“How is your brother doing, Miss Davenport?”
“He’s fine.” Miss Davenport perched on the edge of her chair, stenographer pad at the ready.
Although she had never learned shorthand, she wrote quickly and appreciated the fact she had a job at all.
Andrew Crowley examined the fingernails of his left hand. “I’m not aware that anyone has called for a reference.”
“He isn’t working yet. There aren’t any jobs for miles around since the other factory closed.”
“Just be glad we aren’t pressing charges.”
“I’m very grateful.”
Crowley cleared his throat, twice. “You’ve been with us how long now?”
“Almost two years.” Miss Davenport had to bite her tongue to keep a “Sir” from slipping out.
“Amalgamated Industries is a good place to work, and you’ve done an acceptable job here in the office. Still, you never know when things are going to change for the worse.”
“Have I done something wrong?”
He waved away her concerns. “No, not at all. I’m thinking more of myself. Amalgamated has been my life. No regrets.” He paused. “I’ve been a good boss, haven’t I?”
She nodded. “Very kind.”
“I’ve never come onto you, never forced you to sleep with me in order to keep your job, or anything like that.”
Miss Davenport stood. “I don’t understand.”
“Take a letter.”
After a moment’s pause, she sat again, held her pen above the pad. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“To whom it may concern.” Crowley paused. “Colon.” He gave a short laugh.
Miss Davenport glanced up, waiting for him to explain the joke.
Instead he continued. “New paragraph. There comes a time in every life when one has to reassess the reason for living, a time when one has to recognize that pain has the power to separate one from common humanity. Even if I wanted to grit my way through tomorrow and the tomorrow after that, I would become more inhumane with each passing day. That is why I’ve decided to take my own life.”
Miss Davenport gasped. “What are you saying?”
“Read that back please.”
As Miss Davenport stumbled through the letter, Crowley opened his right-hand drawer and placed a gun on top of his desk.
Miss Davenport stopped reading.
“Please go on.”
Tearing her eyes away from the gun, she did as he asked. Then she leaned forward, “But you can’t be serious.”
“I certainly can be. In fact I am.”
“Whatever your problem, it’s not that bad.”
“New paragraph. My gun is a Smith and Wesson .38 containing a single round in one of its six chambers. The name of the game is Russian Roulette, and since a random pull of the trigger will cause my sudden demise, expect this letter to end abruptly, sincerely yours.”
“This is insane. You can’t go through with this.”
Crowley lifted the gun. “I don’t think you’re in any position to stop me, not unless you’ve been lifting weights during lunch. As to getting help, the door locked behind you and I changed the combination before I asked you in. My telephone and computer are disconnected. Furthermore, as you know, my office is soundproof.”
Miss Davenport placed her pad on the desk. “I won’t be party to your suicide.”
“Again, you don’t have much choice. If I leave this room alive, my lawyer calls the police and your brother goes to prison. On the other hand, if you merely do your job and write what I say, my lawyer has a cashier’s check for ten thousand dollars waiting for you.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“Blackmail and bribery, to be more exact.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. “This isn’t the only way.”
“No. Simply the best.” Crowley raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
At the click, Miss Davenport screamed.
“Don’t do that. You’ll affect my aim. And you’re going to need your pen unless you expect to memorize my last words.” After a moment, Miss Davenport retrieved the item she’d dropped.
“New paragraph. One down, five to go. I realize now that I probably should have prepared something to say before each attempt, but chances are that if I had, the first chamber would have been filled. Life can be funny that way.” Crowley pulled the trigger.
There was another click, and Miss Davenport jumped to her feet. “You can’t go do this.”
“Why ever not?”
“Just forget it. I’ll do anything you ask.”
Crowley tilted his head. “Anything?”
“Anything. Just let me go.”
Crowley lifted the gun away from his head and closed his eyes for half-a-dozen seconds. “I don’t think so.” Returning the muzzle to his temple, he opened his eyes. “New paragraph.”
Miss Davenport leapt across the desk, but Crowley was faster, and a quick slap to her face stopped her short.
Crowley waited until her sobs slowed. “You’re just making this harder for both of us. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. You’ve been taking care of your sick mother. Wouldn’t you like to be able to afford a nurse?”
“Not like this.”
He returned the gun to the ready position. “But this is how it is. Pick up your pad. Pick up your pen. New paragraph. I would like the record to show that Miss Davenport has tried to stop me several times and should in no way be held accountable for my decision.”
There was a click as he pulled the trigger, and Miss Davenport starting to whimper.
“New paragraph. Let’s see, that was … three I think. We’re at least halfway there.” Crowley was glad to see that however bad her reaction, Miss Davenport was at least doing her job of transcribing what he said. Whether she would be able to read the writing later was another matter. “People talk about cancerous cells, but they ignore the corollary damage that is done to the soul.”
Crowley paused, leaned forward. “Does your mother ever recognize you?”
Miss Davenport stammered a reply. “On good days.”
“I hope that the bonus comes in handy.” Clearing his throat, Crowley continued. “New paragraph. My finger is starting to shake from the strain, and so I rest it against the trigger, slowly pulling.”
Click.
Miss Davenport let out a sob. “Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you?”
“You’re young and you’re healthy. You have your whole life ahead of you.” He chuckled. “But then don’t we all?”
“I want this to end.”
“So do I.” Crowley pulled the trigger.
Click.
Miss Davenport moaned, rocking in her chair.
“New paragraph. That was five of the six. I guess that’s it for suspense.” Crowley watched as Miss Davenport continued to write with a hand that was far from steady. The task of dictation was probably the only thing holding her together.
“New paragraph. My finger tenses, relaxes, tenses, relaxes. I was always a boss to her, never a man.” Crowley pulled the trigger.
Click.
“That’s funny.” Crowley tossed the gun into the trashcan, the loud bang seeming to echo as he pulled a second gun from his desk. “I must have grabbed the wrong one. Oops.”
Miss Davenport’s face held no expression.
Crowley laid the second gun on the desk, stood and stretched. “I don’t know about you, but I’m parched.”
He walked to the water dispenser and poured himself a drink. As he turned, he saw Miss Davenport pointing the second gun at him, her hands shaking.
Her voice was little more than a ragged whisper. “Open the door.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He sipped his water. “We’re here for the duration. Remember your brother, your mother. I can still put him in prison. I can still give her hope.”
Miss Davenport pulled the trigger again and again until she realized the cylinder was empty. She let the gun fall to her side.
Crowley shook his head. “I guess that’s another oops on my part. As they say, third time’s a charm.” He tossed the empty cup into the trashcan on his way back to his desk.
“Miss Davenport, for the rest of my life, I will be in pain.” He pulled a third gun from his desk drawer. “Why should you feel anything less?”
He lifted the gun to his temple.
Pulled the trigger.
Stephen D. Rogers is the author of SHOT TO DEATH (Mainly Murder Press) and more than 600 shorter pieces. His website, www.stephendrogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.
Great story as were the ones yesterday. I doubt Stephen ever wrote a bad one though. I think you spelled his name wrong on the front page.
On the edge of my chair waiting for the next click! Great story. Poor Miss D…
Yeah, it was a rough day, LOL!
Stephen, a terrific story. Loved the twists and tension.