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I'm not a religious man, but I make the sign of the cross over my heart just in case. The way I do every time I start. After all, the next few seconds could change my life forever.
Employees aren't supposed to use company Internet access for personal reasons, but lots of us violate the policy and no one's ever been fired for it. Jesus, they only pay me thirty-nine thousand dollars a year to be an assistant sales rep for retail paper products in the mid-Atlantic region. So the way I see it, I deserve a perk or two along the way. I've dedicated eleven years to this company, but my wife and I still live paycheck to paycheck, even though she has a full-time job too.
Images flash across my computer screen, and I quickly reach the home page of the on-line brokerage firm I use to trade my small stock portfolio. As I enter the information required to access my account, adrenaline surges through me, like it always does when I get to this point. It's as if I've bought a lotto ticket with a fifty-million-dollar jackpot, and I have that lucky feeling tingling in my veins.
Name: Augustus McKnight
Password: Cardinal
Account Number: YTP1699
My fingertips race across the keyboard as I close in on my target, and I pause for a sip of coffee and a deep breath. The deal is only a few screens away, and I'm addicted to the anticipation --- so I prolong it. It's one of the few things I look forward to these days. This morning, as I guided my rusting Toyota through bumper-to-bumper northern Virginia traffic and thick summer humidity, I had a premonition that today would be different. That something was going to interrupt my daily grind. But I've had that feeling before.
There's a sharp knock and my eyes shift to the office doorway. Standing there is my boss, Russell Lake, vice president of all paper product sales. Russell is a slender man with thinning brown hair, a full mustache, and a pasty complexion. He leans into my cramped office, one hand on the doorknob, peering at me over wire-rimmed glasses. And I stare back like a boy caught digging in the cookie jar just before dinner.
"Good morning, Augustus."
I can tell by the intensity in Russell's eyes that he's trying to figure out what I'm doing on my computer, but I've positioned it so someone standing at the door can't see the screen. "Hello," I say warily. You never know what he's up to.
"Up with the eagles this morning?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's only eight o'clock," he says sarcastically, tapping the cracked crystal face of the same Timex he wore the day he interviewed me more than a decade ago. He's always been sarcastic. That's just the way he is. "Aren't you usually crawling out of bed about now?"
I'm in by seven thirty almost every morning, sometimes earlier, but there's no point in arguing. Like most bosses, Russell has a convenient memory.
"What are you working on?" he asks.
"Cold fusion."
"Very funny," he says, moving into the office. "Tell me the truth."
I'm tempted to flick off the computer, but that would be a dead giveaway I'm doing something wrong. "I'm updating a sales report for central Virginia," I say, hoping he doesn't walk around to my side of the desk. "Nothing exciting."
"Checking your stock portfolio again?"
Russell blurs before me. "What?"
He settles into a chair on the other side of my desk, an annoying smile tickling the corners of his mouth. "I know all about your day trading." He snickers. "You're on that computer at least two hours a day doing research, checking quotes, and placing orders." Russell removes his glasses and cleans the dirty lenses with his striped polyester tie. "I'm willing to look the other way at a little indiscretion, but sales in your region are way down. A couple of weeks ago senior management wanted to know what was going on. I defended you as basically a good employee, but I had to tell them about your stock market addiction."
"Dammit, Russell! Why'd you screw me like that?"
"Don't blame me, Augustus," he replies coldly, replacing the lenses on his face. "You've got to start accepting accountability for your actions if you want to get anywhere around here. That's always been a problem for you."
"How do you know what I'm doing on my computer?"
"I monitor the network."
"So you've been spying on me?"
"Spying is such a nasty way to put it," Russell says. "I prefer'monitoring.' "
"You've been watching me without me knowing. That's what it boils down to."
He raises his eyebrows and grins smugly. "Now you know."
"That sucks."
"You shouldn't be using company property for personal reasons," he retorts.
"Lots of other people do."
"Other people get their work done on time. Besides, the company has a right to protect its assets."
"And I have a right to protect my privacy."
"Last year, you and everybody else around here signed a waiver permitting us to monitor your Internet activity," Russell reminds me, "including e-mails. This shouldn't come as any surprise."
Now that he says something, I do remember signing that waiver. It didn't seem like a big deal at the time, but it's come back to haunt me.
"Are you day trading right now?" Russell wants to know.
I hear a different tone in his voice. There's curiosity as opposed to warning, with a hint of goodwill too. But Russell is skilled at convincing people he's reaching out when he's really digging, so I have to be careful.
"Come on," he urges when I don't respond right away. "I'm interested."
I've been caught red-handed, but if I'm cooperative, maybe he'll cut me a break. "I'm not actually day trading," I say cautiously. "Real day traders execute hundreds of buy and sell orders every day. I'm not doing that."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm buying a few shares here and there and holding them for the long term." My entire portfolio is worth less than a thousand bucks. I won't be retiring on it, but I get a kick out of knowing that when prices go up I've made money without lifting a finger. "Once in a while I get in and out within a couple of days," I add. "But not very often."
"So give me an example. Like what are you doing right now?" he asks, gesturing at the screen.
"Checking my account. Last night I e-mailed my on-line brokerage firm about an IPO they're involved in."
"An IPO?"
"An initial public offering," I say deliberately. Russell knows almost nothing about the stock market. He's told me he puts most of his money in a bank account earning a boring four percent a year. He hates it when the market goes up and loves it when it dives. "The company's stock is scheduled to begin trading on the Nasdaq at nine thirty this morning. I was checking my account to see if I had won any of its shares in a lottery my firm was running yesterday."
"What do you mean, lottery?"
I've spent a lot of time over the past few years learning all I can about financial markets by reading the Wall Street Journal, studying business school textbooks I've borrowed from my local public library, and doing research on the Internet. It feels good to show off a little of what I've learned. "The big brokerage houses sell shares of going-public companies to their preferred clients," I explain. "Clients like insurance companies, mutual funds, pension funds, and a few rich individuals."
"The haves," Russell sniffs. He's from a working-class family, like me.
"Brokers sell shares to those preferred clients at a price they think will rise during the first day's trading," I continue, ignoring Russell's resentment.
"Ensuring their clients a profit."
"Right. The brokerage houses want to make sure the preferred clients are always happy so they can count on them for the next deal, and the next and so on."
"It's a stacked deck," Russell mutters. "An insider's game you and I will never get to play."
"That's mostly true," I agree. "In the past, small share lots were around, but you had to know somebody at the company or the brokerage house to get your hands on them. You really did have to be an insider. Now there's a chance for me to get them too."
"How?"
"That's where the lottery comes in. Because of all the Internet trading, the big Wall Street firms that lead IPOs have recruited on-line brokerage firms to help them sell shares to the general public. On- line brokers serve regular people who, individually, may have only a small amount of money to invest, but, when added together, control a lot of cash. Like big firms, the on-line firms give their best customers first crack at most of the shares they have. But as a marketing gimmick, they make a small part of their allocation available to all their customers by running a lottery. The lottery gets lots of people interested. Even if they don't win any shares in the lottery, the little guys do their best to get them in the after-market as fast as they can."
"Which helps drive the price up on the first day of trading," Russell reasons, "just like the big Wall Street firms want."
"Exactly."
Russell leans forward in his chair and rotates the monitor so he can see the screen too. "And you participate in these lotteries?"
"Sure. As long as you have an account," I explain, nodding at the screen, "and money in the account to cover the share purchase if you win, you can play."
"How long have you been doing this?"
I can tell Russell isn't asking questions to build a case against me. He could do that simply by tracking my network activity. He wants to learn how to play the game. "Six months."
"Ever won?"
"No," I admit. "They don't make many shares available in the lottery. Like I said, it's mostly a marketing gimmick designed to spark interest in the stock."
"Ever heard of anyone winning?"
"No."
Russell laughs harshly. "No one like you ever wins at this game, Augustus. It's all a big con. They're trying to make you think they care about your business. But they really don't."
That thought has occurred to me before.
"Well?" he asks.
"Well what?"
"Aren't you going to check to see if you won?" He wants to see my disappointment because he's the kind of man who finds comfort in the despair of others. "Go on."
I move the mouse so the flashing white arrow is on the appropriate spot and click to my personal page. Instantly a summary of my account --- a detailed description of the few shares I own --- appears on the screen, but at the bottom of the page is a blinking message I've never seen before. A message instructing me to click on it. The text is surrounded by exclamation points and turns rapidly from red to white to blue with firework graphics exploding all around it. Usually this message is a dull black and white. Usually it informs me that I haven't won any shares --- again.
Russell leans across the desk and points. "What does all of that mean?"
"I don't know," I admit, unable to hide my grin. "Looks good, though, doesn't it?"
"Click on it," he orders, an edge in his voice. As much as he takes pleasure in another's disappointment, he hates his own envy.
I glance at the ceiling, cross my heart one more time, then guide the flashing arrow down to the message and click.
Suddenly the entire screen is exploding, and in the middle of the chaos is a box with words congratulating me on winning five hundred Unicom shares. It informs me that the IPO price will be $20 a share and that my account has already been debited ten thousand dollars, plus commissions.
"My God," Russell exclaims. "Where did you get ten grand?"
According to Wall Street's experts, Unicom could finish today's trading at $100 a share, maybe even $200. The era of every dot-com IPO soaring into the stratosphere right away is long gone, but Unicom has been tagged a can't-miss kid by the Street's All-American analysts. It has developed an amazing, next-generation wireless technology, and the huge telecommunications firms are pounding on its Silicon Valley door to steal a peak inside the kimono.
Elation rushes through my body. In a few hours my ten thousand could be worth fifty thousand, maybe even a hundred thousand.
"Augustus, I asked where you got ten thousand dollars," Russell demands, irritated.
"Calm down. I haven't saved that kind of money working at this place." I know that's what he's worried about. "It's my inheritance."
On her deathbed last Christmas my mother instructed me to dig in the backyard beside the porch. There I would find something helpful, she said. I was skeptical because during her last few years my mother's brain was ravaged by Alzheimer's. But in the fading light of a cold December dusk I followed her instructions, and a few inches down into the icy soil, my shovel struck metal. Inside a shoe-box-sized container lay neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills, flat and crisp, as though she'd individually ironed each one. I stood there in the cold for a long time, gazing at the money in the rays of a dim flashlight, overwhelmed. Apart from the money in the tin box, my mother had little else. The equity in the house barely covered her funeral.
My mother's last request was that I not tell my wife what I found in the yard. That I use the "something helpful" for myself. Mother never liked Melanie.
I've kept this money in a very safe savings account since I dug it up, afraid that if I invested it in anything else I might lose it. I earned almost nothing in interest, which was frustrating, but now it looks like my patience has paid off.
"What does Unicom do?" Russell asks impatiently.
"It has developed a state-of-the-art wireless application," I explain, eager to show how thoroughly I've done my research. I've tried to talk to Melanie about the market many times, but she doesn't share my passion for it. In fact, she doesn't share my passion for much of anything anymore. These days most of our conversations seem to dissolve into a predictable set of questions and answers. "And they've invented a codec, a compression-decompression device, that brings real-time interactive television to desktop computers regardless of a user's hard drive capacity or Internet connection. Now people won't need a server the size of a living room or a T-3 hookup to make two-way desktop television work. It's revolutionary."
Russell airmails me an irritated look. I know it annoys the hell out of him to think that I'm up to speed on concepts like byte compression, hard drive capacity, and bandwidth connections. Things he knows little about.
"You need to focus on why paper towel sales are down at the big supermarket chains in Maryland," he warns, standing up. "Not on technologies that have nothing to do with your job." He turns back when he reaches the door. "Listen and listen to me good, Augustus. I want half of everything you make on that Unicom stock today, and I want it in cash by the end of the week. Otherwise you're out of here."
3
When I get home Melanie is waiting for me in the small foyer of our cookie-cutter three-bedroom ranch house, arms folded tightly across her ample chest, one shoe tapping an impatient rhythm on the scuffed wooden floor.
"Where have you been?" she demands before I've even shut the door.
"The Arthur Murray school of dancing. I know how you've always wanted to learn that ballroom stuff, and I was going to surprise you for your birthday, but --- "
"Augustus!"
My attempt at humor isn't going over well. "Mel, I --- "
"Dammit, Augustus, it's late and I'm in no mood for this."
At thirty-three --- the same age as me --- my wife remains a beautiful creature. The same long-legged blonde I fell for in eleventh grade. The same girl I followed to Roanoke College and married a month after graduation with a few family members and friends looking on. To me, she's still every bit as pretty as she was the day of our wedding. "Something came up at the last minute." I smile mysteriously, but she doesn't seem to notice.
"I can't count on you anymore, Augustus. You tell me you're going to do one thing, but then you do something else. You told me you'd be home by six and here it is after eleven."
"You said you had to stay late at the office again tonight, so I thought you wouldn't care if I went out." My smile fades. "And you've been working later and later over the past few months. I wasn't sure you'd come home tonight at all."
"I don't appreciate that," she snaps.
Melanie is an executive assistant for a Washington, D.C., divorce attorney named Frank Taylor, and I've always suspected that he has more than just a professional interest in her. During the past few months she's been wearing lots of perfume --- sometimes heavier when she gets home at night than when she leaves in the morning. She's been dressing more provocatively too and working late several nights a week, sometimes until one or two in the morning. Even a few Friday and Saturday nights recently. I finally tried talking to her about it last week, but she flew into a rage right away, then accused me of silly macho jealousy and stalked off. But it occurred to me later that she never actually denied anything.
Melanie won't look at me. "I have to talk to you."
Her eyes are puffy, as though she's been crying. "What about, sweetheart?" I move forward to comfort her but she takes a quick step back and buries her face in her hands. "What is it, Mel?"
"Oh, Augustus," she murmurs sadly.
I wrap my arms around her and hold on tightly, even as she struggles to turn away. I work out almost every day in the makeshift gym I've set up in our basement, and at six-four and over two hundred twenty pounds, I easily control her slender frame. "Easy, honey."
"Let me go, Augustus."
"Not until you tell me what's wrong."
"Let me go!" she yells, her arms starting to flail.
Suddenly her fingernails rake the side of my neck. I've never seen her like this before. "Calm down, Mel."
"Get your hands off of me!"
"Stop it."
"You don't understand me!"
"Of course I do. You've had a long day and you're exhausted," I say sympathetically, controlling my anger despite the fact that my neck feels like it's on fire where she scratched me. "And you're sick of me telling you that we can't afford anything."
"You've been drinking," she says, her tantrum easing. "I smell scotch on your breath."
"I had a few drinks with a friend. That's all."
"A female friend, I'm sure."
Melanie has never accused me of cheating before. In fact, I didn't think she cared anymore. "I was with Vincent." Vincent Carlucci and I have been friends since I was ten years old.
"I've seen how women look at you, Augustus," she says, wiping tears and smudged mascara from her face, "and how you look back."
"I've always been faithful to you, Melanie."
She slumps against me like a rag doll, arms dangling at her sides, face pressed to my chest. "I can't do this anymore," she sobs.
"You're right. You can't keep up this pace," I agree, slipping my palms against her soft, damp cheeks and tilting her head back until she's looking up at me. I smile down at her confidently, feeling better than I have in years. I've scored big in the stock market and she's going to be impressed. "I want you to stop working, Melanie. I want you to sleep late in the mornings and pamper yourself."
"What are you talking about?" she asks, grimacing as she glances at my neck.
"You don't have to work any longer. It's as simple as that."
"We can barely make ends meet as it is. From what you've told me, sometimes we don't. How could we possibly survive without my salary?"
"You let me worry about that."
She stares at me for a few moments, then closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Did you think I was talking about my job when I said I couldn't do'this' anymore?" she asks softly.
"Of course." In that awful moment I understand what she really needed to talk to me about tonight. "Wasn't it?"
"No."
"Then what did you mean?" My voice is hollow, almost inaudible.
She covers her mouth with her hand. She says nothing, but she doesn't have to. The look in her eyes says it all.
The first few moments of lost love are terrible. I gaze at her helplessly, and it's crushing to see how sorry she feels for me --- pity is such a useless emotion, only making matters worse for both of us. Melanie wants to be with someone else. Over the years I've heard the whispers from her family and friends that I'm a disappointment to her. Now she's finally listened to those whispers and given in to her desire to be with another. "Melanie?"
"We don't have any children, Augustus," she sobs, "and so little money. It won't be hard to split things up."
"It's your boss, isn't it?" My rage erupts. An awful, mind-numbing fury that spreads like wildfire from my brain to my eyes to my chest. I've tried to be understanding about the late hours, the new wardrobe full of short dresses and lacy blouses, the matchbooks from expensive Washington restaurants on her dresser, even the hang-up telephone calls I endure on weekends. Her indifference to me. But no more. "It's Frank Taylor!" I shout. "You're having an affair with your goddamn boss. I knew it! Taylor's made you all kinds of ridiculous promises and you've decided to take a chance."
"This has nothing to do with Frank!" she shouts back. "It has to do with me. I need a fresh start, Augustus. I'm drowning in our life. I have to save myself. If I don't do it now, I never will."
"He's tempting you with houses, cars, and jewelry. I know it."
"Wouldn't that be awful if he was?" she snaps.
"You bi --- "
"It's not true!" she snaps. "But do you blame me for wanting those things?"
"Melanie, come to your senses," I beg, swallowing my pride. "It's going to be much better for us from now on. I promise."
"You've been saying that for eleven years. I'm not willing to wait any longer." Tears stream down her face, but they are tears of rage, not sadness or compassion. "I'm sick and tired of being married to a man who accepts being ordinary," she says, gesturing angrily over her shoulder at the inside of our modest home. "I want someone who needs success as much as I do."
"Let's not kid ourselves. You want money. That's all you've ever wanted."
Her eyes fill with tears again. "How can you say that to me?"
"Because it's true, and you know it."
She drops her face into her hands. "Let's just end it," she pleads pitifully. "Please."
I stare at her, wishing I could take back those words, even if they are true. "Mel, come on."
"I'm sorry, Augustus. I'm so sorry, but I want a divorce."
"This is crazy," I say, taking her gently by the arms. "Stop it."
"Let me go."
My heart sinks as I realize that this is not a passing drama. She's serious. "Oh, God," I mutter, looking down. Both of Melanie's wrists are marked by painful-looking purple bruises. "What have you done to yourself?" I murmur, looking up into her beautiful, anguished face.
She yanks her arms from my grasp and runs away down the short hall without answering.
"Wait, Mel. I hit it big today in the --- " But the slam of our bedroom door cuts me off.
For five minutes I stand in our foyer, unable to comprehend what has just happened, my emotions ricocheting from dejection to rage. Finally I stumble to the kitchen and ease into a chair at the scarred wooden table where Melanie and I have eaten so many meals together. My eyes come to rest on a notepad lying beside the sugar bowl and a stack of unpaid bills. In Melanie's looping script I see that Russell Lake has telephoned four times this evening. I'm supposed to call him back no matter how late it is.
I touch my neck where Melanie scratched me, then bring my hand in front of my face. My fingertips are stained with blood.
Back to top.
Chapter Two
I'm not a greedy man, so my decision to sell is an easy one.
At four o'clock yesterday afternoon Unicom closed its first trading session on the Nasdaq at $139 a share, up $119 from the $20 IPO price. In the overnight "casino" market it spiked another $36, to $175 a share, where it opened this morning. So, after plowing my entire inheritance into this one investment, my ten thousand dollars has turned into nearly ninety thousand. I've made almost two years' salary in less than twenty-four hours. That, in a nutshell, is the allure of the stock market.
As I stare at my computer screen, I can't help wondering how Melanie would react if she knew about this. I never got a chance to tell her last night. Never got a chance to explain how we could afford to let her quit working. And she had already left this morning when I woke up on the living room sofa, cradling an empty scotch bottle.
A soft knock on my office door distracts me from some very ugly thoughts. "Who is it?"
"Russell."
I expected to see him as soon as I walked in this morning, but it's after ten and this is his first appearance.
"Open up," he demands.
He couldn't sneak up on me today because I closed and locked my door when I got in. "What do you want?" I ask, grudgingly allowing him to enter.
"Don't sound so happy to see me," he says, checking out the dark red marks on my neck. "God, you look awful."
"I didn't get much sleep last night," I admit, easing back into my desk chair with a loud groan.
"What happened?"
Russell should have been a CIA agent instead of a midlevel man-ager buried in corporate America. Ultimately he unearths everything, as he surely will in this case if I don't tell him. There will be plenty of clues. I'll have to change my address because Melanie wants me out of the house as soon as possible --- she left that pleasant request in a short, unsigned note I found on my dresser this morning. Russell will be given that new address by the human resources department. And there will be a steady stream of e-mails bouncing back and forth be-tween
Melanie, the attorneys, and me as the divorce proceeds. E-mails Russell could read because he monitors the network. So it's better to be up-front with him about what's going on, rather than endure his nasty comments about being kept in the dark later on.
"Melanie wants a divorce."
"That's terrible." For a moment Russell looks as if he truly feels sorry for me, but his tone lacks compassion. It's as if he thought my di-vorce was inevitable and timing was the only question. "What was her reason?" he asks. Like most men who know Melanie, Russell is fasci-nated by her.
"I'd rather not discuss it."
"Did she find someone else?"
"Russell."
"Sometimes it helps to talk about these things."
"Sometimes it doesn't." As usual, Russell relaxes into the chair on the other side of my desk without being asked. "What will you do about living arrange-ments? Will you stay in the house with her until the divorce is final?"
A familiar lump builds in my throat as I think about how I'm being evicted from my own home. Frank Taylor has stolen my wife. Worse, she has let him. "No, I'm going to look for an apartment at lunch." Melanie never admitted that Taylor was really driving all of this, but I know the truth.
"Close to the office?"
"Yes."
"Do you need some time off?"
"No." That would give me more time to brood, and nothing good would come of that. Besides, Russell might use my time away from the company as an excuse to demote me.
"So Melanie will get the house to herself."
"Yes." I stare at him, wondering what perverted things are on his mind.
After a long pause he says, "I was on a conference call with senior management this morning. The June numbers are in."
"So?"
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, especially at such a tough time, but sales in your region were down again last month. Senior manage-ment is very concerned, particularly in light of the fact that sales in other areas of the country are doing so well."
"We've been over this a hundred times, Russell," I remind him, ex-asperated.
"The major competitors in my region are running big dis-count programs right now. There's nothing I can do to jump-start sales until we lower prices. But you won't let me do that."
"Senior management doesn't want excuses."
"Screw senior management."
There's another long pause. "Unicom did very well yesterday," Russell finally says.
"Let's talk about that later. I've got calls to make."
"I checked the share price on the Internet before I came in here," he continues. "It's up to almost a hundred and eighty bucks." "I sold everything this morning at one seventy-five." "That's fine," he says, head bobbing as he stands up and moves toward the door. "I agree with that strategy. There's no need for us to be greedy in our first venture together." He hesitates, hand on the doorknob. "Now get on that computer and get us into another lottery. Do you hear me?"
This afternoon, with her blond hair falling seductively down onto her shoulders to frame her angelic face, Melanie looks as pretty to me as she ever has. She wears a short dress and high heels, accentuating her long, perfect legs. From the beginning our friends said we made an ap-pealing contrast. Melanie blond, me dark. Her eyes light blue, mine dark green. As she stands before me in the secluded courtyard of a small park a few miles from my office, her hands clasped in front of her, I'm overcome by her beauty. We're cut off from the world here, surrounded by tall hedges on all sides, and, suddenly, all I want to do is kiss her.
"What do you want?" she asks quietly.
"Thanks for coming," I say, not answering. I pleaded with her an hour ago on the phone to meet me here, not knowing what I'd say if she agreed to come because I didn't think she would. On the short drive over I planned my speech, but now, as I look at her, I'm finding it hard to focus. "Thanks," I mumble again.
She takes a step closer. "I know this whole thing is a shock to you, Augustus, and I'm sorry about that. I don't feel good about myself right now. I'm hurting too."
"Somehow I have a hard time believing that." Her expression turns grim, and I wish I hadn't said that. "We can work things out, Mel. I know we can." Her gaze drops to the gray slate beneath us. "We can't give up on each other," I continue, my voice intensifying. "We're too good together." Her perfume drifts to my nostrils, and it drives me crazy to think she might be wearing it for Frank Taylor. Perhaps he even bought it for her. But I can get past all the jealousy and rage if she'll just come back. I could even get past the bruises on her wrists. "We've been together so long. We can't let it end like this." Tears build in her eyes and I press, sensing that this might be my best chance to change her mind. "We promised ourselves we'd never let this happen. Remember?"
"Yes," she whispers.
"We need to rededicate ourselves to each other and to our rela-tionship. We need to work at this thing." I take another deep breath and nod solemnly, implying that I am accepting my share of the blame. "I've been paying too much attention to all of my stock charts lately, and not enough attention to you. I apologize for that. I promise not to take you or us for granted ever again."
"Sometimes I think you care more about the Wall Street Journal than you do about me."
"I need to work harder at our marriage," I agree firmly. "Nothing can be more important."
She lets her head fall back slowly and looks to the sky, our future balanced precariously on her next words. "Augustus, I just can't...."
"Give it time, Mel." I heard an awful finality creeping into her tone. "For God's sake, give it time."
She drops her head and catches a tear on her finger. "I've made my decision," she says, her voice raspy.
But I hear a tiny bit of indecision. Like there might still be a sliver of a chance. "Mel, you've got to reconsider."
"Don't do this," she pleads. "Don't make it more difficult than it al-ready is."
"I can't lose you, Mel. I can't be without you." I take her hand and she doesn't pull away, which must be a good sign. I'm saying all the right things, despite how hard it is. After all, she's the one asking for the divorce. "You're the only woman I've --- " Emotion suddenly stran-gles my words, and the brutal honesty causes her to glance up. "You're the only woman I've ever made love to, Mel. I've never said that to you before, but it's true." I had chances, before and after we were married, but I've never strayed. And that night so long ago, in the fall of our senior year in high school, when she surrendered to me in the back of my parents' old Chevy, was my first experience. "You're the only woman I've ever wanted to make love to."
A tear rolls down her cheek as she glances at my neck. "I know," she whispers. "Maybe that's part of the problem."
"What?"
"Frank has volunteered to help me with my side of the divorce," she announces, her demeanor turning professional. "Which is very nice of him. He says you need to retain an attorney right away, and he has several recommendations of people who can help if you don't know anyone."
"Does he now?" I ask, really feeling for the first time that the end of my marriage is at hand. My thoughts flash to a knife lying in the trunk of my Toyota. A knife I keep stashed in the folds of a red woolen hunting vest in case of trouble on the road.
"We have to move on, Augustus. I thought I made myself clear last night."
I swallow several times, unable to believe what I'm thinking. "Are you? . . ." My voice trails off.
"What, Augustus?" she snaps, anticipating my question. But she's going to make me say the words. "Am I what?"
Blood pounds in my brain and tiny spots flash before me. Irides-cent spots that shoot across my retinas. I'm not certain I want to know the answer, but I can't help myself. "Are you screwing Frank Taylor?"
For a long time she says nothing, then her eyes narrow. "Do you really care?"
"Yes," I answer evenly. "I do."
"Is everything all right, Melanie?"
Together, she and I look toward a narrow stone archway --- the only entrance to the courtyard. Frank Taylor is standing there dressed in a gray suit and red tie.
"You okay?" he asks suspiciously, giving me a warning look.
She hurries to him and comfortably slips her arm into his, as though she's done it many times before. "I'm fine, Frank."
"Hello, Augustus," he calls out in a trial-lawyer tone, like he's about to cross-examine a hostile witness.
I've met Taylor several times at the Christmas parties he hosts for his employees and their spouses at his offices. Each year we've had nothing to say to each other after mumbling hello. It always irritated me the way he smiled at Melanie across the party every few minutes, even when he was talking to someone else.
"I told Augustus that he needs to hire an attorney," Melanie in-forms him obediently.
Taylor pats her hand gently. "That's right, Augustus," he says, "get yourself a good lawyer. You'll need one." "I made almost eighty thousand dollars in the stock market this morning," I mutter, the lump in my throat suffocating my words.
They don't hear me because they're already walking away and my voice is so low. As I watch, Taylor's hand comes to rest on the small of Melanie's back, then slips lower just as they turn the corner and disappear.
"I thought you'd gone home."
I look at Russell vacantly. I've been sitting at my desk for the last hour, staring at the wall, thinking about Frank Taylor's hand on Mela-nie. The image is seared into my mind, and I'm still seething.
"I'm glad you're still here."
"What do you want?"
"I want my money," Russell says calmly. "My share of the Unicom profits. The gain was almost eighty thousand, which means my share is forty grand."
"Forget it."
Russell steps into my office and slams the door. "I wasn't kidding yesterday morning," he hisses. "You pay me or I fire you. It's as simple as that. You made that money using company assets on company time. You owe it to me."
After taxes, my net proceeds from the Unicom trade should be about sixty thousand dollars, assuming I don't hit it big on anything else this year and get pushed into a higher tax bracket. That's a healthy chunk of change, and the thought of giving away so much of it makes me want to puke. I worked hard for that money, and now, like a hyena, he's trying to scavenge my kill. "I'm not giving you one cent."
"You damn well better!"
"Go to hell, you asshole." God, that felt good. I've wanted to say that to him for so long.
If steam could actually rise from a man's ears, it would be spewing from Russell's as though from a hole in a high-pressure pipe. I'm sure he expected me to roll over on this thing to save my job. In fact, in his mind he's probably already spent the money. But I'm not going to let him take advantage of me.
"I protected you this morning on that conference call with senior management!" he shouts. "Those pricks wanted to fire your ass, but I stuck up for you. If it wasn't for me, you'd be out of a job right now." He wags a finger at me. "Don't be stupid, Augustus. Give me the money."
I rise from my chair and move to where he stands, towering over him. I'm tempted to pick him up and throw him against the wall. It would be so easy and feel so good. "I quit," I snarl, somehow keeping my clenched fists at my side.
I'm sitting at my kitchen table in just boxer shorts and a T-shirt. The windows are wide open to the darkness, but even now, at midnight, the heat is still brutal. The air conditioner was broken when I finally made it home. I tried to get a breeze circulating through the house, but July in Washington is hot and stiflingly humid, and opening all the windows hasn't helped much.
One more time I check the charts and graphs spread out all over the kitchen table. I'm trying to decide what to do with the money I made off Unicom, but it's hard to concentrate with the heat and every-thing that's happened today. Finally I head into the living room to stretch out on the sofa. I've had enough day trading for one night.
The knock at the front door startles me from a fitful sleep on the sofa. An old movie is playing quietly on the television, and for a second I wonder if the knock was real or part of the film. I turned the tele-vision on to distract myself from thoughts of Melanie and Frank Taylor. I couldn't stop wondering how far she had gone for him. I couldn't stop wondering about his red silk tie and those purple bruises on her wrists.
The knock comes again. It's more urgent this time and I sit up and rub my eyes. Definitely not part of the movie. I check my watch in the glare from the television. It's almost two in the morning.
Standing on the front stoop are two men wearing plain slacks and sport coats, the top buttons of their shirts undone and their ties pulled down. Both of them are sweating in the intense heat, and one mops his forehead with a white handkerchief.
"Augustus McKnight?" the nearer one asks, pulling a gold badge from his jacket and flashing it at me. He's the older of the two, and he has a look in his eyes like he's incapable of being surprised by anything.
"Yes." I gaze at the badge. "That's me."
"I'm Detective Reggie Dorsey of the Washington, D.C., police de-partment. I'm sorry to inform you," he says without emotion, "but your wife is dead."
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Chapter Three
Melanie's body was discovered facedown in a trash-strewn alley in a crime-ridden section of Washington less than a mile from the Capitol. Her pocketbook lay a few feet away containing several hundred dollars and all of her credit cards, so Detective Reggie Dorsey ruled out robbery as a motive for her murder right away.
Despite having already matched the photograph on her driver's license to her blood-spattered face, Reggie requested that I come downtown with him immediately to make a positive identification. He said he had to have it at some point, and that I might as well get it over with as soon as possible. He said the longer I waited, the harder it would be. I figured he knew what he was talking about, so I agreed.
So here I stand beside the stainless steel gurney supporting my wife's naked body. I'm shivering in the morgue's cold, the odors of formaldehyde and death filling my nostrils. The images of toe tags and ashen fingers dangling from beneath sheets are fresh in my mind after I walked all the way through the place to get to this room. As I watch, an elderly man dressed in a long white lab coat slowly pulls one end of the shroud covering Melanie's body down from her forehead to her chin. He holds it tightly to the pale skin of her cheeks with latex-encased fingers so I won't see the horror of the hastily sutured ear-to-ear throat wound that, Reggie thoughtfully informed me, almost decapitated her. When I can no longer bear to look at Melanie's face, I nod at Reggie and bow my head. Then I cry. As an adult I've never cried in front of anyone, but I can't help it now. The thought that Melanie is gone forever overwhelms me --- and I crumble.
During the drive downtown in Reggie's unmarked cruiser it didn't sink in that Melanie was actually dead. I had no reason to doubt Reggie's information, delivered on my front stoop with all the tact of an infantry assault. I assumed he wouldn't have told me that way if he wasn't certain of her identity. However, the events of the past thirty-six hours had anesthetized me. I hadn't yet fully grasped the notion that Melanie was divorcing me, so the idea of her death seemed even furtherfrom reality.
But seeing her stiff form sprawled on the silver gurney makes it sickeningly real. I realize there will be no divorce; no Frank Taylor invading the sanctity of my home. Now I face something much more terrible. The woman I always believed I would grow old with is dead.
I fleetingly touch Melanie's cold fingers --- hanging from beneath the sheet --- then Reggie takes me to a small office where he leaves me alone to face my grief. It takes me thirty minutes to get myself together. When my mother died last Christmas I shed a few silent tears after her breathing stopped and I gently closed her eyelids. But by the time a nurse entered the room a few minutes later, I was back in control. Death seemed natural in my mother's case, almost comforting. Not in Melanie's.
An hour later Reggie and I are heading south back to my house in Springfield.
Reggie is a barrel-chested black man of about fifty who projects a no-nonsense, confident attitude. At five-ten he's of average height, but he's still a mammoth and forceful presence, weighing well over two hundred pounds. His beige sports jacket and plain blue shirt stretch tightly across his broad chest, his fingers are thick and stubby, and he has almost no neck. But his most intimidating feature is his head. It's immense, like a bull's, exuding power. His expansive forehead, with its receding hairline, juts far out over his eyes. His wide nostrils flare when he breathes, and his deeply set dark brown eyes seem to be in constant motion, taking in and cataloging everything around him.
"You okay, Augustus?" he asks after we've driven a few dark blocks in silence. It's four in the morning and the city is still asleep.
"Yeah," I mutter, taking a deep breath. "I just want to find the per-son who did this to Melanie. I want to see them get what they deserve."
"Of course you do." Reggie tries to use a comforting tone, but I can tell that's tough for him because his voice and manner are naturally gruff. " We all do." He hesitates. "And we will. Make no mistake," he assures me confidently. "Justice will be served."
I shake my head and close my eyes. "I can't believe she's gone. Why would someone do this?"
Melanie's pocketbook sits on the seat between us, full of cash and credit cards. "Not for money," Reggie says, tapping it. "That's obvious."
We lapse into silence until we reach I-395, a three-lane expressway that leads out of downtown. "Where was Melanie supposed to be last night?" Reggie asks, taking the exit ramp and accelerating onto the al-most empty highway.
"Work. She'd been putting in a lot of overtime lately. Sometimes it was hard for us to make ends meet."
"I can understand that. Times are tough. Where did she work?"
"At a law firm downtown," I answer quietly, taking a quick glance at the speedometer. The posted limit here is fifty-five and there are no other cars on the road, but he isn't even doing fifty. Reggie wants to talk. "The managing partner is a guy named Frank Taylor. Melanie was his executive assistant. Taylor does mostly divorce work."
"Yeah, sure. That firm is over on Farragut Square. Never met Taylor, but I've heard about him. A real pit bull, people tell me."
"Uh-huh."
"What time was Melanie supposed to be home last night?"
"She didn't give me a specific time." I speak deliberately so Reggie is certain to hear the growing irritation in my voice. I shouldn't have to go through this right now. "She stayed at the office until one or two in the morning sometimes. It wasn't something I was worried about, if that's what you're getting at."
"Okay," he says, as if he's already thinking two or three questions ahead. "Had she called you to tell you what time she would be home?"
"No," I answer curtly.
"Did she usually call when she was staying at work late?"
"Usually."
He starts to ask another question but seems to think better of it. We say no more until the signs for Springfield appear and I give him directions through my neighborhood.
Reggie eases the car to a stop in front of my house. "There's something I want you to understand, Augustus." Suddenly I'm exhausted. All I want to do is crawl into bed and try to escape the horror of what's happened. Most of all, I don't want to listen to this, but I feel like I have no choice. I don't want him thinking I'm uncooperative. "What's that?"
"My job is to solve murder cases. To find the guilty party."
"Of course it is."
"By using any means necessary. Any at all."
"Uh-huh."
"During that process I don't allow myself to get close to any of the people involved. I've been around too long for that. I learned early on in my career that I have to remain completely objective to be as effective as possible."
"I'm not sure what you're driving at."
"In thirty years on the force I've seen plenty, Augustus. People I thought were as gentle as lambs turned out to be ax murderers. People I could have sworn were guilty as sin were innocent. Maintaining a certain distance allows me to see things for what they really are. To see people for who they really are." He hesitates. "We'll be talking a lot over the next few weeks, and I don't want you to think I don't appreciate what you're going through. I do."
I stare at him for a few moments through the gathering dawn, wondering what initial impressions he's already formed of me. "What does that mean?"
"I may ask questions that make you uncomfortable or that you find offensive. I want you to remember that I'm just doing my job the best way I know how. Like you said, we all just want to find your wife's killer."
As the sun's rays crawl over the horizon, I stagger up the short stone walkway to my house --- clutching Melanie's pocketbook --- aware that Reggie hasn't driven away. Aware that he's watching me and that he's already begun his investigation.
Melanie's memorial service is a private affair, just as our wedding was. I had her body cremated, and now I've arranged this brief ceremony at a funeral home a few minutes from our house. The only people who attend are Melanie's parents, her sister, an aunt who lives in south-western Virginia, one of Melanie's coworkers, and my friend Vincent Carlucci. No one from my family comes because there isn't anyone. I'm an only child, both of my parents are dead, and my mother's two sisters live in Atlanta. Too far for them to travel. Besides, like my mother, they never cared for Melanie. And I never knew any of my father's relatives, so there wasn't anyone from his side to invite.
Melanie attended early Sunday services at a Catholic church near our house almost every week while I slept late. She'd been going for years, but suddenly stopped a few months ago. She never told me why. I would have held the memorial service at the church, but, in a way, I was afraid to talk to Father Dale, the priest there. She'd made such an abrupt break with her faith I was worried I'd find out something bad. So I held the service at the funeral home where I felt I would receive compassion from the proprietor, not judgment by association.
I stand behind the lectern, a framed photograph of Melanie resting on an easel beside me. It was taken when she was in high school, and it's amazing how little she'd changed. Her parents brought it today. It was the only one we had.
I try hard to control my emotions as I prepare to say a few words to the mourners. In the hushed room, I try to think of anything but the good times we shared in the first few years of our marriage. It's just too painful to remember those days. I think about my own father. It's strange where the mind takes you sometimes.
I've never known much about my father. I don't know about his childhood, if he had brothers and sisters, or even where he originally came from. I tried to talk to him about all that once when I was twelve, but he told me to stop bothering him. He told me he just wanted to read his evening paper. He was a damn cold man who would leave home for two or three days every few months without even saying good-bye. My mother explained he had to travel for his job, but I have my doubts. He worked on an assembly line and I've never heard of any other factory workers who have to travel for their jobs. I finally asked Mother about all of that one Thanksgiving when I was home from college and we were alone in the kitchen together, but she had no answers. None she was willing to share with me anyway.
It was clear to me at a very early age that my father didn't have much interest in my life. I tried hard to get his attention, but nothing ever worked. I played high school football, played it pretty well in fact, but he never came to a single game. He never even asked me how my team was doing. He'd sit at the dinner table and stare at his plate while Mom asked me questions. The moment he finished eating he would rise from the table without a word and go back to his bedroom, shoulders stooped, slippers shuffling across our bare hardwood floors. I say "his" bedroom because from the time I was eleven, my mother and father slept in separate rooms. They thought I didn't understand, but I did, and that's hard on a kid. Hard to think that they didn't really care about each other anymore. That maybe everything was somehow my fault. I promised myself that my marriage would never come to be like that --- but it did.
My father died in his sleep last October of a heart attack, and I never had a chance to say good-bye to him. I always held out hope that we'd connect with each other someday, but it didn't work out that way. I guess we were destined never to know each other.
I look up from the lectern and see Melanie's coworker sitting to my left, a vacant chair between her and Melanie's family. She gazes at me sadly, tears in her eyes. I don't know her name --- she just showed up at the funeral. I don't remember her from any of Frank Taylor's Christmas parties, but what was I going to say? She seems nice --- and genuinely grieving. I'm not going to deprive her of her chance to say a final good-bye to Melanie.
My eyes flicker to Melanie's parents. Her mother is sobbing softly while her father sits stoically, his lips forming a tight, straight line. They were always kind to me and they helped us financially whenever they could. But, like my parents, they didn't have much to give.
I'm not an eloquent man. When I'm speaking in front of people, my breathing quickly becomes choppy and loud, making the audience as uncomfortable as I am. So today I keep my remarks short. I tell them how wonderful Melanie was. How she always took care of me. How much I'll miss her. How shocked I am at the terrible act of violence that stole her from the world, and how some things just don't make sense. And I tell them that she's gone to a better place because there is no way a woman as sweet as she could be kept from the glory of heaven. As I look out at their honest, sympathetic faces, it occurs to me that these people have no clue that Melanie asked me for a divorce the night before her death, and I won't tell them. There's no last word to be had here, no victory to be won. She's gone and the only important thing now is that Melanie's mother and father are left with fond memories of their daughter. When I'm finished, I bow my head and whisper, "Good-bye, Mel."
Excerpted from THE DAY TRADER © Copyright 2005 by Stephen Frey. Reprinted with permission by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.
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