The Mailman

They were seated on the black leather living room sectional, hands zip-tied behind them. Finn, the man who’d pulled off his mask in the kitchen, had drawn the curtains closed, presumably to shield them from their neighbors’ prying eyes. Though that was a bit of a joke, Rachel thought as the horror of their situation sank in, considering how spread out the houses were here, each on its own half-acre of lawn and gardens. Just the kind of privacy they sought when they upsized thanks to Rachel’s new salary.

Two men stood behind Rachel and Glenn respectively, guns held loosely at their sides. Finn sat in Glenn’s wingback on the other side of the glass-top coffee table, face neutral, his own gun resting on his right thigh. The fourth man, the one who hit Glenn, stood behind Finn. The remaining three men had also removed their masks. Which Rachel knew instinctively was a very bad sign.

“Who are you?” Glenn said for what must have been the fifth time since coming to with a moan. Finn had repeatedly ignored Rachel’s pleas to dress his wound and give him something for the pain. Finn said nothing. Just stared.

Glenn said, “Is this about Xeneconn? If it is, you’ve made a big mistake.”

Finn didn’t speak. After a moment, Rachel said, “Glenn—it’s not about Xeneconn.”

“What?” Glenn said, turning his head with difficulty.

“I said, it’s not about Xeneconn.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know.”

“But how—”

“You should listen to your wife.”

They looked up. Finn had spoken at last.

“Tell us what’s going on,” Glenn mumbled, still struggling to form words. “If it’s not about Xeneconn, why are you here?” His phrasing, the way he posed the question, caught Rachel’s attention. As if something about Glenn’s company would give these thugs a reason to be in their house. But that didn’t make any sense— Before she could finish her thought, Finn said, “Why not ask Rachel? Or should I say, Attorney Stanfield? She and I both know why I’m here.”

“She what?” Glenn turned to Rachel. “Do you know this man?” Hesitantly, she nodded. “Sort of.”

“Sort of? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s the one I told you—”

“It means it’s time to get down to business,” Finn said. He shifted in his chair and studied Rachel with a frown. She summoned all her remaining courage and faced him, taking in the short-cropped black hair, the scar on his left cheek, and the slightly weak chin, as if a sculptor crafting a bust had run out of clay at the last minute. The face that had so unnerved her the first time she saw it, two days earlier.

“To review,” Finn said. “You conducted a deposition within the last six weeks with a woman named Stella Wolford. I have asked you repeatedly, and professionally, for a copy of that deposition. You in turn have refused my request.”

Rachel couldn’t help herself. “Professionally?”

“Way I see it, yes.”

Rachel recalled the multiple phone calls and emails and texts that she received from Finn in recent days, each more demanding than the last, culminating in his appearance by her side in the cereal aisle at Whole Foods Sunday morning. Making his case in person, he called it. She called it stalking and told him to go to hell.

But quibbling seemed a fool’s errand at this point. Her only focus now was hoping she could see her and Glenn through this without further injury.

“As I’ve explained,” Rachel said, forcing herself to keep her voice calm, “it’s a proprietary document that I can’t release because it hasn’t been filed.”

“And as I’ve explained, who cares? I still want it.”

Rachel persisted. “A lawyer with a legitimate connection to the case could file a motion with the court to participate in the litigation. It’s possible that—”

“Yes, yes,” Finn said. “I already told you there’s no such lawyer on my end. And having asked repeatedly, and professionally, you’ve forced my hand and now, with regrets, I have to make other arrangements. Namely—you have sixty seconds to produce the document or we’re going to remove your husband’s fingers. One for every minute of delay.” He nodded at the man behind Rachel, who responded by pulling a pair of pruning shears from his pocket and opening and closing them three times. Slice. Slice. Slice.

“At least tell me why you want it?” Rachel said, voice rising. “What possible interest is it to you?”

“Fifty-five seconds.”

Rachel’s mind raced, trying to discern why this brute, this lunatic, could possibly want the deposition of a low-level employee at a health-care company who had been fired for poor performance and for some reason believed she had cause for a wrongful termination lawsuit. What the hell was she missing here?

“Forty-five seconds.” Finn gestured at Pruning Shears, who walked around to the front of the couch, sat beside Glenn, and reached behind his back for his bound hands.

“Rachel,” her husband said weakly.

Rachel felt tears well up. Not for her or Glenn or even their unborn child. But for Glenn’s daughter. Their daughter. She imagined a school counselor walking into a classroom and searching out Abby—obstinate, mouthy, opinionated, brilliant, beautiful Abby—and gesturing with a grim look to follow her into the hall. Honey, I’m afraid I have some bad news. No, not her daughter. But yes, goddammit. Her daughter.

“Thirty-five seconds.”

“All right, all right,” Rachel said. “I mean, this is insane. And so illegal. But okay.”

“Thirty.”

“I’ll need my laptop,” she shouted. “It’s in my black briefcase, in the office off the kitchen.”

“The deposition is on it?” Finn said.

“Not on the laptop. It’s on a company server I can access remotely. It’ll just take a minute to get through the firewall.”

“I’ll need a copy.”

“I can download it for you. Or print it out. Whichever is easiest.” “Both, please. And just to be clear, if there’s a trick involved, like a silent electronic trigger, something that alerts someone—the same punishment applies. Understood?”

“Yes,” Rachel said, perspiration pouring down her back, dampening her blouse. “No tricks. I promise.”