Just before noon, Fielder amp; Company released, by fax and email, the following statement to 927 consultants and staff, 1852 past and present clients, and 128 business press contacts:
With the press release memorandum on its way, Wilson met again with the vice presidents in the afternoon, hammering out the details of a whirlwind office tour. Over the next four days, they would visit Fielder amp; Company’s six offices, personally assuring every Fielder amp; Company consultant and staff member of the firm’s strong financial position, as well as Wilson’s commitment to carry on his father’s philosophies and policies.
By the time they finished at three o’clock, the vice presidents had their assignments and the rest of the day to prepare. The first stop on the tour was scheduled for tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, in the large, ninth-floor conference room of the Fielder Building. After that, they would fly to Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco, Hong Kong, and London.
Later that night, after packing for his trip and their move from Brattle House, Wilson and Emily went to the hospital to visit his father. Nothing in his father’s condition had changed. Once again, they stood by his hospital bed holding his hand and talking, hoping that he might be able to hear them and one day respond.
“What would he have to say about your plan to convince the secret society to bring you inside?” Emily asked, her fear persisting, even though Hap Greene and his people had made her feel much better.
“Control or be controlled,” Wilson quoted without hesitation. “That’s the world we live in, he’d say. Then he’d remind me how depraved and enslaved our society has become for embracing such a false dogma.”
Emily put her arms around Wilson’s waist and hugged him tightly. “I do believe that everything he was doing at Fielder amp; Company was intended to bring about change. Profound change.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Wilson said before kissing her. “So do I.” He gazed into her eyes, their faces inches apart. “If you want to know the truth, I couldn’t do this without knowing that you feel the same way. But I couldn’t tell you that until you arrived at it on your own.”
“You think I didn’t know that?” she said, giving him a nudge.
Neither one of them liked the idea of being apart for the next five days, but they agreed that it would be better for Wilson to do this alone. It would also give Emily time to review the publisher’s initial round of edits on her manuscript. Fortunately, the anticipation of spending a whole week together in Venice had emboldened them.
When Wilson and Emily left the hospital, they took their things to the fully furnished Back Bay apartment, overlooking the Fielder amp; Company building. After entering, they stood at the apartment’s newly installed one- way, bulletproof windows, watching the lights come on inside the Fielder Building. Hap Greene’s people along with building security personnel had just started conducting their nightly sweep. It was a little after midnight.
“When will it end?” Emily asked.
“Soon, I hope,” Wilson said, holding her in his arms. “One way or another, we’ll get out of this alive, free to pursue our dreams. I promise.”
29
Quinn — Lake Forest, IL
Beneath the ample canopy trimmed in an eighteenth-century Chinese coverlet, Quinn lay deliciously drained. The Levitra had worked miraculously during the past three days, just as his doctor promised.
“Your hands are absolutely amazing,” Vargas whispered into his ear as he gently stroked her long, slender body. “Has anyone ever told you that before?”
“Actually, no,” he said, but he was lying. His wife Margaret had told him the same thing years ago.
“You could hire them out and probably make more money than you do as CEO of the J. B. Musselman Company,” she said giggling and running her fingers through his chest hair.
Vargas had grown more carefree and silly during their three days together and so had Quinn. But her innocuous comment about hiring out his hands bothered him. Was it a Freudian slip in a lighthearted moment that had exposed her true self? His old suspicions had gradually started to return. No matter what she says about wanting to be with me, she’s still a hired hand, Quinn said to himself.
She shifted her lithe body, lying face down and snuggling her head into a pillow. Quinn gently stroked her neck and back until she was asleep. As he lay awake next to her, waiting to escape once more into sexual bliss, Quinn grew more cynical. He began admitting to himself that his passion for Vargas had been little more than a fabulous fantasy, facilitated by Wayland Tate as part of a larger strategy to manipulate him and the J. B. Musselman Company.
Musselman’s stock price had continued to climb on Monday, closing at 393/4. Tate and his partners have
His new sarcasm wasn’t really the result of anything Vargas had said or done, other than maybe performing too perfectly. Nor was it attributable to Tate’s baiting and trapping him. He only had himself to blame for that. In truth, his growing disillusionment derived from the interludes over the past three days when he was physically depleted, emotionally melancholic, and mentally introspective. That’s when he first realized that his appetites were feeding on themselves-more control demanded more scheming requiring more appeasement and double-dealing, eventually leading to more indulgence and escape.
Ashamed that his desperation in recent months had so easily impaired his judgment, Quinn began to reconsider his current state of affairs. Had it not been for his principles, the seductive cycle might have continued indefinitely. While he had indeed ignored them in recent weeks, he had never abandoned them. It was time to end the illusion and the manipulation.
Once Vargas was sound asleep, Quinn quietly got out of bed and removed his briefcase from beside the nightstand. He put on a robe and left the master suite.
Downstairs in the library, Quinn sat down at the antique desk and drew the telephone toward him. Wiping away the perspiration on his forehead with the sleeve of his robe, he removed a business card from his briefcase:
The line rang twice before a voice on the other end caused Quinn’s heart to skip. “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Chicago bureau, Special Agent Mullrose speaking.”
“Agent Mullrose,” Quinn said, his voice trembling slightly. “I’d like to speak to Deputy Director Sam Wiseman.”
“He’s not in, sir. How can I help you?”
