Months slipped by as Brant Wilson vigilantly pursued employment. He was holding out for something near the same level as his previous position and had taken to contacting the same companies he'd previously contacted to see if something might have come available in the interim, though he'd begun to lose hope. The house was in foreclosure, which, had an entry-level job had allowed them to keep, he might have applied. But as it stood, it wouldn't make much of a difference in keeping the house.
They had nearly expended all options.
And Evelyn had run out of patience. She'd since taken a position in the loan department of a local branch of Bank of America. Lately she'd begun keeping long hours and Brant suspected another affair. During the rare times when Evelyn initiated sex, Brant escalated their lovemaking to a hostile level. He found it disturbing and somewhat gratifying that it seemed to be the glue holding their marriage together.
One evening the recurring discussion detoured into an argument, partially because Brant found himself frustrated at the thought of Evelyn leaving him, even though he thought perhaps under other circumstances he might have left her after discovering her infidelity. Perhaps being preoccupied by unemployment and ultimately a job search had temporarily helped their marriage. Or perhaps it had simply delayed its inevitable doom. Either way, Brant saw the signs:
Her presumed outings with the ladies since starting the new job
The way she dressed more provocatively when she left the house
Her improved mood
And the recent plan she'd had to hold a garage sale
Evelyn hadn't held a garage sale since they married and it was obvious to Brant that, in addition to making some extra money, what his wife wanted to do was get rid of anything she didn't plan to take with her when she left him.
The discussion turned into an argument when Evelyn said, “Isn't there someone, anyone, you haven't tried, anyone at all, you could ask for a job?”
“Don't you think I've thought of that? I've asked everyone.”
“Ask them again.”
“Again. Why didn't I think of that?”
“Don't be an ass. There must be someone.”
“Who?”
“I don't know!”
Brant, frustratedly noticing the various garage sale items strewn about, changed the subject, “When are you going to get all this shit out of the house?”
“'All this shit.' Listen to you, Brant. I can't take it anymore. Do something.”
“Do something? Do something? I'll do something.”
She'd dragged a bunch of stuff up from the basement to the living room, stuff for the sale. A pile of board games they'd drunkenly played in college that had somehow escaped being sold, donated, or otherwise tossed out over the years were stacked on a coffee table on their way to the garage. Brant grabbed up a stack of games and headed out of the room.
“Leave those alone. I'm still pricing them.” Evelyn, taking hold of several boxes on top of the stack, pulled them away. A couple boxes fell to the floor, spilling their contents in the process.
“Now look you've done,” Brant said. It took all his willpower not to purposely drop the remaining stack.
“I didn't do anything,” Evelyn said. “Get a grip, Brant. You're losing it.”
“Yeah, losing it. Like I lost my job and how I'm losing my wife.”
“Well... Do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“I don't know! Ask someone for help.”
Brant, exasperated, set down the remaining boxes of games and went to pick up the ones that had fell to the floor. Pay Day and a Parker Brother's Ouija board.
“I'll ask someone all right,” Brant said as he scooped up the Ouija board. “I'll ask someone on the other side.”
“Knock yourself out,” Evelyn said, her own frustration shining through.
Brant retreated to his study, board game tucked under an arm. He decided to pour himself a drink and retrieve a couple of candles. He considered doing so just to annoy his wife, because, unlike her, he'd never bought into any of that supernatural crap.
3
Brant set the candles beside the Ouija board on the desk in the study, took a drink of bourbon, and moved the mouse to awaken the personal computer on his desk. He'd bookmarked many web links in the Internet browser in his search for a job. Systematically he began to cycle through them for inspiration in his job hunt.
Finding employment had never been so hard. He'd landed numerous jobs over the years. In high school and college it seemed like jobs were everywhere. Once, during freshman year at the University of Texas, he'd quit a position just to spend a long weekend at home in Arkansas. He'd simply found another, better job off a bulletin board at school upon returning. Now, at the most educated and experienced point in his life, he couldn't find anything.
It was ruining his life and his marriage. Worst of all, he didn't know what to do.
As he surfed he found a lead (a huge step back but a job nonetheless) for a position as a project manager at a local software development company called MedTeq.
If they are primarily happy with strong project management skills, Brant mused, I'm their man. If, on the other hand, they want someone with a background in the medical or software development fields, I'm a tougher sell.
He'd dealt peripherally with software developers (mostly firmware, actually) in his role at Silicon Solutions. Perhaps he'd be able to exaggerate such experience in an interview. He certainly could tweak his resume – which he immediately opened in a Word document. The job description merely listed “medical experience” and “software development experience” as being pluses. The posting listed project management skills of three-plus years a must. Brant Wilson had ten. Hopefully, the surplus didn’t work against him.
A sound of approaching footsteps alerted Brant to the presence of his wife. Initially annoyed by the intrusion, Brant finished tweaking the resume and pressed CTL-S to save the document.
Evelyn said, “How's it going?”
“No job offers waiting in my in-box.”
“I hear Silicon Solutions may be hiring again. Something about micro boards for robotics or something. Maybe you could—”
A spike of frustration stabbed Brant. How had she heard about a new project at Silicon Solutions? He'd read rumors about it, obviously, because he kept current in the industry via trade journals and personal contacts, but Evelyn? The only people who sprang to mind were Greg Abrams, his wife, and a few other women Evelyn had met over the years at company parties, women who, as far as Greg knew, Evelyn hadn't remained in touch with.
He immediately suspected some of the late hours she kept might include time with Greg Abrams, but at this point who she spent time with was a moot point.
“Maybe I could contact them, is that right?” Brant replied mockingly. “Well, I did contact them. I called Hugh McKellen a week ago about the prospect. 'We'd love to have you back,' he said, 'but we're promoting from within, old chap.' I asked around and John Laurie is the guy being promoted. Laurie is the bastard who to took my job.”
“Isn't there anyone else...?”
“Here we go again.” Brant drained the glass of bourbon, his second double of the night, and it had begun to take hold. “I've run out of people to ask.”
“Maybe if you—”
Brant opened the box and removed the Ouija board and laid it flat on the desk. “Maybe if you cut the lights we can—”
“Oh, my lord.”
“There's no one else to ask, Evelyn.”
“Have at it.” Evelyn switched off the lights as she stomped out of the room.
It was silly, juvenile, he knew, but he didn't care.
Screw it, Brant thought. She wants me to ask someone for help, I might as well. I'm just spinning my wheels here anyway.
He lighted the candles and jokingly began to plead for help. He called out loudly for a presence, mostly for Evelyn's benefit, to help him.
“Please, if anyone can hear me, make yourse
lf known...” he shouted, realizing the futility of his effort, but also hoping desperately for an answer, a lead of any kind.
Eventually the planchette began to move. It inched its way to “yes.”
The planchette skittered across the board in flickering candlelight.
Am I going crazy? Brant Wilson asked himself.
He knew he wasn't drunk – not this time – because he hadn't had anything to drink.
It defied logic how the pointer moved around the board under his fingertips. It had been doing so two and three nights a week for nearly three weeks. The only logical explanation Brant could come up with was that his subconscious mind wanted to play tricks with him. Because otherwise an entity named Domas had referred him to another entity, a lesser demon or devil, Brant wasn't clear on which, called Trajak who had, of all things, provided a preliminary interview with him via the Ouija board.
At first Brant had went along with the joke he'd plan to humor his wife with. He'd played along with the drunken game of “ask someone for a job” that first night when he met Ranos. Then, on subsequent nights, a sense of dread had begun to fill him.
Am I crazy? he wondered again. Is there really a Domas? A Ranos? A Trajak? Dread turned to fear when Trajas told him to cut his hand and write his name in blood on a resume before lighting it on fire and burning it to ashes. Fear of the unknown and unexplainable paled in comparison to the fear of losing everything material.
In the span of a few weeks Brant Wilson had started to have bouts of shakiness, primarily in the form of trembling hands, which he attributed to stress. He feared a nervous breakdown and attempted to hide the symptoms from his wife. Evelyn, however, had seen him using the Ouija time and again, which served to widen the void between them.
Of course, he'd “sent his resume” to Trajak.
Now Brant awaited news of the application. No doubt madness. But he had nothing else to lose, because he'd already lost his wife. A moving company had arrived earlier in the day to claim her things. They should be finished with the packing soon.
There are things you must do, Trajak had warned.
Brant would do most anything now. In little over a week the house would be gone and, unless he heard back from MedTeq soon, Brant didn't know what he would do.
“Trajak, are you there?” Brant asked. He'd been asking for maybe ten minutes now. If he didn't receive a response soon, he'd quit for the night. Evelyn would be gone by then and he'd pour himself a drink. He'd decided not to drink, not tonight. Not until after Evelyn left. He wanted to remain strong, not let her believe she was leaving a drunken loser.
Brant's heart jumped as the planchette moved under his fingertips. The first time it had moved while he was sober.
It skittered first to “Yes,” then spelled F-U-C-K H-E-R.
“Fuck her? Evelyn?”
N-O-W
Trajak had similarly instructed him to cut himself and anoint the resume. It seemed insane, the planchette moving tonight without Brant consciously powering it. Could it be that Trajak wished him to prove his dedication by raping his wife? Or perhaps his subconscious thought sex the only way to prevent a complete severing of their relationship.
How ludicrous to think he could somehow provide some sort of gesture that would allow them to maintain a physical relationship during their split.
Brant, typically very intuitive, found himself at a loss... But then something within him knew immediately what to do when Evelyn appeared in the doorway.
“You're playing with that game again.” She sounded disappointed. “I'm leaving now.”
Brant went to her, hugged her, kissed a cheek.
“Don't,” she said. “I have to go.”
“I know,” Brant agreed, and he meant it. For her, and for him, though he didn't want her to leave.
She started to turn but Brant pulled her tight against him. A hand took a fistful of hair and he pressed lips to her mouth.
“No,” she tried to say, her words muffled.
“Yes,” Brant said as he moved to the nape of her neck.
Evelyn struggled to get free; however, her lackluster effort did little to stop him. Their lovemaking had changed in the course of the past year and he saw it for what it was: her vain attempt to place the onus of sex on an estranged husband. Brant took her forcefully against a wall.
She left disheveled but not angry and Brant Wilson knew he'd see his wife again.
The planchette had since moved to GOOD BYE and Trajak didn't communicate any more that night or any night.
MedTeq, Brant devastatingly discovered during a follow-up call, had decided to hire another candidate.
“Fuck it.” He opened a browser window with plans to apply for every bullshit job halfway related to anything he could do. He'd need to dumb down his resume to avoid appearing overqualified but saw no other choice. He still had enough money in retirement to rent a one bedroom apartment. He'd need to find a job soon, though, else risk going hungry, or heaven forbid, applying for more assistance. Damn it, he had skills and shouldn't have to deal with this.
He'd almost rather kill himself than have to apply for a food card. Maybe his luck would turn.
About to apply for a Linux Administrator position requiring only one year of experience, Brant's heart skipped a beat when the doorbell rang.
Who the hell could it be at this hour? Brant wondered. He answered the door barefoot, wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, fully expecting to be served with divorce papers.
Outside rain pelted the ground while lightning flashed in the night's sky. A man wearing a trench coat held an umbrella over his head and a briefcase by his side.
“Hello,” the man said. “Is this the residence of Brant Wilson?”
“That's what it says on the mailbox. Who are you?”
“My name is Elliot. Joshua Elliot. I've been hired to contact Brant Wilson regarding a business matter he's sure to be interested in.”
“To contact me, huh. In that case, you might as well come in. Care for a drink? I was debating having one myself when the doorbell rang.”
“Thank you very much.” Elliot lowered the umbrella and, after closing it and wiping his feet, stepped into the foyer.
“I'd take your umbrella but my wife sold the umbrella stand. Feel free to hang it from the doorknob. Beer, bourbon, vodka? I'm having a beer.”
“Beer sounds good. Except for drinks during business luncheons, I typically don't drink while working. Since this is my last business of the day—”
“No need to explain. If you are here on matters of business, I probably shouldn't be drinking either. But why not?” Brant lead Elliot to the wet bar and opened bottles of beer for them. “Please excuse the emptiness of the house. What my wife didn't sell, she took with her.”
Elliot, waving off the notion, sat down on a barstool and pulled from the bottle of beer. His coat fell open and the nice suit beneath contrasted with his hard, acne-scarred face. The man reminded Brant of someone who might play a crime boss or an asshole district attorney on television.
“So,” Brant said from across the bar, “what is this about?”
“My client would like to hire you as a consultant.”
Brant Wilson certainly liked the sound of that. He'd sent so many resumes, however, that he had no idea who Elliot's client might be. In fact, he couldn't fathom anyone hiring someone to pay a visit to his home just to make him an offer, especially since none of the likely prospects had panned out. That only left one of the hundreds if not thousands of blind resumes he'd submitted over the past year. Unless...
No, it couldn't be.
“Who?” Brant cautiously inquired. “Who wants to hire me?”
“My client's name,” Joshua Elliot explained, “is very tough to pronounce in its entirety. I'd butcher it. We'll simply refer to him as the client for now.”
“The client? Why would someone wish to hire me anonymously? And why would an individual and not a company want to hire me? Who does the client work for?”
Elliot grinned. “This is no man we're speaking of. I was under the impression you were aware—”
“Aware of a joke?” Brant couldn't see Evelyn playing such a prank on him, but if she'd gotten mixed up with Abrams again, he could see that guy wanting to get even by pulling a stunt like this. And Brant didn't see the humor in it. Except that he knew it was no joke because:
Too soon for Evelyn to pull a prank or allow a prank like this to be played
The manner in which Elliot had mentioned ‘the client’ filled Brant with an ominous vibe
The setup was too hokey to be anything but legit
Which, if true, Brant expected Elliot to produce the following from his briefcase:
Paperwork to solidify the deal
A retainer
Brant, suddenly wanting the creepy man out of his house, said, “What kind of work and how much is your client offering?”
“My client wants to hire you to custom design a circuit board. Nothing cutting-edge, mind you, but custom. The client also wishes you to provide installation of the finished product in a facility in Kansas. Also as part of the contract you'll be expected to evaluate the current state of the facility and report back your findings. The client also wishes you to be available on-site for two weeks immediately following installation.”
It sounded good. Hell, it sounded like a godsend, an opportunity Brant couldn't pass up. But... “How much money are we talking?”
Elliot mentioned a fair amount that Brant knew he'd accept, though he said, “Plus expenses. And a token sign-on bonus.”
“Agreed. Plus expenses and bonus.”
Then, just as Brant anticipated, Elliot placed the briefcase on the bar top and opened it. “Here is my card, and this is the contract. In the envelope you'll find a corporate credit card belonging to the law firm Elliot, Marsden, and McGuire. Do not abuse it.”
“Of course not,” Brant said as he perused the paperwork which appeared standard and straightforward.
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