hooked.
Well, if you need a copilot on this deadly little misadventure, I might know somebody who’s free.
Gruber’s breath had caught when he’d read the message. He read it again, twice over, to make sure he was seeing it right.
Oh yeah?
he wrote.
You might, huh?
I might,
Madison replied.
• • •
Madison lingered in Gruber’s mind, morning and night, kept him awake, restless in his tiny bed, thinking of ways to keep her attention, push her toward the end. She came to work with him, stored safe on his phone; he stole away at quiet moments to chat with her some more.
Today, though, when Gruber ducked into the break room to check his phone for messages, he found nothing new from DarlingMadison in his inbox. Nothing from Dylan. But there was an email notification from the Death Wish forum about a new private message. Some user named XXBlackDaysXX.
Hey. I’ve seen you around the site. Sounds like you know a little bit about getting things done. Do you have any tips for someone who’s ready to go?
Gruber read the message a couple of times. Studied the attached profile—the requisite moody description, a bland profile picture, nothing unique or special at all. Gruber had seen this boy around the site, read some of his posts and pegged him immediately for a poser. A time waster.
Adam Osing’s voice over the loudspeaker, jarring Gruber from his thoughts: “Randall, we need you in children’s wear. Bring a mop.”
Gruber ignored his boss. Reread the message. Normally, he might indulge this kid. Take a chance, try and draw him out, search for somelatent weakness the user never knew he had, an absentee father or an unrequited crush, some secret shame. Find the kid’s buttons and press them until the poor bastard was made aware of life’s profound unfairness and misery, of the opportunity death had to erase pain. Gruber had never struck gold with any of these dilettantes, but he liked to imagine that one or two of them had wandered off and killed themselves anyway, after they’d logged off.
But Gruber already had Dylan and Madison. He wasn’t lacking for prospects. And frankly, this kid with his by-the-numbers profile description, his goofy, corn-fed picture, this kid annoyed Gruber. As if anyone would believe an asshole like this would ever do anything more than lurk in a suicide chat room. As if the kid believed his fanboy questions were worth a minute of Gruber’s time.
Osing’s voice on the loudspeaker again. “Randall Gruber, children’s wear. Mop and bucket. Now.”
Osing sounded tired. Frustrated. Fed up. Well, forget him. Gruber would deal with the situation in children’s wear in good time.
Gruber opened a reply. Typed fast.
You’re wasting my time. You’ll never do it.
Sent the message.
And that’s when the break-room door opened, and Osing was there. He stood in the doorway, took in the phone in Gruber’s hand, the open locker with DarlingMadison’s picture inside.
“Gruber,” he said, his voice granite-hard. “What did I tell you?”
< 38 >
A thousand miles away, Mathers’s computer chimed.
“Got a response,” he told Stevens and Windermere. He read it aloud. “‘You’re wasting my time. You’ll never do it.’ Not exactly promising.”
Stevens and Windermere looked at each other.
“She doesn’t believe you,” Stevens said.
“Yeah,” Mathers said. “So what the heck do I do about it?”
Windermere smacked his shoulder. “What do you do?” she said. “You
make
her believe, you big dummy.”
< 39 >
Gruber was almost home when he realized he’d left DarlingMadison’s picture taped up in his locker. He’d been in such a hurry to get out of there that he’d forgotten it.
Well, it was lost. True to his word, Osing had fired him. Kicked him out with a barely disguised satisfaction.
“I told you what I’d do if you kept playing on that phone,” he told Gruber as he escorted him to the front doors. “You had to test me, Randall, and now
Well, if you need a copilot on this deadly little misadventure, I might know somebody who’s free.
Gruber’s breath had caught when he’d read the message. He read it again, twice over, to make sure he was seeing it right.
Oh yeah?
he wrote.
You might, huh?
I might,
Madison replied.
• • •
Madison lingered in Gruber’s mind, morning and night, kept him awake, restless in his tiny bed, thinking of ways to keep her attention, push her toward the end. She came to work with him, stored safe on his phone; he stole away at quiet moments to chat with her some more.
Today, though, when Gruber ducked into the break room to check his phone for messages, he found nothing new from DarlingMadison in his inbox. Nothing from Dylan. But there was an email notification from the Death Wish forum about a new private message. Some user named XXBlackDaysXX.
Hey. I’ve seen you around the site. Sounds like you know a little bit about getting things done. Do you have any tips for someone who’s ready to go?
Gruber read the message a couple of times. Studied the attached profile—the requisite moody description, a bland profile picture, nothing unique or special at all. Gruber had seen this boy around the site, read some of his posts and pegged him immediately for a poser. A time waster.
Adam Osing’s voice over the loudspeaker, jarring Gruber from his thoughts: “Randall, we need you in children’s wear. Bring a mop.”
Gruber ignored his boss. Reread the message. Normally, he might indulge this kid. Take a chance, try and draw him out, search for somelatent weakness the user never knew he had, an absentee father or an unrequited crush, some secret shame. Find the kid’s buttons and press them until the poor bastard was made aware of life’s profound unfairness and misery, of the opportunity death had to erase pain. Gruber had never struck gold with any of these dilettantes, but he liked to imagine that one or two of them had wandered off and killed themselves anyway, after they’d logged off.
But Gruber already had Dylan and Madison. He wasn’t lacking for prospects. And frankly, this kid with his by-the-numbers profile description, his goofy, corn-fed picture, this kid annoyed Gruber. As if anyone would believe an asshole like this would ever do anything more than lurk in a suicide chat room. As if the kid believed his fanboy questions were worth a minute of Gruber’s time.
Osing’s voice on the loudspeaker again. “Randall Gruber, children’s wear. Mop and bucket. Now.”
Osing sounded tired. Frustrated. Fed up. Well, forget him. Gruber would deal with the situation in children’s wear in good time.
Gruber opened a reply. Typed fast.
You’re wasting my time. You’ll never do it.
Sent the message.
And that’s when the break-room door opened, and Osing was there. He stood in the doorway, took in the phone in Gruber’s hand, the open locker with DarlingMadison’s picture inside.
“Gruber,” he said, his voice granite-hard. “What did I tell you?”
< 38 >
A thousand miles away, Mathers’s computer chimed.
“Got a response,” he told Stevens and Windermere. He read it aloud. “‘You’re wasting my time. You’ll never do it.’ Not exactly promising.”
Stevens and Windermere looked at each other.
“She doesn’t believe you,” Stevens said.
“Yeah,” Mathers said. “So what the heck do I do about it?”
Windermere smacked his shoulder. “What do you do?” she said. “You
make
her believe, you big dummy.”
< 39 >
Gruber was almost home when he realized he’d left DarlingMadison’s picture taped up in his locker. He’d been in such a hurry to get out of there that he’d forgotten it.
Well, it was lost. True to his word, Osing had fired him. Kicked him out with a barely disguised satisfaction.
“I told you what I’d do if you kept playing on that phone,” he told Gruber as he escorted him to the front doors. “You had to test me, Randall, and now
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