by Shilo Jones
“Which you’re not.”
“No. What about the video of Hannah? I keep asking myself. Do I want them to die? Peele and the rest? Even Bo Xi? Is that what I want?”
Caltrop yanks me to my feet. “Mark Ward will give me the video. I’m arranging a sit-down. The rest is already finished.”
I listen to the waves, hating how they persist in washing ashore, one after the other, relentlessly keeping time. Drowning has to be one of the worst ways to die. Holding your breath until you can’t anymore, seconds ticking past, then a helpless gasp and the water searing in, then another and another, plenty of time to remember, to think and feel. And right then it’s decided, never could commit, how it happens says so much, but now I know and Caltrop gives me a searching look like he senses something’s wrong and I want to hold my breath until water turns to flame, see-through skin, tiny silver scales—
“Protect my daughter? I never could.”
“Bullshit. You never wanted to badly enough.”
I take a step closer. Part of me believes simply being close to this man, absorbing his energy, has the power to strengthen. “The North Shore deal is progressing. Marigold Group has their ducks in a row. You were right. This gig might lure Bo Xi into the open.”
Caltrop shrugs. Talk like that is above my pay grade, even though I’m the one doing the paying. “Tell me I’ve been useful,” I say, trying to keep it together. “Tell me I’ve made a difference.”
“Because it’s all about you? Go ahead and tell yourself that, Carl. Sink into the pit between what you could’ve been and what you are.”
Before the flight out here I dropped Holdout off in the financial district, told him grow piggy grow. He seemed to fit in okay. “Fifteen years of my life for this. For what?”
“Longer than that. They let you out of prison. You built another for yourself. Came to covet the chains. That wasn’t my doing.”
“Tell me things are changing. That it was worth the fight.”
“You still think in terms of years, maybe decades when you’re inspired. We’re talking centuries. Thousands of years. But there’s little romance in that perspective, and zero glory. You trudged off to prison because you wanted to be a hero. Wanted to be recognized, even among our anonymous faction. You’ve always been selfish. Motivated by ego, not principle. Even now, when you stick that last needle in your arm it won’t be due to despair. You’ll do it to prove that the people you care about failed you.”
“Am I that petty?”
“You tell me. Better yet, show me.”
An airplane appears from behind a disk-shaped cloud, leaches a heavy contrail, makes me hope the sky’s being spiked with toxins that can remake my mind. “How do I know it’s not bullshit? What you’re doing with the cash? Maybe you have it buried in your backyard.”
Caltrop tosses the duffel bag over his shoulder. “Maybe I burn it. Bake it into my brownies. You offered, I accepted. I will say the money has permitted some ideas to come into being, prevented others from doing so.”
“You intend to deploy Mark Ward to assassinate Bo Xi? Feed a troubled young man to the lions? He’s not innocent, but he’s not that guilty. Not yet. And you say I’ve fallen.”
“Mark will be given a choice.”
“Bo Xi isn’t an idiot. He’ll sense you coming.”
“Bo Xi is a man. He won’t sense, but he might uncover. Do not compromise us.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“No need.”
“I was wrong. Ward’s not like you. He’s simpler. Purer.”
“Even the most incendiary powder requires a spark.”
Wind whips the ocean. A floatplane flies low and level across the inlet. It’s a long way back to civilization.
Jasminder Bansal
At Marigold, on the phone with a client, praying Heather Reed comes through. A man wearing a dark grey suit slips into Vincent’s office. There’s nothing immediately remarkable about him, particularly since I only get a quick glimpse before the door closes. But something in his build, how he carries himself, those subtle clues of body type we pick up on without being conscious of—all these inconsequential nothings add up to a feeling like I know who he is. The air becomes stifling. I walk into the waiting area. Vincent’s assistant Harvey looks up from behind the admin desk, asks if I’m okay and I say sure, why, and he says because you’re pale, you look unwell.
“Who is that?” I ask quietly, nodding toward Vincent’s office.
Harvey glances at Vincent’s door, clearly conflicted. “A client. Why?”
“Not a client. Maybe a construction guy? A project manager?”
“Why?”
I’m about to ask more but Harvey gives me a look that says don’t bother, that’s all you’re getting. I say thanks and return to my office, resolved to put the visitor out of my mind. But sitting at my desk, staring into my tea as if it has divinatory power, I realize I need to see the man’s face. Head back out, give Harvey a wan smile, settle into an armchair in the reception area, plop my Mac on my lap and pretend to work. After a few minutes Harvey puts his jacket on, says don’t work too hard on a Saturday, especially if you don’t feel well, leaves.
I open and close webpages at random, listening to the muffled conversation filtering through Vincent’s door. I can’t hear what’s being said clearly, but it’s a heated exchange. Then the door bursts open. Vincent storms out. His eyes are puffy and red from Mr. Reed’s garlic powder assault at Hawksworth. Before he sees me he yells over his shoulder, “—I said we put our soldier to task!”
I’m seated to the side of Vincent’s office, about fifteen feet away, hidden behind an easel that has a promotional poster for one of Marigold’s residential developments tacked onto it. Vincent slams his hand on Harvey’s desk, mutters something about his underperforming assistant putting in an appearance but not doing any real work, makes a phone call. I sink deeper into my chair, feeling like I should announce my presence before I hear anything compromising, wishing I’d followed everyone’s advice and resigned from Marigold, thinking about how often Amar chided me for not minding my own business.
Vincent hasn’t seen me yet.
Maybe I could sneak into my office, pretend to—
Someone answers Vincent’s call, and Vincent, in a voice completely lacking inflection, says, “Hey homes. What are you up to? Cradling a shotgun? Tapping the trigger with your big toe? Pulling a Cobain? Thought that was a hoax? Heard it was. Yeah. He’s on Playa Mazunte, writing sasquatch porn for Amazon. Making a killing. The glum loser abandoned us. Ha-ha! Yeah. I’d abandon us too. No shame in being honest. In fact, I like that about you, Mark. Okay. New mission. You’re gonna love it. Time-sensitive. That means hurry? Remember the Reed family?”
The heavily built guy marches out of Vincent’s office. His hands and neck are covered in tattoos. Peele whirls to face him, sees me and hangs up the phone, no goodbye, nothing.
Clint Ward.
My laptop clatters to the floor.
Clint’s eyes are dull and dark, his face expressionless, and rather than acknowledge me he stares over my shoulder, shrugs his suit jacket on. Clint and Vincent don’t look at one another. Clint walks out, composed and casual but very intent on leaving. I’m nearly choking, trying to pick up my laptop and fumbling it, afraid to see what Vincent’s doing, afraid he’ll see through my persona while dry ice drifts on the dance floor obscuring half-human half-animal dancers and a handgun rises behind my brother’s head.
Vincent hurries over, beaming like he’s the happiest man alive, says he didn’t know anyone was here, rubs his eyes, says man that Carl Reed is a worthless human being. Asks why I’m working, Saturday, nose to the grindstone, trying to impress the boss? And why am I in the reception room instead of my office, where I should be?
I manage to pick up the laptop, stammer something silly about my room being stuffy. Vincent says is that so? Walks over, sticks his head in my room, inhales, says it seems fine to him but smells a little of
f and maybe he’ll phone to have it freshened.
I wipe dust off my keyboard, pretend to examine the screen, hope I sound casual when I ask, “Vincent? Who was that man?”
Vincent bends, squeezes his calf muscle. “Who? No one.”
“I know what I saw.”
Vincent straightens the promotional poster, plays it cool. “Is that so? You know all about my office?” Waves a hand in a possessive arc. “Where I conduct my business? For this company? Where you are currently employed?”
Vincent’s between me and the door. This isn’t the right time, I tell myself. Let it go. Wait for Heather’s help. And right when I decide it’s settled, that I’ll make the safe choice and stay quiet, I hear myself say, “I…I know who that man is. And why he’s here.”
Vincent looks puzzled. “Okay? You know whoever you know? No probs. And now you want to know why whoever you think that was was in my office? Well I’m sorry, protected client privilege, no problem at all Jasminder, still learning the ropes. Of course I’ll forget you even asked.”
Close my laptop, set it on the coffee table. “His name is Clint Ward.”
Saying it out loud…my voice surprises me, sounds composed, true to who I am or want to be.
Vincent blinks, chooses another approach. “Small world! You know Clint? Wonderful, awesome, yes. How do you know him?”
And how Peele’s studying me, like he’s seeing me for the first time, furious, lips pulled back to expose his teeth and it’s the hungriest, most cruelly needful look I’ve ever witnessed—all this combines to make me climb awkwardly over the side of the chair to put some distance between us.
“Clint Ward killed my brother, Amar. I saw him.”
Witness.
Peele can’t get a word out. Looks very small when he’s not spewing bullshit. Shocked at not knowing. Wondering if I’m lying and hating he can’t tell. Thought he had me pinned, gripped, and held down. “I don’t understand? Are you saying…”
“Clint murdered Amar. Three years ago.”
“I don’t think…” But he doesn’t finish.
Peele had no idea who I was. Clint never told him, probably doesn’t know I saw him murder Amar. I was inside…and nobody knew. I was succeeding. This past week I’ve been living it…a truth displaced and doubled but still mine…and now Peele knows about my connection to Clint Ward and of course there’s no way he’ll keep me on at Marigold. But I still have the stolen files. And Heather Reed.
Peele swallows. “I had no idea…about him? Jasminder?”
I say yeah, slide past him, unflinching, walking away free and clear, thinking I’ve won and how sweet it’ll feel to break the corruption story. I’m nearly at the door when Peele says oh by the way he almost forgot he met Heather Reed yesterday. After I saw her at Park Place Tower? And was that what I was doing this morning? Stealing more private documents for the competition?
Room feels tilted at an angle, like I’m about to slide off, and I lean against the reception desk to keep myself standing. Not succeeding at all. Heather Reed played me. Sent an anonymous tip that kept me on the story. Maybe it was all bullshit, the link to Bo Xi made up so Heather would have the leverage she needed—
Peele’s laughter sounds far away. “You trusted Heather Hellcat? Super-bad call! She phoned me like five minutes after you gave her my files. Said Vincent, I have something you might be interested in? Said hey honeybun, let’s renegotiate sticking points? Said how ’bout I return these stolen files, you design a green space into the Solstice development? Everyone wins! Except Jasminder?”
Only a few steps from the door but too weak to stand without support from the reception desk. That lying, careerist asshole. Peele’s walking toward me. Grinning. I can’t look at him directly but I see him out of the corner of my eye and I have my phone in my hand, searching for Sim’s number, afraid for my safety but that’s not even the worst part because without those files I have nothing.
Vincent takes my phone, sets it on the desk. “Aw, look at poor you. Cased the knuckle, pretzeled your rim on the last gap. Fully rag-dolled, eating shit!” Vincent smacks the files onto the reception desk. “So…anyway? Not sure where you were going with all that? A career-making exposé? Lies, rumours, a few numbers in a column. Biiig stretch! Langara journalism? Bargain basement!”
Voice dull, resigned: “You’re laundering money through Marigold’s developments.”
Vincent flutters his hands, fakes being horrified at my accusation. “Airing dirty laundry? Says Jasminder who? All above board. No proof. And even better…nobody cares! So what is it with you? Hater? Jealous? Incredible times, huge upside. You’re missing out!”
Is he right? Is it only jealousy? Do I want to drag him down so I can take his place? Do I even believe my own story? The splintered feeling of wanting something more than anything and at the same time not believing in it at all, of being wilfully self-duplicitous as a means of survival, of hating yourself for wanting what you know is wrong—
Vincent strolls around the reception desk, sits in Harvey’s chair, puts a fist to his chin, gives me a fake-friendly look like we’re chatting about weekend plans. “Curious about your angle, though. Did Heather steal your thunder? You were gonna squeeze some cash out of me? Extortion! Grrl power! Awesome! You’re way cooler than you pretend to be. Do you want to go bouldering?”
Pick up my phone, walk to the door, grip the frame. “Go take a flying fuck—”
“Oh, yay! You took a shot, went wide. Happens. Few months at Langara and here she is, Miss Hunter Thompson, living the story—”
“I prefer Michael Moore.”
Peele holds up his phone, shows me a photo of a recent gangland killing in South Surrey. Says he knows nothing about it, super unfortunate, a few bad apples won’t spoil this incredible city.
“Those files aren’t everything.”
Peele pockets the phone. “I doubt that. Otherwise you would’ve gone to some control-freaky lefty media outlet. Ah, Jasminder. I finally get you! Muckracking SJW journalist girl on the up!” Peele fidgets with a 2010 Olympic snow globe on the reception desk. “Here’s the thing. Those Valley hicks, the Ward Brothers, yuck. Total low-lifes. I mean…Clint seriously disgusts me, he’s worse than garbage. And to think people like him are allowed to vote. And Mark…cuckoo! So what I’m saying is: I can forgive. You made a mistake. Driven by misplaced ambition, all that. See how magnanimous I am? Clint fucked you; he apparently fucked me by not being an upfront guy. I’ll have Harvey deposit your final cheque, no diss track…”
He’s lying, of course. But right now all I need is away from him. “You’re right. I made a mistake.”
Peele shakes the snow globe, studies it. “Absolutely. Nothing to see here. Big criminal conspiracy blah? Secret power-elite exposed? Nope. A few loopholes, opportunities exploited. Business as usual. Bizzy-ness? Heh. Like Wall Street in 2008: I’ll be gone, you’ll be gone! Numero uno! As in: looking out for? Where’s the big story in that? Seems like everyday stuff, normal people trying to make a living. Sorry for the letdown. No one’s running things. That’s what’s so sweet! Dude on the button’s an imbecile, and more power to him! Power-elite scheming, marshalling resources, world domination, look at us helpless little people caught in their horrible schemes?” Peele sets the snow globe down, texts something. “Not how it works. Nice to have someone to blame though, isn’t it? Because there’s just you and me, protecting numero uno. Day after day. And that gets us to where we are.”
My phone vibrates.
“Jasminder? Take a peek at that photo. Bad apples.”
Refuse to look at the photo or give him the satisfaction of seeing how afraid I am. Cock my index finger at him instead. “Kapow! Kaboom!”
Peele clutches his heart, tips his chair until his feet lift from the floor, flails around, laughs. I walk out without another word, drive to the gym, get on a spin bike for the first time in months, set the gears to their lowest, put on my workout playlist, do Tabata intervals until I collapse, dizzy,
disoriented, nauseous, and even then when I get home I can’t sleep and when I close my eyes I see blue-black lesions flowering on the sides of buildings, Carl Reed’s emptied-out eyes, a shadowy half-man hunting through old-growth forest growing inside an ice-cold office tower, a handgun at point-blank range through strobe lights and fog, six six six…and I hear Heather Reed’s corrupt laughter and my brother you were right, you make your own way in the world or someone makes it for you—
Mark Ward
No one’s safe. We’re aware of this, knowledge buried in animal minds, precognitive fear-scream of cave dwellers. And because no one’s safe we go to great lengths to pretend otherwise. Build fences, lock doors, carry firearms. But a guy like me wants a target dead, at night, in his home, there’s almost nothing to be done about it.
Here I am, calculating the distance from the target’s front door to his bedroom and from the back door to the alley. Noting the neighbours. Any insomniacs? Late-night smokers? Making a mental count of the number of stairs. Noting the flooring. Carpet? Hardwood? Thinking about friction and footwear. Here I am in a condo stairwell, timing myself as I run up the steps. Adding a ten per cent tolerance to account for darkness, the unexpected. Here I am, visualizing myself moving through the target’s home in the dead of night, seeking possible interruptions, planning escape routes and startled Plan Bs.
Surprise is speed. Which means speed is everything. Stealth is for television. Killers tiptoeing around, picking locks, slinking down halls with the cops close on their tails. Nope. There are no police. Best forget them. What do a high-school shooting, a sidewalk assassination, a roadside bombing have in common? It happened so fast. A mind surprised is unable to process events with anything close to enough speed to make a difference. There’s always an exploitable lag between shock and action. An untrained citizen needs five seconds, at least, to realize the pops they heard weren’t fireworks or a car backfiring and the man in the mask carrying an automatic machine gun isn’t pulling a tasteless prank.