ARE WE MONSTERS?

By Rollin Miller

Copyright 2019 Rollin MillerAll rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer whowishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

Are We Monsters?

Chapter 1

If you were to hop in your truck and take off in any direction in this desert, you would be hard-pressed to find more than a dozen or so people you might be tempted to call your neighbors. But don’t get too close as it is doubtful that many of them would be neighborly. Those you come across would be living in dilapidated conditions, lean-to buildings that were not that way by design, and decades-old tin can trailers. Their colors are burned away by the unrelenting sun, garnished with window treatments of makeshift curtains cut from old bedsheets flapping in the hot breeze, unhindered by broken panes.

At least that’s what it’s like in the desert surrounding Ridgeway, Nevada.

Whether neighborly or not, those who live there, or at least most of them, arrived on the scene through no fault of their own, that is to say by birth. But the fact these neighbors decided to remain once they had the means to do otherwise is a head scratcher and rests squarely on them.

Apart from these scant few neighbors, the desert appears to be lifeless as if staring across the vast terrain of a pockmarked and desolate moon. But a barren appearance does not necessarily make it so. Kick a few bushes, overturn some rocks, or crawl below the underbelly of an abandoned pickup truck and life will eventually look you in the eye. Sometimes getting that close was a mistake, the fatal kind.

Sheriff Tom Woods rarely made such mistakes. Being one of those who chose to remain when everything inside of him was wondering what the hell he was doing, he learned from an early age to respect the desert and what lived in it. He rarely went poking around, doing so only when he had to.

His increasing familiarity with the desert caused him to pay little attention to it though he was always aware of its presence and maintained respect on what it could do to a man. He just kept things in perspective and survival equipment in his trunk because you never know.

Four months out of the year, the heat was so unforgiving that it was impossible for anyone to ignore it, himself included. Today was one of those unignorable days, loitering in the middle of the summer as he drove the highway in his cruiser, his mind wandering snow-capped peaks, white sand beaches and deep, cold water lakes, the best kind for swimming.

Those well-exercised thoughts were routinely brought out during those four months of hell, but they never traveled alone. Snow and water were always joined by the questioning in his mind as to what in the hell he was doing out here day after day, snaking down this blistering highway chasing mirages?

Reaching for his handkerchief, the sheriff slipped off his drugstore sunglasses and dropped them in the hot vinyl seat next to him. Pressing the hanky to his face, he dabbed the sweat from his forehead, probing deeply into the sunken areas around his eyes. While the desert sped by his thoughts shifted to being home, stripped down to bare necessities, splayed out in front of a floor fan, a frosty brew in his hand.

It was already the third time today that his mind played out that particular thought, the first time just after the mercury marched north of 110. It probably wouldn’t be the last.

Moving to the back of his neck, he sopped the sweat which had not yet soaked into his collar as best as he could before shaking the cloth and draping it over his knee to dry. Picking up his sunglasses, he heldthem up for a closer look, grunting in annoyance at the moisture-laden lenses, the right one smeared with a partial print. With no good way to clean them, he reluctantly tossed them back on the seat.

The glare of the sun bouncing off the hood of his cruiser was annoying and highlighted the ineffectiveness of his visor. Squinting when he had to, his eyes grew tired. It was a mesmerizing effect of long hours on the road which when combined with the steady drone of tire tread on asphalt that hummed like a one-note lullaby, nearly put him to sleep.

Fighting his drowsiness he switched on the radio, turning the tuning knob as he searched for anything resembling “classic” and “rock” as long as the two combined into the same song. He ran through the full range of frequencies like a baler cutting hay which was generally a waste of time in this section of the county, both for growing fodder and finding anything worthwhile to listen to.

Nothing he found on the radio gave him any hope. The only sounds coming out of his speakers ranged from a gentle beehive hum to a gritty power line static with a little political poison thrown in for good measure.

Frustrated, he turned it off, cocked his hand and punched the steering wheel with the heel. Aimlessly humming as his mind rolodexed through his long list of favorite songs, he finally settled on rockin’ highway song that fit the moment and his mood perfectly.

The road coiled and struck like a snake, rising and falling over the rolling desert ground. The sheriff's hands choked the steering wheel as he maintained his speed, rushing by a particularly dangerous section of highway, adorned by sun-bleached crosses and dried flowers. Adrenalin coursed through his body, shocking him awake as he pushed the cruiser faster.

His humming grew louder through another set tension pumping road curves, giving way to the familiar lyrics in his head as he began to sing, something he would never do if anyone else road in the car with him. His head bobbed, and shoulders swayed to his off-key singalong. It didn’t last long.

“Sheriff, this is base. Come in.”

He smiled at her “this is base” as if he or any of his deputies couldn’t figure that out. He continued to sing, leaving her to sit at the radio back in town as he finished his song which didn’t quite happen as hismind went blank, forgetting the last two or three lines. So much for familiarity. Taking note of the times, he grabbed the handset to the radio. “I’m here Carla.”

“Sheriff, Grady Wellman just called, and you know how he can be. Well today, I can honestly say that he sounds even stranger than he normally does. Rattled is probably the best way I could describe him. Anyhow, he asked that you hightail it over to the restaurant as soon as you can."

“Hightail it, huh?” the sheriff said.

“His exact words.”

Grady had always been a bit of an odd one, that much was certain. Letting up on the gas, he started looking for a spot to turn around. Learning a long time ago to pay close attention to Carla whenever shewas sizing up a person or a situation, he knew something was up.

A bead of sweat swelled on his forehead and hung on for a few moments before cascading down along the ridge of his nose, hanging on the tip for a little bit longer before taking the high dive onto his upper lip. Any hope of heading home early and spreading out in front of a high-speed fan wearing nothing buta thin set of skivvies with a bottle of beer in his had was already starting to slip away as he fiddled withthe air conditioning controls for the hundredth time. The AC was barely alive.

“Did Grady say what it was about?”

“Only that some odd little thing of a girl had shown up in the café.”

Slowing further, he eased the cruiser to the side of the road. He could feel several new beads of sweat on his forehead ready to slide. Reaching up, he wiped his face with his shirt sleeve as he stared out the window, looking where the carpet of desert brown met the base of the mountainous gray giants.

“What was odd about her?” he asked.

“He said that she looked shabbily, which shouldn’t come as much of a surprise since she apparently walked out of the desert in her bare feet. Oh yes, and he said that he couldn’t understand a word she was saying.

After a quick look in his mirror, he spun the wheel and pulled back out on the road in the direction of town.

“I am headed there now,” he said, his speed climbing. “I’m about twenty minutes north of Traveler's, just south of the dry wash but I will get there are fast as I can. Is Shelly in the office?”

“She’s pouring herself a cup. Hang on, and I’ll get her.”

“No need. Just tell Shelly to get over there. And call Grady back. Find out if anyone called an ambulance.”

“He did.”

“Good. If the girl gets transported to Desert Community before I get there, tell Shelly to follow them over to the hospital and let me know.”

“I will.”

Releasing the handset switch the sheriff took a deep breath, his mind in overdrive. Gripping the steering wheel, he braced his arms, pressing him back into the hot and sweaty seat as he pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The cruiser’s engine roared, pushing the speedometer needle even higher.

The sun beat down on the exposed skin of his arm making him wish that he had worn a long-sleeved shirt as he looked out the window in the sun’s direction, squinting and turning away as the brilliance of the orb forced his eyes into a hasty retreat. Grabbing his now dried handkerchief for another pat down

he stared at the empty road racing toward him thinking about what Carla said to him, having no real reason to be in such a hurry, and yet here he was, erasing the speed limit as he put his lights on.

She walked out of the desert?

By the time the sheriff pulled in and parked at the Traveler’s café the ambulance had already left for thehospital with his deputy close behind. Inside he found Grady, nervously wiping down the countertop, talking too fast even for him.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes Grady. I’m going to talk with your employees and anyone else that was here when the girl came in,” the sheriff said, hoping that his presence and a few minutes alone would help to calm Grady’s nerves. Grady merely nodded, turning his back as the sheriff spoke first to the waitress and then the cook.

When he finished with their statements, he turned his attention to the only customers in the place, a young couple who were on their way to Reno to get married. They were pleasant and willing to help, telling him everything they saw and heard. It didn’t take very long to get through their story which added little to what the sheriff already knew. Thanking them for their cooperation, he turned his attention to Grady.

The sheriff invited him to sit down where they could have a quiet talk and a pitcher of much needed iced tea. Grady offered little eye contact, his hands continually fidgeting as he sat there. The sheriff did his best to calm him down and took his statement, which was consistent with what the others said. Gulping down the last of his drink, the sheriff slipped his notepad into his pocket and got up to leave.

“Now Grady, if you think of anything else you give us a ring, okay?”

With a not-so-well-disguised grunt, Grady pushed his girth out from the tight booth and stood up. With his rag in hand, he walked behind the counter, picking up where he left off with his wiping. He still looked shaken, and the sheriff was reluctant to leave. “Do you need for me to call someone?”

Grady looked up, his hand still wiping. “I’m fine,” he said with a less than convincing smile. “I’ll call if I think of anything else.”

Stepping out, the sheriff let the screen door behind him as he turned to take another look at Grady. “Something about this girl really shook him up,” he thought.

Leaving the relative comfort of the restaurant with its whirling ceiling fans, indoor shade, and iced tea, Tom was jolted by the heat as he walked over to his car. When he pulled in earlier, he parked in the only available patch of shade, cast by the waving hand of a cartoonish character wearing a floppy cowboy hat that made up most of the Traveler’s sign. Tall enough to see for nearly a mile in either direction, the cowboy invited weary travelers to come on in and sit a spell and order up something fromtheir menu. Their self-proclaimed fame was the world’s best half-pound burger.

Whether or not it was the world’s best burger, the sheriff didn’t know, but it was pretty good. If he had more time, he might have stayed for lunch, but he needed to get going.

The patch of shade that covered most of his windshield when he arrived had long vanished. All that was left could barely be called a sliver, offering no help in staving his car from turning into an oven. Ashe slid in behind the hot steering wheel, he reached for his phone, which like most everything else in Ridgeway County was behind the times.

While it was cellular, his big button flip phone was anything but smart. There was no bright screen withneatly arranged buttons—icons as Shelly called them. It didn’t have any internet access, and there wasn’t any GPS feature, though he had to admit, but only to himself, that having GPS might come in handy one of these days.

But all smartness aside, it did the job and was easy to use. And Tom Woods was all for 'doing easy' as he put the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Shelly,” he said, having never gotten used to calling her or any of the others deputy.

“Sheriff.”

“I just finished talking with Grady, his employees, and a young couple who are on their way to Reno to get married. They all provided me with a consistent description of the girl, her clothing and her bare feet. They also all stated that they couldn’t understand what the girl was saying except for one word.”

“God,” Shelly said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he said.

“We just got here at the hospital, and from the moment we arrived, it’s been like opening a spigot. The girl has been really wild-eyed, her head on a swivel as they wheeled her in on the gurney, crying God, God, God. Pretty nerve-wracking.

“They have her in an exam room, and it sounds pretty quiet out here in the hallway. Hopefully, she’s calmed down.”

There was an uncomfortably long pause on the phone. “Are you still on the line sheriff?”

“Yeah,” he answered, sweat pouring down as he sat in his car, baking in the heat. Pulling the door closed, he started the car and turned on the air conditioning, smacking the console as if to intimidate theAC into giving him some cold air. It didn't work.

"You think she is part of some strange cult?" she pressed.

"Not a clue at this point," he said, as he reached over and picked up his sunglasses. Too hot to wear, he popped open the glove box and tossed them inside.

“What I do know is that a lot of strange things go on out there in Nevada's no-mans-land."

“I know,” she sighed, “but sometimes I don’t want to know—if you know what I mean.”

He did, and for the most part, felt the same way. Looking over his shoulder, he started backing up. “I’mleaving Traveler’s now and heading for the hospital."

"We'll be here," Shelly said. "It shouldn’t be too long until we know something. Of course, it doesn’t help with either the doctor’s examination or our investigation if no one can understand what she’s saying. But—"

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing I can put my finger on. It's just that there's something about the language the girl is speaking. About her."

“I’m listening,” the sheriff said as he pulled out on the highway.

“Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought I was a little crazy, but I think she understands me when I ask her questions—something in her eyes. Whatever is going on, she might be hiding behind it.”

"You might be right," he said. "Hopefully, once the doctor clears her, we'll be able to get to the bottom of all of this and figure out her identity."

"I took her picture and sent it over to Kelsi. He's running it through missing persons for anyone matching her description."

For a split second, he wanted to ask her how she was able to do that. Then he remembered her phone was a lot smarter than his and was thankful that he kept his mouth.

“Good thinking,” he said, speeding to the hospital suddenly aware that he was starting to feel comfortable. Putting he hand over one of the AC vents, he was surprised to find that cool air was coming out. “Since we are waiting for the doctor to finish up his examination of the girl, I’m going to stop by and see Duane. I want him working with Kelsi on this, checking with other counties and the Nevada Highway Patrol. She could be a runaway, or maybe she walked away from an accident.”

"I'll stay here at the hospital and keep you posted," Shelly said.

"See you soon," the sheriff said, smiling as the cold air gave him a shiver.

For anyone to become successful in business, they must by necessity have strong and loyal people at their side. There are many other valuable attributes, some of which would be of vital importance to certain organizations, particularly those who walk with one foot in the light and the other in the darkness.

Dorman Mellor handily met the first two requirements of strength and loyalty, but it was the darker aspects of his walk that his employer, Kurt Hollenpege found so indispensable. Dorman, Cage Balcor and the rest of the team made good time. The highway was mostly empty of traffic in early hours when they left the NeosGen complex in Redding, California, driving to the beacon’s location in what looked like nowhere-Nevada.

It was nearly noon and the sun, while hot, was much more forgiving where they were than in other regions of the state. The tracker showed that they had arrived at their destination and each of the team was eager to get out, stretch their legs and deal with the matter.

“Park over there,” Dorman pointed, as they winded their way along the gravel road. Ahead, an oasis of clutter and rusted four-wheel hulks took shape as they approached the entrance to a junkyard.

“I have a strong signal,” Cage said, holding up the handheld tracker for Dorman to see. “It’s definitely in there.”

“Keep your weapons out of sight,” Dorman cautioned. “No sense stirring things up unless we have too.”

When the black SUV came to a halt, the four men stepped out onto the dusty ground leaving the doors wide open. Spreading out, they stood silently in front of the chain linked perimeter of the yard and the corrugated skinned building. A peeling red weathered sign saying “Butch’s Salvage” hung precariously above the ground, flapping quietly with the desert breeze.

“You two,” Dorman directed, pointing to the two men closest to the gate. "Take a look.” Without a response, the men split up, walking in separate directions along the perimeter of the fence while Dorman and Cage walked up to the door of the shack. Cage tried the doorknob. It was locked.

“You want me to—?” Not finishing his sentence, he gestured with his thick boot.

Dorman thoughtfully looked around, watching his team as they disappeared. With a slight twitch in his eye, he turned to Cage and nodded in approval.

“Hey there. Can I help you, boys?”

The mousey voice caught them both by surprise as Cage lowered his foot to the ground and slipped his hand inside his jacket. Both men remained silent, scouring the dilapidated building and adjacent chain-linked fencing looking for a gaunt face to go with the just as scrawny voice.

“Over here,” he squeaked again, as he hobbled up to the gate, shirtless, wearing a paint-splotched set ofbib overalls. The toes of his boots were both worn through the outer layer of leather, revealing the steel protection beneath.

He was well beyond thin, his gaunt frame sunken at the center of his chest. Wild red hair flew out from under the edge of his ball style cap advertising a beer brand long missing from the marketplace. Slung over his shoulder was a well-worn leather sling, attached to Winchester repeater, hanging barrel down.

“Are you Butch?” Dorman asked, his eyes momentarily returning to the entrance sign.

“Me, Butch?”

Dorman smiled as the skinny little man’s words reminded him of a half-naked jungle man trying to talkto a Victorian bred woman in an African treehouse. His eye twitched again.

“Ah, hell no, that ain’t me,” the man answered waving his hand in the air. “The name is Donally, but people mostly call me Red.” Stopping at the gate, Red reached into his deep pocket for a ring of jingling keys and after a moment of sorting found the right one and inserted it into the lock. “Butch, well he died a few years back. We were partners—business partners,” he tittered solemnly. “Now it’s just me and Cracker Jacks, but I never got ‘round to changing the name.”

“Cracker Jacks?”

Red grinned as he put his keys away. “I was sitting on that stoop over there one day," he pointed, "taking a little break. I had this box of Cracker Jacks I was munching on, washing it down with a root beer, when all of a sudden this old mutt shows up." He chuckled and shook his head.

"I didn't see him until he was right up in front of me burying his nose in the box. He was hungry I guess, maybe a little lonely. I don't know where he came from but after that, well—I guess you could say we sort of adopted one another. But don’t worry about him,” he chuckled. “He’s a little old thing; no junkyard dog if you get my drift.” His head turned from side to side. “He’s around here somewhere. Never known him to go off on his own for too long.”

"Got it, no problem with the dog," Dorman said. "But do you always go around with a rifle hanging on your shoulder?” Dorman turned and looked at a tense Cage, shaking his head and giving him a subtle wave off. Cage dropped his hand from inside his jacket with a questioning look as the gate swung open.

“You can never be too careful out here,” Red said. “There are some bad ones ‘round here. I mean to tellyou, some really bad ones. And it's not like there is anything valuable here. I mean, it’s a damn junkyard. But that doesn’t stop them.” He slipped the keys back into his pocket as he stepped through. “Some of these guys and believe it or not, gals, are mean as snakes and would put a person in the ground just ‘cause they’ve got nothin’ better to do.”

“Believe me Red. You have nothing to worry about us. We do have better things to do,” Dorman grinned.

“Yeah, well from the looks of you boys, I don’t think you’ll be giving me any trouble,” Red answered, squinting in the sun, “what with the men-in-black-leather-look. But I think I’ll keep this close all the same.” He patted the slung rifle with his hand. “Now, you seem to be a long way from home so what can I do for you?”

“A car was towed here in the last couple of days. A black BMW SUV that belongs to our organization.”

Pushing back on his ball cap, Red rubbed his forehead and nodded. “I know the one you're talking about. I’m the one who towed it in. Nice vehicle or I should say that it was. It’s a real mess now. Not much left of it is salvageable for parts.”

“I’d like to see it,” Dorman said.

“Sure. I can let you see it, but not much more than that.”

“And why is that Red? Dorman’s eyelid jumped a double twitch.

“Well, the town doesn’t have any storage or impound space to keep cars like it while they are doing their investigating. You understand we’re not exactly Reno or Vegas around here.”

“Yes, I do,” Dorman said with a half-hearted smile, his patience with Red starting to take a hit.

“So when they need to keep a car for a while, they bring it here, and I keep it locked up for them. I don’t mind, and I have the room. Lord knows that. Besides, it helps me out you know, a little extra in the coffee can now and then.”

“I’m certain that is the case.” Dorman’s voice grew louder, hoping to convey a message and by the lookon Red’s face, he may have succeeded. “But Red, if you don’t mind, I would like to see the car now so we can get on with our business.”

“Uh, sure thing.” He turned and pointed to a metal shed, just beyond the rusted remains of an old school bus near the center of the yard. “That’s where I keep them until the sheriff, and insurance peopleare done doin’ whatever needs doin’. After that, they usually turn it over to me or the next of kin.”

By this time, Dorman’s men had returned from walking the fence. He pointed to the shed. “Behind the bus,” he said and signaled for them to go on in.

“Most of the time it gets turned over to me...hey, uh—there’s more of you guys,” Red laughed nervously as he watched the black-clad men, one carrying the tracker Cage had used earlier brush past him into the compound.

“Yeah, you can see it, uh, straight ahead. Keep going.” Red’s nervousness began to take hold of him, and he was never able to hide it well. Now even his sweat began to sweat, and his widened eyes bounced off the four men like billiard balls while the tips of his fingers rapidly tapped the stock of his rifle.

He thought about heading back to his office, but when he turned, he came face to face with Dorman who walked up behind him. “We better get going,” Dorman said gravely.

“Uh—yeah, we better head over there.”

Dorman’s men moved ahead swiftly, much faster than hobblin’ Red was used to or capable of. By the time he and Dorman arrived at the shed, Cage was already at the door holding its rusty padlock in hand.

“I’m coming,” Red muttered, as he fished the keys out again. “Sorry, but my knee’s not so good. Be right there.” He stared at the keys as he purposely slowed his already hampered steps toward the shed. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and it took three passes around the ring before he found the right key and pinched it between his white fingertips.

“Are you okay Red?” Dorman split an evil grin among the others, shaking his head in disgust. “Here. Why don’t you hand me those keys? You’re looking a little peaked.” He held out his hand. “It is warm today, isn’t it?”

“Y—yeah, it is,” the yard man replied, dropping the keys into Dorman’s open hand.

“Tell you what,” Dorman said, tossing the keys over to Cage, “why don’t you sit right there, on that rock while we take a look. And while you rest, I am going to ask one of my men to show you a map he brought with us. It would be most helpful if you would point to the exact place you found the car.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Red said, squatting down on the rock with the Winchester resting on his lap.

“Tommy!”

“Yeah!” The big man hurried over.

“Show the map to Red, if you would please.”

Tommy pulled the map from his pocket and after unfolding it handed it to Red along with a pen.

“Dorman!” Cage called out while holding a strange little black box with a blinking red light in the air.

Dorman smiled and nodded before turning back to Red. Huddled over the map, Red traced with his finger a path, westward, was tracing with his finger westward across hills and valleys, following the black ribbon of the highway as it turned to the south of where they were. “Right here,” he pointed. “It was about two miles this side of Ruby.”

“You’re certain?” Dorman asked as he walked over.

“Absolutely,” Red answered.

"Mark it."

Marking the location, Red handed both the map and pen back to Tommy, his hand obviously shaking. Looking at the map, Tommy rotated it to the proper orientation, got his bearings and nodded to Dorman.

“Right there, you, uh, you can see where I marked it,” Donally nervously offered, his finger pointing the way. “That’s where I found the car. It had gone off the road into a dry gulch, falling, oh, I don’t know, maybe twenty or thirty feet to the bottom.

“I don’t think anyone could have survived that, especially with the fire,” he mumbled with his eyes castdown. “It’s one of them turns you would call a hairpin. At night, it would be easy to miss. I mean they’ve got those yellow signs up and everything. But if it was dark enough, and you were driving fast enough, well, it would be too late if you weren’t paying close attention.”

Dorman looked squarely into the eyes of the anxious little man wearing paint splotched overalls and a faded ball cap. “I am certain you are correct,” he said, nodding at Cage. “We have finished our businessand will be leaving now Red.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I want to thank you for your cooperation.”

“Oh sure, sure,” the greatly relieved Red said as he got to his feet, slinging the rifle back over his shoulder. “Glad to be of help.”

“And a great help you were,” Dorman said with one final smile as Cage walked up behind the yardman with his pistol pointed at the base of Red’s skull.

Chapter 2

Stephen Ballard never lettered in any sport in college, but watching this man who at this moment was late for work running hurdles through the building you would never know. While he did his best to avoid collisions, he wasn’t above getting physical as he pushed and bumped his way against shoulders and hips, and stepping on at least one set of toes without offering any pardons, apologies or excuses to those who were in his way.

The inconvenienced, the bothered, the annoyed and the injured stood silently by as the young man disappeared down the hallway and into a crowded elevator. Most everyone in this section of the complex knew Stephen Ballard, but most importantly, they knew of his special relationship with the president of NeosGen, Kurt Hollenpege.

As Mr. Hollenpege’s personal assistant and confidant, Stephen was as close to the boss as one could get. This relationship ensured that any potential retaliatory insults and hand or finger gestures were heldin restraint by those whose wide-open mouths of protest were quietly and quickly shut.

The ride to the top floor was painfully slow in the crowded elevator, conversations hushed by those around him even as Stephen checked his messages, talking to himself. When the doors finally opened, Stephen shot out like a popped champagne cork, his fellow passengers peeling slowly off the walls as they watched him disappear around the corner.

Turning the corner, the front door to his office came into view. Amazingly, the hallway was rather empty. In just a matter of seconds, he was lunging through the door, bumping into one of the two mature ficus trees in the office, knocking it over and cracking its thick ceramic pot straight down the middle.

Hurrying to his desk, he gave no thought to the people he’d shoved, the tree he’d knocked over or the growing pile of over-watered soil seeping out of the broken pot and onto the carpet. All he cared about was where his panic eyes were fixed, the slowly closing door to his boss’s office.

“Damn it,” he said, a little too loudly he thought as if all his physical antics hadn’t already captured the attention of the entire building. He flopped in his chair.

“The meeting just started,” Sarah said sharply, rising from her desk with an angry look. She wanted to throw in a where-the-hell-have-you-been but thought better of it after having worked at Stephen’s side for some time now. Satisfaction would have to come from witnessing Stephen’s frustration for arrivinglate to work.

Swallowing her sarcasm, Sarah took a deep breath and softened her tone. "Mr. Hollenpege was asking about you this morning.”

Spinning his chair, he turned his back to her. “Yeah! Well, I don’t doubt it,” Stephen said, putting down the covered latte and morning edition which was a religious regimen in his boss's mornings and surprisingly survived the morning’s obstacle course. He rubbed his face vigorously. “What did he say—exactly?”

Sarah Hammon, a recent hire who previously interned in the same position had developed a not so flattering opinion of Stephen, believing he had this obnoxious habit of thinking himself to be a lot moreimportant than he actually was. That and his quick temper were more than enough to put her off about him.

What she failed to recognize was that she carried the same obnoxious character flaws in her own life, because of which, Stephen thought much the same about her as she did him. There is a reason ignorance is considered bliss.

For Sarah, it didn’t matter that Stephen was the personal assistant to the founder and president of NeosGen and Hollenpege Enterprises. As far as she was concerned, he wasn’t irreplaceable. Sarah believed that given the opportunity, anyone, even Stephen Ballard could take a fall. And when that opportunity presented itself, she would be ready to step in and take his place, even if that meant helpingStephen's fall with a gentle push.

“Well there is the obvious; he was looking for his morning paper and coffee.”

“Exactly Sarah! What else?”

“He wanted the Twelve report.”

With a hard push, Stephen spun his chair around facing Sarah. “Twelve! How could I have forgotten about that?” Jumping up, Stephen began rifling through his inbox before turning his panicked attention to his desk drawers. “Where did I put it?”

“Oh, don’t worry about the report, Stephen,” Sarah teased as she sauntered toward his desk. “I covered for you by making certain Mr. Hollenpege had the report in his hands in time for the meeting.”

His eyes fell away, unable to bear looking at the smirk on her face. His fingers rigidly extended before releasing their tension and curling as they rested on his paper-strewn desk. The pace of his breathing matched the movement of his fingers, resisting the urge to ball up into fists.

Like Sarah, it hadn’t taken long for Stephen to form an opinion about the person he shared an office with. That opinion fell somewhere in the tight confines between a pushing-her-out-the-window dislike and she-makes-my-skin-crawl abhorrence, leaning closer to the latter. He particularly hated her continual application of a not so subtle sarcasm aimed at the target on his back.

He was particularly galled with Sarah this morning, not because of his well-established dislike for her, but because he really couldn’t fault her in this case. As much as he would like to lay the blame of him getting to work late and forgetting about the report, he couldn’t. The fact that she was in the office when Stephen wasn’t, picking up the ball that he dropped, and taking advantage of the situation and making herself look good in the process burned deep within him.

“Are you okay Stephen?” She asked. “You’re not looking well. Can I get you something?”

“I’m fine,” he said, his mental radar sweeping because of her uncharacteristically sarcastic free tone as he slipped back into his chair. Looking over at the semi-crushed cup of latte, he felt a lingering desire to pick it up and throw the coffee in her face. But wisdom prevailed, and he decided to drink it instead.

“And Sarah—”

“Yes,” she said.

He gulped. “Thank you.”

His gesture completely took her by surprise, but Stephen did not see the expression on her face, unable to give her much in the way of eye contact. “Kurt hired you as my backup, and you certainly had my back today.” Raising the cup, he took another sip, peeking over its crumpled brim.

Stunned, Sarah returned to her desk while clicking her teeth with the button of her ballpoint pen. “You are welcome,” she said while sitting down. “And uh, thank you.” The moment was awkward, robbing either of them of any desire for sarcasm. Turning to her computer screen, she began clicking away on her keyboard while keeping a not so subtle eye on Stephen who by now had pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk to prop his feet on while he sipped the coffee.

As she finished entering the information for Kurt’s meetings into his weekly calendar, her phone rang drawing her attention away from Stephen who welcomed the relief from her prying eyes. Tilting his head back, he swallowed the last of the cooling latte, leaving a mustache of milk on his upper lip.

Crushing the empty cup, he took careful aim along the cluttered surface of his desk and after several pumps of his arm released it, just clearing the far corner which was running interference. Landing in the trash bin without touching the rim, he let loose a verbal “swish” with both arms raised victoriously above his head as if he had suddenly found his true calling.

Sarah caught a glimpse of his on-court action, ducking behind her monitor as she grinned and shook her head wondering if Stephen was an accomplished air guitar player as well. Looking back at him, shebarely dodged his eyes as he sat up at his desk and pulled his tablet closer.

With a quick play of his fingers, he logged in, taking notice of the popup balloon announcing that Kurt’s calendar and by association, his own, had been recently updated by Sarah. Yawning, he looked over at her, but could only see the top of her head behind the monitor. Extending his arms, he stretched,his mouth gaping as he yawned again. Giving his head a quick shake, he wished that he had gone to bed earlier the night before.

Opening his calendar, this morning’s meeting Stephen had arrived late for sat glaringly at the top of the list. Scanning through the rest of the day’s agenda, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his whole body before settling in comfortably. Having a short night of sleep didn’t usually affect him like this, hiseyes bouncing from item to item, occasionally checking the time. Another yawn came and went, another look at the clock, unfocused eyes wandering the screen until settling in on the little blinking cursor.

The pulsating cursor started to brighten, its shape slowly elongating, twisting and distorting. It changed from a simple mark on the screen which is there one second, gone the next, before returning, an electronically sustained life-cycle of monotony—into something familiar, taunting and tempting.

Looking closer, Stephen watched as a pink neon finger appeared, inviting and pointing the way to the dark entrance of a sleazy club. A line of short-skirted and leather-clad partyers clamored to get inside, but first, they had to get by the gigantic not-to-be-messed-with guy checking IDs.

The outer wall of brick and mortar gave way first, cracking and crumbling to the desert floor. Chunks of drywall soon followed as did puzzle pieces of the windows, carpet, phones, trashcans, office plants. Clinging to his desk did little to help as its interlocked pieces came apart and flew away, the chair from under him vanishing in the same instance.

Bracing for a fall that never came, he looked down in amazement at the floor beneath him that was no longer there. In its place were shadows cast by some unfamiliar cityscape. Looking back up, the scene of the club grew expanded, and he felt drawn to it by its very persuasive sign.

Cool drops fell on his cheek as he walked across an unfamiliar street, the glistening asphalt pockmarked with pools of distorted reflections cast by the glow of street lamps. The city’s soundtrack of traffic and barking dogs fell in line with the beat of the music, bellowing from the club whenever thedoor opened.

“The door!”

Light streaked through Stephen’s mind as he stumbled back, the sense of a sharp tug on his shirt, pulling him away. The crack of thunder startled him as the sky opened up, rain falling so hard it began to wash away the scene of the club with brick, neon, and body parts mingling in a slurry under his feet.

Raindrops rattled the street with bullets of water, snuffing out street lights as if blowing out candles. His clothes and shoes were saturated and cold, and Stephen began to shiver when the crashing sound ofa loud gong shattered the night. At the center of town, the great towering clock struck the first chime onits way to midnight.

Breaking free from whatever was pulling him, Stephen began to run in the direction of the tower and instantly found himself transported several miles, standing in front of the great clock, its hands vibrating at the second gong.

Clenching his ears, he hunched over in excruciating pain, unable to move. Exposed to the closing night strikes of the clock was nearly more than he could bear as blood oozed from between his fingers, falling to the ground where he no longer could see his feet, the asphalt having grown and covered half-way up his shins.

When the final chime was struck, the rain abruptly stopped and with it the pain in his ears. As Stephen held his hands close, he was surprised to see that all signs of his blood were gone. Reaching up to wipe away the rain from his eyes, that too was a surprise for his face was dry.

His eyes widened as he turned to the clock, the vagueness of his mind giving way to increasing understanding. He no longer stood in the damp darkness of a strange cityscape, staring at a clock tower but was looking at the clock, hanging on the wall in front of his desk.

“Late night partier?” The voice he heard seemed real enough, though it was distant and faint. “You'd better wake up.”

Stephen’s body jumped in his chair, his eyes shooting open in panic, his chest pounding. A torrent of airrushed in as he took a deep breath, his eyes blinking rapidly at first, then slowing as he began to understand where he was.

“You know it's a good thing the meeting is still going and Kurt didn't come out here and catch you sleeping.”

Stephen ignored her as his thoughts returned to his dream and to the clock. His eyes stepped from the clock on the wall, to the ones on his desktop computer, tablet, phone, then finally his wristwatch. They all were in lockstep, ticking away, fulfilling dual roles as both allies and enemies. For the most part, these keepers of time helped to keep him out of hot water. Other times, like today, they acted in an opposing role like dystopian harbingers launching anxiety bombs into his palm-sweating-life, even if his brain hadn’t quite caught up with reality yet.

Anticipating the reality, Stephen sat up and quietly pressed his knees against the frame of his desk, trying to relieve some of his stress by controlling something—anything. Finally, the harbinger cries started breaking through as reality, and his brain met at a crossroad and the fog finally cleared.

His breathing intensified with every click of the second hand, which reminded him that his boss, who was punctual to a fault would be walking through that door in precisely eleven minutes. And when he did, he would want an update on the Kirkwoods.

Sliding his tablet out of the way, he reached for his keyboard, unlocked his screen and launched his calendar. As he impatiently waited for it to open, his eyes started bouncing once again from clock to clock, his mind frustrated that unlike him they never stopped, never took a break, and never offered the kindness of a respite anyone who fell under a deadline. They merely marched on, ticking mindlessly but meticulously forward leaving Stephen to try and keep up.

As the day’s schedule opened, Stephen started clicking away through all the events which except for a couple of exceptions like the current meeting, all revolved around David and Elsa Kirkwood who were flying in from Colorado Springs.

David was one of the founders of NeosGen and remained both a major financial and technological supporter. But he and his wife’s visit today had little to do with either of those, at least from what Stephen was aware of. Instead, they were visiting today as the company’s newest potential customers.

Stephen glanced at the time. Kurt Hollenpege, not a man for meetings to begin with, never allowed oneto go beyond its scheduled time. Tick, tick. Uncomfortably confident that Kurt would ask him if everything concerning the Kirkwood’s visit was square, as he liked to say, Stephen figured he had just enough time to check each step of their itinerary and little to no time to respond if he came across any problems. Tick, tick. With today’s disastrous start he wouldn’t want to miss any details concerning theirvisit. Tick, tick.

According to their itinerary, they were slated to arrive later today at 3 pm. The couple was traveling alone with David piloting their Phenom 300. A NeosGen driver was scheduled to meet them at the airstrip, but there was nothing in the notes about who the scheduled driver was.

Clicking a hyperlink in the notes opened a new window at the NeosGen Ground Transportation Request-Approval page where the picture and name of Carl Nest appeared. Carl was a longtime driver with the company and highly trusted. “One less thing to be concerned about,” Stephen thought as he closed the page.

Returning to the itinerary, he typed in Carl’s name adding instructions that he should be at the airstrip no later than twenty minutes before the Kirkwood’s scheduled arrival time and that he would need to check out and drive the Phantom 8.

Glancing over at his tablet, Stephen saw that the screen had timed out and was locked. A large floating digital clock floated on its face, and he nervously realized that time was being chewed up faster than hehad thought. Tick, tick.

Taking another deep breath and pressing harder with his knees, he turned his attention back to his main screen and launched his weather application to check conditions between Colorado Springs and NeosGen. Breathing slowly out, he began reading that there was a storm front coming in from the southeast bringing rain and strong winds. “But the latest data shows that they should be able to avoid the storm with no problem,” he muttered, allowing himself the briefest of smiles.

With no time to lose, he returned to the itinerary in his calendar, taking note of the Kirkwood’s accommodations. He was happy to see that they had been given the VIP penthouse though he was a little concerned that the arrangements had been from just one night. Knowing how quickly schedules can change, he sent a text message to the front desk and asked to have their stay extended for an additional night.

Receiving a prompt reply, Stephen then turned his attention to the specific amenities their guests wouldbe receiving. Again he smiled that they were being given the five-star package which included a no-cost fully stocked bar, welcoming cocktails which were hand mixed while the couple unpacked and acquainted themselves with their room which included an indoor hot tub and pool. Additionally, Krug Grand Cuvee champagne and delectable Knipschildt chocolate truffles would be offered at the water’s edge after 9 pm.

Next on the list were their meals which had already been selected according to their preferences for tomorrow’s breakfast and lunch. They have the option of either eating in the restaurant’s dining area or having their meals served in their room. As for this evening’s dinner, they are joining Mr. Hollenpege promptly at eight o’clock at his usual table.

Feeling more at ease about the arrangements, Stephen moved down the list. The itinerary noted that after their guests have checked into their room and had time to get comfortable, an escort will arrive to take them to the auditorium in the main section of the complex. There they will meet with Mr. Hollenpege, Dr. Arin Capwell, the chief scientist at NeosGen and chief of security—”

“Chief of security!” he gasped as he stood up from his chair. “How could I have forgotten—” Poundinghis desk he shook his head, drawing Sarah’s attention as he looked around her monitor, her phone pressed to her ear.

“How many more times can I screw up this morning?” he said, barely able to keep his voice down to a manageable level.

“What was that?” Sarah asked, putting her hand to the phone.

“Have you heard from Dorman?” he snapped as he vigorously rubbed his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said into the phone. “Can I put you on hold for a moment? Thanks.” Pressing a button, she gently placed the phone in its cradle. “Yes I did,” she said. “He called right before the meeting started.”

“And.”

“They found the car. It was in a bad wreck somewhere here in Nevada.”

“And the girl?” Stephen asked. “Any news about her?”

“He didn’t have anything to report about her.”

"That's just great!" Without looking at her, he walked into the private office bath and closed the door.

Arriving at Desert Community Hospital, the sheriff pulled around to the side where the receiving doors to the emergency room were located. Close to the door was a small section of red painted curb, enough for up to two cars. On either end were posted signs indicating that parking there was limited to police.

Easing his cruiser into the spot, Tom switched off the engine, cracked open his door and picked up the radio handset to let Carla know he had arrived at the hospital. After a couple of tries, he hung up and walked to the emergency room.

The glass doors responded to his approach by sliding open, and the air of the waiting room provided him with a welcome relief to his sun-beaten face as he stepped inside. The only occupants he saw in thewaiting room were an elderly woman who was trying to comfort a young boy who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. He didn’t recognize either of them.

With her arm wrapped around him, the boy rested his head on her shoulder, moaning and whimpering, tears falling on her dress. He gently cradled his left arm, the hand of which was wrapped in several blood-soaked rags of white linen.

The woman looked up at the sheriff, offering nothing more than her tired eyes filled with despair. Tom gazed at the woman and boy, wanting to say something, but finding neither anything appropriate or the courage to do it he just tipped his hat and walked over to the admissions window.

Behind the glass, Angie Billings looked up from her paperwork and offered him a beaming smile and a wave.

“Hey Angie,” he said, taking off his hat. Still feeling awkward, he stole a quick look behind his shoulder. Turning back to Angie, he couldn’t hide the sheepish look on his face. She understood.

“Hey sheriff,” she said. “What can I do for you today?” “They, uh,” he hesitated before coughing. “Excuse me. They brought a girl into the emergency room. Couldn’t have been more than half an hour ago.”

“She’s here,” she said. “The doctor is seeing her now.”

“Can I go back there,” he hesitated, still thinking of the injured boy. “I need to see her.”

“Of course you can,” Angie said as she pressed the button, unlocking and opening the door. “You’ve been here enough to know your way around better than some of the staff. But you might have to wait until the doctor is finished.”

“Good enough,” he said, as he slowly spun the brim of his hat in his hand.

“By the way sheriff, are you going to be there?”

“And, where is that Angie?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me that husband of mine didn’t say anything.”

The sheriff smiled. “Duane and I talk about a lot of different things, but I don’t expect that helps me to figure out whatever it is you’re asking me about.”

“Damn that man,” she huffed. “The only thing keeping me from—well, you know, is that you would beshort one deputy.” She shook her head. “I’m talking about the picnic.”

“Picnic?”

“Well, that answers that.” She closed a folder of paperwork and threw it in her basket.

“What about a picnic Angie?”

“Saturday, at our place. Low key, beer, and brats with a little potato salad on the side. You don’t need tobring anything except a smile and perhaps a little female companionship if you want.” She winked.

“Thanks for the invitation, Angie. I will see if I can make it.” With a slight smile, he hurried through the door as it started to close.

Desert Community was like many other rural hospitals across the country, struggling to survive in a river of debt. The emergency room was small, partly by design and partly by an ever-shrinking budget. The fact that the hospital was the second largest employer in the county didn’t help to overcome rising health costs.

Tom Woods stood in the middle of the emergency room, surrounded by a handful of empty beds separated by withdrawn curtains. Looking around, the only place where there appeared to be any activity was in the second of two adjoining rooms down the hallway. The giveaway was seeing his deputy waiting just outside the door.

The sheriff’s heavy stepping on the shiny hospital tile quickly gave him away as Shelly turned, smiled, and walked toward him. Behind her, the door to the examination room was partly open, Tom leaned and peeked inside as the two of them approached each other.

Pointing with his hat in hand, he gave up trying to see anything. “The doctor in with the girl now?” he asked, dropping his hand and his hat back to a two grip brim shuffle.

Shelly nodded. “Yeah. They haven’t been in there too long.”

“So he hasn’t said anything to you about her?”

“No,” she said as she turned and looked back over her shoulder for a moment, “but the girl had plenty to say. Too bad no one has a clue as to what she is saying.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your hunch. You still holding on to it?”

She turned and looked back again, her shoulder shrugging, her face cast in doubt. “I don’t know,” she said. “One moment I am certain that she is hiding behind it, the next—”

“You’ve got good instincts. Trust them.”

She shook her head. “It’s the way she looks at me when I’m talking to her. I swear she understands everything I am saying.”

A nurse walked by, coming up from behind him. Nothing was said, only brief eye-contact and a smile. The sheriff leaned in closer, his voice quiet. “Like I said, trust your instincts.”

Leaning back, he smiled. “But just in case those instincts aren’t quite on target how about we bring in some help?”

“What help?”

“You remember that linguist guy from the university? The one with the leather patched elbows who helped us solve that trafficking case a few years back.”

“Jared Bradford,” she said.

“That’s him,” Tom said, a little surprised at how quickly she pulled his name out of the air. “Not only intuition, but your memory is pretty good too. How long has it been since we had dealings with Mr. Bradford? Three years, maybe four?”

Her eyes glanced away, her mouth closed tightly. “Bringing Jared into the case goes against your claim about my intuition.”

“Just covering all the bases,” the sheriff said. “But don’t deflect. How is it your memory about the professor is so good?”

After all these years on the job, Shelly knew that the sheriff wasn’t going to let this go. Best to come clean with him. She looked up at him. “If you must know, official business isn’t the only kind of business I am involved with.”

Giving him a followup don’t-ask-don’t-tell smirk, he regretted it almost immediately. The sheriff looked blankly at her, unable to let go even as her face fanned several shades of red. “I’ll call the university and see if he can help us out.” Without waiting for a response, she hurried off, shaking her head as she reached for her phone.

“Yeah, I understand. Thanks for the update.” Tossing his phone on his desk, Stephen leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

“Everything okay?” Sarah said.

Sarah’s new-found interest in Stephen’s life felt a little disconcerting as he rubbed his eyes. “Dorman won’t be back in time for the Kirkwood visit. His deputy will have to handle it.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Tell me about it,” Stephen agreed, stretching his arms behind his head. “Dorman’s bad enough, but Jason Harkins is a public relations nightmare.”

“I don’t doubt that he fares just as badly in other areas,” she added, with a sigh. “It’s possible he’ll stay in the background and keep his mouth shut.”

“I can only hope,” Stephen muttered as he forced himself to sit up and get back to the Kirkwood itinerary. There were only a few items left to review, but the clock never let up, and the meeting would soon be over. Pulling a small mirror out of his drawer, Stephen gave his hair the once over, annoyed that he didn’t get a trim last week as he had planned. Shoving the knot of his tie up tightly, he put the mirror away.

Amused, Sarah sat back and quietly watched as Stephen acted out every shade of his percolating anxiety, something she had not witnessed before. Of course, this morning was the first time since she started working there that Stephen had arrived late. Doing her best to look deeply involved in her own work, she aimlessly moved the mouse around the pad and clicked an occasional key while keeping a curious but discreet eye on him.

Noise from beyond the closed door caught Stephen’s attention, sweat droplets forming on cue as he struggled to finish. Voices could be heard talking all at once as Stephen placed a mental bookmark on where he was at, opting instead to shift to the visible. His fingers nervously aligned a short stack of papers in front of him before addressing the uneven skew of pencils in his cup and a misplaced pad of yellow stickies which he quickly hid in a drawer.

There was little Stephen could do to curb the tightening in his chest or his increased sweat production. All he could do at this point was a quick dabbing of the pools of nervousness from he face and neck with a wad of tissue then tossing it in the trash to hide the evidence.

Stephen’s eyes vaulted between the door and his desk. His breathing quickened in anticipation of his boss’s approach, his latest survey telling his top-spinning mind that everything seemed to be in its place, neat and tidy. Everything had the appearance of being in control. But inside of Stephen an entirely different story was hidden away, something closer to crash-n-burn.

When the door opened, the meeting attendants took their time, stopping and gathering for impromptu discussions wherever they felt like standing. Stephen remained still, looking through the sea of suits and pantsuits, all the same dullness of gray, bottomed with black wing-tips or heels.

Same that is, except for the boss, who you might consider a trend-setter or rebel as he frequently broke loose fashion-wise. Today was one of those days where he separated himself from the others, emerging from the meeting wearing a distinctive custom cut black suit with a six button double breasted jacket.

The name of Mr. Hollenpege’s tailor was a closely guarded secret, kept even from Stephen. His secrecywas not of any strategic business importance but fell into the strange and peculiar, as were many other aspects of the billionaire’s life. In other words, the mystery tailor was just Hollenpege being Hollenpege.

Beneath the jacket, he wore his usual high collared white shirt highlighted by a narrow crimson tie along with his favorite obsidian and gold cufflinks that had belonged his father. His feet were beautifully covered in black Gucci oxfords he usually reserved for special occasions.

“I think you have every reason to look forward to this next year with great optimism,” Kurt said to several of his upper management team, their faces responding with blank stares as he stepped out into the departing crowd. “Thank you, Tom,” he said taking the surprised hand of one of the managers. “And make certain you convey my best to your team. We could not do it without them.”

“Uh, yes sir,” the slightly bewildered man answered before pulling back his hand and slipping quietly out the door.

“And Susan,” Kurt said with an extended hand she hesitantly took, “I pay particular attention to your weekly reports—the numbers—the results,” he chuckled. “Well, what can I say? They are off the charts. Simply amazing. Thank you and your associates so very much.”

Staring at him blankly, she returned a mirthless smile. “Thank you Mr. Hollenpege. I, uh, I have to get back. I am expecting a call.” She held up her wrist as if to look at the time, but didn’t turn her eyes away from her boss. “An important call concerning next week’s shipment.” Offering a half-hearted wave she abruptly turned and hurried out the door.

As Kurt Hollenpege smiled and worked the room, the remaining managers maintained as much distance as they could without being too obvious, staring dubiously into the face of NeosGen. They offered nothing in the way of idle conversation, having long ago weighed the benefit versus cost and found the price too high.

After several minutes of awkwardness, they all mumbled words of well-chosen excuses about needing to get back to work and cleared the room. When the last gray suit disappeared into the hallway, Kurt turned his attention to his assistants.

Offering Sarah a passing smile, he turned his attention to Stephen. “I am glad you could make it into work today,” Kurt sneered as he handed some paperwork to Sarah. “Scan and email these pages to everyone who was in attendance at this morning’s meeting as well as these others.” He pointed to a short list of names scribbled on the top page.

“Now before you attempt to come up with some sort of contrived reason for your tardiness, let me just stop you because I don’t care. Even if it was a legitimate reason and I believed you, I wouldn’t care.”

Stephen shrank in his chair, keeping his mouth shut.

“You understand things around here. You understand me, or a least I thought you did.”

Hurrying across the room, Kurt placed his hand on Stephen’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. “You do understand me, don’t you Stephen?”

Stephen shook his head, his eyes having a hard time maintaining contact. “I do.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Kurt said, releasing his grip and patting the back of Stephen’s neck. “You have always known me.”

Stephen cocked his head and watched as Kurt took a step back. It was an odd thing for someone to say, but perhaps not so strange for his boss as Stephen chalked it up as Hollenpege being Hollenpege. Therewere a lot of things that fell into that category.

“So tell me, Stephen, are we square concerning the upcoming Kirkwood visit?” He peered over the top of his dark-rimmed glasses while reaching for one of the skewed pencils on Stephen's desk.

As he began to twirl the pencil in his fingers, he noticed the coffee cup in the trashcan and the slightly crumpled morning edition.

“May I,” Kurt asked as he picked up the paper.

“Of course, ahem.”

“Are you all right Stephen? Do you need anything? A drink of water perhaps?”

“No, I'm fine,” Stephen said, reaching up and loosening the choking knot of his tie. He forced a cough. “I have carefully gone through the Kirkwood’s itinerary, and everything appears to be square sir.”

Kurt’s eyes shifted. “Unlike others, such as yourself, I cannot afford to live or operate by appearances. Iwould have thought that after all of the years you have been with me, the detail I require would have become obvious.”

“Yes, ahem—yes, the details of the itinerary have been checked,” Stephen stumbled. “But—”

“But what?” “Dorman called in and reported that while they have found the automobile, the asset is still missing. Heand his team will not be back in time for the visit today. He contacted Jason Harkins and asked him to stand in for him.”

“Jason Harkins, yes I see. A rather boorish man, wouldn’t you agree?” Kurt held the newspaper in his hands, savagely flipping from one page to the next. “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he smirked, “he is very effective in his work.”

“I am certain he is,” Stephen agreed.

“So other than Dorman’s absence, are there any other issues I should be made aware of?”

“No, sir. Everything else looks good.

“Looks good?” He laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Sir?”

“Back to those appearances are we?” Kurt scoffed.

“I’m sorry sir.”

“Come now Stephen, no time for any of that,” he offered in a lighthearted manner which brought an unexpected smile to Stephen’s face. It didn’t last long though, as Kurt's tone darkened. “I hope, for your sake, you are correct when you say things are square.”

Pulling out the section with the crossword, he crumbled the remaining newspaper into a ball and dangled it for a moment before letting it fall on top of his crushed latte cup. “Their visit is important to the company and to me.” With a faint smile, he spun around and walked back into his office, calling outa “thank you for the pencil Stephen” and a “come with me” to Sarah who followed him in with a grin.

“And close the door behind you.”