The Aspen Account (43 page)

He kicked at the snow, trying to understand the breathtaking pain that seemed to take over his entire body. He could hear Lance’s footsteps moving on the ledge above, but the trees blocked his view. He forced himself to sit up, to focus his eyes on the surroundings. It was then that he realized he couldn’t move his left arm. A bullet had struck him just above the elbow. The second bullet had hit him in the side. Tears blurred his vision as he tried to stand up.

A crunching sound came from above the ledge, as he looked up in time to see Lance leap from the ledge and fall where Michael had first landed. But he didn’t slide down the slope as Michael had—landing feet first, he had postholed waist-deep into the snow. The gun slipped out of his hand and skittered on the crust, stopping just out of his reach.

As Lance fought to get free and snatch the pistol, Michael fought just as desperately to get to his feet before his attacker could get a clean shot. He got his feet under him and pushed against the snow mound, all but delirious from the shrieking pain in his body. He saw Lance’s hand grope outward and just miss grabbing the gun.
He’s getting close. Stand up. Hurry!
With a yelp of pain, Michael pushed harder with his legs, fighting to find the strength to stand.
Fight it,
he told himself, just as he had countless times as a collegian wrestler trying to grapple his way to another victory on the mat.
Stay focused. Fight the pain.
If there was one thing he had learned from his wrestling days, it was that no matter how tired or weak he felt, a burst of reserve energy, summoned at just the right moment, could make all the difference in winning a match. It was a lesson he had carried with him throughout his life, a personal credo now embedded in his very cells. The harder the struggle, the harder he always fought. With his back against the snow mound and his knees quaking violently, he stood up enough that he could topple over the mound. And just as he had found his stance, he looked back in time to see Lance pull himself far enough out of the snow to grab the gun. Michael turned sideways and leaned toward the abyss below, falling away from the snow mound and over the slope just as two bullets slammed into the snow where he had stood the second before.

He slid farther down the slope until it leveled out in a clearing. The pain had now receded as a worrisome numbness took its place. Blinking the tears away, he fought to his feet again and plunge-stepped across the open clearing a hundred feet below the first drop-off. He looked back briefly to search for the flashing lights of the police cars, but he had fallen and slid too far from the road. He was alone and could not expect them to find him in time to help.

As he moved through the open snowfield, his right hand pressed his side where the second bullet had gone through, while his paralyzed left arm hung loosely against his body. Knowing that to black out was to die, he concentrated to fight off the darkness collapsing his peripheral vision. He knew that if the darkness came all the way into the center of his vision, he would lose consciousness. A scraping sound behind him let him know that Lance was sliding down the slope in pursuit.

He could hear the low rumbling of the approaching helicopter, still too far in the distance to help him. The stinging cold was attacking his body without mercy. The warmth, along with his blood, was leaving his body. He was too weak to keep pressure on the wound. The bleeding from his side increased, dripping occasional drops of blood into the ground, where they were absorbed by the snow. He took a few more steps before falling to his knees in the center of the clearing. His gaze fell on a patch of snow directly in front of him, then became lost in a sea of sparkling crystals of reflected moonlight. Gravity seemed to be stronger now, pulling him earthward with a force he could no longer fight. Falling back into the snow, he lay unable to move as his eyes stared in wonder at the night sky. All the winter constellations his father had taught him as a boy were now hovering above him in the cosmos. Their familiar images brought back childhood memories of his father and him watching a meteor shower from the roof of their house.
Dad, I’m in real trouble. I don’t want to die just yet . . .
He was reminded of the full life he had lived. Orion, Canis Major, and the other familiar shapes had been with him his entire life, and now, strangely, they made him feel that he was not alone as he lay dying in the open field.

Then the silence was broken. Footsteps crunched through the snow, growing louder with each step, stopping when they reached him.

“You look just like Kurt did before he died,” Lance said, stepping over him and placing a foot on his chest. Then he raised the gun and fired a shot into Michael’s right arm. Screaming as the bullet tore through muscle and nerve, Michael now lay motionless in the snow with two paralyzed arms.

“I hear you used to be a star wrestler in college—wouldn’t want to give you a chance to try anything before I finish this.” As Lance said this, he sat astride Michael’s chest, one knee in the snow on either side of him.

“Your brother . . . was always the weaker . . . of you two, wasn’t he?” Michael said between short, panting breaths.
Conserve your energy,
he thought.
Save your strength
. . .
save it for one final burst.
“How many times . . . did you protect him . . . growing up? But then, you . . . couldn’t protect him . . . from me.”

With a screech of rage, Lance slammed the gun into Michael’s jaw. Michael’s head turned sideways as he spat blood and part of a tooth into the snow. Lance hit him again. Without the use of either arm, there was nothing he could do to defend himself.

“Look at me, you motherfucker!” Lance yelled. He grabbed Michael’s beaten face and forced him to look at him. “I told you to look at me. I want to see it in your eyes. I want to see the exact moment you fade out and die.”

Michael didn’t know how much longer he could stay conscious. His only hope was to get Lance to lean back far enough that his legs could reach him. If he wanted to live, he had to get him to sit up straight.

“Look at me,” Lance screamed, pulling Michael’s face close to his.

At that moment, Michael saw his opportunity. He tightened his chest and spat a mouthful of blood into the leering face. Repulsed, Lance leaned back. 

This was the moment—Michael’s only chance. His right leg whipped up over Lance’s shoulder, heel against his throat, pulling him backward to the ground. In the confusion, Lance dropped the gun. His neck was now between Michael’s knees, scissored around his neck, ankles locked. Squeezing with the last of his waning strength, Michael felt light in the head and knew that the strain was making him bleed faster. Lance scrambled desperately, kicking at the snow as his hands tried frantically to overpower the superior strength of the leg muscles choking him. Michael, meanwhile, fought to keep conscious long enough to squeeze the life out of his enemy. 

Finally, he felt Lance’s body go limp. He continued to squeeze as hard as he could for perhaps two more minutes, knowing that his exertions were surely hastening the blood loss from his own wounds. Finally, he felt himself growing too weak to continue. He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn’t obey. He could feel his life draining away. Everything was silent and dark and cold, and his mind began to drift. He was dying, and he knew it, but he was too weak to care. He could feel it coming now. Darkness, and with it, peace. 

Epilogue

DON SEATON WALKED through the beige marble entrance of the Brown Palace Hotel. Crossing the open atrium, he glanced up at the stained-glass skylight lofting a hundred feet above the cocktail lounge in the center of the lobby. After crossing the atrium, he entered the hotel’s historic Old Ship Tavern, one of the oldest Scotch bars in Denver. He stood at the far edge of the bar and ordered a Glenury Royal.

After taking a sip, he glanced at his watch. He was ten minutes early. Unfolding his copy of today’s
Denver Post,
he reread the front-page article updating the world on recent events at X-Tronic. It was the fifteenth installment in the developing story that had first appeared three weeks ago. The
Post
had allowed parts of the story to be picked up by the Associated Press for national distribution to other papers, and there was already building hype concerning a Pulitzer Prize for a young journalist named Sarah Matthews, who had written the articles.

Seaton had first heard of Sarah from Michael before the shareholders’ meeting. He had been told then that she was involved in investigating the fraud and was the most qualified person to report the actual events at X-Tronic. When she had contacted Seaton a few weeks ago, he generously invited her for a series of long, exclusive interviews to discuss all aspects of X-Tronic for her research. And thanks to a previous arrangement that Michael had made after the shareholders’ meeting, Sarah had also been provided with numerous contacts at the U.S. Treasury Department to report their involvement in the story.

As Seaton reread the article, he noted how concisely it detailed the events of the past three weeks. It noted how he had lost 80 percent of his net worth doing the buyback that prevented the company’s bankruptcy. Many were now calling him the new model for corporate responsibility, and a recent poll in
Forbes
magazine was voting him businessman of the year. The
Post
article went on to detail the challenges still facing the company. Now that both Don Seaton’s sons were dead and many top executives were to be charged with various crimes, the future of the company was uncertain. Confidence had been bolstered somewhat by Seaton’s announcement that X-Tronic would enter into a leveraged buyout of Cygnus International. Cygnus’s stock price had plummeted since the SEC had announced formal charges of fraud and insider trading against its CEO, Fredrick Kavanaugh III. Ironically, X-Tronic now found itself in a position to acquire the very company that had threatened to take it over only a few months ago.

Savoring the rich single malt, Seaton looked ahead at the work it would take for X-Tronic to survive the short-term fallout from the fraud. He knew he couldn’t do it alone. 

Outside, a man in a long cashmere coat handed his keys to the valet. At the heavy double doors, he carefully grabbed the brass handle before the doorman could react. With a grimace, he strained to open it.

“I’m sorry, sir. Let me get that,” said the doorman, rushing over to the man’s aid.

“No, please,” the man said, motioning him back. “I want to open it.” His breathing grew deeper as he strained against the door. After a brief delay, it gave way.

He strode through the lobby, arms hanging stiffly at his side, and entered the Old Ship Tavern to find Don Seaton reading a paper at the bar.

Looking up, Seaton said, “Michael,” with a warm smile. “Thank you for meeting me. How are the arms?”

Michael Chapman carefully reached out and shook the billionaire’s hand. “Still not a hundred percent, but my doctor says I’ll be arm wrestling in a couple of months.”

“That’s wonderful to hear. Well, should we grab a table by the window?”

Michael followed Seaton to the far side of the bar, where a row of tables and chairs lined a wall with small windows.

“You know,” Seaton began, “a lifetime ago I was a professor at MIT. I did a teaching sabbatical in Europe, and one thing I learned traveling through Russia is that it’s traditional there to drink while conducting business discussions—lovely custom, don’t you think?” He turned to the barman and twitched a finger to indicate the prearranged order. “Then again, Russians drink socially as well.”

“Which is this?”

Seaton looked at him, and beneath those hooded eyes Michael could see despair, the kind that could haunt a man after a great tragedy. Michael realized that the Scotch the barman brought for them was for neither business nor pleasure, but forgiveness—to forgive the father for the deeds of the sons. And in return, the father was offering his own forgiveness to Michael for the role Michael had played in the deaths of his sons.

“My sons have caused so much harm,” Seaton confessed, “I’m finding it difficult to show my face in public these days.”

Michael didn’t respond. There was nothing he wanted to say about the twins.

“I want to be level with you,” Seaton began. “I know that we’ve had difficulty because of my sons.” He pause a moment as if to reflect on the true weight of his words. “I don’t really know the best way to put this, so I’ll just say it plain: I was never close to the twins, but I had always hoped they would become the future of my company. I gave them the best education money could buy, and I tried to give them every opportunity to work their way into X-Tronic, with the hope that at least one—if not both—would one day take over the corporation.” He looked down at the table, as if, in the grain of its wood, he might discern some clue to where he had gone wrong.

“But they failed me, just as I somehow failed them. Now I am forced to move on. My company is at risk of losing more value than it has earned in the past ten years. And for the first time in my life I cannot see the future in it.”

“You still have a good company, with good products,” Michael said. “After the Cygnus merger, there’s no reason why X-Tronic can’t be ahead of its competitors and back on top of the industry in two or three years.”

“Yes,” Seaton said. “Right now the company’s reputation is the most important thing that needs fixing. X-Tronic will be going through difficult times these next few years, and I need strong leaders I can trust to guide it through the challenges it will face. Michael, I want you to be assistant chief financial officer at X-Tronic.”

Michael gaped at him in amazement. “Assistant CFO! Don, I’ve only been out of college for five years. You want to make me an assistant officer in a Fortune one hundred company?”

“Michael, I know your background. You had the second highest score in the country when you took the CPA exam your first time. You’re brilliant—a true financial wizard—and your experience in the Treasury shows you have the ethics and leadership this corporation needs. I’ve contacted an old friend, Peter Gerston, and he agreed to take over as the new CFO for the next two years. He was CFO at Sokie Technologies for ten years before retiring a year ago. He would be your mentor during these first two years. He’s a brilliant man and would teach you everything you need to know. At the end of the two years, he would step down and you would become the new CFO of X-Tronic. I’ll start your salary at two hundred thousand a year plus potential bonuses of three times that much. You’ll also get stock options that could be worth millions if we can successfully turn around the corporation.” He paused a second. “How old are you, Michael?”