On the Brink (Vol. 1) (The On the Brink Series) (2 page)

Chapter
Three

Several
subway stops and a fifteen-minute walk later, I reached the apartment. I let
myself in, kicked my shoes off, and closed the door, glad to be home. The
apartment was cramped and drafty, but at least now I could pay for it. Located
on the top floor of a bright blue Victorian with white trim, it was
conveniently close to the Davis Square subway station.

In
addition to a kitchen, living room, and two small bedrooms, the apartment
included a tiny, unheated room that served as my painting studio. Although the
ancient kitchen lacked a dishwasher, and the bathroom barely permitted turning
around, I loved the battered but beautiful dark hardwood floors and the creaky
wooden pane windows that admitted generous patches of sunlight, filtered by
surrounding trees. When we first moved in, Duncan and I had painted the
apartment in warm, inviting colors and furnished it with an eclectic mix of
thrift store and IKEA items, creating a cozy, funky atmosphere.

I
changed into pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, made myself a tomato and cheese
sandwich, poured a glass of water, and headed for the couch. After a few
minutes of channel surfing, I settled on a Masterpiece Theatre production of
Jane Eyre. Losing myself in another time and place was just what I needed after
such a crazy day.

Later,
when I was awakened abruptly by the rattle of Duncan’s key in the lock, I
stretched and yawned, surprised that I had fallen asleep.

“Let’s
celebrate!” he said, holding up a bottle of champagne. Tall and slender, with a
thick shock of blond hair and blue-gray eyes, he always insisted on recognizing
every victory in my life, however small.

I
smiled at him affectionately. “Champagne, Dunc? You spoil me. Not that I’m
complaining, of course.” I got up from the couch. “I’ll get the glasses.” I padded
to the kitchen and returned with two champagne flutes. With fluid motions
acquired during his years of waiting tables and tending bar, Duncan popped the
cork and filled our glasses.

“To
new jobs and paychecks!”

“New
jobs and paid rent,” I answered, draining my glass. “Thank goodness something
turned up because who knows when Tremont will get my paperwork sorted.”

“It’s
just a matter of time, I’m sure.” He paused thoughtfully. “The longer term
question is whether you want to continue teaching in the spring, or look for
something different.”

Months
earlier, when the opportunity to teach part-time at Tremont came along, Duncan
had advised me to turn it down. “Job security? Zip. Status? Peon. Pay? Crap,”
had been his succinct assessment. I didn’t disagree, but had wanted to give
teaching a shot. Art school had been the happiest time of my life. In its
small, separate world, artworks lived and breathed, young artists labored late
into the night, and I made my first acquaintance with the exuberant highs and torturous
lows of creative work.

But
I wasn’t teaching in an art school. Tremont University was a world-renowned
research powerhouse, but its arts programs were an afterthought, its arts
students a motley collection of the untalented, the uninformed, and the
uninspired. The talkative, ambitious student with little talent or imagination,
hacking out endless Picasso clones. The dreamer, fantasizing about chic New
York galleries but failing to turn in assignments.

Most
distressing of all was the human driftwood who occupied the margins of the
classrooms. Lacking any discernable interest, motivation or direction, they
worked quietly, always near the back, never raising a hand, asking a question,
or offering an opinion, as if sheer inoffensiveness should merit a passing
grade today, and hopefully a diploma tomorrow.

“I’m
not sure what I’ll do in the spring,” I replied. “I’d like to try a graphic or
web design job, but applying for jobs over the past couple of months has been
an education for me. Employers want people with experience. Even for
entry-level jobs. I’m starting to think that I may need to do some design work
for free, just to build up my portfolio. Maybe volunteer my skills at a
non-profit.” I paused. “But right now, I’m grateful for what I have: two jobs,
neither of which is ideal, but at least I’m employed, and one best friend, who
is perfect.”

Throughout
the stress of the past few months, Duncan had been my rock. Always there for
me, always thoughtful and reasoned about whatever was going on in my life.

“You’re
drunk,” Duncan laughed. “No one’s perfect.”

“You
are. Except, of course, when hogging the remote when we watch TV. In that
respect, you’re definitely a standard-issue American male. More, please,” I
requested, holding out my glass.

“Like
you never grab the remote? Please. You win a fair share of the time. Anyway,
tell me more about your new job,” Duncan demanded as he poured. “Details,
please.”

“It’s
at a transcription agency in Kendall Square. Perfect Transcripts. Ten dollars
an hour. Twelve for medical or legal content. My fellow inmates look to be a
varied collection of oddballs and outcasts, but they seem like genuinely nice
people. The boss, Berta, is a piece of work. Keeps a neurotic, yappy toy
Maltese named Dolce next to her desk.”

“Dolce?”
Duncan sputtered. “Isn’t that Italian for sweet, like the movie La Dolce Vita?
That’s sooo wrong.”

“Tell
me about it. Apparently it’s Dolce as in Dolce and Gabbana. One of the other
transcriptionists, Moxie, is the office manager as well. I liked her right away
because she has a sense of humor. She’s the one who warned me that Dolce’s a
biter.”

Duncan
threw back his head and howled with laughter. “I see rabies shots in your
future.”

I
grinned at him. “If that dog bites me, I’m biting him back. Human saliva is
just as nasty as dog, you know. Plenty of germs.”

Relief
and champagne were a potent mixture, and we bantered back and forth, carefree
and silly together as only best friends can be. By the time our mutual gales of
laughter had finally subsided, I was clutching my sides and begging Duncan for
mercy.

“Stop...I
can’t...can’t laugh any more. You’re killing me.” I took a deep breath and
wiped my eyes.

“So,
when do you start this high-risk job, anyway?” Duncan asked.

“My
brand new, not so high-risk job begins tomorrow at five. Between evenings and
Saturdays, I’ll have the rent by the first. Then I’ll start paying you back and
catching up on other bills.”

Just
then, I remembered the handsome businessman. “Oh, and I spotted a really yummy
man today. I think he works in my building.”

“News
of hot men is always welcome,” Duncan grinned. “Is he gay? Maybe you can
introduce us.”

“I
haven’t met him, but men that good-looking usually turn out to be gay. Or
jerks.”

“My,
we are cynical tonight, aren’t we? Look on the bright side. Any hot man is
bound to be interested in at least one of us. And you’re way too hot yourself
to stay single forever.”

Duncan,
the eternal optimist. No one would ever guess, and few knew how difficult his
life had been. It wasn’t something he talked about. Raised in a small town, and
the only child of fundamentalist Christians, Duncan was bullied for his
sexuality at school and beaten for it at home. At fifteen, his parents died in
a car crash, and Duncan was sent to Boston to live with his single living
relative, his father’s estranged older sister.

Living
with Marjorie was the best thing that could have happened to Duncan. A modern
businesswoman, Marjorie pronounced religion and homophobia both ridiculous and
ignorant. She introduced Duncan to a better, kinder world, where he was valued
for his intelligence and talent, and his sexuality was simply an attribute,
like height or ethnicity. In this new setting, Duncan’s naturally sunny
disposition reasserted itself, and he discovered an interest in photography.

We
met during our first weeks of art school and became instant friends. And now,
looking into his blue-gray eyes, basking in the warmth of his happiness for me,
I appreciated, once again, how lucky I was to have a true friend like Duncan.
Even if he was forever trying to set me up with attractive men. Many women
might have appreciated such efforts, but I had my reasons for avoiding the
whole dating scene.

“No
men for now,” I said. “I need to get on my feet financially, and figure out what
to do next. I definitely don’t want to teach at Tremont forever, and I doubt
that transcription will turn out to be all that fascinating. Besides, you know
my track record. Every man I date turns out to be an unmitigated jerk.”

“That’s
what you always say,” Duncan replied. “Or some variation of that. You look, but
you never leap. At least not since Matt. What he did was terrible, but it’s
been a long time now. One of these days, you’ll have to take a chance on love
again.”

“Maybe,”
I yawned. “But now isn’t the time. And now that we’ve celebrated, I need my
beauty sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

Chapter
Four

The
following afternoon, ready for my first day of work, I entered the front office
of Perfect Transcripts, and offered a polite “Good afternoon” as I approached
Berta’s desk. No response. Engrossed in a one-sided conversation with Dolce the
dog, she gripped him firmly as he squirmed and pawed at her chartreuse silk
blouse. One of the fake plants had vanished.

“You’re
a bad puppy, sweetness, but Mama loves you anyway.”

Putting
him down, she ordered, “Be a good boy and lie down in your bed. You don’t want
your bed? Moxxxie! Get in here and bring Dolce his treat.”

Looking
harried, Moxie burst into the room, bone-shaped dog biscuit in hand.

“Here
you go, Berta,” she said, handing over the biscuit. “Okay if I put Juliana to
work on the Manning Biotech account? We’re behind schedule.”

Berta
looked up. “Good. You’re on time.” She turned to Moxie. “Manning Biotech can’t
be late, Moxie. You know what I had to go through to close that piece of
business, and I don’t care what you have to do. Craig Manning is a demanding
son-of-a-bitch, but his account is worth a lot of money. Just make it happen.”

Moxie
led me down the hall to the transcription area.

“Berta’s
having a bad day,” she said. “Dolce shat in one of her fake plants while she
was on the phone with a client. Then he chewed half the leaves off. Naturally,
I had to dispose of the stinky, chewed-up corpse, which wasn’t easy. Even with
some of the leaves gone, it wouldn’t fit down the garbage chute. I ended up
having to cart it out of the building and dump it in an alley. There’s probably
a street bum pissing on it right now.”

I
was beginning to like Moxie. Working for Berta was probably not the job of
anyone’s dreams, but Moxie clearly didn’t let it get her down. She led me to a
workstation.

“The
files you’ll be working on are in this folder on the desktop. If you hit an
inaudible spot, just type ‘inaudible’ in parentheses on a new line, then
continue the transcription on the next line. If you don’t know how to spell a
word, look it up in the dictionary or online. You’re here until ten o’clock,
right?”

I
nodded.

“You
don’t get a paid break then, but feel free to get up every hour or so for a few
minutes, walk around a bit, stretch, get a cup of coffee from the breakroom.
Berta doesn’t mind short breaks so long as we get enough work done and the
quality is up to par. The breakroom coffee’s usually burnt, or cold, or both,
but if you’re on a thirty-minute break, you can always walk to Starbucks. If
you bring snacks, you can leave them in the breakroom fridge, but be sure to
put your name on them. Nameless food gets eaten or thrown out, depending on
whether Curious George or Berta finds it first.”

“Is
that George?” I asked, gesturing in the direction of the one man in the room.
Fiftyish, with closely cropped gray hair and wire-rim glasses, he hunched over
his monitor, intent on his typing, which seemed unaccountably slow. His
adjustable office chair was set unusually low, and I wondered how he could work
without giving himself carpal tunnel, neck problems, or both.

“Yes,
that’s Curious George.” Moxie replied. Lowering her voice, she said, “He’s not
very good, and Berta’s perpetually on the verge of firing him, but she never
goes through with it. He spends half the day doing Zen meditation and
practicing his karate moves in the breakroom. Berta even let him stick a banana
tree in there. He claims looking at it gives him a focal point when he
meditates.”

While
I’d met my share of oddballs and eccentrics in art school, it was becoming
increasingly clear that art school had nothing on the denizens of Perfect
Transcripts. I settled down at my workstation, put my headphones on, started a
fresh Word document, and opened the first audio file.

I
began transcribing, and as I worked, I found myself getting into a rhythm. Play
a few seconds of audio—stop—type-type-type-type-type—stop.
Occasionally, I needed to look up the spelling of an unfamiliar word, but
overall I felt that I was doing all right.

Interrupted
by a tap on the shoulder, I looked up and removed my headphones.

“How’s
it going?” Moxie asked. “You haven’t stopped for over two hours, you know. Take
a break, or you’ll be really stiff tomorrow.”

She
had a point. I got up and stretched, twisting to one side, then the other.
“Thanks for the reminder.”

“That’s
more like it,” Moxie said. “Come with me to the breakroom. You can get
something to drink, and we can do your paperwork. You brought a photo ID, I
hope?”

“Of
course,” I replied. Job paperwork was nothing new. I’d been working since the
age of fifteen, longer if I counted the unpaid labor at my father’s various
less-than-successful enterprises. Dishwasher, waitress, cashier,
retail—during my adolescence in Maine I’d worked about every available
minimum-wage job that didn’t require lifting heavy objects.

Furnished
with a Formica-topped table and half a dozen orange plastic chairs, the
breakroom featured a fridge, a microwave, and a coffee pot. A water cooler that
dispensed hot and cold water sat at the end of the counter, and a nearby basket
hosted a variety of teabags. Curious George’s banana tree rested in a corner of
the room, near the windows.

“Cups
are on the counter,” Moxie said. “I’ll go get the paperwork.”

Left
to my own devices, I explored the breakroom. The fridge turned out to be
relatively innocuous. Its half-empty shelves housed nothing particularly
offensive, with the exception of a baggie of carrot sticks and cheese, labeled
‘Luanne.’ The carrots were shriveled, and the cheese was speckled with mold.
The microwave, on the other hand, caked with the gory residue of innumerable
explosions, was straight out of a horror movie.

“Never
open the ghettowave,” Moxie said, returning with a handful of papers. “It’ll
put you off food for the rest of the day. Berta makes one of us scrub it
whenever she notices, which fortunately isn’t often. Just hope it’s not your
lucky day the next time she does.”

I
looked through the selection of teabags, and decided on Earl Grey. A little
caffeine would be welcome, and the hot water dispenser looked relatively
harmless.

“I’ll
just make a photocopy of your ID while you’re filling out the paperwork,” Moxie
said.

“Thanks,”
I replied, taking the paperwork and flipping through it. Nothing I hadn’t seen
before, except the confidentiality form. Not that I was surprised to see it.

The
greater Boston area was home to numerous information technology and biotech
businesses, and they often used confidentiality forms and other legal
agreements to protect their intellectual property. During the product
development phase, before a new computer chip, cutting-edge drug, or other
invention received patent protection, such agreements made it more difficult
for a competitor to steal confidential information through industrial espionage
or recruitment of key personnel. I filled out, dated, and signed each form.

As
I sat, sipping my tea, Moxie returned and seated herself across from me.
Flipping through my paperwork, she said “Everything looks fine. Thank goodness
you turned up. We’re really slammed with Manning Biotech right now. I’d hire
three transcriptionists if I could find them.”

“I’m
glad to be here. Does Manning Biotech have offices here?” I asked. The building
was called Manning Tower after all.

“Manning
Biotech is part of Manning International. Manning International owns this
building, plus a few more around Kendall Square. Their executive offices are
here. You may have seen Craig Manning, the CEO. He’s impossible to miss. Around
thirty, tall, dark, built, smoking hot. Acts like he walks on water, but I
suppose that goes with the territory.”

I
decided that Mr. Confident must be Craig Manning. It seemed unlikely that one
midsize office tower would have two men who fit that description. “I think I
saw him when I was leaving yesterday. But what do you mean?” I asked. “What
territory?”

“Business
rockstar territory. Unlike many CEOs, Manning’s self-made. Dropped out of MIT
at twenty and somehow convinced a group of angel investors to back his first
company, Manning Biotech. Since then, he’s expanded into real estate, movie
production, and who knows what else. He’s a lucky bastard. Has the Midas touch
in a big way, though he’s run into some difficulties lately.”

“What
sort of difficulties?”

“Well,
Manning Biotech is in the middle of a big lawsuit with Syngenomics. Manning
Biotech sued Syngenomics for theft of confidential information over some new
anti-cancer drug that’s apparently worth billions. Some people in the building
even think Syngenomics could be behind the recent bomb threats.”

“But
what would Syngenomics get out of making bomb threats? After all, if there’s no
actual bomb, there’s no real threat either.”

“Frightening
people, maybe. A few have quit because of the threats. And everyone knows that
Walter Reimann, the CEO of Syngenomics, hates Craig Manning. Reimann attempted
a hostile takeover of Manning International four or five years ago, but Manning
fought him off.”

A
chill ran down my spine at the sound of the Reimann name. I knew Walter
Reimann. He was my ex-boyfriend Matt’s father. Evidently, Syngenomics was one
of his companies. I vaguely remembered Matt bragging about his father’s
business genius. Which, of course, he believed he’d inherited in full. If
Walter Reimann was half as unethical as his son, it wasn’t hard to believe that
he might play such games. Or more dangerous ones. I wondered if working in
Manning Tower was a good idea after all. I didn’t want to be anywhere near the
Reimanns. Father or son.

Glancing
at her watch, Moxie said, “We’d better get back to work. Those files won’t
transcribe themselves, after all, and we’re already behind schedule.”

En
route back to my workstation, I told myself to stop worrying. The building was
obviously safe, what with a staffed security desk and probably an array of
security cameras as well. No one knew who was behind the threats, so it could
be anyone. Maybe someone who worked in the building.

Bomb
hoaxes were familiar events at the university.
 
Together with pulling fire alarms before
unwanted class periods, they were a staple activity of undergraduate pranksters.
Many times, both as student and teacher, I’d stood outside one classroom
building or another, waiting for the fire department to clear it and let us
back inside. With that in mind, I dismissed my fears and got back to work.