I hide in a cluster of people preparing to board a flight to Cleveland.
Just one more day. No, just a few more hours.
I stand on my toes, poke my head out of the pack, and look around, my eyes darting from face to face. And just like that, there’s Krista. No chance of mistaken identity this time; there’s no mistaking the silky red hair, the enormous brown eyes, the strong brow, and the slender figure tucked into the same faded jeans and pink T-shirt from last night. She’s weaving through the crowd at the next gate, fists clenched at her side.
Shit.
I duck and stay ducked, and when I realize how odd that looks I take a knee and slowly begin retying my shoelace. When I finally crouch up, wincing in pain, my head pulled in like a turtle, I feel the man to my left staring at me. I glance his way, return his smile, and nod. He’s older, maybe in his seventies, a big head of silver hair, a weather-beaten face, and moist eyes that sag but twinkle.
“You’ve been in a scrape.”
I peer through the throng and fail to locate Krista.
I return to him. “Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
“And not just one . . .” He inspects my face, going from the shovel mark on my forehead to my swollen nose to the fresh scratches and indentations across my neck and head. “But many, over several days. Am I right?”
I spread my legs wide to make myself shorter, and turn back toward him. “Yeah, well, I guess—”
“Hope you don’t mind me saying so, but it looks like someone shoved your face into a cage of feral cats.” He stops, looks away, and squints. “I actually knew a fella who had that happen to him.”
I place my hand over the cassette in my front pocket, squeeze it. “I wish it had been a cage of feral cats.”
“Are you sure the U.S. Marshals aren’t looking for you?”
I look around. “Redheads? Yes. U.S. Marshals, no.”
He laughs, settles on my bandages. “What line of work are you in, if I may ask?”
I lower my head a little, look behind me. No Krista. “High tech.”
He brightens. “You’re a man in the right business at the right time.”
I force a smile. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Who are you with?”
“FlowBid.”
“Well, I’ll be . . .” He straightens, ecstatic. “FlowBid.”
I look around, nod. “Yep.”
“I’ll have you know I put half my retirement savings into you guys the day you did your IPO.”
My heart sinks, and I swallow hard. “Wow.”
He’s beaming. “Yes, and you haven’t disappointed. My adviser tried like the dickens to talk me out of it.” He licks his lips, looks down, and squints at the memory. “But I’d read every word ever uttered about you guys, and it seems like you’re about as close to a sure thing as they come.”
“Well—”
“As long as that CEO of yours doesn’t get hit by a bus.”
I look away and chuckle.
“Do they take good care of him?”
“Huh?”
“Fitzroy. Your CEO.”
“Oh.” I scratch the back of my neck, flick a grain of sand. “Yeah.”
“I’m selling next year. The wife and I, we’re going to put it back into bonds and CDs. But we’re also going to give some of it to . . .” His voice softens. “. . . our granddaughter, Janie.”
I squeeze the tape box and try to look him in the eye.
“She’s worked her tail off, and the wife and I think she deserves to go to college.”
My eyes closed, my voice cracking. “You’re a good grandfather, sir.”
“She wants to be a nurse.” He nearly hums. “You know, truly help people.”
Another sock in the gut, the worst yet.
I open my eyes, force myself to meet his gaze. “You must be proud, sir.”
“Well . . .” His eyes water. “I’m telling you . . .” His own voice cracks. “. . . she’s a special girl.”
I take another knee, pull my other shoestring loose and retie it. The tape box in my pocket feels hot and heavy, but I know it’s in my head. With every second, it becomes increasingly clear. The more I think about the man standing beside me, think about the hundreds of thousands of people just like him, people who’ve trusted us with their savings, their retirement, their blood-sweat-and-tears money, people whose futures truly hang in the balance, the more nauseated I get.
Fitzroy’s right; I’ve become an asshole.
My heart begins to pound.
Because I can’t ignore it any longer.
I know what I must do.
The longer I wait, the harder my heart pounds.
Get up and move.
I take a step toward the restrooms, find myself light-headed.
God, I’m gonna faint.
I stumble, grab hold of a seat.
Please don’t let me throw up.
I take a few more steps, grab on to another seat.
A woman’s voice says, “Sir, are you okay?”
I’m floating into black.
“Sir, do you need help?”
I’m panting. “Yes.”
“You need to go to the restroom?”
Cold sweat. “Thank you.”
Then, off in the distance, I hear Krista.
“STOP HIM!”
I say to my guide, “Please help me.”
“It’s okay, I’m right here with you.”
Krista’s voice is closer. “HEY, STOP HIM.”
“Here you are, sir. Just follow this wall, and it’ll take you right to the restroom.”
I squeeze my guide’s forearm, nearly cry. “Thank you.”
“Hey,” Krista says, much closer. “Don’t let him go in there.”
I feel my way inside the restroom and slam into a stall door. Someone inside yells, “Hey.” I sidestep along the row of stalls until I find an open door. I slip inside, shut the door behind me, and latch it. I lean against the side wall and screw my eyes shut, hoping my vision will return when I open them.
“Dude.” Krista’s in the men’s room, breathless. “Dude, you’re not getting out of here with that tape.” I can hear her pacing in front of the stalls; there must be ten or twelve of them here, and she has no idea which one I’m in. “I’m going nowhere, dude.” Her cell rings. “Hey, I found him. He’s hiding in a stall in the men’s room. What? No, near the E-gates.”
I open my eyes, and finally I can see a little. I fumble with my cell, squint hard at the screen. My thumb trembles as it taps through my phone book and stops at High Rider. I press Call.
He picks up immediately, says, “Where are you?”
A stall door opens. A man says something to Krista, who tells him to fuck off.
“It’s over,” I whisper.
Long silence. “You said to meet at the Galleria.”
“You’re not getting the tape.”
Silence.
“Have you thought about this?” I say. “Have you really thought about who this would hurt the most?”
“Fitzroy,” he says. “When it hits the Internet, that tape will put an empty, narcissistic, greedy man in his place.”
Krista is outside my stall, rattling it. “Dude, it’s over.”
“So that’s what this was all about, then? This whole thing? A big slice of revenge against the man who laid you off?”
Hard kick against my stall door.
High Rider is silent. Finally, he says, “Call it karma.”
I feel the saliva pooling in my mouth. “I’m opting out.”
His voice tightens. “Then you’re not getting your options. We’ll send your correspondence with BusinessWeek to the board of directors, your amorous IMs to all of FlowBid.”
Another hard kick.
“You don’t have to send the IMs.”
“But I will.”
“She’s married, you know? That woman? She’s married.”
“Her name’s been removed. God, you’re an idiot.”
A huge sigh of relief. “Plus, my wife knows. Cut that problem off at the knees.”
“Nevertheless, titillating reading for your colleagues.”
“I swear, when I find you, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”
His voice weakens. “There’s still a chance. You don’t have to do this.”
Hard kick. The door buckles.
“I’m flushing the tape, asshole.”
“No.” His voice tightens. “Don’t. Please.”
Another kick, and the door gives. Krista pushes in a little, grunts, “Stop.”
I reach into my pocket, pull out the tape. “Listen closely.”
Another kick, and the door teeters and rotates on its bottom hinge.
Someone says, “Hey, cool it.”
Krista reaches over the door and swipes at the cassette. My hand trembling, I drop it into the toilet and look at it a second before I wave my hand over the sensor. Water rushes in, and the cassette circles the bowl twice before rocketing down the hatch. I hold my cell over the toilet.
Krista watches, yells, “YOU . . . FUCKING . . . ASSHOLE.”
I’m sniffling.
High Rider sounds like he’s about to cry. “I’ll have them send out your items now.”
I end the call, fall to my knees, and vomit into the toilet as Krista scrambles over the door, lands on my back, and drags her nails across my face one last time.