With a tan leather briefcase dangling from his right hand, Harrison Schofield stood in front of a large chrome and glass desk that held a computer and monitor. The woman behind the desk looked at him with questioning yet sympathetic eyes. Her name was Valerie, but everyone called her Val. She was in her mid-forties and had mocha skin and short black hair. Her lips pouted at all times as though she had just tasted something sour and one of her arms hung in a sling, the result of permanent nerve damage from a car accident. She had been like that for as long as Schofield could remember, and when he’d been younger, he had sat in front of his grandfather’s office and
watched her type proficiently with one hand and a special keyboard. Behind her was a door with large black letters embossed on a gold plaque. It read Raymond Schofield, President.
“Hello, Val,” he said. “Is he in?”
Schofield already knew the answer to his question before she even opened her mouth. He had known that Raymond was scheduled to meet with a prospective client concerning a lucrative contract to provide security for sports stadiums that the potential customer constructed all over the world. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known the details of the meeting and had been forced to monitor the security gate from his office window for the entire afternoon. Then, fifteen minutes ago, he had finally witnessed his grandfather’s big Bentley pull through the gate.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Schofield. He just stepped out for a meeting. Can I help you with anything?”
“That’s okay. I have some papers for him. I’ll leave them on his desk.”
He took a step toward the door, but Val said, “You can just leave them here with me.”
Once, when Schofield had been a boy, the Prophet had picked him up by the neck and slammed him down flat on his back. The wind had been knocked from his lungs, and he hadn’t been able to breathe. He felt the same way in that moment as he fought for words and stammered at the older woman. The silenced .22 caliber pistol felt heavy in his suit jacket’s inner pocket. He liked Val. He didn’t want to have to kill her.
But then Val stood up from the desk, patted him on the arm, and said, “It’s okay, Mr. Schofield. Go on in.” She reached out and pulled open the big black door for him.
Once inside and with the door shut, he was able to breathe again. But he didn’t have time to truly center himself; he needed to be in and out. There was a massive family photo of Raymond and himself with Eleanor and the kids hanging against the back wall. It was an old cliché to have a safe behind a picture or painting, but it was also the best way to conceal it. The hiding place was more for aesthetics than for security. The safe’s protection came from its advanced features: a keypad requiring a fifteen-digit PIN number and a biometric palm reader that monitored ambient skin viscosity and temperature to determine duress.
Luckily, his grandfather had given him the PIN and programmed his handprint. He felt bad for betraying the old man’s trust, but he was also confident that if Raymond knew the dire circumstances, he would have given the money freely.
The safe slid open with a whirring of gears and the whoosh of a breaking seal. Val would be expecting him to be back out soon, so Schofield wasted no time in loading his briefcase and suit pockets full of the stacks of money that he found inside the safe.
He closed the briefcase and locked it, but as he stepped back toward the door, he heard the sound of sirens and screeching tires. Rushing to the window, the sight outside nearly stopped his heart. This couldn’t be happening now. Not when he was so close to escape. Black and white police cruisers with their light bars shooting out red and blue pulses converged on the office from several directions.
He thought quickly. He had planned for various circumstances such as this and had multiple contingency plans. After all, that was where his aptitude lay. Assessing the risks, calculating the variables.
Moving quickly to the door, he cracked it open and said, “Val, could you come here for a moment? I have something very important to discuss with you.”
Schofield wondered if he would have had the courage to do what he was about to do before he’d taken the souls of his last several victims. He didn’t think so, but self-preservation was always a strong motivator.
Val stepped inside and shut the door behind her. As she was turning back to face him, he pulled the silenced pistol and jammed it into her face. Her eyes went wide, and she froze in place. He had always heard that your life flashes before your eyes just before death. He wondered if Val was experiencing that now. Did she find happiness or despair in those memories?
Schofield said, “I’m a murderer, Val. The newspapers and television anchors call me the Anarchist. I’ve killed many, many people. I’m telling you this so that you realize that you don’t know me or what I’m capable of. But I know you. I know your family. And if you don’t do exactly as I say, I will kill you and every member of your family that I can find.”