Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

“What a cutie,” says one of the bookkeepers, and is quickly shushed, although the shushing is accompanied by knowing smiles. “Hey, it’s not like he’s married,” she adds, and then drops it upon being gently elbowed.

A few minutes later Milton is back at his workstation, sifting through on-screen files, when a supervisor taps him on the shoulder. “Mr. Bean? Could you follow me, please?”

Milton stands, aware that his cloak of invisibility is fraying-every eye on the main floor has him in focus-and nods meekly. “Of course, is there some problem?”

“No problem at all,” he is assured. “Strictly routine. We’ll have you back at work in a jiffy.”

He follows the supervisor up to the mezzanine, where he’s led into one of the glass-fronted offices. Hip perched on a desk, Taylor Gatling, Jr., greets him with a cool smile. “Milton Bean? Nice to meet you.”

He holds out a hand. Milton shakes. Thinking, it’s okay to be nervous, I’m a nervous little guy who dislikes being singled out, that’s my cover and also who I am.

“Have a seat, Mr. Bean, this won’t take but a moment,” he says, using a remote to adjust the window shades for privacy.

There are two other men in the room, both of whom share the boss’s level of fitness, as well as the military haircuts. Casually dressed but nothing remotely casual about them. Security, Milton guesses. Definitely ex-military. Neither of them says a word.

“So, Milton, it’s my understanding that you’re a spot auditor. May I ask who you’re working for?”

“My CPA firm,” Milton says, naming the firm that once employed him and still keeps his ID current. “I’m a forensic accountant.”

“Yeah, we get that, but who hired your firm? DOD? IRS? They both have the right to run audits at any time, without advance notification. Which is it?”

“Can’t say, because I don’t know.”

“I’m thinking IRS. Maybe that ID of yours is a cover and you really work directly for the Infernal Revenue. Is that it?”

“No, sir. It’s a spot audit, that’s all. We, um, do it all the time. I suggest you call my supervisor.” Milton takes a business card from his wallet, places it on the desk.

Taylor Gatling, Jr., doesn’t touch the card. He seems faintly amused by the ploy. “No doubt if we call that number, your place of employment will be confirmed. My concern isn’t the validity of your ID, Mr. Bean. It is, frankly, you.”

“Excuse me?”

“As you may have noticed, we have a state-of-the-art security system. When you presented your ID this morning your name and identification number ran through the system. Your name popped and the system notified us that a few days ago you were busily auditing accounts at QuantaGate, in Waltham, Massachusetts. Correct?”

“That’s correct, yes.”

“It can’t be a coincidence, Mr. Bean.”

Milton allows himself a shrug, as if his motives are questioned every day, part of the job. He’s ready with a plausible fallback position. “There was a question about the time cards for the security guards. Whether or not Gama Guards may have billed for more personnel than were actually on the premises over the last two quarters. GSG owns Gama Guards, so here I am.”

“Ah,” Taylor says, arms folded comfortably across his chest. “So you’re investigating possible fraud, is that it? Billing for no-show workers?”

“Just checking the books.”

“Because, funny thing, Gama Guards is located in Delaware. You want to hire Gama Guards security guards, you call the office in Wilmington. It all goes through Wilmington. All billing, all time cards, all paychecks, all ledgers, all books. Everything. Somebody made a mistake. You’re in the wrong office in the wrong state, Mr. Bean.”

Milton does his best to look dumbfounded, which isn’t all that difficult. “There’s obviously been a mistake,” he says, as obsequiously as possible. “All I can do is apologize. It’s company policy that forensic accountants leave the target premises upon request, pending legal resolution. I’ll get my things and leave immediately.”

As Milton attempts to rise, the two subordinates force him back down in the chair, not a word spoken, and hold him there with grips of iron. Without him quite knowing how they did it, they have moved behind him, cutting off any possible angle of escape.

Taylor gives him a grim, self-satisfied smile. “We have a few more questions,” he says.

It happens so fast that Milton doesn’t have time to draw a breath. One moment he’s projecting confusion and nervous subservience-he’s just a little man sent out on a job without adequate information, an office mouse-the next he’s blind, a black sack covering his head and a powerful hand clamped over his mouth.

As they lift him into the air, his legs kick futilely.

It’s the fireplace that fools him. When Randall Shane first awakens his eyes focus on the bouquet of flowers that have been placed in the hearth-bright yellow blossoms. Mums, perhaps? — and for a while, for entire thrilling moments of anticipation, he thinks he’s in a room at the Woodstock Inn, in Vermont. Jean must be in the shower, he can hear something like water drumming, and it comes back to him, what happened last night. It’s Jean’s twenty-fifth birthday, that’s why they’ve gone to the extravagance of a weekend in Woodstock, and after they finished making love, or paused, really, Jean had plumped the pillows and sat with her knees drawn up to her chin and announced that she was pregnant. A secret she’d been keeping for a whole twenty-four hours, waiting until this special moment to share it with him. It’s a girl, had been his instantaneous response, and when Jean asked how he could possibly know, he’d said he just did, and if he’s right can they please call her Amy, and Jean said whoa there, big boy, you’re jumping the gun.

His mind begins to clear. One of the happiest moments of his life drains away and he’s left with the awful knowledge that this isn’t the Woodstock Inn and Jean isn’t showering in the bathroom because she’s dead and gone, as is the precious child whose existence was revealed to him that night. He falls for miles, plummeting through memories that haven’t the strength to buoy him up, or soften the landing, and the pain of recollection is so overwhelming that he whimpers like a child fighting off a nightmare.

“Mr. Shane? Are you awake?”

He blinks away the tears, focuses on the young woman in the white jacket.

“I’m Dr. Gallagher. You’re being treated at Mass General, in Boston.”

“I know who you are,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, you’ve been very kind.”

“Oh?” The doctor looks surprised, but not displeased. “Do you recall our last conversation?”

He grimaces, probing his memory. “You explained about the handcuffs. They were bruising my wrist and you’d asked the sheriff’s department to have them removed and wanted to know if I was okay with a GPS ankle monitor instead. I said I was.”

The young doctor pulls a chair close to the bed and takes a seat, putting them at eye level. “Well, now, this is real progress,” she says. “Do you know that’s the first time you’ve awakened without asking who I am and where you are?”

“Really?”

“Tell me what happened to your brain.”

“My brain? My brain is very tired.”

“Yes, but what happened to make you so tired, Mr. Shane? Can you recall?”

He thinks for a moment, and the answer comes without having to search for it. “I was interrogated by professionals. Beaten and then heavily drugged. No, that’s not quite right. I was drugged, beaten, then drugged again. The drugged parts are all in a fog. Hallucinatory. I do recall a bright, blinding light and being threatened with a drill bit. No doubt I told them whatever they wanted to know.”