The Store was completely silent save for their footsteps, and the lack of Muzak, the lack of air-conditioning noise, the lack of any other sound whatsoever was extremely unnerving. Bill walked forward slowly, up the main aisle.
The lights snapped off. Behind him, he heard a metallic click. There was a sudden breeze, a rush of cold air, and he quickly turned around.
King stood in the doorway, backlit by the headlights of his limo.
"Bill," King said. "Nice to see you again."
There was no joy in his voice, no friendliness, only a hard, dangerous flatness that sounded completely inhuman. He stood just inside the building, alone, unmoving, a dark, frightening figure, little more than a silhouette. The strangeness of his body, so obvious up close, was also visible in the peculiar outline of his form, and Bill was filled with an instant, instinctive fear. But he held his ground, faced King. "Good evening," he said calmly.
The lights came back on, and the CEO strode up the aisle toward him.
Stage tricks. King was using theatrical lighting in order to draw attention to himself.
The smallness of it, the mundane practicality of the dramatic convention somehow made Bill feel less afraid.
"What do you think you're doing?" King asked.
"Standing here."
"I mean, what are you doing with The Store?"
"My job."
The two of them faced each other. Again, Bill noticed the strangeness of King's skin, the artificiality of his teeth, the ferocity in his eyes. He looked away, unable to gaze for more than a few seconds upon that unnatural visage.
"This is not the way you were trained to manage a Store."
"No, but I decided to do it this way. I thought it would be best for Juniper."
King practically shouted. "I decide what's best!"
"I don't think it can be that standardized. I think things have to be tailored to the individual communities. Things aren't the same here in Arizona as they are, say, in Ohio --"
"They're the same everywhere!" King stepped forward, and Bill quickly moved back. Wind swirled between them. "I will not have you thwarting the will of The Store and jeopardizing its future on some personal whim!"
Bill was terrified, having a tough time maintaining his false calm front, but he forced his voice to stay level. "I'll run this Store the way I see fit."
"Then you will not run this Store at all!"
"You gave me complete autonomy," Bill said. "It's in my contract."
"You're not managing it properly. Obviously, I misjudged you. You're not Store material."
"What are you going to do? Take it away from me?" Bill paused. "Are you going back on your word? Are you going to break your contract?"
"You fucker," King said softly. "You worthless piece of shit."
Bill held his ground, said nothing.
A Night Manager passed between them, walking.
For a brief second, it looked as though King was about to attack. He glared at Bill, his muscles tensing, fists balling up. On his head, his _hair_ seemed to be moving.
Then he smiled. He glanced casually around the store. "Did I tell you we're expanding? In addition to sushi and espresso bars, we're going to have brothels attached to our stores. There's a lot of money to be made in the sex trade. It's the last bastion of pure unexploited commerce in this country. It's about time someone franchised it and marketed it."
Bill had a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He thought he knew where this was going.
King was suddenly holding a videocassette in his hand. He tossed it to Bill. "Your last night in Dallas. It's one of our training materials." He grinned. "You might want to look at it."
Bill dropped it on the floor, crushed it beneath his boot.
King was holding another one. He laughed. "Let's look at it together, shall we?"
Next to one of the front checkout stands was a television and VCR, a display used to sell Disney video-cassettes. King walk over, popped out the _Sleeping Beauty_ tape in the machine and put in his own. He turned on the television.
The room had been pitch-black, but there was none of the red- or green tinted monochrome that characterized most film shot in the dark. Indeed, the images on the screen were dim but color-perfect, the angle straight-on. The camera had obviously been hidden behind the mirror over the dresser, and Bill watched as a nude woman entered the suite. She was looking down at the ground, hair obscuring her face, but though he could not see her features, he did see for the first time her breasts, her pubic hair, and he felt shamed and embarrassed as he thought about touching her there, as he recalled what he'd done with her.
_The best sex he'd ever had_.
He wanted to look away but couldn't, and he exhaled loudly as he realized that he'd been holding his breath. On the screen, the woman climbed onto the bed, straddled his chest, looked up at the camera.
It was Sam.
The revelation was so shocking, so totally unexpected, that for a full thirty seconds he had no reaction, no response at all. He simply stood there stupidly, continuing to watch the screen as his daughter began working on him.
Then he was flooded with emotion: humiliation, anguish, self-loathing, disgust. He was filled with a despair blacker than anything he had ever known, a horror so profound and all-consuming that he had not known he could experience anything like it. Beneath that, or on top of it, or mixed in with it, was an agonizing grief for Sam, a bone-deep sorrow for what she had done, what had happened to her, what he had _allowed_ to happen to her.
And overriding everything was a pure, hard hatred for Newman King.
He turned toward the CEO.
"She's going to be one of our best hookers," King mused.
Bill rushed him. There was no plan, no thought behind it, only a blind desire to do damage, a need to kill. He was acting on impulse, following instinct, and his feet were pumping furiously, fists railing. He threw himself at King And then he was on the floor, stunned, shaking his head. A Night Manager passed in front of him, kept walking. He wasn't sure what had happened, but the television was off, he was lying on the ground, and King was standing in the open doorway, on his way out.
The CEO smiled. "I'll be sending a copy to your wife." He paused. "Unless you fall back in line."
"This is my store!" Bill said.
"No. It's _my_ store. I let you play with it."
"Fuck you!" Bill yelled. He tried to get to his feet, was overtaken by dizziness, fell.
"I'll give you a day to think about it."
And then King was gone.
Bill lay on the floor, screaming with rage, sobbing, hating himself, wanting to kill King, wanting to kill himself, wanting some sort of violence. He tried to stand, was finally able to do so, and was a hairbreadth away from going over to the Sporting Goods department, grabbing a gun, and ending it all.
But something held him back.
He didn't know what it was, didn't know why, but he stood in the middle of the aisle as around him the Night Managers continued walking. He saw Ben, saw another face he thought he recognized but couldn't quite place.
There'd been something different about King this time, he realized. He'd seemed genuinely angry at one point, rattled by Bill's rebellion and initiative.
He'd shown, for the first time, human emotions. And that made him seem . . . Less in control.
Weaker.
Maybe he wasn't invincible.
Bill stared through the still-open doors, into the dark night outside. He suddenly understood what had happened here.
Nothing.
He hadn't been killed, he hadn't even been fired -- although King clearly possessed the power to do both. He'd been right. King was not able to break the contract. The contract gave him complete autonomy over this Store, and there was nothing King could do about it. The CEO could try to force him to quit, could try to blackmail him into leaving, but he could not be fired, and obviously he could not be harmed. The contract protected him.