Sacrifice

Is a series of seemingly natural deaths at a 100-year-old company just a string of bad luck—or a deadly supernatural strategy? Tom Jurgen goes undercover to seek the truth.

  

Sacrifice, Part One

Three quick knocks on the door made Frank Towers look up from his computer. “Yeah?”

            “Frank?” Sean Plunkett, the chief financial officer, stood just inside the door. “Got a minute?”

            “Sure, uh—” He fumbled to press Save on the computer. “What’s up?”

            “It’s about the board meeting next Saturday.” Plunkett walked in, leaving the door open.

Towers clicked on the computer to save his work, suddenly nervous. He was 52, planning for retirement, and worried mostly about his hairline, not his job. What was going on? Nervously, he texted his wife he’d be home late, then put his phone down on the desk. “Am I in trouble or something?”

“No, nothing like that.” Plunkett smiled. “Brad?”

Then Bradley Hallinan walked in. CEO of Hallinan Furniture. He closed the door. “Hi, Frank.”

            “Brad.” Towers nodded, his muscles tensing. “Is something wrong?” Oh shit, I’m getting fired. 

            “You know we’re having a board meeting next Saturday.” Hallinan stood in front of him, hands on his desk.

            Towers nodded, nervous. “Yeah. The rebranding, right? I’m getting all the numbers together, they’re looking pretty good, all things considered. Fretter Lumber is on board for a partnership—”

            “That’s fine, Frank.” Hallinan smiled. “This is something else. Something important.”

            “Okay.” He swallow, bracing for the bad news. “What is it?”

            Hallinan gazed down at Towers. “We need . . .” He took a deep breath. “A sacrifice.”

            “A s-sacrifice?” What the hell was he talking about. “What kind of sacrifice?”

            Hallinan stepped back and crossed his arms. “You.”

            No one outside the office heard anything. No one saw the two executives leave 15 minutes later. No one saw Towers slumped behind his desk. No longer breathing.

 

 

Cathy Linden, senior marketing manager at a company called Hallinan Furniture, was looking at me through her glasses with sharp dark eyes. “My husband is dead. He died at the office last Thursday, but there was no reason. They said it was heart failure but that doesn’t make sense, Frank was in great shape. He worked out, didn’t drink, ate right, lots of, uh, energy.” She bit her lip. “It just doesn’t make sense that he’d just drop dead at his desk.”

            We were sitting at an Evanston McDonald’s. Cathy was in her 40s, with silvery blond hair, wearing a blue business suit that looked better than any business suit I owned. It was her lunch hour, apparently.

            I hesitated. “So what can I do for you? Specifically?”

            Sometimes people hire private detectives with only a vague idea of what we can do. I’ve had people ask me to find lost pets, dig up dirt on celebrities, penetrate the CIA, prove the existence of aliens, and all kinds of impossible assignments. Okay, I’ve met some aliens—along with vampires and other mysterious creatures, but proving their existence to a skeptical world? Not so easy. 

            “Frank was in charge of supplies—the wood and fabric and everything else that goes into making furniture. His title was VP of Construction Elements.” She sighed. “It’s an area where there’s potential for cheating. Kickbacks for ordering from certain suppliers, or switching in low-quality stuff and keeping the difference. I don’t know that he found anything about anybody, but I know he was talking to the CFO about it. I’m not saying—well, this is the last text he sent me.” Linden tapped on her phone. 

            Last-minute meeting, the text read. Sean. Not sure how long, maybe late. Love you. It had been sent at 7:32 on Wednesday of last week.

            “That’s Sean Plunkett, the CFO. And there’s a big rebranding effort coming up,” Linden said. “Everyone’s involved. Same name, but new tagline, new logo, website redesign, everything. There’s a board meeting about it this Saturday. So everything is kind of crazy right now. But I don’t know why Sean would have wanted to meet with Frank last Thursday after work.” Linden sighed. “I asked him, and he said there wasn’t any meeting. And he looked at me like—well, I know Frank wasn’t having an affair. He didn’t want to say it, but that’s not it, I just know. But even if he was and they’re covering it up? I don’t care. I just have to know.”

            So was I looking for financial fraud, infidelity, or something else? It’s easy to feel sorry for what clients are going through, but it’s still hard to help them sometimes. “I think it would be impossible for me to just walk in and start asking questions—”

            “Oh, I can arrange that,” she said quickly. “That’s not a problem.”

            Okay . . . “How?”

            “I’m a senior marketing manager there. I can have you come in as, uh, a consultant or something. You can poke around and ask all the questions you want.”

            That might work. “Maybe. I probably couldn’t pull it off for very long, but . . .” I did have bills to pay. Plus, I was getting married soon, and even though we weren’t planning an extravaganza, a little extra money for the honeymoon wouldn’t hurt. “Let’s talk this over.”

 

I went home and sent some emails to tie up a few other cases for a couple of days. Then I did some research on Hallinan Furniture.

            The company had been founded in 1922 by Daniel Hallinan and two partners. By 1935 the partners were gone, and then Daniel Hallinan died. His widow, Eleanor Hallinan, took over the company and ran it until 1949, when her son Daniel Jr. became CEO. It was still controlled by the family—a grandson named Bradley was the current CEO, and two cousins were on the company’s board of directors. One was Sean Plunkett, the CFO.

            Business had gone from bad to good many times over the years. The workforce had grown to 400 employees or so by the 1960s, and now had about 200. They didn’t have to post earnings, but their press releases boasted decent profits over the past few years, economic turmoil and all. Although the last two quarters were down from previous years.

            I found Francis Towers’ obituary. B.A., Northwestern University, MBA, University of Chicago. Twenty-three years with Hallinan Furniture, starting in sales and moving up to VP of Vendor Relations until his unexpected heart attack. He was survived by his wife, two children, and some cousins. 

            I went through my cover story, repeating elements of it out loud so I could make it sound natural. Then I started working on dinner.

Rachel got home at 6:30. My girlfriend—actually, my fiancée, as of a few weeks ago. I heard her lock the door and drop her laptop case. “Gonna change!” she shouted, and went into the bedroom.

She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and slightly psychic powers. She’d just finished grad school with a psychology degree, and was in her first few weeks at a job in a counseling office where she saw patients and helped with paperwork. As long as I’ve known her she’s been a freelance graphic designer, and her usual wardrobe was jeans and T-shirts. She’d spent a few hundred dollars on “professional” clothes to wear to work.

Rachel came into the kitchen a few minutes later in shorts and a sweatshirt. “How was work, dear?” I asked as she opened the refrigerator for a beer.

“These people are crazy.” She took a long swallow and sighed. “I mean the partners. The patients are great. I mean, they’re only assigning me the easy cases. They’re keeping the serial killers and conspiracy theorists to themselves.”

“Selfish bastards.”

“What about your day? What’s for dinner? Answer the second question first.” She sat down at the table.

“Tacos. Beans, cheese, avocado, rice, everything but kale, and I can put that in if you want.” I stirred some refried beans warming up in a pot. “And I’m going undercover.”

            Rachel snorted. “Undercover? You? What is it, terrorists with a nuke? Drug dealers holding the mayor’s son hostage? Or literally under covers in a cheap motel looking for cheaters?”

            “All those sound good. I’m actually a consultant infiltrating a furniture company. Very James Bond.”

            “Furniture? See if you can get a discount on a new kitchen table.” She rapped her knuckles on the tablecloth. “We’re getting married, we deserve new stuff.”

            “I’ll ask the client. Ready to set a date yet?”

            “I don’t know.” She stared at her empty plate. “Maybe after dinner.”

            “I don’t know if I can get a minister here that fast—”

            “Shut up, jerk.” She finished her beer. “We just have to make sure my mom doesn’t find out and show up.”

            I’d never met Rachel’s mother, for reasons she only hinted at. The fact was, we were both still getting our heads around the idea of marriage. We’d been dating for a long time, living together for years, but we’d been gun-shy about marriage for as long as I could remember. I’m not sure what made me propose. Maybe the thought of getting health insurance now that she had a job with benefits. And the fact that she looks good in shorts.

            “So why are you going undercover?” She started putting together a taco.

            “Unexpected death at the company. Suspicious widow. Possible financial fraud. Probably nothing, but can you quiz me on my cover after dinner> I’m using my own name, but I want to make sure I get everything straight.”

            “Hmm . . .” Rachel grinned. “Could we do a role play?”

            “Uh, sure.” Yeah, we like to play games. “Got to be ready for anything in my new job.”

 

 

“And for the last bit of business, I want to introduce all of you to this guy.” Cathy Linden pointed to me. “He’s a consultant doing a project for me, a benchmarking thing on management practices here at Hallinan. Stand up, Tom? Guys, this is Tom Jurgen.”

            I stood up, feeling awkward. The six employees stared at me. Two nodded. A woman smiled. A man shrugged. The other two just sipped their drinks—a bottle of water and a can of Pepsi. I gave a small wave.

            “Hi, I’m just here for a few days, looking at best practices in leadership and management.” I smiled. “I’ll stay out of your way. Just asking questions here and there.”

            More nods. 

            “Okay,” Linden said. “Remember I need all your numbers for the board meeting at the end of the week. That’s all.”

Then the meeting was over. Everyone started picking up their drinks and laptops to head back to work. 

            I knew their names, so I followed the nearest man, Phil Gravick. “Hi.” 

            Gravick was in his 20s, Black, with a nearly shaven scalp and a thin beard. “Hi. Consultant, huh? Who do you work for?”

            “Dunn and Associates. We’re small. Boutique. So I hear the company is recruiting a new VP of vendor relations.”

            “Yeah.“ He walked down an aisle separating rows of gray cubicles. “Frank just—well, he died. Right here in his office. Weird. Didn’t Cathy tell you that?”

            “Yes, she did. I didn’t want to push too hard. I’m interested in recruiting, among other things.”

            “Yeah, you want to talk to HR about that. Leticia Waters.”

            “I’ll do that. What was Frank Towers like?”

            Gravick came to his cubicle and turned to face me. “Uh, he was fine. Didn’t talk to him much. Nice guy. I mean, married to my boss, right? But he was all right. Far as I know, everyone liked him.”

            “Funny that he died so suddenly.”

            “Yeah.” Gravick sat down. “Well, I got work to do, so . . .”

            “Yeah, thanks.” I left him alone.

            Linden had assigned me to a cubicle. I sat down, opened my laptop, and made a few notes. Then I started walking around and asking questions.

            Vickie Addison didn’t know Towers at all. “I just stick to my work,” she said, tapping a pen on the edge of her desk. “I think I met Brad once. Bradley, the CEO. He seems okay, but I don’t—” She lowered her voice. “I don’t trust people on top that much. My father—anyway, I only hang out with people in the department. But Hugh knows a lot of them, I think.”

            Hugo Peterson had a wide smile and lots of energy. And opinions. “Brad is focused on the bottom line like a shark,” he told me as we were getting coffee. “But he’s—” He leaned toward me. “Doesn’t connect with people on the front lines, you know? Always talking about ‘sacrifice,’ but he makes a million dollars a year. No, the best guy is Sean. He’s the CFO. He’s brutally honest, but in a good way, you know? He doesn’t waste time telling you what’s wrong—or what you’re doing right, to be fair.” He grinned. “Well, anyway, there’s Sean, and Celia, she’s in Communication, they’re both great with people, really good teams.” He poured some cream into his cup. “This is all confidential, you said, right?”

            “Absolutely.” I’d agreed with Linden that I’d only report on what people told me about her husband and his death. “What are their specific management strengths?” I had to make this good.

            He told me that Sean Plunkett was blunt but crystal clear about what he expected. Celia Mueller, head of communications, listened to her people and had a strong sense of empathy—plus, she could put complex ideas and issues into simple language. I heard about Jared Robbins, a woman named Natalie, and others, ending with Joe Hannish, senior VP of Manufacturing.

            “He’s out at the Workshop—that’s what we call it, where everything gets built. It’s bigger than a workshop, you know, but they like to call it that, makes it feel homey. Joe knows everything about how to build stuff, and he’s a great teacher. I was out there for a few days last spring, working on a promotion with an ‘inside the company’ kind of thing. Real friendly, shares everything, and they all seem to love him. Delegates a lot of decisions and responsibility, especially since he had a heart attack last year.”

            “Heart attack?”

“Yeah, but he’s fine now, and everything’s humming along there.”

            “Maybe I’ll talk to him.” I made a note of the name, with Heart Attack? next to it. 

            After talking to Peterson it was lunchtime. I ate a sandwich in my assigned cubicle, and in the afternoon I talked to the rest of the team, finding out a lot about the management structure at Hallinan Furniture, the different leaders and their styles, the coffee in the break room, which restrooms were the cleanest, how the tables and chairs were priced, and which marketing campaigns had succeeded and which had tanked.

            By 3:00 I’d learned more about the furniture business than I’d ever wanted to know, and gotten a few pieces of possibly relevant information: Bradley Hallinan was aloof, rarely mixing with employees below the executive level. His emails were cold and impersonal. But everyone agreed that Sean Plunkett was friendly but firm, without wasting words when something wasn’t up to standards. He could be generous, though—he once hosted an employee party at his house, a mansion in Arlington Heights with a tennis court and a hot tub. 

Everyone liked Frank Towers. “Nice” was the word most people used, but Hugo Peterson said Towers seemed worried a lot. 

            I finally hit the last person on the team: Valerie Kim, in her 30s, who’d been at Hallinan for more than a decade. I asked her how the culture had changed, and she thought for a long time, arms crossed, staring at the floor of her cubicle.

            “They made Brad CEO eight years ago,” she said. “Before that he was in finance, I think. The CEO before him died. He had a stroke, and they found him in the parking garage. Business was bad, and Bradley held a big board meeting to figure out what to do. He laid off a bunch of people, but then things turned around, fast. Really fast. He didn’t hire anyone back, so we worked harder, but there was more money, and he did buy a bunch of new equipment. It was just—a big turnaround, and I don’t know how he did it.”

            “So, no insight into his management style?” I had to keep reminding myself why everyone thought I was here.

            “He doesn’t talk to people like me.” Valerie shrugged. “That’s okay. I get it. I just keep thinking about Ryan.”

            “Who’s Ryan?”

            She sighed. “Ryan Foster. He was a director on the design team. He had really good ideas, and they made him VP of Planning, but that was right around the recession, and everything was going down. Things got better for a while. Then they were planning a big board meeting, this was about four years ago, and the day before, Ryan had some kind of seizure in his office, and he hit his head and died. They didn’t even postpone the meeting. He wasn’t a director or anything, but they ignored it. They could have done something, but they didn’t.” Valerie shook her head. “Whatever they did at the meeting, though, it somehow turned things around. It just seemed like they didn’t care about Ryan at all. But I kept my job. That’s what counts, right?” She gave me a sarcastic smile.

            At 4:30 I went to Linden’s office. I waited while she finished up a phone call, then sat down when she motioned me to a chair. 

            “It’s a little crazy.” She rubbed her forehead. “Business is down, and they’re starting to think about layoffs again. And they expect me to turn things around with my brilliant marketing mind, on top of—Frank. Christ.” She straightened up in her chair. “Did you find anything? I know it’s just one day, but is there anything at all? Or am I just crazy?”

            “I can’t say yet.” I glanced at my notebook. Yes, I still write things down in a notebook. It’s a habit from my days as a reporter. “One thing that’s interesting. The CEO before Bradley died of a stroke, and was found in the garage here, and a VP named Ryan Foster also died unexpectedly here, from a brain injury caused by a seizure—”

            “I remember that.” Linden bit her lip. “I didn’t work with him much, but he seemed like a nice guy, really sharp.  Wait, you don’t think—"

            “At least three people in 10 years have died at this company,” I said. “I don’t know what the actuarial tables would say about that, but it seems a little high. What it means, I couldn’t say right now.” Did they find out that Sean Plunkett was making side deals with employers, like Linden had suggested? And he killed them to keep the secret? But that didn’t make sense—none of them had been murdered. Bad karma?

            “Huh.” She leaned forward. “I didn’t see that, but you’re right. But that doesn’t make sense. I know, I know—” She held up both hands. “I hired you because Frank’s death doesn’t make sense. I just didn’t think . . .” She looked away from me.

            “Is there something else?” My client seemed deep in thought suddenly.

            “Maybe . . .” She blinked. “I didn’t think about this before. But Frank said a few days before he—he died, something about Ryan Foster. He knew Ryan better than I did, they played golf together sometimes. He was at Ryan’s funeral—I didn’t go, because I had to stay with our kids and I didn’t know him very well, really. When he came home, he said he overheard someone say, ‘I hope this is it for now.’ He didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded funny to him.”

            “Who said it?”

            She shook her head. “I don’t know. Not Brad, he wouldn’t have been that close by. Maybe Sean? They talked sometimes.”

            I made a note. “Is there any kind of corporate history I could check for unexplained deaths? An intranet, a newsletter?”

            “Talk to Celia. Celia Mueller. She’s director of communications. She could help you access that. Except—” Linden frowned. “I’ll have to think of something to tell her so you can get full access. Let me call you tomorrow.”

            “Okay.” I looked at my notes. “There’s a Joe Hannish who had a heart attack last year. Do you know about that?”

            Linden rubbed her nose, thinking. “Yeah, I remember that. It was pretty serious, but he seemed to bounce back from it. Do you think . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Are heart attacks contagious? Or is there something in the air? No, he’s out in the Workshop. None of this makes sense. Maybe I’m just going crazy.” She took a deep breath, and then seemed to pull herself together. “No. Forget I said that. I’m not crazy. There’s something going on in this company.”

            “It looks that way,” I agreed. “There’s nothing concrete yet, but I can keep digging. I’ll talk to Hannish tomorrow. Where is the Workshop?”

            She gave me the address. “Thank you. Let me know what he says.”

            “Yeah.” I stood. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

            Out in the hallway, on the way to my cubicle to pack up my laptop, I ran into Phil Gravick again. “How’s it going?” he asked. “Getting lots of good stuff?”

            I shrugged. “It’s a start.” 

            “I was thinking . . .” He motioned me toward the men’s room, standing beside the door. “If you’re really interested in the management here, you might talk to Calvin Riley. He used to be director of one of the manufacturing divisions. He knew a lot of people, and most of them are still working here.”

            The bathroom door opened and an employee came out, straightening his shirt. Gravick stayed silent until he was out of sight. 

            “Why did he leave?” I asked quietly. He obviously didn’t want anybody hearing us.

            “He was fired. Don’t know why, just the usual email: ‘Calvin Riley is no longer associated with or employed by Hallinan Furniture. If you have any questions, go ask HR.’ His office was empty in about two seconds.”

            “Anyone talk to him?”

            “Not that I heard.”

            I nodded. “That might be useful. Thanks.”

            “Didn’t get it from me.” He grinned, then darted into the restroom.

            I grabbed my laptop and took the elevator. In my car, I called my client.

            “Calvin? Yeah, I remember him. He quit a few years ago.”

            “My source says he was fired.”

            “Who told you—okay, never mind, that doesn’t matter. I’ll see what I can remember. When you talk to Celia and get access to the employee news, maybe you can dig up more. Are you going to talk to him?”

            “I can probably track him down. If you want me to.” 

            “Yeah, go ahead. Jesus, I wonder if this is just a waste of time. I’m still—processing everything.”

            She’d been holding it together pretty well when talking to me, but I know losing a spouse is a special kind of nightmare. “How about we decide tomorrow if this is worthwhile. You can pull the plug if you want. For that matter, you can stop right now—”

            “No, not right now.” She took a breath. “Tomorrow is another day. Just like Scarlett O’Hara said.” She laughed. It sounded like her first laugh in a while.

            We hung up. I started the car to head for home. It was Rachel’s turn to make dinner.

Sacrifice, Part Two

The next morning, after bickering with Rachel about wedding plans over breakfast, I tracked down Calvin Riley through his LinkedIn page. He’d taken a management job in Skokie at a plant manufacturing different kinds of gaskets and similar products. I got him on the phone, but he couldn’t talk right away—“I’ve got a meeting in five minutes”—but he agreed to a call in the afternoon. 

            I got the feeling he didn’t want people at his new job overhearing him talk about his old job. But I tried not to think about it.

            Rachel was working from home—her job was only three days a week, so she was keeping some of her graphic design clients—so I kissed her goodbye before I left her to head up to Evanston again.

            Then I drove to the Hallinan “Workshop”—a warehouse sized building on the west side of Evanston. I parked in the lot in back, walked around to the front door, and was immediately intercepted by a young man in jeans, heavy work boots, and a clipboard. “Can I help you?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I offered a hand. “I’m a consultant, I’m doing a project for Cathy Linden in marketing? I just happened to be in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop in and take a look at your operation here. I’m studying leadership techniques. I was hoping to talk to Joe Hannish.”

            Aside from my name, pretty much every part of that sentence was a lie, but the man—Victor—seemed to accept it. He made a quick phone call; Joe Hannish wasn’t available to talk to me, but Victor offered to show me around and let me ask a few questions to the men and women working on building furniture.

            The main room at the front, as wide as an aircraft hangar. was filled with dozens if not hundreds of varieties of wood and fabric—teak, chestnut, oak, mahogany, and more, as well as huge hanging spools of leather, suede, damask, tweed, velvet and more, in patterns and shades and textures that were soft, firm, soothing, dazzling, or whatever the customer wanted.  

            Beyond that big room lay a cluster of workshops. I heard table saws grinding boards, and hammers slamming nails as the Hallinan employees—mostly men but more than a few women—assembled their products: big sectional sofas, plush reclining armchairs, long dining room tables and stout chairs to match, dressers taller than me, kitchen cabinets with thick glass doors, and everything else that a well-stocked home needed. A large freight elevator sat in the back of the building. “We do some work upstairs,” Victor explained, “though most of it’s down here. Upstairs is mostly files and meeting rooms.”

I made some notes, mostly about what pieces I wanted to buy if I could ever afford it, but I remembered my cover story and managed to get some information on Hannish’s management style: straightforward, patient, focused on quality, and the like.

            Victor pointed him out as we were walking past a workshop for tables. “That’s him.” Hannish was tall, in a loosened necktie, sleeves rolled up. He had a thin face and bony arms, and he was smiling as he talked to a group of workers standing around a row of half-assembled kitchen cabinets. “I’m afraid you can’t interrupt him right now—”

            “That’s fine. I heard he had a heart attack last year. Is he doing okay?”

            “Yeah, I guess it was pretty mild.” Victor stared at him. “He even made it to the board meeting the next week. Came out of in better shape than before, and a little, well, tougher.” He grimaced. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

            “Not at all,” I assured him. Then I stopped, peering at a small shop at the corner of the building. “Are those—”

            “Yeah.” Victor nodded. “We do make coffins.”

            A woman was sanding the lid of a dark mahogany casket, ignoring me as I looked back and forth. Six coffins, most of them unfinished, sat across the room, waiting for lids, or stain, or polish, or a body. One in the corner was complete—shiny and dark, lying on a long table, lid closed tight.

            The woman looked up at me. I nodded, and she went back to work without any acknowledgement. 

I let Victor lead me back to the front. An office with a big glass window stood beside it, door shut and blinds down. A wooden staircase ran up to a second floor. Files, Victor told me, and meeting rooms, not that they held a lot of formal staff meetings. “They hold the board meetings here,” he told me.” 

“Why here?”

“Uh, tradition, I think.” He rolled his eyes, as tradition was ridiculous. “Eleanor Hallinan started it back when this was the main corporate HQ.” He forced a smile. “Well, if you don’t have any more questions—" 

 I thanked him for his time. He seemed relieved that I was going, and fortunately he didn’t ask me any questions about what I was doing there before I could leave.

I got to Hallinan’s corporate office at 10:30 and went looking for Celia Mueller, director of communications.

            In her 50s, she wore thick glasses and a slender gold bracelet, and she smiled cheerfully when I introduced myself. “Cathy told me you’d be coming.” 

            “I just need to access your employee communications,” I told her. “Newsletters, the intranet, anything like that. Northing confidential.”

            “Of course.” She set me up with a temporary account and password and a company email. I took out my laptop and logged onto the network so she could show me how to find what I needed. 

            “Great, thanks.” I skimmed through the latest intranet posts. “So let me ask, you, how do you handle things like employees leaving? Or deaths? Are there any announcements?”

            The word “death” made her flinch. “Poor Frank. Yes, well, when it happens—not often, thank God—we usually post an appreciation on the site, unless the family asks us not to. We always contact the family first. If someone leaves, well, we might offer some good wishes, but the news doesn’t always get to us here in comms. And we don’t want to spotlight some employees and leave out others.” She shrugged. “If it’s a high-level leader, we’ll usually thank them for their service here and wish them good luck. And if they’re fired, well, we don’t have anything to do with that. HR handles that.”

            I closed up my laptop. “Did you know Frank Towers well?”

            “Not so much. Meetings and emails. He seemed nice, and Cathy’s a sweetheart.” She cocked her head. “She’s the one you’re working for, aren’t you?”

            “Yes,” I admitted. “But we’ve been talking about this project for a while. Since before her husband died.” I hoped I wasn’t overdoing my cover story. “Okay. Thanks for your help.”

            Back at my cubicle I dived into Hallinan’s intranet, dubbed “Hallinan Happenings.” The search function helped me find the official notice about Towers, expressing sadness and shock about his death, along with appreciation for his years with the company and sympathy for his wife, complete with funeral information and a link for charitable donations in his name. I found a few other posts about Towers, but dealing with suppliers wasn’t a very flashy topic compared to big marketing campaigns, new hires, the company holiday party, and other news. 

            I found more about Ryan Foster, the Design team leader who’d died. Design was a little sexier, apparently, at least because it had lots of pictures of tables and sofas and other new products Hallinan Furniture was trying to hype. Foster was a young guy in his 30s, good-looking with blonde hair and a cheery smile, and he was captain of the company softball team in the summer. His death got a longer post than Towers, with more pictures, and a link the college fund for his infant daughter. 

            The CEO before Brad Hallinan got a much bigger write-up, naturally. His name was Kenneth Ericson, he’d been 63, with the company for 14 years, and left behind a wife and four adult children. Bradley Hallinan was appointed interim CEO in the immediate wake of his death so he could manage an upcoming meeting of the company’s “Board of Leadership.”

            Board meeting . . . I looked into the Board of Leadership and discovered that it functioned like a board of directors in a publicly held corporation, with all the high-level VPs and C-level types, held on an irregular schedule whenever the CEO called one. I checked through the system and saw that one was happening this coming Saturday. I remembered Linden mentioning it at the meeting where she’d introduced me.

            Huh. I got up and made my way to Linden’s office, nodding to Hugo and Valerie at their cubicles. She looked up when I entered, nodded, and ended a phone call. “What’s up?”

            I closed the door and sat down. “What can you tell me about the Board of Leadership?”

            She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “It’s a big deal. The senior VPs, and Donald, the COO, and Sean, the CFO, and Brad of course, they hold this kind of conclave every year or so. Eleanor Hallinan started it up in the 1950s, I think. I don’t know what goes on there, I’m not invited, but they always come out with big plans and new campaigns, and the rest of us have to put them into action. And things usually just get better somehow.” She picked up a coffee mug, looked inside, and set it back down. “Why?”

            “I don’t know if it means anything, but it looks like at least three times, an executive has died shortly before one of those meetings. And Joe Hannish almost died of a heart attack before one.” 

            She blinked. “Really?”

            I told her about Ericson, and Foster. She stared at the top of her desk, thinking. “Does it mean anything?”

            “I have no idea. There’s no sign of foul play. But it’s an interesting coincidence.”

            “I guess.” Linden frowned. “I was ready to give up just now, but maybe—is there anything else?”

            “I’m going to talk to Calvin Riley later.” I stood up. “I’ll tell you what I find out. Then you can decide if you want to keep going ahead.”

            Linden nodded. “Okay. I hope—I don’t know what I hope, really. Just let me know.”

            “Sure thing. If you want to let it alone, that’s fine.” I didn’t want her to think I was trying to milk her for money.

            “Thanks.” She picked up her phone. “Back to work?”

            “Right.” I made my way back to my cubicle and spent a half hour looking for deaths in the company. I found a few over the years, only a few of them right before any board meetings. I’d need a course in statistics to figure out if they were just coincidental or significant. I read up on Hallinan history, using the intranet and also outside sources. The business had its ups and down over the years. Nothing unusual for the industry, as far as I could tell. 

            Then I went wandering, looking for people to talk to. Most were agreeable, for at least a few minutes, and I asked about management practices, morale, job satisfaction, and the like, slipping in some questions about the Board of Leadership, mentioning Towers’ death, and trying to find anything unusual that might point to a reason behind the other deaths. 

            I found out more about who the good managers were, how much people like Frank Towers and how little they understood the workings of the Board. I also got a few vague rumors—affairs, petty theft, people who didn’t flush—but nothing that helped me investigation.

            I was ready for lunch when my phone buzzed with a text. My client. Come to my office right now.

            Okay. That seemed unusual. I made my way through the maze. A man walking past Linden’s door saw me and stopped. “You’re the consultant, right? Tom, uh—”

            “Jurgen, yeah. I was just on my way to see Ms. Linden.”

            “That’s fine.” He nodded. He was in his 60s, balding, with a tight necktie and long arms. “Sean Plunkett. Finance. Let’s talk later. I’d like to help.”

            “Sure thing. Thanks.” I moved aside to let him pass, then stopped at Linden’s door. I knocked. Nothing. But she’d told me to come right away, so I opened the door—

            Cathy Linden lay on the carpet, her body twitching as if she was having a seizure. She’d hit her head on her desk, and blood was dripping down her temple.

            “Help!” I shouted, dropping to the floor. “Call 911!”

            She looked up at me, blinking. Her legs kicked. I grabbed her shoulders to roll her on her side, but she was shuddering too hard. She lifted her head toward me, her eyes wide. Her mouth moved.

            “Sack—” she whispered. “S-s-sack, sack, sack—”

            “Okay, don’t worry about that now,” I told her. I looked over my shoulder and saw Valerie Kim, her phone at her ear, staring at Linden. Then Hugo Peterson was next to her, his mouth open in shock.

            I leaned down, trying to hold her still as she jerked, spit running down her cheek. Then her body went limp. 

            I started CPR, frantically, my own heart pounding, and I kept it up for what seemed like hours until the paramedics arrived and took over. But it was too late.

            My client was dead.

Sacrifice, Part Three

“So what happens now?” Rachel was spooning lentil stew into our bowls. “The case is over?”

            “I don’t know.” I stared at my bowl. If I was a P.I. on TV, I’d keep working to avenge my client’s death. I wasn’t sure I had that luxury in the real world of groceries and cable bills. 

I tried a spoonful of lentils. “That’s good.”

            “Of course it is.” She added some salt. “Are you okay?”

            “I guess.” I took a sip of beer. “On the one hand, her retainer will cover at least one more day of investigating, if I want to. On the other hand, I don’t have an excuse to go around asking questions now. If I do, they’ll probably figure out that I’m not really a consultant. If they haven’t already.”

            “You should have left something there so you have an excuse to go back.”

            “You think I’m a rookie or something?” I grinned. “My jacket and a notebook. Mostly blank.”

            “Hey, you could be a pro.” Rachel smirked. “So what do you think is going on? Do you need me out there to scope the place out with my awesome psychic abilities?”

            “Maybe. There’s no sign of assault or murder in any of the people who died. Linden looked like she was having a massive stroke or something, and her husband had a heart attack, and one of the others had a stroke too. So if someone’s knocking them off, first—why? Then, how?” I finished my bowl and started filling it again. “Old family recipe?”

            “Somebody’s family.” Rachel took more too. “I can’t go with you tomorrow, I have work. I can’t start taking days off right away.”

            “I’ll manage. How’s work going on?”

            “Fine. I like the clients. Not that you have to actually ‘like’ the clients, but it helps that they aren’t dealing with anything gross, like necrophilia or severe addiction to bananas. Other kinds of addiction, yeah, but I’ve studied that.” She stirred her stew. “And the partners are fine. Dr. Brody, who runs the place, is funny. I’m not sure about Jordan, she doesn’t talk much, but the other guy, Adam, thinks he’s my dad. He wants to mentor me.” She rolled her eyes with a smile.

            “As long as it’s just mentoring.” With a girlfriend like Rachel, I tend to be a bit paranoid.

            “Oh, they all know I’m engaged.” She flashed the ring on her finger. “I bring it up just once a day. All day, but that’s not overdoing it, right?”

            I wasn’t arguing. “Are you sure the ring’s okay? I could get a bigger diamond.”

            “Let’s save something for when you’re rich.” She walked around the table to give me a kiss. Just when it threatened to get more interesting, my phone buzzed.

            Calvin Riley. I’d forgotten all about him. “Hi, Mr. Riley, I apologize for not calling you back today—”

            “That’s okay.” He spoke hurriedly. I could hear voices and music behind him, as if he was calling from a bar. “I heard about what happened today. With Cathy.”

            “How did you know?” It wasn’t the kind of story that would go viral.

            “A friend who works there. Listen, if you still want to talk, we could meet tomorrow.”

“That would be great. What time?” We agreed on a restaurant near his home in Evanston, 8 a.m. I hung up.

            “What’s that?” Rachel went back to her chair. 

            I started clearing dishes. “A guy who used to work at Hallinan. Quit or got fired before my client’s husband took the job. He sounded a little shook up.”

            “Were they friends?”

            “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow. I’m meeting him for breakfast.”

            “Darn. I have to work tomorrow, or I’d go with you and get waffles. And help you do detective work too, of course.”

            “Of course.” I opened the dishwasher. “I’ll make you waffles on Saturday.”

            “You better.” She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and headed for the living room to watch TV while I finished up.

 

Calvin Riley’s hair was black with streaks of gray, and his handshake was firm when he stood up to greet me. We were in a diner in Evanston, not far from Hallinan’s HQ.

            I ordered coffee and eggs. “Thanks for meeting me.”

            “Yeah.” Riley frowned. “I was—stunned by what happened to Cathy. Right after Frank.”

            “Did you know them well?”

            “Frank, yeah. We worked together for a couple years. Good guy.” He sipped some coffee.

            Time to get to it. “Why did you leave the company?”

            Riley grimaced. “I had a heart attack. I’m fine now—a little surgery, better diet, more exercise, all that stuff. But it felt like time to get out. It was getting to be pretty high stress, and I had the feeling I was about to get fired anyway.”

            “What kind of stress?”

He sighed. “It was—one of our biggest teak suppliers went out of business, and I had to scramble to replace them. Costs went up. I was trying to find a couple other companies so I could negotiate better deals, but there was a board meeting coming up, and I was getting flak from Brad and other people, and then I, uh, heard a rumor—so I decided it was better to get out while I could.”

            “A rumor you’d get fired?”

            He looked away from me. “Not exactly.”

            “Then what?”

            The waitress came with my eggs and refilled our coffee. When she left, Riley crossed his arms. “It was Sean. CFO, Sean Plunkett. He showed up in my office one night. He told me—well, he said something like, ‘The board will be looking for someone to sacrifice.’ And I said, sacrifice? And he repeated it, sacrifice. And it didn’t sound like, like just getting fired. The way he said it . . .” Riley let out a long breath. “It sounded worse.”

            “So you quit.”

            “No, I had a heart attack, and then I quit.” He stirred cream into his fresh coffee. “I was home, and my wife was right there and called the ambulance. I was technically dead for about a minute, but then I came back. I didn’t see any angels or white lights or anything.” He chuckled. “But it felt like a warning sign. I figured my best move was to get out. They promoted Frank, and I got out. Found a good job over at DonPro, in Skokie. I kind of forgot about everything, and then I heard Frank died. And yesterday Cathy.” He closed his eyes.

            It felt like a warning. I gave him a moment. Then: “I got your name from Phil Gravick—”

            “Yeah, we’re friends. He’s the one who called me yesterday. He, uh—I told him about what Sean said at the time.”

            I put my fork down. “Okay, just so I’m clear on what you’re saying—the company is killing people when business is bad? Without shooting or stabbing anyone? Right before they hold a board meeting?”

            Riley groaned. “I know, I know. When you put it like that—”

            I held up a hand. “No, that’s what I think too. That’s not even the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.” I could have told him about the vampires and demons and killer plants I’ve seen, but I didn’t want to scare him away. “When Cathy Linden died yesterday—” I leaned forward, keeping my voice low. “She was trying to say something. She kept saying ‘sack.’ Like a sack of something? But ‘sacrifice’ works too.”

            “God.” Riley ran his hands over his beard. “But how—like you said, they weren’t murdered. Just natural causes.”

            “Stuff like that can have unnatural causes. What else do you know about the company? About these board meetings?”

            “They hold them at the Workshop. It’s across town. I don’t know why there. They don’t hold them very often, but they make a big deal out of it. Lots of preparations, like they’re expecting the Queen of England or something.”

            “But only the senior executives are there? Nobody else from the staff?”

            “No. They don’t even cover it on the intranet or anything. But afterwards there’s always new stuff coming down for us—for them—to do. Some of them don’t make sense, but they get done, and things get better. For a while, at least.”

            “They always call board meetings when business is bad?”

            He thought. “Not always catastrophically bad, no. Sometimes it’s more like they’re looking for new ideas, or new markets. But it seems like when things are tough, well—it happens.”

            “More than three times in the last ten years? Four times.” Ryan Foster, Towers, now Linden, and the previous CEO. “What about Kenneth Ericson? The CEO before Bradley?”

            “He was—I didn’t know him real well. I got the feeling he was hired because Bradley was too young to run the company. Four people? It seems like there were more. There was a guy named Todd who got in an accident on his way home one night. He was in charge of storage and shipping. And Paul Vasquez, he was about to go on vacation and he fell and hit his head. He was customer relations. That’s all I can think of.” He stared at me. “Oh my God.”

            “Yeah.” I pushed my plate away. “Sounds like you got out at the right time.”

            “But what can you do? Anything? It’s not like you can go to the police, right?” He shook his head. “This sounds too crazy, even while we’re sitting here talking about it.”

I took out my wallet. “I don’t know.” The waitress came up, and I handed her my credit card. “Maybe keep this to yourself? I don’t know what I can do at the point.”

“Okay.” Riley looked dubious, and I didn’t blame him. “Thanks for breakfast.”

I’d forgotten that I didn’t have a client to charge this to. But I could still write it off on my taxes, maybe. “No problem.” I stood up. 

“You going back there now? To Hallinan?”

It probably wasn’t the smartest move. But I had left my jacket there. “Yeah. Wish me luck.”

 

Valerie Kim looked up as I passed her cubicle but didn’t say anything. I caught a puzzled frown from Hugo. Phil Gravick blinked, started to speak, then looked away. He seemed to be inconspicuously packing up a bag.

            I sat down and opened the notebook I’d left behind. It was brand-new, with just a few notes jotted on the first few pages for credibility. The office around me was quiet. I heard some buzzing from phones, the hum of the printer in a distant corner, a few bits of quick, muted conversation, and occasional footfalls as someone passed by me. I jotted some nonsense notes just to look as if I was still doing work.

            Then one set of footfalls didn’t pass. I looked up. Sean Plunkett. The CFO I’d seen leaving Linden’s office right before she died.

            “Mr. Jurgen? Sean Plunkett.” He didn’t offer to shake hands. “Could we talk? My office?”

            “Sure.” I stood up.

            He led me through the cubicles and down the hall to an office in the corner of the building. The window looked out over the top of the parking structure next door. 

Plunkett closed the door and pointed to a chair for me. He sat behind his desk. 

“We don’t have any paperwork for whatever project you were working on for Cathy Linden,” Plunkett said, looking straight at me.

            I shrugged. “Maybe the memo got misplaced?”

            He leaned forward. “Are you really a management consultant, Jurgen?”

            No “Mr.” My cover was probably blown, and I didn’t have a suicide capsule like any self-respecting spy. “No. I’m a private detective.” I gave him a card. 

            Plunkett looked at it for a moment. Then dropped it on his desk to look me over. “Why are you here under false pretenses, Jurgen?”

            “Ms. Linden had some concerns after the death of her husband.” I crossed my arms, as if I was settling in for a long chat. “After yesterday, I’d say she was right to be worried.”

            He cocked his head. “What are you talking about?”

            “Kenneth Ericson, Ryan Foster, Paul Vasquez, and others. And Frank Towers, and now Cathy Linden. This doesn’t seem to be a very healthy place to work, does it? Is there an asbestos problem in the building?”

            “There’s a problem inside this office.” Plunkett pointed toward the door. “I think you should leave right now, Jurgen, before I call the police.”

            I had to push a little. “You’ve got a big board meeting coming up, don’t you? What happens there? What kind of sacrifice will this one call for?”

            The word “sacrifice” seemed to be a trigger. Plunkett stood up suddenly. “Out. Now.” He reached for the phone.

            “Okay, okay.” I got to my feet. “I wouldn’t want to have a sudden unexplained heart attack.” My hand on the doorknob, I said. “I’m just going back to the cubicle to get my jacket, and then I’ll leave. You’ve got my card if you want to talk.”

            One of his eyes twitched. He didn’t say anything, as if not trusting his voice. I left, closing the door behind me.

            At the elevator, after finally retrieving my jacket—you can’t pull that trick more than once—I found Phil Gravick. He was carrying a large plastic bag and looking nervous, like a shoplifter trying to evade the alarms.

            I nodded. “Getting out?”

            “Y-yeah.” He kept his voice low. “You talked to Calvin? He called me. This place just gives me a bad feeling.”

            The elevator doors opened. “I know the feeling.”

 

Back home I wrote up a report. Not for my client, obviously, but I wanted everything documented. Just in case Rachel came home and found me dead on the floor from a heart attack. Then, after lunch, I reactivated the cases I’d put on hold and started back on them—trying to put Cathy Linden out of my head. 

            I couldn’t get her words out of my head, though. Tomorrow is another day. But she didn’t have any more tomorrows. Damn it.

            Rachel got home at seven. I had a pair of burritos ready to put in the oven, and I told her about my day as we drank beer and waited for them to get warm.
            “So what do you want to do?” she asked when I finished.

            “I don’t know. I feel like—When your client gets killed, you’re supposed to do something about it.”

”Isn’t that from The Maltese Falcon?” Rachel cocked her head.

“He was talking about his partner, not his client. Feels the same.”

“Yeah, but you’re not Sam Spade. Sorry to break it to you.”

I shrugged. “That’s the way the cookie crumbles, sweetheart.”        

She was about to throw a napkin at me when my phone buzzed. Unknown caller. I groaned. Probably a telemarketer, but in my business I have to answer, even if only to turn down a chance to update my car’s extended warranty. “Hello, Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Tom. Phil Gravick. From Hallinan?”

“Uh, yeah. How’d you get my number?”

“I was talking to Calvin. He said—are you really a private detective?”

I frowned, impatient and hungry. “Yeah. Sorry I had to lie to you. I was working for Cathy Linden, before she, you know, died.”

“That’s okay. Look, like I said, I was talking to Calvin Riley, seeing if he could help me out with a new job, and your name came up, and—” He was talking fast, as if he’d been drinking. “Anyway, there’s this board meeting coming up, and you and Calvin were talking about it, and about how people seem to die right before the board meeting, and—”

“Phil, I’m, uh, in the middle of dinner with my girlfriend.” I looked at Rachel, who was halfway through her burrito already.

“Right, sorry, I forgot what time it was. Uh, so look, I might know a guy who could get you in to listen to the board meeting on Saturday. You interested?”

I scooted my chair back. “I might be.”

Sacrifice, Part Four

Saturday morning, 7:45 a.m. I stood at the back door to the Workshop, waiting. Ten minutes, fifteen—then I heard footsteps behind me. “Sorry I’m late.”

It was Victor—my guide from the other day. He looked hung over and nervous as he unlocked the door. “Hi. You okay?”

            “I think so.” I wasn’t hung over, but I hadn’t slept well, thinking about the plan we’d come up with two nights ago. Victor being late this morning didn’t make me feel any better.

            Could I trust him? He’d seemed happy enough when he was showing me around the other day, but when we’d met at the bar last night he was spewing hatred at his boss, Joe Hannish. “Asshole doesn’t think I’m doing my job . . . screwed me out of my last raise . . . once I get my résumé updated I am gone, gone, gone.”

            Victor, it turned out, was also a friend of Calvin Riley, and wasn’t happy about what happened to him. “They screwed Calvin over.” Victor shook his head back and forth. “After a heart attack and everything. Screwed him over. Bastards.” He gulped some whiskey.

            Rachel had been with me. She’s not exactly a human lie detector, but she can pick up feelings and emotions, and in the car she told me Victor was telling the truth. “The whiskey helped.” 

            Now he was leading me upstairs. He opened door at the end of the hall. “This is the main conference room, where they’ll hold the meeting.”

            The table was a long rectangle of oak, with modern office chairs on rollers arranged around it. Behind the head of the table a window looked out on the parking lot. The walls were paneled in wood, with posters of Hallinan products hanging in frames around the room. Empty pitchers waiting to be filled with water stood on a table to one side. “That’s why I’m here,” Victor said. “I’m in charge of filling the water, and making the coffee, and bringing in their goddamned pastries.”

            A door connected to another office, but it was locked. “They moved something into there yesterday,” Victor said. “There’s a freight elevator for big stuff.”

            He led me back out into the hall and opened the room next door—not the connecting room, but the office on the other side. It was filled with file cabinets, with a desk and chair in one corner. No windows, just a desk lamp. Victor switched it on and pointed to the ceiling. “Up there.”

            An air vent, about 12 inches square. “Take the cover off, and you can see straight into the conference room.”

            I had to climb up onto the desk. Fortunately, the Swiss Army knife on my keyring had a screwdriver head, so I was able to get the cover off with only a little cursing. I pulled myself up into my head and shoulders were jammed into the ventilation duct. I couldn’t crawl through it like John McLane in Die Hard, but I could see into the conference room through the slanted metal of the cover on the other side.

            I pushed out, reached into my jacket, and took out my voice-activated recorder. I’d bought it two years ago and hadn’t used until today, but I’d tested it last night to be sure it worked. I set it inside the duct and switched it to start recording whenever it picked up sound. Then I replaced the cover loosely. I clambered down from the desk and wiped my hands on my jeans. “Okay, let’s—”

            Victor held up a hand. “Wait,” he whispered. 

            I froze. He stepped out of the room, then stuck his head back inside. “Someone’s early,” he hissed.

            Oh hell. I gritted my teeth as he closed the door, then glided across the room to press my ear against the crack.

            “Victor? What are you doing here?” A male voice, raspy and surprised.

            “Hi, Joe. I just thought I’d make sure the room was ready and be here when the delivery comes. Sometimes they show up early.”

            “Okay. Sean’s right behind me, I saw him in the parking lot. I’ll be in my office. Oh, hi, Sean. You can go in and sit down, Victor’s just here to make sure everything gets set up.”

            Joe. Joe Hannish. And Sean Plunkett, chief financial officer. Damn it. My plan had been to leave the building and come back later to pick up the recorder. Now what? Could I sneak away without anyone seeing me?

            The door opened. Victor looked inside, his eyes wide. “Sorry. I didn’t think anyone would get here this early.”

            I stifled the urge to swear. “All right.” I waved him off. “Come and get me when the meeting’s over.”

            “I don’t usually—” He stopped when he saw my eyes. “All right. I have to start the goddamn coffee. Text me. Keep your phone on silent.”

            “Right.” Like I hadn’t thought of that. 

            Victor closed the door. I locked it and sank down into the chair. Good thing I hadn’t drunk too much coffee yet this morning. And gone to the bathroom before coming out here. Twice. 

            I texted Rachel about my predicament. She texted back three laughing emojis, then, Be careful, jerk. 

A few moments later she added, You still have to clean the bathroom when you get back. 

            Now I had nothing to do but sit and wait.

            I knew that nothing I’d get on my recorder would be worth anything. Even if I could turn up any kind of evidence that the board was up to something murderous, evidence that the cops and a D.A. would listen to, I could get arrested. Rachel would have to bail me out of jail. 

            But I couldn’t stop thinking about Cathy Linden. And her husband. I had to find out. 

             So I waited. I played games on my phone, dozed, listened at the door, paced, and played more games. Finally, at 10 a.m., I heard noise in the other room through the vent.

            At first it was typical chitchat: Hello, how are you, why are we doing this so early, how are the kids, etc. After 10 minutes I heard a voice say, “Okay, let’s get started.”

            I decided to check that the recorder was working. And, yeah, spy on the meeting if I could. So I climbed on top of the desk and stuck my head into the duct.

            Through the slanted vent cover I could see a man standing at the head of the table. Tall, in a formal dark business suit. The other people I could see were all casual, in sweaters and loose-collar shirts. The man—Brad Hallinan, I figured—took a sip of water and gestured to someone I couldn’t see. “Bring her in.”

            Plunkett opened the other door open, and two more men walked through. One of them was Hannish. A moment later, Plunkett was backing through the doorway, lugging something big with his hands. It was long and narrow, polished bright, with shiny silver around the edges—

            A coffin.

            Plunkett and the others maneuvered to set the coffin in the middle of the conference table. 

“What on Earth?” Celia Mueller sounded like she was having trouble breathing. The others looked at each other, confused, whispering questions.

            “Just give us a minute,” Hallinan said. “Everyone stand up and hold hands, please. Close your eyes.”

They stood, and after a moment they joined hands, looking uncomfortable. 

Hallinan bowed his head, and the others followed. A moment of silence. Then he started chanting words in a language I didn’t recognize. Plunkett and Hannish started chanting along with him, but the other just listened, their eyes closed..

The chant went on for three minutes or so, then abruptly stopped. The executives sank down into their chairs, in a silent, motionless trance. Plunkett leaned over, grabbed the edge of the coffin lid, and heaved it up. Hannish, on the other side of the table, stepped back quickly as the lid fell over.

Hallinan crossed his arms, staring inside the casket.

Slowly, someone sat up from inside the coffin. An old woman, in a pale lavender dress with a high collar, wearing a silver necklace with a glistening crystal dangling over her chest. Her arms hung at her sides for a moment, and then she lifted them to touch her face and run her fingers over the crystal. She turned, looking around the room, until she found Hallinan. 

“How long?” Her voice was thin, a raspy whisper.

“Almost a year.” Hallinan lowered his arms and smiled. “Business has been good. Hello, Eleanor. It’s 2023.”

I’d seen pictures of her, mostly in faded black and white, most of them toward the end of her life. Her face was long and narrow. Right now she looked pale, her fingers on the sides of the coffin curled like a bird’s claws as she peered at the executives gathered around her. The employees of her company, the people who had resurrected her today.

Eleanor Hallinan. Back from the dead.

 

“I hope the latest sacrifices were sufficient,” Brad said. “We did an extra one. It became necessary.”

            Eleanor sighed like a mother disappointed in her eldest child as Plunkett and Hannish helped her into a chair. “They were—adequate. I feel reasonably awake for the moment, but how long that will last . . .” She rubbed her eyes. “What do we have to talk about?”

            They moved the coffin onto a corner of the floor, and Eleanor sat at the head of the table, with Brad to her right. The executives were still in their trance, their eyes closed, their breathing shallow. Eleanor looked at them one by one, then sipped from a glass of water in her hand. 

“We’re doing a rebranding,” Brad said. “I can show you the designs, the marketing content, the—”

“No, no, no, you know I don’t understand all that.” She shook her head vigorously. “Are you changing the company? My company? My husband’s and my company? What are you doing?”

“Nothing’s changing,” Brad said quickly. “Just the, uh, the frills. It’s like new wallpaper in the store. Everything on the floor is the same, but the store feels brand new.”

Eleanor seemed unconvinced.

Hunched inside the duct, I brought my phone up for some video, hoping the pictures would make sense through the slanted vent cover. My shoulders ached, and I was fighting the urge to cough from the dust as I tried to wrap my mind around what seemed to be going on. They’d brought back a woman from the dead—by killing employees as a sacrifice—to talk about a business rebranding? 

Finally Eleanor nodded. “Very well. I’ll do it. Give me a moment to prepare . . .”

Her head dropped back, and she stared up at the ceiling for a moment until her eyes started rolling. Brad took Eleanor’s right hand.

Eleanor’s body started to shake. The crystal on her necklace began to glow, a bright white light. Spit drooled from her lips on her chin and collar as she moaned and twitched, her head rocking back and forth. The executives around the table trembled along with her, as if she was sending some kind of electric spark through the circle. Joe Hannish closed his eyes, his head shaking, and a woman I didn’t know bit her lower lip until a trickle of blood ran across her cheek.

Brad clenched his teeth, staring at Eleanor, breathing hard and sweating as his shoulders shook. I watched, feeling like I was seeing some sort of mass hypnotic spell. Everyone lay motionless in their chairs, some breathing softly, other gasping for breath. For a moment I considered getting out while they were all half-conscious, but before I could make up my mind Eleanor’s head drifted up. She swallowed, coughed, then pulled her hand away from Brad to take another gulp of water.

Hannish rubbed his hands over his face, then looked down the table. “Is she . . .”

Brad nodded. “It’s over. This time.”

Before the others could wake up, Plunkett, Hannish and Hallinan gently walked Eleanor Hallinan back to her coffin, where she lay down. Then they carried it into the adjoining room.

I stopped my video. Would everyone just wake up and leave now? No. Everyone slowly came out of their trance without any obvious memory of what had just happened, as if they’d only just arrived. 

“Okay,” Hallinan said again. “Let’s get started.”

They refilled their coffee and launched into a completely routine, thoroughly boring board meeting. 

Again I contemplated trying to sneak out as they discussed supply chains and market segments, but it felt too risky. Or maybe I was just a coward. So I sat at the desk, sent the video to myself, and played games on my phone until the meeting was over. 

It went on for another two hours.

Finally I heard chairs sliding back and people saying good-bye, and then the conference room was silent. I climbed up to slide into the duct and retrieve my recorder. The conference room was empty. 

Back down on the floor, I checked the recorder and transmitted the data back to my computer. Then I replaced the vent cover, screwing everything back in tight. I texted Rachel and walked silently to the door.

The hallway was empty. I turned for the stairs, but before I took two steps the conference room door behind me opened. 

“Hey!” Sean Plunkett’s voice.

Damn it. I could run, but chances were he’d catch me even if I didn’t fall down the stairs and kill myself. And besides, running would make me look guilty. Which I was, but I’d also seen things they wouldn’t want exposed. I hoped.

So I turned, trying to look cool and unconcerned while my heart pumped nervously inside my chest. “Yeah. Hi.”

Brad Hallinan stood at the door with Plunkett. “Who the hell is this?”

“It’s that guy Cathy brought in. Tom Jurgen. Private detective. I’ve got his card.”

“What are you doing here?” Brad snapped.

“Spying.” I shrugged. “You’ve got me. You could call the cops, but then I’d tell them about the corpse you’ve got in the next room. And play the recording I made of your entire board meeting, especially the opening with you talking to a dead woman. I’ll be in trouble, but you’ll have lots of questions you probably don’t want to answer.”

Brad stared at me. Plunkett watched him, waiting for an order. 

“Don’t want to talk? That’s fine. We’ve all got better things to do.” I turned to the stairs.

“Wait.” Brad frowned, worried. “Let us—let me explain.”

I really wanted to get out of the building. If they could somehow cause heart attacks or strokes in other people for their “sacrifices” to Eleanor Hallinan, they could probably give me one just as easily. Of course, Rachel would wreak her own kind of vengeance on them, but I wouldn’t be around to enjoy it. 

“All right.” I looked from Brad to Plunkett and back again. “Just so you know, I’ve already sent the recording back to my office. Taking my phone won’t do you any good.”

Plunkett looked ready to take a punch at me anyway, but Brad just gestured to the conference room door. “In here.”

The pastries had been put back in their boxes, and the coffee machines unplugged. Was Victor coming back to clean up? We sat, Brad at the head on the table, me to his left, with Plunkett glaring at me from the chair on his right. 

Brad sighed. “This company is more than 100 years old. There’s a reason for that. That reason is Eleanor Hallinan.”

“She did—what? Made a deal with the devil?” I glanced at the door to the other room, where the coffin lay.

He nodded. “Something like that. I don’t know the details, but the family has passed down a ritual over the years to call on Eleanor when we need help. We’ve survived wars, turmoil, recessions, the oil crisis, COVID, Donald Trump—yes, we’ve had some lousy years, but all we ever had to do was ask Eleanor for help.”

“I listened in on your resurrection ceremony here.” I gestured around the table. “She wasn’t giving you business advice.”

Brad tapped the table. “That’s not how it works. She—pulls strings. From the other side.”

“And everyone on the upper levels of management knows about this?”

Plunkett shook his head. “They forget after Eleanor leaves. But they remember what we discuss, the business part of the meeting. And meanwhile everything happens like she arranges, behind the scenes.”

“The meeting itself is important,” Brad said quickly. “We have lots to get through. But it’s really Eleanor’s influence that we’re after. She always delivers.”

“At a price,” I said.

Brad nodded slowly. “There are certain sacrifices. From the top, not from the rank and file. We have a responsibility—”

“You kill people.” I planted my hands on the edge of the table, ready to kick my chair back and run. “Frank Towers, Cathy Linden, Ryan Foster, the CEO before you—that’s not a sacrifice, that’s murder.”

“When you share in the rewards, you have to expect to bear some of the burden,” Brad said defensively. “It’s unfortunate, but that’s the way it goes. My family has given its life to this company, and it has to survive. And thrive.”

“The pay is top rate,” Plunkett put in. “And there’s million-dollar life insurance for the family—”

“Great,” I said. “I’m sure the families are just as happy with the money.”

“It’s not easy.” Brad sighed. “But it’s what we have to do. Eleanor Hallinan wanted the company to survive. At any cost.”

At any cost. “So what now? You hit me with a heart attack the minute I get in my car?”

I regretted the words the moment they came out of my mouth. Why give them any ideas? I wondered what it would feel like—a sharp, piercing pain in my chest? Or maybe a stroke? I backed cautiously away from them. 

Brad shook his head. “The meeting is over. We can’t do the sacrifice for our own convenience. You wouldn’t be an acceptable sacrifice anyway.”

That gave me a little relief. “I’ll try not to be offended.” 

Plunkett stood up. “That doesn’t mean you just walk away from here.”

I own a handgun, but I’d left it at home. I did have my pepper spray in my pocket. “Killing me won’t erase the recording I made. I have video, too. And you really don’t want to make my girlfriend mad at you.”

“We’re not going to kill you, idiot.” Plunkett came around the table fast, and Brad grabbed my arm before I could dodge him. They both had their hands clamped on my wrists. Then Plunkett shoved me to the floor.

I squirmed and twisted, but with Plunkett on top of me I couldn’t get up. He had both my arms, and then Brad crouched and pressed his hands on my shoulders. 

He started chanting. It sounded like the same unearthly language he’d used to open the meeting—the words that had put the board into a trance. 

Could he do it to me too? I kept struggling, but I started shouting too, trying to drown the words out. They made no sense to my ears, but I could feel them seeping into my brain. Plunkett slammed a hand over my mouth. His eyes looked glassy, as if Brad’s chant was affecting him too, but he kept up the pressure, holding me down on the floor as I fought to breathe, to cry out, to throw him off me, to keep my mind from slipping away . . .