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The Eavesdropper Page 8
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So, he had also arranged things so that we were seated at opposite ends of the aircraft. (I couldn't believe that our seat assignments had been coincidental.)
When I passed by his seat in the slow-moving line, I decided to give it another try. Maybe I could get some information out of him. I was desperate at this point: I was ready to grasp at any clue.
“Hey, Sid, we can talk about this, you know.”
I might not have spoken, Sid continued to stare straight ahead.
“You can’t just give me the silent treatment, you know. Take me to HR, if that’s what you’re going to do, but tell me what the hell is going on.”
I had deliberately used stronger language this time: I wanted to goad him into some reaction. Anything.
But my manager did not acknowledge either my words or my presence.
By this time I was holding up the line. The passenger behind me grumbled to himself. The passenger behind him was less shy about expressing his irritation:
“Hey, buddy, keep it moving. You can talk all you want in Raleigh.”
“Come on, Sid,” I said. “Don’t do this.”
Why was I appealing to him in this way? I suppose I clung to a hope—a very small hope—that I really had been wrong. Even if I had made a colossal misinterpretation—one that resulted in my termination from the company—that would be preferable to the alternative.
No reaction from Sid.
“Hey, buddy, it’s time for you to move it!” The passenger two places back in the line was on the verge of losing his temper. “Dammit! Come on, already!”
The altercation had not escaped the notice of one of the flight attendants. She was a thirtysomething redhead; she had been with the airline long enough to acquire the imperiousness that is common to almost every airline employee.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to take your seat. You’re holding up the line.”
Defeated, I did as she said. I checked my boarding pass one final time and looked at the row numbers posted above the seats. I would be sitting near the very back, a few rows from the aft lavatories.
Sid still ignored me, and the passenger I had angered hurled a few more curses at my back.
Chapter 27
There was no turbulence, and I was in the air only about ninety minutes, thanks to favorable tailwinds. Nevertheless, it was the worst flight of my life.
I sat scrunched in a seat against one of the rearmost windows, trying to assess the lay of the land, which was changing by the minute.
Sid’s silent treatment had been just a little too smooth, a little too rehearsed. Sid was engaging in a form of psychological warfare, I now realized. That routine before the flight, it had been carefully planned for a certain set of effects.
He had done it in a public place, in front of plenty of people. The whole thing had been calculated to humiliate me, to throw me off balance.
Sid was trying to shake me up. He knew all about my conversation with Ellen, and now that other shoe was in the process of dropping.
That didn't tell me what Sid was up to; but he would probably give me a clue when we reached Raleigh—provided that he did relent and talk to me.
When I deplaned, Sid was waiting for me just beyond the gate area, in the main walkway of the concourse. His hard stare chilled me. Apparently he was changing tactics yet again; and I had to assume that this shift had been planned in advance.
When I started to talk, he cut me off: “Be silent. Don’t say anything; I don’t want to hear you talk. I’m going to drive. Follow me, now; and make sure you keep up.”
With that Sid took off at a brisk clip. I thought: Is this some kind of a race? Sid had said nothing about our schedule demands today, so I didn't even know if we were running late for our appointment.
Or if we even had an appointment, for that matter.
I was amazed at how fast the man could walk. I wasn't in horrible shape, but I wasn't exactly an athlete, either.
And I needed to keep up with him. I had never been to the Raleigh-Durham International Airport. Sid hadn't said exactly where we were going. I assumed he was headed for one of the rental car offices, but this was only an educated guess.
When I started to fall behind, he paused and turned around:
“What the hell is the matter with you, Frank? Can’t you keep up? Look at me: I’m forty-nine years old, more than fifteen years older than you. You’re soft.”
“I—uh,” I stammered. I was flabbergasted, even after his displays thus far this morning. This was the man whom I had seen as my benefactor, the man who had paved the way for my modest advancement at Thomas-Smithfield.
“You’re pathetic,” he fairly shouted. “Now keep up.”
Sid resumed walking at his blistering pace.
Sid finally stopped at the Hertz office. I was grateful, at least, for the chance to catch my breath. I was sweating in my business attire.
Sid, by contrast, was completely unfazed by the near sprint through the airport. He really was in great shape. Hadn't he mentioned in passing, in happier times, that he went to the gym every morning before work? If my memory served me, Sid had also said something about playing football and baseball in high school. I, on the other hand, had been far too clumsy and uncoordinated for high school sports of any kind.
I took careful note of Sid’s interaction with the counter clerk at Hertz. Sid was brisk and concise, as befitted the nature of the transaction. But there was nothing in his manner that suggested hostility or anger. When the clerk processed Sid’s American Express card and handed him a key fob and a carbon copy of the rental agreement, Sid thanked him with a smile.
Adjacent to the Hertz office was an exit, which opened onto the rental lot. Sid pocketed the key and the rental agreement, and—without acknowledging me—headed outside.
I assumed that I was to follow.
Once again I considered calling his bluff. Then I reminded myself: I did not yet know the accuracy of my suspicions—and my accusations. Sid and I, moreover, were alone here: I had no way of proving any of this.
Then it struck me: This little act could be nothing more than a ploy to prompt my resignation.
If that was the case, then it was all the more important that I persevere, that I not lose my nerve or my composure. I followed Sid out into the rental car lot.
The first thing I noticed was the warmer air. This was North Carolina, after all: It was about forty degrees with sunshine. I noted the nicer weather, but it didn't brighten my mood.
Sid made an immediate path to a dark blue Toyota Camry. He laid his attache case on the back seat. I also saw him take a moment to retrieve something from the footwell in the back seat on the driver’s side. Whatever the object was, he placed it in the pocket of his overcoat—after taking a quick look around him.
I didn't think much of this at the time; I would grasp the significance of this object soon enough.
Sid barely looked up when I approached.
“Get in the car,” he said. “And don’t say a word.”
Chapter 28
When I drove in unfamiliar cities on business trips, I usually relied on the GPS system of my rental car. I keyed in the address to wherever I was going, and I followed the directions of the system’s robotic female voice.
Not Sid. He never even turned the GPS on. Nor did he consult a map or a road atlas. Sid knew exactly where we were going, wherever that was.
After leaving the airport, Sid drove onto I-540, and headed in the general direction of the town of Wake Forest. I had only the vaguest sense of the geography of the Raleigh area. But the highway signs and the topography told me that we were headed away from the Research Triangle, and out into the country.
Nothing unusual there. Big manufacturing operations—unless they’re very old—are seldom located in highly populated urban sectors. Zoning requirements, land prices, and other factors lead companies to build their factories in rural or semi-rural areas, for the most part.
Rural or semi-rural
within limits, that is. If you’re going to build a factory, you also have to be located off an interstate highway, or a good two-lane highway. The big rigs that service manufacturing operations can’t navigate narrow, twisting country roads.
My internal alarm bells therefore went off when Sid left the interstate and took the exit for a country thoroughfare called John Bell Road. When we came to the stop sign at the end of the exit ramp, I could see that John Bell Road was an old rural route, barely a lane and a half wide. No truck driver who didn't want to overturn his eighteen-wheeler in a ditch would ever attempt to navigate this narrow strip of asphalt.
“Kind of an odd place to put a factory, don’t you think?” I ventured, as Sid prepared to turn left onto John Bell Road.
“I thought I told you to shut up.”
My temper snapped. “Look, Sid, I don't care if you’re the manager here. Enough is enough.”
Then the unbelievable happened. Before I could even think about reacting, Sid took his right hand off the steering wheel and backhanded me across my left temple.
The blow wouldn't have done much to a seasoned boxer. But I hadn't been struck in anger for years—not since the last of my fisticuffs in the ninth grade.
I overcompensated, lurching to the right and knocking the other side of my head against the window. It took me four or five seconds to right myself, and by then I was seeing stars.
I couldn't believe that my boss had actually hit me. I was tempted to hit him back, but I was acutely aware of the dangers of escalation. Despite my fifteen-year youth advantage, Sid had the advantages of size and strength. I was also aware that he had struck me with speed and accuracy, and without any hesitation whatsoever. Sid was the more skilled fighter.
But that wasn't my only option. While I might not want to escalate the matter to an all-out fistfight, I wasn't going to let the matter slide, either.
“That’s it, Sid. We’re done here.”
I reached for the door handle. I had decided to get out of the rental car, and hike back to the highway. I could easily manage from there. I had my cell phone. I could call a taxi, or use an app to summon a driver from Lyft or Uber.
I would then go back to the airport and wait for my return flight. I was done with Sid Harper. Period. If I couldn't convince the powers-that-be at Thomas-Smithfield to accept my side of the story, then I would be done with my employer, too. No job, no paycheck, was worth this.
But as had been the pattern, Sid was one step ahead of me. He pressed the master lock button and all four doors of the Camry clicked into the locked position.
I began to fumble around for the override button. He couldn't keep me in the car against my will.
Then Sid twisted around in the seat so that I could observe the side pocket of his overcoat. The bulge I saw in the pocket was the unmistakable shape of handgun.
We were still stopped at the stop sign before John Bell Road. The road was so remote that no one had yet pulled up behind us. I had just been struck by my manager, and now, the implied threat with a handgun.
Would Sid shoot me if I made a run for it? I didn't know. I was in completely unfamiliar territory now.
As if reading my thoughts, Sid said, “Don’t worry, Frank. Or at least, don’t worry too much. Not yet. There is a paper trail associated with our trip today. If you don't return to Cincinnati, then I’ll be the first one they come talking to. Got it?”
I didn't get it. I nodded, though. A part of me still believed that I should find a way out of the car, and take my chances.
Before I could think that out any further, though, Sid accelerated suddenly. Sid jerked the steering wheel to the left as we were jolted out beyond the stop sign. The Camry lurched onto John Bell Road.
Sid jammed on the accelerator again. I pushed my back against the seat, and braced my body by gripping the passenger door armrest. I had never been in a serious automobile accident, and I had never given much thought to the subject of airbag operation. I was now wondering if the airbag would save my life when Sid put the car into the ditch.
“Don’t worry,” Sid said. “I’m an expert driver. I even did race training a number of years back. It was a skill I wanted to acquire.”
On either side of us, barns, winter-fallowed fields, and sallow January meadows raced by. The Camry had a decent suspension system; but it hadn't been designed for a drive like this. I felt every rut in the narrow country road, every pothole.
I saw a curve not far ahead. It was a sharp one, of the kind that is only found on country roads. If another vehicle was traveling in the opposite direction, I realized, there would be a collision, and everyone involved would be seriously injured or killed.
“Slow down!” I shouted.
Heedless of my exhortation, Sid stared at the road as the Camry barreled into the curve.
There was a squeal of rubber on pavement. Then one of the tires on the passenger side slipped off the asphalt and into the rut alongside the road. For a split second, I was certain that the car was going to flip over.
But Sid righted the vehicle without missing a beat. We drifted briefly to the left of the center line as we headed into another straightway.
Now he pushed the gas pedal down to what might have been its very limit. I wanted to shout at him again, I wanted to grab the wheel from him. But I knew that at this instant, my life was in his hands—quite literally.
I looked at Sid’s profile as he drove. He was intent on the road ahead, totally absorbed in his driving.
I thought about the item in his overcoat pocket—the shape of a handgun.
There was no way that Sid could have boarded the Delta flight with a handgun on his person or in his attache case. The TSA searches weren't perfect, I knew; but they would have caught the gun.
Sid had somehow arranged to have the gun placed in the rear driver’s side footwell of the rental car. That was the item that I had seen him retrieve just before the start of our drive.
While the planting of the gun wouldn’t have been impossible, it would have required some planning. It would have required the skills and contacts of someone who knew how to pull some strings.
Before this trip, I had suspected that my manager—the man whom I had once seen as a surrogate father figure—was not what he seemed. Now I knew: Sid Harper was a dangerous man.
And for the time being, at least, I was at his mercy.
Chapter 29
Sid eventually did stop the car. He didn't pick John Bell Road at random. He had a specific destination in mind.
We pulled into the gravel parking lot of a red brick building that appeared to be an old warehouse. I mean “old” as in: constructed well before World War II.
The windows of the warehouse were boarded over. There were no cars in the parking lot—except for the Camry Sid had rented from Hertz, of course. The brown skeletons of scrub trees, thistle, and milkweed poked up from the gravel.
There was no business here; this warehouse wasn't a going concern of any kind.
“What is this place?” I asked, my courage returning. “This isn't a Thomas-Smithfield supplier, obviously. Who does it belong to?”
“It belongs,” Sid said, putting the Camry into park, “to some friends of mine. Now get out. We’re going inside.”
Sid killed the engine and stepped out of the Camry. He closed the car door behind him; and I watched him walk toward the abandoned factory.
He’s going to take me in there and put a bullet in my head, I thought. That has to be his end game, the entire purpose of our coming here.
How did he plan to get away with it? I had no idea. Maybe Sid was crazy; maybe he didn't care if he got caught. But those distinctions would make no difference to me: I would be dead, and Olivia would grow up without a father.
I decided to remain in the car. No way I was going to march docilely to my death.
I leaned across the seat and pushed the master door lock button on the driver’s side door. He had taken the key fob with him; but at least I could lock
him out of the car.
He stopped suddenly and turned around, having realized that I wasn't blindly taking orders from him. He saw me, still in the car, and he shook his head.
Sid walked back toward the Camry. I leaned across the seat again and placed my thumb on the master lock button, holding the doors locked.
Sid extended the fob and pushed the unlock button several times. There was a bit of resistance against my thumb, but I could easily override the electronic signal with mechanical force. Eventually, the lithium battery inside the fob would go dead.
He let out a sigh and retrieved the pistol from his pocket. This was the first time I had seen it. I didn't know much about guns, but I believed it to be a .38. He pointed the gun so that the bullet would travel right through the front driver’s side window and directly into my chest.
“Can you hear me, Frank?” he asked.
I nodded. There was nothing to be gained by ignoring him. He had a gun, after all. Aimed at me.
“You’re going to have to get out of the car eventually.” He held up the key fob. “You can’t go anywhere, see? But I can shoot you, if I choose. Now, I don’t want to shoot you—I’ve been telling you that—but if you push me too far, well, who knows what could happen?”
“I don’t trust you,” I countered. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not. If I truly wanted to shoot you, why show you the gun? I could have kept the gun hidden in my pocket until you’d turned around, and then, bam!”
He waggled the barrel of the pistol on that last syllable. I had to admit, though, that within the context of the bizarre parallel universe in which I now found myself, Sid’s words followed a certain logic. Everything he had done so far this morning had been calculated to shake me up. It was all deliberate; nothing had been random. If his final objective had been to shoot me, execution-style, then why bother with all that?
Moreover, as he said, I had little choice. I didn't know for sure where we were, but one thing was certain: This was a remote location; there was no cavalry coming to my rescue.