Page 5 of Splintered
“Hello?”
“Uh, hi—” Ben stumbled, blinking fast. “Hi, Mr. Garrett, this is Ben Haynes. You, uh, called me about—“
“About Evan. Yes.” Garrett’s voice was curt and tight. “Mr. Haynes, there’s been a situation.”
Ben stood. His chair rocketed back, squeaky wheels complaining along the linoleum of his classroom floor. He gripped his cell so hard his arm shook. “What do you mean?”
“We need you to pick up Mr. Lombardi.”
“Pick him up? From where?”
“He’s agreed to wait at building security until you arrive.”
What the fuck? Ben gaped, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for what to say. “What— What happened? Why can’t he drive home himself?”
“Our legal counsel has advised against allowing Mr. Lombardi to drive himself after the incident.”
“Incident?”
“Mr. Haynes, Evan Lombardi needs to leave GLS. Now. He’s waiting in security. Are you able to pick him up or not? It’s you or it’s the police. He can answer all of your questions.”
“Yeah, yes, of course. Of course I’ll come. I’m leaving now.”
“Go to security when you get here.” The line cut. Jeremy Garrett, Vice President of Human Resources, had hung up on him.
He moved faster than his racing thoughts, grabbing his jacket and his keys and running for the door. He dialed his principal as he jogged through the halls. He had two more classes to teach after his prep period. He’d need a sub to fill in. He babbled something to Principal Chen, some string of consonants and vowels and panic, enough that Chen interrupted him and told him to go now, but to drive safely and she would take care of his classes for the afternoon.
He made Olympic record time across the Bay Bridge, weaving in and around the scattered cars making the midday drive and flooring the gas like he was accelerating for a jump off the crest of the bridge.
Past the turn off to Treasure Island, steel girders cast shadows made of spears into his chest. Each one was a new worry, a tumbling, cascading panic with no answer. What had happened? Had Evan told them about New York, about his interview with a competitor? Was there a fight? Did they fire him when he turned in his notice? But why couldn’t he drive himself? Legal counsel was involved? Were they just trying to make things difficult for him, jerk him around as punishment for leaving GLS? Or…
What had happened?
He’d know soon enough. Ben swerved to the right, swung around the cloverleaf exit to Embarcadero and hit the stop and go of San Francisco traffic. He thought he was going to burst, that his anxiety would balloon inside of him until his skin couldn’t hold all of his worries anymore, and then the evening news would talk about a car that had driven pell-mell into the Bay, nothing but skin blasted around the inside of the car like papier-mâché. He drummed the steering wheel as he swerved into the right, then the left lane, trying to steal inches as he made his way through traffic until he hit Mission.
Finally. There was a garage beneath Evan’s building where Evan parked every day for the discounted price of eight hundred a month. Daily rates were double that. Fifty dollars a day. Twelve an hour.
He popped the wheels onto the curb in the loading zone and turned on his emergency flashers. He’d seen worse parking jobs in the city.
The lobby guard looked him up and down when he burst in, the wind from outside swirling his jacket and whipping through his hair, already ruined from the thousand and one times he’d run his hand through it on the drive.
“Can I help you, sir?” the guard asked, clearly imagining that Ben was far beyond any help that could be offered. Ben almost felt the walls come up, the guard already gesturing him back out to the sidewalk where he belonged.
“Security,” he blurted out. “I’m looking for security. I’m here to—”
“You here for the guy?”
“Evan. Yes, I’m here for Evan.”
The guard eyed him again, one eyebrow arched. “You gonna be okay to take him home? By yourself?”
Ben frowned.
“Took three of us to get him down here.” The guard was no small fry. He was easily three of Ben, double the size of Evan. Over six feet, over two-fifty. His chest was a barrel. His thighs were buckets. His hands could crush skulls in one grip.
“What happened?” Ben breathed.
The guard shook his head. He motioned for Ben to follow and led him through a frosted glass office to a long corridor. Small, windowless offices ran the length, some filled with bored workers staring at their computer screens.
