Alex (25 page)
From: Kari Alefson
Subject:
Candidacy for Senior Pos.
Mr. Colmes -
Thank you for your interest in the Senior Technical Specialist position.
Unfortunately, we have determined you are ineligible for this position due to your current corrective action.
It went on to quote the relevant sections from the employee handbook, but Ian didn't read all of it.
He knew what it boiled down to: Justin had written him up last week, so he couldn't post out of his position.
Fuck.
His left hand tightened into a fist.
He was madder than he would've expected.
I should go back to Justin.
Tell him to get that write-up out of my file, or else.
The temptation was powerful.
It was intoxicating to feel like he had some power here, some recourse.
But he didn't.
Not really.
He believed Justin when he said that Barb already knew.
He'd only met the woman a handful of times, but her reputation preceded her: she was a nosy, micro-managing bitch.
Since she'd taken over the call center, he'd lost one of his breaks and become accountable for every second of his workday.
He couldn't take a piss that lasted longer than three minutes now without having someone come track him down.
Even if Justin did as he asked and removed the write-up, Barb would ask questions.
That was a great way for Ian to lose his job.
Besides, when push came to shove, Ian wouldn't have the heart to deliver on his threats, and he knew it.
He growled a sigh and leaned back.
God dammit.
He'd been looking forward to the new job.
Some part of him had already decided it was a done deal.
Stupid.
At lunch he grabbed a sandwich from the cafeteria and took it down to his car to eat.
He wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone.
The snow was still coming, and the cold had a definite bite to it now.
He turned the engine and cranked up the heat.
As he did this, he gave a jaw-crunching yawn.
Maybe a nap wouldn't be bad, either.
He drove to the far end of the parking lot - he hated napping in the car where people would see him - and nestled into his favorite corner, back against a growing pile of plowed snow.
On public radio, some Republican was ranting about people being able to get health care.
He would've preferred music, but it seemed like every other station just had commercials.
The sandwich was one of those pre-made things, probably a relic from yesterday's batch, but it wasn't too bad.
He finished it off, set his cell phone alarm for 30 minutes, and leaned the seat back.
The gentle rumble of the engine, the roar of the vents, and the drone of the day's news soothed him, and he let himself drift.
Untethered, his mind wandered to the job he'd been kicked out of the running for.
Should he tell Alina?
He'd told her he applied, so it seemed like he should.
But if they were really over, why would he tell her anything?
The job wasn't going to make a difference to her coming back one way or another.
He wondered if she'd heard his message now, or if she'd just deleted it.
If she had heard it, had she believed him?
He wasn't sure she would.
And really, did it even matter?
He had to go ahead with what he'd said he'd do, whether she believed him or not, because he didn't want to go through the rest of his life treating her this way, thinking of her this way.
His betrayal of her in the aftermath of their son's death was staggering.
He wanted to remedy it, as best he could, and that was all.
His thoughts blurred as he plunged deeper toward unconsciousness.
He'd known he was tired, but some part of him marveled at how quickly sleep was taking him.
A respite from his headache would be wonderful.
Sometimes these little naps really helped with things like that.
Alina couldn't take them.
She always said they left her more groggy than she'd started.
If she had a headache, it invariably got worse; if she didn't, she got one.
His head was hurting worse too, he realized.
His naps could misfire too, sometimes.
He hoped that didn't happen today.
Unbidden and without transition, an image of Eston leapt to his sleeping mind: sitting on the couch in the basement, staring at him.
Well, well.
Eyes keen and hard.
Ian wanted his bravado, he wanted his hate, but all he felt was a mewling, miserable terror.
He pounded up the stairs, threw the door open, and was back in the basement.
Eston was raping Alex on the couch.
Stay down here,
Eston grunted to Ian over his shoulder.
Stay.
Ian's guts twisted with nausea.
Get off him,
he tried to say, but the words wouldn't come.
He didn't have enough breath to form them.
His head was pounding.
He took a step toward the kidnapper and staggered to his knees.
Eston chuckled.
From upstairs, Alex called.
His voice was a ray of sunlight trying to penetrate the ocean, muted by the water, quivering and broken.
Eston was sitting on the couch now, just looking at Ian and waiting.
Ian wanted to challenge him, but he'd gotten too tired.
In the dream, he closed his eyes.
It was black, still, and silent.
He wasn't falling.
He was nowhere.
He tried to wonder what was happening, but was too tired.
Alex shrieked at him and the sound was barely audible, like it was echoing on the other side of several steel walls.
It was a bare whisper, accompanied by the acrid tang of exhaust.
Ian ignored it, and it went away.
He was growing cold.
He was lonely.
No one would miss him.
Then he heard Alex crying.
It was the pure, simple wail of a child who needs help, and he responded to it without thought.
A bare slit of light accosted his eyes.
It was all he could manage.
They wouldn't open all the way.
He saw fog in the cabin.
Alex was in the snow outside his window, still crying.
He had fallen down.
He was only two.
The snow scared him.
He didn't understand.
Why was there fog in the cabin?
Panic seized him, and he yanked at the door handle.
It snapped back closed.
The door was locked.
His head throbbed and grated; his eyes started to sink closed again.
He yelled incoherently, trying to make noise just to keep himself awake and moving.
He fumbled at the lock, trying to pop it open, but it kept slipping out of his grip.
It was a tiny nub, nearly flush with the door frame, and his fingers were fat and clumsy.
He forced himself to slow down, to swallow his panic.
Darkness nibbled at the edges of his vision.
He settled the nub of the lock between his quivering thumb and forefinger as if he were trying to pick up a tick.
Then he squeezed and pulled.
The lock popped up.
He threw the door open and tumbled into the snow, gasping.
He climbed to his feet and leaned against the car.
The world swirled gently around him.
He closed his eyes for an instant, trying to ease the dizziness, and immediately opened them again to fight off a wave of drowsiness.
A fissure of pain split his head from front to back.
He wanted to reach inside and turn the car off, but he'd need to hold his breath to do that, and it was all he could do to keep dragging at the air.
It burned in his throat, cold and caustic.
There wasn't enough in the world.
Suddenly he remembered Alex.
He threw a look backwards, into the snow bank, but the boy was gone.
Ian was alone.
What the fuck.
The thought clattered down the chasm of pain in his head like bouncing scree.
How...?
He had slept in his car with the engine running a hundred times.
This had never happened.
It was supposed to be safe anyway, there were catalytic converters and all kinds of safety technology, he was out in the open air instead of an enclosed space, how did - ?
Maybe he had parked too close to the snow bank.
He inched his way toward the back of the car, his head spinning.
There were at least a couple feet clear behind his back bumper.
But his tailpipe was bulging with snow.
He stared, shaking his head slowly, still panting.
Someone had stuffed his tailpipe?
Why would anyone - ?
Justin,
he thought at once.
Or Sheila.
They wouldn't really be pissed enough to
kill
him, though.
Would they?
He craned his head around the side of the car, but the snow was unblemished.
No one had come that way.
He looked behind him, and saw nothing there either.
The only tracks were his own.
The headache got worse as the day went on.
He couldn't catch his breath.
More than once he put himself into ACW to delay the next call, wondering whether he should leave for urgent care or an emergency room visit.
Each time he decided against it.
He didn't want to give Justin the satisfaction of seeing him leave, or risk another event that Barb might notice.
By 4:30 he could barely think clearly.
He went to his normal urgent care clinic in
Maple Grove
, but they wouldn't see him; they sent him over to the ER, where the staff drew some blood, put him in a mask, and had him lie down.
The air was cold and startlingly pure.
He stared at the ceiling and breathed.
"That helping?" the doctor asked as he came in.
He was an older man, maybe early sixties, with thinning hair and a craggy smile.
Ian nodded.
It was actually helping quite a bit.
"Good."
The other man took Ian's chart from the nurse and sat down.
"You're lucky, you know," he said, flipping through it.
"Napping in the car like that, with the engine on?
Risky stuff."
I've never had a problem before,
Ian wanted to say.
It felt like being at the dentist.
As if picking up on his frustration, the doctor came over.
"I'm going to take this off so we can talk a bit.
I may want to put you back in it for a bit, later."
He reached around, loosened the straps, and pulled the mask from Ian's face.
The normal air felt dingy in comparison.
"Thanks."
"I'm Doctor Synech."
He pronounced it
cynic.
They shook hands.
"Thanks," Ian said again.
Synech nodded.
He told him his labs looked good overall, CO a little high but not dangerous.
He walked through Ian's symptoms - Was his headache improved?
Could he catch his breath better? - and made some notes.
"I'd like you to stay overnight for observation," he said.
"Your symptoms sound better, but I like to be careful in situations like this."
