Termination Man: a novel (62 page)

“I’m on my way,” I repeated. “I’ll be there soon.”

I didn’t take the time to explain that I wasn’t coming alone. Alan watched me as I disconnected the call. Over the past month or so, this man had been first my friend, and then my victim. Less than an hour ago, I had believed that he might be my killer. And now he was my friend again.

“I appreciate this, Alan,” I said—although
appreciate
didn’t cover it. Without Alan, I would have had to face an ex-felon who likely bore me a grudge with nothing more than poor Lucy’s paperweight.

The thought of the paperweight brought back memories of Lucy, of what we—
I
had done to her. As much as I hated to admit it, Alan’s reproach had been partially correct. I might not have killed Lucy; but she would be alive now if not for me.

“Sorry about Lucy,” I said. “I mean, really—had I known, Alan, I would never have—”

Alan held up one hand in a “stop” gesture. “Let’s let it go, Craig. Let’s take care of this tonight. We’ll talk about Lucy another time.”

Then my cell phone rang again. It was Claire.

“
What’s up between you and Shawn?
” she shouted in my ear. “He was supposed to take me out tonight, but he never showed! Then when I called him he started rambling on about you and that cleaning woman. He wasn't making any sense.”

Needless to say, I found it rather strange that Claire would call me for an explanation of Shawn’s behavior. But I was her boss, after all. And she knew that Shawn and I had been engaged in a two-man war.

“My guess,” I said, “Is that Shawn is on his way to Donna Chalmers’ house in New Hastings. And if I don’t get there soon, he is probably going to hurt two innocent people.”

“Shawn hasn't hurt anyone!” she countered. “He knows that you’re trying to entrap him for things that he didn't do. That’s all there is to it.”

“Claire, think about what you’re saying: Do you really thing that I’m trying to frame Shawn Myers for murder?”

“You entrap and frame people for a living, Craig. You’re the ‘Termination Man,’ right?”

I was momentarily taken aback. She had me there. Nevertheless, Claire was driven now by more than a desire to interpret my work in the most ironic and cynical light possible. I began to sense that Shawn Myers had come to symbolize something more for her—something that she had not found either in me, or her long-ago boyfriend, Jamie. Shawn was the man who would make her part of the establishment that she had hitherto been living on the fringes of. She had projected something onto him: a stability that she had never admitted—perhaps not even to herself—that she fundamentally yearned for. He was a man whom she could safely control; but he could also give her these things she wanted.

“Claire,” I said, my tone gentle now. “You need to let this go. However this ends, it is going to end badly for Shawn. You need to distance yourself from him.”

“You’re trying to destroy Shawn!” she shouted. Her words were punctuated by heavy static over the cell phone. “All because of your jealousy! Your male ego!”

“Claire. It’s nothing like that.”

“
I’m going after him!
” Claire said. “I can talk some sense into him.”

“No, you don’t understand, Claire. This isn’t like some routine dispute with one of our clients. This is life and death.”

“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t understand,” she shouted back.

And then she was gone.

Alone in her hotel room, Claire Turner attempted to steady herself. She was furious at Craig—and furious at Shawn, too, in fact. Why did men have to be such idiots? They were so territorial, and so easily driven into a state of blood-lust.

Craig and Shawn hated each other. That much was clear. A portion of their mutual hatred no doubt sprung from their shared desire of her, their male possessiveness. In this regard, the two men were alike.

But also different.
She knew deep down that Craig Walker regarded her as an object of sorts—a means to a certain set of ends. She was ambitious, and still (somewhat) young. Craig could therefore count on her willingness to work hard, and to make sacrifices in the interests of his firm’s clients. Her appearance also made her especially useful.
Hadn’t that middle-aged man—Alan Ferguson—thrown caution to the wind when he thought that he had a chance to possess her, if only in the form of a hurried coupling in a back room of the UP&S plant?
That had been too easy, really. An ordinary-looking woman could not have pulled that off. Ferguson had seen her, though, and his desire had overridden his common sense. 

And of course, Craig enjoyed sleeping with her. She knew that Craig had had many women, including some beautiful ones. But she also knew that she was more than simply a beautiful woman. Men were intimidated by her—not only by her looks, but also by her intelligence and her unyielding personality. To a man like Craig, these factors would make her an exceptional conquest.

Craig’s physical possession of her, she suspected, was less a sensual conquest than a conquest of ego and power. She was his employee, and therefore, she was
his
. She had not protested; in fact, she had gone willingly. This did not change the result, though: When she had begun to share his bed, her submission to her employer had been made complete.

What was between them was not love—each of them had said as much at various times. Their late-night couplings had been mutual power plays—him savoring her submission, her savoring his compromise of his professional principles. When she thought about it, she realized that it was good that she was not in love with Craig Walker. Theirs was not a match on which any form of a healthy, long-term relationship could be founded, whatever that was.

Shawn was different; and he had been different since the beginning. Despite Shawn’s placement on that fast track at TP Automotive, he became an awkward adolescent when he interacted with women. In this regard, he was nothing like Craig. Shawn was a man whom she could control. 

But Craig, in his desire to dominate her, could not leave her well enough alone. He was determined to ruin Shawn, and in so doing, ruin the opportunities that Shawn could provide her. The alternate life that she might have.

She had heard all of Craig’s allegations against Shawn; and she had heard Shawn deny every one of them. Like so many of the events that transpired in the factories and boardrooms where she and Craig worked, these incidents were open to interpretation. Claire had not been present at any of the alleged confrontations that Craig had described to her. And so in the absence of evidence to the contrary, she had given Shawn the benefit of the doubt. It was her right to do so.

Craig apparently believed that this was
not
her right. Her boss was an expert at manipulating events and people. She was not sure what Craig had done, exactly; but somehow he had manipulated the simmering conflict between Shawn and the cleaning woman into yet another confrontation. They were beyond the niceties of office politics and backroom maneuvering now. This was something that could turn very ugly—even violent.

Well, she had dealt with that side of the world before; and she had managed to handle it just fine. She supposed that she could face it again, if necessary.

She felt inside her purse to make sure that the pistol was still there—even though she had known that it would be. It was the same pistol that she had pointed at the face of Jamie Watkins, the boyfriend who had beat her. She remembered the power she had felt when she held the gun aloft at her suddenly frightened tormentor. She remembered what she had told him: She had said that she would put six holes in Jamie if he ever touched her again, and then she would reload and shoot him six more times.

We arrived at Donna’s house about ten minutes after my brief communication with Claire. I decided that Claire could wait, given the threat
s
that awaited
us
in the form of Nick King—and possibly Shawn Myers as well.

I came to a sudden stop in
the
parking space in front of the house.
In the next space up was
a Ford
pickup truck. It was an older model, its body marred by numerous nicks and scratches
. The
truck’s cab
was empty.

“Come on!” I shouted to Alan. I practically leapt from my car, wondering briefly if Alan Ferguson would be able to keep up with me. When I was halfway up the driveway, I risked a look over my shoulder: Alan was right behind me, his pistol held expertly in
both
hands.

I didn't bother with knocking. I flung the door open and burst into the house.

A gunshot. Then I felt plaster dust against my cheek.

Nick King was standing in Donna’s kitchen, his right arm outstretched and aiming a pistol in my direction. There was a jumble of other people in the kitchen with him: Shawn Myers, Donna, and Alyssa.

In the brief interval of time that followed, I acted on sheer instinct. I could feel the adrenalin surging through my body, the shock of being shot at beginning to register. I knew that had only seconds; a moment’s hesitation would be fatal for me or for someone who I cared about.

In the back of my mind, I wondered vaguely about Alan. He had a gun, after all. But since I had barged in ahead of him, there was no time to move aside and allow him to frame a clear shot. So I dug my right hand into my pocket and withdrew the dollar sign paperweight.

I aimed for the space between Nick’s eyes and threw the paperweight with all the strength I could muster. My baseball training paid off. My aim was true, and I heard a dull thud as Lucy’s brass dollar sign made contact with Nick’s temple. Nick was thrown back. He staggered on his feet, dropped the gun, and then collapsed noisily, falling against one of the counters before sliding to the floor. A spice rack and several miscellaneous containers crashed down with him.

Shawn Myers stepped out of the way as his hired muscle went down, felled not by a gun, but by a thrown projectile. I could discern by the expression on Shawn’s face that he could not believe that this was happening. I had a hard time believing it myself: My throw had been extremely lucky.

Alyssa and Donna screamed and moved to the rear of the kitchen.

“Shawn!” I shouted. “Come on out and talk to us! Get away from them!”

Shawn was in no mood for talking, though. He was now in an unfamiliar house with four people who were, from his perspective, very hostile. He gave Alan and I a quick, venomous stare. I noted that he had Donna and Alyssa boxed inside the kitchen. In order to escape, they would have to flee past him; and his size and reach would enable him to detain either one.

Before either Alan or I could react, Shawn knelt and scooped up Nick’s pistol. As he was standing, both Donna and Alyssa tried to run past him. Shawn threw himself into the young girl’s body. Alyssa fell onto the floor, her head colliding with a kitchen counter. He grabbed Donna by her hair and yanked her downward as well.

He was standing over both of them now, the pistol in his outstretched hands.

“
You bitches!
” he screamed.
“You think you’re going to get away with this? You think you’ve won?
Well, now you’re going to pay!
”

There was no denying Shawn’s intentions: He meant to kill them.

Then a deafening boom erupted beside me. Alan fired his pistol; a red blossom of blood erupted on Shawn’s chest. It was as if Shawn had suddenly been snagged by an invisible set of wires. He fell backward against the kitchen table, knocking it against the wall and scattering its chairs. Alan Ferguson, the former junior target shooting champ and ex-UP&S employee, had proved himself to be as good as his word with that gun. In that split second I realized that Shawn would not survive the gunshot wound, but I didn’t care: He had been pointing a loaded pistol at two unarmed women. There had been no latitude for negotiations.

Shawn dropped Nick King’s pistol behind him; the gun was no threat to either Donna or Alyssa now. When Shawn landed on the floor, his body was cocked at an odd angle against one of the toppled chairs. His white dress shirt was now soaked red; blood was starting to pool on the kitchen linoleum.

Nick King lay silent on the floor. Lucy had likely saved my life when she had given me the solid brass paperweight—a bitter irony that I could not bring myself to contemplate at the moment. I assumed that Nick was only knocked unconscious: this was yet another one of my guesses that turned out to be wrong. Shawn’s accomplice was already falling into a coma. He would linger on life support for another week before finally succumbing. His death would be ruled a justifiable homicide, as I had clearly acted in self-defense. After Lucy, his death would become the second death on my hands since I had come to New Hastings; and the day’s bloodshed as not yet over.

“We need to call the police,” Donna finally said. “I don’t trust them, but—”

There was no need for her to finish her sentence. Two men had broken into her home with the intention of killing her. One of them lay unconscious, and the other lay dead.