The Fate Merchant

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

     Frank entered his office and closed the door.  There was an unwritten rule in the firm: everyone except the firm’s partners were to keep walking if they saw that his door was closed.  If it was closed, it was because the work was going well and he didn’t want to be disturbed, and God help the poor soul who opened the door and broke his concentration.

     He dropped into a chair behind a glass and chrome desk, opened his briefcase, and took out the target he’d massacred at the shooting range earlier that morning.  He wasn’t encouraged by the results.  He’d hit the target twice, barely grazing the shoulders both times.  The bulk of the shots had chewed up the white area around the edges of the target.  Roy Harper had nothing to fear.  Anything to either side of him, however, would experience some severe perforation.  Maybe he could use his terrible aim to his advantage and start a new design trend: Bullet Chique.

     He’d tried the Colt M1911, a Glock 19, and a Smith and Wesson.  The Glock 19 had felt more comfortable in his hand, lighter, almost like an extension of his arm.  Each pull of the trigger, each juddering, hand-numbing recoil had flooded his body with an exhilarating sense of relief. He should’ve dumped the anger management expert and bought himself a gun a long time ago.

     There was a knock at the door.

     Frank stuffed the target into his briefcase as Barry Watts poked his bald head into the office. 

     “Got a second?” Barry asked.

     Frank nodded, closed his briefcase as nonchalantly as possible, and leaned back in his chair.

     Barry pushed the door open and leaned against the frame.  He was fifty-six, had a fondness for tanning booths and black, open collar dress shirts, and had the annoying habit of signing off every conversation with two quick knocks on any hard surface within reach: “Get to work, gentlemen.”  KNOCK KNOCK.  “Have a good weekend.”  KNOCK KNOCK.  “That design makes me want to hurl myself through that plate glass window.  Start over.” KNOCK KNOCK.

     But Frank liked him, and he liked his offer of a partnership even more.

     Barry removed his glasses, took a cloth out of his pocket, and polished the lenses.  “I have to cancel our meeting this afternoon.  But come over tonight, around eight, and we can hammer out the details and drink a shitload of Scotch, which you will provide.”

     Frank nodded.  “Eight o’clock.  No problem.”

     Barry put his glasses back on.  “Gleason. Watts. Sullivan.  Has a nice ring to it.”

     He rapped his knuckles on the door as he left the office.

     Frank picked up his coffee mug and headed for the kitchen.  He thought about the picture of Roy and his axe.  The background in the photograph had been fuzzy, making it impossible to tell where Roy was going to try to lop his head off, but the fact that Roy didn’t seem to have aged told him it could happen any day.

     He needed a gun, and he needed it fast.  The state of Connecticut required him to complete a handgun safety course and obtain a permit before he could purchase a handgun.  He wanted to call up whoever was in charge and tell him that it would be hard for him to attend the safety course with his head missing, and could they possibly make an exemption in his case, but he had a feeling he’d lose the guy at “magic camera”.

     He stopped, backed up two steps, and stared at a nameplate on a closed door.  White lettering on a black background spelled out: Roy Harper.

     The door opened suddenly, and Frank found himself inches away from Barry Watt’s face.  He imagined the brief, startled expression on Barry’s face mirrored his own.

     “You boys get along, now,” Barry said, cocking his head toward Roy, who stood by his drafting table.

     Frank stepped back and allowed Barry to pass.

     “What do you want?” Roy said, emphasizing ‘you’ and looking at Frank as though Frank were holding a suitcase full of encyclopedias and had just asked for a moment of his time.

     Frank could think of a few things he wanted to do.  He wanted to barge in and grab Roy by the collar, wanted to tell him that he knew what he was going to do, and that he’d be ready for him, and then, for good measure, he wanted to knee him in the balls.  

     “Nothing,” Frank said and walked away.  Roy would get what he deserved.  He pictured the target from the shooting range, only this time it was marred by a single, precise bullet hole -- right through the forehead.

#

     Frank had never asked him, but he was sure Barry had had a good reason for designing and building a house that looked like someone had taken a giant hard-boiled egg, sliced off the bottom, stood it up upright, and added wooden shingles and a chimney.  Situated on a hill forty-five minutes west of the city, on the outskirts of the town of Stone Mills, Frank had always thought the house, when observed from a distance, looked like something an enormous chicken had pushed out and abandoned.  The Eco-Egg, which featured solar panels, a wind turbine, and a heat pump, had garnered Barry a certain amount of attention, which in turn, had generated a healthy amount of new business for the firm -- which might have been his goal all along. 

     Frank needed to start thinking like a partner.  Maybe he’d build his own house, one-up Barry “Eco-Egg” Watts and build himself a…

     A what? 

     He smiled.  Maybe he’d build himself a pyramid and anyone wanting to enter would have to address him as Pharaoh.

     Frank’s truck rolled to a stop, its tires crunching gravel.  He grabbed the bottle of single malt Scotch off the passenger seat and stepped down from the truck. 

     The Egg’s front door was open.

     Frank knocked on the door, but didn’t enter.  “Anybody home?”

     He waited for a reply.  None came.

     He knocked again.  “Barry?”

     Frank stepped across the threshold and walked down a short corridor that opened onto a living room.  The circular wall was mostly window and offered a view of the wind turbine and the hot house where Barry’s wife grew organic vegetables.

     He crossed the living room, entered the kitchen, and dropped the bottle of Scotch when he saw the small sea of blood in the center of the kitchen.  A blood trail, bright red smears on the tiles, led to an island.  Barry lay on his back at its base.  A sopping dish towel, stained crimson, rested on his stomach and had completely failed to staunch the flow of blood from the deep gash carved across his belly.

     Frank leaped over the blood and ran to Barry’s side.  He didn’t need to check for a pulse.  Barry’s face was white and waxy, his eyes open, lifeless. 

     Elaine, he thought.  Barry’s wife.  Was she dead, too?

     He turned to make for the living room, and the stairs to the second floor, when he noticed the writing on the island’s wood paneling, a bloody scrawl near its base.  Barry had had just enough strength to write a single word.

     ArkNet.