Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

Nick froze, watched in silence for a few seconds.

His ears rang. Gripping the weapon in both hands, he stepped to one side to see the man’s face. The lunatic’s mouth was gaping, blood seeping over his lips, his chin. The black glasses had fallen off somewhere; now the eyes, much smaller without the magnification of the lenses, stared straight ahead.

The man exhaled with a rattling noise and was silent.

Nick stood, dazed, flooded with adrenaline, even more terrified at this moment than he had been a minute earlier. He pointed the pistol, almost accusingly, at the man and walked slowly up to him. Nick thrust out his right foot, nudged the man’s chest, testing.

The man rolled backward, his mouth open, a mouthful of silver fillings glinting, the eyes now staring into the night sky, blood seeping. The high metallic ringing in Nick’s ears had begun to subside, and everything was strangely, eerily silent. From very far away, Nick thought he could hear a faint rustling of leaves. A dog now barked, far in the distance, then stopped.

The man’s chest was not moving; he was not breathing. Nick leaned over him, the pistol now dangling in his left hand by his side. He placed his right forefinger on the man’s throat and felt no pulse. This was no surprise; the staring eyes had already announced that the maniac lay dead.

He’s dead, Nick thought. I’ve killed him.

I’ve killed a man.

He was suffused with terror. I killed this guy. Another voice in his head began to plead, defensive and frightened as a little boy.

I had to. I had no choice. I had no fucking choice.

I had to stop him.

Maybe he’s just unconscious, Nick thought desperately. He felt the man’s throat again, couldn’t find the pulse. He grabbed one of the man’s rough, dry hands, pressed against the inside of his wrist, felt nothing.

He let go of the hand. It dropped to the ground.

He poked again at the man’s chest with his toes, but he knew the truth.

The man was dead.

The crazy man, this stalker, this man who would have dismembered my children the way he butchered my dog, lay dead on the freshly seeded lawn, surrounded by tiny sprouts of grass that poked out sparsely from the moist black earth.

Oh, Jesus God, Nick thought. I’ve just killed a man.

He stood up but felt his knees give way. He sank to the ground, felt tears running down his cheeks. Tears of relief? Of terror? Not, certainly not, of despair or of sadness.

Oh, please, Jesus, he thought. What do I do now?

What do I do now?

For a minute, maybe two, he remained on his knees, sunken in the soft ground. It was as if he were in a church, a place he hadn’t been in decades, praying. That was what it felt like. He was praying on the soft, hydroseeded lawn, his back turned to the crumpled body. For a few seconds he wondered if he was going to lose consciousness, pass out on the soil. He waited for a sound, the sound of someone in the house, awakened by the gunshots, running out to see what had happened. The kids couldn’t see this, mustn’t be allowed to see it.

But not a sound. No one had awakened, not even Marta. Gathering his strength, he rose, dropping the weapon to the ground, moving back toward the study as if in a trance. The lights came on: the motion sensor software again.

He could barely stand. He sank into his desk chair, folding his arms on the desk, resting his head on his arms. His mind was racing, but to no purpose; he was not thinking clear thoughts. His brains felt scrambled.

He was terrified.

What do I do now?

Who can help me? Who do I call?

He lifted the handset on his desk phone, pressed the number nine.

Nine-one-one. The police.

No, I can’t. Not yet. He hung up.

Must think. What do I tell them? Everything depends on this. Was it self-defense pure and simple?

The police, who despised him so much, would be looking to hang him. Once they showed up, they’d be asking all sorts of questions, and one wrong answer might put him in prison for years. Nick knew that, given how groggy and out of it he was, he might well be railroaded by the cops.

He needed help.

He picked up the handset again, punched the cell number of the one person who would know what to do now.

Dear God, he thought as the phone rang.

Help me.

Eddie’s voice was sleep-thickened, clipped. “Yeah?”

“Eddie, it’s Nick.”

“Nick — Jesus, it’s fucking—”

“Eddie, I need you to come over to my house. Right now.” He swallowed. A cool breeze swept through the room from the open doors, making him shiver.

“Now? Nick, are you out of your—”

“Now, Eddie. Oh, God. Right now.”

“What the hell is it?”

“The stalker,” Nick said. His mouth was dry, and the words stuck in his throat.

“He’s there ?” For a few seconds, Nick couldn’t answer. Eddie went on, “Christ, Nick, what is it? My God, don’t tell me he got to your kids !”

“I... I gotta call nine-one-one, but — I need to know what to tell them, and—”

“What the fuck happened, Nick?” Eddie barked.

“I killed him,” Nick heard himself say softly. He paused to think of how to explain it, blinked a few times, then fell silent. What was there to say, really? Eddie had to have figured it out.

“ Shit, Nick—”

“When I call the cops, they’re going to—”

“Nick, you listen to me,” Eddie interrupted. “Do not pick up the phone again. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The phone slipped from Nick’s hand as if his fingers were greased. He felt a sob welling up.

Please, dear God, Nick thought. Make this go away.

Standing in the shadowed recesses of the front porch, Nick sipped from a mug of instant coffee and waited. Apart from physical sensations — the chill of the night air, the warmth of the mug against his palms, the gusts of wind — he felt nothing. He was beyond numb. He was a husk, an empty body standing on a porch at night while above him hovered Nick Conover, watching in disbelief. This hadn’t happened. This was a nightmare that, even as he experienced it in real time, he told himself was merely a bad dream that he’d awaken from, soon enough, but not before he moved through the twisting, steadily more awful script. At the same time, he understood that it wasn’t a dream. Any minute now, Eddie’s car would pull into the driveway, and Nick, by telling another person, seeking his advice, would make it real.

As if on cue, Eddie’s Pontiac GTO coasted quietly up the driveway, headlights extinguished. Eddie got out, shut the door quietly, jogged up to Nick. He was wearing sweatpants and a tan Carhartt jacket.

“Nicky, tell me exactly what happened?” Eddie’s face was creased, unfamiliarly, with concern. His shoulders were hunched. His breath stank of stale booze; he looked like he’d been asleep.

Nick chewed the inside of his cheek, looking away.

Eddie twisted his head to one side. “All right. Where is he?”

“Okay,” Eddie said. “Okay.”

His hands made strange, resolute chopping motions in the air. “Okay.” He stood over the crumpled body. The floodlights at his back cast a long, spindly shadow.

“Do you think anyone heard?” His first question. A strange one, it seemed to Nick. Not “What happened?”

Nick shook his head. He spoke in a low voice, hoping Eddie would do the same. “Marta or the kids would have gotten up if they did.”

“Neighbors?”

“Hard to say. The security guys down at the booth normally drive up if they think there’s a problem.”

“No lights went on at any of the neighbors’ houses?”

“Look for yourself. Our nearest neighbor is hundreds of feet away. Trees and everything between us. I can’t see them, they can’t see me.”