by Brad Parks
So this was a negotiation.
Something I could talk my way out of.
“Look, with all due respect to your boss, there’s obviously been some kind of . . . miscalculation here,” I said in a surprisingly reasonable tone. “There’s just no way this one lawsuit brought by one woman could have that kind of impact. This isn’t a thought experiment in chaos theory. In real life, the butterfly flapping its wings in the Amazon doesn’t really cause a tornado.”
“I’m sorry. I can see where you might think that,” Rogers said patiently. “I realize this is all new to you. But it’s not new to us. Mr. DeGange has been consumed by this for some time. He’s ninety-five years old—the healthiest ninety-five going, by the way. His energy is still quite something. Ever since he became aware of your wife’s lawsuit and its implications, he’s been pouring himself into this, trying to find another solution. He’s convinced this is the only way. Again, I’m sorry.”
“Wait,” I said. “Just wait. If this really is all about the lawsuit, I can convince her to drop it.”
“You can certainly try. Mr. DeGange says it won’t work. Your wife is very stubborn.”
“Believe me, I know. But she’s also very reasonable. We can bring her here, she can meet with Mr. DeGange. Maybe Mr. DeGange can demonstrate his ability and make her a believer—or whatever you want to call it.”
Rogers was shaking his head again. “Your wife cannot know about any of this. Mr. DeGange was very clear on that. As he explained it, the most dangerous thing here is not truly your wife. It’s the idea. Once your wife is told she’s going to have this breakthrough, even without the details, the idea will soon formulate in her mind. When it does, it’s a genie you can’t put back in the bottle. It will exist. It will have life. It will find a way out.”
“But we can tell her to—”
“Listen, Nate, I know you’re desperate to stop this. I would be too. But even without meaning to be, your wife is literally the most destructive person to ever walk the earth. We’re talking about a billion people. A billion. If I gave you a gun and sent you back to Germany in 1930, would you kill Hitler? Of course you would. Anyone would. I’m sorry to tell you this, but your wife is worse than a hundred Hitlers.”
Rogers had grown animated, working his butt to the edge of the chair in his excitement. I, on the other hand, felt this continued calm.
I was no stranger to logic problems. In college and law school, I had blathered my way through philosophy classes and ethics seminars. I could imagine some trolley problem–like situation where I could pull the switch and be directly responsible for someone else’s death.
I could imagine no scenario, even one as dire as this, where that person could be my wife.
It was totally unthinkable.
My head pivoted away from Rogers, back toward the painting. Was it really a Rembrandt? Just hanging there above the fireplace in one of Vanslow DeGange’s many guest rooms?
Or . . .
Or it was just a very good forgery.
Like everything else I had just heard.
It had to be. This was a hoax. A scam. A fraud.
As with a piece of art, it would take a while to spot the fine imperfections and false brushstrokes that betrayed a counterfeit. But even if I hadn’t spotted the flaws in this scheme yet, I still wasn’t going to fall for it.
Rogers seemed to be waiting for me to say something, so I turned back toward him and said, “Look, I’m sorry. Even if I believed everything you just said—and, for the record, I don’t—there’s no way I can kill my wife. It’s just not possible.”
He dipped his head, seeming to accept my rejection placidly. “Mr. DeGange said you would respond as such. He then sketched out some alternatives, none of which I think you’ll find acceptable.”
“What does that mean?”
“You killing your wife is the quickest, most direct way to make this entire thing go away. It will be such a scandal—a former associate at the firm killing his wife, a current partner—that Carter, Morgan, and Ross will want to distance itself from everything your wife touched as quickly as possible. The partners will decide the lawsuit probably wasn’t winnable anyway, and they will drop it. The plaintiffs, all of whom are poor, will chalk this up to being just another time sleazy lawyers made false promises. Problem solved.
“If, on the other hand, you don’t do it, it means we will have to. We can’t risk having your wife killed in a way that might make anyone think it had something to do with CP and L. If the partners at Carter, Morgan, and Ross think they’re being bullied into dropping a lawsuit, they’ll come out swinging. Therefore, our only option would be to pay someone to make it look like an accident. There could be collateral damage.”
He fixed me with an icy stare: “You. Your daughters.”
A primal anger surged inside me. Forget the calm, measured lawyer. No one threatens my girls.
I lunged across the table at him, reaching for his throat. My hand was almost to his neck when this incredible white-hot pain surged through me. Every muscle in my body seized up simultaneously, like a full-body cramp. I flopped, stomach first, on the table.
The pain was indescribable. An animalistic shriek, completely involuntary, came from somewhere deep within me. My only thought was the all-encompassing agony that seemed to inhabit my every cell. I thought for sure I was dying.
Then, just as suddenly as it came on, it stopped. Maybe five seconds had elapsed. It felt like eight years.
I could move again. I was just incredibly weak. Sweat had broken out all over me. It was an effort to lift my head.
Rogers had scooted away from the table and was eyeing me guardedly. He had this small, stubby gun-like device in his hand.
A Taser.
He must have had it hidden under the table.
“Please don’t make me do that again,” he said calmly. “I didn’t enjoy it, and I guess you didn’t either.”
I swore at him.
“I don’t take pleasure in threatening your family either. But look at it from any perspective but your own. Killing one person to save a billion isn’t a very difficult decision. And killing a family to accomplish the same objective doesn’t change the math much. This is the way it has to be. Why don’t you take a seat?”
Another swear from me. I was endeavoring—with very limited success—to raise myself from the table. I didn’t even know what I planned to do next, since I really didn’t have any fight in me.
“Sit. Down,” Rogers said firmly.
He was aiming the Taser at me again.
I wasn’t sure I could survive another jolt. With effort, I slumped back down to my chair.
“Will you behave yourself?” he asked.
“Yes.”
I really didn’t have much choice.
“Good,” he said, lowering the Taser. “Now let me lay out what Mr. DeGange says is the easiest path forward, and maybe once you have some time to think about it calmly, you’ll agree. On Friday evening, at nine forty-five, you are going to walk into your bedroom. Your wife will have just fallen asleep. You will take two minutes to summon your courage. And then, at nine forty-seven, you will place a gun next to her temple and pull the trigger.”
“Oh I will, will I?” I asked sardonically.
“Yes. Hold on a moment, please. Let me get the gun for you.”
As he went to leave the room, he pulled from his pocket a magnetic key card, which he then pressed against that reader in the doorframe. The lock whirred softly, and he was gone.
I already knew there was no escaping this place—especially now, with my strength still all but sapped. I looked around to see if there was anything else I missed during my first inspection.
It was the same room, with the same magnificent bed and the same lack of viable options.
Soon I heard the lock again. He didn’t bother closing the door behind him. He also didn’t seem to have the Taser anymore. He had either left it outside the room or pocketed it.
&nb
sp; What he had in his hand instead was an elegant-looking silver-plated pistol, which he held with a handkerchief.
“This is the gun you will use,” he said, holding it up like it was something I should marvel at. “It is properly loaded. It is essential you use this gun and the bullet that is currently in the chamber. We’ve had the bullet modified in a way that other bullets fired from this gun won’t match when the state crime lab does its ballistics testing. This is what our lawyers will use to create doubt. There will be two trials. The first will end in a mistrial, because of some procedural errors by the prosecution. The second will end in a hung jury. It will all be because of that bullet. After the second trial, the prosecution will decide not to move forward. You will have spent more than a year in jail, and it will not be pleasant. But after that, you will be able to move on with your life.”
“Some life. My wife will be dead and everyone will know I killed her, no matter what the courts say. I’ll be a pariah. I mean, will my daughters even talk to me?”
“In time, they will understand what you had to do and why you did it. In the meantime, your in-laws will look after them. And the Praesidium will see to it everyone is fully taken care of, financially.”
Incredibly, he placed the gun on the table, within easy reach.
I snatched it, feeling its cool weight, its awesome power. There was nothing, beyond my own reluctance to take a human life, that stopped me from blowing his head off.
“How do you know I won’t just shoot you right now?” I asked.
“I asked Mr. DeGange that same question. He said you wouldn’t.”
I aimed the barrel at Rogers’ head. He didn’t flinch.
“You have an awful lot of faith in your boss,” I said.
“True. But it’s not just that. From talking to you, I can tell you’re sensible. I’m no one special to the Praesidium. Shooting me wouldn’t change the situation you’re in. It would just mean you’re dealing with someone else.”
He was probably right. I still ached to pull the trigger on this man who had so amicably threatened the three people in the world I loved most.
“I know you have more questions, and there’s more I’d like to tell you about Mr. DeGange and the Praesidium. But we’re running out of time,” he said. “You still need to pick up your girls at their grandparents’ house, am I right? And Jenny usually gets home by six thirty, yes? We don’t want you to be late. Hold on a moment. I’ll be right back.”
He stood up—like I didn’t have a gun trained on him—and went into the bathroom.
The main door to the room was still open. I could run out and then . . . well, I had no idea. My legs were jelly. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know who else was in this huge house. Could I shoot my way out? How many bullets did that gun hold? How many people would try to stop me?
It was probably hopeless but—
Then I spied the key card Rogers had used on the door. It was twice as thick as what you might get from a hotel, and it had been imprinted with a logo: two block letters—a P and an R—inscribed in a square.
He had been so preoccupied with the gun he had simply left the key card on the table. I had been focused on the gun, too, and hadn’t noticed him doing so.
But now it struck me as a useful thing to have, even if I didn’t know what exactly I’d do with it. I quickly snatched the card and stuffed it in my pocket.
When Rogers returned from the bathroom, he was carrying a syringe.
“Why don’t you hop up on the bed and roll on your stomach,” he said. “It hurts a lot less if I inject this in your backside.”
I again aimed the gun at his forehead. He stopped and frowned at me.
“Are you really going to make me do this the hard way? I could tase you again and then shoot you with the tranquilizer gun if you want. But it’s really a lot easier for both of us if you just cooperate.”
I felt the smoothness of the trigger with my finger. I wasn’t sure I could actually kill anyone. Even a stranger who had kidnapped me. But one squeeze, and—
And then what? I would have killed a man for no reason and not measurably improved my situation.
I lowered the gun, lifted myself from the chair, and shuffled over to the bed. Then I laid myself gingerly on my front.
“Thank you,” he said. “I know we’ve been a little rushed today. I assure you, this will not be the last time we talk between now and nine forty-seven on Friday night. But for now we have to get you back.”
“Right,” I said.
I was clinging to the hope that this was a game, a scam, a prank of the worst kind—and that I wouldn’t have to kill anyone.
Not Rogers.
Certainly not Jenny.
“Okay, here goes,” he said.
I felt the pinch of the needle. Then I drifted off.
CHAPTER 4
JENNY
It never failed. Even on days when Jenny thought she’d be able to slip away easily from the glass stockade that was Carter, Morgan & Ross’s sleek downtown headquarters, there would be some last-minute turmoil.
A judge would need something.
An associate would find themselves on the verge of self-inflicted destruction.
An urgent 5:30 p.m. conference call would mysteriously appear on her calendar.
Inevitably, it made her nightly escape feel like she was running out of a burning building, leaving her colleagues behind to fight the flames—and earning her their thinly veiled contempt.
But flee she did. As she hustled out to her car, she felt the familiar working-mom tug-of-war, the desire to be able to split herself in two so she could simultaneously slay dragons at the office and be with her children.
Typically, Nate got the girls fed, bathed, and into their pj’s, and Jenny made her jailbreak-style dash away from work so she could get home by six thirty and play with them until it was time for bed.
And then—and it was safe to say this was everyone’s favorite part of the day—she would sit them on her lap, with Parker on the right and Cate on the left, and read to them until it was time to tuck them in; though, really, it was as much snuggling as reading.
It was the only time she got to spend with them during the week. And Jenny’s goal was to pack an entire day’s worth of love, attention, and affection into those ninety minutes. To be fully present. To mother them relentlessly.
The drive home only took fifteen minutes, even with traffic. The Welker Lovejoys lived in the trendy Fan section of Richmond, in a three-bedroom, circa-1885-colonial-revival-style row house that Jenny just adored. They had bought it when Jenny was pregnant with Parker because it had a recently redone kitchen and—perhaps most importantly—two off-street parking spots, located just outside the fence that sectioned off their small backyard.
She parked and hurried inside to find Nate wearing this strange look, staring at her like he was almost afraid of her, a countenance she wasn’t sure she had ever seen on her husband before. Then he gave her an extralong squeeze, which was also odd. Normally all they did was exchange a quick kiss so Jenny could get to the girls faster.
“Everything okay?” she asked when he finally released her.
“Yeah, fine,” he replied, in a way she didn’t quite believe.
“How’s that faucet?”
“Oh. That. I had to go back to the hardware store three times for parts, so I didn’t get it quite done. I may have to drop the girls with your parents again tomorrow if that’s okay.”
Jenny shot her husband a worried look, wondering if this actually had anything to do with plumbing. Nate had never complained of burnout. He always seemed perfectly happy with their domestic arrangement.
Yet she had enough friends who had decided to stay at home with their children, and they all talked about what a grind full-time caregiving could be. How fifteen minutes could sometimes feel like fifteen hours. How it eroded your sense of self, abrading you slowly, molecule by molecule, in a way you barely even noticed until one day you looked down
and you were staring into this Grand Canyon of despair.
She had also listened to the men at the firm talking so dismissively about their stay-at-home wives. How hard can it be? So she’s with the kids all day? She doesn’t face anything like the pressure I face.
What clueless jerks. Like being solely responsible for the rearing of children five days a week wasn’t its own crucible.
She looked at her husband’s handsome face, always a little crooked in that charming way. She reached out and placed a hand on his chest.
“I doubt they’d mind more grandparent time, but are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. “I know it’s not easy with the girls. Maybe we could look into having someone come in a couple mornings a week, so you could—”
“I’m fine,” he insisted, then kissed her forehead. “Go be with your daughters. They need their mom.”
Jenny leaned into the next ninety minutes with her usual loving intensity until bedtime arrived. Cate surrendered to sleep quickly, her eyes closing shortly after her head came to a rest in the crib.
Parker was a different story. The little girl had climbed into bed without being asked and was now waiting patiently for her mother.
Jenny turned off the light as she entered, then sat on the edge of the bed. They had an evening ritual they both cherished. Parker would say, “Mommy, tell me about my day,” and Jenny would proceed to narrate.
Except, really, it was Parker providing the details of all the things her mother had not been around for.
First, Daddy made you breakfast and . . . what did Daddy make for breakfast?
Oatmeal and bananas.
And so on.
But on this night Parker had something else in mind.
“Mommy, I have a secret,” she said in a whisper.
“Oh, and what’s that?” Jenny asked, expecting to hear about some intrigue involving dolls and stuffed animals.
Instead, she heard:
“Daddy has a gun.”
Jenny’s first instinct was to assume her daughter was mistaken. Nate was a city kid, born and raised in Manhattan. He hated guns. One of their earliest arguments when they began dating had been about guns. Jenny, who had grown up around firearms, saw them as little more than farm tools: worthy of respect, sure, but no more or less inherently evil than a chain saw or a shovel.