The Company Man

I-”

“But you couldn’t.”

“No,” he whispered. “No, I couldn’t.”

“No,” said Hayes tersely. “No, your kind usually can’t. But there’s no reason to get upset. We can keep it quiet, Teddy.”

Teddy sniffed and wiped his eyes. Snot was streaming from his nose now. “What is it you want? Money?”

“No. No, not money.”

“Then what?”

“Just a favor. You just have to do something for me.”

Hayes laid it out for him, nice and neat. What he wanted and how he expected to get it. He spoke as slowly as he could, making it easy for the man’s distressed mind. Then he took out Samantha’s light key and laid it on the table next to his drink. It had been easy to get, no one competent had been stationed near her apartment. Teddy stared at the key through jellied eyes, lips still quaking.

“But I never go there,” said Teddy. “I never go to the Records floor.”

“I don’t care. You’ll be going there now, won’t you? If you want to keep this quiet.”

“They’ll know. They’ll know I was there. There’ll be questions.”

“You go in with this key,” said Hayes, tapping it. “It’s not matched to you. It’s not yours. And they won’t question you being at the Nail. You’re a big man, Teddy. Big and important. You go in. You get what I want. Then when you’re done you throw the key away. Throw it down a storm drain, throw it in the ocean, I don’t care.”

“But they’ll find all those missing files!” whispered Teddy desperately. “They’ll find them and they’ll know it was me! How do I do it without them knowing?”

Hayes looked him up and down, face taut and cruel. “Well. That’s your problem, isn’t it? I don’t care how you do it, so long as you do it. I just want what I need. The rest is up to you.”

“They’ll catch me.”

“Maybe. Would being fired be worse than being prosecuted for buggery?”

Teddy choked. Then he shook as though he was about to vomit.

“Not here,” said Hayes quickly. “Run to the washroom if you’re going to do it.”

Teddy shook his head. He took a breath and got himself under control. Then he looked at Hayes with those weak little eyes and said, “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Hayes shook his head.

Teddy nodded. “All right.”

Hayes did not return to the safe house with Samantha that night. He did not want to risk attracting attention to her if he could. Instead he stayed in the attic of a condemned home he’d found. It looked as if it wouldn’t be of use for much longer, as it was now roped off for demolition. Once there he lay down on a musty old mattress and slept shivering in the dark.

You never did know which way they’d jump, the boys you burned. Ferguson had leaped out a window. Others had suddenly turned patriot, willing to die for their country or company. And Teddy might still find a way to muck everything up, blundering in there and fooling about. But Hayes suspected he wouldn’t. He had watched Teddy. He knew him. He was a careful man and a talented engineer, and he’d somehow managed to nurse an abominable perversion for years without cracking or letting anyone in on it. If anyone could do it, it’d be old Teddy.

But nothing was for sure. And sometimes when he burned them Hayes wondered if he did something to himself as well. If handling their sins tainted him in places deep inside himself.

The next evening Hayes rose and waited under the Brennan Street Bridge. It was the second largest bridge in the state, after the Kulahee, which spanned the Juan de Fuca. Rickety apartments on stilts rested up against its massive curve like barn swallows, their little windows glowing like tiny eyes. As the cold grew the grates on the street belched roiling clouds of steam, like enormous furnaces below the city were working to the point of destruction.

Hayes feared he’d never show, yet then he did. A trim, proper figure slowly walking through the grip of the steam, briefcase in his hand, not in a hurry by any means. Hayes stepped out from his hiding place along the bridge and Teddy’s eyes slid over to him, wide and curiously blank. Then he stopped before him and held out the briefcase.

Hayes took it. It was large and very heavy. “This all of it?” he asked.

Teddy nodded, still silent.

“You sure? You’d better be sure, dear Ted. I’d hate to intervene again.”

He nodded again.

“Good,” said Hayes. “Then I’ll be gone.”

He turned to leave when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked back at Teddy and stared into those terrified eyes.

“You know I couldn’t help it,” said Teddy.

“Get your hand off me.”

“You know I couldn’t.”

“Get your fucking hand off me.”

He did so, then stood there shaking.

“I’m not your fucking priest,” said Hayes softly. “I’m not your doctor. I don’t care about your obsession or whether you live or die. I’m just gone.”

“Will He forgive me?” asked Teddy suddenly.

“Who?”

“God. Do you think He will forgive me?”

Hayes looked at him. His breath caught in his throat and he felt the awful fear rise up in Teddy, the sick magnetism that drew him to Dockland twice a year or more, and the desire to run, to hide from the fear, to hide anywhere, maybe even in death. But as the rush of thought poured into Hayes he realized Teddy feared death even more than being exposed, for then he could no longer hide, not from God Himself, and he would be seen for what he was in his deepest heart.

“No,” said Hayes. “No, I don’t.” Then he walked quickly away and left him there.