He stared at the CEO, wiped his eyes and nodded, looking out the window.
"Be a man," King said. "Act like a manager."
It was midmorning when they landed at Sky Harbor, and they took a limo from Phoenix to Juniper. He pretended to sleep on the ride over, not wanting to talk, but the CEO either knew he was faking or didn't care, and he continued to chatter nonstop all the way there.
Juniper.
It had changed in his absence. Not really changed, not physically, but there was a difference now. It no longer seemed like a dying town, like a lost cause. He no longer felt powerless to stop its decline. He had power now, and rather than looking like a shell of its former self, he saw the town as a blank canvas, a place that could not only equal but surpass what it had been before.
He wanted to go home first, to see Ginny and Shannon, make sure they were all right _alive_
-- but the limo drove them straight to The Store. King smiled to himself as they passed the abandoned Ford dealership, chuckled as they drove past an empty feed-and-grain wholesaler.
It was just as well, Bill thought. He didn't know if he was ready to face Ginny yet, anyway. He needed more time to prepare himself, to figure out what he was going to say and what he was going to do and how he was going to act.
King's coming had obviously been announced in advance, and The Store was closed, the parking lot empty and closed off. Two uniformed guards pulled open a barricade to let the limo pass, and the long car moved slowly between twin rows of employees lined up in a path to the front entrance. The employees were holding balloons and signs, throwing confetti, cheering wildly. This was a big event, and seemingly every employee who worked for The Store was there. Bill looked carefully through the window at the passing faces, and his muscles grew tense as he saw no sign of his daughters.
"I had Shannon fired," King said, as if reading his thoughts. "I thought that would make you happy."
"What about Sam?"
"I've transferred her to the corporate office. She's too valuable to lose."
The limo pulled to a stop in front of the entrance, and Bill slid across the seat and opened the door, getting out of the car.
King got out on the opposite side, the side facing The Store, and a huge cheer went up as employees gathered around him, fawning over him, asking for his autograph, trying to touch him. He smiled graciously, magnanimously, and he motioned for Bill to join him as he walked toward the open doors of the building.
Bill felt exhilarated as the adulation expanded to include him. He liked the warm greetings, the cheers, the slavishly obsequious behavior of his new underlings. It felt good to be adored, the object of attention, and he smiled and waved at the rejoicing employees. In the back of his mind was the thought that these were the same employees who had so disdained him and his wife, who had made their lives a living hell, and the fact that he was now their lord and master gratified him immensely.
The celebration stopped the second they walked into The Store. As if on cue, employees placed their banners and balloons and confetti into a lidded bin just inside the door and scurried off to their assigned positions in their individual departments. The change was too abrupt, too complete. Perhaps the employees were just trying to demonstrate their efficiency. Perhaps they really had been excited to see them and were now just as intent on proving what good workers they were, but Bill could not help wondering how much of it was genuine and how much of it had been staged by Mr. Lamb.
Mr. Lamb.
The personnel manager stood nervously off to the side, flanked by Walker and Keyes, waiting for an acknowledgment from Newman King.
King ignored all of them.
He walked slowly up the main aisle, an arm clasped around Bill's shoulder.
There were strong muscles in that arm -- Bill could feel them -- and beneath the muscles, in unusual places, in places they should not have been, were bones. Too many bones.
But it felt good to be walking with King, good to return triumphant to the site of his defeat, and he found that he was proud to walk beside the CEO.
"You will have complete autonomy," King said. "You can hire and fire whomever you want." He stopped walking, paused, smiled. "You can _terminate_ whomever you want."
They were walking again, faster this time. The yes-men from the plane, who'd driven to Juniper in a series of cars behind them, were following Bill.
Lamb, Walker, and Keyes were following them.
King stopped before a door in the wall. "The manager's office," he said.
"_Your_ office." He frowned, looking over Bill's head. "What are you three doing here? Did I ask you to tag along with us?"
Bill turned around, saw Mr. Lamb shaking his head nervously. "No, sir. I
just thought --"
"Don't think. It's not your strong suit." He pointed toward the Customer Service counter at the far end of The Store. "Back to your offices. Back to work. Now."
All three men were bowing. "Yes, sir," they said in unison. "Yes, sir."
"Fuck off!" King yelled.
They ran, scattering, and King laughed. "I love to do that," he confided.
"You can do it, too. Try it sometime."
He would, Bill thought. And he'd enjoy it, too.
Especially when it came to Mr. Lamb.
King turned back to the door, opened it, and they walked up a flight of stairs until they were in the manager's office. There was a huge desk, a refrigerator, a computer, a wall-mounted video screen. The entire south wall was a window made out of mirrored one-way glass that looked over the store below.
Cool air from a hidden vent blew into the room, keeping the air temperature even more comfortable than that of the rest of the building. "Like it?" King asked.
Bill nodded.
"Excellent! Want to sit in your chair?"
Bill shook his head. He'd gone through this in the simulation, but it was different being here in real life, and he didn't yet feel comfortable. It would take him some time to get used to all of this.
"After the tour, then." King walked around the desk, pressed a key on the computer. A section of the wall opposite the window slid open, revealing an elevator. King grinned. "Pretty neat, huh?" He walked over to the elevator, got in. "Come on."
Reluctantly, Bill followed him into the small cubicle.
King pressed a button labeled NM. "The rest of you wait here," he said.
"We'll be back."
The doors closed. The elevator dropped. Bill looked over at Newman King, then immediately looked away, not wanting to see that face this close. He smelled chalk, dust.
"They don't teach you this part in the training," King said. "I like to do this myself."
"What is it?"
King smiled. "You'll see."
The elevator continued descending -- how far down were they going? -- and the CEO stared up at the lighted numbers above the sliding doors. He was still smiling, practically bouncing on his heels with amused excitement.
The elevator stopped.
The doors opened.
They were in what looked like an enormous lunchroom, a white-walled, white-floored, white-ceilinged rectangular chamber filled with parallel rows of long white tables. At the far end was a silver counter and a darkened kitchen.
There were fluorescent lights in the ceiling, but only about half of them were turned on, and the huge room was filled with a dim, diffused illumination.
Seated at the center tables, unmoving, was a group of men dressed all in black.
The Night Managers.
There were forty or fifty of them, maybe more. Cups of coffee sat on the tables before them, but the cups remained untouched, and the Night Managers sat with their hands folded, unmoving. Even in the dim light, their faces looked white, and there was no expression on them. The room was completely silent, the only sounds coming from King and himself.