Skyscrapers

By Jill Wilson Brennan

Vern Webb has always taken pride in his ability to live in the present. As head of Midwest Industries, he seems like a typical CEO with typical challenges. But what no one knows is that he is harboring two secrets: his criminal past and an illicit drug laundering operation hidden within his company.

Webbs competitor is Ellie Torquemada Smith, a beautiful Mexican immigrant who leads AgriBusiness. Smith, who has risen to dominance by pursuing powerful, intelligent, and wealthy men and learning everything she can from them, is scheming to take over Midwest Industries when a covert attack is launched, seemingly with the intent to destroy Webb by revealing his well-hidden past. After several bizarre shootings, Smith is shot herself in a hospital parking lot. As she slowly recovers, gun control lobbyists and NOW use the incident to transform her into a public heroine. Meanwhile, influential people intent on incriminating Webb and the drug merchants exert pressure and offer a bribe in exchange for Smiths help. As a crisis mounts, neither CEO pulls punches, but neither does anyone else around them.

Skyscrapers is the compelling story of two self-made CEOS as their paths cross and one of them meets their destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491823521

Jill Wilson Brennan

Jill Wilson Brennan has published short stories, some of which have won prizes or been re-published in anthologies. She has written articles and educational materials on terrorism and gun control. Jill currently lives in Chicago, Illinois, where she continues to write based on her experiences in the United States and overseas.

Book preview

© 2013, 2015 Jill Wilson Brennan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/05/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2354-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2353-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2352-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013917826

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

About the Author

About the Book

CHAPTER ONE

V ern Webb sat at his desk, so absorbed he did not hear his chair squeaking as he rocked back and forth, anxiously thinking. Slamming his elbows onto the desk, he steepled his hands around his chin. As he did so, he noticed with a scowl their delicate quiver. His big face became gargoylesque as he stared through the glass wall of his office, as if he could pierce the far eastern distance. His eyes glittered with reflected sun and then narrowed as his mind turned inward, caught in the web of memory.

Two dangerous players had stepped into his mind. The first was suggested by the pamphlet on his desk: What Every Patient Should Know About Parkinson’s Disease. The second was his old nemesis, the Tuareg. Ordinarily, he kept the Tuareg locked in the darkest dungeons of his mind, but there one came, sneering, eyes surrounded by a blue turban. The Tuareg had considered the American hippies of the 1960s to be even dirtier than the pigs scorned by the Koran. There was no use too low for them…

A shudder rippled up Vern’s spine as he remembered the techniques of the Tuareg: the catastrophic virus, being dropped from a camel saddle into a noxious alley near the Koutoubia, the dark hatred in the eyes of the woman who cared for him. Vern cut the memory. He stuffed the offending pamphlet—printed in tones of peach, off-white, and gray—into the drawer under his plastic-covered checkbook just as the phone rang.

Hello? he said.

Cherny and Jones reporting, boss. Czerniewski’s voice, blurred by a speakerphone, still conveyed excitement. Great news! We made our first real progress with Lubyakin this morning.

We think, added Jones.

We told him we’d have a regulatory problem if he continued to insist on this crazy, convoluted … Details followed until Jones inserted, Boss? While we were waiting for a taxi—

Forget it! Czerniewski snapped.

While we were waiting for a taxi—

I said, forget it!

Could you two fight on your own time, please? Vern asked, crisping his tone, a signal all employees recognized as ominous.

Blood all over! Jones announced, sounding like he had used the whole minibar to dilute the memory and it hadn’t worked.

Russian Mafia? Vern asked.

Well, but … Czerniewski fished for words. Desk says yeah, maybe, but they got the wrong guys. These guys were French—agronomists or ecologists or some damn thing.

Or some damn thing, Vern agreed cynically. He didn’t believe most murders were accidental, in Russia or anywhere else. Take it as an incentive to get Lubyakin on board, and get the fuck out of there.

Right. Will do.

Vern called his limo and told the driver he would walk home, which caused considerable surprise. Perambulating slowly up Marquette Boulevard, Powhaten’s glitziest shopping street, was an exercise he usually only indulged in with Pamela. She admired the windows and often made Vern go inside shops that made his flesh crawl. Right now, the posed mannequins looked like aliens from a sci-fi film. Distracted by a dangerous briefcase, he stumbled into a wheelchair and had to apologize. But the briefcase had been swinging straight for his groin.

He entered the apartment with aching feet and a pensive attitude, seeing its quiet luxury as somehow false today, a facade shielding him from past and future threats. One of Vern’s great skills in life had always been living in the present. But today, he felt threatened. How do you fight your own cells? he wondered.

How does one develop this sort of … thing? he had asked the doctor, his eyes fixed upon the pamphlet the doctor was holding out. He hated it on sight.

Well, it’s hard to say. But we do know a disproportionate percentage have had a major, really serious viral infection, usually in their youth … The doctor had droned on while Vern’s mind snagged on the word virus. Was it possible that the virus he caught in Morocco had been insidiously attacking his nervous system ever since?

He yearned to tell Pamela but knew he wouldn’t. Not until he couldn’t avoid it.

Now, in the apartment, he thumbed through the mail, dropped it and his briefcase in the den, and wondered when Pam was coming home. He tried to remember what she had said. Then he heard a splash. It sounded as if she were in the tub, which turned out to be true.

Oh, mercy! she exclaimed. Here you are, and me not dressed!

Perfect, Vern said as he leaned down to kiss her. Her face was damp and pink, and her breasts were only partly under the bubble bath.

Time to get out of the tub, gorgeous creature, he said.

Or you could get in.

Not with bubbles, I couldn’t.

She was looking at him with a strange concern. Had she seen him shake slightly and steady himself on the edge of the tub as he leaned over to kiss her?

What did the doctor say? she asked.

Nothing. Want a drink?

Sure. Scotch. Be right out.

Vern noticed the lace briefs and bra laid out on the bed as he hurried down the hall toward the bar. He no longer drank alcohol, but Pammie did love a glass of Scotch in the evening. He hesitated about his own drink: Diet Coke as usual? Or was the fake sugar or the caffeine bad for tremors? He poured himself a tonic on ice instead. For the first time in years, he longed to throw back Pam’s Scotch, and another and another. Instead, he carried hers back to the bedroom.

Now don’t be elusive, she said, shrugging into a blue sweater over wool slacks. What did the doctor actually say?

It’s psychological.

Psychological? Pam asked, following Vern’s retreat down the hall. How can feeling shaky be psychological? Is he a good doctor, do you think?

Vern stopped and turned. It’s no big deal. Overwork, he says. And I’m getting older. I need more exercise and more nice restful trips with my girl.

Restful … Pam’s brow wrinkled. "What would a restful trip be?"

A beach, a tent, a canoe.

Pam hit him with a loose fist. Be serious, you.

They shared a smile, aware Pam could not survive one night in a tent. She was the ultimate city girl, and they both loved that about her. She was also suspicious by nature. She suddenly locked her eyes onto his: "Are you sure that’s what he said?"

Pam. That meant stop.

With a shrug, she carried her Scotch back to the bedroom to add her finishing touches while Vern fell into his favorite chair. When she returned, he was lost in thought. But when Pam said, Lisa called, he was instantly alert.

Vern Jr.?

Pam nodded. A lady in Oak Hill saw a corpse on her lawn and called the cops. It turned out to be Vern Jr., sleeping it off.

I can’t understand it! Vern snapped. "A lot of people drink, but nobody drinks like Vern Jr.! I’ve never been a corpse on somebody’s lawn, have you?"

No, Pam admitted. But I’ve never been a sixteen-year-old guy, either.

Well, I have! It’s not necessary to fry your entire brain at sixteen. He’s got a whole lifetime … Vern’s voice petered off, swamped again by memory, those infernal memories of things Pam had never heard about and, God willing, never would.

‘Fry your brain’? That doesn’t sound like you, Pam said. She was looking at him too attentively. To distract her, Vern asked, Does Lisa expect me to do something?

She wants you to talk to him. She thinks he should go back into rehab.

He should just go to hell, Vern grumbled. "What does Lisa think, I’m made of money? In addition to child support, I should pay for this idiot to spend another three weeks in rehab? What’s the point?"

"I dunno, Vern. I’m only telling you what Lisa said. You’re his dad … I don’t know anything about kids."

Well, neither does my ex-wife, apparently. Where did she think he was? In bed?

Vern, don’t yell at me, okay? I’m not Vern Jr., and I’m not Lisa.

He had to admire Pam’s calm. Nothing really got under her skin as long as she had everything money could buy and a lot of admiration. And she had both. The waters in which Vern’s psychological boat floated were more turbulent. If Pam dreamed of beautiful shoes that didn’t hurt a bit, Vern dreamed of swamps, drownings, Tuareg, camels, tents, thugs, and shivs that appeared out of nowhere and started slicing him.

On the weird side, Melinda had another of her dreams, Pam added.

The monster dream?

Yes, monsters who are inside out, whatever that means. It completely terrifies her. But how would an idea like that get into Melinda’s poor little head?

Me, handing down my nightmare genes. It occurred to him that maybe his genes were the reason Melinda had Down syndrome. Is that pink-and-gray pamphlet going to throw everything into question? he asked himself irritably. He returned to attention as Pam finished with, Dear Mother, I don’t know what we’d do without her.

She’s a saint, Vern said. She had taken over Melinda’s care soon after birth, when Pam had utterly refused to acknowledge the baby as her own responsibility.

Unfortunately for her, she didn’t raise one, Pam acknowledged. I don’t know what I would have done if she weren’t there.

Don’t worry. We won’t ever have Melinda with us, Vern reassured her. It wouldn’t be fair to you.

Pam gave him a tight-lipped smile. Thanks.

*   *   *

The president of the Père Marquette Aquarium, Dr. John Archer, left his door ajar when he was available for walk-ins. A thud, rather than a tap, announced Mavis, the head marine biologist.

Got an idea, she said. May be worth a press conference. About our belugas.

Archer gave her a frosty look. He was still bruised by the negative publicity the belugas had attracted for the aquarium. Positive, I hope?

Of course. And more than a Band-Aid, I think. She flopped down in the chair facing Archer’s desk. She resembled a beluga herself, but Archer knew her ideas were generally worth considering.

Good, because we need a lot more than a Band-Aid, he reminded her. So far, we’ve created the first saltwater whale environment in the Great Lakes. We’ve created a fake Pacific Northwest rain-forest decor. We’ve captured three live baby belugas and transported them to Powhaten.

"Yeah, yeah, and then some stringer in Canada leaks that awful story to the Powhaten Sentinel—‘Inuit in gas-powered inflatables separating terrified babies from their mothers forever,’ Mavis griped. It’s that ‘terrified babies’ bit that got everybody all upset."

Archer’s eyebrows rose.

Well, okay, she admitted. "Of course they were terrified; we could have lived with terrified. But there’s no way to put a positive spin on the fact that we gave inoculations that killed two of them."

Whereupon, Archer said, we, the Père Marquette Aquarium, had no option after investing so much donor money in the fake Pacific Northwest rain-forest decor but to send the Inuit to get more. ‘Chase down two more terrified babies,’ we said, ‘and send them to us.’

Now, John.

Archer dropped his weary brow into his hands. I keep seeing that woman from Save the Whales in my nightmares.

Now, John.

Okay. He gave her a wry grin. But this better be good, Mavis.

Do you remember when the dryer down by the pool broke? And we kept getting the repairman in, and he kept saying there was nothing wrong with the dryer?

Are we still talking about belugas?

We are. We always knew they could mimic sounds. Their vocal repertoire earned them the nickname ‘sea canaries’ long ago. Whistles, squeaks, clucks, you name it. But we didn’t realize they would mimic anything they heard often enough.

You mean … the dryer?

Precisely. And the sound of scuba equipment. And the commands the trainer gives the dolphins, which we think is the reason Momo can’t learn his commands. He’s not the world’s dumbest dolphin. He’s getting conflicting signals from the beluga tank. So I thought maybe an exhibit …

On echolocation?

Well, echolocation and mimicry in the larger sea mammals. We know dolphins were secretly trained to plant mines during World War II, honing in on engine sounds. We could enlarge on the theme. It could be really interesting. And it’s certainly new. I checked the web. Definitely not been done as an aquarium exhibit in the USA.

Hmm. Archer tapped his pen against his chin. Let me talk to education and publicity, see what they think they could do. I’ll get back to you.

Mavis left with a farewell ripple of water-puckered fingertips. Archer sat in reflection. The aquarium’s education director, Lisa Webb, was, like Mavis, a divorcée with a problem kid, Vern Jr. Lisa was divorced because Vern Sr. came home one day, announced he was in love with somebody else, and told her that he would be generous if she made the divorce quick and easy. At least, that was Lisa’s side of the story. Personally, Archer thought she was well rid of him. His instincts sensed something not quite right about Vern Webb Sr., like a photo out of focus or a print job not quite aligned. Certainly, the man had to be an idiot to prefer his trophy wife, Pam, to Lisa, with her curly dark hair and her endearing occasional stutter. Archer assumed the namesake son had inherited his dad’s genes and would grow up to be as ruthless, selfish, and arrogant as the old man, no matter what Lisa did.

On his way toward the education department, Archer imagined himself in a similar situation. What would he do if Geena came home and said she was leaving ASAP? And, in her case, taking the kids? His world would end. He must make sure it never, ever happened. He must keep Geena happy, and with that thought uppermost in his mind, he tapped on the frame of Lisa Webb’s open door.

She looked up, saw him, and smiled. So did he. Their eyes continued to crinkle, their faces turned slightly pink, and the breathless silence continued far too long before Archer began, Mavis … Mavis came to see me.

Ah?

She says our belugas can mimic sounds, even mechanical sounds. She wonders if we could set up an exhibit about echolocation and sound mimicry in large marine animals. What do you think?

What kind of sounds do they mim … mimic?

Their trainer’s signals, the scuba equipment, and the clothes dryer, among others.

The clothes dryer? Lisa blinked and then fell into helpless laughter. I’m sorry, John, she said, trying to stop the giggle. It’s because I live with this robot dog, this candroid, to be exact, that Alex built, named Byte. Byte also responds to sounds.

Archer nodded.

But the dumb thing responds to more than Alex intended. It responds to the timer on the oven, to the telephone, the doorbell … Maybe I should bring Byte down to talk to our belugas! What a photo op!

Think about it seriously, will you? Archer felt strangely excluded from her hilarity. Everyone knew her younger kid, Alex, was some sort of genius. Every story about him was weirder than the one before. Now he had built his own candroid. Of course.

Let me think and get back to you with some ideas, Lisa said, once again calm and in control of herself. I’ll get b-b-back to you. Then, as they both smiled fondly, she mocked her own stutter. S-s-soon.

Oh, and … Archer added as he was already halfway out the door. How’s Vern Jr.?

Acting out. I’m letting Vern handle it this time. Because it’s all about Vern’s walking out on all of us in favor of Pamela.

You should get remarried. To someone the boy respects, someone who will spend time with him.

Of course, Lisa said evenly. Every divorced mother should.

She barely moved until Archer was gone. Suddenly she threw her pen across the room so hard that it bounced off the window, ricocheted across the table, and landed in the potted palm. Guiltily, Lisa crossed herself. Displays of temper are not good, definitely not good, Lisa, she said to herself. Bad girl.

*   *   *

Usually, as one moves forward in time, the past becomes part of the background, unofficially buried. But if someone is interested enough, bits of the past can be disinterred and used. A disinterment of this sort had recently occurred in New York City, where a man and a woman found a battered old junkie nodding in a corner in Grand Central Station. The strangers had dark hair, dark eyes, dark accents. They could have been mother and son. All they wanted from the junkie, they said, was to talk. They promised her good junk in exchange. Although she didn’t believe a word they said, she agreed to follow them. At her age, sick of pain and despair and freezing in Grand Central Station, she’d do anything.

The hotel was fairly close to the station, which was good. Loretta hated sunshine and the way everybody moved so goddamn fast in the streets. She stumbled a few times, squinted, grumbled.

The hotel was musty-smelling and manned by a clerk sipping from a brown-bagged bottle. He stared at them rudely—two older women and one younger man—as he handed over the key.

Once in the room, the man said abruptly, Give me your hand. The junkie watched him insert a butterfly needle—a little chemotherapy, he said—and attached a syringe to that. The hit felt strange but good. Her pain and anxiety faded. She stumbled to the bed against the wall and slept hard, only to awaken with the man’s face too close to hers.

Time to talk, he said.

Her confusion seemed worse than usual. She stared. Who was he? What did he want? What could she have that he wanted? Who was the woman with one long eyebrow staring from the corner?

From her seat in the corner, Jehan watched the junkie clumsily try to think, watched Ahmed gauging the speed of the woman’s thoughts from her eye movements. How long, Jehan wondered, would it take the junkie to understand? Did she still have sufficient brain power to follow instructions? Jehan sighed. No military commander ever wanted to entrust an important job to a junkie. Of course they were expendable, but so wretchedly unpredictable. And if busted, they were the stupidest liars on earth, standing there with tracks up and down their scraggy arms—Jehan’s eyes were on the junkie’s—telling the narcs someone else must have slipped the heroin into their pocket.