Something Unfortunate

ONE Fall had begun, and the sun had set early. Weekend darkness reigned on the anchor floor in the offices of Christopher Clark & Oliver, one of Dallas’s most prominent law firms, perched high in a downtown skyscraper. Outside, only a smattering of lights from other buildings accented blackened skyline. Inside, lights in all hallways had been turned off. No light spilled from any offices, whose darkened doorways dotted the hall like caves. From no offices, that is, except one. Ken Hargrove’s office. Once considered a catch, Ken had let himself go in his quest to ascend to the top of the legal world, sacrificing working out for working. As his blonde hair thinned, his waistline expanded. Now sporting a paunch and the beginnings of a double chin, Ken sat with his back to the door, immersed in a scattering of documents on his credenza. He stroked his goatee and mustache occasionally, lost in a world of exhibits, briefs, and pleadings. Silence prevailed on the floor, interrupted only by buzzing fluorescent lights in Ken’s office and occasional rustling of paper as he flipped over documents. Perhaps lawyers worked on other floors of the office, but only Ken Hargrove moved on the anchor floor. And a figure moving slowly down the darkened hallway toward Ken’s office. The figure clung close to the walls, almost invisible in the darkness. Features totally obscured by shadows, it was only an ephemeral shape, moving slowly, stepping toe to heel. Silently approaching an unsuspecting Ken Hargrove. What little light reached the hallway from Ken’s office gleamed off the blade of an ornate gold knife with an ivory handle, which the figure held in a tightly-clenched fist. The figure stopped at the door and peered inside, eyes falling on Ken’s back as he leaned over his credenza, oblivious to all but a stack of documents. Ordinarily the windows would have acted as a mirror, reflecting the office’s interior, but Ken had drawn the mini-blinds on two-thirds of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The intruder tiptoed into Ken’s office. Moving from darkness into light, stopping for just a few seconds, eyes adjusting, and then stealthily approaching an unsuspecting Hargrove. One more step and the uncovered portion of the windows would pick up a reflection. The intruder closed the gap quickly. The sudden appearance of movement on the window flashed in Ken’s peripheral vision. He swiveled his head and stared at a now visible reflection in the glass. He made eye contact with the person behind his back. His eyes lit up. “What are you doing here?” he asked. Frank Oliver sat motionless at an oversized desk in his corner office, unconscious or asleep. His head rested on his arms, which were crossed on the desktop. In his right hand, he gripped a hunting knife tightly, its blade covered with something dark and wet. He stirred uneasily as consciousness returned. Gradually he became aware of his surroundings. It was dark, almost pitch – the lights were out – but he knew that he was in his office. The lights of the Dallas skyline shone to the west through his window. “Must have fallen asleep,” he mumbled, as he tried to clear the cobwebs. He sat up straight and shook his head, immediately aware of a pounding sensation in his brain. A massive headache. A migraine. He hadn’t had a migraine since his law school days, more than 30 years before. He groaned and leaned back in his chair. He wondered how long he had been asleep. He checked his watch, squinting through the lenses of his wire-frame glasses. The luminous face showed that it was after ten p.m. It had been hours! Got to get home. Frank stood and stretched. A wave of nausea passed through him and his knees buckled. He quickly sank into his chair. As he did, the clank of metal on wood made him aware that he still clutched his knife. He dropped it on the desk and rubbed his face. After a few minutes, the nausea passed, but a pounding in his head kept up its rhythmic boom, boom, boom. Slowly he stood again, bracing himself with his hands flat on the desk. He stood still for a moment as he fought another wave of nausea. Finally, semi-confident that he wouldn’t throw up, he felt his way out of his darkened office and turned up the hallway toward a dim light in the reception area, where elevators awaited. Behind him, a splash of light spilled from the doorway of Ken Hargrove’s office.