Don't Order Dog (15 page)

She blinked away the last of
her tears and turned back to her father with a smile. “Would you like me to read to you?” she asked.

Her father closed his eyes and timidly shook his head.
“No, just talk to me, buttercup.”

“
Oh god, Dad, you haven’t called me buttercup in ten years.”

He opened his eyes a
nd smiled mischievously at her. “Has it been ten years? Wow… time flies, huh? Of course, from what little of my mind I have left, I seem to remember you weren’t a big fan of that name. What do you say we just blame that little slip-up on the tumor?”

“Deal,” Jeri replied, laughing with her father at his morbid joke. She stared down at his still handsome unshaven face and forced herself to remember every last detail of the moment, struck once again with the heavy weight of knowing these could be her last memories of their time together. As if reading her thoughts, her father’s warm laughter eased into a long, punctuating sigh. He squeezed her hand gently.

“It’s okay sweetheart, I’m not ready for this either. God knows I wasn’t expecting something like this… but I certainly don’t have any regrets about my life and how I’ve lived it. It’s been a wonderful ride. And how could I be any more proud of you?” He paused and wiped a tear away from her cheek. “My beautiful, brilliant daughter. Graduating summa cum laude with a Masters in Economics practically under your belt... just like your old man. You’ll be kicking some serious ass in this world before you know it.” 

Jeri smiled and shrugged dismissively. Her father gave her a solemn stare.

“Just promise me something, Jeri. Promise me that you’ll always trust your own instincts and pursue everything you do with passion. No matter what you choose to do, just remember that if you follow your heart, it will always lead you to happiness. Okay?”

Jeri nodded her head in response to her father’s request, ignoring the
fresh flow of tears on her face.

“Promise?” he asked, his voice deep and uncharacteristically serious.

“I promise,” she replied.

“Good.”

Her father smiled peacefully as he glanced over at the machines besides the bed. The bright green line of his heartbeat monitor raced frantically across the small screen next to him, rising and dipping in a life-affirming rhythm. He watched it keenly for a few moments before looking over at Jeri with a worried expression.
“Sweetheart, there’s something else I need to tell you… something about my work. It’s probably nothing, but… I’m… I’m being cautious.”

Jeri leaned in closer towards her father as he fidgeted uncomfortably under the thin blanket. “What is it
, Dad?”

“Like I said, it’s probably nothing. I… I’ve made a lot of friends in my career, but, well… unfortunately a fair number of enemies too. Not that this should be surprising. I suppose you can’t analyze matters involving the world’s largest economies and corporations without occasionally gaining the attention of the men who run them, huh?” He looked up at Jeri and gave her a
tired smile.

“The truth is sweetheart, I’ve collected a fair amount of information over the years from my work. Information which some would consider sensitive at the very least.”

“Like what?” Jeri asked.

Her father looked towards the door nervously. A moment later he looked up at her and be
gan speaking in a low whisper. “All sorts of things. Top-level operational memos… unrecorded executive orders… buried procedural doctrines… even personnel files. You have to understand, after people began to know who I was, they started coming to me. Disgruntled employees with information, rich executives who suddenly grew a conscience, even corporate spies who wanted to seed negative information about their competitors. I became something of a priest of the corporate confessional.  Of course, most of it is relatively benign if not completely outdated at this point,” her father shrugged dismissively, then stared at her with a grave expression. “But some of it… well, some of it is simply too dangerous to expose.”

Jeri stared at her father, hoping for a punch line that his expression t
old her was not going to come. “Dad, why are you telling me this?”

Her father squeezed her hand gently. “Because when I die, you’ll be the only person who knows that this information exists. More importantly, you’ll be only person who knows where to find it.”

“But I don’t… I have no idea where to find it.”

Her father’s mouth turned into a shrewd grin. “Do you remember the last time I called you buttercup?”

“You mean other than two minutes ago?”

“Yes.”

Jeri thought for a moment and then nodded. “You mean the time we–”

Her father quickly placed his index finger over his mouth and smiled conspiratorially. “If you remember the time, sweetheart, then you know the place. But be careful,” he reached up and gently stroked her hair with his hand. “I’ve learned from all my years chasing stories that there are some stones you simply shouldn’t look under.”

Jeri stared at her father suspiciously. “Dad, are you okay? I mean, are you sure this isn’t a… a hallucination? You haven’t had any sleep since early this morning. You’ve got to be exhausted.”

“I am,” her father said a
s he nodded his head wearily, “And while we’re on the subject, you haven’t slept much yourself lately. I want you to go home and get some sleep.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Go home, sweetheart.”

“No chance.”

Her father grunted his annoyance. “God, you’re as stubborn as I am.”

“Even more so,” Jeri replied as she smiled back at him.

“Well, I expected as much,” her father said. “That’s why I asked the nurse with the pretty green eyes if you could stay in the nearest available room. She said you could. By the way, I think she likes me.” He laughed and waved his hand towards the door. “Go ask her to set you up.”

Jeri hesitated for a moment, terrified to leave his side, before finally relenting to his logic. “Okay, fine,” she replied as she leaned forward and kissed her father on the forehead before standing. “But I’ll be back to say goodnight.”

“That sounds good,” he replied, staring up at her with warm, affectionate eyes. “I love you Jeri… more than anything in this world.”

Jeri grabbed her father’s
hand and squeezed it tightly. “I love you too, dad.” She walked to the door, then turned back to him and smiled. “How about we take that hike again when you’re feeling better. Is that a deal?”

Her fat
her flashed her a broad smile. “That’s a deal.”

The nurses’ station for the third-floor patient ward was a short walk down the hallway. As she approached the large elliptical desk, Jeri could see one of the nurses on the night shift eyeing her suspiciously.
“I’m sorry miss, but visiting hours are over,” the small, gray-haired nurse said with practiced triteness as Jeri stopped at the counter.

“I know… I’m here with my father, James Halston. His nurse said I could stay in an open room for the night if one is still available.”  

The nurse glared up at Jeri over her bifocals and frowned, deepening the framework of wrinkles around her small features. “Oh she did, did she?”

“Yes, she did
,” Jeri replied, glaring back at the nurse.

The older woman huffed and dropped her eyes to the com
puter screen in front of her.
“Room 307 is empty – for now,” she said tersely, pointing in the opposite direction from her father’s room. “Down the hall and to the right.”

“There’s nothing closer to room 324?” Jeri asked.

The nurse gave her an exasperated glare. “No, there isn’t.”

Jeri nodded and thanked the crusty nurse as she turned and headed down the hallway
. She walked slowly, feeling the full weight of exhaustion sinking deep into her body. A few moments later she was standing outside of room 307. She was just beginning to open the door when the loud buzzing of an alarm suddenly echoed from the nurses’ station. Jeri turned and stared in confusion. Almost immediately, two of the nurses stood up and began running down the hallway. A third nurse appeared from a patient’s room and fell in step behind them. As she watched, a sudden jolt of alarm shot through her as she realized where they were heading. Her exhaustion instantly vaporized as she ran after them in terror, crying out a single word.

“Dad!”

She flew into her father’s room, nearly crashing into the nurses as they hovered over his body. Between their bent figures and quickly working arms, Jeri caught a glimpse of her father’s writhing body and cried out in horror. Caught in a massive seizure, her father’s limbs were flailing wildly against the restraining hands of the three women. The nurse closest to Jeri turned and shouted at her to leave, but she could only stand and stare in frozen fear. Suddenly the nurse turned and grabbed her, pulling her towards the bed, shouting for her to help. Jeri quickly grabbed her father’s hand and held it tightly to her chest. As she did, she looked down at his tortured face. Her father’s head was thrown
rigidly back, his jaw clenched tightly, his face crimson red as he fought desperately
against his own body.

“Help him!” Jeri heard herself scream as the nurse next to her steadied a large syringe over his body. The nurse was about to plunge the needle into her father’s leg when suddenly his convulsions stopped. The room grew eerily quiet as her father’s body relaxed and his eyes rolled slowly back until they settled on Jeri’s face, their deep brown intelligence replaced with a cold and vacant stare.   

Jeri woke to the sound of her own scream as she opened her eyes and shot up from the bed. She glanced anxiously around the dark bedroom, struggling to catch her breath as reality now rushed back to her. Outside, a deeper veil of snow rested against the corner of her window as the wind whispered lightly. She sighed and fell wearily back against her pillow, closing her eyes tightly before the forming waves of sobs could overtake her.  

The wake of the
Achilles II
stretched like a long white scar as its deep, cobalt-colored hull cut swiftly through the warm tropical water. Cruising at a steady fifteen knots off the Venezuelan coast, the ship’s massive twin diesels hummed quietly as they powered the hundred and thirty-foot yacht through the calm Caribbean Sea, their sound unnoticed by the party-goers above.

On the main deck, Christina Lynch stared out at the distant lights of Puerto La Cruz as they flickered in the fading light of dusk. Warm tropical air stirred across the deck, rippling the handmade linens on the tables around her and teasing the chartreuse silk of her Valentino evening gown. Christina leaned lightly into the rail as her manicured nails tapped the empty crystal flute in her hand impatiently. Behind her, another two-dozen guests lounged around tables adorned with extravagant hors d’
oeuvres, picking lightly at plates of caviar, lobster and foie gras that were delicately arranged between intricate ice sculptures of dolphins and whales.

A middle-aged man wearing a white jacket trimmed in gold suddenly materialized next her. “Miss?” he asked timidly as he held up the dark green bottle of Krug Clos Ambonnay she’d been waiting for, a polite smile trained on his placid face. Christina shifted her long legs and gave the server an irritable stare before holding out her hand. A torrent of shimmering gold filled the crystal flute as the priceless champagne flowed from the bottle, and
she watched the ensuing eruption of impossibly small bubbles with mild admiration as they shimmered and sparkled with perfection. Her glass filled, the servant smiled again before curtly bowing and heading towards the next guest. Christina arrogantly waved the air with her fingers, as if brushing the air of the servant away. She knew that the modest pour of champagne swirling in her glass was worth more than the servant who poured it would make all month. But of course Christina felt no remorse for this fact. In her mind, this simple fact merely reinforced the significance of everything that now surrounded her – the importance of the evening, the power of the people standing around her, and thanks to her relationship with the man she arrived with, the importance of Christina herself.

She took a sip of champagne and quietly watched the other guests. Most of the men around her appeared to be in their late sixties or seventies
, all of them wearing tailored tuxedos and trailing forty-something trophy wives on their arms. Although by far the youngest, and undoubtedly the best-looking guest on the ship, Christina distanced herself from everyone else. She had no intention of socializing alone, especially when her boyfriend had abruptly left her to “wrap-up some business” with his team of lawyers below deck. Irritated by this fact, she took another sip of champagne and decided a more powerful form of relaxation was in order. Discretely reaching into her Lana Marks clutch, Christina found the small vial she relied on for just such an occasion. She deftly extracted two pills from the container and popped them into her mouth, swallowing them
sans aqua
as she’d learned from her years as a model. A few minutes later, just as their effect was beginning to take hold, a hand touched her shoulder.

“Excuse me, miss,” a deep, confident voice said from behind her. Christina turned to find a tall, exceptionally good-looking man in his mid-twenties standing a few steps away. His tanned, chiseled face was fixed with a practiced smile as he waited for her to meet his eyes, which Christina
eventually did after slowly admiring the way his trim, athletic figure filled his Brioni tuxedo and the stylish cut of his blonde hair. Finally succumbing to the pull of his hazel-colored eyes, she smiled curtly and slipped a lock of her long, wind-blown brunette hair behind her ear.

“Yes?” she replied with a falsely irritable tone. Despite his looks, the man was apparently part of the ship owner’s staff, and Christina couldn’t resist the urge to treat him as such.

“Mr. Birch has asked for you down stairs,” he said warmly, his smiling eyes reflecting the last dying rays of sun light as he held up his arm. “May I escort you there?”

“I suppose,” Christina said with a sigh. “But first–” She pointed her little finger to the sky and drained the last of her champagne before dropping the
crystal flute on the tray of a passing waiter. “Okay, let’s go,” she commanded, her green eyes tracing over him. She took his arm and squeezed it casually, feeling the toned muscles beneath his jacket. They walked past the evening’s entertainment – a four-piece band playing 80’s tunes. Christina recognized the song that was playing and began swaying her hips seductively. Had the circumstances of the evening been different, she was sure the man now leading her would have made a deliciously nimble partner for both dancing and more private activities below deck. As if reading her mind, the man tensed his arm as they descended the grand stairway of inlayed marble toward the staterooms below.

“Beautiful night, wouldn’t you agree Miss Lynch?” he asked as they entered a long corridor that ran through the center of the ship.

“Yeah, sure,” she mumbled, silently wishing a waiter with a fresh tray of champagne was within sight. Her little pharmaceutical friends had taken their full euphoric effect, and she was craving more of the sweet swirling bubbles of carbonation that tickled her throat with every savory sip. Unfortunately they were alone in this area of the ship. She glanced at her escort with a cynical smile. “Just like every other night I’ve seen since I arrived here.”

“Of course
, Miss Lynch.”

“Oh Christ, don’t call me
Miss Lynch
,” she replied flirtatiously, squeezing his arm roughly. “My name is Christina.”

“Okay. So I take it you’re not a fan of Puerto La Cruz,
Christina
?”

Christina
winced at the sound of her own name and gave her escort a surprised, questioning look. Even in her chemically-altered state, she couldn’t miss the venomous tone he had managed to inject into the pronunciation, as if her name were a choice curse word. “Haven’t seen enough of it to say, really,” she replied flatly. “Other than the resort and this ship, I wouldn’t know what this god-forsaken place even looks like.”

“Well, if you get a chance, I would highly recommend a day trip to the small town of Santa Fe. It’s a beautiful little town, nestled in the foothills of the Turimiquire Mou
ntains. And the view–” he exclaimed, suddenly raising his arm in front of him, “is truly breath-taking.”

Christina’s arm, wrapped around his, was swept up in the motion, ripping her purse from her hand and sending it sliding across the floor.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered as she bent down to pick it up.

“Please… allow me.”
Without breaking stride, her escort deftly reached down and grabbed the small clutch, holding it for her as they walked the last few steps.

Arriving at the last stateroom in the corridor, the man unwrapped his arm from her grip and tapped lightly on the door. Inside, Christina could hear the muted shuffling of someone moving clumsily towards the door. Her escort then gave her a heart-stopping smile as he gently opened her hand and placed the small purse in her palm.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning seductively towards him. “What was your name again?”

“Call me Thomas.”

“Thank you, Thomas. And thanks for the advice. I’ll do my best to visit Santa Fe if I ever get off this damn boat.”

“I hope you do. Good night, Christina,” he said
quietly as he bowed, holding her with his stare. He turned and disappeared into the narrow servant’s corridor next to her as the click of the stateroom door lock sounded.

“Good night
, Thomas… you tall, handsome bastard,” Christina whispered, staring vacantly into the dark corridor as the door to the stateroom suddenly flew open. A half-dressed man with brown, thinning hair and a round cleft chin stood in the doorway.

“Oh, well
… there you fucking are,” her boyfriend Derrick said, glancing nervously down the corridor before grabbing her arm and quickly pulling her into the room. He slammed the door and spun around to face her. “What the fuck took you so long?” he asked, pushing her aside as he made his way to the wet bar behind her.

Christina glared back at him, her large, oval-shaped brown eyes cold and hard.

At thirty-six years old, Derrick Birch was already a well-known and highly respected entrepreneur in the world of alternative energy development. After getting his degree in Chemical Engineering at MIT, Birch immediately landed a coveted research position with Reich-Walston Labratories, a key research firm for the world’s largest energy companies, where he quickly proved his genius by developing a hydrogen fuel cell design that was three times more efficient than anything before it. Armed with the rare gift of having people-skills that matched his engineering genius, Birch skillfully ascended the politically fortified ranks at Reich-Walston until, at age 30, he decided he could start his own energy research firm and avoid the bureaucratic bullshit altogether. Eighteen months and thirty-million in angel investment dollars later, Birch and a hand-picked team of researchers and lawyers were a tour-de-force firm specializing in energy-innovation research, development and patenting. With each major new innovation, almost always the result of Birch’s own inspiration, the company spun-off a new corporation.  Covering a wide spectrum of technologies that ranged from cutting-edge fuel-cell development to fossil fuel refinement, the nascent companies were almost always caught in a bidding-war between the world’s largest energy companies and conglomerates, all of them salivating for technologies that promised new market opportunities and competitive advantage. Along the way, Birch had found himself a very rich man.

And as Christina had learned early on in their short, turbulent relationship, Derrick Birch had an ego and a temper to match.

“What are you talking about?” she replied flatly. “Up until five minutes ago I was upstairs trying not to stick out like a pathetic, lonely loser when your man-servant found me and dragged me down here.” She walked to the bar and roughly opened the wine chiller, grabbing the first bottle of Dom Perignon she could find. “Where the fuck have
you
been?”

“You know exactly where I’ve been,
Chrissy
,” Derrick replied, using the nickname he knew that she hated. “Stuck on this fucking boat for ten hours, trying to hack out an agreement that won’t completely fuck me.” He poured a tall glass of straight vodka over ice and took a long sip before staring at her solemnly. “Christ almighty, even after all these years it’s still David versus fucking Goliath in these things.” He paused for a moment, as if expecting her to speak, but she returned his stare with a vacant expression. “The deal’s almost done, and suddenly they’re trying to break my fucking balls over some tax records from four years back. I’m sitting there with three high-priced lawyers on my side of the table, and I still had to call Roger in fucking Houston and get him to explain every tax shelter we’ve used since god knows when.  It’s fucking unbelievable.”

He walked over to the bed and s
at down heavily on the corner.

“And of course, the whole time you sit in these meetings with these guys and their lawyers, they try to make you feel like they’re doing
you
some kind of fucking favor. As if what I do could’ve just come from
anyone
.” Derrick drained the rest of the strong drink in a single gulp and walked back to the bar. “Assholes. I should tell them to fuck off and re-open negotiations with Exxon. At least they aren’t a complete bunch of pricks.”

“Sure, do it
,” Christina remarked absently, admiring her shoes as she leaned against the bar next to him. Derrick grumbled irritably as he poured another vodka and settled his pudgy frame onto the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. He sat quietly for a few minutes, staring into his glass as his thoughts drifted around him.

“You know,” he said finally, gazing at her with glassy, bloodshot eyes that seemed to be staring through her, focused on the memory he was seeing, “when I was a kid, I used to have the best fucking dreams. Better than anything fucking Hollywood could’ve made. And I’m not talking about that silly flying shit either. No, I had the best
dreams imaginable. I could just see things the way they were supposed to be… the way they
should
be.”

His eyes focused back o
nto hers.
“Do you even know what that feels like?”

Christina stared at him silently. She’d seen Derrick drunk enough times now to know that his questions were simply rhetorical statements, like lines in a one-man play. He didn’t want her to answer, and wouldn’t hear her even if she did.

“That’s what I always wanted to be, you know… a director. A fucking Hollywood director. Christ, I even became a fucking thespian in high school out of sheer eagerness to make it happen. Of course, I spent more time designing sets and tinkering with the shitty video equipment than hanging out with all the damn wannabe drama queens, but I was convinced it was my destiny.” He threw back another slug of his vodka and laughed. “Fuck, I was a naïve kid back then.”

Christina raised her eyebrows in surprise as Derrick swirled his drink and smiled dejectedly. She’d never heard him talk about his childhood before, and she wasn’t sure how to take it. Could it be that there was actually an emotional, god-forbid
vulnerable
man behind the abrasive, egotistical genius? The idea made her shudder.