This was a front company for the government, but it was still a company, and the more Stuart thought about it, the more he knew it was a test of trust. To see who was executive material and who wasn’t.
Stuart took the bottle of champagne and poured three fingers’ full into a clear plastic wineglass.
“Stu,” Jamie said. “Wait.”
Stuart waved his hand, as if he were batting away a fly. Jamie was just jealous he hadn’t taken the initiative.
“Very wise move, Stuart,” David said.
Stuart splashed in some of the Tropicana, and he couldn’t help himself. He was beaming. Passing the trust test. There was nothing to stir the champagne and orange juice—were you even supposed to stir mimosas? Whatever. Didn’t matter. Not for the purposes of the trust test.
“Cheers,” Stuart said, raising the cup in a mock toast.
“Thank you for your service,” David said, which gave Stuart the slightest bit of pause. What did that mean?
Jamie stood up now. “Stu, no. Don’t do it.”
Bite it, DeBroux.
Stuart sipped his mimosa, then looked at David.
But David didn’t say anything. Just stared at him. So did everyone else. Even Jamie, who sat back down.
And the weirdest thing was, Stuart felt like he was having an Outward Bound flashback. He had the overwhelming urge to drift backwards, in the hands of his coworkers. But this time, they’d all be looking at him admiringly. Because he’d won the Trust Game. None of them could say that. Could they?
Was he still holding the plastic wineglass? Stuart didn’t know.
He couldn’t feel his fingers.
Or his legs, as they gave out from under him.
Everyone watched Stuart collapse. The hand holding his plastic cup of mimosa hit the side of the conference table. The drink splashed everywhere. Roxanne, who had been sitting next to Stuart, hopped her chair to the side reflexively.
“Oh God.”
“Stuart,” Amy said. “C’mon, Stuart. This isn’t funny!”
“One recommendation,” David said, holding up a bony finger. “Try to remain seated when you drink this stuff. You might even want to position yourself on the floor, leaning against a wall, so that you can fall asleep without hurting yourself.”
“Stuart?”
“Not that I think Stuart felt anything. The first thing the poison shuts down is your brain.”
Amy ran around the side of the table and knelt next to Stuart, whose eyes were still open. She pressed a finger to his carotid artery. Looked up at Roxanne.
“Double-check me. Feel his neck.”
“No. No way.”
Searching around Stuart’s neck, madly, looking for something that resembled a pulse. You can’t fake that. You can’t just stop your heartbeat voluntarily.
“Stuart!”
David shook his head. “He’s gone, Amy.”
Amy looked up over the table at her boss.
“Stuart chose the smart way out. I hope that the rest of you follow suit. We can drink together, if you like.”
Jamie said, “Oh, you’re going to kill yourself, too?”
“Yes, Jamie. They want us all gone.” David turned to his assistant. “Molly, will you do the honors?”
Molly, who had been silent for the duration of the meeting—including Stuart’s suicide toast—raised her head.
Then she reached into a white cardboard box and pulled out another gun. It looked smaller.
“Hey,” said David. “I meant mixing the drinks. Like we discussed?”
She aimed the gun at David.
He squinted. “Is that a Neo?” he asked.
Molly screamed—a howling geyser of rage that seemed like it had been building up under a mountain of composure.
“Hey, wait a second … Molly!”
Then she squeezed the trigger.
BLAM!
Part of David’s scalp flipped up from his head, like a piece of toupee caught in a breeze.
David saw an explosion in front of his eyes, then a cold, cold sensation on the right side of his head.
As he was thrown backwards, someone pressed PAUSE.
He could see the faces of his employees, frozen in perfect detail. Many of them were slack-jawed in surprise. The others seemed not to be processing it yet.
Then again, neither was he.
Molly.
They’d gone over this. A lot. Offer the mimosas. The easy way out. Not that he thought many people would go for it, but hey, you never know. Then if things got ugly, leave the shooting to David. Bow your head and pray for God’s blessings. Molly was religious. In every e-mail, she put “God bless” or “God willing” or “Faith in Jesus” before her name. Hearty Midwestern stock—made her perfect for this kind of work. Perfect for following instructions.
Except for this one little time.
My God.
Molly had just shot him in the head.
Molly!
David knew she wasn’t supposed to live through this. But she didn’t know that. He’d promised her a way out. New identity. New life. How had she found out the truth?
Granted, he didn’t have the nicest things in the world planned for her. First a shot to the leg that would drop her to the ground. Then, press the gun to her head, tell her to take off her shirt and bra if she wants to live. Check out her tits, kill her anyway.
How had she found out the truth?
David’s body hit the conference room floor.
AFTER THE MEETING
The best way to get started is to stop talking and begin doing.
—WALT DISNEY
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.”