The
Conspiracy Theorists’ Ball – Part II (Choice A)
By
Brandon Palzkill
“No good can come of walking into that deathtrap,” Adam
thought to himself as he left his office later that evening.
He had deliberated on his choices over the course of four
hours two glasses of whiskey and he had finally arrived at what he considered
to be the sensible decision. He was by no means a coward, but the idea of a
nighttime rendezvous with some mystery caller on the seedy side of town had
filled him with an unease that he couldn’t shake; who knew what awaited him if
he brashly hopped in his car and drove off into the darkness? Adam much preferred
his other option; he knew the neighborhood and the client so he didn’t expect
any surprises.
However,
his afternoon had not gone entirely surprise-free. He had just barely inserted
his car key into the lock when he realized that his car seemed noticeably off.
It took little of his keen intelligence to realize that he had a flat tire,
where after he cursed his so-called intelligence for failing to replace his long-since
missing spare. He kicked the defeated and deflated wheel and cursed under his
breath, before he relocked his car doors and spent the next five minutes trying
to hail a taxi.
Twenty
five minutes later, the fading crimson sun steadily sank below the ever-darkening
horizon as the cab rolled to a halt in the driveway of a palatial three story
manor. Adam counted about fifteen rooms that he could see from the front of the
house and the three car garage looked big enough to enclose his office five
times over. The increasingly shadowy grounds appeared lush and meticulously
tended to and he was sure that he would have been dazzled by vibrant greens,
reds, blues, and violets under a full, midday sun. Adam had never been invited
to a rich client’s home for a consultation before and, on the whole, he was impressed
to see how the other half lived.
He
rang the doorbell and peered through the door’s intricately etched frosted
glass panes, on the lookout for signs of movement. The entrance hall seemed
dark and still and devoid of any kind of activity as he stared intently through
the glass. All too soon, however, the echo of approaching footsteps rang over
the hardwood floor and a silhouetted figure had soon stood out in the darkness.
The figure became vaguely clearer as he reached the obscuring glass of the
door, but didn’t come into complete focus until Adam was standing face to face
with him.
The
man before him was indeed Sheldon Fincher, renowned legal eagle. He was a man
of about fifty two, a head shorter than Adam, with faded ginger hair. A grim,
troubled frown accented his lined face, making him almost look as though he had
a toothache.
“Thank
you for coming, Mr. Barnes,” he said, solemnly extending his hand.
“It’s
a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Adam replied, shaking hands. “Your
reputation certainly precedes you.”
Mr.
Fincher stood aside and motioned him through the door.
“I
regret that our meeting has less to do with my professional affairs as it does
my personal matters,” Fincher lamented. “I’ve called you I have an issue of a
truly personal nature that requires your talents.”
Adam
was intrigued to hear more and eagerly allowed himself to be directed to
Fincher’s study. Once there, Fincher offered him a seat in front of his desk
before walking over to his bar and pouring two glasses of a nicer scotch than
any that Adam had ever stocked on his own shelf. When Fincher finally sat down,
he had a stern, businesslike demeanor.
“So…”
Adam started, “what can I do for you, Mr. Fincher?”
“If
I might be candid,” Fincher started, “I’ve contacted you because need your
assistance in unearthing my wife’s possible indiscretions.”
If
Adam had a nickel for every conversation he had had which started with that
sentence, he would have a house bigger than Fincher’s.
“And
why do you suspect your wife?”
“She’s
been distant and terribly secretive as of late…”
“Okay,”
Adam considered, “do you have anything else to make you believe she’s cheating?”
Adam
sat through interviews with many a paranoid and insecure husband or wife who had
deluded themselves into believing that their spouse was having an affair
without so much as a peculiar makeup smudge to back it up. As such, Adam never accepted
“I have a hunch” as a legitimate argument. Fincher looked quietly frustrated
and paused before speaking, as though choosing his next words carefully.
“I
have noticed things,” he finally spoke. “On two occasions that I know of, she
had lied about visiting friends downtown. I have also heard her having hushed phone
conversations late at night when she thought I was asleep… I’m neither
delusional nor foolish, Mr. Barnes; I wouldn’t have called you without cause.”
“I
apologize if I’ve insulted you, Mr. Fincher,” Adam interjected. “In my
experience, people often hit the panic button before they’re sure. How can I
assist you in this matter?”
“I
had always suspected my wife of marrying me for my wealth, so she agreed to
sign a rock-solid prenuptial agreement; if she is proved to be unfaithful, she
gets nothing. Part of me was naïve enough to think that it might keep her from
straying… perhaps, it would seem, I was wrong. But I need proof to be
absolutely certain.”
“Understandable,” Adam answered. “If there’s
any proof to be found, I can definitely dig it up.”
“Of
course,” Mr. Fincher added, “it would be more of a relief if you find that she
hasn’t been unfaithful at all, but if she has, I’m comforted to have someone of
your reputation on the…”
A
sultry cooing echoed through the supposedly empty hallway beyond the office
door and was followed by low, indistinct grumble. Adam motioned for silence
then stealthily leaped from his seat and reached the light switch, cloaking the
office in sudden blackness. He stood at the door, which had been left minutely
ajar, and listened into the hallway.
“Of
course he’s not here.”
“But
he could come home at any moment.”
“Not
a chance; he practically lives in his office. It’s just you and me, and we have
hours.”
The
chatter was broken by soft smacking sounds and accompanied by rustling as they
appeared to be struggling across the hardwood floor. The sounds soon shifted
upstairs, punctuated by the fading of a woman’s delighted giggling, and Adam
looked at the enraged and shocked Fincher digging his fingernails into the
desktop.
“Wait
here,” Adam whispered.
He
quietly inched the door open and slid through the gap. Fincher did as
instructed and sat stiffly at his desk, listening to the silence and struggling
with the desire to do something violent to his cheating harlot of a wife and
her contemptible lover.
“HEY!!!
WHAT ARE YOU…”
“WHAT
THE…”
“GET
OUT OF HERE!”
The
sudden outburst upstairs had snapped Fincher back to his senses and he was
confused as he listened to heavy footsteps strutting proudly and assuredly down
the stairs and toward the office. The door was pushed open and the lights were
thrown back on. There stood Adam Barnes, victoriously in the doorway, a camera
clutched tightly in his hand.
“It’s
a little X-rated, but I think I have your proof…”
THE END
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