Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone

by J Jordan

  But then came a Wednesday in February when Mr. Hulgrad stopped in front of Romney’s desk. His face was a funeral mask and his voice trembled as he spoke.

  “Romney, in my office, please.”

  Romney knew what was coming. The sucker punch he had been avoiding since December was on its way. He stood with dignity, crossed into Mr. Hulgrad’s office, and closed the door behind him. Mr. Hulgrad’s office had been stripped bare. Romney had seen the inside on two occasions in his seven years there. The office once held pictures of grandchildren, framed epic poems written in flowing script, bookshelves filled with the greatest minds in economics, and furniture built for kings. It was empty now, save for a fold-out table and two lawn chairs. Romney took the lawn chair opposite Mr. Hulgrad. He folded his hands in his lap.

  “Romney,” said Mr. Hulgrad, then he stopped. He began to rub at his lower lip with a knuckle.

  Romney sat in stunned silence, as a soldier of finance awaiting the firing squad. He let his imaginary cigarette dangle stoically from the side of his mouth. This was it. This was the big one. Mr. Hulgrad leaned onto his fold-out table, steepled his fingers, and looked Romney in the eye. Romney could see the gleam of tears.

  “They say,” he started slowly, his voice trembling, “that I have to let you go.”

  Romney furrowed his brow. Who said this? Mr. Hulgrad was the boss, the owner of the firm, the head honcho. Romney kept this to himself, because Mr. Hulgrad was preparing to say more.

  “And that’s a shame, Romney. Really, it is. You’re a good man, right down to your core, and you shouldn’t be in a place like this. Of all the people they told me to cut over the years, you were the one I could never let go. I kept telling them, not Balvance, anyone but Balvance. He’s a good kid. He would never tell anyone. But this time they wouldn’t listen, Romney. I’m sorry.”

  Romney would later remark that it didn’t feel like a sucker punch. It was more like boiling water that started in his face. Romney’s head lulled as he took in the information. All that hard work, gone.

  “Don’t bother with finishing the reports. Clean out your desk and go home. Find a good place and show them what you’re made of. You are a good man, Romney, a hard worker. You didn’t deserve this.”

  Mr. Hulgrad paused, as if he were turning something over in his head. Then he shifted in his lawn chair, pulled up a briefcase, and opened it. Inside were stacks of Ontaran notes, piled five high. Romney could only imagine the total value inside. Mr. Hulgrad took two stacks off the top and handed them to Romney.

  “We’ll call this your severance,” he said, with a defeated smile. “One month’s pay, plus the bonuses we should have paid you over the years. Don’t let the others see you with it. And be sure to clear everything out of your desk. Leave nothing behind. No pictures, no notes, no mail, nothing that can trace us back to you.”

  Romney stared at the paper band surrounding the stacks. There seemed to be too many zeroes on it. The sum was ten times what he made in a month, even with bonuses.

  “Mr. Hulgrad, sir. Where is all the money?”

  Mr. Hulgrad looked him square in the eye, but then his gaze softened. He began to tap an index finger absently on the table. His answer came slow and deliberate, just above a whisper.

  “Do you know Sebastian Smoak?”

  Romney shook his head.

  “You’re going to, very soon.”

  “Did we ever help anybody?”

  Mr. Hulgrad choked back a sob. Slowly, he shook his head side to side.

  Eight years in finance, and Romney had helped no one. Eight years of his life, wasted.

  But this was fine. It was all right, a-okay, perfectly great.

  He shoveled his personal effects into a wastebin and carried them out. No one saw him leave. Eight years, gone.

  He shoveled his personal effects into a wastebin and carried them out. No one saw him leave. Romney would learn more from the evening news. Mr. Hulgrad had called the Lanvale Police that afternoon and confessed to a laundry list of crimes, including fraud and money laundering. The entire firm was turned over to the OIB for a thorough investigation. The news anchor explained that details would follow as the police carried out their investigation, but it didn’t look good for anyone involved.

  This was fine. Romney would make it through this.

  Eight years, gone. Sure. But now he was free. Romney Balvance was ready to start the next chapter of his life. This was fine. It was all right, a-okay, perfectly great

  At least, that’s what he told himself. He had other things to worry about, anyway. For one, he was having one hells of a time finding a new job. This proved difficult because Romney’s only applicable experience was working for an investment firm under criminal investigation. He made his case at two separate interviews, who both declined a second. They filed his resume in drawers labeled “never hire under any circumstances, ever.” Most places didn’t bother getting this far.

  One interviewer had asked him out for lunch, then neglected to tell him that this was for a book she was writing. She couldn’t possibly imagine hiring an accountant from Hulgrad and Co. When he refused to give any details, lunch was on him. By May, Romney Balvance had run the list of every investment firm and bank in Lanvale and Cresdale. No one was hiring from Hulgrad and Co. He had run out of prospects.

  That wasn’t true. There was Tildir’s department stores. He started as a cashier. The pay was just above minimum. And the hours were irregular. Romney filled his free time with a side business of his own, as a tax consultant. This way, he could help people navigate the turbid waters of tax season. Romney’s few clients helped him get by, but there was no more room in the budget for dinners or movies. In June of that year, Haley wanted to see other people. She was out of the apartment by week’s end.

  And that . . . that was . . .

  That was just utter crap, man. It sucked. No way around that.

  It sucked working at a department store, with a degree in finance and eight years’ experience, all because someone was using your company as a money laundering scheme. It wasn’t fair how people could just step on somebody like that. Romney had put in his time, paid his dues, put the notches in his belt. And what did he have to show for it?

  An empty apartment; weekend shifts; odd hours; Mrs. Stonesworth convinced she could skirt paying property taxes on her apartment complex; the bloody Tildir’s jingle, “would you like to open a Tildir’s Rewards Platinum account today?” on the radio; student after student asking if they could count their education credit twice in a year—they couldn’t—and customers always wondering aloud why they couldn’t return their purchases at his register; Mr. Stonesworth explaining to Romney—the guy who had read the Ontaran tax code front to back—that individual tenants paid the property tax for the building—untrue—and that the building owner didn’t have to pay anything—also untrue.

  And there were the assistant managers, who always stopped by his register to explain how smiling improved sales, and that he should consider doing it more.

  “Tildir’s Rewards Platinum accounts don’t open themselves, Ronny! Now, let’s beat those sales records!”

  This was total crap.

  ◆◆◆

  Agent Kinsey stopped Romney’s story before it derailed further into his personal life. She was pinching the bridge of her nose, likely fighting off an oncoming headache.

  “So, you’re telling me that you never saw the other side of the business. You checked the numbers and they were clean. You had nothing to do with hiding Smoak’s criminal operation.”

  Romney nodded, his expression still void of emotion.

  “All of this was happening right under your nose, on these spreadsheets, and you didn’t see it. ”

  “They were real stocks and bonds,” said Romney. “I checked them against the markets every day. Every trade was real.”

  “No,” said Agent Kinsey, “the portfolios were bogus. There were never any trades.”

  Agent Kinsey used a sp
readsheet and a red pen to explain. When crimes were committed in Lanvale the money was given to a Hulgrad consultant. Consultants were always members of the Smoak family, loyal people they could trust. They would translate these gains into stocks by picking those with the daily gains and losses that best fit their numbers. Then they would attribute the stocks to a portfolio. The portfolio would be passed to Romney, who would record everything as real profits and expenses for the firm. Hulgrad and Co. had never purchased or sold a stock in their nine-year run. Their money was passed to various accounts by the firm, then transferred again to Smoak-owned businesses, where the Smoaks would enjoy their newly laundered profits.

  The stunned expression on Romney’s face said more than enough for Agent Kinsey.

  “You had no idea this was happening.”

  Romney shook his head.

  “Then what were you doing at the First Ontaran? Why were you in Andar? Where does the steel mill factor in? If you don’t know the Smoaks, then how did you make 200,000 ON?”

  Romney frowned at this. They followed the money trail to the steel mill, because they had the little black card. Didn’t they? He cleared his throat before asking.

  “You took my personal effects, right? The jewelry, the stone, car keys, wallet, all of it?”

  “It’s all in a safe place. Answer my question. How did you know to transfer money to the steel mill?”

  “So, you found the little gray card hidden behind the Brewer’s card?”

  “Don’t play games, Balvance. The card was tied to the steel mill account and you know it. Where did the money come from? Answer the question.”

  “And you saw the numbers on the card,” said Romney, “but did you see the little ‘R’ in the corner?”

  Agent Kinsey grimaced at this.

  “What are you talking about? What ‘R?’”

  “The Reymus ‘R,’ top left, glossy. Hard to miss.”

  This had a terrible effect on Agent Kinsey. She sat bolt upright in her chair, and her face slowly lost all of its fire. She was staring at a point beyond Romney’s shoulder, a point he had no desire to see for himself.

  “Reymus ‘R,’” she repeated. “Reymus Industries.”

  ◆◆◆

  And when his hope was all but lost, a familiar face walked in to Tildir’s. Romney had been tallying up his Rewards Platinum accounts for the day, when the man stopped by his register and greeted him with a joyless smile. Jerrick Kinsman was his name, though his name could have been anything. It struck Romney as odd, that a man with such a nice gray suit would be shopping at a bargain-tier department store.

  Jerrick talked as if they had been friends for ages, and a deep lonely part of Romney’s soul played along. He said that Romney looked too tired for his age, that he didn’t have the warm smile he always used to carry around with him. Jerrick was frank about it. Romney looked defeated. But Jerrick knew a job that would set things right. It involved getting his hands dirty.

  “Anything,” said Romney. “Anything to get out of here.”

  “What if it involved a bank vault?”

  The job was the First Ontaran. The petty cash would be a bonus to the real prize. The First Ontaran had something called a Katarin stone, in lockbox 261. And the buyer was paying $150,000 ON for it.

  ◆◆◆

  “But I never robbed a bank before. So, Jerrick helped me assemble a team. He introduced me to Jacob, who was the getaway driver. Tykeso was the muscle. They were good, but we still needed brains for the operation. So, I posted a job for a researcher, and Cora’s resume came up first. I bought the equipment from small shops all over the city, all of it with the cash from my remaining severance package. We met twice before the heist, to plan it all. Then the rest is likely on the security tapes from the bank.”

  Romney had regained his color when talking about the heist. It had been his first real accomplishment in two years. Good, bad, illegal. He was proud of the achievement all the same.

  “The money came from Devon Reymus. We sold him the Katarin stone and the Jade Scar, which we bought from Kedro Kyro. We were in Andar, because Devon wanted the Crown of Videra. But then we found another Katarin stone along the way. Jacob was out before we met Devon for the first stone.”

  “He’s in Lanvale Pen,” added Agent Kinsey, blankly.

  “Sorry to hear that. He was a good guy.”

  “He’s a career criminal.”

  “He seemed like a good guy.”

  Agent Kinsey was silent. Romney used the opportunity to explain the Jade Scar and both the Katarin stones, even the details of magical forces and mythic fire creatures. Agent Kinsey’s expression remained the same.

  “Look, I’ll take the fall for everything we did,” said Romney, “but you have to stop Devon and Mila. They’re sitting on a gold mine of magic right now, and there’s no telling what they plan to do with it. But I can tell you that it isn’t good. They’re going to bring this city to its knees.”

  Agent Kinsey stirred from her stupor. She made eye contact with Romney for the first time since his confession. Then she stood unevenly, crossed to the rear of the room.

  She fiddled with the back of the lone security camera mounted to the wall. Its little red light flickered and dimmed. With this complete, she moved to Romney’s chair. She stared down at him for a second too long. Then she wrapped her hands around his neck and began to throttle him.

  The Talented Mr. Balvance

  Luckily, two agents had stepped in to pry Agent Kinsey from Romney’s windpipe. A third entered the room and surveyed the situation with a cool bravado. He was wearing shades indoors.

  “Good work, Kinsey. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Let me go. I have to kill this man.”

  “No, you go ahead and finish the paperwork. I’ll twist the screws, as they say. Burn the midnight oil, and so on.”

  She was still reaching for him, murder in her eyes, as the reinforced steel door slammed shut. Romney could clearly hear them dragging her to some other part of the facility. The man in the shades was Agent Salinger. He sat down opposite Romney, placed his hands on the table, and said nothing. Just as the silence became awkward, he smiled.

  “Mr. Balvance,” he said, in the coolest, most suave Camerran accent Romney had ever heard. It reminded Romney of the secret agents on television. Except OIB agents weren’t terribly secretive about their operations, what with news stories like “The OIB did something today, continue reading after the ad” or “You’ll never guess what the OIB did today, more after the break” or, Romney’s favorite, “Top Ten things the OIB did today and number three is a doozy.”

  Agent Salinger seemed more like the traditional kind of intelligence agent, the kind that sipped brandy and seduced other agents into divulging secrets. The kind occasionally tied to chairs where lasers played a major role. Or, in one of the stranger movies, tied to a shark and dipped in a pool of larger sharks.

  Agent Salinger had nothing on the table. No notes or briefcases. He had his sunglasses, his badge, and . . . Romney’s heart was in his throat. That was a gun. They weren’t allowed to bring guns into interrogations. Were they? The rules were always changing on things like this. Then again, Agent Salinger looked like the kind of intelligence agent that didn’t play by rules. The agent kept his cool smile.

  “You’ve been busy, Mr. Balvance,” he said. “The bank, the suburbs, and then the tomb. None of these places are connected in any significant way. Perfectly random, unless you know what to look for.”

  He pointed to a place on the table, indicating an imaginary map before him. He began drawing on it with his finger.

  “The bank had the Katarin stone, as you know. The one true Katarin stone, until you were discovered outside Hirna Andrea with another one around your neck. That light show was particularly lovely, I must say. I’m not sure how you did it, but it makes for a troubling turn of events.

  “The Jade Scar was a surprise. Really threw us off, that one. Kedro Kyro was keeper, as you know, w
hich afforded him certain protections. Imagine our surprise when he posted it online, the very same weapon he was meant to safeguard. And what a lucky turn of events that you were the buyer, of all people. A coincidence? No, I think not. There is no such thing in this game, is there?”

  With the same cool smile, and in the same suave tone, Agent Salinger leaned over the table and whispered.

  “When we say this is a dangerous game, we mean it, Mr. Balvance. It is a delicate balance that we keep. And every move that upsets that balance brings us a hair’s width from ruin."

  "But the most troubling part,” he continued, “Devon Reymus is now a player. It turns out he’s been building a collection of odds and ends for quite some time now. But nothing in that collection compares to his recent acquisitions. He is now the single largest player in this game of ours. How does he do it? Money, influence, power. Those don’t mean much to us. Devon would need something more.”

  The motion was quick. Romney flinched as Agent Salinger’s hand moved away from the table to his side. He clamped his eyes shut. This was it, he thought. The end, in a cold, dark room in a hidden part of Lanvale. A quiet life, with a brief explosion, snuffed out in an instant. Here it was. No goddess to pull him out of this one.

  Any minute and the curtain would be drawn on this dramatic comedy known as life. Would he even hear it coming? He peeked from the corner of his eye. Agent Salinger was staring at him from across the table, his sunglasses in one hand and a cleaning cloth in the other. His expression had shifted to concern. His eyes were piercing blue. And glowing.