= Henry's Power
  by Bob Stevens

Henry awoke at precisely 6:29 a.m. He reached for the clock on the nightstand, and pushed the button to turn off the alarm. He had awakened one minute before the alarm was due to ring for over twenty years, but he still set it. Just in case.

Henry sat up and reached into the drawer of the nightstand for a cigarette. There were none there. He had quit smoking twelve years ago, but he still reached for a cigarette every morning. It had taken Henry over four years to quit. He had tried books, clinics, gums, patches, diets, hypnotists and acupuncture. Then one day he'd quit. When Henry made up his mind to do something it got done. It just took a little while sometimes.

He looked at his wife sleeping on the other side of the queen-sized bed and sighed. He sighed every morning when he looked at Ruth. She had not been an attractive woman when he married her, but she had been young, only twenty-four, and youth gave everyone a certain beauty. After almost nineteen years of marriage, she was no longer a young woman.

Ruth had kicked the covers off during the night. Henry looked at her legs and remembered the first time they had slept together, six months before the wedding. He had noticed that she didn't shave her legs. She had said she had just grown tired of shaving them, but would do so if it bothered him. He'd told her not to shave them on his account. He had only known her for a week, and he didn't think it was fair to ask her to change anything just to please him.

Three weeks after the wedding, when Henry asked her to shave her legs, Ruth said she must live her life for herself, not just to please some man.

A year after the wedding, she stopped shaving her underarms.

Henry showered and shaved, and shrugged into a gray wool-blend suit over a white shirt and navy blue tie. In the unlikely event anyone had taken the trouble to notice, they would have thought Henry only owned one suit. The truth was, he had six identical gray suits, each off the rack, each with the same set of wrinkles.

As he walked down the short hall toward the front of the house, Henry began to whistle softly, an old habit, and one Ruth never failed to remind him she found particularly annoying. As soon as he realized he was doing it, Henry stopped whistling.

He picked up his briefcase from beside the door where he had left it the evening before, and walked out into the morning mist, remembering to lock the door carefully behind him. Ruth was afraid a rapist might sneak into the house after Henry left some morning and ravish her. Henry chuckled at that thought. He enjoyed a good joke.

Ambling toward his bus stop, Henry resumed his whistling. He had always loved music, even dreamed as a child of becoming a musician. Futile efforts at lessons on various instruments ranging from the clarinet to steel guitar had finally convinced Henry and his long-suffering parents that he had a tin ear. Over the years, Henry had come to accept that God seemed to enjoy playing such little tricks on him.

He glanced down at the sidewalk just in time. He had been about to step on a crack. A tiny voice from far back in his mind reminded him that he would break his mother's back. Just as Henry automatically and superstitiously corrected his stride, he lost his balance and stumbled into another pedestrian. The instant the two men and began to fall, Henry heard a sound like an automobile backfire, followed immediately by screeching tires and the rapid acceleration of a powerful motor.

Henry sat on the sidewalk, somewhat dazed. Since the other man had cushioned his fall, he was uninjured. He was vaguely aware that the other man had immediately rolled close against a car parked at the curb and was now rising to his feet. The man looked first down the street, then at Henry seated awkwardly on the sidewalk.

The man was at least five or six inches taller than Henry's five-eight, and probably weighed a third again as much as his one hundred sixty pounds. He wore a brown suit but no tie. Henry guessed he was a little over forty years old. Thick wavy blond hair crowned heavy features. As the man extended his hand to help Henry up, something in his eyes caused Henry a moment of intense irrational fear. The feeling passed, though, and Henry got unsteadily to his feet.

Before Henry could begin his apology, the man said, "I don't know how you spotted it when I didn't, but you saved my life."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," Henry stammered. "I don't know how it happened. I must have been daydreaming or something, and I just didn't look where I was going. I'm really so embarrassed. Are you hurt?"

The man looked into Henry's eyes for a long moment, then began to laugh. It began as a quiet chuckle, then built into a full, rich belly laugh. Henry felt this prolonged mirth at his expense was uncalled for, but choked back any words of outrage.

When the man finally got control of himself, he shook Henry's hand, which he still held. "No matter," he said. "You saved my life and I owe you a great debt."

Henry noted a trace of something foreign about the man's speech. It wasn't distinct enough to be called an accent, much less to enable one to determine his origins, just a hint, really.

"I must go now and issue a reprimand for this incident, but give me your name and telephone number and I shall ring you later to arrange to repay my debt."

Henry might have demurred, but something in the man's tone brought another brief flash of fear. Henry merely fished a business card out of his breast pocket and handed it over.

"Henry Woods. Trojan Insurance Company," the stranger read, then raised his eyes. "I'm Jake."

Jake stepped around a blue Ford sedan parked at the curb, climbed into the driver's seat, started the car, and after carefully fastening his seatbelt, pulled out into the flow of traffic.

Because of his mishap, Henry missed his regular bus and arrived a few minutes late to work. He hated to be late. His desk was in the center of a large open area with those of eleven other underwriters. He knew the others would all surreptitiously watch him walk to his desk, secretly enjoying his discomfort. Or not so secretly, Henry thought as Bill Westfield snickered.

Henry looked at the pile of insurance applications on the left side of his desk. He shook his head to think once again that so much of his life consisted of moving this pile to the right side of the desk, so it could be replaced by another identical stack. He surveyed the room in front of him. About twenty feet in front of Henry, and slightly to his right, a glass-enclosed cubicle housed the underwriting supervisor, Carl Harvey. Carl talked into the telephone, but kept his eye on Henry.

Henry looked beyond Carl's cubicle to the desks occupied by the raters, then claims examiners, statisticians, file department and data entry personnel. His eyes returned to a mane of red hair in the claims area, and he smiled wistfully.

Stephanie Carver had worked at Trojan Insurance for almost two years. Gold-rimmed glasses perched on a perky, slightly freckled nose accentuated her green eyes. At twenty-four, she was exactly the same age Henry had been when he married Ruth. He believed Stephanie to be pure and unsullied, despite Bill's frequent innuendoes.

At ten a.m., the bell rang for morning break. The ten minutes allotted did not provide sufficient time to ride the slow elevator to the basement lunchroom, sixteen floors below.

Henry turned to his nearest neighbor, who unfortunately happened to be Bill Westfield. "Good morning," he said.

"Hey, Hank, how they hangin'? Dragged in a little after the buzzer this morning, huh? What happened, something come up at home? If it did, I'll bet it surprised the shit out of the old lady. The two of you probably sat there staring at the thing, trying to remember what to do with it."

Henry felt a wave of revulsion. God, how he hated to be called Hank.

"Aw, Bill, I was just a little late, and it's the first time in longer than I can remember."

Stephanie passed through the underwriting department on her way to the water cooler. As she passed between Bill and Henry, she smiled her radiant smile. Henry turned to admire her long legs as she proceeded to the cooler.

"One of these days, I'm gonna have to give that girl a break," Bill whispered.

Before Henry could form an appropriate response, the bell sounded, warning them to cease conversation and return to work.

Henry wished he had a cup of coffee. He remembered fondly the days when a coffee machine had been positioned next to the water cooler and he would bring a fresh warm cinnamon roll upstairs each morning from the lunchroom. In those days, they had all had wooden furniture, and some of the underwriters displayed photos of their families and sometimes even a small plant, on their desks. Then someone in management had read about an efficiency study suggesting a more Spartan working environment, including a policy forbidding food or beverages at the "workstations." It was supposed to increase productivity.

Midway through the morning, Henry's phone began to ring. He picked up the instrument and said, "Underwriting. Woods. How may I help you?"

"Hello, Henry," a vaguely accented voice said. "I'd like to buy you lunch and explain how I might repay you for saving my life."

"I don't know what you mean," Henry said. "If anything, I owe you for knocking you down."

"I'll explain everything over lunch," Jake said.

Henry usually ate in the building, since he only had forty-five minutes for the noon break. Most days he ate with Bill Westfield, though Stephanie had even joined them a couple of times. His curiosity, and perhaps even a sense of intrigue, convinced Henry to meet the man at a small restaurant located directly across the street from the Trojan building.

Henry found Jake sitting in a booth in the rear corner of the restaurant. A hardness about the man belied his friendly smile.

Henry ordered a cup of coffee and a club sandwich, while Jake asked for a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk. He explained that he drank neither coffee nor alcohol, as he needed steady hands for his work.

After the food had been served and Henry's cup refilled, Jake fixed him with an intense stare while he spoke. "Henry, I'm going to talk about power now. I'm about to give you complete control over your own life and total power over those around you."

Henry sensed somehow that what Jake was telling him was the truth. He also knew that the man had no concern that Henry might repeat anything he said, either out of fear of him, or fear that he would not be believed.

"For many years," Jake continued in his soft voice, "I served in a branch of a government service. Which branch is not important, because you would not have heard of it. As a result of intensive training by several governments, and a certain natural aptitude, I became uniquely qualified to perform a service which is much needed by a number of powerful organizations and individuals, as well as governments. I eventually resigned my position and began a free-lance career which has earned me a reputation in certain select circles for reliability, discretion and precision. This reputation has made it possible for me to rise to the very top of my profession.

"Unfortunately, my business is one which occasionally causes me to have enemies. This morning, one of those enemies attempted to shoot me from a passing car. By fortuitously stumbling into me and knocking me to the ground just as the shot was fired, you, Henry Woods, saved my life."

The man's gaze was so steady, and his voice so hypnotic, Henry found himself unable to react to what he heard. He did, however, emit a small gasp to realize just how near he had been to possible violence. He had had very little exposure to violence.

"I always pay my debts," Jake said, "and the man who fired that gunshot is no longer an enemy to be feared. Now I must repay you.

"If at any time you should decide that your life would be enriched by the non-existence of anyone, you write that person's name and address on a small piece of paper and stuff it in the coin return of the pay telephone located at the service station at the corner of Sixth and Willow Streets. Dial the number scratched on the side of the phone receiver, give your first name to the party who answers the phone, then hang up and leave. Do you understand all of what I just said?"

Henry slowly nodded his head, then regained his senses and his voice. "No. Listen, I'm really grateful, honest I am, but I could never do anything like what you're suggesting. I've never intentionally hurt anyone in my life. I'll tell you what." He attempted a weak smile. "I'll let you pay for lunch, and we'll be even. Okay?"

"Remember the instructions, just in case. Think of the new feeling of power you'll have knowing you have the ability to terminate the existence of anyone you choose at will. Don't tell me you've never wished anyone dead. You're now a man to be respected, even feared. No one can stand between you and anything you desire. You have a power usually reserved for kings."

He took a long swallow of milk, then looked back into Henry's eye, wearing a "Got Milk" mustache that Henry didn't find at all amusing.

"But hear this, Henry Woods. I am not the genie in the bottle. You do not get three wishes. You have the power to snuff out just one life. Choose wisely."

In a fog, Henry returned to his office, where he attempted to push his luncheon conversation to the back of his mind, so he might make some headway with the work piled on his desk.

Shortly after the three o'clock break, Henry was summoned by his supervisor.

He experienced a sudden onset of nausea, coupled with a hot flash. He realized this reaction of near panic was unwarranted, but it always accompanied any summons into the boss's office.

As he entered Carl's cubicle, Henry recalled his disappointment three years ago when Carl had been promoted to supervisor. Owen Fleming, the underwriting manager, had made a great show of interviewing several prospects from within the department, including Henry and Carl, and even Bill Westfield. As senior man, Henry had naturally believed he had earned the promotion, and that these interviews were intended merely to keep peace in the department. He was shocked when Carl Harvey, a relative newcomer to the company, received the promotion.

The decision had been announced the week before Christmas. Henry had ended that dreadful year to Ruth's constant haranguing about his failure as a husband, as a provider, as a man. He had begun the new year with the worst hangover of his life.

He sat in the gray steel chair beside Carl's desk. This chair and a file cabinet were the only differences between Carl's work area and his own, except, of course, for the glass enclosure. Somehow, though, the difference in status was immense. Henry felt at once humble and resentful. He looked at Carl, a slight man with short blond hair and an irritating nasal voice.

"Henry, you came in almost twenty minutes late this morning. In view of your excellent attendance record and your usual promptness, I probably wouldn't even mention it, but your production was way down this last quarter."

"Carl, come on. Be reasonable. I haven't been absent a single day since my ulcer surgery over four years ago. I haven't been late since the bus strike last summer."

"Except for this morning."

"And my production is only down because of the two special projects you gave me to work on this last quarter." Henry realized he had begun to sweat, and his voice sounded abnormally high-pitched. God, how he hated to hear himself get all whiny like that.

"I already acknowledged your excellent attendance record. As for the special projects, they're just that -- special. Everyone has to do them from time to time, but that doesn't mean quotas are relaxed. Everyone else in the department manages to keep up production while working on special projects. Look at Westfield. When he has extra work to do, he just bears down."

Henry turned to look out at Bill, who was diligently writing in a file folder. He noted Westfield's black hair and thick mustache. Henry had worn a mustache for a month after his surgery, but Ruth's constant nagging, coupled with the fact that the whiskers had been sparse at best, had convinced him to give it up. He seemed to go through life giving up on things.

He felt a renewed loathing to realize Bill was probably working a crossword puzzle at this very moment. Each morning, Bill concealed a puzzle in a file folder so he could fool with it throughout the day, while appearing to do his work. Bill only looked at a random sampling of the insurance applications that crossed his desk, simply initialing the rest.

Somehow, it never seemed to bother some people to cut corners in their work. Henry was too conscientious for that -- or too afraid of being found out.

"...and what's more," Carl continued, "I notice you never arrive before eight in the morning and never stay past five. Most of the younger men don't seem to mind putting in a little extra time, if necessary. If your attitude doesn't improve, I'm going to have to discuss it with management. Would you please stop that damned whistling!"

"I'm sorry. I haven't been feeling very well. I've been under a lot of pressure at home. Ruth hasn't been well, you know." That was a lie. Ruth was never sick. "I really will try to improve."

"I'm sorry to hear about your wife, but you'd better get your priorities in order." Carl picked up his pen and began to write on a yellow pad on his desk. After a moment, he lifted his eyes, surprised to see that Henry was still there.

Dejected, Henry left the cubicle, thinking again that he had really earned that supervisor job. He thought of his luncheon conversation and smiled slightly, then shuddered to realize what he had allowed himself to contemplate. What a ridiculous idea.

* * *

As Henry entered his front door, he smelled dinner cooking on the stove. Or rather, the odor of burning grease emanated from the kitchen. Ruth was probably throwing together Hamburger Helper again.

He lowered himself into the one comfortable chair in the living room and scanned his newspaper for any mention of the incident this morning, or of the strange man, Jake. Nothing.

"Somebody kill the bird," Ruth cried, and Henry realized he had begun to whistle again. He'd have to work on that.

* * *

The next day, Henry asked Bill Westfield to join him after work for a beer. As much as he despised Bill, he was aware that his work mate was the closest thing he had to a friend.

Once Henry's eyes adjusted to the gloom of the little bar next to the Trojan Building, he found Bill sitting at a corner table, nursing a clear drink over ice, gin or vodka probably. Henry ordered a light beer from a skinny bleached-blonde waitress.

"So, Woodsie, what have you got to say for yourself?"

"I'm not sure where to start, Bill, but I've got to talk to you about something that's really troubling me."

"I'll bet it's about the old lady. Well, you've come to the right place. If there's anything I know, it's wives. Not only have I had a couple of my own, I've made an extensive study of other men's wives."

"Well, actually...."

"That reminds me of my second wife's sister, Carla. Any time I was around that bitch, I'd notice her staring right at my crotch. One time old Carla and I were shooting pool in the game room of her and her husband Rick's house. Everyone else had gone into the living room to listen to their new stereo. Carla came around the pool table, moved up real close, and said, 'I've been saving something real special for you.'

"The next day, after Rick went to work and the kids were in school, I just sorta stopped over there, you know? I'd called in sick that morning, and I brought her a bottle of red wine. We drank the wine, and one thing just led to another. We started on the kitchen counter, and wound up on the pool table. Eight ball in the corner pocket!

"Two months later, Carla got a sudden attack of conscience and told my old lady. I lost the house, two cars, two brats, a mangy old dog and about a hundred tropical fish. It was worth it, though. Eight ball in the corner pocket. Jesus."

Henry pushed back his chair. "Look, I'd better get home. Ruth gets upset if I'm very late. Thanks for taking the time to talk with me."

"Hey, no problem. I'm just glad I was able to help. Feel free to call on me anytime. After all, what are friends for?"

As he walked toward the bus stop, Henry noticed Stephanie's blue Toyota still parked in the lot. As he approached, he saw that she was sitting in the driver's seat crying softly, her head resting against the steering wheel.

"Stephanie, are you all right?" he asked as he neared the car.

"Oh, Henry. Sweet, gentle Henry." She sniffed back her tears. "I'm so glad it's you. Please come around and get in the car. I really need to talk."

Flattered, Henry settled into the passenger seat.

"Henry, I'm so sad. I'm in love. A girl should be happy when she's in love, but... well, do you have any idea what it's like to love someone you can't have?"

Before Henry could respond, she went on. "It's not the age difference, I don't care about that. I just don't know how I could have allowed myself to fall in love with a married man. I know that sounds a little old-fashioned, but I guess I'm just an old-fashioned girl." She smiled momentarily through her tears, then the flow began anew.

"Oh, Henry, sometimes I feel like I could just die." Stephanie pressed her face to Henry's chest and sobbed.

Henry threw his arms around the lovely young woman and held her tightly. He felt tears forming behind his own eyelids as he realized he admired Stephanie all the more for her respect for the marriage vows.

After a few minutes, Stephanie regained her composure. As she wiped her face with a tissue from her purse, Henry slipped from the car.

"Stephanie, honey, we'll talk again after I have some time to digest all that you've said. Just don't feel that you're all alone."

As he let himself into the apartment, Henry heard Ruth's shrill voice from the kitchen. "It's about time you got home. Where have you been? Probably out boozing and whoring around with that Bill Westfield again. How much did you blow this time? Honestly, on your salary I don't see how you think you can afford to be out whooping it up all the time."

The next day, Saturday, Henry decided to go for a walk after lunch.

As he walked west on Willow, approaching Sixth Street, Henry eyed the telephone booth near the service station on the corner. The station had obviously been abandoned for some time. Large sheets of plywood covered most of the windows, and the lights above the pumps were all broken. Graffiti defaced most of the walls. The doors to the restrooms were broken and hanging open. Henry could guess what the interiors of the restrooms must be like. Oddly, the telephone booth appeared to be intact.

Henry stopped in front of the booth and looked across the street toward the park. He saw a few small children playing in a sandbox. An elderly man sat on a bench, clutching a small brown paper bag to his chest. An old woman pushing a shopping cart, apparently stuffed with all her worldly goods, entered the park and sat on a bench across the walkway from the old wino. She produced a small bag from the pocket of her long woolen coat, and began tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons gathered at her feet.

* * *

A few minutes after two on Monday, two strangers came into the office and headed for Carl's cubicle. Large men with short hair and neatly trimmed moustaches, they were obviously policemen. Both wore plaid sport jackets, unbuttoned, displaying oversized belt buckles and loosely knotted ties. They appeared extremely ill at ease in the busy office. As one of the policemen began to talk, Carl turned pale. He picked up his phone and dialed. The telephone on Henry's desk began to ring.

Shortly after Henry's arrival at the office that morning, Ruth's worst fears had been realized. Someone had entered their apartment after slipping the lock on a rear window, and had strangled the poor woman. The fiend had completely ransacked the little apartment, stealing Ruth's purse and what little jewelry she owned. Mercifully, Ruth had been spared any sexual assault.

Company policy mandated up to three days off with pay for a death in the immediate family. Henry added a vacation day, so was off for the rest of the week of Ruth's death. By the time he returned to work, he had become a connoisseur of TV dinners and cold cereal. He had been pleased and flattered to see some of his co-workers at the funeral. Those in his immediate department were allowed up to a half-day off to attend. A floral wreath had arrived from the company.

His first day back at work, Henry had expected to receive a lot of sympathetic attention. Instead, he was almost completely ignored. In fact, his co-workers acted embarrassed and uncomfortable around him. They could not seem to look him in the eye, and would drift away whenever he approached.

While he ate lunch with Bill Westfield in the building's lunchroom, Stephanie, who had not been at the funeral, stopped at their table and leaned across toward Henry to express her condolences. She brushed her lips across his cheek. Henry was almost drunk from her sweet smell and the softness of her lips. How long, he wondered, before they could declare their love and be together openly?

"Hey, Hank, I think she's hot for you. What'd she do, blow in your ear? You rich widowers have got it made."

Rich? Ruth didn't have any life insurance. The company's group plan only provided life insurance for the employee, not the employee's spouse. The funeral expenses had completely wiped out their small savings. A deep depression overcame Henry. His funk continued right up until the summons from his supervisor.

"Henry, I appreciate what you're going through," Carl began as soon as Henry was seated in the side chair. "But you haven't done any work all day. As much as I might feel for your loss, we still have our production quotas to meet. Actually, burying yourself in work will probably keep your mind off your grief. You know, I've always felt that single men make the best employees. They're better able to concentrate on their work without outside distractions. Since they don't have anyone to go home to, they don't mind putting in extra time, when necessary. Actually, I expect to see your productivity increase." Nodding to indicate the meeting was over, Carl returned his concentration to his paperwork.

As Henry returned to his desk, he thought again how different his life might have been if only he'd gotten the promotion he had so obviously deserved.

At ten-thirty the following Thursday morning, all personnel received a memo announcing that Carl Harvey no longer worked for Trojan Insurance Company. No explanation was offered. Naturally, rumors were rampant.

Henry spent the rest of Thursday, all of Friday, and the weekend daydreaming about how much sweeter his life would be with the extra income and status his imminent promotion to supervisor would bring. He could move out of the dingy apartment and into a condominium with air conditioning and a dishwasher. He would have a swimming pool, and in his mind's eye he could see Stephanie lounging beside the blue water in a bikini, a green one to set off her luscious red hair. He imagined a light dusting of freckles covering her firm smooth body.

So engrossed was he in his musings, he didn't notice when Stephanie failed to return from lunch on Thursday, or to come into the office at all on Friday.

On Monday morning, Henry noted with satisfaction that Bill had not yet arrived when the buzzer sounded to alert everyone to begin the workday. He would probably stroll in late with his usual Monday morning hangover.

This satisfaction was replaced by a vague sense of unease when Bill had still not arrived by the ten o'clock break, but even that was not particularly unusual. Some Mondays Bill didn't come in at all.

At precisely ten minutes after ten, just as the bell rang, Bill Westfield entered the office, hung his jacket, then walked straight into Carl's glass sanctum. He began to examine the contents of the file folders stacked on his new desk.

Henry rose and walked toward the glass cubicle, moving as if in a dream, a particularly bad dream.

"Hey, Hank, I really appreciate you coming in to congratulate me like this. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, huh? But, listen, just 'cause we're buddies and all, don't expect any special treatment. In fact, I think we'd better stop hangin' out together. We don't want management getting the idea I'm playing favorites, or anything."

"No, of course not," Henry mumbled. "We wouldn't want them thinking that."

"Well, I guess I'd better get back to these production stats."

Henry slowly turned aroung as Bill opened a folder containing, not production statistics, but a crossword puzzle.

"By the way," Bill said, "did you hear about old Carl? Turns out he and Steph were running a scam on the company. As underwriting supervisor, Carl would dummy up underwriting files. Since Steph wrote all the check requests for the claims department, it was no problem for her to get drafts issued to the non-existent policyholders for their phony claims."

Henry stared at Bill in disbelief, overwhelmed by the enormity of the evil his new supervisor was so calmly summing up.

"Yep, turns out Carl and old Steph had been carrying on some sort of a torrid affair. But somebody dropped a dime on them, informed management. Carl surprised everybody by agreeing to end the affair and try to pay back the money. Just threw our girl to the wolves. Stephanie couldn't handle it. Did a job on her wrists with a razor blade."

Henry gasped. "Stephanie...?"

"As a doornail." Bill smiled, as though sharing a private joke.

Henry struggled to grasp a coherent thought amidst the whirlpool spinning through his mind.

"What about Carl? Is he going to prison?"

"Don't be silly. I hear he ripped off nearly three hundred grand. Can't have the investors and policyholders finding out how easy that was. It would undermine confidence in the company. Besides, he can't make restitution from prison. They'll probably give him a great reference so he can get a good enough job to pay the company back.

"Can you believe that? A sexy piece like Steph actually killing herself over Carl Harvey. What a waste." Chuckling softly to himself, Bill swiveled his chair back toward his desk and licked the tip of a pencil as he contemplated his puzzle.

Henry had difficulty breathing as he stumbled toward his desk. The room seemed to be swaying. He felt as though he were walking on the deck of a ship sailing through a dense fog.

* * *

Henry woke to the sound of rain beating on the roof. He reached out and shut off the alarm that had not yet begun to ring. Then he rolled over and looked at the empty side of the bed. He had thought it would feel good to sprawl across the entire mattress, but somehow he still slept on his side, even with Ruth gone.

He reached into the drawer of the nightstand and extracted a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it and inhaled deeply, only to be immediately racked by a fit of heavy coughing.

Sitting on the side of the bed, Henry felt the anchor that was his head take a slow roll across his shoulders. An empty vodka bottle had fallen from the bedside table onto the floor, and he slowly rolled it back and forth with his foot, while noting he still wore his pants and socks from the night before. At least he had removed his shirt before going to bed. He could see it lying atop a pile of dirty laundry, where he thought he remembered a chair.

In the kitchen, Henry lifted a bowl from the pile in the sink and scrubbed it out with his fingers. He shook the last of the Raisin Bran from a box he found in the cupboard. He lifted out what appeared to be a living, walking raisin, crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, then wiped the fingers on his pant leg.

He removed a milk carton from the refrigerator. When he began to pour the milk onto the cereal, it came out in large white lumps. Henry decided he wasn't really hungry. He returned to the refrigerator, removed a can of beer, popped the top, took a long swallow and burped.

He contemplated a small pile of letters stacked on the kitchen table. He'd found them in Ruth's underwear drawer a week before her death, bound with a silk ribbon. Tasting bile, he'd read through their erotic reminiscences interlaced with numerous references to Ruth's "natural beauty." They were unsigned, but after years of working side by side with someone, you damned sure recognized their handwriting when you saw it.

Watching a cockroach poke its head out, then scurry back behind the refrigerator, he thought again of Carl Harvey, whom he heard had landed a position as underwriting manager at another insurance company, a step up from his old job at Trojan. Presumably happy in his new job and his renewed marriage, Carl probably hadn't wasted a moment on remorse for seducing and corrupting poor innocent Stephanie.

* * *

Henry looked all around before entering the phone booth. He didn't know what he was looking for, but it seemed to be the right thing to do.

The rain had stopped but no children played in the park today. The same old lady in the same woolen coat sat on the same bench, near what appeared to be the same overloaded shopping cart. She was not feeding the pigeons, just staring at something only she could see.

The elderly man wasn't in evidence today, but Henry assumed he was most likely close by. He had observed that the homeless, while seeming to live spontaneously, actually generally adhered to strict routines. He often felt an odd kinship with the disenfranchised.

Henry didn't acknowledge the bag lady, just shambled slowly along the walkway until he came to an isolated bench some distance from the entrance, where he settled down to wait.

"Hello, Henry," Bill Westfield said, approaching warily. "What's up? Why'd you want me to meet you here?"

Henry stood to greet him, holding out the bound stack of letters.

"I bet you had a bad moment when you couldn't find these," he said. "But you probably just figured she'd destroyed them. After all, you asked her to in every letter." Henry was surprised to see his hand wasn't shaking. Ordinarily, he hated any kind of confrontation, but today he felt strengthened -- powerful.

"What did she do, threaten to tell the company if you wouldn't agree to marry her? That would have really screwed up your plans. After you blew the whistle on Carl and Stephanie, you knew you'd get his job. But not if they found out you were carrying on with a co-worker's wife. You said it yourself -- insurance companies hate scandal."

"It was much more than that, old buddy," Bill said, slouching onto a bench. "She wanted me to tell you what I'd learned about Carl and Stephanie, so you could turn them in and get my promotion. Can you imagine that? Said you deserved it. Even threatened to tell you herself, expose our little game of slap and tickle, just so you could advance in the company. Obviously, I couldn't let that happen." He sneered. "What do you care about Ruthie anyway? You were clearly tired of her. That's why you were so taken with Stephanie."

"In a way, I feel almost responsible," Henry said. "I tried to confront you after I found the letters, but you saw it coming. Kept going on about screwing some other guy's wife, like you were entitled, or something. Eight ball in the corner pocket."

"What? I...."

"Shut up," Henry almost shouted. It felt good to raise his voice. "I'm talking now."

"Since when do you tell people to shut up?"

"Since now," Henry said. His voice sounded like that of a stranger, softer than before but more menacing.

"You want to know something funny?" he continued, holding up his hand, thumb and forefinger a hair's breadth apart. "I came this close to having you killed just two days before you murdered poor Ruth."

"Having me...?"

"Killed. That's right."

"Hah! That's a laugh. Henry Woods having me killed. Now I know you're nuts," Bill stretched his arms out along the top of the bench. "You might as well just give it up, bud, you'll never prove any of this."

Looking down the walkway toward the park's entrance, Henry started to smile. "Fortunately, I won't have to."

The old wino shuffled toward them along the walk, his brown paper sack clutched to his chest. Nearing them, he stood taller and held up a small square of paper. Henry would never have recognized Jake if he hadn't been expecting him.

As Henry turned to walk away, he began to whistle softly.

All through the park, birds took flight as the gunshot echoed through the trees.

BOB STEVENS has been a private investigator for more than thirty-five years, and served three terms as Los Angeles District Governor of the California Association of Licensed Investigators. His previous short stories have appeared in RED HERRING Mystery Magazine, FUTURES Magazine and ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES. He writes a column and reviews books for Mysterical-e, and is co-president of the Orange County, California Chapter of Sisters in Crime.

Copyrights (c) 2002 Bob Stevens

--//--