by Dan Koontz
Dillon didn’t really have career goals or ambitions. He didn’t care about money. He cared about two things in life – reuniting with his father, which was never going to happen outside prison walls, and getting some measure of revenge against Avillage. In his mind, he probably thought he’d come up with the best possible way to have a chance of accomplishing both.
His dad was in federal prison. He’d purposely transported Bradford across state lines to make the kidnapping a federal crime.
~~~
“You’re probably asking yourself, ‘why carbon monoxide?’ Aren’t you?” Dillon asked his hostage who now appeared terminally seasick. “Well...”
Bradford’s eyes suddenly bulged and his cheeks puffed out as he squeezed his lips together even more tightly.
“Go ahead. I’ll wait,” Dillon said, backing away from the seat-back to take a few deep breaths through the PFA tubing.
Bradford lurched forward, temporarily disappearing behind the front seat. Sounds of choking and retching and splattering were followed by coughs and gasps, and then more gagging and splashing as the acrid odor of stomach acid and stale coffee filled the car.
Bradford’s head eventually popped back up into view, his face now sheet white. Had it been anyone else in the world, Dillon couldn’t have helped but feel sorry for him.
“So, as I was saying,” he continued as if nothing had happened, “carbon monoxide is kind of the gift that keeps on giving.
“What you’re experiencing now are kind of the typical signs of acute poisoning.
“But you’ll eventually get to a hospital, and they’ll probably treat you with hyperbaric oxygen, and it won’t be too long till you’re feeling considerably better.
“Then at some point down the road – it might be three days from now, or it might be three weeks – but at some point, it’s going to come back.” He looked Bradford right in his glossed-over eyes, wondering how much he was still comprehending. It looked like enough.
“You could end up with personality change (which in your case could only be a good thing) or possibly seizures, dementia, symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease, or all of the above.
“You’ll live. But my hope is that you’ll wish you hadn’t.” Just as he concluded, Bradford’s eyes rolled back, and he quietly slumped over to his left side.
The monitor let out a continuous piercing scream, as it detected an imminently lethal air concentration of 6400 PPM. Dillon reached over to switch it off and then turned the car’s engine off to avoid raising the carbon monoxide concentration any further.
He sat in relative silence, breathing comfortably through his tube, for a couple of minutes. For the first time in years, he actually felt at peace. He then looked down at his watch. Time was up. With no further need for a gun, he threw it down to the floorboard and slowly opened the car door.
A swarm of screaming police officers charged toward him as he timidly tip-toed away from the car with his hands above his head.
~~~
Bradford’s doctors had cleared him to go back to work in three weeks. It had been a week and half, and he was already right back micromanaging and making his underlings’ lives miserable as if nothing had happened. Except for the occasional headache and a little fatigue toward the end of the day, he hadn’t experienced any of the late effects Dillon had predicted after the poisoning.
He’d just finished hanging up on his secretary for neglecting to add something to his calendar when Corbett Hermanson walked in. “It isn’t true is it?” Corbett asked.
“Ever heard of knocking?” Bradford sneered. “And could you please give me a shred of context before you start spouting off stupid questions.”
“The email you sent out this morning. It isn’t true is it?”
“I didn’t send any email out.”
Corbett looked confused – and then terrified as it occurred to him for the first time: Maybe Dillon hadn’t been bluffing about planting something on their system.
Bradford immediately cued into the change of expression. “Corbett! What is it?”
“Uh, there was an email that went out this morning...” he winced trying to work up the courage to continue. “And it was addressed to our entire internal mailing list... and CNN... and the Wall Street Journal... and the New York Times.”
“What did it say?” Bradford shouted, his cheeks glowing fiery red.
“I think you should probably read it yourself. It was a lengthy and, I’m quite sure, dishonest resignation letter.”
“Get out! I’ll deal with you later. You’re gonna take personal and public responsibility for this. Do you hear me?”
“Yes sir,” Corbett whispered ducking his head as he backed out of the room.
Bradford opened his email and clicked on the sent mail folder. Thirty minutes prior an email had gone out to all of the addressees Corbett had mentioned and more.
Dear All,
Recently my life flashed before my eyes, and I didn't like what I saw. In order to begin the process of making amends, I feel that I must first start by taking some responsibility for my actions.
First, I would like to apologize to RTJ. At the time you were identified as a top prospect for our initial public offering, you had two young, healthy parents. And while you have turned out to be every bit as extraordinary as we had hoped, I would like to apologize for any role I may have played in the untimely deaths of your parents.
To J (may you rest in peace,) I’m sorry. I sent you into a basketball game knowing full well that you may not live through it because of a potentially lethal heart condition. I did this because I wanted to profit from a multi-million dollar contract you were set to sign after the game. After you died, I donated my own money to your charity, only to give the impression that I had received a large malpractice settlement from The University of Chicago Children’s Hospital. I hadn’t.
Although I know there are many others I’ve hurt, I’d like to conclude by apologizing to BUTY. I funneled cash directly to your orphanage’s headmaster when you were only 13 years old, prior to your being adopted by Avillage, so that you could be subjected to a breast augmentation and tubal ligation without your knowledge.
I willingly accept the civil and criminal liability of my actions. I did all of this in the interest of generating profit. I hereby offer my resignation from Avillage, Inc.
Sincerely,
Aaron Bradford
Some of it was true. Some of it hinted at the truth, and some was off the mark, but the news outlets weren’t going to sit on this. Investigative reporters were probably already chasing down leads.
Avillage’s reputation to this point had never sustained a single blemish, and the company was viewed as a resounding success, even by most child-welfare advocates. Bradford kept his eyes trained on the end of the message, continuously shaking his head, contemplating how in the world he was going to deal with this.
When he finally looked up, still with no plan of attack, he started at the sight of his boss standing in his doorway. Prescott wore a disappointed but determined fatherly expression that read, “this is going to hurt me as much as it hurts it you.”
Bradford opened his mouth to speak first, but he couldn’t find the words.
“I’m sorry, Aaron. We’ve had a good run,” Prescott said matter-of-factly. “You know I couldn’t have built this company to where it is now without you. I will personally pay whatever legal fees you might run into.”
“What?” Bradford gasped. “That’s it? I didn’t write that email. James, come on. You know me.”
“I know you didn’t write it. But I need you to tell me that none of it’s true.”
Bradford huffed and puffed like a philanderer who’d been caught in the act. “James, this is my life! I’ve got nothing else.”
But he never said it was untrue.
“Put yourself in my position, Aaron. You know there’s only one way out here. No one’s bigger than the company.” Although his voice was calm, there was an inevitability
in his tone that sent Bradford into a panic.
“James, look, I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but you’re not gonna be around forever! There’s nobody else qualified to run this place!”
“Aaron,” Prescott sighed empathetically, knowing the day would come when he’d have to tell Bradford what he was about to say. “It was never going to be you. Avillage is my legacy. It was never going to leave my family.”
Was that a joke? Prescott’s kids had never set foot in the building – not even for social visits. Shocked, humiliated, devastated, Bradford’s mix of emotion, for the first time in Prescott’s presence, bubbled to the surface as pure rage.
“You’ve lost it!” he shouted. “Almost thirty years of service, and you throw me out like a piece of trash at the first whisper of misconduct? The cancer’s gone to your brain! I’ll have you declared incompetent!”
“I’m sorry, Aaron,” Prescott replied steadfastly, with no change in his sympathetic expression. “This is a private company. You know there’s no board to appeal to. My decision’s final.”
Bradford slammed his fists down on his desk and started to rise from his chair, but just as he did, his spine arched and his arms and legs stiffened like a frozen corpse’s. His eyes remained open as his teeth clenched down involuntarily on his tongue, sending a rose-colored froth out of the corner of his mouth.
Prescott shouted for Bradford’s secretary to call 911. Thirty seconds of forceful, rhythmic full-body jerks were followed by quiet flaccidity. Bradford’s office chair slowly rolled out from behind him as his body sunk to the ground in a heap, his eyes still eerily open, his breath sounds sonorous, and his pants soiled.
Dillon couldn’t have scripted a more undignified departure from Avillage.
CHAPTER 14
“I don’t think I can do it,” Annamaria whimpered into her phone from the backseat of an idling cab.
“Yes you can,” Ryan shot back emphatically. “Trust me. I’ve seen the fire inside you. Let it out. You have nothing to fear. The fear, the shame, the regret – they all belong with him. Give them to him!”
She nodded her head and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I know,” she said, still sniffling. “I know.” She took one last glance at the sign just outside her window that read, “Rainbow City 10 km,” firmed up her expression and then gave her driver the go-ahead.
~~~
Nerves weren’t an issue for Ryan, who calmly slid his phone back into his front pocket and leaned forward on the edge of his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers in front of him, staring determinedly out the plate-glass window of terminal A5 inside Boston’s Logan International Airport. For him the hardest part had been waiting.
Traveling outside the United States without Prescott’s permission had never been an option, until he’d turned eighteen six days prior. But it just so happened that the final spring break of his life conveniently fell within a week of his milestone birthday.
While he’d researched the trip obsessively, he hadn’t whispered a word of his plans to anyone – not his parents; not even Annamaria – until the week before, when he’d legally become an adult.
The Cayman Islands were a perfectly reasonable spring break destination for an eighteen-year-old with more money than he knew what to do with, and it actually would be nice to escape Boston’s subarctic version of spring. But this trip would be all business. Jared Ralston’s reckoning was long overdue.
~~~
A rush of emotion flooded Annamaria’s heart and mind, as she scanned the grounds of the orphanage. Everything was familiar. But different. The old dirt parking lot had been paved over with smooth asphalt; the uneven, muddy soccer field was now carpeted with lush green grass with real goals and bright chalk boundary lines; and the cage-like chain-link fence had been replaced by a white-washed wooden fence, accented with the children’s brightly colored handprints. She couldn’t see the children as she approached, but she could hear their telltale squeals and laughter.
After slowly making her way to the orphanage door, she paused for a full minute, her heart in her stomach, waiting for the surge of emotion that would compel her to throw the door open and storm inside. But it never came. And gradually, thoughts that she really might not be able to do this began to creep in.
She considered calling Ryan again, but he was probably in the air by now. And her cell phone wasn’t picking up any signal anyway.
She then thought about retreating to the parking lot, where she could see the cab driver napping in the front seat – all the windows down, his head leaned back against the headrest, mouth wide open and nose twitching perturbedly at a swarm of gnats.
But she was suddenly struck with a trivial curiosity. The sidewalk she was standing on used to end at the door. She remembered that distinctly. Now it continued on to the back of the orphanage.
Convincing herself that solving this puzzle was a valid alternative to barging through the front door, she decided to follow the path and see where it led. Surely she’d find the courage to burst through the door afterward.
As she tiptoed quietly toward the back corner of the building, ducking as she passed by the headmaster’s window, she was startled by a man’s voice behind her.
“May I help you?” the familiar voice asked in Spanish.
She froze, still a few paces short of the back of the building, every fiber in her body tensing.
“Ma’am,” the headmaster said a little louder. “May I help you?”
Annamaria straightened up her posture, threw her shoulders back with a deep breath in, and slowly turned to reveal her identity, staring directly in the headmaster’s eyes.
Carlos Villanueva gawked at her as if she’d just returned from the dead. “Annamaria!” he gasped, falling to his knees under the weight of her glare.
“How could you!” she screamed, her trepidation replaced by rage.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he blubbered, making no attempt at denial, shamefully covering his face with his hands.
“I was just a little girl! I trusted you! And now I can’t trust anyone!”
He offered no excuses and no defense, as he sobbed on the ground in front of her.
“Get up, Carlos!” she demanded. “I want answers!”
Slowly he rose to his feet keeping his head down, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Of course, of course,” he finally whispered. “Just not here. Not where the children might hear. Please, follow me.”
He led her into his cramped office, seemingly the only part of the grounds left unchanged from the day she’d departed six years earlier, and offered her a chair and a glass of water, both of which she hastily refused.
“I’ve thought about the day you might come back everyday since I sold my soul to the devil,” he started, his voice trembling. “First of all, let me say that what I did was wrong, and I will continue to pay for the decision I made for as long as I live.
“Now, you want answers, and you deserve them. Please, sit.”
Annamaria kept her glare on him, her face still flushed with anger. “Damn it! I don’t want to sit down!” she screamed.
“Ok, ok. I’m sorry,” Carlos continued nervously, “It’s been six years now since the earthquake. I took this place over just six months before that. I was only 24 years old at the time.
“After the quake hit, in the span of two days, our occupancy rate shot up from 25% to 200%. You were here. You remember.” Every memory he had of her was fond. He wasn’t aware that a smile had started to form on his lips as he took a moment to reminisce.
“Up to that point, I had always been more of a romantic than a realist. I took this job with dreams of cleaning the place up, filling it with light and laughter. Making something that felt like a home for the homeless. I converted the old headmaster’s huge office into a gameroom and moved my stuff into this cramped little space. I fenced in the yard, so the kids could play outside more. I spent every cent the state gave me on enri
chment projects and lobbied for more.
“But I was learning on the job. When the earthquake hit, I was overwhelmed. I had no money in reserve. Then half our staff either cut back their hours or couldn’t work altogether because of injuries or damage to their homes.
“The government increased their allocation to the orphanage by 50%, but it wasn’t even close to enough. We were barely keeping food on the table. The kids with injuries were getting essentially no medical care, and we didn’t even have time to think about child enrichment. You were a godsend, Annamaria. I’ll never forget...”
“Don’t!” she warned. She didn’t want him toying with her emotions, and she wasn’t there for flattery.
“I’m sorry,” he stuttered, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for this time, and then continued on with his story. “One morning I was in my office, desperately trying to make the finances work when I came across a letter I’d actually meant to throw out from an American company by the name of Avillage. They said they were looking for orphans with ‘exceptional skills or talents.’
“These children, they said, would be adopted into hand-selected American families. And the referring orphanages would be eligible for a finder’s fee of sorts. They made it sound like a win-win situation.
“I was desperate. And you were the only child who came to my mind – beautiful, confident, responsible – so I sent off some pictures.
“I had just about forgotten about it when, after hearing nothing for months, Aaron Bradford showed up, on less than twenty-four hours notice.
“He was very slick. And pushy. Clearly adept at preying on the hopeless. An evil man. I should have sent him out immediately, but he understood how dire our situation was, and, in his brief encounter with you, I think he picked up on your compassion for the younger children.