“Witnesses from inside the Southern New Hampshire travel plaza — just a few hundred yards north of us — state that Mr. Bradford had arrived at the food court alone but seemed to have been expecting Mr. Higley. The two men held a brief, but what some have referred to as ‘intense,’ conversation, after which Mr. Bradford stood, apparently with the intention to leave.
“It was at this point that Mr. Higley brandished a weapon — a handgun of some sort — and forcibly led Mr. Bradford out of the rest area and into his car. From there, for unclear reasons, he backed up the exit ramp and continued southward down the northbound emergency lane, just past the state line into Massachusetts, where the car you’re looking at live still sits.”
It all came together instantly for Ryan. A week earlier Dillon had told him he’d been reevaluating his priorities. And the last time he’d signed off on the walkie-talkie, there had been such an unmistakable finality in his tone.
Dillon didn’t really have career goals or ambitions. He didn’t care about money. He cared about two things in life — reuniting with his father, which was never going to happen outside prison walls, and getting some measure of revenge against Avillage. In his mind, he probably thought he’d come up with the best possible way to have a chance of accomplishing both.
His dad was in federal prison. He’d purposely transported Bradford across state lines to make the kidnapping a federal crime.
“You’re probably asking yourself, ‘why carbon monoxide?’ Aren’t you?” Dillon asked his hostage who now appeared terminally seasick. “Well…”
Bradford’s eyes suddenly bulged and his cheeks puffed out as he squeezed his lips together even more tightly.
“Go ahead. I’ll wait,” Dillon said, backing away from the seat-back to take a few deep breaths through the PFA tubing.
Bradford lurched forward, temporarily disappearing behind the front seat. Sounds of choking and retching and splattering were followed by coughs and gasps, and then more gagging and splashing as the acrid odor of stomach acid and stale coffee filled the car.
Bradford’s head eventually popped back up into view, his face now sheet white. Had it been anyone else in the world, Dillon couldn’t have helped but feel sorry for him.
“So, as I was saying,” he continued as if nothing had happened, “carbon monoxide is kind of the gift that keeps on giving.
“What you’re experiencing now are kind of the typical signs of acute poisoning.
“But you’ll eventually get to a hospital, and they’ll probably treat you with hyperbaric oxygen, and it won’t be too long till you’re feeling considerably better.
“Then at some point down the road — it might be three days from now, or it might be three weeks — but at some point, it’s going to come back.” He looked Bradford right in his glossed-over eyes, wondering how much he was still comprehending. It looked like enough.
“You could end up with personality change (which in your case could only be a good thing) or possibly seizures, dementia, symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease, or all of the above.
“You’ll live. But my hope is that you’ll wish you hadn’t.” Just as he concluded, Bradford’s eyes rolled back, and he quietly slumped over to his left side.
The monitor let out a continuous piercing scream, as it detected an imminently lethal air concentration of 6400 PPM. Dillon reached over to switch it off and then turned the car’s engine off to avoid raising the carbon monoxide concentration any further.
He sat in relative silence, breathing comfortably through his tube, for a couple of minutes. For the first time in years, he actually felt at peace. He then looked down at his watch. Time was up. With no further need for a gun, he threw it down to the floorboard and slowly opened the car door.
A swarm of screaming police officers charged toward him as he timidly tip-toed away from the car with his hands above his head.
Bradford’s doctors had cleared him to go back to work in three weeks. It had been a week and half, and he was already right back micromanaging and making his underlings’ lives miserable as if nothing had happened. Except for the occasional headache and a little fatigue toward the end of the day, he hadn’t experienced any of the late effects Dillon had predicted after the poisoning.
He’d just finished hanging up on his secretary for neglecting to add something to his calendar when Corbett Hermanson walked in. “It isn’t true is it?” Corbett asked.
“Ever heard of knocking?” Bradford sneered. “And could you please give me a shred of context before you start spouting off stupid questions.”
“The email you sent out this morning. It isn’t true is it?”
“I didn’t send any email out.”
Corbett looked confused — and then terrified as it occurred to him for the first time: Maybe Dillon hadn’t been bluffing about planting something on their system.
Bradford immediately cued into the change of expression. “Corbett! What is it?”
“Uh, there was an email that went out this morning…” he winced trying to work up the courage to continue. “And it was addressed to our entire internal mailing list… and CNN… and the Wall Street Journal… and the New York Times.”
“What did it say?” Bradford shouted, his cheeks glowing fiery red.
“I think you should probably read it yourself. It was a lengthy and, I’m quite sure, dishonest resignation letter.”
“Get out! I’ll deal with you later. You’re gonna take personal and public responsibility for this. Do you hear me?”
“Yes sir,” Corbett whispered ducking his head as he backed out of the room.
Bradford opened his email and clicked on the sent mail folder. Thirty minutes prior an email had gone out to all of the addressees Corbett had mentioned and more.
Dear All,
Recently my life flashed before my eyes, and I didn’t like what I saw. In order to begin the process of making amends, I feel that I must first start by taking some responsibility for my actions.
First, I would like to apologize to RTJ. At the time you were identified as a top prospect for our initial public offering, you had two young, healthy parents. And while you have turned out to be every bit as extraordinary as we had hoped, I would like to apologize for any role I may have played in the untimely deaths of your parents.
To J (may you rest in peace,) I’m sorry. I sent you into a basketball game knowing full well that you may not live through it because of a potentially lethal heart condition. I did this because I wanted to profit from a multi-million dollar contract you were set to sign after the game. After you died, I donated my own money to your charity, only to give the impression that I had received a large malpractice settlement from The University of Chicago Children’s Hospital. I hadn’t.
Although I know there are many others I’ve hurt, I’d like to conclude by apologizing to BUTY. I funneled cash directly to your orphanage’s headmaster when you were only 13 years old, prior to your being adopted by Avillage, so that you could be subjected to a breast augmentation and tubal ligation without your knowledge.
I willingly accept the civil and criminal liability of my actions. I did all of this in the interest of generating profit. I hereby offer my resignation from Avillage, Inc.
Some of it was true. Some of it hinted at the truth, and some was off the mark, but the news outlets weren’t going to sit on this. Investigative reporters were probably already chasing down leads.