Hard Feelings (27 page)

Karen, at the reception desk, said that Jim Turner was with Bob in the conference room. My face was very sore and it hurt to move my mouth, but when I entered the conference room I still managed to smile.

“Jim,” I said. “Good to see you.”

I extended my hand toward Jim, then saw there was blood on it and pulled it back. Bob and Jim looked horrified.

“Sorry for my appearance,” I said, still smiling tensely. “I was just in a little accident on Forty-eighth Street.”

“No kidding?” Jim said.

“Yeah, a bike messenger hit me,” I said. “You know how crazy those guys are. Anyway, I fell down and got a little beat up, but the kid was in really bad shape. I stayed with him until the ambulance came—I think he’ll make it. But enough about me, let’s talk about your project.”

I started to explain how our company would go about integrating the new PCs and servers into Turner’s Linux network. I thought I was giving one of my better presentations, but after I’d been talking for only a couple of minutes Turner looked at his beeper and said, “Sorry, there’s an emergency at my office. I have to go.”

“Okey dokey,” I said. “Did you want to leave a check with us today?”

“No, that’s okay,” he said. “I’ll have to call you.”

“You sure?” I said. “Because if we just get the payment out of the way today, tomorrow morning we can—”

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

When Turner had left the conference room Bob said to me, “You’re fired.”

“Fired?” I said, stunned. “Why? It wasn’t my fault he got beeped.”

“It’s not because he got beeped.”

“Oh, you mean the blood on my shirt. I can explain—”

“Let’s not make this any more difficult than it already is. Just clear out your desk and we’ll send you your final paycheck in the mail.”

“Look, I know I’ve been acting strange lately, but I have a very good explanation.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“You don’t understand—you see, my wife is missing.”

Looking at me like he thought I was crazy, Bob said, “Missing?”

“Yes. The police are investigating—she may’ve even been kidnapped.”

“I really don’t want to hear any more of this,” he said. “I made my decision and that’s final.”

“You don’t believe me? Call the police and ask them.”

“Come on, Richard.”

“Is it because of Jim Turner’s account? I’ll call him right now and explain everything. I’ll—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“This isn’t fair,” I said.

“Fair?” Bob said. “I think I’ve been incredibly fair with you. I don’t think anyone else in my situation would have been nearly as fair as I’ve been. I’ve given you every opportunity to succeed at this company. We even opened the door for a possible promotion and it didn’t make a difference. You tell me you’re at appointments that don’t exist, you clock in late and leave early, you take two-hour lunches, you fall behind on all of your projects. If that’s not enough, you’re a suspect in a murder case, you show up here beaten and bruised with ridiculous stories. Then, today, Steve tells me you accuse him of sending you threatening e-mails—”

“Is that why you’re firing me?” I said, “because of what Steve said?”

“No, this has nothing to do with Steve, this has to do with you, Richard. I still think you’re a good guy, but you obviously have some problems in your life right now. If I were you, I’d take some time to solve them.”

“How could you trust Steve?” I said desperately. “He’s not a Jew!”

Bob was shaking his head.

“Just leave, Richard. Before I really start to get upset.”

At my cubicle, I gathered some personal items and put them in a box. I included a Zip disk that had information about my clients and prospects. Technically, I was breaking the law because I had signed an agreement when I started working for Midtown Consulting that all my leads and clients were the company’s permanent property, but there was no way I was going to leave empty-handed.

Word of my firing must have spread quickly, because I noticed how people were trying to steer clear of me. Carrying my box of belongings, I headed down the long corridor toward the exit, noticing the heads of several secretaries and other workers peering over their cubicles to watch my departure. They probably couldn’t wait until I was gone, so they could start gossiping about me—“Richard Segal was fired.” . . . “Did you hear the big news? Richard Segal was fired today.” Then after they left work they would talk about it over dinner— “Remember that guy I told you about, Richard Segal? You know, the one who was questioned about a murder? Well, he showed up today all beaten up, then he was fired. Yep, it’s true. And get this—now he says his wife is missing. Is there something really weird about that guy or what?” I even thought I heard one of the secretaries starting to giggle.

Then Steve Ferguson appeared, heading toward me. He must have left one of the offices along the corridor while I was engrossed in thought because I didn’t notice him until we were about five yards apart.

As we passed each other, he said, “Good luck, Richard,” in a typically backhanded way, with absolutely no sincerity. The next moment I had dropped the box on the floor and was charging him. I caught him by surprise and punched him on the back of his head. He fell to the floor on his knees. Secretaries were shrieking. I kept going, punching Steve’s head.

It seemed like a few seconds later I was walking fast along Forty-eighth Street, toward Fifth Avenue. Leaving the office and the building had happened in a daze. I couldn’t believe what I had just done. Not only had I beaten up an ex-coworker in plain view of an office full of witnesses, but I had left behind the box that included information about all of my prospects and clients. Now when I started looking for a new job I would have nothing to offer a prospective company. After the scene I had caused there was no way I could ever ask Bob or anyone else at Midtown for a recommendation. Knowing Steve, he was probably going to press criminal charges against me. That was all I needed in my life right now—more trouble with the police.

It was misting and the streets were wet. Crossing Fifth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street, the same intersection where I had originally spotted Michael Rudnick, I noticed a black Volkswagen bug passing by and I heard Rudnick Jr.’s voice in my head saying, “Confess . . . or else.” I wondered if I had made a mistake by letting Rudnick Jr. leave the bar without calling the police. Maybe he was as psychotic as his father and had kidnapped Paula and was holding her hostage somewhere. The way he had beaten me up definitely showed he had a violent streak. If I hadn’t been in such a rush to get back to Manhattan, maybe I could have found out where he was keeping her.

On Park Avenue, I spotted
another
black bug. This one was driven by a black guy with gray hair, but I thought that the man driving the first bug had been white. Then I spotted yet another black bug on Lexington. The driver of this bug was a young woman with straight dark hair. I ran across the street and banged on the driver-side window with my fists. The woman looked at me like I was insane. Then I heard Michael Rudnick’s teenaged voice say, “You’re gonna feel it! You’re gonna feel it!” Pounding on the windshield, I shouted, “Shut up! Shut the hell up!” The traffic broke and the woman drove away. I started to chase after her until I realized what I was doing. I returned to the sidewalk and stood under an awning, feeling dizzy and nauseous. A man asked me if I was all right and I screamed at him to get the hell away from me. I leaned over with my hands against my knees until I caught my breath, then I continued home.

I washed my face with cold water and soothed my sore hand with a package of frozen peas. My ribs and hands were still throbbing, but I didn’t think I had broken any bones.

There were no messages on my answering machine. I called the local precinct and left a message on Detective Himoto’s voice mail:

“Hello, this is Richard Segal. Check out a teenager named Rudnick in Cranbury, New Jersey. It’s a long story, but his father, Michael Rudnick, was murdered a couple of weeks ago, and I think he might’ve kidnapped Paula in revenge. Call me if you have any questions.”

I hung up, suddenly certain that Paula was dead.

Otis had been barking at me since I’d come home. I didn’t feel like locking him up, so I just ignored him, figuring he would shut up eventually.

I had a splitting headache and my knuckles were hurting again. I went into the kitchen to take a couple of Tylenols and to put the frozen peas back on my hand, when I noticed that Otis’s dish was empty. I hadn’t fed him since yesterday morning, which explained why he was acting so crazy. I took out a can of Alpo from the cabinet and opened the drawer to get the can opener. I started to close the drawer when I realized that something was wrong. I took deep breaths, trying to stay calm. But then I checked the dishwasher and the other drawers and I realized that there was no mistake—the butcher knife was definitely gone.

My mind was swirling with possibilities, but only one made sense—the police must have broken into my apartment and taken the knife as evidence.

I checked the front door, but there was no sign of a break-in. I called Raymond on the intercom and he said that as far as he knew no one had used the spare key.

Maybe Raymond was lying, covering for the police.

Frantically, I checked the drawer again, emptying everything onto the counter. I searched the entire kitchen, including the garbage, but there was no butcher knife anywhere. The police were probably testing it at a lab for Michael Rudnick’s blood. Maybe they had installed secret cameras in the apartment and were watching me. I checked the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room, but I couldn’t find a camera anywhere.

Suddenly, I remembered exactly where the knife was—it was in the bedroom, of course.

I went into the bedroom and started searching through the drawers in the dresser and the night table. Otis had followed me and he was barking like he was rabid, facing the door to Paula’s closet.

The closet was in the corner of the room, next to the bathroom, and I almost never went in there. I took a few steps forward and then I stopped, smelling a strange odor. It reminded me of when Paula and I had first moved to New York after college. We had lived in a run-down walk-up on Amsterdam Avenue and the landlord had put down mouse poison. Afterwards, there was a nauseating odor in the walls for months.

But this odor was worse than dead mice.

Otis was growling and Michael Rudnick was laughing as I saw Paula and myself fighting in the bedroom. I was drunk, threatening her with the butcher knife, shouting, “Where’s your lover boy?! Where is he?!”

Then, staring at the closet door, I heard Michael Rudnick saying, “You’re gonna feel it. You’re gonna feel it.” His voice was so loud and clear, it sounded like it was coming from inside my head.

“Shut up!” I yelled. “Shut up!”

But he continued—“You’re gonna feel it. You’re gonna feel it”—and then I saw Paula, scratching my face, digging her nails into my skin as I came at her with the knife. I had another flashback—seeing droplets of blood on the floor near the closet the other day. I’d assumed the blood had come from me.

I turned the knob slowly, opening the door a crack. An odor rushed out, so nauseating I almost fainted. Then I opened the door all the way and gagged. Paula’s bloated, upright body was facing me, wedged between the racks of clothing. The butcher knife was still in her chest and her wide-open eyes were staring right at me.

I stumbled backwards, falling away from the closet. Otis was barking louder than I had ever heard a dog bark. The noise was screeching, stinging my ears.

I rushed into the bathroom and threw up onto the floor. Then I returned to the bedroom, hoping that I had been hallucinating. But Paula was still there, with the knife in her chest and those cold, staring eyes.

Otis followed me down the hallway, still barking like crazy. There had to be some mistake—I couldn’t have killed my wife. Rudnick Jr. must have broken into the apartment somehow and killed Paula with the knife I’d used to kill his father. Or maybe Doug did it. Tuesday night, Doug could have come back to the apartment and stabbed Paula while I was passed out drunk.

I picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed 911. When the operator answered I realized that there was no way the police would ever believe that Doug or Rudnick Jr. had murdered Paula when I didn’t believe it myself.

“Hello?” the female operator said. “Is anyone there?
Hello.
”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly numb. “I’m here.”

“Would you like to report an emergency?”

“No, I’d like to report a murder,” I said.

“A murder?”

“Yes,” I said. “My name’s Richard Segal and I murdered my wife.”

I explained that the police could find Paula’s body where I had left it, in the bedroom closet, and then I gave the operator my address and apartment number. She wanted me to stay on the line with her until the police arrived, but I said I had to go.

I had a glass of cold water in the kitchen, then I went out to the terrace. It was still misting and there was a cool breeze against my face.

I climbed onto the railing and took a deep breath. I looked down at the spinning sidewalk and saw Paula waiting for me.