He had the feeling that they could have plastic surgery and fake IDs and acid-washed fingerprints and move to the wilds of Canada, and the insurance agent would still show up on their doorstep offering termite insurance for their log cabin.
No, this was not a problem from which they could run.
They ate lunch in silence, listening to the raucus sounds of the Brett kids next door, each of them lost in their own thoughts.
“What kind of house do you think he lives in?” Beth wondered. “Do you think he has a wife and family? Does he sit home at night and watch Everybody Loves Raymond?”
It was impossible for him to imagine, Hunt realized. He tried to picture the insurance agent in ordinary circumstances, living an everyday existence like all of the other people in the workaday world, but he couldn’t do it. When he imagined the man’s house, he saw a dilapidated mansion, the kind kids would say was haunted. When he tried to imagine the home’s interior, he saw Scrooge-like surroundings: a completely darkened building with only a single bare bulb over an old wooden table piled high with insurance policies.
“I should follow him the next time we see him,” Hunt suggested. “See where he goes. Home or office, either way I’d learn something.”
“But what if he saw you, what if he caught you?” Beth said, worried. “I don’t like it.”
The truth was, he didn’t like the idea either. He could be caught. And he could easily see himself ending up a missing person, kidnapped and lost forever deep in the bowels of some labyrinthine insurance building, tied up and tortured, eventually left for dead. Or, more likely, the victim of some accident that would conveniently not be covered by any of his policies.
“Maybe if we don’t respond, he’ll go away,” she suggested. “Maybe he’ll move on to someone else and be done with us.”
That wouldn’t happen and they both knew it.
But they could hope.
After lunch, they went to Home Depot, and then to Barnes & Noble, where Beth browsed leisurely through the cookbook section while Hunt checked out the CDs and used the headphones to listen to a bunch of music he’d read about but not yet heard.
When they returned, the agent was waiting for them, standing patiently on the porch, smiling as they drove up.
Beth looked as frightened as Hunt felt, but he fiddled with his seat belt, looking down at it. “Stay here a minute,” he said softly. “Don’t get out of the car. Make him wait. Let’s see how long he keeps that smile on his face.”
A long time, as it turned out. Beth pretended to look through her purse, Hunt turned around and did a bogus search of the backseat before opening the glove compartment and sorting through its contents. And still the man was smiling, showing no sign of strain. They ran out of things to do, couldn’t come up with any new business to keep them from exiting the car, so slowly, reluctantly they got out. Hunt went back to open the trunk. Hiding behind the open trunk door, they both took their time about removing the items they’d purchased.
And still he was smiling.
“Have you thought about employment insurance?” he asked as they walked up the driveway. “Because losing a job can be very hard on a couple, very hard indeed. According to our research, it puts more stress on a marriage than even infidelity.”
Neither of them responded.
“It puts an end to lovely weekends like this one, where you can go shopping and buy much needed items to beautify your home and garden. When you’re unemployed, your weekends are spend scouring the classified ads, staying home so as not to spend money on gasoline and other luxuries.” He chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t want to be in that situation. Flush with money and gainfully employed. That’s the only way to be, eh?”
Hunt dropped a bag of potting soil by the flower bed, stepped onto the porch, stood next to the insurance agent and looked him in the eye. They were both the same height, he noticed for the first time, and it was almost like peering into a funhouse mirror, seeing a version of himself that was not quite right. The two of them looked nothing alike, had only their size in common, but there seemed to be some intangible underlying similarity that made Hunt uncomfortable.
“I know we’ve mentioned this before, but I thought it was time to make a decision.” The agent grinned. “So can I put you both down for employment insurance?” He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“No—” Beth started to say.
“We’d like some more information about it before we make our final decision,” Hunt cut in quickly. “Do you have a copy of the policy itself that we could look at?”
The agent was thrown for a moment. “I don’t have a policy with me,” he admitted. “Just an application.”
Got him! Hunt tried to draw it out. “Well, maybe next time you could drop one by, give us a chance to look it over, and then we could talk.”
Clearly this had never happened before. By this stage of the process, customers were supposed to be so beaten down that they docilely shelled out for any new coverage that was offered. “I can answer any of your questions about the specifics of the policy,” the agent said. “I know everything there is to know about it.”
“I think we’d just prefer to see it in writing,” Beth said, catching on. “You know how it is.”
The agent’s expression darkened. “Yes, I know how it is when people are unable to meet the mortgage payments on their homes because they’ve been laid off. I know how it is when cars and furniture get repossessed because there’s no money coming in and the bills can’t be paid.” He leaned forward. “Sometimes it happens like that.” He snapped his fingers. “The whim of a CEO or even an immediate supervisor can put an abrupt end to a once-promising career. I’ve seen it happen many times, and I don’t want to see it happen to you.”
“Maybe the application,” Hunt pressed. “Does it have a description of the insurance and what exactly it offers?”
“A detailed description,” Beth added.
“I can tell you what it offers. Specifically. It offers guaranteed employment. Your current job at your current salary with your current conditions. You will not be demoted, fired, terminated, laid off, furloughed, downsized, rightsized, outsourced or contracted out.”
“There’s no room for advancement?” Beth asked. “I’d be stuck in the same position forever?”
“You can always move up, but you can never move down. Guaranteed.” He was back on his game, and with smooth well-rehearsed patter, he delved into the precise terms and conditions of the coverage, growing more confident and more enthusiastic the longer he spoke, until his eyes were sparkling and he was smiling happily. “I’d jump at the chance if I were you,” he told them. “Confidentially, this insurance will only be offered for a limited time. Like many boutique policies, we offer it to a select few customers only, and once the target number is reached in terms of signups, a cutoff is enforced and the coverage is no longer offered.
“Now”—he looked from Hunt to Beth and back again—“I need your decision.”
Hunt had no choice, he’d run out of stalling tactics, and as much as he hated to do so, he said “I’ll take it.”
“And Mrs. Jackson as well, I presume?”
Hunt was not sure how Beth would react, whether or not she’d be able to go through with her original plan, not after the effective and intimidating spiel to which they’d just been subjected. But she shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said coolly.
He seemed not to have heard her. “Two job insurance policies at ten dollars apiece per month—”
“One policy,” she stated loudly. “I will not be purchasing any for myself. My job is secure.”
A slight tinge of desperation appeared in his smile. “As I attempted to explain, that could change at any time.”
“I’ll take my chances,” she said, and Hunt was so proud of her he could burst. It was a little victory, but a victory nonetheless, and one made all the sweeter because it involved no compromise. He had to cave in, but Beth didn’t, and as ridiculous and
overblown as it might seem, he felt as though they’d thrown a wrench into an evil, complex, and intricately designed plan.
“You’ll regret it,” the agent said. His tone was almost nonchalant, but there was no mistaking the deadly seriousness of his message.
“I don’t think so. By the way,” Beth asked, “what’s your name? It’s not on your card.”
“Hey! You! Jackson!”
They were distracted by a shout from the yard next door, their attention immediately drawn away from the insurance agent. Hunt looked past Beth at the source of the rough voice. Ed Brett was striding belligerently across his lawn toward them. His fists were clenched, and the expression on his face was one of hatred and hostility. He stopped at the edge of his property. “Sicko!” he bellowed, pointing at Hunt. “I want you out of this neighborhood!”
“Jesus Christ,” Hunt muttered.
Brett heard him. “Don’t you dare take the Lord’s name in vain!” He continued forward, across their lawn, until he was at the driveway. His fist smacked the trunk of the Saab.
Angrily, Hunt marched off the porch. “Get off of our property!” he demanded.
“Hunt!” Beth cautioned.
“What are you gonna do about it? Huh? You’re not man enough to handle a real woman, have to go around diddling with kids, and you think you can take me on? I’d like to see you try it, Jackson!”
Oh fuck. That’s what this was about. The molestation charges. Somehow Ed Brett had found out. Hunt glanced quickly up and down the street. How many other people knew? How many of them believed it?
“What are you going to do next, huh? Try to cornhole my boy? I want you out of this neighborhood, Jackson. You and that slut wife. We don’t need perverts like you living next door.”
Hunt advanced on him. He had never been a physical guy, had not been in a fight since elementary school, but he was ready now to rip that asshole’s head off. “I have not done anything wrong. I have never, never, never touched a child that way. And if you speak that way about my wife again, I’ll beat the living shit out of you.”
Behind Ed Brett, Hunt saw his wife rushing over across the lawn. The bratty Brett kids were cheering on their father from inside the living room. “Kill him!” one of them yelled out the window.
A sudden tug on his arm stopped Hunt. Beth was pulling his sleeve. “Let it go,” she said. “They’re assholes. Who cares what they think.”
Brett’s face was red. “Who are you calling an asshole?”
“Yeah!” his wife shouted, moving next to him. “We’re not the ones raping children!”
“No one’s—” Hunt began. And Ed Brett shoved him in the chest, nearly knocking him down. He was up in a flash, ready to take a swing at the Neanderthal, but Beth held him back. “No!” she screamed. “Knock it off! Don’t take the bait!”
“Need your little woman to protect you, eh, pansy boy?”
Beth turned on him. “He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be, you fat disgusting tub of lard.”
Sally Brett ran at her. “You take that back, bitch!”
And then the two women were going at it. Sally Brett fought wildly, like an animal, all flailing arms and biting mouth and kicking feet. But Beth was smarter, quicker, stronger, and she bobbed and weaved, ducked and struck. “I’ll rip your eyes out!” Sally Brett cried.
The husbands pulled them apart, Beth still tense and in a fighting stance, Sally Brett struggling against her husband like a rabid alleycat. “No one wants you in this neighborhood,” Ed Brett said as he backed onto his yard. “Get out of here.”
“Fuck you,” Hunt told him. He and Beth made their way back up to the porch.
“Sign here,” the agent said, shoving a pen and clipboard at him.
Angrily, Hunt affixed his signature without reading the application.
“By the way, there’s an addendum to your homeowner’s insurance that we like to call the Good Neighbor policy,” the agent said helpfully. “I don’t know if you’ve read it. But I’ll make sure it’s activated.” He smiled at them. “Good day.”
Whistling happily, he strode across the lawn to the sidewalk.
2
Steve sat atop the ridgepole of his addition, fastening the last rafter. The sun was almost down and it was really too dark for this kind of work, but he was at the end and he wanted to get this finished before he quit for the night. He repositioned himself, then put all of his strength into tightening the bolt.
Something moved below him.
He nearly dropped the wrench.
He’d been anticipating something ever since the last phone conversation with the insurance agent.
Do you understand, bitch?
But even though he thought he’d been prepared, he knew now that he wasn’t, and the fear within him was a thousand times greater than when he’d spoken to the agent over the phone. There was anger mixed in with the fear as well, though, and it was the anger that he tried to stoke, that he concentrated on boosting.
He sat up, glancing quickly around the yard. From this angle, he could look down into the addition as well as see everything on three sides on the house. A man in a hat was standing next to the remaining half of the tree, and another was lurking near the tarp-covered woodpile. Whatever had moved through the addition below him was gone, but in the dim diffuse light of the nearly extinguished sun, he saw a puddle of urine on the plywood floor, and that served to fuel his anger.
“Right now, motherfuckers!” he yelled, standing and holding up his wrench. “Come on!”
The ridgepiece beneath his feet cracked, fell, sending him flying, and only by sheer dumb luck was he able to grab hold of the edge of the house roof. The lower half of his body slammed into the stucco of the wall, and he cried out in pain but held on. His wrench clattered onto the plywood, and he looked down to see one of the men standing directly between his legs, holding a screwdriver.
From the shadows another one emerged, swinging a two-by-four.
They were going to try to kill him. He had no doubt about that. They were working for the insurance company, and they had been sent out to punish him for not buying a policy with their firm.
He laughed rudely, sharply. Who would believe such a thing?
Suddenly the door to the house opened, an expanding triangle of fluorescence growing across the plywood floor, glinting off the puddle of piss, illuminating the men in hats. Only they weren’t illuminated. They remained in shadow, their faces unseen.
Nina stood in the doorway. She saw the dark men with their makeshift weapons but made no effort to do anything. She did not run, did not call out for help, did not run to the phone. She looked up at him, unreadable, and remained in place.
So that was the way it went. He shouldn’t have been surprised. His grip was weakening, and there was suddenly another man off to the right, holding a hammer. His legs hurt like hell, but he used them to try and gain purchase on the wall, hoping to use his remaining strength to pull himself onto the roof. They couldn’t kill him outright, he thought. They would have to make it look like an accident.
His fingers tightened on the roof edge and he tried to lift himself, using his feet as leverage, but he simply didn’t have enough strength. “Nina!” he called, hating himself for being so weak.
The door slammed below him, there was sudden darkness in the addition, and from within the house he heard the sound of running feet. She was going to get help! She’d just been stunned, temporarily incapacitated by fear. Now she was calling 911. Reinvigorated, he tried to raise himself again. His muscles strained, and he tilted his head back, looking up at the roof.
A bulking figure in a dark hat peered over the edge at him.
And for the first and last time, he saw the man’s face.
And his smile.
3
Hunt knew immediately upon driving into work the next morning that something was up. He was five minutes late, but not one of the crews had left the corp yard yet. The men, in fact, were not even separated into
crews; there was only a single amorphous group of maintenance services workers milling about the open area between the warehouse, the garage and the gate.
“What is it?” he asked Jack Hardy, the first person he met.
“Steve,” he said. “Fell through his roof last night and broke his neck. Chuck’s trying to find out if he’s alive or dead. No one knows.”
Job insurance.
It couldn’t be.
But he knew that it could, and he glanced around guiltily, filled with not only a feeling of culpability but a bone-deep sense of dread. He was in way over his head. Like the apocryphal child who played with a Ouija board and opened the doorway to a whole host of horrors, he had gotten involved with something he did not understand, and instead of extricating himself from his predicament, he found himself getting in deeper and deeper.
He was responsible for Kate Gifford’s death, and now, maybe, Steve’s.
Hunt searched the crowd for Jorge, saw him talking to Mike Flory on the far side of the corp yard near the gas pump. He wanted to talk to his friend, but not in front of Mike, so he simply nodded and said “Hey.” The three of them stood around chatting while they waited for Chuck’s status report, and the consensus seemed to be that Steve was an asshole but he did not deserve this.
“Maybe he’ll live and eventually be all right, but he’ll have to take an early retirement and we’ll get a new manager in there who will actually fight for us,” Mike said hopefully.
Jorge said nothing. He was behaving strangely, Hunt thought. He seemed fidgety and ill at ease, constantly glancing around the perimeter of the corp yard as though searching for someone, lapsing into an uncharacteristic silence each time Steve’s name was mentioned.
Hunt took him aside on the pretext of getting coffee. He stopped by one of the trucks, where they couldn’t be overheard. “You bought employment insurance, didn’t you?”
Jorge nodded, relieved to be able to speak. “Yes!”
“I did too.”
“And that’s why—?”
THE POLICY Page 24