“No police,” Alan said, setting his foot down. “The minute the police get involved, we’re both doomed. They’ll blow my cover and then I’ll be in danger with you.”
“Why will we be in danger?” Michelle’s voice was low, raspy. Her throat felt dry.
Alan rubbed the top of his foot gingerly, still wincing. “I’ll explain everything to you after the meeting… tonight. I promise.”
“Who are you?”
“A friend,” Alan said. “I’m here undercover.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No.” Alan stopped massaging his foot. His features were slightly strained. He pulled a paper towel out of the dispenser and wiped his brow. “And you’re not in trouble. I’m not going to say anything about what happened here. I’m not going to tell Sam anything about reporting you.”
“Why would he believe you anyway?”
“He trusts me. He thinks I’m one of them, but I’m not.” Alan inspected himself in the mirror briefly. “Neither are you. You proved that to me just a few minutes ago when your instincts kicked in. If you were one of them, you would have been quick to do what I asked.”
If you want to stay you’re gonna have to blow me. Michelle regarded him warily, her emotions conflicted. A moment ago she’d been scared out of her mind. Alan had done such a sudden about-face that it stunned her. His behavior now was different; his demeanor was so cool, so casual, that part of her felt she should relax her guard, but she’d been so surprised by his behavior earlier that she didn’t know what to do. His character had been so offensive, so unprofessional, that she felt she needed to be on her guard around him. She had to tread lightly, see what was really going on. “What do you mean that you’re not one of them?”
“You’ll understand when we meet later,” Alan said. He smoothed his hair back and turned to her. His features were calm, sensitive. He also looked sorry he’d scared her. “Look, I’m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry if I hurt you. Are you okay?”
“No. I mean… yes.” Michelle’s heart was still racing and she felt nervous. She thought about what Donald told her last night regarding Jay’s experience with Dennis Harrington (he was just lying there in his bed… he seemed… empty… dead) and she shuddered. “You scared me but… I’m okay.”
“I’ll explain everything after the meeting,” Alan said. “But right now we need to get back and be attentive to business. I’ll tell Sam that you’re on track with the program.”
On track with what program? She nodded. “Okay.”
“Just act like nothing happened. Behave the way you have been behaving. Pretend you’re interested in what’s being presented. That’s what you’ve been doing anyway, right?”
Alan hit the nail on the head. It was true; she had been acting like she was interested in the meeting when she really wasn’t. She nodded. “Yeah,” she said.
“You’ve fooled the best so far,” Alan said. “That’s part of how you got in. And you have to keep that act up until tonight when we meet. I’ll tell you everything then.”
“You said something about Jay not being one of them,” Michelle asked quickly. “What did you mean by that?”
“He’s for real, like you. He revealed himself to me Monday evening at the Lone Star when he went on that tangent in front of Barb.”
Michelle was still trying to grasp what Alan was saying. “I still don’t understand,” she said. “So Jay spoke his mind. Big deal. A lot of people speak their minds, especially in places and circumstances they shouldn’t.”
Alan’s features were direct and to the point. “He’s human, Michelle. That’s it in a nutshell, plain and simple. He’s human and so are you. And that’s all I care about now.”
“And Sam and Dennis Harrington and everybody else?”
“The board members of Corporate Financial… in fact, all of Corporate Financial except for you and I? And most of their clients, especially those in middle and upper management and the executive level? All the firms they’re influencing? They’re not. They’ve been turned into something else.”
He’s crazy, a part of her whispered. He’s got to be. Dennis Harrington may be weird, but he’s not some… some… thing!
What about the story Jay told Donald? This is dovetailing perfectly! How can you deny that?
What the hell is going on here?
“You still don’t believe me,” Alan said. He was watching her calmly.
“I didn’t say that.”
“I can tell. It’s written all over your face. That’s a good sign.”
“What’s a good sign?”
“That I can read emotion in you. Doubt, fear, anger. It further convinces me that you’re for real.”
“So what if you don’t believe me?” Michelle asked. “I admit I am having a hard time believing this.”
“Here’s something that may convince you,” Alan said. He took a step closer to her, his voice low. “Your parents are Michael and Connie Dowling from Jersey City, New Jersey. They’re long time employees of All Nation Insurance. You were born on June 2, 1968. You weren’t wanted, your parents were young and struggling to climb the corporate ladder at the time and abortion was not an option at that period. You spent most of your childhood at daycare centers during the day while your parents worked long hours for All Nation’s corporate goals. You were essentially a latch key kid and you never understood why your parents had to work so much.”
“Stop it,” Michelle said, her voice lowered and trembling as a door opened in her mind, releasing a flood of memories.
Alan ignored her and continued. “That’s why you buried yourself in art, because you never had the attention of your parents. Even your relatives were blinded by the fact that there was something wrong with your parents. They made all the right moves, said all the right things to convince their families that everything was normal—they looked normal, dressed normal, behaved normal, had a normal suburban house, had a nice, well-mannered child and held good solid positions with their employer. Typical middle-class caricature, right? So it seemed to everybody but you knew it wasn’t.”
“That’s not true,” Michelle said. She felt a pain in her chest as she remembered nights spent begging her mother to look at her drawings, to play with her. Mother had been too self-absorbed in work, going over documents that were work-related even when she was at home. She remembered her father taking her to the office on Saturday mornings when she was very young… five, six years old, and placing her in front of a keypunch terminal and giving her punch cards to play with while he toddled off to his cubicle nearby to work. Even then Michelle had been only interested in pleasing him, in playing with the machine to make him happy, and it had. Her father had beamed that day, telling his co-workers, “Look at her! We got ourselves a future All Nation employee!”, and his co-workers had smiled and told her what a good girl she was, and that had made her feel proud.
“You were talked into becoming a business major by your parents in high school when you secretly hated it,” Alan continued. “You didn’t know it at the time, but subconsciously you didn’t want to have anything to do with what your parents did for a living because you already associated it with negative feelings. You majored in business anyway to make them happy because you still wanted their approval.”
“Stop,” Michelle said, the memories flooding her.