The Fixer by T. E. Woods

house. “Fuck them all.” He entered the butler’s pantry, pulled a bottle of scotch from the leaded glass cabinet, and filled a Waterford tumbler halfway with the amber liquid. Bastian looked at the clock. Four twenty. “Close enough,” he whispered before taking a long drink.
    The day had been a disaster, starting with the invitation to Meredith Thornton’s office. An invitation he’d ignored. Who the hell was she to summon him? But in light of the morning’s faculty meeting he may have mis-stepped. Bastian made a mental note to call Carl Snelling for a read on Meredith. He’d need her in his corner.
    He sensed the mood of his minions change over the past few months, but he’d been too preoccupied with his research to address it. He shook his head and re-lived their betrayal.
    The boring rituals: roll call, minutes, announcements. Then the heart of the departmental meeting: consideration of new faculty. Six candidates for two available positions. Bastian let the thirty-six faculty members prattle on for twenty minutes and pretended their input mattered. When he’d had enough he nodded toward Fritz Walther. The portly faculty moderator pulled himself to his feet, called the discussion closed and announced the final agenda item: the annual vote giving Bastian the faculty’s proxy in all personnel matters. It was routine. A rubber stamp ceding him full power to hire or fire any member of the department.
    The first warning came when Levine asked for a change from the customary voice vote. “Fucking know-it-all Jew,” Bastian called out to his empty kitchen. “I should have squashed his tenure when I had the chance.” He took another long pull from his scotch and remembered the pathetic look on Walther’s face as he fumbled for enough paper for the secret ballot.
    Bastian held a cool smile as the votes were counted. No need to worry, he told himself. Just a few disgruntled idiots taking a naive swipe at power. He remembered shooting a look to Jerry Childress, his vice-chair. The one he counted on to keep the natives contained and cowed. Childress focused on his laptop and ignored him.
    “Fucking Judas.” Bastian drained his glass and threw it against the sub-zero stainless steel refrigerator. Shards of crystal blanketed the tiled floor.
    The count had been thirty-one to five against him. Bastian grasped the ramifications immediately. Every department chair in the university held their faculty’s proxy. This would be seen as a vote of no confidence. He’d be the laughing stock of campus before nightfall. By tomorrow the research community around the world would know. He’d have to think fast and call in some large chits if he was going to weather this storm.
    Bastian poured himself another scotch and ignored the chimes. He felt no need to endure the false pity detail-hungry colleagues might offer on the other side of his front door. He took his glass and bottle to the sun porch at the rear of the house and cursed himself for relying on Childress to keep the underlings in line.
    Bastian flopped onto a chaise and gazed into his back yard. The outdoor lights had been synchronized to the shortened days. A blanket of snow, rare for Washington, left dollops of white on the long curving bows of the fir trees. He remembered Christmas was next week. The dean of the medical school had invited him to his family’s ski lodge on Crystal Mountain. “Have to get new plans now,” he said to no one as he took a swig straight from the bottle.
    He saw her approach from the west side of the house. Tall and thin. Long brown hair under a bright red beret. Struggling with an enormous poinsettia plant as she stepped gingerly over the snowy walk. Bastian cradled the scotch and watched her climb the icy stairs to the deck. The porch light caught her face. “An ethereal snow fairy,” he sang to the empty room. He saluted her beauty, took another drink, and watched her through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He felt a voyeur’s