by Ray Daniel
“It’s been six months. He should be able to talk freely. Just call him.”
“No.”
“Fine. Don’t call him. What do I care?”
I stopped walking and stood at the edge of the green lawn. A siren wailed as an ambulance trundled down Charles Street and into the maze of Beacon Hill millionaire brownstones. Perhaps it would go through to Mass General; perhaps it would stop at the house of some guy who thought his money would protect him. The ambulance that had pulled up to our house in Wellesley had not bothered with a siren.
Carol stopped walking and turned. I felt the sea breeze slide across the Common, and Carol’s hair stirred in response. She said, “What is it?”
“When does this end?” I asked.
“What?”
“This thing we’re doing. You popping up, me wearing a headset so I don’t look like a lunatic. When does it end? When do we move on?”
Carol stepped toward me. My nose twitched as I strained for a whiff of her perfume. Instead I smelled the ocean. She looked back across the Common, toward the sea, up into the blue sky, then back to me. She said, “I don’t know. It’s no fun for me either.”
“Why don’t you just leave?”
“It’s not that simple. Call Nate, baby. It’s our best shot.” I blinked, and she was gone.
Thank God.
I walked across the vast expanse of Boston Common. Originally people had grazed cows and hanged witches in this space. Now they just sunned themselves and threw Frisbees for their dogs. The Common ended at Charles Street. I bought an Italian ice from a vendor, and tweeted:
Just bought an Italian ice from a Pakistani.
The crosswalk at Charles Street was blocked by a knot of tourists who were waiting for the light to change, even though no cars were coming. This is Boston, folks. You don’t need no steenking light. I stepped through the knot and crossed into the Boston Public Garden, my favorite place in the city.
Frederick Law Olmsted designed the Boston Public Garden before he designed Central Park. It was like every other comparison between Boston and New York. Boston was always first: first public school, first underground train station, first World Series winner, the list goes on and on. New York has had to make up for its embarrassing string of lateness by becoming the most powerful metropolis in the history of the world. It’s pathetic.
I wound my way past the flowerbeds, sat next to the Swan Boat lagoon with my back against a tree, and admired the skyline. The John Hancock Tower was blue today, mirroring the perfect sky. In front of it, the red bricks of Back Bay combined with the green of the trees and the splashes of color from the flowers to produce a visual masterpiece. A Swan Boat made the turn around the small island in front of me and paddled across my view, propelled by a college girl in shorts. I dug into my Italian ice.
But I couldn’t enjoy it. Kevin wanted to know why Nate had fired me, and so did I. It just made no sense. I had been running a software project for MantaSoft, and it had been going great. We were meeting schedules, people liked working for me, and the product was going to be huge.
It came without warning. One day Nate had called me into his office and fired me. Sorry, Tucker. We’ve decided to make a change. I was stunned. I had stumbled away from him, grabbed my car keys, and driven home.
That was when I found Carol. She was lying on the kitchen floor with her hand at her throat, as if she had been trying to stop the blood that covered the floor. Her legs were at an awkward angle. She must have been thrashing before she died. Her blue eyes were open, and I felt their accusation.
Kevin tells me it wasn’t my fault, that there was nothing I could have done. He says that if I had been at home protecting my wife, instead of at work getting fired, I would just have been killed alongside her. Maybe he’s right, but maybe I could have done something. Distracted the guy, disarmed him, or sacrificed myself so Carol could get away. Instead, I had stood in a kitchen doorway as the scene seared itself into my brain.
The next months were a blur. I barely remember the funeral, being investigated (Kevin says the husband is always the first suspect), and selling the house. Things happened, but the details were missing. I was just going through the motions of life, doing what had to be done. I had some money stashed away, so I worked out, wandered the city, attended the Sox, and became a hermit right in the middle of a town full of women, parties, and sports.
My Italian ice was sour. I might learn to like the single life, but I hadn’t chosen it. Someone had chosen it for me when he broke into my house and slit my wife’s throat. I’d tried to ignore that fact, but it gnawed at me and reminded me that I had been helpless in the face of a monster.
I put down the Italian ice and pulled out my cell phone. It was time to call Nate.
five
My dad deserves credit for the way he died. He was on the fifth tee. They tell me that he had just lined up his shot, aiming slightly left and hoping his natural slice would bring him around a dogleg, when he collapsed. By the time his buddies reached him, he was dead, victim of an aneurysm. It was quick and it was painless, an excellent dismount from the apparatus of life.
Dad was an engineer. A real engineer, not a computer engineer. He designed missiles for the U.S. government. He had expected me to follow in his footsteps, to bend iron and mix explosives, to master the physical sciences and build useful machines. He thought software design was basket-weaving with a keyboard. My biggest regret was that he never saw me running the Rosetta project. I’m sure he would have been proud.
I met Nate at the MIT placement center a year after my dad died. I was interviewing for a job with MantaSoft. I came in at the end of the day, the worst possible interview slot. Nate was obviously tired, worn out after a day of dragging answers out of shy engineering students, but we hit it off immediately. His energy increased as we talked about my work at MIT and life as a college hire at MantaSoft. At the end of the interview, Nate asked me if I wanted to get some dinner. My job with MantaSoft was sealed.
For the past ten years, Nate had taken over for my father. He taught me things I could never learn from my mother: how to make a martini, wear a suit, and shake hands (“the webbing of your thumbs have to touch”). He advised me and groomed me. We went out for the beers I never had with my dad. We talked about office politics, the Red Sox, and the best way to make it through life.
He didn’t believe in mixing work with romance. He suggested that I not start dating Carol, the attractive new girl at work. When I ignored his advice, he got me reservations at the best restaurants. Later, he congratulated me on our engagement and attended our wedding. Two years ago he promoted me to project leader on Rosetta, our secret wonder product.
Rosetta was a decryption system built into a corporate security manager. It would let companies decrypt all the files on their network. Employees would have no way to keep secrets from the all-powerful IT department. We were testing the first working version when Nate called me into his office and fired me.
My brain shut down. I blathered on about the schedule and the task list. I asked him when I could apply for my job again. I started to cry. Nate looked mournful through the meeting. His final kindness was to let me clean my desk without a security escort. I spent my last hour at MantaSoft wandering around the office, looking for Carol. I found her when I got home.
Nate’s last act as my surrogate father was to attend Carol’s funeral, a mournful bald head in the crowd. We hadn’t talked then, and we hadn’t talked since. The pain was too great. My finger hesitated over the N key on my BlackBerry. Nate was still on speed dial.
Bulling through my misgivings, I pressed the key and held it down. The BlackBerry told me it was connecting. I put my Bluetooth headset in my ear and listened. One ring, two rings, then Nate’s voice. “Hi, you’ve reached Nate Russo. Please leave a message.”
The two rings told me that Nate had gotten the call and had p
ressed ignore. He had shunted me to voicemail.
“Asshole,” I said to myself. I put the phone in my pocket and headed for home. I crossed the bridge that spanned the Swan Boat lagoon. The captain I had seen before was paddling her boat under the bridge. I glanced at her, but with no heart in it. Nate had hung up on my call. It was just as well. The relationship was ruptured. Any attempt to put it back together would be awkward and confused. I continued over the bridge.
As I left the Public Garden, a shrill buzzing filled my head. I had left my headset in my ear, and I had a phone call. I looked at the caller ID. It was Nate.
Decision time. If I ignored him, I could stay safe in my little world where I was the victim and Nate had screwed me. If I answered it, I might find out that getting fired was my own damn fault. I might find out that I wasn’t so smart, that Nate never really liked me, and that MantaSoft was doing fine in my absence. Then again, I might find out who killed Carol.
I pushed the button and said, “Hi, Nate.”
“It’s Nate,” he said redundantly, obviously having rehearsed his opening line.
Then, nothing. I stood on the corner of Arlington and Boylston, next to an ice cream truck. A kid was tearing the wrapper off a red, white, and blue popsicle shaped like a rocket. A guy with no shirt and tiny yellow shorts ran past, his breath inaudible and his body glistening. A duck boat turned the corner. The headset was silent. Nate and I had said hello. What should we do now?
Nate broke the ice. “I’m glad you called.”
“Yeah, well, I was thinking about you.”
Another pause. Then he said, “I need help.”
“You mean programming help?”
“No, it’s way beyond programming. Something horrible has happened. Can you meet me at the Boylston Suites Hotel in an hour?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve got a busy day,” I lied.
“Tucker, please. Please help me.”
Ten minutes ago, I would never have agreed to help Nate or anyone at MantaSoft. That had changed. The “please” made all the difference. Nate’s gentleness, his politeness, and his desperation turned me around. I remembered our first dinner together, the weekly mentoring sessions, and even the time he took me fishing.
My feelings for the old man flooded back like water through a dam, but it was dirty water. Nate had stuck a shiv in my heart and broken off the handle. The piece was still floating in there. I wouldn’t let Nate do that to me again. I’d be careful this time.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
six
The Boylston Suites Hotel is a monument to Boston’s lucky architectural history. The prosperity of the 1960s blew past Boston’s dying textile industries. While other cities were making money and dropping down the architectural equivalents of bell-bottom pants, Boston was too broke to build.
The Northeast started making money again in the 1970s, around the time that those other cities were looking at themselves and crying, “My God! What have we done?” Boston’s architects learned from the failure of the ’60s and designed buildings like the Boylston Suites Hotel that enhanced the city rather than overpowered it.
The hotel shares the corner of Boylston and Hereford Streets with the oldest firehouse in Boston. It sits across Hereford Street from the firehouse and mimics the firehouse’s old, brick facade and graceful arches. The convention center, whose granite and glass exterior makes no attempt to match its surroundings, sits across Boylston Street. I was walking back and forth in front of the hotel, vacillating.
The most important rule of debugging is that there are no contradictions. You could tell that someone sucked at the job when they insisted, “There’s no reason for it to be broken.” If it had no reason to be broken, it wouldn’t be broken.
The same was true of my relationship with Nate. There was no reason for it to be broken. There was no reason for the man who supposedly loved me like a son to fire me and destroy my life. Unless he didn’t love me like a son, and in fact, didn’t like me much at all. Then it would all make sense.
My condominium on Follen Street was only a few minutes’ walk from the hotel, so I had gone home, showered off the tequila stink, shaved, and put on a collared polo shirt and chinos. I hadn’t worn these clothes for months. They were my work clothes. I left my apartment and got back to the hotel by cutting through the Prudential Center shops.
It was all going well until I put my hand on the hotel’s revolving door. As I touched it, my mind filled with images of a cold Nate, a where-the-hell-were-you Nate, a Nate who had rejected me once as an employee and was planning to finish the job as a surrogate father. I told myself it was ridiculous. He called me. Well, he called me after I called him. Still, that was something. I couldn’t imagine that he would call me back and ask for my help simply to screw with me. I took my hand off the door and turned toward the street. I turned again and walked back toward the door.
Intellectually I knew that it must be OK, but as I approached the door again, I veered and walked down the street toward the firehouse. I turned down Hereford and walked toward the side door. Maybe I could sneak up on him. I changed direction again. Sneaking in the side was stupid. Why walk in the side? If he saw me walk in the side, he’d think it was strange. I walked back to the front and touched the revolving door again.
“Oh for God’s sake, baby, just shake the man’s hand,” said Carol, who had appeared over my shoulder. “It’s Nate. He loves you.”
“Loved,” I corrected.
“Get through that door!” said Carol. Her vehemence propelled me. I pushed through the heavy revolving door. I stepped out into the lobby and considered going back into the street. It was too late. Nate was there. He saw me and waved. Crap.
My stomach clenched as adrenaline shot through me. Nate was standing in the middle of the hotel lobby. He reminded me of Santa, if Santa were thin, beardless, and wearing a suit. It was the eyes. He had those twinkling blue eyes from the Coca-Cola ads. They were eyes that said that he understood, and that he cared.
I avoided his eyes. I looked at the lobby instead. It was an oasis of green plants, little canals, and koi. Nate was on a bridge over a canal. He beckoned me to join him. I focused on taking the first step. Once I took it, it led to the other steps and I strode across the lobby in a blur. The only thing I could see was Nate’s outstretched right hand.
I walked up to Nate, took his hand, and said, “Hello.” That was all I got out before Nate pulled me toward him, trapping me in a hug. Nate was shorter than me, and his tight hug pushed his face into my shoulder.
I stood for a second, stunned, with my hands outstretched to either side of the little man. My defenses faltered and I returned the hug, crushing Nate into my chest.
Nate said, “I’m sorry.”
I said, “For what?” Firing me?
“For not calling you months ago. I was afraid you’d hang up.”
“I never would have hung up on you.”
“Well, you would have been within your rights. It was horrible what happened, and I should have been there. How has it been?”
Well, I’ve been bumming around the city and playing video games. “I’m good,” I said. “I’ve got my act together.”
“I’m glad. I wanted—” Something over my shoulder distracted Nate. He said, “Are you up for a little work? Because I could sure use your help.”
I said, “Sure, Nate.”
“Excellent!” Nate put his hand on my shoulder and turned me to face somebody. “Jack!” he said. “How are you doing? You know Tucker, right?”
I was standing face to face with MantaSoft’s CEO, Jack Kennings.
The CEO stuck out his hand. “Hello, Tucker.”
seven
Jack Kennings looked, talked, and (if you got close enough) smelled like a CEO. He was six feet two inches tall with light brown hair, an athletic country-c
lub build, and chiseled features. He had crisp blue eyes, bleached white teeth, and could spit quotable one-liners that pleased every reporter within earshot. He wore a gray double-breasted suit. I had always been a little afraid of Jack.
Jack was a smart guy and a tough leader. He had an engineering degree and knew how to build technology. Carol told me she’d once seen him trying to debug our code. She thought it was cute. I had been in meetings with him. They were crisp, efficient, and tightly controlled. He got things done.
Jack asked, “What brings you two back together?”
Nate said, “Tucker’s coming to work for me on a special project.”
A flicker of concern flashed across Jack’s features. He said, “I guess that hiring freeze isn’t working.”
“Oh, Tucker’s not an employee. I’m bringing him on as a contractor to do technical due diligence on Bronte.”
Bronte? What the hell is Bronte?
Jack said, “We have someone for that.”
“We did,” said Nate. “Alice Barton.”
Jack said, “Oh, shit. You’re right.” He turned to me. “Do you know what happened to Alice?”
I’m not sure which twist in my mind caused me to lie. Perhaps it was the fact that Kevin had raised the notion of finding out who had killed Carol. Perhaps it was a simple distrust of the company that had expelled me. Perhaps I was just being an asshole. I said, “No.”
Jack said, “She was killed last night. Murdered.” He shook his head and said, “Hell of a thing. Still, Nate, don’t you have anyone on your team who could handle this?”
Nate said, “No one who can get it done by Thursday and no one with Tucker’s expertise and reputation.”
There was a moment of silence. Jack stared into space, apparently lost in thought. Abruptly, he said, “Gentlemen, I have a meeting.” He shook my hand and continued, “Welcome aboard, Tucker. I’ll need your report by Thursday.”
He was gone in a swirl of executive authority. I stood next to Nate in the lobby of the Boylston Suites Hotel. Next to me, a little kid was throwing fish food at the koi. I turned to Nate and said, “What the hell just happened?”