The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

by Paul Bagnell

  Chapter 16: WORLD OF INFERNO

  The alarm clock struck at exactly 5:45 a.m. McBridle reached over and slapped the snooze bar and cancelled the burping cycle.

  Tom observed her sleepy body dynamics from the end of the bed.

  She rolled over and noticed him. “Why are you sitting there watching me?

  “You’re a very lovely sleeper, and I didn’t want to waste the view,” he said, as he reached for her morning wear that was folded over the chair next to the bed.

  “Did you sleep well last night?” she asked and lightly tussled her lazy hair.

  “Yeah, I did. As a matter of fact, I had the best sleep in months,” he replied as he passed her the robe. “So, what’s our hectic agenda like today?”

  “You’re working in the office on these files. For me, it’s a go-go type of crazy day.”

  “Why? What’s going on?” Tom asked and stripped back the snug bedding. It was his way of hurrying her out of the bed.

  “First, I’m interviewing an accounting grad at seven-thirty,” McBridle replied and slipped into the cottony housecoat. “That’s why I have to be at the office an hour early. Then I’m leaving for a couple of meetings at Carravecky’s. If everything goes as expected, I should be back late in the day.”

  Tom followed her to the kitchen and stood behind her. He was trying to devise a safe way to ask if he could accompany her to the meetings without appearing desperate or pathetically begging.

  McBridle stood at the counter near the sink, “Do you want coffee?”

  “Sure, black is fine,” Tom replied in a morning tone.

  “Good, ‘cause there’s no fresh milk.”

  He asserted his voice. “I’m your auditing partner for this week, right?”

  She turned toward him with an alarmed expression. “You’re assigned to my case if that’s what you mean?”

  “Yes, exactly! Well, I should attend the meetings with you at Carravecky’s instead of staying in the office and wasting my time flipping through those worthless internal accounting papers.”

  She seemed confused. “I thought you were anxious to start on that report.”

  “I’m anxious to complete this investigation and move on to something new.”

  “Good. You’ll have your chance to complete the job. I’ve scheduled four days at Carravecky’s next week.” (She paused with an annoyed breath.) “If you want to sit in on the meetings, I’ll have to confirm that with Robert Carravecky.” She opened the cupboard door and removed a tin of coffee. “Personally, I don’t think you should attend the meetings; they’ll only complicate your life; however, since Robert makes all the executive decisions, I’ll call him later concerning his royal confirmation,” she said and started to prep the machine. Then she switched on the portable radio located within her reach.

  “It’s 6:01, and a good morning to you, Seattle. This is the early morning news,” the radio personality howled before getting down to some serious news-tailing business. “A slain body was discovered north of the city’s core this morning. The victim’s identity has not been released, and the police are not releasing any of the chilling details at this time other than it’s a Caucasian male in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Gang violence is a possibility.” The newsperson sounded as if he changed his tone. “Let’s be diligent, folks, and clean up the greatest home in America. This is the eighteenth obscene homicide in the past ten months. Seattle, I know you’re listening; and I know you can do it so let’s get going by keeping an eye open and to help kick the crime rate from where we live.”

  Tom switched off the radio before the news was finished. He already knew the rest of the story.

  McBridle seemed displeased and objected to his rude behaviour. “What’s gotten into you today? If you don’t like listening to this radio-guy, then live with it because I happened to really enjoy his morning newscast,” she said with her check‑signing hand pressed against his chest.

  “I’m sorry, Celia, I didn’t realize you were so interested in what was being reported. I can turn it back on,” Tom said. His straight finger was stalled on the radio’s power button.

  She just looked at him with a tight mouth. She was holding back her bad words from escaping her larynx.

  After all was said and done they left the house through the side door where her vehicle was parked.

  “You really did a crummy number on my new car, but don’t sweat your rotten luck. I’ve got a good friend who has an auto‑collision business. With one phone call, it’ll be fixed by the end of next week,” she said with confidence.

  “Yeah, I’m really sorry. Give me the bill for all the work, and I’ll make sure it gets paid,” Tom replied reassuringly and examined the vehicle more thoroughly. “Maybe, I should drive since I caused this unpleasant problem.”

  “...if you like to be a working gentleman,” she replied with her eyes aimed toward the vehicle.

  “Oh, of course,” he said and opened the passenger’s side door, for her to get in.

  The drive to the office was like every Friday morning, traffic--bumper-to-bumper and mechanically loud.

  A jumbled up collection of unresolved investigative clues tainted Tom’s already delusional mind. He knew he was going to hook something big. He expected it. He knew because the palms of his hands felt itchy as he squeezed the steering wheel and held on with a locked grip. He glanced over at her. Her eyes were dissecting a fat newspaper, but she still looked sweet and smelled even sweeter. His only problem was that stupid box that protected the hound; it was digging into his leg as a constant reminder of what his true mission was and the painful importance of his success. He directed his eyes away from her spicy appeal to the unsightly motorway of pavement.

  “The newspaper forecasts another nice day,” McBridle said and stashed the paper behind the seat.

  “I hope it doesn’t rain like it did last week at this time,” Tom replied, “because the cold and dampness makes my bones creak like an old dog.”

  Before they knew it, they had entered the Belk Tower’s underground parking. The gate attendant immediately recognized Tom driving McBridle’s vehicle. “Ms. Celia, I see ya teaching Mr. Bronze how ta drive safely,” the attendant commented with a naughty, insane smile. “You have a big, bad, booboo. Shame on you, Thomas.”

  Tom snapped at the guy, “Just open the damn fence and mind your damn business, you damn little fairy squirt.” The attendant seemed jolted and curled back into his den.

  They soon reached floor fifty-one. This gave Tom an opportunity to articulate and better compose his disorganized, chopped-up thoughts. His main concern was how could he stop Remmie Take and get out of Samuel’s murder alive.

  Tom took a deep breath before he stepped from the elevator. He gave McBridle a couple strides head start before he proceeded. Physiologically, he perceived that the hallway leading to the office was exceptionally long and narrow, and all he recognized was the partners’ names in large form etched on the glass doors. Maybe the mind-crash was near. He entered the office and noticed Stella organizing her work.

  “Ms. McBridle asked if you could come to her office,” Stella said.

  “Thanks, Stella.” he replied.

  “Oh, Tom,” Stella shot up and asked in a whisper, “it’s all around the office that the two of you were dating on bowling night. Is it true?”

  “I don’t know what to say to that,” he replied absently. “Check the Internet; you’ll probably discover the answer there.”

  She seemed disappointed when he didn’t divulge the details.

  Tom entered McBridle’s office and sat in a seat already positioned behind her desk.

  “Tom, you may as well sit in on the interview that I had previously arranged for this afternoon but changed it yesterday for this morning,” she said while holding the phone to her ear. “Stella, send in Steve LaCly.

  “Tom, as you are aware, we now occupy five floors. Our firm has been growing in leaps and bounds and I’ve been interviewing a numbe
r of candidates, but this young man is a family friend of one of the partners and demands extra attention so I’ll be going easy on him. Don’t register my flirtation as a sign of growing soft and weak around young, attractive, men.” She passed Tom a fat file folder filled with resumes. “This is Steve’s second interview; the first was with Lankenbury,” McBridle explained. “I’ve been instructed by Mackenzie to hire Steve and to draw up a one-year work term contract. He’ll be assigned to Selly’s supervision. Believe me, there’s gonna be major changes taking place around here, hopefully, for the best.”

  Tom just nodded; he really didn’t care or want to get involved in any of these corporate, backstabbing cage matches and kept his mouth shut.

  The interview concluded with a quick handshake and conservative congratulations. McBridle made the arrangements for Selly to introduce Steve, the new financial analyst, around the office and instructed the newcomer to start Monday at eight o’clock on the dot.

  When Selly closed the office door, Tom advanced his mission. “This meeting at Carravecky’s--it’ll be at the same main boardroom?” Tom asked McBridle.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you; it’ll be held in the conference room on the sixth floor.” She packed her leather satchel with several reports and slung the heavy bag over her shoulder as if it were a sack of money. Her phone rang and she answered it; it was Robert Carravecky. She talked for a moment; then hung up. “Robert Carravecky will be expecting you. Do you still want to come with me?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then get ready because we’re running behind schedule; let’s shake our boots and get running,” she said enthusiastically.

  “I’m ready; so let’s boogie,” Tom replied as he buttoned the front of his coat.

  She pressed her fleshy, desirous breasts against his strong shoulder, “Last night was the best; you drove me into a state of coital euphoria and pleased me like no other man has ever pleased me before.”

  He kissed her wet lips. “I want to make love to you all weekend.”

  “Last night wasn’t enough.” She withdrew her affection. “We have tons of work to complete. Now, let’s get going before we’re late.”

  On the way out, McBridle told Stella that she’d be back in the office after four-thirty if anyone should call.

  Stella diligently wrote it down on a message pad.

  The telephone rang. Stella answered it. “Tom,” she said as she held her hand over the receiver, “it’s for you. Do you want me to take a message or send it to your voice mail?”

  “No, I’ll take it, Stella.” He picked up the phone, “Tom Bronze - speaking.”

  “Mr. Bronze.”

  “Yes,” Tom replied.

  “This is Detective Gene Riley,” he said in a senior, mature tone of voice.

  “You’re a cop; I mean, a police detective?”

  “You sound shocked.”

  “No, no, I’m just surprised.”

  “Don’t be surprised; it’s just routine, nothing serious.”

  “Well, then, what can I do for you so early in the morning?”

  “I’m calling you with regard to an automobile.”

  “What about it?” Tom replied quickly.

  “It’s a late nineties, two-door, Japanese model, recovered at the bottom of an embankment along Highway #9 wearing license plates registered in your name. I’m just calling to confirm if this is your vehicle? And if you do, in fact, still own it.”

  “Yeah, it’s registered to me,” Tom replied hesitatingly.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  ”I’m really busy right now.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Yeah, well, then, okay,” Tom replied carefully.

  “I don’t believe you filed an accident report; at least, it hasn’t arrived on my desk. Is this a correct assumption?” Riley inquired.

  “No, I mean, yes,” Tom replied, nervously confused. “I never reported the accident to the police. I must have forgotten. Detective Riley, excuse me,” he said; then he called through the glass doors. “McBridle, can you wait for me downstairs?”

  “Tom, don’t be long,” she replied while indicating the time.

  “Two minutes,” he reassured her; then placed the receiver to his ear.

  “Am I getting you at a bad time?” Riley asked.

  “No, no, it’s fine.”

  “Good, because I won’t be long, I just want to confirm that you have valid insurance and that nobody else was in the vehicle or that anyone was injured.”

  “I understand,” Tom replied impatiently.

  “Since you’re busy right now, and for your own convenience, would you object if I came to your workplace later to take a more detailed statement from you?” Riley asked.

  “I don’t know what time I’ll be back in the office,” Tom replied.

  “That’s fine, Mr. Bronze, I’ll call you later today or the first of next week. I’d like to clean up this matter as soon as possible and retire your file,” Riley indicated.

  “I understand your concerns,” Tom replied, somewhat relieved.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Bronze. I’ll be in touch soon,” Riley concluded and hung up.

  After his conversation with Riley, Tom joined McBridle in the parking garage.

  “Who was that on the phone?” McBridle asked.

  Tom apologized with a friendly peck on the cheek, a small token of good faith for making her wait an extra minute. “I never reported my accident, you know, Tuesday night when I ran my car off the road.”

  “And they’re just catching up with you now,” she said with a puzzled look.

  “I guess there’re no bad guys to catch so they go after the dumb guys.” Like a cunning master of Chinese checkers, Tom knew his intuitions had to be one step ahead of the game; but it was only a matter of time before Detective Riley linked the ownership of McBridle’s vehicle with Carravecky’s murder. The damage to the side of her car was a dead giveaway, but he hoped Riley wouldn’t bother him until he invented a way out of his critical complication.