Freddy brought in the shotgun in a sports duffle and slid it between his desk and the wall of his cubicle. Then he waited. For ten months he worked, went out with his friends, and seethed. He watched Phipps hug aging grandmothers as they signed over their nest eggs, shake hands with union reps entrusting him with the pension fund, assure representatives from non-profits that their assets were in good hands. Freddy had worried that seeing his former stepfather day in and day out would awaken that dormant love he’d had for the man; it hadn’t. Phipps was a study in psychopathology. He operated without fear, guilt, or remorse, taking someone’s life savings with the indifference of a convenience store clerk—as if he had no comprehension of the devastation he wrought. Freddy’s observations were only augmented by his own experience; Phipps had stolen more than money from Freddy, so much more.
When the day finally came, it was almost too easy. The office was empty once the new assistant had left. He had logged out of the system hours earlier, as was his habit when he stayed late waiting for a window of opportunity. He retrieved the loaded shotgun and entered the executive office to find Phipps passed out on his couch, still holding a drink. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t waver. This was for the greater good. Freddy felt like a soldier hunting down a terrorist. Bam. That’s for all those people whose lives you ruined. Bam. That’s for me.
He had planned every detail—the gun, the coinciding of an event downstairs, the exit strategy—the only security camera that he couldn’t avoid was the one by the elevator so he simply repositioned it with a broom handle. What he hadn’t accounted for was the adrenalin crash that tanked his blood sugar, so he quickly guzzled a soda from the vending machine and made his escape. Then, three days later, he had reached out to the UK-Saudi Bank in Riyadh to accept their open-ended offer to sell them the data analysis and tracking software for derivatives he had developed, along with a job to install and monitor the program. Six banks had wanted his system, but only one was in a non-extradition country.
Just a few more loose ends and he was home free. Freddy Kerr could finally start living his life.
“Anchor down!” A thirty-something man in running clothes nodded to Freddy’s Vanderbilt t-shirt with a grin.
“Go ‘Dores!” Freddy replied, smiling.
“Are you still in school?”
“Graduated last year.”
“Good for you. What are you doing these days?” The man joined him as they walked down Bleecker Street.
“Working in finance.”
“Oh yeah? I’m at Morganstern. What about you?”
Freddy cleared his throat and mumbled, “Gentrify.”
“Oh shit,” The man chuckled. “Crazy what happened over there.”
“Yeah.”
“You want to shoot me your CV? Always happy to help out a fellow Commodore.”
“Thanks, man, but I’ve taken an offer out of the country.” Freddy stepped out of the path of a man pushing a grocery cart full of empty cans.
“Good, good. You’ve got everything wrapped up at Gentrify?”
“Yeah.”
“Time to move on then. You balance the books and start fresh.”
“Yes. They’re balanced.”
In front of them, a woman holding several packages was getting into an Uber when her wallet fell from her tilted purse and landed in the street. The woman, oblivious, closed the car door. Freddy raced up, snatched the wallet, and waved it at the woman through the rear window. The woman lowered the window, took her wallet, and thanked Freddy profusely as the Uber pulled into traffic.
The stranger met Freddy’s guileless eyes and nodded once as if satisfied with what he saw.
“Good luck to you, Freddy. I hope the new job works out.”
Caleb Cain waved over his shoulder and walked on down the crowded street as Freddy stopped at the door to a pizza place. Freddy lifted a hand in farewell, wondering how the stranger had known his name.