Brainstorm
Authors: Margaret Belle
Tags: #Mystery, #Thrillers, #Literature & Fiction, #Suspense, #Thriller & Suspense
By Margaret Belle
Copyright © 2013 by
Margaret Belle
All rights reserved.
This book is a work
of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any
resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
To my crazy,
wonderful family.
Rochester, NY - 2003
“So, Audrey,” said Dr. Collins, “we’ve come to the end of
our last session together. I have to say, you’ve done a lot of soul searching
and self-discovery over the past two years.”
“No offense,” I laughed, “but it feels longer.”
“In
any
case,”
she said, feigning hurt feelings, “you’re about to head out into the world with
your new marketing degree – are you nervous?”
“Maybe a little,” I admitted. The faint aroma of
Frankincense drifted to me; incense that Dr. Collins, my therapist, burned to
relieve stress and anxiety. I liked it. I would take the memory of it with me
as a reminder of the time I’d spent here, safe and comfortable in “my” chair,
with Dr. Collins’ gentle strength propping up my own shortcomings, preparing me
to deal with the days that fell between one session and the next.
During my sophomore year, suffering from insomnia and
extreme fatigue, I’d gone to a general practitioner, who in turn sent me to Dr.
Sandra Collins, a psychologist, who’d determined that I suffered from
Generalized Anxiety Disorder, or GAD. Once I heard the diagnosis, it made total
sense. Back then I’d agonized incessantly over my grades and worried about
everything, from whether I should brush my teeth up and down or sideways, to
whether a plane flying overhead would plummet to Earth if I stared at it too
long. I’d spun out horrifying scenarios of the imagined consequences of my
thoughts and actions, as well as those of others, until I was so overwhelmed I
would completely shut down. I called it my spin cycle.
“You have coping skills now,” she continued, “and
relaxation techniques to take with you.” She pulled a business card from a pile
on her desk and placed it in my hand. “You’re always welcome to call me, but
here’s the card of Dr. Karol Steele, a colleague of mine in the Syracuse area;
I suggest you contact her to continue with your therapy. And remember, Audrey,
you’ve earned the right to be happy.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, hoping that was true. “I
appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
If
only I’d been honest with you even once
, I thought.
She walked me to the door like a mother putting her
Kindergartener on the bus for the first day of school; all she needed was a
camera. “One last thing, Audrey,” she said. “You know that your anxiety can
re-emerge in the face of highly stressful situations, so take things in stride
when you’re able and use those calming techniques when you need to.” I gave her
a hug and left her office for the last time.
Out on the sidewalk, as I waited for a cab in the June
heat, a man darted around the corner and plowed straight into me. His eyes –
dark brown and intense – locked onto mine before he shoved me hard against the building
and took off. Soon after, two police cars careened around the same corner and
sped by with their lights flashing, sirens wailing, tires squealing.
With my heart hammering in my chest, I lowered myself to
the sidewalk. Sweating and feeling faint, I attempted the slow breathing
technique that Dr. Collins had practiced with me, holding each inhale to the
count of six, exhaling slowly between intakes of air, but I had difficulty
following through. My vision swarmed with gnat-like specks, but something crumpled
on the ground near me caught my attention and I reached for it. It was a black
ski mask. Unable to loosen my grip on the damp piece of wool, I leaned against
the building and waited for darkness to swallow me.
Syracuse, NY - 2013
My name is Audrey Dory, and I’m in the advertising business.
I persuade people to buy product A over product B, choose brand C over brand D,
and of course, my job isn’t finished until they purchase whatever it is from
the company I want them to, instead of from one of the fifty other companies
that carry it. I manipulate minds until my targets no longer want the product
or service they thought they did, but instead crave the one I want them to.
Whether I use facts, comedy, or play on emotions to do the job, the success of
my business depends on my ability to separate people from their money.
Ten years ago, fresh out of college, I began selling air
time at a local radio station and quickly realized that I had a knack for
writing commercials that were creative and perfectly timed to thirty or sixty
seconds. It became clear that the people in the advertising agencies I serviced
were no more creative than I was, so I set out to learn everything about the
business from selling, to billing, to scheduling, to collections; the following
year I left my job and opened my own agency, Silent Partner.
The experience has been a satisfactory one for the most
part, although I have occasionally found myself with a client who didn’t pay -
who went out of business and left me hanging, or died and left me on the hook.
I became meticulous about doing credit checks on new clients before signing
them up, yet somehow I still manage to be left holding the bag now and then.
I flipped through my Rolodex for Fergal Finnegan’s phone
number – “Ferdy” to those of us who know him well. Ferdy is the owner of an
accounting firm and has been a client of mine for three years. He’d left a
message that he wanted to start work on a campaign regarding a piece of tax
preparation software, for which he’d been granted a new patent. I knew from
experience, that he would drive me up a wall before the campaign was put to
bed, but I’d put up with it, because although Ferdy was a pain the ass, he
didn’t owe me a dime. Plus, I had high hopes that his business acumen would
translate into big bucks for him, and in turn, for me.
As I dialed the phone, my assistant, Harley Bud, attired
in one of her tie-dyed, hippie-dippie, maxi dresses, and clogs, clomped in. Her
long dark hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck by something
with beads that I couldn’t identify. She placed a decorative bag on my desk.
“Happy birthday, Curly,” she said, referring to my mostly unruly auburn hair.
About two years ago, when my assistant left without
notice, Ferdy had saved my butt by recommending Harley, and surprisingly, she
had taken the job. Surprisingly, because she is a well-trained techie with
knowledge and proficiency she will never get to use in my employ, and has
mastered software she is not likely to ever find in the confines of my office.
Harley’d had the opportunity to work for a big firm in another state, but
stayed here because her grandmother, who was all the family she had, was
failing and needed her help. I was able to offer her a flexible work schedule
so she could take her grandmother to see her army of doctors and a good
benefits package, but next to nothing in salary. Harley walked past me and
dropped her tote on top of her desk, which was all of six feet from mine.
Ferdy’s secretary picked up. “Cat,” I said, “it’s Audrey.
Is Ferdy around?” Harley rolled her eyes at the sound of his name.
“He didn’t come in this morning.”
“I’d ask if he was taking a mental health day,” I said,
“but I know that’s not him – he’d crawl in if he had to.”
“No kidding.” I picked up on the worry in her voice and
paid more attention. “It isn’t like him to just not show up,” she said.
“Did you try his phone?” I asked.
“I’ve been calling his house and his cell. I think
something’s wrong.”
“He left me a message,” I said, “but I don’t know if it
was from this morning or yesterday after we closed. The time and date thing on
my machine needs to be reset.”
“Did he say where he was?”
“No,” I said, “he just wanted to set up a meeting about
his new software.”
“Do you think I should call someone?”
“Like who?”
“I was thinking the police,” she said.
“I don’t know – that might be jumping the gun, but if
you’re worried, why don’t we meet at his house? If I leave now I can be there
in twenty minutes.”
“All right,” she said. “But I hope it’s not like on TV,
when someone doesn’t show up at work and then a co-worker goes to check and
finds the person dead.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing like that. I’ll see you there.” I
grabbed my purse and checked to be sure my cell phone was in it. “Harley…”
“I know. I heard,” she said. “Go.”
Ferdy lived alone in a tony section of the city, and soon I
was standing at his front door with Cat right behind me. I rang and knocked,
but there was no answer.
“Now what?” asked Cat.
“Let’s see if his garage has a window.” We followed a
rose-bordered, brick sidewalk around to the side of his garage, where we found
not one, but two spotless windows. Ferdy’s car was there. “Okay,” I said, “now
we call.” I pulled out my cell phone, punched 9-1-1 into the keypad, and
reported what little we knew.
A police car arrived within minutes and the responding
officer, who introduced himself as Officer Morey, tried the door and found it
unlocked. “Why didn’t we try that?” I asked Cat.
“Wait here,” the officer said.
From what I could see from the porch, Ferdy’s front room
was in disarray. A lamp, sofa pillows, and the pages of a newspaper were strewn
on the floor; what appeared to be a cup of coffee was overturned on an end
table. Right then, I knew that Ferdy Finnegan, a self-described neat freak,
would never have left his home in this condition, and that something really bad
had occurred.
Cat was beside herself. “What could have happened?” she
asked. “Where the hell is Ferdy?”
I put my arm around her as we waited on the porch.
Officer Morey walked toward us, and as he did, his radio crackled. I thought I
heard the dispatcher say a private aircraft had crashed into Onondaga Lake.
“What did that just say?” I asked, as I pointed to his
radio. Tony Bravada, the air traffic reporter for this market, was also a
client of mine, and I was hoping against hope that it wasn’t he who had just
plunged into the drink. A check of my watch told me that Tony should be in the
air, nearing the end of his morning shift. Crap.
“Small plane went into the lake,” said the officer.
“Unofficial report says it’s the air traffic guy.”
Cat pulled me away from the house and toward her car. “We
can listen to the radio.”
We sat in absolute shock, as we listened to a witness
describe how Tony’s plane, The Soul of Syracuse, had plunged into the lake; no
word on Tony; not even whether he’d survived. What the hell was going on? So
far today, I had one client go missing and another crash his plane.
“There’s nothing we can do here,” said Cat. “Do you want
to drive over to the lake?”
