Signed Off

 

T HE FORECASTER SAT IN HIS APARTMENT AT THE large kitchen window, watching the lights of Harare grow in brightness against the darkening sky. He had not moved from his seat since the 2 P.M. call from his wife. Their son was doing well, she had reported. As she always reported. The Forecaster allowed a moment of satisfaction to burn through the cold resignation in his body. The boy was on track to be a divisional manager before he was forty-five. As long as his father’s shame did not harm his reputation.

But that would not happen.

The other phone call had come an hour ago—sooner than he’d expected. It was a voice with a strange accent, a cross between British and South African. A friendly voice that had demanded the rest of the payment. Five hundred thousand dollars. The Forecaster had closed his eyes and told the voice that the payment would not be made.

It was the best he could do for his son. And the Company.

The noise of a door slamming shut made him flinch. The next-door neighbor coming home. He settled back in the chair.

His mistake had been to believe the Irishman. Almost six weeks ago they had sat opposite each other and toasted the completion of the Australian project. Pauley had tied up all of the loose ends, the Irishman had said as he passed over his bank account details for the final payment. The Forecaster, who’d already received a corroborating report of the ugly doctor’s death from Famagusta, had accepted the Irishman’s word. They were, after all, businessmen. But the man had lied; the film-maker and the assassin were not dead.

Now both of them had come for him.

The filmmaker had just released a documentary that was already creating an international outcry. The Forecaster had seen her on the television, red hair and sharp-faced like a fox, denouncing the Company. Tomorrow, Public Relations would issue a statement: the medical research operation of the Company would be suspended until a thorough investigation was made concerning the allegations in her film.

But the investigation was already complete.

The Forecaster recalled the Director’s words.

“You have brought us great trouble,” he had said, his hands spread on either side of a file on the desk.

The Forecaster had bowed his head. “I thought it is what you wanted. To protect the Company’s interests.”

The Director eyed him coldly. “You misunderstood. You acted alone. You have let your imagination rule you.”

The Forecaster felt himself stiffen at the terrible judgment. He knew he had done his duty to the Company. Now the Director was asking for the final act of loyalty.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

The Director flipped open the file and pushed a printed statement towards him.

“I trust that you will do the honorable thing.”

“Naturally.” The Forecaster picked up a pen and signed without reading the document.

The Director nodded. “We are a company that upholds the values of the family.”

The Forecaster bowed his head. The Director had always been like a father to him.

“My pension?” he asked softly. “For my wife and son.”

The Director looked away. “Maybe.”

In the dark flat behind him, the Forecaster thought he heard the soft click of a door opening. With a quickening heartbeat he looked up at the near-full moon, its pearlescent swirls taking on a shape from his childhood. His mother had once told him about the Rabbit of Immortality that lived in it. He wished he’d had the chance to tell the story to his own son.

In the glass of his favorite window he saw the reflection of his wide-eyed face and the gray shape of a man standing behind him.