He was almost asleep, in that hazy twilight existence where words being spoken by characters on TV in the fading real world were being incorporated into his encroaching dreamlife, when he was awakened by knocking at the front door. He sat up groggily, swung his legs off the bed, and suddenly realized that he shouldn’t be able to hear any knocking up here. Such a thing wasn’t possible. Sound didn’t carry that way, from the front door to a bedroom on the opposite side of the house.
The noise came again, and it sounded like someone with a sledgehammer was trying to break down a wall.
Goose bumps popped up on the back of his neck, raced down his arms.
“What’s that?” Rachel muttered, only half-awake.
“I’ll check,” he said, but his gut already knew what it was.
The consultant.
This time, he was more frightened than angry. He wanted to be able to act as he had the last time Patoff had shown up unannounced, wanted to project power and strength, to once again order the consultant off his property and warn him not to come back, but he remembered how the contents of his desk had floated up into the air, the way his office door had opened and closed by itself, and was afraid of what might happen if he angered the man. He imagined windows being shattered, furniture smashing against walls, Rachel’s snow globes exploding into shards of glass and droplets of water.
Grabbing his robe from on top of the hope chest at the foot of the bed, Matthews pulled it on, slid into his slippers and made his way out into the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him. The knocking had stopped for a moment, but it returned with a vengeance, not knocking but pounding, so loud that he could practically feel it in his gut. He hurried downstairs, thinking that he should fire his home security company and wishing for the first time in his life that he was the kind of person who owned guns. He had no idea what he was going to do when he confronted the consultant.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and strode toward the entryway just as another round of pounding started up.
He could see the oversized door on the opposite side of the foyer in front of him, and down here the noise was as loud as thunder, not the sound of someone knocking on a door but the sound of a cannon going off.
He reached the entrance and the pounding stopped.
Matthews took a deep breath.
And did nothing.
He was afraid to open the door, and as he stared at the white wooden rectangle before him, the dominant thought in his mind was a desperate wish that it be strong enough to withstand the mounting pressure from outside.
The pounding came again, only this time it was from somewhere at the side of the house. The laundry room? He thought of the consultant running around the building, knocking on each door in turn, and the image frightened him far more than he would have thought possible. There was a specificity to it that made him think it was true, as superstitious as he knew that to be, and in his mind, he could see the consultant, bright bow tie perfectly in place, dashing from door to door, smiling his soulless smile. For what possible reason Matthews could not even hazard a guess, but then he could never tell why Patoff did what he did.
He remained where he was, staring at the front door, not chasing down the sound, hoping that if he waited this out, the man would leave.
The pounding moved to what sounded like the pool room, then around to the kitchen. How long was this going to last?
Go away, he thought. Go away!
Matthews jumped as something banged against the front door.
He had to put a stop to this,—
or it might go on forever
—had to go out there and confront the consultant instead of hiding here like a scared little girl. He wasn’t brave enough to open the door, but he did it anyway, telling his fingers to punch in the security code for the alarm, forcing his hand to turn the lock, twist the handle, push.
The porch was empty.
Thinking he might have just missed the man, and gaining courage from the fact that there was no one on the stoop, Matthews hurried out to the drive, looking around. Motion detector lights switched on by the side gate and the garage, but there was no sign of anyone other than himself. Holding his robe tightly closed, he walked around the side of the house, shouting “Who’s there? Come out now!” A quick, rough tour of the grounds immediately adjacent to the house and garage convinced him that he was all alone, and ten minutes later, he was back inside.
He hadn’t put on the alarm or locked the front door during his impromptu search, and for a brief, horrifying second, he wondered if the consultant had used the opportunity to sneak into the house. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he rushed upstairs to the bedroom, but Rachel lay still asleep and unmolested. To set his mind at ease, however, he locked the front door, set the alarm, checked all of the other doors and went through every room to make sure no one had gotten in and was hiding.
Back in the bedroom, he took off his robe, stepped out of his slippers and got into bed. He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep, but his ears were alert, his mind wide awake, and he remained vigilant for the next two hours, waiting for the return of the knocking, until finally he dozed.
TWENTY SEVEN
Another day, another meeting.
Craig met Phil and Elaine in the elevator on his way down to the first floor. This wasn’t a meeting for departments, divisions, supervisors or even all general employees, but was a gathering of seemingly random CompWare personnel assembled for some unspecified and probably pointless purpose.
“Those consultants sure love meetings, don’t they?” Elaine said.
Craig didn’t respond but glanced in a very obvious manner at the camera mounted in the corner of the elevator. Elaine nodded her understanding, and the three of them stood in silence until the doors slid open.
There were cameras in the lobby, and Craig wondered if the intent of all this conspicuous surveillance was to purposely make people paranoid in order to cow them into submission. It was definitely working on him, and he looked down at the floor as he spoke, not wanting his lips to be read, and mumbled, not wanting his voice to be heard. “Anyone hear about Jim Rodman in Accounting?”
Phil felt no need to hide. “He quit, right? I heard he trashed BFG in his exit interview.” Phil chuckled. “I respect that.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Elaine said quietly.
“Me, either.” Craig glanced over at his friend.
Phil frowned. “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”
“He disappeared,” Elaine said. “Vanished. Didn’t take anything with him. His wife called work, work called home, but no one’s seen him for three days. The police are searching for him now.”
Phil did not respond.
“I heard he was on the list,” Craig admitted, still looking down. “The consultants wanted to get rid of him.”
“And I guess they did,” Phil said.
They were silent as they walked into the conference room. There were seats available, but the turnout was far greater than Craig would have expected from the sparse crowd in the lobby. The three of them took adjacent seats near the aisle, and they waited quietly with everyone else for the remainder of the invitees to show up. On the stage at the front of the room, Regus Patoff stood staring out at them, completely still, hands clasped behind his back, smiling.
Over the next five minutes, people continued to trickle in, and at some point Patoff must have decided that everyone who was supposed to be here had arrived, because he cleared his throat loudly and moved behind the podium.
“Good morning!” he announced. “I trust we will have an excellent meeting. Praise the goodness of Ralph.” He briefly lowered his head.
Craig looked over at Phil, who rolled his eyes.
“You have all been chosen to participate in this meeting based on demographic desirability regarding the subject at hand. In short, you are a representative cross-section of the company. I have asked you here to inform you about one of our new
est initiatives and to get your feedback.” The consultant, still smiling, scanned the room. When his eyes met Craig’s, there was a flicker, and for a brief fraction of a second, Craig saw Patoff more clearly, like a holographic picture when it hit the right angle and the image suddenly became three dimensional.
Then the consultant’s gaze moved on, and Craig wasn’t quite sure what he had seen. He’d had an impression of great age, a sense of something profoundly inhuman. That was crazy, he knew, but a part of him thought that it made perfect sense.
“With the alarming obesity epidemic in this country, there has been a renewed national focus on establishing and maintaining healthy eating habits,” Patoff said. “CompWare has a rare opportunity to become a leader in this movement and get out ahead of the trend. Which is why we are proposing what we’ve dubbed our ‘healthy employee initiative.’” He held up his hands as though someone had objected, though no one had. “I know, I know, this seems outside the purview of our mandate. But our aim isn’t entirely altruistic. For one thing, the company could stand a little good publicity. We make sure this is leaked to the trades and the mainstream press, and CompWare comes out looking like an enlightened and environmentally conscious enterprise concerned about the well-being of its employees. Which, under the present circumstances, would greatly benefit the company’s public profile, because, as I’m sure you all know, in regard to stocks, perception is everything.
“On a less theoretical level, obesity and health-related issues cost this company an estimated two million dollars annually in lost wages, decreased productivity, increased insurance costs and sick time allocations. What the ‘healthy employee initiative’ would do is provide, through a series of incentives and disincentives, a framework by which employees could maintain good health and wellbeing. The details are still being worked out, but BFG and CompWare’s top management both see this as a win-win for individuals and for the company.”
Finished, he stared out at the gathered focus group, smiling.
After several awkward moments of silence, Craig stood. “Are you asking for our input on this idea?”
Patoff’s smile disappeared. “No. I’m just telling you what’s going to happen.”
“You don’t want our opinion?”
“I don’t give a shit about your opinion.”
Craig looked around at his fellow employees, all of whom appeared not only confused but nervous—with the exception of Phil who seemed defiant. “Then why are we here?” Phil asked.
Patoff grinned. “Good meeting,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Have a nice day.”
The lights switched off and the conference room was suddenly thrown into darkness. For a few brief seconds, Craig saw the consultant’s eyes glowing in the gloom. Then they blinked and were gone, and he knew somehow that the consultant was gone, too. Along with everyone else, he grabbed for his cell phone, turning it on, and by the weak illumination of a dozen small screens, they made their way to the door. Once the door was open, light from the lobby was let in, and someone found a switch, flipping it on. As he’d known, the stage was empty.
“What was that?” Elaine asked.
“A waste of time,” Phil said angrily.
Looking up at the cameras, Craig said nothing as they walked over to the elevators and headed back to work.
****
Lupe glanced up at the familiar sound of Craig’s footsteps on the faux marble floor, aware through her peripheral vision that Todd was immediately noting the interruption in her typing. Craig was aware of it, too, and he glared at the observer as he stopped to chat with Lupe. “Hey,” he said, “Lupe is my secretary, and her job is to pay attention when I talk to her. I do not want her doing busywork when she’s supposed to be listening to me. Do you understand?”
Todd said nothing but entered something on his tablet.
Shaking his head in annoyance, Craig leaned against the side of her desk. Leisurely, he explained what had happened at his meeting, and made disparaging jokes about healthy eating. Lupe knew he did it to irritate the observers, and they both shared a conspiratorial smile when Todd and Mrs. Adams frowned disapprovingly and began typing intensely on their pads.
“By the way,” Craig told her, “I don’t want you calling him ‘Todd’ anymore.” He motioned toward her observer. “He doesn’t look like a ‘Todd’ to me. He looks more like a stool sample. Don’t you think he looks like a stool sample?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Lupe replied, trying to hide her smile.
“Well, I do. So please call him ‘Stool Sample’ from now on. Okay?”
The smile broke through. “Yes, Mr. Horne.”
“This is highly inappropriate,” Mrs. Adams said.
Craig looked at her on the way into his office. “Your job is to observe, Mrs. Adams. Not to render opinions. I am Lupe’s supervisor, and she will do as I ask.”
Returning to her typing was more pleasurable after that, and Lupe was half-tempted to address Todd by the moniker “Stool Sample,” but she wasn’t brave enough to go through with it. Just the thought made her giggle, though, and old Stool Sample marked that down on his pad.
She had never had a set break time—Craig had always been flexible about things like that and had allowed her to break whenever it was convenient—but ever since the observers had arrived, she’d taken her morning break from ten to ten-fifteen because it was easy to keep track of that way, and she didn’t want to be accused of staying away from her desk for too long. Thanks to those cameras in the restrooms, she’d also taken to combining her bathroom visits with her scheduled breaks so she could go over to the office building across the street and avoid the consultants’ surveillance. Today she’d been holding it in for some time before ten o’clock rolled around.
Lupe stood up and poked her head into Craig’s office. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said. “If any calls come in, you can either pick them up, or allow them to go into voicemail and I’ll answer them when I get back.”
Craig nodded absently, and she walked down the corridor to the elevator. Todd had given up trying to shadow her, was content now to simply remain at his station and time her absences, but she wished that this time he had tried to follow along. She imagined herself turning on him and saying, “Stool Sample, you are not allowed to monitor my free time.” The idea made her smile.
“Lupe.”
She was downstairs, crossing the lobby, heading toward the smoked glass doors of the entrance, when she heard her name called over the loudspeaker. She stopped, looking around, unsure of what to do or how to respond.
“Lupe.”
She recognized the voice now.
Regus Patoff.
“Where are you going?” The question boomed out as though emanating from the man behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz.
She wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Speak up!” he ordered.
“I…”
“Louder! So I can hear you!”
“I’m going across the street!” She was practically shouting. Heads turned to glance in her direction but no one dared stop to find out what was going on.
“Why?” Patoff demanded.
She didn’t want to answer.
“WHY?”
“I need to use the restroom!” She reddened, embarrassed to be making an announcement of it.
“For what purpose? Urinating or defecating?”
Angry, she resumed her walk across the lobby. “That’s none of your damn business!” she shouted as the door automatically opened in front of her and she stormed out.
Lupe was shaking as she hurried down the steps and strode across the parking lot. Her mouth was dry, and she had a difficult time catching her breath. She could not believe that had just happened, and her fuming mind considered calling the police, the Los Angeles Times or one of the local TV stations with their investigative reporters, thinking that this would be perfect for sweeps week.
During a break in traffic, she ran across the street an
d went into the lobby of the multi-story office building opposite Comp-Ware. The first floor was home to a law firm, an accounting firm and some sort of direct marketing business. Opposite the elevators were the restrooms, and she hurried into the women’s, going into the first stall and closing the door behind her. Pushing up her skirt and pulling down her underwear, she sat on the toilet, started to pee—
And the stall door opened.
Startled, Lupe cried out, hands immediately pushing down her skirt to cover her exposed lap.
It was the consultant.
He stood before her, blocking the stall’s exit, belt unbuckled, pants unzipped and open, penis hanging out. His organ was grotesque—red and blotchy, S-shaped and far too large—and he stepped forward, holding it in his hand. She tried to scream, but the second her mouth opened, before a single sound came out, he was shoving it in. His penis was rough and dry, tasting of dirt and rot, its twists and curves contacting odd parts of her mouth as he began to slide it in and out. “Oh yes,” he whispered creepily. “That’s good.”
She wanted to bite it off but dared not. Accidentally, she scraped him with her teeth, and he slapped the side of her head. Hard. “Do it right,” he ordered harshly.
Crying, she covered her teeth with her lips and remained unmoving as he continued to push himself slowly in and out.
“Oh yes,” he repeated. “That’s good.”
His penis stiffened. She was filled with horror as she realized he was about to climax, and before she could even begin to prepare herself…it happened. Thick sperm, ribbons of it, hit the back of her throat and slid down. She wanted to throw up but was denied the opportunity because he was still ejaculating, holding the back of her head as his freakish erection continued to violate her mouth, his slimy discharge hot and burning, gushing in impossibly copious amounts.
The Consultant Page 24