5

Evan Ziegler hit the mute button on the television remote and gave his wife a quizzical look. She was standing at the end of the couch with her hand cupped over the mouthpiece on the cordless telephone. She did not look happy.

“It’s that East Coast client,” she said quietly. “Remember, Ben’s birthday is tomorrow.” She handed him the phone and disappeared into the kitchen. The sounds of pots banging and dishes rattling followed.

“Good evening, sir,” Evan said in a cheerful voice. “What can I do for you?”

“Hello, Evan, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.” The caller didn’t wait for a reply, just kept talking. “We’ve got a situation here, and I hope you can free up a few days. We’ve just brought on a new division in Richmond, and they need their new copiers immediately.”

“I’d rather not leave today if possible. It’s my son’s nineteenth birthday tomorrow. I could fly out after his party.”

“Tomorrow night is fine, Evan. When can I give you the details on the order?”

“I’ll make a quick trip back to the office. Be there in an hour. I’ll call you once I’m there.”

“Fine. I’ll talk to you then. And thanks, Evan.”

Evan clicked the talk button and the phone died. He hoisted himself off the couch and joined his wife in the kitchen. “I’ve got to make a quick trip to the office to go over a new order, but I don’t have to fly out until tomorrow night. After Ben’s party.”

Louise Ziegler smiled, released a relieved smile, and gave her husband a hug. “He’s a nice man, Evan. You’re lucky to have clients like him.”

He returned the smile and the hug, staring into her eyes from only a few inches away. His wife was aging, almost forty, but she still looked great. Her hair was deep brown and hung to her shoulders; she refused to cut it short, thinking that to do so was admitting middle age had set in. Her eyes were deep brown, with tiny wrinkles ebbing out from the edges and disappearing under her hair. Her skin was olive and her lips thin, but just right for the contours of her face. He kissed her, pushed off, and headed down the hall to his son’s room.

Ben Ziegler hadn’t moved an inch in the last couple of hours. In fact, he hadn’t moved in almost three years. Not since the day he had dived into the pond at Shilling Creek without checking first for submerged rocks. He grinned as Evan entered the room, one of the few movements his damaged spinal cord allowed.

“Hi, Dad,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much, just came in to say hi. I’m surprised you’re still inside on such a nice spring day.”

“Didn’t much feel like going out,” his son quipped back. “Couldn’t decide what to wear.”

Evan sat on the bed next to the wheelchair. He ran his hands through his son’s hair, gently massaging the scalp under the thick thatch of dark brown locks. The top of Ben’s head was the one spot he still had feeling, and he loved it when someone, especially his father, touched him there.

“I’ve got to head into the office for a while, Ben,” he said, kissing his son on the top of his head. “See you later.”

“Sure, Dad,” Ben said, grinning. “Remember, it’s my birthday tomorrow.”

“Yeah, son, I know. I’m here for you.”

He left the room, his teeth clenched and the tears ready to flow. His son, his only child, paralyzed. He fought back the tears, but they still came. His wife, knowing how he hated her to see him cry, kept her eyes on the cutting board as he walked through the kitchen to the garage door. He brushed the tears from his eyes as he backed the Audi out and shifted into first gear. He wound out the first two gears, then eased off the gas. His neighbors didn’t complain, but he knew they watched his driving with narrow eyes. He slowed at the corner stop sign, his emotions slowly coming under control.

Ben Ziegler had been the brightest light in a good marriage. Always a star athlete and top of his class in all the required subjects, Ben was touted as the one who would carve new paths in the business world. He was never without his patented smirk, a look that said he knew something no one else knew. Teachers adored him, classmates respected him, and the telephone was constantly ringing, girls giggling as they asked for him.

Until the accident.

Evan steered through the evening traffic, the Denver freeways their usual jam of vehicles. It was Wednesday, but that hardly mattered anymore. The streets were always busy; too many people, all in a rush. He glanced in the rearview mirror and looked into his own eyes. They were a delicate shade of blue, not deep or cold, but soft and understanding. His brown hair was receding slightly, but the high forehead suited him. And what hair was left was thick and wavy. He wore it slightly over his ears, but not what would be considered long. His face was chalky white from the long winter months, but a tinge of sunburn showed on his cheeks, the result of mowing the grass the day before.

A nondescript office condo appeared on the north side of the freeway and he took the off-ramp, reducing his speed and steering hard right at the first access road. The entrance to the parking lot was three short blocks down, and he pulled in, the only car in the lot. He switched off the ignition, slipped out of the car, and unlocked the door immediately under a sign displaying a couple of large photocopiers. The printing between the two pictures read Mile High Copiers. He locked the door behind him and slid behind the desk in the first office on the right. A picture of Ben in his high school jersey hung on the wall, and Evan felt the sadness again as his eyes swept over it.

An office phone with buttons for numerous lines sat on the desk, but he unlocked one of the desk drawers and lifted out a second phone. Its cord was attached to a black box about six inches square: a scrambling device. Evan dialed a longdistance number and leaned back in the soft leather chair, waiting for the voice he knew would answer.

“Are you on the secure phone?”The voice belonged to Bruce Andrews.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“I have a problem, Evan. One I need handled quite quickly.”

“Where can I pick up the package?”

“The Commonwealth Park Suites Hotel, in Richmond. It’s at the front desk under Brent Saunders.”

“Anything else?”

“Just that this person poses a very real threat to the direction I want our research to go. And if that happens…”

Evan’s voice was terse. “I read in the newspaper that you were scaling back on your biotech division—that your investment into brain chips was waning.”

“Don’t believe everything you read, Evan.” Andrews’s voice had gone cold. “Just get to Richmond and take care of my problem. Let me worry about getting your son out of that wheelchair.”

“You do that,” Evan said as the line went dead. He replaced the phone in its cradle, returned it to the drawer, and locked the handle. A solitary copier sat in the corner of his office: an old relic just for display. He walked across the carpet, opened the front access panel, and pulled on a colored handle. The copier’s guts slid out on a metal track. He reached in behind the array of gears and lenses and pulled on the toner tray. Inside was a package, wrapped in thick cling wrap. He set it on top of the copier and peeled open the wrapping. Inside were a passport, two credit cards, a driver’s license, and a large bundle of cash. He checked the identification, all of which displayed his picture and a different name, for expiry dates. Then he pocketed the ID and two thousand dollars. He phoned in a reservation on United Airlines from Denver to Richmond, departing Denver at 10:23 P.M. the next day, locked the outer office door, and headed home. Only for a brief moment did he wonder one thing.

What had this person done that they now had to die?