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Page 40.
Chapter 23
 Vern Consiglio, Assistant Chairman of CON2, finished his day’s work and prepared to go home. Still a relatively young man, he sighed deeply as he thought of his pretty young wife and three children, who waited for him in the Washington suburb of Alexandria.
He could stay all evening, all night, and the work would never be done. CON2 was turning into a disaster, as he had feared. Against his better judgment, he had trusted Mattoon. Vern had seen the train wreck looming, and he’d voiced his fears to Mattoon, but the man was so imposing, so imperious, so self-assured and iron-willed, that he could silence any doubters.
As the last one out, Vern shut off all the lights. No cleaning people here at night—too dangerous getting in and out of the city. A skeleton crew came by day to do a perfunctory job of vacuuming halls, and emptying trash cans, before quickly taking the Metro out of town before dark.
Vern locked doors behind him as he walked down shadowy hallways in the convention center. While other wings were jammed with military and delegates, this wing was ghostly and deserted at night. In these offices, the greatest disaster since the Civil War had been orchestrated, bureaucratically, behind closed doors. Mattoon would be the last to understand what he had done.
Vern waited for the elevator in the 20th floor lobby. It would take him, whispering on its way, down through its murky shafts that squeaked with metal chains and smacked with heavy grease. As he waited, Vern thought of home—tomorrow was trash day.
Vern watched the lights indicate that the elevator carriage was rising to meet him: …17, 18, 19, 20. The door opened, and Vern took a step forward.
Something was wrong.
The lighting in the elevator was dim. Was a man standing there?
“Time,” said a smiling, preppy man with twinkling eyes. The man wore a raincoat and a hoodie, and carried a towel over one shoulder. He had little white chicle teeth and dimples. He flicked a straight razor open, while Vern watched in numb surprise, taken back by the incongruity of what was happening—and in fractions of seconds, to boot.
Vern did not have a chance to react, to speak, as the razor sliced through the air. It made a warm, wet, achy feeling around his throat. Vern suddenly couldn’t breathe, amid growing darkness illumined with that bunny rabbit smile. Bright red spatters filled the elevator, streaking its walls and mirrors. Vern raised his hands to feel what could be wrong with his neck, even as he grew light-headed and sank to his knees.
In the growing darkness, as Vern sagged into a fetal position, he rolled his eyes upward. What was the smiling man doing? No longer smiling, he was efficiently stripping off his coat and rolling it in a ball. He stashed the bundle behind a loose panel in the elevator. He used the towel to clean his face and neck, looking very matter-of-fact.
As he bent down, Vern understood. The man rolled him for his wallet, to make it look like a simple robbery. In the dimness, Vern remembered a need to go take the trash out, but he couldn’t raise his arms. Why was he lying here? Why was night falling? Why did the smiling man leave without saying goodbye? He must call Mattoon, but could not remember where his phone was. And he was falling asleep.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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