Severance Package

Everyone stood up.

“H-H-He was going to kill us all,” Molly said, her voice trembling.

Her hand, weighed down with the gun, dropped to the surface of the table with a hard thud. The barrel pointed at the space where David had been sitting. Smoke curled around it. Then, quieter now:

“He was going to kill us all.”

“I know, Molly. Give me the gun, sweetie.”

This was Amy Felton. Face compassionate yet determined.

In.

Control.

“The gun, Molly.”

Molly nodded but didn’t move.

“I had no choice. He told me he was going to kill Paul if I didn’t do what he wanted.”

Paul Lewis. Her husband.

“Sweetie,” Amy said, her expression softening. “I understand. I’m going to take the gun, okay?”

Amy was able to take the gun. Molly folded her arms on top of the table, then buried her face in them.

“Did somebody check David? Is he dead?”

“Oh, Molly, what did you do?”

“Shut up. Here, take this.”

Jamie looked down. Amy was handing him the murder weapon.

“I don’t want that.”

“I need to check David. Hold this.”

It all felt like another 9/11. The shock of it. Molly, shooting David. Amy, trying to hand him the gun she used. David, on the floor, bleeding out of a hole in his head.

The sense that nothing would be the same again. He wouldn’t be reporting to work on Monday. None of them would. Instantly, he thought of Chase.

“Jamie.”

Jamie took the gun—still warm—and watched Amy trot over to David. The blue-gray carpet around his head was soaked deep purple with blood. David’s lips were trembling.

“I think he’s still alive,” Amy said. “God, I don’t know.”

“Somebody call nine-one-one.”

Nichole made a beeline for the phone in the conference room. Grabbed the receiver. Put it to her ear. There was a confused look on her face. Her index finger stabbed at the hook switch.

“There’s no dial tone.”

“He wasn’t kidding about lockdown, was he?”

“What?”

“My cell’s in my bag,” Nichole said.

Roxanne said, “Mine’s here.” She was already dialing. “Wait …” She looked at the display more carefully. “No service?”

“David had it suspended as of eight thirty this morning,” Molly said, her face still buried in her hands.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s lockdown, remember?”

Which is why my cell wouldn’t work this morning, Jamie thought.

Every one of David Murphy’s employees was issued company cell phones, free of charge, to use as they wished. David’s only rule: Keep the phone on from 7:00 A.M. until midnight, just in case he needed to reach you. Agree to that, and you could enjoy unlimited minutes, long distance, you name it. Every one of David’s direct reports—Jamie, Amy, Ethan, Roxanne, Stuart, Molly, Nichole—immediately canceled their private cells and used their company phones exclusively. David had even sprung for models with built-in cameras and texting capability.

But none of that mattered with the service canceled.

“Why did he cancel it?”

“I should have known …,” Molly said, near-wailing. “I saw the signs….”

“What signs?

Amy, on the floor with David, said, “Forget it. I’ve still got a pulse, but he needs an ambulance now.”

“Was he kidding about the elevators, too?”

Molly wearily said, “No.”

“I’m going to check anyway.”

“We should check our offices. Not all of the phones may be turned off.”

“The stairs.”

“David said the stairs were rigged with …”

“What? Sarin?” Nichole said. “Do you really believe that?”

“He wasn’t joking. He showed me a packet. Told me exactly what it was. I think he was showing off.”

“He showed you?” Nichole asked. “When? How long have you known about this.”

Amy said, “We’ve got to find Ethan.”

Ethan didn’t feel so good.

Okay, yeah, maybe he had screamed a bit prematurely. But that puff of whatever that’d nailed him … c’mon, you’d be frightened, too. In his imagination, it was a burst of ultra-hot steam from a chipped pipe. The kind of steam so lethally hot, it scalded the flesh from his face before his nerves had a chance to relay the pain. From here on out, he’d be stuck hiding behind masks, or at the very least, ridiculous amounts of theatrical makeup.

All of that passed through his mind in about two seconds. His fingers explored his face.

Flesh still there. His eyes, too. His burning eyes.

Burning, but not about to shrivel up and drop out of their sockets.

Still, they burned. Worse by the second.

He needed water.

He must have been blasted with wet air that had been circulating throughout 1919 Market Street since the place was built—around the time KC and the Sunshine Band were first huge. That air was carrying every germ and virus that had plagued this building’s inhabitants in years since. Ethan had a feeling he’d be sick the rest of the summer.

Ethan needed the men’s room. Wash out his eyes. His face. His badly burning eyes. Compose himself enough so that when he popped into David’s office, he would be able to say, Screaming? I didn’t hear any screaming, and have it sound believable.

He pulled on the doorknob. The door wouldn’t open. He tried it again. Nothing. Locked.

Wait.

Damn it.

He could see it, even through his blurry, stinging vision. The cardboard had slipped out.

Ethan tugged at it, cursed, then kicked the door. His skin around his eyes was really starting to sting now, too.

“Hey!”

Kicked it again.

“Hey! Anybody!”

He was about to kick again—in fact, his foot was already cocked, ready to deliver the blow, when he heard something

POP!

A car backfiring.