Coming of Age: Volume 1: Eternal Life (17 page)

“And that just might be the truth,” he replied.

“She always was your favorite.”

A soft knock on the door interrupted their discussion. Ivy Blake opened the door and escorted Callie and Antigone Wells into the room. As his executive assistant withdrew, Praxis said, “Please wait outside and see that we’re not disturbed.”

Ivy nodded somberly and closed the door behind her.

Antigone and Callie moved to the empty side of the table, across from his sons and Burke, leaving Praxis at the head in the dubious and undeclared position of arbitrator or moderator. That suited him fine, as he wanted to be fair to his daughter but also to the facts. He nodded at Antigone to speak first.

“Let me begin by saying that my client and I want what is best for this company,” Wells said quietly. “While we dispute the evidence that has been made available to us and the interpretation you gentlemen are placing on it, we have no intention of dragging the Praxis name, either as family or corporation, into a public scandal.”

When it was clear she had finished, he nodded for his sons to make their case.

“About that evidence,” Richard began. “We have conducted a more thorough audit of all Miss Praxis’s earlier work and uncovered even more irregularities.” He lifted his folder and shoved it halfway across the table to a point equidistant between Callie and her lawyer.

Callie grabbed it, spun it around, opened it, and began poring over the details. By the third page her face was bright red. “Oh, come on!” she exclaimed. “Where did all this come from? What’s happening here?”

Antigone laid a hand upon his daughter’s arm. It looked like gentle restraint, but her fingers were arched and her grip taut to prevent another outburst. Callie subsided. Antigone casually drew the folder in front of her, glanced at the first page, and flipped it closed. She looked across the table with a serene expression.

“We’re prepared for you to stipulate,” she said, “that one or more unexplained computer errors have embarrassed my client and even cast doubt upon her professional reputation. We don’t require an apology at this point, but we would have the company’s commitment, in writing, to root out and fix the source of these errors.”

Burke laughed out loud, but he was alone in doing so.

Antigone’s expression did not change. Her eyes were as opaque as stones.

“We have enough to show fraud and grand larceny,” Burke said. “Not to mention a pattern of previous criminal behavior.”

“And it benefits you to disclose this—how?” Antigone asked.

“We don’t want a scandal, either,” Leonard said quietly, more to Burke than to her. “In fact, we’ll withdraw all charges if Callie will simply admit her guilt and leave the company.”

Richard and Burke frowned at this but nodded their agreement.

“We will admit nothing,” Antigone said. “However, my client feels that her services may no longer be appropriately valued at Praxis Engineering. She is eager to be released from her contract and try her hand at new endeavors.”

“Fine by us,” Leonard said. Richard, and then Burke, nodded.

“Of course,” Antigone went on, “she would expect to receive the basic severance package and a glowing reference from her immediate supervisor and his management team.”

“She’ll certainly have my support in that,” Praxis said.

The boys and Burke just looked sour.

“You will also,” Antigone continued, “distribute her vested amounts in the company retirement plan—minus whatever unearned benefits your faulty software may have awarded her—into a tax-protected individual retirement account.”

“We can do that,” Leonard said slowly.

“Wait a minute!” Richard began.

Antigone rolled right over him. “And, lastly, she will keep her privately held shares in Praxis Engineering and Construction as a family member in good standing.”

Leonard looked around uncertainly. “Are we allowed to do that?”

“No, we can’t,” Richard said. “It’s in the bylaws. Shares can only be held by active employees. There’s no provision for releasing them outside the company.”

“Fine,” Antigone said. “Then we’ll take cash.”

Richard paled. “But—but—that’s easily—” He looked at the ceiling while evidently doing sums in his head. “Twenty times the amount she stole.”

“You mean,” Antigone said crisply, “the amount you and your computer misplaced.”

Richard gaped at her, his mouth working like a salmon thrown up on the dock.

“We realize,” Antigone went on, “that you can’t liquidate a tenth of the corporation’s asset value on short notice. So we’re prepared to give you—” She glanced at Callie. “—a month from date of separation?”

“Three months would be fair,” his daughter said.

“Three months then.”

“No!” Richard said. “It would hollow out the company. It would break us.”

“Those are our terms,” Antigone said with a shrug. “Otherwise, you can take us to court. Then we will bring in our expert witnesses to dismember your accounting software line by line. I believe you remember how thorough my witnesses can be? All sorts of little secrets might come out then.”

Praxis studied Antigone, who sat utterly still, with not a tremor or a blink, a sphinx carved in stone, one eyebrow lifted and every strand of her glorious golden hair held in place with a wide tortoise-shell comb. Beside her, Callie was trembling but sitting stiffly erect. Both of them had their gazes fixed on Richard, who looked as if he’d been stabbed in the heart. What piece of the puzzle involving his daughter, Praxis wondered, was he missing? What did Antigone already know? What did she suspect?

“All right,” Richard whispered. “We’ll get the money somehow.”

“Excellent!” Antigone said, smiling now. She rose and lifted Callie out of her chair with the same hand clutching her arm. “Do let us know when we can come back and sign the paperwork.”

At the door, which opened to her knock, she stepped aside for Callie to go through and said to Ivy in passing, “Don’t worry about us. We’ll find our own way out.”

* * *

When the Southwest flight carrying Major Ruysdael and his team out of Flagstaff had landed at LAX, Brandon Praxis expected to be demobilized and allowed to return to Stanford for final exams and graduation. Instead, two master sergeants were standing at the gate with a sheaf of envelopes they distributed to each member of the team by barking out their names, just like mail call. The others broke the seals and read their new orders on the spot, then took off in different directions. His own package included orders for him to report immediately to Fort Hunter Liggett, a couple of hundred miles up the coast, to begin again with a new battalion being formed under the 91st Training Division of the Army Reserve. Brandon was confused, because in Arizona the reservists and national guardsmen were the enemy, while here in California they were friendlies. He still didn’t understand the politics. The envelope also contained a one-way ticket on SkyWest Airlines to the Monterey Peninsula Airport, departing four hours from now, onward transportation to be arranged.

Brandon had wrinkled his nose, but he knew better than to protest. He looked around for Major Ruysdael, who was holding his own orders and looking grim as usual.

“Well, Major, sir,” Brandon said, saluting. “I guess it’s been … educational.”

“Yee-ah.” He snapped off a return salute. “Keep your tail clean, Lieutenant.”

In keeping with Army practice, Brandon had turned then and run off down the concourse toward the SkyWest terminal. But once he was out of sight, he paused to think. The first thing was to let his family know where he was, because Ruysdael had put them all on “radio silence”—by which he meant no personal cell phone calls—as soon as they spotted the unexpected helicopter traffic above Camp Navajo. Nothing in Brandon’s new orders said his destination or assignment was secret, although he sensed he wasn’t supposed to explain too much to civilians. His father would understand that. So he called Leonard Praxis at the company number and was passed through by his administrative assistant.

“Oh, God, Bran! Are you all right? Was there trouble in Arizona?”

“No, Dad. It seems it was all some kind of weird mix-up.”

“The news makes it sound like we’re at war.”

“No, the thing was almost … cordial.”

“When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“What can you tell me?”

“I’m assigned to an army base up near Monterey for training. I’ll try to get in touch with the university and see what they’re doing about my exams. I hope I can join you at the firm by the end of the summer session, maybe.”

“As to that,” his father said, “well, you go ahead and fix up your degree. But, about your position with the company, I wouldn’t hurry too much.”

“Did you say, ‘Don’t worry’?” Brandon was confused.

“No, I mean, there’s no rush for you to join us.”

“Is there a problem? Now I
am
worried.”

“No, just some business wrinkles to iron out.”

“Can you at least tell me what’s going—?”

“Son, I have to take the other line.”

And the call had ended abruptly.

So Brandon Praxis flew up to Fort Hunter Liggett, nestled into the Santa Lucia Mountains. For the next month he led a platoon of forty-five infantrymen, fresh out of basic, on field exercises through the chaparral. His team was broken into three rifle squads and a weapons squad, each led by newly promoted sergeants and corporals, whom Brandon was required to train, inspire, and evaluate. They navigated by map and compass, by the stars, and by dead reckoning when the fog rolled over the mountains from the coast. They set ambushes against other platoons and learned to avoid ambushes in return. They ate Meals Ready to Eat, griped about them at first, and soon wolfed them down. They fired their weapons on the range—Brandon’s first practice with an M4 carbine since his initial year of ROTC, and his first ever experience with his officer’s M9 Beretta service pistol—and earned their marksmanship ratings, or not.

He was learning to be a soldier himself, and not merely an onlooker. He was learning to lead men and earn their respect, and that would be a useful skill to have in whatever career finally claimed him.

* * *

The separation papers came in the mail two days after the negotiation. Callista Praxis received them at the house in Sea Cliff, where she was staying with her father, as she usually did during her brief visits to San Francisco. She took the documents downtown to the offices of Bryant Bridger & Wells and reviewed them page by page with Antigone.

“It all seems to be in order,” the attorney said when they finished. “This gives you everything we asked for.”

“Except the apology,” Callie said—not that she much cared.

“Funny how they’d rather shed ten percent of the firm than admit an error.”

“Men! More ego than brains sometimes.”

“No, seriously,” Antigone said. “It makes you wonder.”

“Do you think they’re going to find a way to wiggle out of this?”

“No, the terms are ironclad. If your brothers balk, we’ll eat them alive in court. I’m just curious what else is going on that we don’t understand yet.” The woman stared at the documents with pursed lips. “Whatever it is, you’re free and clear, with a tidy fortune to boot.”

“I’d rather have my old job back,” Callie said.

Antigone shrugged. “Go buy yourself a company.”

“It still wouldn’t have the Praxis name on it.”

“Then start your own,” Antigone said.

The attorney called in her administrative assistant, Madeline, who was also a notary public. She witnessed Callie’s signature in five different places, affixed her seal, and handed the papers back.

“Do you want us to mail those for you?” Antigone asked.

“No, I want to throw them in Leonard’s face myself.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“Of course not.”

But she went down to Steuart Street anyway, because she still had to return her electronic building card and the keys to the trailer in Denver and to her company car, a leased vehicle she’d left at the airport. When she arrived at PE&C headquarters, neither of her brothers was available, but the security staff in the lobby directed her to the Legal Department on the thirty-fifth floor.

Winston Burke met her at the elevator, escorted her into his office, and received the documents. He inspected her signatures and the notary’s seal, countersigned in the appropriate places, and didn’t offer to have it witnessed or notarized. He handed Callie her copies in exchange for her pass and keys. Then nodded curtly.

“This releases my shares,” she said. “What happens to them while I’m waiting for the money?”

“They’ll go into escrow,” Burke said. “And when you sign for the receipt, they’ll either be redistributed to eligible members or sold to new board candidates.”

“Who decides that?” she wondered.

“The Board of Directors.” He shrugged.

She remembered that Burke was the company secretary. He served the board but was not a shareholder himself.

“Then I will expect your check,” she said and turned to leave.

“Um, let me call security to escort you to the lobby.”

“But I’m not going down to the lobby.”

“I’m afraid you must, Ms. Praxis,” he said.

“Then they can escort me to my father’s office.

* * *

John Praxis had made no arrangements with Callie that morning, but since it was her last day he expected she would come up to say a formal good-bye. It was odd, however, when the female Myrmidon from the front desk escorted his daughter, practically holding her by the elbow, through the door of the chairman’s office. He rose from his desk, came around it, and gave Callie a hug.

“You can go now, Pamela,” he said. “She’s not going to steal the furniture.”

The severe young woman nodded curtly and withdrew.

“You know she’s going to wait outside and take me to the elevator,” Callie said.

“Not my orders.”

“Burke’s, I think.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Him I can understand,” she said. “But what happened to Leonard and Richard? What did I ever do to them?”

“It’s a mystery to me, too.”

“At least this nightmare is finally over.”