emerged from a conduit sticking through the concrete floor. I waited again for the hot scream of alarm, but nothing happened. I sorted out the lines that fed the sirens inside and outside the house and snipped those. Still nothing. For good measure I disconnected the 120-volt line and backup batteries for the system.
The house was now deaf, dumb and blind.
I climbed the basement stairs and came out into the kitchen. It was lit by the glow of the LEDs on the kitchen appliances—coffeemakers, ovens and microwaves. I scanned the ceiling corners for motion detectors and found two. No blinking red lights. I moved on in search of stairs to the second floor.
It must have been somebody like Nathaniel Hawthorne or Zane Grey who wrote that Indians understood that absolute silence was impossible, so instead moved in random patterns, blending in and mimicking ambient sound. They probably didn’t have to deal with creaking floorboards or the hum and whir of central air-conditioning.
It took a long, nerve-wracking time, but I finally found George Donovan’s bedroom, which I was deeply grateful to see was free of Mrs. Donovan. Better yet, it had Mr. Donovan, lying flat on his back on top of the bedspread, snoring like an unlubricated chain saw.
I took the last few steps and stood by his bed. I flicked on the little Maglite and stuck it in my mouth. Then I vaulted onto the bed, landing with my knees astride Consolidated Global Energies’ Chairman of the Board. His eyes popped open.
“Hi, George,” I said, after taking the Maglite out of my mouth.
Terror and confusion raced across his face.
“What’s this?”
“The cops call it a home invasion. Pretty unsettling, isn’t it?”
“I don’t understand,” he said, buying time while he corralled his faculties.
One of my worries going in was shocking Donovan into a heart attack. He had to be in his late sixties, in good shape, but nevertheless. Looking at him harden under the light of the flashlight took care of that worry.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“You don’t remember?”
I moved the flashlight to the side so he could see my face.
“I thought I was unforgettable.”
“Good God. You have to be out of your mind.”
“Maybe.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“You know.”
“Of course I don’t.”
He looked down at where I was sitting on him, struggling with the sensation of being pinned by one of his former divisional vice presidents. It was only a little less weird for me, and I’d had a few hours to get used to the idea.
“You’re not going to lie about a guy named Honest, are you?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Honest Boy Ackerman. You sent him to study me. In his words, to find some dirt. What he found was a busted lip and a free night in a secure place. This surprises me, George. I thought you were more circumspect than that.”
He thought his face wasn’t betraying him, but he was wrong. Few people can keep strong emotion out of their eyes.
“He’s Marve Judson’s hire,” he finally said.
“This is where you have to ask yourself,” I said to him, sticking the flashlight closer to his face, “can you convince Marve Judson to tell a jury that he ordered Ackerman to break into my house and assault me, with criminal intent, at night, with a gun? That it was his idea, even when Ackerman says it was all yours? And even if Judson could persuade the court, why would he want to? You think he’s prepared to destroy his career and do years of hard time for you just because you’re the Chairman of the Board? Have you gotten that delusional?”
He just looked at me, running the calculations. We both knew which way the math would work out.
“I got you, George,” I said. “You’re sunk.”
“That must give you some pleasure, Sam. You probably think I ruined your life.”
“You didn’t ruin my life. I did that all on my own. You’re not that good.”
“You were always mentally unstable,” he said.
“I’m unstable? Did I hire a guy to attack you in your own house?”
“That’s not what I was doing,” he said, quietly. He tried to shift under my weight. “And if you don’t mind, I prefer discussing things with people who aren’t sitting on top of me.”
I moved the Maglite closer to his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head.
“You got anything to drink in this house?” I asked.
He opened his eyes.
“Everything.”
“Okay. But before I get up, here’s the deal. I have Ackerman on ice. I can make a call and the whole thing goes away. Or not. The missile will stay in the silo, or it’ll go off. You can fire back if you want, but which of us has the most to lose?”
I looked around the sumptuous bedroom. He took the point.
“Just get off me and we’ll have that drink.”
I got off and scooped his cell phone off the side table. While Donovan rose unsteadily and pulled on a robe, I took the phone into the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.
I escorted him to the library on the first floor, where he kept his booze and a few thousand books, few of which he’d ever read. His wife once proudly told me they’d been selected by an interior decorator based on the color and composition of their spines.
I didn’t relax until we were in opposing Chesterfield easy chairs next to the yawning fireplace. The scotch he poured was probably older than both of us.
“So Ackerman isn’t in police custody,” said Donovan after a sip of his drink.
“Like I said, that depends on you.”
“One would think after forty years in business I would know how to size up a risk.”
“You used to be pretty good at it.”
“Very good. But not perfect.”
“Apparently.”
“Experience teaches you to hedge your bets,” he said. “But a hedge isn’t a guarantee.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Your hedges have worked out better than mine.”
George Donovan could have been the smartest man alive. I didn’t know him well enough to say. I knew the way he ran the company made a lot of money for him and the shareholders. It wreaked havoc on the employees, though there might have been good business reasons for that, too. History would have to sort it out.
I really didn’t know if he was a good man or not. I’d never seen him be overtly heartless or cruel. Only selfish and greedy. He delegated heartless and cruel.
“You were hoping to get some leverage as a hedge against a risk,” I said. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Donovan nodded appreciatively.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Sam. Still sharp as a dart.”
I remembered how he talked about me in front of the board. I ran the company’s Technical Services and Support Division, which included R&D and product development. By fact and implication the company’s technological brain trust. Since I ran the unit, he felt compelled to joke that
“We signed an agreement, remember?” I said. “I’ve always held up my end of the deal, and so has Con Globe. What the hell do you need leverage for now?”
“There are two forms of leverage, Sam,” he said, with a touch of condescension, “carrots and sticks. I like to have both before entering negotiations. With you, as it turns out, I have a whole garden full of carrots. What I lack is a stick.”
