily I still had the presence of mind to shut the door before giving in to an uproarious fit of laughter that damn near pulled a few muscles in my six-pack.

“Roses and a pair of toy tiaras—are you frigging serious??!”

She glared at me, hands balled into fists like she might hit me. I have no doubt she thought about it…albeit an inappropriate managerial response.

“Hey, you know? Why don’t we find some palm branches for Princess Bubbles and her Barbie twin and lay them on the ground for them to walk on instead!”

Unable to restrain myself, I detected a smidgen of amusement in those fiery eyes of hers. You should see how those orbs morph to brighter green, depending on her mood. Almost as amazing as Fiona’s. Except in my boss’s case, the brighter her eyes the more agitation contained therein.

“Better yet, why don’t I bring my Harley in here, and give them both a ride?” I continued, ignoring the obvious warning to tread with care. “That way, we can protect their little footsies from touching the unholy walkways in such abundance here.”

“I’ve got an even better idea,” she seethed. “Why don’t you get on all fours and carry them on your back, since you’re acting like such a jackass!”

Touché’.

“So, where’d we get a red carpet?” I asked, ready to change the subject, while I sought to regain some composure.

“I’ll tell you about it later. Follow me.”

She allowed me to open the door and then she led the way past the security desk and into the main section of our center. The place was abuzz with excitement, and everyone knew our embarrassing secret. Very little ever gets past our reps, and I often wonder why in the hell we insist on the continual dog and pony show to try and mislead them. Over the years, they’ve grown wise to the verbiage that reeks of deceit and perfumed bullshit. I can guarantee that by the time this spectacle is over, my entire team will be fully aware of the gory details—including those from behind closed doors.

We waited in the atrium, and before long our GM, Peter Stovall showed up with his assistant, Dorothy Brown. He sort of reminds me of Mr. Smithers from
The Simpsons
and Dorothy could easily pass as Marge, with her hideous bouffant hairdo. Just lovely. Once the rest of Matilda’s team of supervisors showed up, it left us only a few minutes to take our places, each holding a packet of velvet rose petals.

Nausea again, and my sour stomach grew steadily worse when the princesses arrived. Matronly in appearance, and dressed smartly in casual business pantsuits, our two Regional executives both smiled when greeted with the initial adulation from our group, that swelled to nearly sixty individuals when HR and the training department showed up. Filling in for our CEO and CPO, both women looked pained by the excess attention, squinting protectively as fake rose petals flew all around them. Then, everyone moved down the red carpet, which in reality looked like a cheap velour carpet runner.

I couldn’t get to the conference room fast enough, counting steps in an effort to distract my mind from this nonsense. This might be it, really. Over the weekend, I’ve promised myself to make time to get alone and consider whether I should update my resume and move on. Yeah, the money’s pretty good, but playing the games necessary to thrive here as a supervisor gets harder and harder every time we do absurd shit like this.

At least the joke about retreating to one’s happy place actually can work now and then. It did for me. Running through last night’s rehearsal in my head, along with my favorite Zep and Aerosmith tunes kept me smiling. Before long, the intro to this whole affair was forgotten, and we moved on to the tough Q&A that marked an event like this. After a few hours, the meeting mercifully ended. While the big bosses continued to fawn over our visitors, everyone from my managerial level on down returned to their stations.

Thank God…just a few coachings, and I can wrap up the day and get out of here. Fiona said something at breakfast about a special event planned for that night, but I couldn’t remember now what it was…. So I called her before my day’s first rep had finished her customer call and came over to my desk. That usually meant I’d be afforded several minutes.

“Hey, Babe. Just checking to see how your day’s going.”

I headed for my pod’s far corner, vacant today as three of my direct reports had taken the day off. A three day weekend—must be nice.

“It’s been a pretty good day so far,” said Fiona. Her tone sounded upbeat, although not oozing with joy. I didn’t expect it would for a while. “How’d it go this morning?”

I told her about the tiara and rose parade, and like me, she didn’t restrain her reaction. Actually, she voiced more disdain than I had earlier to Matilda.

“Did you sing ‘Hosanna’?” she teased.

“Very funny,” I agreed, chuckling. “Good thing no one else around here thought of that, or this could’ve been a helluva lot worse. We have something planned tonight. Don’t we?”

Shakarra Knowles, my most flamboyant and attention-needy rep had just finished her call and was on her way to my desk.

“We’re going to the Carnton Plantation,” Fiona advised, her tone slightly miffed. “You’re still coming, right?”

“Yes.”

“Tom should have some more pictures to show us, from our visit to Johnny’s place last night.”

Shit. I forgot all about her and the girls going back to the scene of the original crime. Tom must’ve tagged along, too.

“How’d that go?” I asked, allowing my tone to brighten. Sound really interested, I told myself, damn it. “I meant to ask about it this morning at breakfast.”

“You forgot all about it, hon,” she replied, more gently than she could’ve done.

Yes, I should’ve mentioned it. But, no, I didn’t completely forget about it.... Okay, maybe it slipped my mind after the asshole driving the van chased me home. Either way, it seemed pointless skirting around half-truths when dealing with my psychic better half. Living with someone like her can be tougher than the fantasy some guys might have. I love her dearly, so I’ve learned to adjust. Obviously, learning continues.

“We couldn’t get as close to the house as I would’ve liked, since the police tape is there. But we picked up a few things on video and audio,” she continued, her tone steadily brightening. “Tom already called me with an update—some of the still shots have unusual stuff going on, too.”