Jennifer Sturman - The Key

Each backyard gave way to a new one in a seemingly endless chain, and my breath was ragged by the time we vaulted a final hedge and hit sidewalk. Frankie drew up short, and I nearly collided with her.

“Where are we going?” Peter asked, skidding to a stop behind me. I was breathing too hard to talk. I’d forgotten just how much I hated suburbia.

“Get down!” said Frankie, yanking my arm. We dived back behind the hedge we’d just vaulted. A second later a police cruiser glided slowly by. Through the leaves, I could make out the faces of the men inside, carefully surveying the quiet street. I willed the car to pass.

Instead, the car drew to a full stop. The night was so quiet that I could hear the sound of a window being lowered. Suddenly, a bright spear of light pierced the ground in front of me.

I held my breath, and I could sense Peter and Frankie holding theirs, too, as the officer panned the flashlight beam over the hedge and assorted other flora lining the sidewalk.

Only a few seconds must have passed, but it felt like hours before the beam was shut off. I could hear the window being raised again, and the car’s tires rolling down the street.

We breathed a collective sigh of relief and picked ourselves up from the ground, brushing at the leaves and twigs clinging to our clothing.

Then there was a sudden click, and a blinding light.

“Where do you think you’re going?” a strange voice asked.

I was at a loss for words.

So I screamed instead.

I t was an impressive scream-I’d been getting a lot of practice, after all-but it was met with a cackle of laughter.

Frankie put her hands on her hips.

“Not funny,” she said emphatically.

“It’s sort of funny,” replied the strange voice.

“Put that flashlight out,” Frankie said. “Now, Aunt Wanda. Before the cops come back.”

“I’m not the one waking up the neighborhood. Does your friend think she’s auditioning for one of those horror movies?” But she switched off the light. “So, you folks going to come inside, or are you planning on hanging out in the bushes and yelping all night?”

It was convenient that Frank’s sister, Wanda, lived within sprinting distance, and it was fortunate that she was an insomniac. She welcomed the wee-hour excitement of our arrival even if she was disappointed when nobody wanted to while away what remained of the night in a game of canasta.

“What’s canasta?” Peter asked in a low voice as we trailed Wanda and Frankie up the stairs.

We were ushered into a room that belonged to Wanda’s daughter, Diana, now away at college. “Just make yourselves right at home,” she told us. “Frankie here can bunk down on the couch in the den. You kids sleep well.” She shut the door behind her, but we could still hear her trying to entice Frankie into a game of cards as they moved down the hallway.

I was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all, let alone well, with so many posters of Justin Timberlake staring down at me, but it turned out that our mini-marathon proved to be an excellent cure both for my own insomnia and for Peter’s snoring. We awakened to sunlight streaming in through the lace-curtained windows and the delicious smell of frying bacon wafting up from the kitchen.

Wanda provided us with fresh disguises (a Steelers baseball cap for Peter and sunglasses and a headscarf printed with an image of Princess Diana for me) and a breakfast that included not only bacon, but pancakes, eggs, sausage, fried potatoes, and sticky buns, all elegantly presented on Princess Diana memorial dishes. After breakfast, we climbed into Wanda’s minivan for the ride to Thunderbolt headquarters. Peter and I hunched down in the back while she waved a stock certificate at the guard manning the security booth. The lot was so filled with cars and people that we felt safe once we passed through the gates, blending in easily with the crowd.

I was in high spirits, excited to see how events would play themselves out that morning, but Peter was grumpy. He seemed unable to fully open his eyes, and the whites that were visible were more red than white. If I were a nicer person, I would have been more sensitive to his condition, especially since I was usually the one suffering the morning-after effects of immoderate drinking. But the very rarity of Peter’s hangover made it too good an opportunity to resist.

“I’m not hung over,” he insisted. “Just tired.”

“Are you sure you didn’t have one too many Iron Cit-”

“Don’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“You know.”

“You mean, Iron Cit-”

“You did it again.”

“This is a fun game.”

He growled.

We joined the men and women filing through an entrance that was most definitely not on the glass-annexed executive side of the building. The wide concrete-floored hallway led us into a large room filled with rows of collapsible metal chairs. Judging by the framed notices on the walls, a number of which provided instructions regarding steps to take in the event of a choking, I guessed this was the employee lunchroom, temporarily pressed into service for the shareholder meeting. A makeshift dais with a podium had been erected at the far end.

The seats were already filling up, but there was a knot of people clustered off to one side, and I could see the top of a familiar trucker’s cap at the center of the group. Frankie and Wanda went to join Frank while Peter and I found empty chairs off the aisle in a row near the back.

We watched as a man mounted the dais to test the podium microphone. He kneeled and fiddled with some wires, and the microphone screeched to life, causing at least half the crowd to jump. Next to me, Peter moaned and clutched at his head.

A side door opened, and a line of suited executive types streamed through, climbing the steps to the dais and arranging themselves on the chairs that faced out onto the audience. The man at the microphone tapped it with his finger, which made it screech some more. Satisfied, he relinquished his post to one of the new arrivals, who cleared his throat and urged people to take their seats. The hum of conversation died down as the crowd sat, and soon every chair was filled, although there were still people standing against the walls. Most of the audience looked like Thunderbolt employees, but here and there I spotted more Yuppie-ish individuals who likely represented institutional shareholders.

The new man at the podium mumbled something about welcoming us all here today, being the secretary of Thunderbolt’s board of directors, and calling the meeting to order before introducing Thunderbolt’s chairman and CEO.

I squinted up at the dais. “Is that Jake?” I asked Peter in a whisper. “Two over from the right?”

“Rachel. That’s a woman. She’s wearing a skirt. And she has gray hair. She looks nothing like Jake.”

“Oh. I knew that. I just wanted to see if you knew that, too.”

“Jake’s the third one in on the left.”

“Still up for beating him silly after the meeting? Or are you too ‘tired’? Maybe you’d rather just go out for a couple of Iron Cit-”

“Don’t.” His expression was pained.

A tall dark-suited man stepped up to the podium. He was too far away for me to make out his features, but fortunately the previous speaker had already introduced him as Nicholas Perry. And I would have recognized his oily voice from when we’d met on Monday. A lot had happened since then.

“Good morning,” Perry said. “And thank you all for coming today.” He added a few more words of welcome before getting to the point. “You’ve been invited here today to vote on a proposed sale of the company to a group of private investors led by myself. The board has discussed this matter at great length, and we feel it is the best way to maximize value for you, our shareholders. However, we’ve asked our financial advisor, Jake Channing of Winslow, Brown, to join us. Mr. Channing will provide you with an overview of the proposed buy-”