Severance Package

“What about the other people on that floor in Philadelphia?”

There was a pause.

“That’s not something we can embroil ourselves in right now.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no. I understand. Hey, it’s a lousy day all around then, isn’t it?”

“Will …”

“Talk to you in a bit. Cheers, now.”

CLOSING TIME

Success seems to be connected with action. Successful people keep moving. They make mistakes, but they don’t quit.

—CONRAD HILTON

Vincent Marella tried to ignore the symptoms, hoist his pal Rickards up, get him out of the fire tower. He grabbed his partner under his arms, but he couldn’t resist. He touched the sensitive skin below his eyes, and his fingertips came back bloody. Jesus Christ. He couldn’t be checking out now. Not after last year. Not like this. Not like Center Strike.

It was so, so hard to breathe.

And look.

There was a bloody human tooth on the floor.

Wonderful.

If that explosion up top was real, and he wasn’t dreaming it—and well, you know, the high and loud clanging of the fire alarm seemed to indicate that this wasn’t an event confined to la-la land—then he was seriously screwed. Because in the event of a fire, all elevators shoot down to the lobby level and stay there. The fire towers are the only way out.

Like the fire tower they’d just left, which was apparently full of some kind of nerve agent.

It made him choke.

And it certainly wasn’t goddamn Lysol.

Somewhere downstairs in the security office, up on the fake maplewood shelves, there was a thick paperback manual called Terrorism and Other Public Health Emergencies. A nice little handout everyone received about a year back.

The manual had first aid tips. Vincent couldn’t remember a damn one of them, except wash your skin like crazy. And you could be sure that was the first thing he would do.

If he could get down to that manual, he and Rickards might have a shot here.

After that, he was seriously leaving the goddamned private security business for good, end of story. Did people still sell aluminum siding?

But with the north fire tower out of commission, and the elevators gone, there was only one other way out. The south tower. Unless the terrorists had released the same nerve gas in there, too.

Was that part of their plan? Dose the fire towers and then blow up the building, so everybody inside would die, one way or the other? But why pull this shit on a Saturday, when the building was mostly empty? Didn’t make any sense. The broken glass, his run-in with that psycho broad, none of it.

Forget it for now. He’d have plenty of time to scratch his nuts and ponder the myriad possibilities after he quit. Now he needed to drag Rickards to the south tower and pray it was clear.

“You’re heavier than you look,” Vincent said.

Rickards said nothing.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.”

Get yourself up off the floor, Jamie. C’mon. You’re not going to solve anything by sitting here. Try the other fire tower. Try the elevator button again. Try something. Maybe that explosion you heard canceled the bypass. Maybe it made things worse. But you won’t know unless you get up and do something.

Jamie rounded the corner, back into the elevator bank. Sprinklers were gushing. White lights were flashing. The fire alarm was clanging violently.

And Molly was standing there.

Covered in blood.

From her neck to the tops of her thighs, which were bare. Somehow, she’d lost her skirt. Or she’d taken it off to show off her plain panties, which would have been bone white had they not been soaked with blood. She looked like Carrie White, modeling for Victoria’s Secret.

The sprinklers were washing away some of the blood, but not nearly enough.

“We need to talk,” Molly said, loud enough to be heard over the alarm.

“What happened to you?” Jamie asked. He meant it literally, but as he spoke the words, he realized he’d meant mentally, too. Where was the Molly he’d known? Was she gone for good? Or was she back?

“You have a choice to make in the next minute, and it will be the most important one you’ll ever make.”

She moved closer to him, one foot in front of the other, making a single, bloody trail up the middle of the carpet.

“Where—?”

“Shhhh. Let me speak. Then you can ask as many questions as you want.”

Jamie swallowed.

“Okay,” he said.

But he was thinking: I have no weapon. Damn it. He should have taken the gun from the conference room. If only to keep Molly at bay for a few minutes, until he could figure out an escape plan.

“David was going to kill you. I wanted to save you. This is why I’m doing all of this. You may not believe me, but it’s all for you.”

“You’re right,” he said, almost shouting. “I don’t believe you.”

“I cut your hand to convince my superiors that you could withstand pain. And you did. You did as well as could be expected. Now look at you. Seeking a way out. Many men would have curled up and waited to die. That’s what Paul would have done.”

Paul.

Her husband.

Would have?

She was closer now, which made it easier to hear. Jamie could see that she’d taken a beating, too. Her left shoulder had a wound that looked like it could have been made with a bullet, and her neck was torn and bruised. Her face might have been beaten, too, but it was hard to tell, because her long hair was wet and hanging down in her face. Molly never wore her hair down at the office. It looked strange. Almost as strange as the lack of clothes and the dripping blood.

“I want you to come with me.”

“Where?”

“Away.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Europe. We can be happy there. You can write. You can spend all of the time you want writing. I know that’s what you want to do.”

“Europe? Molly, I’m married. And you’re …”