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Chapter Twenty-six
Sean has spent the morning online,researching guns. He’s learned that the United States tops the list of countries with the most firearms, with more than one gun per person, and that while Americans make up only four percent of the world’s population, they own forty-six percent of the world’s firepower. An estimated three hundred and ninety-three million guns belong to three hundred and twenty-six million people, which means sixty-seven million guns left over, if every man, woman, and child owned one.
Twenty-nine percent of gun owners own five or more.
Fully forty-two percent of American households have guns.
There is no federal limit to how many guns a person can own.
One collector compares his gun collecting habit to buying shoes. Another describes guns as “man jewelry.” Yet another likens them to tattoos—“You can’t have just one.”
Sean closes his laptop and finishes the last of the vodka in his glass, laughing at the comparisons. He’s never been overly fond of either jewelry or tattoos. He has no interest in accumulating guns.
All he needs is one.
Does he really have the courage to end his life?
Coward,he hears his father scoff, knowing how disapproving his dad would be. He’s happy that the man is no longer alive to witness the mess his son has made of his life. He can feel, indeed can almosttaste,the disappointment in his father’s eyes, and knows it will be the same look he’ll see in Olivia’s when she discovers not only what an abject failure he has proven himself to be, but also the extent of his deception.
He knows she asked her boss for an advance on her paycheck in order to pay back Maggie McKay. He knows how difficult that was for her to do. She has her pride after all.
Sean discards the empty bottle of vodka in the garbage bag under the sink and checks the freezer for another bottle he already knows isn’t there. Is Olivia aware of how much his drinking has increased in the past year?
“Add it to my list of failures,” he says aloud, stumbling as he pushes himself away from the kitchen table. He checks his wallet as he heads for the front door, counting out forty-three dollars in cash, the last of the money he withdrew from their joint checking account.
He climbs behind the wheel of his car, dismissing the thought that he probably shouldn’t be driving. A DUI is the last thing he needs. Although prison might provide a welcome respite, the excuse he needs to do nothing but sit around all day feeling sorry for himself. He chuckles as he backs his car out of the garage, managing an exaggerated wave to Julia Fisher’s grandson, who is smoking in the shadows. He saw the old lady the other day bending Dr. Nick’s ear and couldn’t help admiring the good doctor’s patience, the way he leaned in and actually seemed to be listening. “More power to you, Doc,” he says now, doffing an invisible hat as he pulls onto the main street on his way to his favorite liquor store.
As he turns onto Donald Ross Road, the impulse strikes him to stop at his former place of work. Maybe showing his face there will remind them how instrumental he was to the company’s success, force them to acknowledge how much he’s missed, how much he’s needed. Maybe they’ve taken on some new clients and their financial outlook has improved so that now they can afford to have him back. He’d even be willing to take a slight cut in pay, should the talks progress that far.
He pulls into the parking lot of the three-story white stucco building, noting that his former parking spot is now occupied by a charcoal gray Porsche Panamera. “Somebody’s moving up in the world,” he mutters, wondering which of his colleagues can afford such an expensive automobile. He pulls into the empty space beside it, ignoring the spot’s reserved designation. Exiting his car, he’s tempted to run his key along the side of the Porsche’s shiny new exterior, but is dissuaded by the sight of a man heading his way. Sean quickly pockets his key.
“Beautiful day,” the man says as he walks past Sean toward his car at the far side of the lot.
Is it?Sean wonders, breathing a sigh of relief. He hasn’t noticed. He glances toward the cloudless sky, the sun so bright it hurts to even look in its direction.So much for nature echoing the thoughts of man,he thinks, referencing another of his father’s ubiquitous quotes. A quotation for every occasion. The man was a regular Hallmark card, for God’s sake.
Sean pulls open the heavy exterior glass door of the building, sauntering through the white marble lobby and stepping into the waiting elevator. When he worked here, he often took the stairs, sometimes two at a time. But that was then, and this is now. Now he has barely enough energy to push the elevator button for the third floor.
Another heavy glass door separates Merit Marketing’s reception area from the rest of the workplace. It’s one of those open-concept arrangements, with the creative team occupying the large central space and the offices of the president, vice presidents, and various heads of departments running along the outer walls. A large boardroom sits at the far end, beside what used to be his office as one of Merit’s five senior vice presidents.
But again, that was then. This is now.
Now he is an unemployed former corporate vice president who is about to lose everything if he can’t find a job in the next several weeks. He gave his life’s blood to this company, for God’s sake, and they tossed him aside as unceremoniously as yesterday’s garbage. They owe him.
Sean feels a wave of anger swell inside him, so strong it almost knocks him over, and he has to lean against the nearby wall to keep from collapsing. He is suddenly dizzy with fury, drowning in defeat. And maybe because his head is still swimming with statistics from this morning’s Internet search—shocking fact: Nearly forty thousand people died in gun-related violence in the United States in 2017, the highest annual total in decades—the thought comes to him that it would be ridiculously easy for someone to burst into Merit Marketing with a gun and shoot up the place.
How many articles has he read in the past year alone about disgruntled former employees returning to the places where they used to work and gunning down their erstwhile bosses and co-workers?
He smiles, picturing himself dressed all in black—Keanu Reeves inThe Matrix, or better yet, as John Wick, avenging the murder of his innocent little puppy—an AK-47 in one hand, another slung across his shoulder.
He shakes the thought aside. Where are all these gruesome fantasies coming from?
The receptionist behind the high black-and-gold marble counter smiles back, although her smile is more practiced than genuine. The woman’s name is Kathy Millard and she’s been sitting behind that counter for as long as he can remember, flashing that same insincere smile.
“Hello, Kathy,” Sean says in greeting, noting that nothing about either the woman or the lobby has changed much since he left. Both are neat and attractive, in flattering shades of black and beige.
“Oh my goodness. Sean!” Kathy says, large brown eyes doing a not-so-subtle sweep of the man standing before her. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Too late Sean realizes how slovenly he must appear. He’s dressed in ill-fitting jeans and an old T-shirt that highlights the added weight to his midsection. He’s wearing flip-flops.
