The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Samantha stared back at her for a long moment, but Sabrina could see that her thoughts were elsewhere.

She’s probably trying to figure out how to explain this to Alex so that we don’t both look like total idiots.

Sabrina silently wished her friend luck, as she had no idea how to manage that feat either. She was fairly certain that, if she were not so deeply and directly involved in situation, she would have little trouble believing that they were not.

She could hear Samantha’s heavy sigh over the speakers.

“It’s like this . . .” she began, turning toward Alex. “Bree has this friend . . .”

Sabrina listened as Samantha recounted the key parts of the story. She injected a few corrections along the way, and kept herself from offering at least a dozen more. At least twice, she felt her cheeks tingle with the glow of mild embarrassment. It took longer than she expected and, despite her interest, she had to fight back yawns. Her eyes felt dry and swollen. Despite her worry, she felt a swell of gratitude when Samantha reached the events of that day.

“And then,” Samantha finished, gesturing toward the screen, “he sent me this.”

Sabrina could not see what Samantha was showing Alex, so it seemed a little strange when Alex moved in closer and peered hard at the screen. She knew, though, what Alex was looking at it. She could see it with unsettling clarity in her own mind.

Alex’s expression shifted from one of irritated skepticism to puzzled uncertainty. Her eyes turned toward Samantha and then, for a brief moment, toward Sabrina.

“It’s a receipt,” Alex stated flatly. It was clear that she expected more of an explanation. When neither Samantha nor Sabrina provided one, she added, “For gym bags.”

“Yes,” Samantha agreed. Her voice was barely audible.

“A dozen of them.”

“Yes,” Samantha repeated softly.

A hard lump of sympathy formed in Sabrina’s chest for her friend.

“I see.”

Alex’s head turned as she regarded each of the women. Her expression became one of an exasperated parent.

“Does he have a criminal record?”

Samantha and Sabrina exchanged a glance. Sabrina shook her head. She did not know that he did, but she would have found herself deeply surprised to discover that he did have one—at least one with anything more than the occasional speeding ticket and parking violations.

“I don’t think so,” Samantha admitted.

“You. Don’t. Think. So.” Alex echoed flatly.

Sabrina watched the play of emotions across Samantha’s face, sharing most of them. She wanted to be embarrassed, angry, and defensive. But most of all, right now, she just wanted to be able to stop worrying.

Alex looked from woman to woman. After a moment, she shook her head, expressing obvious dismay.

“I’ll try to do some checking,” she offered. She sounded, Samantha thought, surprisingly sincere, even if a bit skeptical. “But Sam . . . ?”

“Yes?” Samantha’s voice was hesitant and soft.

“You really need to screen your clients better.”

Sabrina heard the faint acerbic tang of accusation in Alex’s statement. Even before she saw Samantha’s expression, her stomach tightened. Samantha had said nothing—not yet—but Sabrina was almost certain that she had released a sub-vocal growl that she had not heard, but had registered with her subconscious.

“Get . . . out.”

Samantha’s voice was cold, with a biting edge that made Sabrina very glad that she was not in the same room with Samantha.

Alex responded with something that Sabrina could not make out.

Samantha did not turn as she repeated, “Get. Out.”

Sabrina heard her breathe over the speakers.

“Now.”

Alex raised her hands in a gesture of exaggerated surrender and began to back out of the room. On her face, though, Sabrina saw an expression of surprise and uncertainty.

Samantha sat silent for several moments, not making a sound. She did not turn to ensure that Alex was gone, having apparently decided to count to ten before speaking. Or she might also have been listening to Alex’s fading footfalls, for all Sabrina knew.

As she looked back up at the screen, Sabrina muttered several things that sounded like obscenities, but Sabrina could make almost none of them out clearly. A few, she suspected, were in [Italian], which she guiltily realized that she should have recognized.

Those weren’t exactly on the national language exam, she grumbled in her own, silent defense.

Sabrina watched with a mixture of patience and growing exhaustion. When the next yawn came, she was unable to stifle it completely. She was not sure whether or not Samantha had noticed, but Samantha seemed to have calmed down enough to try to speak with again.

“Now what?”

Samantha stared at her. At first, Sabrina thought she saw a defiance spark in Samantha’s eyes. It faded quickly, replaced by the same dull look of fatigue that possessed her.

Samantha sighed. “I guess,” she said, sounding surprisingly resigned, “we try to get some sleep and try again tomorrow.”

Sabrina nodded slowly in agreement. She was still worried, and could not shake the prickle of foreboding that had haunted her all day. But, she had no better recommendation, and her desire to be in a warm bed with her husband did much to drown out that voice. She just hoped that its whispering would not bring her nightmares as she slept.

“Tomorrow then,” she said, blinking against the fatigue.

“Yeah,” Samantha agreed, and ended the connection.

Sabrina sunk back in her chair. It creaked loudly in the still night, but she barely heard it as she yawned. She stared at the glow of the computer screen for a moment, and then closed the lid. There was truly very little that either she or Samantha could right now, but she knew that she would be up all night trying if she did not stop now.

She reached up and switched off the overhead light. Darkness descended, but it was far from complete. She sat for a moment, listening to the tinkling splash of the waves against the hull, feeling the very faint swaying of the boat on water.

Yawning again, she rose, and headed for the bedroom cabin. Morning would be here soon enough. The new day it brought, she ventured as she made her way down the narrow steps, was not likely to be any better than this one had been.

#

Seated before the keyboard, he is filled with rage. Once again, his recommendations, logically presented had been rejected. Not rejected outright, he acknowledges, but deferred for reasons enough that the end result was nearly the same.

Idiots. Short-sighted fools, he snarls silently within his own mind. And they wonder why their plans continue to fail.

He closes the message and returns to the task at hand.

Staring at the list again, he studies the name shaded now in red. It is too soon for him to learn of her fate. It might be several days, he knows, depending on when and how it is reported. He has deployed searchbots across the web, but none has reported back as yet.

He ponders the list, awaiting insight or inspiration as to who he should select next. One of the names sparks the recollection of something . . . something . . . something he has read recently. He remembers then and locates the announcement. Reading it again, he smiles. The corners of his mouth curve slightly upward as he considers the information, trying to summon forth the best—

Yes, he decides with considerable satisfaction. Excellent.

The smile almost becomes a grin. He almost laughs aloud at the delicious irony behind the idea.

Perfect.

#

Rudolph Montenegro sat on the edge of his living room couch, peering down at the sheets of paper arrayed before him on top of the polished mahogany coffee table. He smiled with satisfaction as he checked to make certain that he had signed each one where it was necessary. Once again, he had managed to score a new position before the funds from the previous severance package had been wholly exhausted.

This was his third new position in four years. Ever since he had been let go from the Holden-Pritchard Corporation, after more than a decade there, none of the subsequent positions had lasted much more than a year. The economy was in the toilet, and he had a son in college, and just could not afford to be forced to keep jumping around like that.

“I guess I was lucky,” he mused aloud, considering how many of his colleagues had not managed to land even one worthwhile position during all that time. “I certainly was this time,” he grinned, looking once more at the generous starting salary listed on the offer letter.

The memory of that dismissal still stung. It was bad enough that he had been let go. What had continued to chafe at him, when he bothered to think about it, was that the one employee that he had intended to see ousted with him had, in the end, been spared. Someone higher up in his management chain, he was never certain exactly who, had overridden his request, protecting that employee’s position. Worse yet, he had that employee had become quite successful since his departure.

Well, Rudy considered, not allowing the memory to dampen his good mood, he’ll never work for me again. Or any company I’m ever part of.

Taking one final look at the papers, he spied one place he had neglected to initial. He scrawled the three letters in the space provided, checked the sheet again, and then gathered them all back into a single neat stack. He was reaching for envelope in which to return them to the company when the doorbell rang. It chimes echoed loudly in the otherwise empty house. He let the envelope, still empty, drop to the table, and went to answer the door.

Opening the front door, he was greeted by a delivery man dressed in a chocolate brown buttoned shirt and matching shorts. Wordlessly, he passed Rudy a small brown package, slightly larger than a shoebox, along with a pad for his signature. Rudy used the stylus to scribble something that roughly resembled his signature and passed the tablet back. The delivery man looked at the signature, tapped a few places on the tablet, and then nodded, apparently satisfied. He turned around and headed back for his truck without saying a word to Rudy.

Rudy let it go with a shrug, more curious about the package than the lack of polite manners from the flunky who had delivered it.

Probably shoes for Anita, he concluded, looking for the shipping label.

He located it on the other side of the box and, to his mild surprise, discovered that it was addressed to him.