No Way Back (28 page)

‘What happened?’

‘Callahan asked questions. That’s all he did, Mr Thane, just ask questions. But that was a mistake.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘They took his daughter first. She was only nine years old, by the way. They walked right into her school, pretending to be police officers, if you can imagine that. Signed her out at the
principal’s office, drove away with her. A few days later, they sent Callahan a videotape of what they did.’

‘My God.’

‘Callahan knew that he had crossed the wrong man. Maybe this meth dealer wasn’t so chicken-shit. So, first thing he did, after he put his daughter into the ground, was to announce
his retirement. You see, he still had a son to protect. He wasn’t interested in being a hero. He told everyone he was finished. Didn’t care about drugs, or gangs, or Russians. And that
was that. He thought Ghol Gedrosian would leave him alone.’

‘But he didn’t?’

‘No, sir. The son was twelve years old. They took him next. They sent another video a few days later. I happened to watch it, Mr Thane. I must tell you, I have a fairly strong stomach,
but... ’ He shakes his head.

‘Why?’ I ask, a sense of outrage growing within me. ‘Why would someone do that? What purpose did it serve?’

‘Purpose?’ He squints. ‘I don’t think it served any purpose. None at all.’

He waits for this to sink in. Then he says: ‘That was the end of Bob Callahan, of course. He was a broken man. Went into hiding. Just like a criminal. Just like the men he used to pursue.
But they found him. Took them only three weeks. This Ghol Gedrosian – that’s the name we’ve settled on – he owns quite a few police out in California. Knew exactly where to
find Mr Callahan.’

‘He owns the police?’

‘Owns them. Yes, sir. Bought them all. And some of the DAs. And quite a few judges.’

‘How do you “buy” the police?’

‘Why do you ask? Are you in the market?’

‘Just curious,’ I say, ‘on an intellectual level.’

‘On an intellectual level?’ he repeats, making me feel as if I’m wearing a pince-nez and velvet smoking jacket. ‘It’s not very hard. You pay someone money that
they’re not supposed to have. Or you give them something that’s illegal. A gift, say. And when they accept it, then you own them.’ He stares at me. ‘Does any of that seem
familiar to you, Mr Thane?’

The black Mercedes – which I bought not two hours ago, with money that surely I am not supposed to have – money that was a gift – winks at me in the sun. It seems big and black
and obvious. I have an intense desire to distract Agent Mitchell and make him look over his shoulder, so that I can lean into the car, pop it into neutral, and let it roll quietly away, down the
driveway, and out of sight.

Mitchell goes on: ‘I ask if it’s familiar because I think that’s exactly what happened to your predecessor at Tao Software.’

‘My predecessor?’ I say, unable to keep the relief from my voice. ‘You mean Charles Adams?’

‘Yes. Charles Adams apparently knew Ghol Gedrosian. Knew him quite well.’

Now I recall the stories that Joan Leggett told me, when I first arrived at Tao – how Charles Adams took strange meetings with frightening men. How he returned to Tao Software hurt and
scared, and how he locked himself into his office, and hid, and refused to come out for hours. Those stories seemed familiar to me, even when I first heard them. They were stories that could have
come from my own past. From my own bad old days.

Agent Mitchell continues, ‘I suppose you could say that Charles Adams and Ghol Gedrosian were business associates, in a way.’

A pause. And now, at last, the real reason he’s here. Finally. ‘Have you personally ever met Ghol Gedrosian, Mr Thane?’

‘Me?’ I say, quite surprised by his question. ‘Met him? No, of course not.’

‘Have you ever been contacted by him?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever been contacted by any of his associates?’

A note of uncertainty creeps into my voice now, despite my efforts. ‘No.’

‘Have you had any indication that Ghol Gedrosian is involved in your company in any way, sir? Have you seen any signs?’

‘Signs?’ I repeat.

Now that he mentions it, I have seen signs. Four million signs, to be exact. Dollar signs. All of them missing from Tao Software’s bank account. And two million signs deposited into my
own. I think about the cash in the attic in Sanibel, about the Russian pissing into that rust-ringed toilet bowl, and about Tad Billups’s mysterious partners.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen any signs.’

‘You sure now?’

Beads of sweat prickle my forehead. ‘Quite sure.’

‘Mr Thane, I need you to listen to what I’m about to say to you.’

For an instant, I fear he is about to Miranda me. As in: ‘Mr Thane, I need you to listen to what I’m about to say to you. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do
can and will be held against you in a court of law.’

But he doesn’t say that. He says something worse.

‘He’s here,’ he says.

‘Who?’

‘Ghol Gedrosian. He’s here.’

‘Where?’

‘
Here
. We’ve intercepted communications. There’s something happening in his organization. Some kind of restructuring, I think you corporate types might call it. Pieces
being moved around. Other pieces being made... redundant.’

‘Redundant?’

‘He’s killing people, Mr Thane. People who work for him. He’s shutting down his entire operation in California. He’s moving it to Florida.’

I look past Mitchell, to the house across the street. The house of the velociraptor. Dark and empty. ‘Why would he come here?’ I ask.

‘That’s what I intend to ask him. As soon as I can find out where the hell he is.’

The next day, I spend the morning in the office, trying not to think about the conversation with Agent Mitchell.

I try not to think about the story he told me, about the District Attorney and his children. I try not to think about the Russian mobster, Ghol Gedrosian, or about my predecessor, Charles Adams;
or about the fact that the two men apparently knew each other.

This exercise in
not
thinking of course ends in failure. At last, defeated, I pick up the telephone and dial Amanda at the reception desk.

‘Yes, Boss?’ she says.

‘I need you.’

She arrives a moment later, in my doorway, smiling coquettishly. ‘You need me?’

‘Come in,’ I say. ‘Close the door behind you.’

This request for privacy must confirm her secret hopes. She shuts the door with a smile. She sashays closer.

‘Tell me about Charles Adams,’ I say.

Her face drops. She looks uncomfortable. ‘What do you mean? What do you want to know?’

‘What was he like?’

‘Like?’

‘What kind of man was he? Was he nice? Was he smart?’

‘Very smart,’ she says, nodding.

‘Did he use?’

‘Use?’ The word catches her by surprise. But of course she knows what I mean. ‘Why are you asking me this, Jim?’

‘I heard rumours. I want to know the truth.’

Her lips become a thin pale line. She says nothing.

I sigh. ‘All right, Amanda. I see where this is getting me. Absolutely nowhere. Let me just have his file.’

‘His file?’

‘From Kathleen’s office.’

Kathleen Rossi was our VP of Human Resources. Last week, when our company decided to use fewer resources, Kathleen became renewable. She was one of the forty people that I fired.

Now her office sits dark and empty, except for two filing cabinets filled with HR records. They are the kind of documents that businesses like to keep locked away – lists of salaries,
stock-option grants, compensation packages, employee reviews – the kind of papers that start revolutions, and lead to CEOs’ heads on spikes outside their office doors, when such papers
fall into the wrong hands. Which is why, when I fired Kathleen, I asked Amanda to be in charge of that room, and to hold the key, and to make sure no one snooped.

Now, Amanda stands in front of my desk, considering very carefully my request to open Kathleen’s office to me. She seems to weigh the pros and cons of this course of action.

At last, she says, ‘Fine,’ in a way that suggests it is not. ‘Follow me, Jim.’

She leads me first to her reception desk. I watch her open the top drawer and rifle through the contents, taking out personal effects, one at a time, slapping each down on the counter. She
removes: a make-up compact, a tube of lipstick, a tiny tampon – so small that surely it must use nanotechnology – and her own gold-foil embossed Bible. At the bottom of the drawer, she
finds what she’s looking for – a fat key ring. She lifts it, triumphantly.

‘You keep it
here
?’ I say, surprised at this somewhat dubious level of security. ‘In your desk?’

‘Where should I keep it, Jim?’ she asks, deadpan. ‘In the Tao Software underground vault?’

Touché
.

‘Come,’ she says, dangling the keys from her fingers. ‘I will now let you in.’ She says this in a tone of generous benevolence.

I follow her across the bullpen to the shadowy side of the office building. This is the area where, previously, the Marketing Department worked. Now that there is no more Marketing Department,
the fluorescent lights on this side are kept dim, and they flicker and hum. This dubious effort at electricity conservation is perhaps more successful at creating an atmosphere of creepy solitude.
It feels very private here.

We stop at the door marked, ‘Kathleen Rossi, VP Human Resources.’ Amanda tries the knob. Locked. She tries a few keys on the key ring, until she hits the right one. The door
opens.

The lights in the room are off, but sun slants through the blinds. I shut the door. The office is small – just enough room for a desk and a visitor’s chair. Two large filing cabinets
stand against the far wall.

‘You want Charles’s folder?’ she says.

‘Please.’

She circles behind the desk to the filing cabinets. She opens the left cabinet, without hesitating. I notice, too, that she knows exactly which drawer to open, and exactly where in the drawer to
look – at the very rear. She pulls out a file and holds it out for my inspection. The tab says, ‘ADAMS, CHARLES’.

Should I be surprised that Amanda is so familiar with our company’s personnel files? But no. It’s the same at every company. The receptionist knows everything. About everyone.

I flip the pages of the folder. Amanda waits beside me. There’s not enough space for two adults to stand comfortably. Amanda is very close to me, and I smell her perfume, that floral scent
I remember from her apartment.

In the folder I find Charles Adams’s W-4, which contains the information I’m looking for – his home address. 172 Loria Street, Bonita Springs.

‘Was he married?’ I ask, still looking down at the papers.

When she doesn’t answer, I look up. A strange expression crosses her face. Briefly. But I see it.

Now I understand. ‘Amanda,’ I say, gently. ‘Did you and he ever... ’ My voice trails off.

‘Did we ever...
what
?’

‘Did you ever... ’

Defiance flashes in her eyes. ‘Fuck?’ she says.

So much for my delicate workplace sensitivity. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Did you ever fuck your boss?’

‘Which one?’ she asks.

‘What is it with you? Do you come with the job? Are you one of the perks? Like the corporate jet?’

She slaps me. Hard. My cheek stings.

We stand there, facing each other, neither of us moving, neither speaking. I hear her breathing. It sounds loud and ragged and excited.

Finally, she says, ‘Are you going to fire me?’

‘For what?’

‘It was just a few times.’ Her voice is quiet again. ‘It was a long time ago. Back when I first came here.’

‘I just want to talk to his wife,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’

‘Are you going to tell her about me?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then why do you need to talk to her? What’s the point?’

‘The point?’ I repeat. I look at her. She is always so curious. Always asking me where I’m going, and why. ‘It’s really none of your business.’

She shrugs. Her expression seems to suggest it’s none of mine either. But she says: ‘I’m sorry I hit you, Jim.’

‘I suppose I deserved it.’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You did.’ She rises on her toes and kisses me softly on the lips. Before I can decide whether to push her away, or pull her in, she steps back. She
leaves the room, without saying another word.

My GPS takes me south to Bonita Springs, an old 1980s subdivision that saw its best days two boom-and-bust cycles ago.

As someone who saw my own best days two boom-and-bust cycles ago, I have an instant liking for the place.

Maybe
liking
is too strong a word – for how can someone truly
like
forlorn streets, or yards bristling with hopeless FOR SALE BY OWNER signs, or withered brown lawns, or
scraggly palms that cast no shade?
Comfortable
is more the word. I feel comfortable here. This is the neighbourhood where I ought to be living – maybe the neighbourhood where I will
wind up living, after all – after Libby leaves me, or after I lose my job. The houses are small and tightly-packed. The driveways have pickup trucks, wide American cars, fibreglass boats on
cinderblocks, trailers with empty hitches.

Charles Adams’s house is the least impressive house on an unimpressive block. The lawn is a week overgrown. The stuccoed walls are sun-faded and water-stained. The roof tiles smile like
cracked and missing teeth. It is the house of a man who ran out of money, quite suddenly and quite completely.

I park in his driveway – maybe in the same spot that Charles Adams parked his own car, on that day he vanished months ago. As I open my door, and step onto the baking asphalt, I think
about the story that Tad Billups told me: one Wednesday morning, Charles Adams backed out of his garage, stopped his car, with the motor still running, and was never seen again.

I walk up a short concrete path to the front door, where I ring the bell. The door opens instantly, just a crack – so quickly that I’m certain I’ve been watched – that
someone has been staring at me from the moment I turned into the driveway.