Authors: Little,Bentley
BFG Associates For Austin Matthews, CompWare CEO
****
“How did you get this?” Craig asked.
“I have my sources.”
“But weren’t they just saying that we
had
to be married?”
“Supervisory personnel,” Phil reminded him. “These rules are for
non
-supervisory employees.”
“That seems random.”
“They’re just fucking with us. Probably trying to pressure certain people into quitting or retiring or something.” He pushed another paper across the desk. “I have something else,” he added. “I’m not sure how real it is, and there’s no way to authenticate it, but check it out.”
Craig picked up what turned out to be a printed list of names, dozens of them, in small print, arranged alphabetically in five columns. “What’s this?”
“Supposedly, it’s the people who are going to be fired, laid off, let go, downsized, rightsized, whatever you want to call it.”
“The list?”
“The list.”
Craig scanned the paper. “Lorene’s on here,” he noticed.
“There’s a lot of names you’ll recognize. From your division
and
mine. I haven’t done any calculations, but it definitely seems like some enemies of the state have been targeted and are going to lose more people than others. Your group, of course, is relatively safe because, well, you’re necessary. You create content.”
“Huell, too?” Craig said, still reading. “Lorene and Huell are two of my top programmers.”
“What I want to know is: how are they going to do this? Is it going to be gradual or done in one fell swoop?”
They were both silent for a moment, each of them able to read between the lines.
Was anyone going to die?
How had it come to this? Craig wondered. How had it gotten to the point where the two of them were wondering if any of their co-workers were going to suffer some mysterious accident or illness, yet neither of them were even contemplating going to the police or quitting their jobs or…
doing
something? For all of their defiance, they were little more than passive bystanders, watching what was going on and hoping that none of it touched them personally.
Capitulation was a slippery slope, and they were already sliding down to the bottom.
It was all for Dylan and Angie, Craig told himself. That’s why he was doing this. And it was. He didn’t want to rock the boat too hard and have Patoff come after his family. But it was also easier to stay out of it, and he realized that for some time he had been putting up with much more than he should have due to an optimistic hope that BFG’s presence here was temporary, that the consultants would be gone soon.
That’s all it was, though. A hope.
He saw no indication that BFG would be leaving anytime in the immediate future.
“It’s almost lunch,” Phil said. “Want to try the cafeteria? It opens today. And we’re paying for it.”
“Sure,” Craig said, handing back the list.
“No, that one’s for you. I made a copy.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to do with it?” Craig said.
Phil frowned. “What do you mean?”
He sighed. “Nothing. Let’s eat.”
They were in a full elevator on their way to the cafeteria, when a Zen-like bell tone issued from the overhead speakers, followed immediately by an announcement made by a woman’s voice so mellifluous it sounded like that of a professional broadcaster rather than another CompWare staffer: “Attention all employees. The lunch hour has begun. Outside doors to the building will be locked until lunch is over. Those who have brought their own lunches may eat at their desks, in the break rooms or in the cafeteria. Those who have not brought their own lunches should proceed immediately to the cafeteria, where healthy food options are available for all.”
“Huh,” Phil said, eyebrow raised.
“We’re going to be locked in? I hadn’t heard about that,” Craig admitted.
No one on the elevator had, and though everyone was cautious and circumspect in their reactions, the consensus seemed to be that this was not a desirable development. It was unsettling to know that they were prisoners here at work, and while Craig understood the more-efficiency-greater-productivity rationale, it didn’t make it sit any better with him.
The doors opened on the cafeteria floor and though he had seen it before, Craig was once again blown away by the sight of the open, airy restaurant. As much as he hated to admit it, the consultants and whoever they’d hired to build this place had done a wonderful job. It was truly impressive, even more so when filled with people. The well-designed space easily absorbed all comers and managed not to seem crowded no matter how many arrived.
“So do you want a salad, a salad or a salad?” Phil asked as they approached the wide serving area. “Jesus. They really are taking this healthy food thing seriously, aren’t they?”
Craig settled on a taco salad with iced tea, then took his food over to a small table next to a bushy planter, Phil following after. There were tables of all configurations—single seaters, doubles, those that sat four, six, eight, all the way up to a long banquet table that looked as though it could easily seat twenty—and each managed to impart a sense of privacy for their diners, though Craig knew that was an illusion.
The food was good and, even though a “fee” was being taken out of their paychecks, not having to pay directly for lunch made it seem free. The entire experience was atypically pleasant, the second floor an uncharacteristically calming oasis amidst the ratcheting tension that had enveloped the rest of the building. The atmosphere was so enjoyable and relaxed that Craig almost felt as though he could speak freely here to his friend, that the two of them could have a private conversation. But that would be a mistake. He glanced up to see cameras on the ceiling, between the large powerful lights and the inset speakers from which issued agreeable music. The planter next to them, he realized, could easily hide a directional microphone.
Phil, he could tell, was thinking the same thing, and the two of them kept their conversation free of content as they ate, commenting on the cafeteria, on the food, not mentioning a word about what was really on their minds.
The rest of the day was spent discussing a relaunch of OfficeManager with Sales and Promotions, and dealing with the astounding number of intra-division feuds that seemed to have metastasized within the past few days. At the top were Huell and Lorene, who were practically at each other’s throats, and as he tried separately to calm each of them down, he hinted, without spelling out anything specific, that perhaps they should try to be on their best behavior because their jobs might not be that secure. He didn’t want to say anything to them about the list, but he did want to give them a heads up. They were too angry, however, too focused on each other to pick up on anything so subtle as a hint. Ditto for three of the other programmers who came to him with complaints.
It was after five by the time he finally got out of his office and made his way downstairs. He assumed that Phil had already left but was surprised to meet his friend in the lobby. “How was your afternoon?” he asked.
“Sucked. Yours?”
“That’s as good a description as any.”
Walking out the front doors with a group of other employees, they passed a man in a suit standing in front of the building and wearing a brown paper bag over his head. There were two eyeholes in the bag and a wide smile drawn in felt pen. Craig turned toward Phil. “That’s—”
weird
, he was going to say.
And then the gunfire started.
****
Matthews had not gone in to work today. He’d had a dream—a
nightmare
—about Regus Patoff standing in the middle of his office while furniture flew around him in a circle, and it had freaked him out enough that he’d decided to stay home. After his alarm rang, he shut it off and went back to sleep, not waking up until it was nearly ten. Rachel was off with one of her friends, her clubs or her charities, and he made himself a simple brunch, then decided to give himself a treat, spend the day on the links and not think about work at all.
The scheme was actually somewhat successful. He called up his brother-in-law, and the two of them spent the afternoon at a course so exclusive that they shot 18 holes without encountering another party. Afterward, they had a few drinks at the clubhouse before going their separate ways.
It was a relaxing afternoon, and even if he wasn’t able to put CompWare entirely out of his mind, he did enjoy himself, and was glad he’d made the decision not to go in today.
Rachel was back when he got home, but she was in the spa, and he wasn’t in the mood to join her. Instead, he went into the media room, made himself a martini at the bar and turned on the television. A reality show was on, a gaggle of Botoxed blondes screaming at each other in what looked like an expensive restaurant. Did Rachel really watch this shit? Matthews switched over to the local news, where an overendowed woman was delivering the coming week’s weather forecast. Immediately afterward, a swooshing sound issued from the speakers as a “Breaking News” graphic appeared on the screen. One of the petty crime stories that local stations used to boost ratings, no doubt, and Matthews wouldn’t have paid any attention to it were it not for the word “CompWare” that jumped out at him.
Immediately, he grabbed the remote and cranked up the volume.
A lone gunman had entered the CompWare building approximately fifteen minutes ago, at the end of the business day, and had opened fire on employees in the lobby before he was taken down by an armed security guard. Although unconfirmed, reports were that six people were dead and three seriously injured.
How had he not instantly been informed of this? Matthews whipped out his cell phone. Was it off? No. Had someone called Rachel at home? No, because she would have told him.
“What the hell…?” he fumed.
Security footage from the building had already been supplied to the TV station, and it showed a man with a brown paper grocery sack over his head entering the lobby, pulling a handgun from the back of his belt and opening fire at random. It was difficult to tell from the angle of the camera, but it appeared as though a big smile had been drawn on the paper bag.
“The suspect has been identified as Mitchell Lockhart,” the newscaster said.
Matthews sucked in his breath, shocked.
Lockhart
!
“Mitchell Lockhart is apparently a member of CompWare’s board of directors. It is unknown at this time whether—”
Matthews’ cell phone rang. He answered it immediately.
“Are you watching the news?” It was Regus Patoff.
“I shouldn’t
have
to watch the news. Why wasn’t I informed of this right away?” he demanded.
“I’m informing you now.”
“After it’s already on every station…” He used the remote to flip through channels.
“Well,” Patoff said smoothly, “if you had
deigned
to come in today, you would have been on top of this. But as you chose to shirk your duty, BFG had to make an executive decision in your stead.”
“I’m not just in the chain of command,” Matthews bellowed, “I’m at the fucking
top
of it!”
“That’s the type of fire and dedication we were hoping to see from you,” the consultant told him. “Maybe you should have been the first call. My apologies. Anyway, since I have you here on the phone, I thought we could discuss the situation. From a PR standpoint, of course, this is a disaster. At the same time, everyone knows there are lunatics out there these days, and this could garner CompWare some sympathy in the public eye. Luckily, the victims all seem to be individuals we were planning to lay off anyway, so there should be little or no impact on our revised general plan, or, indeed, on company productivity—which is why they were on our list to begin with…”
He zoned out, the consultant’s voice a vague drone in his ear. Six dead and three injured. And by Lockhart! It was inconceivable.
No. It wasn’t.
It wasn’t, and that’s what upset him the most. This was par for the course these days, and the fact that all of the victims had been on BFG’s hit list couldn’t be a coincidence.
Ultimate plan.
The anger he’d felt was softening into fear.
On TV, paramedics were wheeling out stretchers.
He was suddenly aware, by the singsong cadence over the phone, that Patoff had noticed he wasn’t paying attention. “Austin, what are you thinking of? Austin, where is your mind? Austin, what are you thinking of? Austin, where is your mind? Austin…”
“I’m right here.”
Patoff chuckled. “But you weren’t, were you?”
“Yes, I was,” he lied.
“That’s part of your problem. You see on your TV there how things are getting out of hand? You need to be a little more hands-on in your management style.
If
you want to maintain control of your company, that is. And
if
you want BFG to recommend your continued tenure. I suggest we have another management retreat so we can hash things out, re-establish boundaries with your staff.”
Matthews said nothing. He thought of Morgan Brandt.
“The big question is,” Patoff continued, “why you’re on the phone with me, watching this unfold on television, when you should be
there
. It is supposed to be your company, isn’t it?”
Matthews terminated the call, hearing the consultant’s mocking laughter in the seconds before his phone switched off. The ass-hole was right. He
should
be there.
He quickly headed toward the bedroom to put on an appropriate suit.
He’d come up with some platitudes for the cameras on the way.
****
“Thank God!” Angie was out of the house and on him before Craig had even closed the car door. She hugged him so tightly it hurt. “I was afraid…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence.