Headhunters

by Charlie Cole

  “We’ll be fine,” Alaina said. “Good luck!”

  “Bye, daddy! Get the job so we can stay in the hotel!”

  Yeah, no pressure there.

  ***

  Max Donovan and I met for a cup of coffee and a muffin. I wanted to concentrate on what he had to say rather than consuming a huge meal. Max was there before me, even though I was twenty minutes early.

  We relaxed in a couple of overstuffed chairs and took a moment to get acquainted. Max was the opposite of Randall Kendrick in many ways. Max was shorter, maybe just over five and a half feet tall. He was also barrel-chested with thick forearms that implied weightlifting or at least some heavy physical labor.

  We chatted about hobbies. Max was an avid outdoorsman, camping, rock-climbing and the like. I was a runner. He liked classic rock. I enjoyed jazz. He was married, but divorced with a son who attended University of Illinois.

  Finally, Max came to the point.

  “Simon, do you know what I do?”

  “You recruit high-end, IT Auditors and systems security consultants,” I recited. I’d read the website. It wasn’t difficult to see how he and Kendrick would have crossed paths.

  “That’s the industry that I’m in, but do you know what I do?”

  I didn’t know where he was going with this, so I played along.

  “Tell me.”

  “I present people with opportunities. Opportunities that could change their life forever. Hopefully for the best. I think everyone deserves the chance to make a choice about their future, to improve on the hand that life has dealt them. That’s what it means to be a headhunter. It’s not just about the money. It’s about making a difference in someone’s life.”

  I’d never really thought of it in those terms before.

  “I’d like to make a difference in your life, Simon.”

  “I’d like that, too,” I replied.

  We continued to talk. There would be paperwork, a written offer and we’d formally close the deal, but in the meantime, I was willing to work with this man. I was willing to work in this town.

  ***

  I returned to the hotel just in time to see the kids coming back from the pool. They were exhausted, with their hair mussed, still dripping. Alaina volunteered to get the kids dressed and sent them into the room to grab their clothes. When we were alone in the hallway she asked me the question.

  “So? How’d it go?”

  “It was great,” I replied. “He’s sending me the papers tomorrow. He’s going to make me an offer.”

  Alaina squealed in delight and hugged me. She was still wet from the pool and the damp curls of her hair rubbed against my face. She stepped back quickly.

  “Oh…”

  She’d soaked me. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s no problem. I’ll go change,” I said. “We’ll have dinner later, okay? We fly back tomorrow.”

  I closed the door to my room, letting Alaina deal with changing the little monsters on her side. I shrugged out of my coat and pulled off my tie. I hung it on the door knob to dry and laughed to myself.

  Alaina was cute. I had to admit that. She was from a Latin background so between her dark hair and dark eyes and youthfulness, she was very pretty. But the circumstance, the timing, the whole idea of being with Alaina, was just not there for me. I tiptoed around her. She was who she was and she was fantastic with the kids. I’d never do anything to compromise the professional relationship we had. Hell, I wasn’t in any place to even think about such things. My emotions were still raw from all that had happened. To even think about sleeping with the nanny was just… scandalous. I knew that issue began and ended with me. She was a good kid, but… no, not going to happen.

  I was changing out of my clothes when my cellphone buzzed. It was a different tone than my usual ring. I picked it up. There was a message from my home security system. I’d configured it to call my cell if anyone ever tried to get in. It had cost an exorbitant amount of money, but I’d hired a private security firm out of D.C. to wire it together.

  The phone had video capabilities, so I hit a sequence of numbers and it transmitted the live video feed to my phone. The little screen lit up and I recognized the front hallway. Two men—no, three men were sweeping methodically through the house. They were dressed in black, wearing ski masks. I could see the motion detector on the wall and the panic light flashing. I knew the light was accompanied by a deafening siren, but the men seemed unfazed. They had finished their task and walked out the door of my home.

  Chapter Four

  I stepped into the lobby of the office building and walked directly to the elevators. The doors opened and I stepped inside and punched the button for the seventh floor. The doors hung open, waiting for more passengers and when none came, silently sealed me in. I was alone for the first time since my last visit to Chicago when I’d watched helplessly over my video uplink as men raided my home.

  In the moments afterward, I knew I had to make a choice. Do I tell my kids and Alaina what had happened? Do I ruin the trip for them with news that their home, their sanctuary in the aftermath of everything had been defiled, corrupted by men in masks? Or do I stay silent and let things take their course?

  In the hotel that night, I made a phone call to a friend of mine. Ken Gibson was a detective on the Alexandria police force. When I was with Blackthorn, he’d been my liaison whenever I required police assistance, or as was occasionally the need, police indifference to our activities. Ken was a friend and someone I could trust. I’d recruited him through non-official channels, but he could still be a help.

  I explained the situation in the grayest of details, not putting too fine a point on anything. I didn’t share the news of my resignation from Blackthorn, nor the fact that I was calling him for unofficial business. I told him that my security had been breached and that the alarm company would be responding, but could he please look into it. Gibson agreed.

  An hour later the cell buzzed again in my pocket and I excused myself from the movie I’d been watching with the kids in the hotel and stepped into the bathroom. I turned on the fan to cover our conversation and answered my phone.

  “Simon? It’s Gibson. I’m in your house. Geez Louise… nice place, man.”

  I’d given Gibson the security passcode to the door so that he could enter without a key, as well as the code for the security system. I stood in the bathroom in shorts and a T-shirt and bare feet, listening to another man walk through my home.

  “Everything looks normal,” Gibson said. “Nothing is trashed or destroyed. Your electronics are all here… no one took your stereo or TV… who the hell is Charlie Parker?”

  “Get away from my CDs. What about the PC?” I asked.

  There was a pause and I could hear his footsteps on the hardwood floors as he walked to my office.

  “Still there. Hard drive is still in place,” he said. “I’m telling you, it looks like nothing was touched.”

  Somehow I knew that statement was fundamentally untrue. Something somewhere was tampered with, bugged or stolen. No one breaks in just to break in. Not in my neighborhood. Not with the countermeasures I’d put in place. But I couldn’t say otherwise to Gibson, so I let it go. I thanked him for his time and told him to lock up when he left.

  Back in the hotel, I let the kids enjoy their movie and then tucked them in bed. Every look from Alaina seemed to be questioning me, but I suspected that to be more my conscience than anything on her part. We returned to Alexandria and I began to plot how to get out of town.

  In the days that followed, I ran a long distance house hunt from my home office. I located a few properties through an agent in Chicago and then arranged one day that I would come out and look at them. In the end, I chose a two-story colonial home outside the city on nearly an acre of land. There was a gravel drive on the approach that skirted a pair of willow trees by the entrance to the property. The house was beautiful and airy with new conveniences, but sti
ll retaining the lived-in charm of a house with character. There were enough bedrooms for all of us, including Alaina. In the back of the house was a screened in porch with wicker furniture and a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses.

  “Nice touch,” I said.

  “The owners thought it made it seem homier,” the realtor replied. She was a woman named Bev who reminded me alarmingly of my 3rd-grade teacher, Mrs. Stark. Despite that fact, she seemed pleasant enough.

  “It didn’t need any help,” I replied. I looked out the back window and surveyed the yard and envisioned the kids playing and running and laughing. A new life… a new beginning. “How much?” I asked.

  “How much is the asking price?”

  “Yes.”

  She told me. I turned back to her.

  “What’s it going to take to get this house, Bev?”

  She was a little taken aback by my question.

  “I can only advise you that it’s a competitive market and that the owners will entertain your strongest offer,” she replied.

  “No, I understand that. I’m not bartering. What’s it going to take to make sure that I get the house, end of discussion? No contingencies. No counter-offers. No other buyers... What’s it going to take?” I asked. My voice softened a little; she wasn’t my enemy here. “I really like this house.”

  “If you offer $5000 over the asking price, I could probably get a verbal agreement by tomorrow,” she replied.

  I knew what she was feeling. That flutter in her chest as she visualized the deal coming together. The mental voice telling her to close this idiot now before he gets away; that anxiousness to bag the deal but please, oh please, don’t scare this one off. I poured myself a glass of lemonade and enjoyed the sound of the liquid and the ice dancing together in the glass. I took a moment and sipped the lemonade quietly enjoying the sweet sourness of it. Finally, I looked up at Bev.

  “$10,000 over asking and I want the agreement tonight before I fly back. I can give you the earnest money today,” I said and for a moment, I thought Bev might faint.

  On the flight back I began to think about the break-in again. It was almost certainly Randall Kendrick’s people. It might even be those two agents he’d had with him the last time. I made a mental note to find out who they were in case we ever crossed paths again. In all honesty, it angered me that Kendrick would break in. He knew me, knew who I was and what I stood for. I never betrayed him. I never horded information or stole it. What could he have wanted?

  And then, in that same second, I realized that I just didn’t care. Somehow, now that I was out, it just didn’t matter anymore. Kendrick had agents in the field, operations in play, offshore accounts to monitor and phones to tap. I was the least of his worries. Perhaps now he’d leave me alone. And if I was out of sight, perhaps I’d be out of mind too. The further away I could be, the better. I felt a warm comfort slip over me about this move then. It was the right thing to do. I let myself drift off to sleep.

  I felt myself dreaming and couldn’t stop it. I acknowledged that I’m a control freak. I didn’t like to dream. Things had a tendency to spin out of control and not be what they ought in dreams. In my dream, I was back at the crash site where Claire had died and I was jumping over the guard rail and running, stumbling down that hill. It was so dark that I could barely see and my stomach dropped as my feet tried to keep up with my momentum. And then I heard Claire calling for me. In my dreams, she was still alive. I ran faster, and came to a crossroads and another guard rail. I leapt over it only to realize that it’s the same one from the beginning of the dream. I’m on some kind of loop, repeating what I’ve done, yet unable to get off. I come to the same railing again and again. Claire is screaming now and I pump my legs hard, running down the hill, until I finally see the car again. I slide to a stop beside it and I throw the door open. This black howling shape bursts from the car and is on me, shoving me back, forcing me down, its face inhuman but it’s screaming at me in Claire’s voice: “Why? Why?! WHY?!”

  I awoke with a start and nearly tipped over the drink of the man sitting next to me on the first class flight.

  “Oh, sh— sorry… sorry,” I mumbled. He smiled, nodded, told me it was okay and then thankfully ignored me. I sighed and slumped back in the seat.

  Things happened quickly after that. I moved the kids between semesters. We hired a professional mover and relocated to Chicago. We decided to celebrate Christmas in the new house. I spared no expense. We had a gorgeous tree delivered and we decorated it together. I went shopping for the kids, then let Alaina take some cash and do shopping herself. We had a wonderful holiday. After the last of the Christmas wrapping was thrown away, we were on our way to New Years. I let the kids stay up and we all sang and danced.

  After the kids were in bed, Alaina was helping me clean up and we got a chance to talk.

  “Simon?”

  “Yeah, Alaina?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For making things nice tonight.”

  I knew what she meant. Things had been rough in the aftermath of Claire’s passing. Things had barely begun to settle down.

  “I want things to get better for us, you know? I really do. I… I just don’t know how,” I said.

  “You’re a great dad. It’ll come. I’m sure you’ll do what’s right.”

  Alaina gave me a peck on the cheek and wished me a happy new year then went off to bed. I sighed and sat at the back window, watching the snow fall while sipping my eggnog, and listening to the embers of the fire crackle and fade in the fireplace. I was simultaneously looking forward to and dreading that first day of work. But right then, in that moment, there was nothing else I wanted or needed more than dreamless sleep.

  ***

  The elevator doors opened and I saw the name “Donovan & Associates” etched in glass on the door. Donovan owned the office space on the entire seventh and eighth floors and part of the ninth. While many executives might have placed themselves on the highest floors of the building, Donovan liked being on the seventh floor. Lucky number seven, he’d said. Recruiting and Operations were on 7. Consulting and payroll were on the 8th floor and the legal department was on the 9th.

  I stepped off the elevator, pulled open the office door and was greeted by the receptionist. She looked to be in her mid-20s with her hair severely pulled back away from her face in a French braid. Her business suit was navy blue and perfectly tailored. She was speaking on a headset and motioned that I should give her a moment. I smiled and nodded and busied myself by looking at the paintings on the wall without really paying any attention to them.

  I feigned distraction for a moment until I realized that the receptionist was speaking on the phone in Portuguese. A moment later, she switched lines and picked up a conversation in French, then on to a third line that she picked up in Italian. Finally, she ended the calls and looked at me.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  She was professional enough, but there was no humor about her so I saved my charm.

  “Simon Parks to see Mr. Donovan.”

  By now, my name had become commonplace here. She stood and extended her hand which was small and looked fragile.

  “Isabelle Athabasca, pleased to meet you. Welcome to Donovan & Associates.”

  She rang him and a moment later Max Donovan emerged into the reception area. His smile was genuine and his handshake firm. Max was wearing a dress shirt and Dockers, what I’d come to learn was standard fare for him in his offices.

  “Simon! How are you? How was the flight? Everyone settled in?” Max barraged me with questions and I answered every one. He might have been a little grandiose, slightly larger than life, but one thing Max was not was insincere.

  “We’re good, we’re good,” I said. “Kids started school today. It’s a big day.”

  “Well, you’re right about that. Come on back and meet the team.”

  Max led me down a hallway and past several conference rooms. At the en
d of the hall, a room opened in front of me. Glassed in offices sat on the perimeter. At the far end I saw a massive suite that I presumed must have been another conference room. In the center of the room were three rows of cubicles, each row held five desks.

  “This is our operations center,” Max began. “These cubicles are for our team of consultants working on software projects, analysts doing market research and our business intelligence group. You’ll meet them as you get along here, but first there’s some people I’d really like you to meet.”

  Max began at the west end of the ops center at the glassed in offices. In the first was a man in his early fifties with a wild tangle of hair he’d only barely managed to tame to come into the office. He looked more like a math professor than a headhunter to me, but then this business attracted all types. Max knocked and entered without being asked.

  “Simon Parks, meet Tom Ellis,” he announced.

  I stepped forward and extended my hand to Tom. He smiled, pleasant but bewildered. He obviously wasn’t expecting me. We exchanged quick hellos and he reached for my hand, realized he’d smeared cream cheese on himself from his bagel that he’d abandoned on his desk and lunged for a napkin.

  “Oh geez, sorry,” Tom said, laughing at himself. “I’m more of a mess than the paper shredder at Enron.”

  I snickered despite myself but quickly recovered. Tom looked up and laughed without reserve. He seemed like a good guy, someone who might be a friend one day. He extended his now clean hand and we shook.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  “Same here,” Tom chorused. His eyes darted over my shoulder for a moment. He was suddenly serious. “Good morning, Christine.” Max and I turned.

  “Christine! Meet Simon Parks,” Max began. “Simon this is Christine Frost. She works with Tom on a lot of our searches.”

  Christine regarded me for a moment before shaking my hand. She was a brunette, which I don’t find objectionable in the least, but her eyes were black. Not dark brown. Black. Like the eyes of a great white shark. She didn’t smile at first, then slowly the corners of her mouth turned up and I got the feeling that I was in the presence of someone whose bad side I didn’t want to be on.