The corporate headquarters of Schofield Security Associates sat on a corner lot nestled among shopping plazas, chain stores, and fast-food restaurants just across the Indiana border in a town named Highland. It was only forty minutes from downtown Chicago, fifteen from the Gary/Chicago International Airport, and ten from Briar Ridge Country Club where Schofield’s grandfather liked to play golf. When the site was chosen, they had been one of only a few companies in the area, but the urban landscape had expanded around them. It was a massive slate-gray metal-and-glass-covered structure. One end of the building was rounded like a sports stadium and had always vaguely reminded Harrison Schofield of the ancient Roman Colosseum. His grandfather, Raymond Schofield, had paid an architectural firm from Los Angeles an exorbitant amount of money to design the monstrosity. As Chief Financial Officer, Harrison had been opposed to the project from the start, but it had been his grandfather’s dream.
Raymond Schofield had founded SSA in the 1970s and had built it into a world-renowned consulting organization with operations covering ninety cities in thirty states and employing over seventeen thousand workers. They provided security for every type of industry and situation including financial, manufacturing and industrial, retail, and residential.
Schofield pulled the Camry up to the security gate and swiped his ID card. The white automated reinforced fencing slid open to allow him to pass. The parking garage occupied two underground levels below the rounded side of the building and was used only by SSA personnel.
He parked in his designated spot and shut off the car’s engine. The company had its own motor pool and a fleet of vans used by on-the-ground installation teams. A man named Rick Mortimer was in charge of the maintenance and assignment of the company vehicles. Mortimer’s office, positioned next to the elevator, had an open window where employees could drop off or pick up keys for their assigned vehicles. As Schofield stepped from the Camry, he could feel Mortimer’s stare drilling into his back.
Heading toward the elevator, he passed the window to Mortimer’s office. Mortimer was handsome with a full head of perfectly coifed salt-and-pepper hair and chiseled features. If someone had replaced the blue and white coveralls and name tag with a tailored suit and a power tie, Mortimer could have passed for a Presidential candidate. But that morning, he wore a scowl.
Schofield smiled in at the older man and said, “Is everything okay?” But he tried not to make eye contact.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Umm, I’m … not sure what you mean?” Schofield felt himself shrinking away and fought the urge to run.
“I guess I’ve just been wondering why you’ve been using one of my vans. And someone stole a set of our coveralls and a name tag. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
He was on the verge of hyperventilation now. The concrete walls of the garage were caving in around him. “I haven’t … I just … Well, maybe once.”
Schofield had once watched a Discovery Channel program with his kids on the fight-or-flight instinct. He had identified most with the opossum. When it saw danger, it played dead, ignoring the threat and hoping for it to go away.
Choosing flight rather than fight, he shuffled away from the window and tapped furiously on the button for the elevator. It dinged, and the doors slid open. In a sharp and quick rhythm, his finger pressed against the button inside to close the doors. From the garage, he was fairly certain that he heard Mortimer’s voice say, “Freak.” He agreed. He was a freak. But maybe he wouldn’t always be one.
He got off on the third floor and walked past rows of cubicles and along corridors lined with glass-fronted offices. This was always the worst part of his day. He had tried to convince his grandfather to allow him to work remotely from home, but Raymond had felt that social interaction would do Schofield some good. His grandfather didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Trying not to make eye contact with anyone and hoping he could avoid drawing attention to himself, he made it to his office after having had to give only a few nods to various co-workers and his secretary.
Closing the door behind him and dropping his black leather briefcase on the floor, he released a deep breath and bent forward with his hands on his knees. Luckily, his grandfather had agreed to give him a private office and his own bathroom. Work started at nine, but he usually arrived at least an hour late in the mornings to avoid the foot traffic and make sure that everyone else was already pounding away at their desks. The evening was easier. He could wait until the others had gone and avoid them entirely.
As he tried to calm his heart rate and breathing, he walked around the spacious office. It was all white and chrome and glass in what the interior designers had called modern art deco. The only items that he had supplied were the photos and awards that lined the shelves along one wall. The photographs were mostly recent pictures of his family. Only two were from his childhood. One was of his mother. The other was a nature shot taken from a bluff near the cult’s compound in Wisconsin. It was filled mostly with trees. Maples, ashes, junipers, balsam firs. But it also showed a rocky slope and a small creek. It had been his special place.
Sneaking away from the compound as a curious child, he had spent a lot of time at that spot. He had imagined the woods as his own little kingdom where he could escape from people, their stares, their mumbled words behind his back. It was the site of his first kill. The place where he had taken his first soul and discovered the strength that it gave him.
Another boy who had always been especially cruel to and jealous of him had followed Schofield into the woods. The boy teased him and pushed him down. They struggled and rolled around in the dirt of the forest floor. Then the boy’s struggling ceased. His head had struck a rock and the back of his skull had caved in. Schofield sat atop the boy, staring into his eyes as his life drained away.
The Prophet had been proud of him.
A knock on his office door drew his attention back to the present. His grandfather came in. Raymond was tall and muscular with white hair and a thick beard. He cast a powerful shadow. His voice was deep and commanding. “Hello, my boy,” Raymond said warmly as he stepped inside and slapped Harrison on the back. His grandfather had always been good to him. After all, his mother was Raymond’s only child, and Harrison his only grandchild.
Raymond stood next to Schofield in front of the wall of photos. Picking up one of the shooting trophies displayed there, he said, “We should go to the range sometime, maybe at lunch. I’ve got a new Remington twelve-gauge that I’ve barely touched. Or maybe just cut out and do a full-blown hunting trip. We could take Benjamin with us.”
His boy’s dark dreams of death filled his head. “I’m sure he’d love that.”
“Good. I’ll start checking into it. We could do Wyoming this time, or would you rather head back to Canada?”
“Either way.”
A pregnant silence filled the room. Schofield could sense a question on Raymond’s mind. Finally, his grandfather said, “Where were you yesterday?”
Schofield said nothing, and Raymond added, “How is she?” His voice was soft, and sadness filled his eyes.
“About the same.”
“I think it’s wonderful the way that you still care for her and visit, despite all she’s put you through. I can’t imagine. You have a good heart, Harrison. I should go more myself, but it’s just …”
“Difficult.”
“Yes. I’m so sorry for all that happened to you when you were a boy. If I …” Raymond placed a hand on Schofield’s shoulder and looked down at the black and white photo of his mother hidden among the others. She wasn’t smiling. Her eyes were distant and sad. “Your mother was always unstable as a girl. Still, it was the darkest period of my life when she ran away. But it was also the happiest day of my life when you came back to live with me.”
Raymond cleared his throat and checked his watch. “I’m late for a meeting, but I’d rather be going on a hunting trip. I’ll make the arrangements. Maybe we could take Ben to the range this weekend to get him ready.”
“That would be great.”
As Schofield watched his grandfather leave, he knew that he should have felt great joy at Raymond’s words. But he felt nothing, just an anxious, hollow pain. He looked out the window and thought of his past—his mother, the compound, the Prophet—and his future—Eleanor, Alison, Melanie, and Benjamin. His grandfather’s words came back to him. You have a good heart, Harrison. But he didn’t. The evil twisted and clawed through his heart like a cancer, and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t deny it. He had betrayed everything and everyone he loved.
In a sudden fit of anger, he swept all the papers from the top of his desk. Annual reports, earnings statements, stock profiles. They all struck the floor and scattered everywhere. He stared down at the mess and sighed. Feeling foolish, he started to re-organize the documents back into neat stacks.