“Pleased to meet you,” Michelle said, shaking his hand quickly.
“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Lawrence said, nodding. “Sam has told me all about you. Welcome to Corporate Financial.”
Sam got right down to business. He handed Michelle two thick padded envelopes and a thick business-sized envelope. “Sylvia was able to get you a flight that leaves in an hour,” he said. “Your tickets and itinerary are in the envelope, along with information on your car and accommodations. The material in the padded envelopes pertains to the project. There are several CD ROMS inside as well. You’ll be meeting with the client, representatives from Red Rose Medical Insurance, at their corporate headquarters tomorrow morning at nine a.m.”
“Red Rose?” This piqued Michelle’s curiosity. “What’s it about?”
“The documents will explain better than I can.” Sam put his arm on her shoulder as they walked slowly to collect her suitcase. “Basically it’s the last stage of a long-term project with them in which we’ve completely overhauled their Human Resources Policies, their management, their Business Administration departments, Accounting, IT, and their Insurance Services. They’ve been working with our system now for five years and they report that their business has improved drastically since they’ve undertaken our services. What this last phase of the project is will merely be the closing formalities: finalizing the code for the intranet site across all sectors of the company, primarily. There will also be some revisions to their documentation.”
“How long will I be there?” Michelle asked.
“I anticipate you’ll be finished by Thursday,” Sam said. They were now standing by the luggage conveyor belt as the system began cycling baggage around. Other passengers from Michelle’s flight were already watching for their bags. “In between that time, Alan Perkins from New York and Mr. Lawrence along with your colleagues from Corporate you met in El Paso—Alma Smith and Dennis Harrington—will be orienting you in some Corporate
Financial Consultancy business.” Michelle barely remembered Alma Smith and Dennis Harrington. They were working on another phase of the Building Products project. “These sessions will be held at the Embassy Suites. Alma and Dennis will arrive Sunday evening and you’ll have your first meeting with them Monday morning.”
Michelle grasped the thick envelopes, already resolved to having a not-so-good weekend. “And my return flight is Friday?”
“Friday at eight a.m.” Sam smiled at her. “You arrive back in Harrisburg shortly after noon in time for a three day weekend.” The subtle suggestion that she could have that Friday off didn’t lessen the bad news that this weekend was being spoiled, or that his so-called generous hint that she didn’t have to report in to the office on the day she returned was in some way a make-up for her. Either way you looked at it, she was losing three days of her life. “There’s a corporate credit card in one of these packages with your name on it for expenses, including clothing purchases if needed, and laundry. And, of course, entertainment.”
“Great.” Not that the notion of charging entertainment like movies and dining at fine restaurants constituted a replacement for the loss of her weekend, but what else was she going to say?
“If you need to make any kind of arrangements for personal business at home, let me know,” Sam said.
“I’m okay,” Michelle said. Technically, her personal affairs were fine. She still had to contact Donald, and all of her bills were paid online, so she was covered financially. “Right now I’m just hungry. I want to get my bags, grab a quick bite to eat in the lounge, and then I want to catch this flight.”
“That’s what I like to hear!” Sam looked pleased. Mr. Lawrence smiled.
They waited while she collected her luggage and accompanied her to the tiny lounge located in the airport. As Michelle wolfed down a quick sandwich, she filled them in on the Building Products project, covering the basics. “I can email you more specific stuff over the week,” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
“That would be great,” Sam said. He glanced at his watch. “Mr. Lawrence and I should be going, though. We have a six o’clock appointment with the board in Lancaster regarding this Red Rose thing. Mr. Lawrence leaves Sunday evening for Chicago to join you. I’ll call you tomorrow night and fill you in on the details, and you can give me news of your meeting with them.”
“Sounds good.”
By the time Sam paid her bill and she shook their hands, her restlessness and depression over this sudden turn of events was back. When she finished checking her bag in, she went back through airport security and waited at gate B2 and tried Donald again, feeling nervous now as she got his voice mail. She quickly left him another message, told him she’d been called out of town to Chicago for another project on short notice—sorry, she really couldn’t help it but her boss basically intercepted her at the airport and what was she going to do? Tell him no? “I’m sorry,” she ended, and now she could hear herself; she sounded tired, fatigued, and upset. “I don’t want to go, I just want to be home. I’ll call you the minute I get into Chicago, okay?” Beat. “I love you. Bye.”
Then she picked up her carry-on bag and the bag containing her laptop and headed to the departing gates to board her flight.
CHAPTER SIX
WHEN DONALD BECK got home that evening at eight-thirty he felt a flare of concern and a hint of fear rise in his belly. Michelle’s car was not in the garage. No telling where she was; her flight could have been delayed. Donald pulled the car into his spot in the garage and left the door open, then pulled his briefcase and coat out of the backseat and entered the house through the kitchen.
The house was dark. No sign of Michelle anywhere. He turned on the light in the kitchen and headed toward the phone on the wall to check messages when he saw movement in the darkened living room.
His heart leaped in his throat and for a moment he was paralyzed as the shadow materialized into a man rising from the sofa. The man was holding a handgun and he was pointing the weapon at him. “Who the hell are you?” the man said.
“Oh my God!” Donald said, automatically backing up. He dropped his briefcase and took an involuntary step backward. “Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!”
“Who are you?” The man said again. Donald could tell the man was nervous; wired. Speed freak, he thought. It was some pissant speed freak who’d broken in the house, to steal their belongings to sell for meth or something. “Where’s Michelle?”
At the mention of Michelle’s name, Donald felt his fear grow. “What have you done with her? Where is she?”
“What the hell do you mean what have I done with her? I haven’t done shit to her! Who the hell are you?” The man’s voice cracked with intensity. Donald saw him more clearly now as his vision adjusted to the shadows. The man was five foot nine, thin and wiry, dressed in black jeans and a dark long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His features were handsome, eyes dark and penetrating, hair dark, almost black. He was clutching what looked like a black semi-automatic pistol.
“I… I live here,” Donald stammered. His hands were raised in the classic Don’t shoot me! stance.
“You Michelle’s husband or something?”