No Way Back (11 page)

‘You didn’t authorize these payments?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘It’s three million dollars,’ I say. ‘Tao Software paid that company three million dollars. Where did it all go?’

‘How should I know?’

‘David,’ I say, lowering my voice. I adopt the tone of a father gently reprimanding a favourite son. ‘I want you to come clean with me. I can help you, but only if you tell me
the truth. We can avoid taking this to the authorities. We can settle this quietly. I have no desire to make this into a criminal matter. Let’s just work this out, man to man.’

He turns aggrieved. ‘Jim, I don’t know what you’re accusing me of. But I have nothing to do with this. Besides, I couldn’t get those expenses approved without sign-off.
Ask Joan. There’d be paperwork.’

Of course there would be. Even at a rinky-dink operation like Tao, no one signs a cheque for fifty grand without
someone’s
approval.

I dismiss David with a wave of my hand. He leaves my office in a huff, muttering to himself. I dial Joan.

I say, ‘Joan, I see a vendor here... ’

‘International Tradeshow Services?’ she asks.

‘Who are they?’

‘No idea.’

‘Did David authorize those payments?’

‘There’s no paperwork. I already looked. Someone cut those cheques, but it wasn’t me.’

‘Who wrote the cheques?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Get me any information you have on the company. Phone number, address, anything—’

‘Last page of the packet,’ she says. ‘“Vendor Details”. All the way on the bottom... ’

I flip to the last page. Again, Joan is one step ahead of me. She has thoughtfully included the mailing address and phone number of International Tradeshow Services. It’s a 941 area code,
and a Naples, Florida street address that looks suspiciously like a commercial post office box – ‘Suite 3524’ in a town without any thirty-five-storey buildings.

‘Thanks, Joan,’ I say. ‘Got it.’

I tap down the receiver, hang up on Joan, and dial the number for International Tradeshow Services.

A female voice answers. ‘ITS. How may I help you?’

I come up with the most unlikely name I can think of. ‘Tanisha Rockefeller Margarita please.’

‘I’m sorry, she’s not available. Can I take a message?’

This confirms my suspicion. I am speaking not to a real secretary, not to someone who knows the names of her fellow employees, but, rather, to an answering service. I ask: ‘Where are you
located?’

‘Who’s calling please?’

I hang up.

I blow out a long breath. I’m astounded. In my days parachuting into troubled companies, I have seen a lot of incompetence, and a lot of petty thievery. But I have never seen anything so
brazen. Usually a sham vendor asks for a few thousand dollars here, a few thousand there. The idea is to keep the amounts small enough so that they fly under the radar. But
three million
dollars
? What the hell were they thinking? That I wouldn’t notice three million missing dollars?

Well, I have a little surprise for the thieves. They probably don’t expect the CEO of Tao Software to show up on their doorstep. But this is exactly what I intend to do.

First things first. I need their address – their
real
address, not the postal box that they rent in Naples.

I take the Manila envelope that held Joan’s expense report. I stick a piece of unread junk mail inside, just to give it some realistic heft. Then, on the outside of the envelope, in bold
pen strokes, I scrawl: ‘ITS’ and the postal box address Joan provided.

I seal the envelope, dial Amanda at the front desk, and ask her to come right away. When she does, I hand her the envelope. ‘Priority Overnight,’ I say. ‘I want this delivered
first thing in the morning.’

Tomorrow morning I’ll have my answer.

I arrive home at six thirty that evening. Still early enough, I hope, to surprise Libby, who is accustomed to my returning home quite late during my turnaround assignments
– usually at ten or eleven o’clock, long after she eats dinner alone. Tonight, I have a different plan: to enjoy a leisurely evening with my wife – to cook dinner together, watch
TV, maybe even make love. The unfolding train wreck that is Tao Software can wait until morning.

But when I pull into my driveway, I’m surprised that Libby’s Jeep is missing. Inside the house, there’s no sign of her. No note on the kitchen table, nothing stuck to the
refrigerator door.

I climb the stairs, calling her name.

The bedroom is empty. The fan above the bed whirls slowly, squeaking. I go to the sliding glass door at the far side of the room, step onto the veranda. Down below I see the backyard and the
swimming pool. But no Libby.

The cool, clean swimming pool gives me an idea. Back in the bedroom, I peel off my clothes – funky with sweat – and toss them into a pile on the floor. I find a bathing suit in my
bureau and pad downstairs, barefoot, to the pool.

The pool is not large – just twenty feet across and seven feet wide – meant for one person to swim laps. There’s a low diving board at the deep end, which holds eleven feet of
water. I was a diver in high school, probably good enough to compete in college. But I decided not to. There comes an age when most men realize it is unseemly to compete publicly at
anything
while wearing a tiny Speedo. It just took me longer than most.

I climb up the five steps of the ladder, patter out to the rough end of the diving board, wrap my toes around the edge, and – without thinking – let myself fall forward. That’s
the secret to a good dive – pretending that you’re dead. ‘Fall like a corpse, boys!’ Coach Kramp used to yell to us, ‘Fall like a corpse!’

So I do.

I slice the water, propel myself forward, and swim the length of the pool without coming up for air. At the far wall, still submerged, I flip and turn.

That’s when I see him.

My eyes burn from the chlorine, and bubbles cling to my lashes, forcing me to squint, and I’m moving fast through the water, so my vision is blurred.

But I do see him.

I’m as sure of the dark form, floating in the water before me, as I am of the blue sky up above. The little body is back-lit, just a silhouette, a shadow, wavering at the water’s
surface, sunlight dappling around it.

There’s no doubt who it is, though. That yellow hair, spread in a wide arc around his head, lit from behind like a golden halo in a medieval manuscript illumination. The little arms,
stretched along the water surface.

No doubt who it is.

It’s Cole. Floating, right in front of me. I plant my feet on the rough cement below, stand up, and yell. I don’t shout his name, or any real word at all – my yell is just an
inarticulate cry – a phlegmy shout. I cough up water, too, which somehow slid down my throat in my surprise, and for a moment I think I’m going to puke in my new pool.

I catch my breath, rub my eyes, wipe the water out, and look again.

Whatever I
thought
I saw – isn’t there. The pool is empty. No floating little boys, of course. No corpses. Nothing but water.

I shake my head.

I consider leaving the pool, but I know that if I do, I’ll never swim in it again. It’s not exactly pride that I feel, or adult embarrassment about a childish fear. That’s not
what keeps me here. It’s different. It’s primitive. I feel like an animal, an animal whose territory has been encroached. I know, without putting the feeling into words, that if I leave
here – if I give up this bit of territory to my dark thoughts, they won’t stop here. They’ll press in, find another room to surprise me in – maybe the living room, or the
bedroom. They can have my dreams, if they want. They’ve already won that bit of real estate. But they can’t have my waking hours, too. Those are mine.

So I take a deep breath, and stubbornly continue to swim.

I swim laps, trying to put that vision – and all memories of that night – out of my mind. I concentrate instead on the sheer physicality of swimming. I listen to my own breathing. I
feel my own heart. I hear the sound of the water splashing against the sides of the cement. I try to gauge my body’s response to exercise. I’m surprised – and a little depressed
– that I’m winded by the tenth lap, and I am unable to continue by the fifteenth. I sigh. Years of self-abuse have caught up with me.

I look up, arch my back, and float on the surface of the water. I stare at the cloudless blue sky. I try to clear my mind, to think about nothing. I’m not sure how long I stay in this
floating position. The water slaps and gurgles in my ears, so that I don’t hear Libby’s car pulling into the driveway, just on the other side of the fence.

But she must have arrived, because when I glance down at the house, almost by accident, I see Libby walking briskly inside, past the sliding glass doors, with great purposefulness. She is, I
think, carrying something in her hands – what looks like a package the size of a jewellery box, wrapped in plain white butcher paper. Then she disappears out of view.

I stand, feel the grout under my toes, shake the water from my ears.

‘Libby?’ I call. ‘I’m out here.’

Maybe she doesn’t hear me, because she’s gone for quite some time, perhaps three or four minutes. I’m about to climb from the pool to search for her, when she finally appears
at the sliding door. Her hands are now empty. She looks surprised to see me. She slides open the glass, steps onto the patio. ‘There you are,’ she says.

I try to leave the pool in a brisk, manly fashion. I put both hands on the concrete edge and jump. I swing one of my legs over the side, just barely, and for a moment I’m balanced
precariously between success and failure. Luckily my momentum carries me forward, and I pull my other leg onto dry land. I hop to a standing position, hoping she hasn’t noticed my
decrepitude.

Now, facing my wife, my bathing suit dripping, I realize, too late, that I forgot to bring a towel with me. I am embarrassed by my flabby stomach – that damned Egg McMuffin! – or was
it two Egg McMuffins? – I can’t quite remember. I don’t want to look down at my stomach or call attention to it. Instead I try to keep my gaze steady, at my wife’s face. I
hear water dripping from my hair onto the stonework below. I say, mostly to keep the attention away from my gut, ‘Where were you?’

She shrugs. ‘Just shopping.’

‘For what?’

‘Clothes.’

‘The stuff still in the car?’ I ask this because when I saw her walk into the house, she wasn’t carrying any large bags of merchandise – but rather, just a small package
wrapped in white paper.

She smiles, as if my question is queer. ‘No, Sherlock. I’m having everything delivered.’ She stares at me. ‘It’s good to see you swimming,’ she says.

She sounds sincere. Before I can reply, she goes on, ‘I’ll start dinner. You must be hungry,’ and she retreats into the house.

I sit at the table as Libby stands near the stove. She’s sautéing a quartered chicken in a frying pan, and the smell of onions and garlic fills the kitchen.
I’ve showered and dressed, in jeans and a soft button-down shirt, and feel more comfortable now that I’m clothed and my wife cannot see my naked body in daylight.

‘How was your swim?’ she asks.

For just a moment, I consider telling her about the imagined dead boy floating in our pool. It’s tempting. I want to be close to my wife. I want to share things with her, even if
it’s only despair.

But of course I know better. Some things are best left unsaid. Particularly if they concern your dead son. The son you let drown.

‘Perfect,’ I say.

‘I’m so glad,’ she says. But she doesn’t look up from the chicken. And she doesn’t sound glad. She stares into the frying pan.

‘It’s a nice house,’ I say.

‘Is it?’ She continues staring stubbornly at the chicken, refusing to meet my gaze.

‘You don’t like it here,’ I say. ‘Do you?’

Finally, she looks up. ‘I like it fine,’ she lies.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say softly. ‘We won’t be here very long.’

I mean this as a comfort. But Libby’s expression changes. She looks nervous. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean... the company’s a mess. We only have seven weeks of cash in the bank. That’s it.’

‘You can ask Tad for more, can’t you?’

‘Sure, I can
ask
. But he’ll say no. In fact, he already did.’ I recall that conversation with Tad, yesterday evening. ‘When I asked him for money, he said
something very odd. He said I should protect him.’

‘Protect him from what?’

‘I guess from myself, asking for money. I don’t know. He said, “Protect me. Protect my investment.” And then he refused to invest another dollar.’

She says nothing. She thinks, for what seems like a long time. Finally: ‘Strange.’

‘What is?’

‘That he went through all the trouble of hiring you, and bringing you down here, and he doesn’t want you to succeed.’

‘Of course he wants me to succeed.’

‘Putting you in charge of a company with only seven weeks of cash. Refusing to give you more. It sounds like he wants you to fail.’

I am about to protest. To tell her that she’s wrong.

But then I don’t. Because she’s not.

What she says is true. Why
is
Tad installing me in a company that’s doomed to fail? Why is he refusing to put money into it, if he really wants it to be turned around?

Perhaps Libby senses that she hasn’t sounded sufficiently supportive of her husband. She says quickly, ‘Well, he must think you can do it. He must really believe in you.’

The preposterousness of this statement escapes neither of us. No one in the world believes in me. Not Tad. Not Libby. Not even, come to think of it, me. Mercifully, she doesn’t snort with
laughter and roll her eyes after she says this.

‘You know what I found out today?’ I say. ‘Somebody has been stealing money from the company.’

‘Who?’

‘I’m not sure yet. But I’ll find out tomorrow.’ I add: ‘Three million dollars, at least.’

‘Wow,’ she says, to the chicken. She pokes a thigh with a fork, stares at the juice burbling out. ‘Three million dollars.’