Michael braced his body by grabbing on to the opposite sides of the pedestal sink. He faced the mirror straight on. His eyes were dilated in the dim lighting of the windowless powder room. His mouth was tight, a knothole of anger. He wanted nothing more than to yell out to the world that he was the stupidest man on the planet. A fool. An idiot. All that everyone had told him about himself was true. He had fooled Olivia, but for how long? When would she know what he was? What fueled him? What he’d done to survive?
What twisted lengths he’d gone to to calm himself?
He grabbed a hand towel and shoved it into his mouth, nearly gagging. Sweat poured from his temples. He reached over and flushed the toilet again; the noise of the rushing water filled the small space. At least he hoped so. He wanted to scream, but he let out a muffled yelp.
Sheraton Wilkes.
Jesus, he was the fool they’d all said he was. The bed wetter. The kid no one wanted. The kid who was dumped off at Disneyland by a mother who surely cared more about herself than her children.
Sheraton Wilkes.
He’d killed the wrong girl. He’d never even heard of her. What was she doing there, at that time? Sheraton Wilkes wasn’t on his list.
Jenna Kenyon was.
He splashed water on his face and then let out a couple of phony coughs.
Olivia stood outside the door. The knob turned a little, but he’d locked it. “Honey, you OK?”
“Be out in a minute.” He flushed the toilet for the third time and stared at his face in the mirror. He looked older than his years. He was tired. Angry at the world. “I’m not going to screw up again. I can do this,” he said in a soft, but angry whisper. “I can do this.”
“Honey?”
“Just a minute, Olivia!” He snapped at her, and wished he hadn’t. She wasn’t the problem. She was never the problem.
He swung open the door, ready to face the world and plan what he had to do.
“Here you go,” Olivia said, handing him a fizzing glass of water. She looked worried, not scared. For that, he was grateful.
He looked at the glass questioningly.
“Alka-Seltzer,” she said.
“I hate that stuff. You know that.”
“It’s not like it’ll kill you.”
Michael smiled at his wife. If killing were only so easy. Killing, he knew, was sometimes very difficult and, frequently, very disappointing work.
“Let’s go wake up the kids,” he said. “I need some hugs.”
Chapter Forty-four
The offices of Human Solutions, Inc., were on the fifth floor of a mirrored glass building in Santa Ana, California, two blocks west of the courthouse. It was a nondescript location with a trio of dying date palms and clumps of tiger lilies that the garden service should have divided or yanked two seasons ago. A vendor selling sliced melons and churros worked the outer edges of the parking lot. Other than shabby gardening practices, it was as nondescript as any shiny building off any interstate.
Inside, the HSI offices were mauve-and-taupe cubicles with laminate counters and gooseneck lamps. It had a distinct nineties milieu, but that had more to do with the company’s frugal nature than the fact that the offices had once been used as the headquarters for a diet center company that went belly-up.
Michael Barton’s office was hard-walled with a door. On one wall, he had a framed poster given to him by his coworkers. It depicted four men silhouetted against a fading sunset with the words: Teamwork: Together We Achieve More. He found the rah-rah sentiment exceedingly hokey. He didn’t think he needed anyone to do anything. Despite all odds, he’d achieved quite a lot, thank you. Despite his compulsions, he had made a life. A picture of Olivia taken on their honeymoon in Hawaii and another of his children sat on his desk. The surface of his desk was in order. All papers were placed perfectly squared up with the edge of the desk. His office phone gleamed from having a daily dusting. His laptop’s docking station was as pristine as it was the day it was installed.
Everything about the space suggested a man in control.
The company CEO, a pudgy man with black hair that he VO-5’d to such a degree it dripped, knew that Michael Barton was among his most brilliant consultants. He’d come up through the ranks, first as a programmer, then an engineer. HSI tapped the kid on the shoulder and made him into what he was by paying for his education at Cal Polytechnic. There were things about him that the office staff both admired and found amusing. On the days that he came into the office, he walked in at 8:30 on the dot. It was uncanny. Never a minute earlier, or a second later.
One of the temps from Kelly Services found out why. One day, she saw Michael in the parking lot looking at his wristwatch like a swimming coach with a stopwatch. He didn’t move until the second hand told him just when. Once he got the go-ahead, he marched right for the front door, black briefcase at his side, can of Diet Coke or cup of coffee (“caffeine du jour” he liked to call it) in his hand.
No stopping to say hi. No tip of the hat or acknowledgment to a friendly face. Just a beeline through the door and up the staircase. Never, ever, did he take the elevator.
Michael was rigid in other ways, too. He seldom took a lunch break, but instead took a two-mile run down the boulevard and then back to the basement of the building for a shower. He’d return to his office right at 1 P.M., again on the dot, smelling of Irish Spring soap.
Only one time did he deviate from that routine. He came back a half hour late with a big scratch across his cheek.
“I fell down,” he said, scooting into his office and shutting the door. He stayed put that day until after everyone else had gone.
The next day, when he returned to work, the sharp-eyed Kelly temp thought she noticed something strange on his face.
“I think Mr. Barton is wearing makeup,” she said to an office friend when they were getting Doritos and Diet Cokes. “It looks like he tried to cover up that scratch from yesterday.”
The other woman nodded. It did, indeed, appear that way.
“At least it isn’t eyeliner. That would make me worry.”
They laughed, fished for their change from the slot of the pop machine, and went back to their desks.
Business partners—“never call a customer a customer”—liked Michael Barton for all the reasons that made him dependable. The IT industry had been populated with kids, goofballs and flakes, and a young man who knew what it meant to be where he was supposed to be and do what he said he’d do was refreshing.
In time, Michael Barton became Human Solutions’ most sought-after consultant. His business card read: SENIOR CONSULTANT. The demand led to freedoms and perks that eluded other troubleshooters in the office. He was able to work at home one or two days a week. He was able to pick and choose which business partners he wanted to call on.
When he told his boss that he was heading to Nashville to assist a restaurant chain that was having problems with their database, no one stopped him. No one knew that the client hadn’t called for support—that it was Michael who called them.
“I’m going to be in town anyway, and I thought I’d stop by,” he said. “Just a friendly see how y’all are doing, OK?”
The business partner saw no harm.
His boss saw no need to query him. The South was booming, after all.
“Have a great trip,” he said. “We’re making a killing over there and we have you and your good work to thank for that. Keep it up.”