Terminated Read online

  “Where’s Roland?” I asked.

  “I dunno,” said Huey. “I think he’s at the show in Boston.”

  “I heard you had some excitement last night. A break-in or something?”

  “First I heard of it.”

  The Ping-Pong table was in a long conference room that had been converted into a frat house. A plasma TV hung on the wall behind one end of the table, and a dartboard hung on the wall behind me. A massage chair took up another corner. We had all pitched in for that chair but nobody used it. Moaning in shiatsu pleasure is frowned upon in a corporate setting.

  Huey and I grabbed paddles. I let Huey have his favorite, the one with the black handle. I also let him have his favorite end of the table, the one away from the door. It was an instinct I got from leading programmers. I let them win on the quirks while I focused on the big stuff.

  We fell into the habits we had developed from playing hundreds of games of Ping-Pong. Programming is a mentally taxing activity. Though it looked like we were just sitting in front of our screens typing, we were really manipulating mountains of abstract data in our heads. It was mentally exhausting, and after a while we needed to do something physical. Ping-Pong is a great way to shift mental focus. It ranks up there with coffee in the pantheon of engineering support systems.

  We played and I kept it close. When we were tied at ten, I thought it was time to learn more about Dana. I had just hit a ball with topspin. The ball hit the net, but the topspin made it climb over. It dropped to the other side.

  “Dude, that’s so freaking cheap,” Huey said.

  “Only when I do it,” I said. “When you do it, it’s genius.”

  “Well,” sniffed Huey, “when I do it, it’s planned.”

  I asked, “What do you know about this Dana girl?”

  Huey said, “What?”

  “That Dana girl. Do you know her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where did she come from?”

  Huey ignored me and served. We played the point. It was a long volley and Huey had gotten into that zone where he returned all my shots. Finally he broke me and I hit one long.

  “Damn!”

  “That was a good volley,” said Huey.

  “So where did she come from?”

  “Who?”

  “Dana.”

  “I dunno. She just kind of showed up.”

  “When?”

  Huey served again. Apparently, he didn’t want to talk about Dana. His serve touched the white edge of the table and dropped to the ground. An ace. Huey was pleased with himself.

  I took advantage of Huey’s moment of glory and asked, “When did Dana show up?”

  Huey served and we volleyed three times before he hit it long.

  “Damn,” he said.

  “When?” I asked again.

  “When what?”

  “When did Dana join the team?”

  “I dunno. A couple of weeks ago? I didn’t notice her for a while,” said Huey.

  “How could you not notice her? She’s gorgeous.”

  “We had a release coming up, and I was having trouble ’cause Carol didn’t train Alice enough before … before … you know.”

  “I know.”

  Huey’s serve sailed long and it was my turn to serve.

  I asked, “What was the problem with Alice?”

  “She was a screwed-up chick. Really flaky. She stopped coming to work, the code releases backed up.”

  I served low and fast. Huey popped it up and it hit a ceiling tile. He said, “Ceiling’s in play!” but it did him no good. The ball landed softly on my side of the table, and I smashed it past him.

  Huey threw me the ball and I served it. As I served, Huey snapped his fingers and the ball sailed past him.

  “My point,” I said.

  “That’s not fair,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I was going to answer your question. You can’t distract me with questions and then serve.”

  “Pay attention, then,” I smirked.

  “Dana joined just after Alice got flaky. And you’re right, she’s gorgeous.”

  I served. Huey returned my serve and said, “There always seem to be gorgeous women in that job.”

  I returned his shot. “Yup.”

  “Dana, and before her Alice, and before her … Carol.” Huey returned my shot. Carol’s name distracted me and my shot went wide right.

  “Crap.”

  “Sorry, man, did I distract you?”

  “A little.”

  “Pay attention.”

  “Pay attention,” I mimicked. I served the ball and said, “Have you worked with Dana?”

  “Yup.” Huey returned my shot.

  “And?”

  “She kind of sucks at her job.” The ball tocked back and forth between us.

  I said, “Maybe she didn’t get trained before Alice got killed.”

  Huey, playing like a hippopotamus in a tutu, reached the ball and daintily dropped a shot in front of the net. I couldn’t get it. His point. We stopped playing.

  “First Carol, then Alice. I was so focused on the release that I never put it together,” he said. “Dude, that is freaky, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, freaky,” I said. “How’s she working out? Is Dana any good?”

  Huey returned my shot and said, “They’re going to have to fire her. She’s lost.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said as I returned his shot, low and tight to the left. A killer.

  Huey returned my shot effortlessly and said, “Did you sleep with her yet?”

  The ball sailed past me.

  I said, “What kind of a question is that?” I walked to the corner of the room and swiped the ball off the rug. I chucked the ball at Huey’s head. He caught it and smiled.

  He served and said, “I just asked because you slept with everyone else in that job.”

  I returned the serve and said, “I never slept with Alice.”

  Huey returned my shot and said, “Well, no. Not alone.”

  This time I missed the ball completely.

  “What the fuck are you taking about?”

  Huey looked startled. Social dynamics weren’t natural to him. He had to think things through before he’d know he’d made a faux pas. I watched the realization dawn across his face.

  He looked at his shoes and said, “My serve.”

  I tossed him the ball and said, “What do you mean, not alone?”

  Huey ignored me. His serve curved at me, and I instinctively returned it to the center of the table. He swiped at it and the wicked spin curved the ball to my right and away from me. The ball hit the wall behind me and rolled back to Huey. He picked it up and started to serve.

  “Stop serving, you asshole,” I said.

  “Jesus, Tucker, what’s wrong with you?”

  “What do you mean I slept with Alice ‘but not alone’?”

  “Are we going to play?” Huey asked.

  “Not until you tell me what you meant.” I put my paddle on the table.

  Huey had a compulsive need to finish things. If he didn’t get closure to this game, it would bother him all day.

  “C’mon. Pick up your paddle.”

  I picked up my paddle and Huey served. My return sailed long. Huey picked up the ball. I couldn’t focus on him. Not alone? I couldn’t get the phrase out of my head.

  Oblivious to my mood, Huey served again. I hit the ball and said, “Finish saying that thing about Alice and me.”

  Huey returned my shot poorly. It floated lazily up and landed in the middle of the table. I lined it up and smashed it … into the net.

  “Fuck!” I yelled. The Ping-Pong, the office, and Huey were all dragging up memories that I thought I had safely buried.

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sp; Huey was lost around strong emotions. He said, “Jesus. It’s just a game. Calm down.”

  “Serve that fucking ball and tell me what you meant by ‘not alone’.”

  Huey looked at me and then broke eye contact, focusing on the ball. He served and said, “I thought you knew.”

  I missed the ball again.

  “Fuck me! Fuck me! What the fuck did you think I knew?”

  “Stop yelling at me. I shouldn’t be the one to tell you.”

  The door burst open behind me, and Roland stood in the doorway. Dana stood behind him. Roland said to Dana, “Well, fancy this. I thought I heard some exceptionally loud whining.”

  I took a step toward Roland and said, “I am sick and goddamn tired of …”

  Roland ignored me. He turned to Dana.

  “Get rid of him,” he said. He walked off down the hall and unlocked his office. I took a step to follow him, but Dana grabbed my arm.

  “Tucker, no.”

  I shook my arm, but she held on. Roland’s office door closed, and I turned on her.

  “Get rid of me?” I said.

  Dana crooked her finger in a come with me gesture and turned. She walked out into the hallway. I followed her.

  When we got into the hallway, Dana turned and said, “Please just go home.”

  “Why?”

  “I worry about you.”

  “I could say the same. The last two women who sat in your chair are dead.”

  “I know.”

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Let’s talk tomorrow.” She turned and walked through the office door, letting it lock behind her.

  twenty-eight

  Rush hour seems to start earlier each year. It was six o’clock by the time I got back to my apartment. I unlocked the front door, grabbed my mail, and jogged up the twisting staircase to my apartment. I always get one workout a day.

  I reached my door. More steps led off to my right. The staircase continued on to the roof. Maybe I’d go up there and have a nice homemade dinner. I had some romaine lettuce and some chicken breast. I’d grill the chicken and put it on a Caesar salad.

  I worked the key and opened the door. The coffee pot sat on the counter where I had talked to Kevin yesterday. The dirty carafe was a tangible reminder of his life.

  Kevin is gone.

  I put my mail on the counter, sighed, shook my head, and opened the first piece of mail. It was the telephone bill. I had to use the bathroom. I put down the bill and walked toward my bedroom.

  A wire bit into my neck, choking off my air.

  I was startled and jumped. The jump tightened the wire further. I scrabbled at the garrote, followed it, and felt strong hands in latex gloves. I tried to scream, but my lungs wouldn’t fill. The guy had been hiding in my office opposite the kitchen. He pulled at me. I resisted and turned, grabbing his hands to release the pressure and lifting him off the floor over my shoulder.

  I tried to punch behind me, but I couldn’t reach him. Scratching at the latex-covered hands was useless. The rubber protected the skin. I tried to hit him with my elbows. I found nothing. My vision was narrowing, and my ears filled with a rushing sound. The kitchen was withdrawing down a long tunnel.

  The coffee carafe was at the end of the tunnel. I pulled toward it, but the guy held me back. I punched again and missed.

  The carafe was right there. Just out of reach. I stamped down with my foot, and my heel caught him on the instep. He grunted and moved his foot. I lunged forward, grabbing the carafe and shattering it on the granite countertop. Cold coffee and glass flew through the room.

  I stabbed the handle into the latex-covered hands, cutting them with jagged remnants of glass. I heard a grunt and cut the hand again. It moved out of reach. That loosened the wire for an instant, and I was able to turn my shoulder and punch back with the glass, catching the guy in the face.

  He screamed something in a foreign language and let go. I spun completely and slashed at him. He blocked my blow, and the glass cut his hand again. He was wearing a dark suit and had blood running down the right side of his face. It was the guy from the Apple Store. He reached under his jacket and pulled out a gun.

  I pushed him into the living room and ran out the front door and up the stairs toward the roof. I didn’t want to be below him on the staircase where he could shoot down at me. I burst out the roof door and into the little deck that turned the roof into a city porch.

  The buildings on my block are connected. Their roofs run together to make a broad plaza with firewall hurdles. I vaulted the deck’s fence, landing on the roof. I didn’t know what to do. If I ran across the roofs, he’d shoot me. I had no wind. My throat burned.

  A voice called, “Under here!” It was Carol. She was beneath the deck. I dove, rolled, and lay still. I couldn’t see Carol, but I heard her whisper, “Shhh.”

  I lay on my back, looking up through the thin space between the slats. Quiet footsteps walked above me. I saw a shadow on the deck. Then muttering in that language: Russian?

  It was dark in my hiding place. It smelled of mold and rat droppings. The footsteps moved back toward the door, then disappeared. An ambush?

  I pulled out my BlackBerry. I pushed a key. The phone was locked. A dialog box asked, “Emergency Call?” I selected the option and the phone dialed 911. I didn’t have to talk. The phone’s GPS would do the rest.

  “You’re safe, baby, just stay here.” Carol’s voice was tight and quiet. My heart was pounding, and I still had trouble breathing. My throat felt swollen, and I closed my eyes for a second.

  I must have passed out, because strong hands were pulling me out from under the deck. I pulled back, wishing that I hadn’t dropped the carafe handle. I said, “Get the fuck away from me!”

  The guy was wearing a blue uniform. He said, “Easy, pal. Easy.” Blue uniforms were everywhere. Cops swarmed over the roof. I was safe.

  twenty-nine

  Now that I’d been attacked, Special Agent Bobby Miller didn’t want us to be seen together in the Back Bay. We drove west on the Mass Turnpike and got off in Newton, where Bobby brought me into a little bar called Buff’s Pub.

  Buff’s Pub was a large, single rectangular room decorated in dark wood. It was the kind of place where everybody really did know your name; at least, they knew Bobby’s name. The long wall behind the bar had three plasma screens hanging from it. The wall opposite the bar held wooden booths.

  Bobby sat across from me in the wooden booth farthest from the window. In front of him was a pile of bones that would convince future archaeologists that the people of Boston survived on nothing but chicken wings.

  I had three bones in front of me, and one wing left in the basket out of politeness. I wasn’t all that hungry, although my BBC Ale was making me feel better. I focused on Bobby, who was helping me understand my current situation.

  “You are a fucking moron,” said Bobby.

  “Thanks.” I drank my beer. “That’s really helpful.”

  “I told you to quit.”

  “I told you that I’m not quitting.”

  “Fucking moron.” Bobby took the last wing.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to move to Florida, maybe go overseas, until all this settles down.”

  I said, “Florida? They got cockroaches the size of Smart cars down there. I’m not going to Florida. And I’d hate it overseas. They think Americans are assholes.”

  Bobby said, “Maybe they just think you’re an asshole.”

  “Funny.”

  We were silent. We watched the Red Sox play the Philadelphia Phillies on the HDTVs. The networks had billed this game as if it was the biggest rivalry since Rome and Carthage: Phillies delenda
est. It was all bullshit. We had bigger fish to fry. The Yankees were in first place again. Fucking Yankees.

  The only good thing about interleague baseball was watching the pitchers try to hit a baseball. They looked as overmatched as I felt facing a guy with a machine gun and a garrote.

  I sipped my beer and asked Bobby, “What would you do?”

  “I told you. Florida.”

  “Really? Some guy cuts your wife’s throat. Then he machine-guns your best man, pushes you down a staircase, breaks into your place, and tries to kill you with piano wire. Would you really run away to Florida?”

  Bobby looked into my eyes and raised his beer to his lips. He said, “No.” He took a drink and asked, “He pushed you down a staircase?”

  I pointed at my stitches. “The spiral staircase in the Apple Store.”

  “The glass one? Jesus, that must have hurt like a motherfucker.”

  “It did. So, would you run away?”

  “No.”

  “What’s that?” I put my hand to my ear.

  “No. I wouldn’t run away.”

  I drank my beer. “Me neither.”

  “You never told me Kevin was your best man,” said Bobby.

  “He was. Best man, best friend, everything. We hadn’t seen each other for a couple of months because he had little kids. But that’s normal with kids. Or so they tell me.” I drained my beer and said, “And now Charlene blames me for Kevin. She says it’s my fault.”

  Bobby said, “Hmm.”

  “What? Do you think it’s my fault?”

  “It depends. Did you call him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you decide it would be smart to go after a bunch of murders?”

  “No.”

  “Did you pick a meeting place in the middle of a fucking bridge?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s not your fault. It’s his fault. So get that right out of your fucking head.” Bobby drank some beer. “And it’s not his fault because he didn’t shoot himself with a machine gun. It was some cocksucker that needs to be stopped.”

  I said, “Some Russian cocksucker.”

  “How do you know he’s Russian?”

  “He swore in Russian when I hit him in the face with my broken coffee pot. I guess I paid him back for my stitches.”