For Barton, the final straw came on a Friday afternoon. It was five days after he first started seeing Zeeb (who had yet to visit the bank) around town, ten days since the Dweller twins began their campaign of psychological terror against him, and almost four weeks since the city of Spokane Falls burned and Roslyn came to live in his home. This was the moment when the trouble he’d brought upon himself finally slipped from his control and he knew for certain he could not carry on with his life as it had been any longer.
It didn’t happen the way he’d imagined. Instead, it was a woman he did not recognize at first, standing in front of his desk like a person with normal banking business to conduct. She was small and slim, about his mother’s age. Her face was pleasant. But when Barton asked what she needed, she leaned in close and hissed, “I want more money,” with a voice he was certain must have come straight from hell.
This person before him looked nothing like the devil woman from his false memory, and did not sound like her either. But somehow he knew in his heart it was her. She seemed so familiar. He could not imagine who else it might be, this harbinger of evil.
“You don’t even know who I am, do you?” the woman said in her horrible voice.
Barton took this as further confirmation of his suspicion.
“Fuck you,” she said. “I’m only the person who’s been making you dinner for half a decade.”
So, then, not the devil. Instead, his cook.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t follow. You’re asking for a raise?”
“In a way, yes,” she said, and smiled.
In the past, Barton would have told her no and sent her quickly on her way. His father had always said one must take a hard line with the help. This was one of the few points on which the Heydale men had agreed.
But on this day, Barton felt he did not have the energy for the hard line. He wanted a quick resolution to this conversation and no trouble. Even though he now knew this woman was not the devil, she still made him very nervous.
He asked her how much more she would like.
“A thousand dollars,” she said without hesitation.
It was such an outrageous sum. All Barton could think to say was, “I believe that’s too much for a week’s meals.”
“I don’t want to cook meals for you anymore, you idiot,” the woman said. “I want you to give me a thousand dollars and then I’ll go away. Otherwise, I’ll tell about the woman in your house.”
Barton, dumbstruck, said nothing.
“No one’s supposed to know about her, right?” the woman said. “She’s not your wife. It’s a big secret.”
Someone had gotten to her, Barton thought. Asked her to do a little snooping on him, to see what she could find. How easy! Get his cook to spy; he’ll never suspect! And sure enough, she had information worth telling. But, crooked bitch, here she was, trying to get something extra out of the deal—a thousand dollars not to report back what she knew.
“And if I give you the money, you will keep this to yourself?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s the deal,” she said.
“What assurance can you give me of this? That you won’t just take your money and then tell anyway?”
The cook shrugged. “Can’t, I suppose.”
Barton stood up from his desk and went to the vault. He gathered the cash, counted it twice as he always did, and returned to his office. When the cook saw what was in his hands, she made no effort to conceal her pleasure.
“Just tell me one thing,” Barton said. “Who are you working for?”
The cook looked at him like she didn’t understand the question. “I work for myself. I always have.”
She took the money from his hands, put it into her purse, and left the bank. Barton sat in his chair for five minutes. He counted the seconds to make sure. He did not want to arouse suspicion by moving too quickly. What he would do, he thought, was go home and get a thousand dollars out of his walls and return it to the vault, covering the bank’s loss to the cook. It was fine. He would take it all back again later via his tried-and-true methods.
But as he stepped out of the bank, he saw, finally, something he’d been expecting for the better part of a week. Zane Zeeb was heading toward him, his gait showing the purposeful confidence of a man on the way to visit his bank, to check his ledgers, to make sure the business of business was well and sound after all.
Barton turned and ran through the bank and out the back door.
He realized he might as well have taken the rest of the cash in the vault for himself while he was leaving. But by the time he thought of this, it was too late. He was already sprinting toward home. Later, he’d regret this oversight.