The Luddite Conspiracy Ch. 04

A moment of stunned silence occurred, followed by a spattering of whispers and mumbled irritation. It expanded rapidly. Eyes flickered toward Tracy, who was glaring red-faced, but nobody said a word to her.

Neil held up one hand and knocked on the table with the other, gaining their attention. "If I may, I'd like to explain my thinking."

"Wait a minute," Tracy interrupted, "are we really going to listen to this? It's slander! It's inappropriate, and it's unprofessional. I for one am not prepared to sit here and be accused in this way."

Paul grunted. "How would you prefer to be accused?" he snapped.

"Fuckyou, you litt-" she flinched, glancing around the room, and fell silent.

"Enough of this," The skinny old man barked. "This is not a circus! Mr. Fenner, Mrs. Bunkley is right. This is entirely inappropriate. Behave yourself, sir."

"How about this, then?" Neil leaned on the table. "A copy of the designs that were proofed and signed was stored both digitally and physically before they were sent to plant. We all know that the copy delivered to manufacturing is measurably different than those stored copies. We all therefore know that somebody must havechangedthem after they were approved. Now, can anybody here tell me who had access to those plans once the proofing was over?"

One of the department heads, a heavyset man with red cheeks and bushy eyebrows, chuckled. "This ain't exactly the CIA, son. Lots of people have access...but not everyone has the know-how tochangethem."

"True. But who could have accessed them without getting noticed? Who could have retrieved the plans, held them long enough for changes to be made, and not leave a trail of paperwork or witnesses in the process?"

The man frowned. "Any of the department heads could do that. Project managers, too, I suppose." He looked up. "But I imagine that any engineer in this building could get at them, and keep it hidden, if they really wanted to."

Neil nodded. "Okay. Let's hang on to that for a minute. And please note the inclusion of project managers on that list," he bit his thumbnail, "because it's important. Now, I imagine that every person in this room noticed when Mr. Vaughan, an attorney employed by and for this company, opted not to return to his seat earlier. I doubt that it escaped you that he chose to sit up here next to Mr. Keegan and myself. He is with us not as a sign of allegiance or solidarity, but because I asked him to talk a little bit about his impression of the meeting involving my team and Tracy Bunkley on Wednesday. It's relevant, and I think it ought to be presented."

Greg Vaughan stood up and nodded. "Briefly, let me say that it is not my intention to do anything except offer information relevant to the decisions being made here today....information, by the way, that will be a factor in any media representation of our predicament. At the aforementioned meeting, and in my discussions with her prior to it, Tracy Bunkley struck me as a little odd." He ignored the scowl that she threw his way, and went on before she could interrupt. "She was exceptionally eager to encourage the impression that the Technica problem must be linked to Neil Fenner. She seemed hungry for anything that might help her to promote that perspective, and she seemed almost incurious about any information not pointing in that direction. She goaded and challenged the team whenever possible, and when Fenner left in what was clearly great emotional turmoil she immediately began talking about finding a replacement for him as development engineer. There was no concern, no sympathy, no expression of worry. If I were asked to interpret, I would say that she seemed giddy." He let that sink in a moment, and then added. "Now I know, because I was there, that Tracy was the one who argued so vehemently against allowing Neil's team to assist with the FMEA. And I don't have to point out to anybody here that, in spite of her closeness to this sensitive issue, she has been included in the very same meetings that Fenner's team was excluded from. Now, I agreed to his request that I speak to you because I, as an attorney for this company, am concerned by the degree to which these events appear to be influenced by one person. And I am concerned that they will look alarmingly contrived, or manipulated, from the outside looking in. And, rest assured, theywillbe looked at." With that, he nodded at Neil and walked over to his seat at the table. Slipping into it, he folded his hands and joined the audience. He ignored Tracy's silent glare, and the almost twitching way that her expression kept shifting.

The red-cheeked fat man shook his head. "Listen, I think I understand what you all are trying to do. And I imagine that this all sounds very convincing in yourheads," he emphasized the last word. "But I'm not really hearing anything that sounds like it couldn't be dismissed as inter-office politics, inaccurate interpretation, or impolite behavior. As I recall, you mentioned two names at the start of this, yet so far you've ignored the other name entirely. Instead, you've chosen to repeatedly direct conjectural attacks and vicious personal insults at Ms. Bunkley. So I think I'd like to hear what you have to say about this other individual...Cecile, is it? And then we're done. I'm going to have to hope that you have more of a case to make there than you have against Ms. Bunkley, because I'd hate to think that my time was so lazily wasted."

Neil sighed. "Then I suppose I'll put it bluntly. Cecile was Tracy's accomplice. More like a lackey, really, but an active participant nonetheless."

"And she needed an accomplice why, exactly?" the thin man asked.

Neil looked at Paul, who smiled. "Once Tracy decided that she was going to try and frame us for a crime, she must have realized that she needed someone to make the changes to the Technica for her. You see, she's no more capable of adjusting pedal linkage on an automobile than you are of forcing your eyes to change color. She simply can't do it."

"It's an unfortunate truth," Neil continued, "your project manager is unqualified for her own job."

"Enough!" Tracy shouted. Her cheeks had turned blotchy, and she was sweating. "I've had enough. Maybe everyone else is willing to listen to these people insult me over and over andover again,just because that bitch of a reporter is out there, but-"

"You're right," Neil held up his hands. "You're right. I apologize. Really," he looked around the room, hands forward, "I am sorry, and I'm almost finished. Just let me just talk a little bit about Cecile Schaefer before I go, because by doing so I will also explain the motives behind the crime." He waved a finger. "It is my suspicion that Cecile was first drawn in when Tracy suggested to him that-"

"No!" Tracy snapped, jumping up. "I said enough, and I meant it! I'm tired of listening to this crap." She knocked her coffee cup over as she moved, and the remaining liquid trickled across the table. "I won't do it!"

"Tracy," someone muttered, "sit down."

She ignored the advice, turning to the room. "You want motive? I'll tell you about motive! Neil Fenner has all the motive in the world! You see, he recently learned that his wife has beencheating on him!" She looked around, seeing only horrified confusion. "It's true! And not cheating with just anybody, either!" she gestured wildly. "She's fuckingCecile Schaefer! A member ofNeil's own team!" People were frowning, now, glancing between the two accusers. No one seemed sure of what to make of the display. She turned triumphantly toward the front. "Do you deny it, Neil? Can you honestly tell them that any of that is untrue?"

"My wife," Neil admitted slowly, eyes hard and cold, "did sleep with Cecile this weekend. Howev-"

"Not just this weekend!" Tracy interrupted. "Not hardly!" She sneered, triumphant. "Here's what this has all been about: Neil Fenner, still not entirely over the death of his daughter, learned that his wife was having an affair with a coworker. It was too much for him to stand. In his rage, he decided to take revenge. The plan was simple: with help from his friend Paul, atruelackey if ever there was one, he would frame his wife's lover. Yes! He would frame Cecile Schaefer for a terrible crime. And if he had to bring Tracy Bunkley down as collateral damage to make it happen, well...it's not like heliked her." She shook her head. "But it didn't go as planned. He didn't count on a little girl dying as a result of his work. That's why he ran off without a word! That's why he pitched such a fucking fit! That's why he disappeared and threatened to quit his job. He feltguilt!He didn't feel it for Cecile. He didn't feel it for me, or for this company. He felt it for some stupid little girl, because she died. Because hekilledher."

She opened her mouth to say more, breathing heavily, but stopped when she saw the expressions on the faces around her. Some of the men looked embarrassed for her. Others shook their head, coming across almost like disappointed parents. One of the attorneys, looking decidedly uncomfortable, refused to look in her direction.

"What?" she barked indignantly. "What is this? Do you really needmore? Do I have to make it even clearer for you? Neil Fenner isguilty! Headmitted the affair! He...he..." she tried to think, realized that there was spittle on her lower lip, and wiped it away. "For Christ's sake, SAY SOMETHING!"

"Tracy," Greg Vaughan's pinched voice carried across the silence. "Can you explain to us why you know so much about this supposed affair between Cecile Schaefer and Mrs. Fenner? Why you seem to know so much about Neil's guilt, and yet you did not immediately report it? Why, in fact, you would be so knowledgeable about what all these people have been up to that you even know their thoughts, their feelings, and their motives?"

"I..." she blinked, and shook her head. "Cecile came to me and told me th...He, he ..." she trailed off, breathing through her mouth. "Jesus. What does it matter? We know thetruth, now. There isn't any reason for us to...to..." looking around the room, and finding no friendly faces, she swallowed hard and sat down. Her voice softened, quieting almost to a whisper. "Don't you see?" she asked.

"Mrs. Bunkley," the thin man said, "I think that we are beginning to."

Tracy shook her head, but couldn't think of anything to say.

One of the other attorneys, the one who had looked so uncomfortable, tapped his pencil on the table. "I'd like to make a suggestion, if I could," he said. "We are all going to have to answer questions and sign statements regarding what we heard and saw here today." He glanced at Vaughan, who nodded his agreement. "I'm not sure it would be in our best interest to continue in this fashion. We have the report. We should start making the appropriate phone calls immediately."

Tracy put her elbows on the table, and held her head in her hands. They were going to bury her for this. She knew that. One goddamn adrenalized outburst, and it was all over.

Silently, she wondered if she might still be able to shift most of the blame on Cecile.

-=-=-

There were three cop cars in the parking lot.

He didn't pull in. In fact he didn't even slow as he drove past the office, just sped along and turned left onto the next available side street.

The unmistakable vehicles were nestled up against the front entryway to the building. Neil Fenner was outside, talking to one of the cops, smiling and nodding his head.

So there it was.

Even though it was cold out, Cecile turned on his air conditioner as he ramped up onto the interstate. He wiped sweat off his brow. Leaning and reaching out, he opened the glove box and set the gun inside. Fenner had won, Tracy was finished, and that had to mean that he was a hunted fugitive. There would be no revenge. Just like there would be no Gina, no job, and no future. Even if he was prepared to die in a hail of gunfire, he knew he wasn't good enough a shot to actually hit Fenner before being taken down. Waiting until later wasn't an option, either. He had to leave town. Every fiber of his being pushed him to get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible. He didn't want to die, but he would not go to jail either.

He drove west, not thinking at all about destination. Only seeking escape. His whole life was over. There wasn't anything left.

An image flashed in his mind. It was himself, sitting next to Neil Fenner, driving him to the airport Wednesday night. In his mind's eye he saw himself glance over at the weary passenger, heard his own thoughts about how old the man looked. He heard his unspoken promise to himself not to waste his life the way Neil had. He heard it all, and it seemed incredibly funny.

Cecile laughed out loud. He laughed at himself, his failure and his love, and all of his pathetic little schoolboy dreams. And he was still laughing, like a humorless looped recording, when the city faded out behind him.

-=-=-

The sun was dropping low on the horizon, painting the evening sky in indigo and sapphire, when Paul found Neil sitting out on the front stoop of the building. Between officials, lawyers, and reporters, the last seven hours had been absolute chaos. Sweat stained the pits of his shirt, and the only thing he wanted in the whole world was a cigarette. His throat was already sore and hoarse from talking, telling his story over and over again. And now, with another day gone and a chilling breeze beginning to slither across the city, the world felt like a quiet and abandoned place. It seemed like a good home to have for a little while.

Paul sat down next to his friend. "Rumor going around is that she confessed to everything," he said, lighting a cigarette. "You believe that?"

"No. I mean I'd like to," Neil's smile didn't reach his eyes. "But I have to doubt it. She's a game player, and a self-serving bitch if ever there was one. I imagine that she felt this wind coming, knew what it meant, and admitted to the smallest amount possible without actually lying. She'll put it all on Cecile. And if he doesn't turn up in the next few days, then I imagine she'll partially succeed. She's got a long, ugly road ahead of her, but nothing like he'll have."

Paul nodded, and didn't speak.

"I'm glad it's over," Neil admitted. "More than I can put into words, I'm glad."

"I am, too," Paul said. "But is it over? I mean really? I can't help but notice that you haven't gone home yet. Do you know what you're gonna do?"

He shrugged. "She called earlier. I told her that we'd won, and that I'd be late. Said she might see me on the news." He scratched at his arms. "It's hard to know what will happen with Gina and I. Honestly, as tumultuous as the last few days have been, it's hard to even know how I feel. I mean I know that I'm angry. I know that I'm hurt. But I'm not sure what that means. I'm not sure how that plays out in the long run. There's a real sense of disappointment, like things are going to be different now. Like we've lost something that doesn't come back. But then love isn't something I can describe as weak-willed, either."

"I suppose not," Paul said. He pulled on his cigarette and was silent for a time. "You know," he said at last, "there are a lot of beautiful things in this world. And for a very short while there, I really thought we were going to get locked away from all of them."

"I did, too," Neil sighed.

"I think," Paul flicked his cigarette to the ground, "that I would have missed them, very much." Then he stood up, wiped his hands on his shirt, and patted his friend's shoulder. "I'll see you around, Neil."

"Yeah," Neil said, and didn't get up. "See you around."

-=-=-

The house ached, crying out like a moody child. Joints creaked against the rapidly growing winds, doors rattled in their frames, and the first wooden snaps of oncoming winter echoed up from the basement. Gina paced without hurry between the kitchen and living room, looking out the window on every pass in the off chance that she might spot Neil's car. She hugged herself tighter and tighter with each passing hour, but her expression remained one of determination.

She knew that the next few months would be hard. She knew that her marriage might turn out to be the last belated casualty of Tracy and Cecile's terrible scheme. But she also knew that she would fight for it, to the last. She would fight for it with everything that she had. And, although he was hurting now, she believed that her husband would fight, too. If their marriage died, then it would be the stubborn death of an exhausted warrior and not the squealing death of a fleeing coward. It would go down swinging.

But that was all for later, for when Neil came home, and the waiting was especially taxing. That anxious sense of inevitability combined with unyielding powerlessness drove her crazy. If only he would arrive, so the battle could start. She wanted it to happen. She ached for it.

Time passed. Gina refused to look at the clock, or to let herself worry about why he hadn't come to her yet. Those were unproductive actions. She would not indulge them.

The house spoke to her, speaking of bitter loneliness and stark winter. and she shushed it, and continued to pace.

Then, at last, twin headlights lit up the living room. The garage door opened.

Home at last. She ran to him.

-=-=-

Tuesday

Cecile ate his McChicken with stoney indifference to the passage of time. He chewed methodically, not tasting the food but not forcing it down either. There wasn't anywhere he needed to be.

Two days on the road had done a lot to calm his nerves. Something about being behind the wheel felt empowering, soothing in a way. He still didn't know where he was going. He didn't even know where hecouldgo. Canada seemed like an impossibility, and Mexico sounded miserable. Even though he hadn't yet noticed any of the sideways glances that would tell him that his face had shown up in the news, that didn't mean it hadn't. It certainly didn't mean he wasn't a wanted man. It just meant that he'd entered into the wasteland, and nobody there knew anything at all.

That's what it was. A wasteland. He'd never ventured this far into the Plains States before. To say they were dull and vacant was, at the very least, a brutal understatement. Having grown up in the knotted human mass that was the East Coast, and played his frantic part in the smokesong chorus of the industrial belt, he had little interest in the vast empty spaces and big sky of this cow-eyed grassland. It was scenery, made for philosophers and artisans. Not for people of substance.

Was that what he was? A person of substance? There was no legitimate job or housing was in his future. No woman to couple or children to raise. He had four hundred and eighty dollars, a name like slow-acting poison, and a loaded gun.

What a joke.

He almost didn't notice the shadow that fell over him as he buried himself in desparing thoughts. When he did look up, he saw a man with compassionate eyes, a big grin, and a strange, snaking armband tattoo.

His visitor smiled down at him. "Afternoon," he said, holding out his hand. "You look like someone who could use a friend." Cecile reached out to shake the offered hand without thinking, then wondered what he was doing. Paranoia made him pull away. He examined his mysterious visitor, looking for clues. Faded jeans, caked in dry dirt. A laborer's white shirt, showing all sorts of wear, and a relaxed easiness that bordered on amusement. Not exactly the uniform of law enforcement. He had a large soda in his hand, which he rested it on the table as he waited for Cecile to talk.

"I guess that I could," Cecile admitted. Then he snorted a laugh. "A friend, a job, a place to stay. I could use a little of just about everything. Everything that matters."