The Luddite Conspiracy Ch. 02

ACT TWO: OUR WILLS AND FATES

Friday

Gina giggled wildly. It was a frantic, almost manic sound, like a tornado siren carving through heavy winds. Her hand flew up to her chest, which shook, and pressed against her breastbone. Tears huddled in the corners of her eyes.

"Stop!" she cried, voice raised high. "Stop it!"

Cecile ignored her plea. Screwing up his face again into a twisted, mocking version of how someone might look after exiting an especially pungent public restroom, he rubbed his hands with comic discomfort. In his best clipped impression of Neil Fenner, he repeated the line with thickly mocking seriousness. "Let me tell you, Cecile. I'm not ashamed that I did it....I'm just sorry it didn'tsmellbetter!"

Gina's laughter exploded, and she shook her head in defeat. Doubling over, arms to her stomach and hair over her face, she tried to regain some control. Finally, as the muscles began to fatigue and her lungs struggled for air, the gales melted into breathy "Ahh" sounds and then ceased altogether. When she'd calmed down enough to talk, she wiped at the tears on her cheeks and asked, "Did he really say that? Did my Neil really talk that way?Ever?"

Cecile almost lost his smile.No. I made it up. I lied to you because I want you to like me. And now I'll lie a little bit more because I want you to hate him.

He nodded, slowly, and affected a look of reflective thought. "He's pretty quiet most of the time. But he would always get a lot funnier whenever..." he looked down at his hands, and shrugged. "I...uh..."

Her face fell. "Oh." She focused on the glass in her hands, all humor lost. Whenever SHE was around, he meant. His whore. His mystery woman. So her Neil, HER Neil, had discovered a way that he could get back to himself. He had found it by giving himself to someone new. He could be someone he used to be, so long as he was away from her. He couldn't let his wife see, for some unexplained reason, that he could still remember how to be funny and relaxed. Oh, no. Not the woman who had weathered the darkness with him, who had suffered as much as he had. Not the woman who lost her child right as he lost his. He had to find someone new to share his pleasure and joy with. So that's what he did.

God damn it, Neil.

"Sorry," Cecile mumbled. "I didn't think."

"It's okay." She smiled sadly across the table at him. "I appreciate you stopping by to check on me. I'd probably just be sitting here alone, sulking and wondering, otherwise. And I'm glad that somebody had the courage to tell me the truth." She looked around the room. "To be brutally honest, I'm just relieved to have someone to talk to. I never realized it before, but all of my friends...all of the people I would otherwise turn to....well, they were OUR friends. I don't think they would take sides, but...I just can't deal with that, yet. I can't even bring myself to call my sister, and tell her what he's done." She sighed, and for a moment she was silent. "Do you think he'll ever come back?"

Cecile swallowed, biting back annoyance. Even after everything, she was still hoping he'd come back to her. She was faced with the idea of absolute betrayal, and here before her was a handsome younger man working hard for her approval. But it wasn't enough. What did he have to do to get the ghost of Neil Fenner out of this room...even if just for a day or two?

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I suppose he'll have to come back for his things. But I don't think..."

She nodded, clearly sliding back onto the verge of tears. "How could he do this to me?"

"Like you said earlier, people can change dramatically after a traumatic event. You never know what might happen to them, or how long afterward the symptoms will start to appear. And Neil has definitely changed, probably more than any of us realize. It's hard for me to judge...I mean, I never even met him until well after the acci..." he winced, cursing himself. Smooth move, idiot. Great time to go bringing the dead kid up. Jesus Christ. "Sorry," he muttered. "There I am not thinking again."

"It's okay," she said again. "I understand." This time, she reached across and put her hand over his. He looked up at her, blushed, and smiled.

-=-=-

"How's your eye?"

"You tell me." Neil looked over at the man, but got no information by watching his reaction. Tim Leise was a closed off individual, something Neil could appreciate. Instead of reacting to whatever he saw, the bulky man just hung immobile for a moment.

"You're alright," he said at last. "Probably won't even be able to tell it was there in another couple of days."

He grunted. "You think so?"

"The swelling isn't as bad today," he said it with finality, like a diagnosis. Like it was settled. "You're fine."

Neil didn't feel fine. He felt like shit. But then, it had been a long time since he'd been in a fight. Almost twenty years, actually, since he'd drunkenly battled a boy fifty pounds heavier than himself over a girl they both liked. He'd won that one, though it hadn't turned out to be worth the effort. She was flighty, more than a little spoiled, and totally uninterested in anything resembling commitment. In short, she was a girl. He'd worn some wounds home from that brawl, too. This one was something worse. It hadn't been so much a brawl as an ass kicking.

He'd come down here with the understanding that he might not be welcome. He'd embraced the idea that it would be okay if Leise needed to attack him physically, had even wanted it to happen. He'd thought it might help to compensate for the poor man's pain. Or for his own.

But the reality of it all had been something else. The grieving father was incredibly strong, if slowed a little by his bulk, and placed a pure anguish behind each punch that was almost primal. Neil supposed he ought to be glad that the man stopped as swiftly as he had. Barely a minute into the beating Leise had jerked away, frowning, and looked down expressionlessly at his willing victim. As Neil struggled to his knees, hoping to regain his feet but still refusing to fight back, Leise had shaken his head. "You want me to hit you," he'd muttered. Something bred from equal parts disappointment and admiration caught in his voice. "Jesus Christ. That's what you came here for. So I would hurt you."

How he'd caught it so quickly, so easily, Neil couldn't say.

But now here they were, a full thirteen hours later, sitting in the tiny kitchen and talking. After halting his beating fists, Leise had brought Neil into the house and given him a bag of frozen mixed vegetables to put on his eye and cheek. Neil was actually more concerned for his right shoulder and side, but he accepted the help gingerly. Leise had big feet and even bigger boots. He touched his side and winced. He had bruises that would take a long time to fade, and he would be stiff for a long time after that.

The two men had talked a bit then, mostly Neil trying to explain what he thought the problem might be with the Technica. They'd even shared a beer. But Leise had begged off a longer talk, claiming lateness for work, and Neil had begged for the chance to come back today. The acceptance had not exactly been enthusiastic, or warm.

"So," Leise said now, leaning back in his chair, "you come down here because you felt bad, eh? You lost your little girl, you knew how it hurt, and so you worried about me. Is that about it?"

"Not really. I came down for selfish reasons. I think I was looking out for me more than anything. But I hoped that those reasons could end up serving us both."

"What were they?"

Neil shrugged. "Just reasons."

"You don't really like to share much, do you, Neil Fenner?" the man grinned a little, but his eyes were piercingly focused.

"I find it...difficult, when Christi's memory is involved. I don't think or talk well about that..." he trailed off and closed his eyes. "I try, though."

"I understand," the larger man nodded. "You make sense to me. You don't leave any questions behind you. Well, 'cept for when you talk about cars. I really thought that I knew a little bit about that stuff...engines and whatever...even helped my brother fix up a Mustang back in high school. It was a cool machine. But you, sir, do a lotta yapping that I don't get at all." He glanced over at the fridge. "Want a soda?"

"No. Thanks, though."

"Sure." The two men sat and looked at each other for a moment. "Well," Leise sighed, "that's enough of that. I'm past due to see my wife. You wanna come with, or are we done?"

Neil swallowed. "Your wife, is she..."

Leise shook his head. "Doctors are tellin' me there's not much chance of her ever waking up. The damage to her brain is pretty bad. Even if she were to come about she'd be a vegetable. The fuckers bring it up almost every time I visit. It gets to feeling like they've got an agenda in mind, you know? I mean what the fuck do they expect me to do? Just...let her go?" His voice cracked on the last word, and he clenched his jaw. Neil looked away and pretended to study the room around him, so that the man could have a minute to compose himself. "So you gonna come with or what?" he said at last.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I should."

"Alright. You should bring your jacket, too. I, uh, I've got to make one other stop, afterwards, and it's a place where the winds all come to stay."

"Where's that?"

"Every Tuesday and Friday, now, I make it a point to go and see Brittney. Just to say hello, catch her up on things. Talk for a while and she how she is."

"Who is Brittney?"

Tim Leise stood up, turning away and walking towards the front door. "My daughter," he said over his shoulder.

Neil swallowed hard. "Oh."

-=-=-

The ringing went on and on and on. Nobody answered.

Finally, Tracy Bunkley slammed the phone down on its cradle and spat out a curse. As she chewed on her lip and climbed halfway out of her chair, it occurred to her that she was fidgeting, and she sunk back into the leather. This left her directionless, however, and she reached for the phone again. No. That wasn't going to help anything. Snorting air through her nose, she slammed a fist down on the armrest and cursed again.

Cecile Schaefer was a little twit, but he had developed the obnoxious habit of making her feel extremely nervous.

She couldn't tell if he was playing games, having a breakdown, or simply backing out. She only knew that something was up.

Ever since the confrontation in the board room his behavior had become increasingly erratic. First he freaked out about the fatal accident down in Murfreesboro, something he should have realized from the very beginning was possible, probably...or even inevitable. The man was an automotive engineer for fuck's sake. How did he miss that?! What did he think was going to happen, if he took a working model and fucked with the breaks? People were idiots. They managed to get in horrific wrecks even under the very best of circumstances. Why would it be any different when a minor defect was intentionally placed in their automobile?

Then, in an even sorrier display of stupidity, Cecile had felt guilt and regret after learning about Fenner's personal history. Sure, he seemed calmer Wednesday night when he came over to her place. He got drunk and fucked like a champion. He talked enthusiastically about his perceived future, going on and on about his dreams and fantasies, and nothing seemed problematic at all. But now, the last two days, he had called in sick. He didn't contact her. He wouldn't answer his phone, or return messages. Tracy didn't like feeling that lack of control, like she didn't have a handle on things. She hated feeling uncertainty. Both sensations made her feel stupid, weak. They were the enemy. Right now, the enemy was at her gate. It hammered at her calm with a raging storm's worth of power.

One thing was certain: wherever the fuck Cecile was, he was in deep shit. His disappearing act was endangering them both. If he didn't end up killing himself, or find some other way to end up dead, she just might just take care of it for him.

Continuing to chew absently on her lower lip, Tracy considered lifting the receiver and dialing the number again. No. It was a nervous tick disguised as a solution. It was wasting her time.

She needed to regain control. That was what it came down to...what any situation came down to: who was in control? Find the answer to that, and you'll know for certain who is going to come out on top. She pushed the telephone away. She wouldn't let Cecile break her focus. Tracy Bunkley was going to come out on top.

Instead, she evaluated what she knew. All of the mystery surrounding Cecile's disappearance, all of the unanswered questions, really only boiled down to three possibilities. First, that he was genuinely sick and was simply sleeping it off. She felt comfortable crossing that one off the list. He'd looked and acted just as healthy as the horse that he was, when she'd ridden him for pleasure Wednesday night. He took care of himself, ate well, and it showed. And he was more paranoid than she was about the little game they were playing, so even if he were ill he would definitely have called her by now. Hell, hadn't he stormed into her office just a few days ago like a hurt puppy looking for its master? The idiot even thought she cared about him. Yeah. He would have called.

So that left two remaining scenarios. Either he was buckling under the stress, which made him a rogue and unpredictable variable, or he was feeling resentment. It was ridiculous, but possible, that he might be blaming her for his current panic. Cecile wasn't the type to accept any blame himself.

If the latter were true, if he was just being cranky, then she needn't worry. Resentment was almost a rational emotion, which meant it could safely be harbored inside a rational brain. As long as Cecile was able to think logically, he had only one option available to him: do nothing. He was as guilty as she was, some might say more, and there was no way to cover that up. He could be angry, if that's what he wanted. Angry people don't want to go to prison.

But if it were the former, if he were in fact deteriorating beneath a mountain of guilt and fear, then he was extremely dangerous to them both. A self-loathing and panicky man was an especially stupid creature. He had no intellect. He couldn't be controlled. It would only be a matter of time before Cecile absolved his conscience by confessing to the wrong person, or people. And then what? Tracy wasn't even sure how bad the consequences might be. The best case scenario was a loss of career and a lifetime as a public pariah. Lawsuits, jail time, and retribution all struck her has sickeningly plausible. Everything she'd worked for would be lost, and everything she'd taken for granted taken away.

What could she do about it? She clenched and unclenched her fists. What was her life worth? Was it worth murder? True, honest murder? Sure, she and Cecile had been responsible in an offhand way for a few untimely deaths. But that was inadvertent, unplanned. And she might fantasize about what life would be like if he were suddenly removed as a variable, or about the power involved in ending another person's existence. But that was exactly that: fantasy. If Cecile was cracking up, then the only way to protect herself might be to make him disappear.

Jesus. That was an ugly scenario. It made her sick to consider it. Curious, almost excited, but sick.

And she knew that she would have to do it herself, if it came to that. Murder. There was nobody to turn to, or bribe. There wouldn't be any other Ceciles around, waiting to be manipulated into doing the deed. And she wasn't like those people in Chicago. She didn't know the kind of individuals that could just be called on to...

A knock on the door caused her to jump. Quickly, she smoothed herself over and rose up, regaining an authoritative posture just as it opened.

In stepped Paul Keegan. He looked strangely calm and pleasant considering recent events. Flashing a smile, he practically sauntered up to the desk, and Tracy immediately suspected that something was up. She gave him her best "I hold all the cards" grin in response, and then acted distracted by something she'd seen on her computer.

"Can I help you, Mr. Keegan?" she asked with measured indifference.

"Tracy," he nodded. "I was just popping in to see if there were any updates with the Technica FMEA."

"You'll know more when I know more," Tracy's smile widened. The pedal linkage problem had been discovered, and its suspiciously calculated nature noted. The growing consensus was that the tampering was too blatant to hide from the media, and that it provided the opportunity to concentrate the public rage on an individual or small group rather than having the entire company suffer. Fenner's team, good as they were, would have to take the fall. It could only have been them. And no matter how unlikely it seemed, it was decided by both logic and the need for expediency. Tracy wasn't about to share that detail with Paul. As the Product Engineer on the project, he would probably be the only member besides Neil to face legal ramifications. Well, David Kearns might get pulled down a little too, but if he was smart he would strike a deal. Tracy didn't think that he was tight enough with his peers to ruin his life for them. Let Paul find that out the hard way. Let him learn how it ends, how it all ends, when they showed up suddenly to take him away. She would enjoy watching.

"Uh-huh," his face maintained its strangely amused look, incongruous now with her answer, and it made her nervous. What was he up to? "So you hadn't heard anything about the pedal linkage being the problem?" he asked rather casually.

Tracy stared at him. For a brief moment, she wasn't sure how to respond. "Wh....I beg your pardon? I, uh, hadn't heard anything about that." What the fuck was going on? How could he know that already? Was it possible that Fenner's team, innocent and professional as they were, had informants in the building? Why? And if Paul had that much information, what else might he know? What else might he suspect? She studied his eyes, and learned nothing. "Is there a reason that you're asking?"

He shrugged. "It's just that Neil seemed so certain about that. I guess I just assumed that it would turn out to be the problem. You know how...insightful...Neil can be."

Tracy studied his face. "Mr. Fenner has a talent for automotive work, yes. I don't know that I've seen him be particularly insightful otherwise."

"Oh," Paul said dismissively as he turned to leave. "Then I guess you'll just have to keep watching."

"Keep watching?"

He hesitated. "For information, Tracy. We'd all like to know what the FMEA turns out, when it turns out." He smiled over his shoulder at her, and left.

Tracy stared at the closed door. What the fuck was that? Paul Keegan is suddenly playing games with her? Hinting at things he shouldn't know?

Keep watching? He obviously hadn't really been referring to the FMEA. Tracy had noticed that Neil Fenner's small corner office was almost totally stripped bare. Had that been a ploy? Why? To put her off her guard? Fenner didn't seem like the type to play those types of games. If he was...iftheywere...then she had sorely underestimated them.

Tracy became aware that her hands were sweating. The phone rang.

Grabbing it up, she forced herself to sound calm. "Hello?"

"Hi, Tracy," a familiar male voice said. "I got your messages. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner."

"Cecile!" she snapped. "Where the fuck are you?!" She sighed, and made an effort to speak softer. "I don't appreciate you disappearing on me like this, Cecile. It scares me. Why aren't you at work?"

"I just took a few days off. Why do you sound so strange?"