The Cyclops Conspiracy (9 page)

Peter lay beside him with the sniper rifle nestled in the crook of his shoulder. His intense, cobalt-blue eyes were hidden behind the rear lens of the scope. Their distant, skewed quality and his carefree, I’ll-try-anything attitude gave strangers the impression that one too many loose screws were rolling around inside the leatherneck’s brain. Jason often joked that the last words his brother would utter would be “Hey, watch this!”

Peter was six foot two, two inches taller than Jason. His strawberry-blond hair was trimmed tightly along the sides, a style held over from his days in the corps. A thick neck and square, dominant chin rounded out the intense, alpha-male persona.

“You ready?” Peter asked.

“Let’s do it,” Jason countered.

“You remember the rules?”

Jason nodded. “Same as always. One shot, no excuses.”

Peter pulled a Kennedy half-dollar from his pants. “Call it in the air.” Peter flipped the coin, looking at Jason. A shrapnel scar, left over from the war, ran through his left eyebrow and resumed under the eyelid, imbuing him with a respect mysterious to civilians.

“Heads,” said Jason.

The coin dropped into the dirt in a small cloud of dust. Peter smiled. “Tails,” he said. “I’ll go first.”

Peter recited the critical data out loud. “We’re exactly thirteen hundred and twenty yards from the target at an elevation of forty feet. The wind is coming from the northeast, behind us, and slanting to the left at eight miles per, pushing the round.” The ex-marine twisted the elevation dial a few clicks and adjusted for the wind. He checked the target in the scope and readjusted the dials once more.

Peter peered through the scope, his eye three inches behind the rear lens. “I hope you brought your MasterCard, bro.” Under his fatigues, Peter’s hard body reflected a daily predawn workout regimen, consisting of a five-mile run, thirty minutes pumping iron, and one hundred marine push-ups, all before opening his gun shop at nine.

Jason smirked. “Blah, blah, blah.”

Peter sucked in a deep breath and pulled back slightly on the trigger, removing any slack. He exhaled a half lungful of air and held it. At that exact moment, his trigger finger applied a smooth, gentle pressure. The report echoed through the fall air. The rifle bucked against his shoulder.

A second later, the projectile penetrated the plywood, splintering a quarter-sized hole through the board five inches below the silhouette’s heart. The bullet missed the narrow stump, and a plume of dirt erupted in the berm beyond the target.

“You’re low and to the left,” Jason reported. “Still a devastating shot. I think you ripped out the guy’s liver.”

“Damn,” said Peter.

“My turn,” said Jason.

They exchanged places. Jason went through the same ritual his brother had. He had the good fortune of learning from his brother’s shot, and made a few minor adjustments to the wind and elevation dials. As Jason let out his breath, he smoothly engaged the trigger. A wisp of smoke floated from the barrel and quickly disappeared in the breeze.

His round had nicked the left side of the fist-sized heart. A kill shot. Jason peered through the scope, smiled, and turned to his brother.

“I think I’m in the mood for seafood,” he said.

Peter released a string of curses befitting a marine. “Bested by a sissy-boy, pill-counting pharmacist. I might as well just kill myself now.”

“Sorry about your bad luck!” Jason said, echoing one of their favorite childhood taunts. “Don’t worry, Pete, I won’t tell. Besides, I can’t see how I’ll ever need this skill. Tell Mom I love her!”

Jason strode into the Colonial like MacArthur returning to Leyte Island. His retreat years ago should never have happened. His return today was bittersweet. A week ago, the building had been tainted by miserable memories. The phantom ache of the past was still present, but numbed by opportunity. The misgivings he’d had about coming back and replacing his mentor had been bleached away, at least partially.

In the preceding week, he’d lain low. Except for yesterday’s shooting competition, each morning had been spent at the Tabb Library researching business tactics and strategies. He was an entrepreneur now. Jason had studied for six grueling years at the Medical College of Virginia to earn his doctorate in pharmacy. For the last eight, he’d been running Keller’s Food and Drug, and had done it superbly. Inventory was under control. Waste was minimal. Labor walked a tightrope between efficiency and disaster. His supervisor always complimented Jason on his ability to balance service and financial viability.

A hands-on pharmacist with an excellent rapport with his patients and employees, Jason also understood what he was not—a financial
whiz. At Medical College of Virginia, he’d gained only the most basic financial knowledge. Sell prescriptions for more than you pay for the drugs. Keep expenses under control. Minimize waste. But he knew squat about expanding a business, marketing strategies, and financial statements. He didn’t quite understand why, but if Zanns said he was the man for the job, who was he to argue? He was determined to prove her a prophet. So he studied tomes on entrepreneurial enterprise, devouring each sentence, chart, and graph.

In the afternoons after Michael finished his homework, they would play catch. Then Jason would listen to him pound out a rhythm on his drum set. The boy was proficient enough now that it wasn’t noise, but solid, toe-tapping beats. Dinner would be hamburgers, french fries, Chinese food, or frozen pizza. Jason explained to Jenny that when he started his new job, his ability to see his son would be limited, at least for a while. She told him to take all the time he needed.

On Thursday, Jason helped Michael research his paper about Bletchley Park. They spent several hours on the Internet reading and printing passages. When he wasn’t studying in the library or hanging out with his son, Jason took care of personal business. He deposited the fifty-thousand-dollar bonus check, and when it cleared he transferred the funds into his E-Trade account. The second installment would be received today, and would pay off his candy-apple-red Mustang. He also spent an afternoon fixing minor problems around the house: a toilet that continually ran, a broken ice maker, and a squirrelly garage door.

Though he called several times, he hadn’t been able to reach Christine. She was either busy or avoiding him. Jason drove by her house twice to check on her. Both times the driveway was empty. Though he was still curious about Pettigrew’s death and wanted to locate the box of files, he decided not to stop.

Lily was standing in the pharmacy department as he approached.

“Welcome back, Mr. Jason,” Lily said, wearing another flawless, salmon business suit. “I hope you are well rested. You’re going to need it.”

The headaches had lasted two days, growing weaker with each hour. This morning, a faint patch of swollen, tender tissue still puffed his cheek. Other than the minor aches, he was recharged and ready. “I can’t wait to get started,” he replied.

“Come. You have paperwork to fill out.”

While Sam Fairing was preparing to open up the store, Zanns showed Jason to her small office, the same space that had once been Thomas Pettigrew’s. He filled out his W-4 forms and insurance selections. Lily placed a three-page contract in front of him, outlining their agreement, and an envelope with another check from Cooper Venture Capital.

“Take your time and read it,” she instructed. Without skipping a beat, she added, “How did you injure your face?”

Jason wrinkled an eyebrow. “Playing baseball with my son,” he lied.

“Ah!” Zanns responded with a wide grin that made Jason uncomfortable.

Jason read through the entire document. “Everything appears to be in order,” he said finally.

“Then please sign on the line.” Lily handed him an expensive fountain pen.

He signed and handed the Giuliano Mazzuoli back to her. “Keep that. It’s yours now,” she said. Zanns removed a book from her desk and handed it to Jason. “Are you familiar with Peter Drucker?” she asked.

“He was a business management guru, wasn’t he?”

“Correct. This is a collection of his writings. Drucker died in 2005, but I feel his thoughts and insights are still valid today. Read through this in your spare time.”

Jason took the paperback book from her. It was entitled
The Essential Drucker: The Best of Sixty Years of Peter Drucker’s Essential Writings on Management.

“I will,” Jason replied.

She handed him a single piece of paper. “This is what I want you to work on beginning immediately.”

He read the three bulleted items on the page.

“Questions?” Zanns asked.

“The first one is fairly straightforward,” Jason commented. “Hiring the pharmacy manager. I don’t understand the last two. Clean out the back room?”

“Take a look,” Zanns instructed.

Jason turned and leaned out the door. Towers of boxes with thirty-odd years of documents and prescriptions choked the hall.

She said, “By cleaning out the hallway and the boxes in the storage room, you will be making room for your office.”

“Fair enough,” he replied evenly. He was put off. He’d just accepted a promotion to the position of vice-president, and she wanted him to move boxes? He thought about protesting, but held his tongue.

“And how about this other task, finding a new store location in the east end?” he challenged. Over the decades, Jason marveled at Newport News’s expansion westward into a vibrant, gleaming city. The east end, however, lagged behind as an economically depressed area. Like most inhabitants of the region, he considered it a black tooth in an otherwise cavity-free smile of civic pride, not a place to seek new business opportunities.

“As I explained to you during your interview, one of your duties will be to find suitable locations for new sites. I would like three locations chosen in the first thirty days. I also expect you to find locations with high traffic volume, high visibility. I want a thorough analysis of the PTA for each site—”

“PTA?”

Zanns sighed audibly. “Primary target audience.” She pulled on her cigarette and let the smoke drift from her nostrils. She continued her explanations like a runaway freight train. Jason wanted to step out of the way before he was bowled over. “I want population figures within a five-mile radius with demographic information broken down by age groups, income ranges, and third-party payers.”

Her words zipped past him. He was still stuck on the location issue. “Yes, I understand that,” said Jason. “But Huntington Avenue? A new pharmacy wouldn’t work out in that part of town. I don’t need to run numbers to figure that out.”

Zanns rose and leaned on the desk, using her knuckles for support. “Mr. Jason, let me be very clear. I am not paying you to evaluate my wishes. I know what I want and I expect you to carry out my plans. Is that clear?” The tone in her voice left no doubt about her annoyance.

“Yes,” he replied. “But you’re paying me to make this operation a success. To use my pharmacy expertise.”

“I’m sure I will be tapping into your expertise throughout the coming months. But you will carry out my wishes and not question them. Are we clear?” She smiled patronizingly and sat back down. “You can begin the interviews tomorrow. Today, you can begin cleaning out the back room. Shred any outdated prescriptions and documents. Those boxes are taking up too much room. We need the space for you to work. I had asked Mr. Thomas to do it months ago, but he refused.”

“I can do that. But I’ll need time to find some candidates to interview.”

“I have taken the liberty of lining up three interviews tomorrow at ninety-minute intervals beginning at nine. You can start with them. They are people who have expressed an interest in working here. They are listed on the document in your hand, and their applications are in the files. I expect you to have a body under contract within the week.”

“Why did he refuse?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said Pettigrew refused to clean out the back room. That doesn’t seem like the man. Why?”

Zanns removed her half-moon spectacles and placed one of the stems in her mouth. “Mr. Jason, I do not wish to speak ill of the dead.”

“There were issues with Thomas?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” Zanns lifted a finger as a thought seemed to strike her. “I just remembered. We are having a gathering tomorrow night. The PRPA is honoring Thomas with a lifetime achievement award. I want you to be there.”

“Not a problem,” Jason replied.

Zanns smiled. “I thought you might invite Ms. Christine as your guest. She has until now declined.”

“Uh, I suppose I could ask her.”

“Wonderful. Attire is semiformal.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, we are having lunch today with Steven Cooper. I mentioned him last week. I promised him a face-to-face with you. He wants to meet the man who will be responsible for making him even richer than he already is.”

* * *

Half the cartons had been sorted into two growing stacks. Jason called in a part-time pharmacy technician named Brandon, a local high school football player, to help him. One stack was for reports and prescriptions older than five years, and would be destroyed. The second, for more recent documents, would be retained in case of an audit by the DEA, the state board of pharmacy, or an insurance company. Jason’s progress was tedious but steady.

The massive collection was completely unorganized. Despite keeping everything, Pettigrew had spent little time collating any of it. Old and new documents were intermingled, and some boxes weren’t even labeled. Jason had to sift through the contents to see what they contained. The hallway was more clogged than before, nearly impassable. He scoffed at how much money Lily Zanns was paying him to perform such a mundane task. Today, he was nothing more than an expensive file clerk. Had he anticipated this kind of work, Jason would have dressed differently. His tie was filthy, and circles of sweat under his arms darkened his dress shirt.
Stop complaining
, he told himself. With the money Zanns was paying, he could afford a closet full of shirts and ties.