by Frank Stein
And there was nothing I could do. Hildebrand needed to be taken out just as much as the eight others who had died that day. Yes, I wasn’t comfortable with what I feared Mo was going to do, but I knew that Mo would have to live with it, and die with it.
As for me, I’d have to live with walking away, perhaps forever tormented by allowing what I could only imagine would be torture. But there would be many other things that tormented me, so what was one more? The adrenaline-induced rush I had felt earlier was long gone, and as I went to the door and pulled Henri’s lifeless body away, I felt like a pathetic, cowardly murderer again. I tried to remember that what we had done was noble and righteous, but somehow that didn’t ring so true anymore. I was a low-life terrorist, no better, and possibly worse.
I looked out into the hallway to make sure it was clear, and then I stepped out. As I turned to close the door, I saw Mo retrieve her knife from Andy’s chest. I took a deep breath and shut the door and took the elevators straight down into the parking garage so I could leave the building unnoticed.
SEVENTY-FOUR
The SpacedOut consulting team wasn’t scheduled to be out in San Francisco until later that week, so I spent Monday cooped up in my apartment, feverishly checking the news on television as well as the internet, panicking every time the phone rang or the buzzer sounded.
Naturally, the massacre was all over the news. Nine bodies had been found in a suite at the Ritz-Carlton in Manhattan, which meant Hildebrand was certainly dead. None of the news channels talked details, so I had no idea how she had been killed, or if there had been signs of torture. Mo sent me a text in the early afternoon, and it appeared that there was enough confusion as to what had gone down that the police hadn’t reached out to her yet. We were still on for the evening, but I no longer gave a shit about what Mo was going to do to herself. I was in a deep hole, and suicide didn’t seem like a bad way out. In fact, it seemed like a pretty good way.
I buried my face in the couch pillow when I realized what I was thinking. I tried once more to imagine what my parents would go through, and then my thoughts started to drift back down the path of faking an accident. Not faking my death, just faking how it happened so my parents might think it was an accident and not self-inflicted. A few cigarettes later, I calmed down and sunk back into the comfortable state of apathy that had consumed me for most of the day.
At four in the afternoon, I finally moved from the couch. I hadn’t eaten or showered or even brushed my teeth yet. After stubbing out the last cigarette from what had been a fresh pack that morning, I dragged myself to the bathroom and got ready.
I took the subway down to Broadway and 86th and picked up a rental car. I drove back uptown and took the Hudson Parkway North. The ride to Westchester took almost two hours, but I barely noticed. In fact, the only thing I remember about the car ride was being annoyed that the rental company had somehow managed to remove all the ashtrays from the vehicle.
It was almost seven when I got to Mo’s, and I was about as angry and depressed as I had been at any point that day. I felt weak with dehydration and hunger, and my throat was dry and itchy.
Mo lived in a beautiful house in what seemed to be an extremely well-to-do neighborhood. In New York City you always hear the rich people with families say that they lived in Westchester, and even with that hype I was taken aback by how upscale the neighborhood was. Mo’s place must have been worth several million even in a down market, and it was one of the smaller lots.
My careless depression abruptly left as I walked up to the front door. Now I was apprehensive and sad and in that confused state of mind where all I wanted to do was shout out loud. What do you say to someone who’s about to kill herself? Especially when you’re the last person she’s chosen to be with. Do I tell her I love her? Do I beg her to stay?
Mo answered the door before I could fall any deeper into my melancholy. She was in black track pants and a loose red shirt.
“Hey,” she said.
“What’s up,” I said.
“Come in.” Mo stepped back.
I walked in and looked around. The house looked spotless and smelled fresh. I remember reading somewhere that if you’re feeling like killing yourself, you should first clean your home. Nine times out of ten, when your home is neat and tidy the desire to end it all diminishes. I smiled at her, and tried to feel optimistic.
My optimism disappeared when I noticed that all the windows save one had been closed and sealed with duct tape. The door to the passageway that led to the stairs had been closed and sealed as well. A charcoal grill stood near the open window, and the flames had already given way to a steady, dull red glow.
I turned to Mo with a desperate smile on my face. “This is ridiculous. You know this is ridiculous, right? If you’re doing all this just to fake me out, then please tell me. You know I’d never let on that you’re alive.”
Mo smiled at my smile. “Frank. Let’s not get back into this. I can’t fake a carbon monoxide poisoning without a body. And besides, I don’t want to run. This is what I want. This is the plan. This was always the plan.” She sat down on the large green cushioned couch and beckoned for me to sit by her. “And I know you understand.”
I sat next to her and stared at the shiny black grill. I turned back to her and felt like I should say something, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I wanted to say that I loved her, but I knew I would start sobbing if I tried to speak. I looked up at her and tried to tell her with my eyes, but she wouldn’t look at me. Instead, she went to the last open window, shut it gently, and sealed it with tape. I stared as she picked up a prescription bottle from the mantel and swallowed a few pills. She still wouldn’t look at me.
I stood up. I wanted to go to her and put my arms around her and tell her that we could maybe go somewhere and have a normal, happy life. I took a step towards her and reached for her hand. But she turned away from me and moved close to the grill and stared down at the whispering red coals.
“I’ll see you in hell, Frank,” she said. “Goodbye.”
And I turned and walked out of the house and got into my car and drove back to Manhattan at ninety miles an hour with all four windows rolled all the way down. It was pitch dark and raining when I dropped off the car at the rental spot, but I didn’t give a shit. I puffed on a cigarette until the rain put it out, and then I slowly walked home alone in the night.
EPILOGUE
Like I said, all stories about management consultants begin and end with a laptop. This laptop has a big blue sticker on it with some words in yellow print. The words say Property of the Federal Government of the United States.
Yes, part of my deal lets me finish typing up this rambling, self-indulgent account. It’s not your typical confession, but the federal prosecutors can pull what they need from it.
And although I’m almost starting to fancy myself as a writer, I’m not going to take you through any heroic or guilt-ridden or philosophical explanations of why I turned myself in. I can tell you that there was no proof other than my confession, so I guess there is a sense of righteousness written into these pages.
Hopefully that feeling will be enough for me to keep it together while I sit on death row. I gave up my rights to appeal in return for being allowed to wait for the needle in solitary.
Small comfort, though, since I know I’ll never be alone again. They’re all watching me—Yoshi, Miroslav, Takahashi, Henri, Raghu, and the others. Watching, and waiting. Waiting for me to join them.
But I’m not worried, and I’m not scared. I know there’s someone else watching. And I’d like to think she’s waiting for me too.
www.frankstein.net
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