Delirious Read online

  Delirious

  DANIEL

  PALMER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th St.

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Palmer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th St., New York, NY 10018. Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010938699

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6809-9

  eISBN-10: 0-7582-6809-2

  First Hardcover Printing: February 2011

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my wife, Jessica,

  thank you for making our life the perfect place to be.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Eddie rode the 28-19th Avenue bus to the bridge. He carried with him enough change for a one-way fare. He had no identification. It wouldn’t matter if his death was properly recorded. Nobody would care about it, anyway. Through the wispy morning fog he strolled upon the walkway that linked San Francisco with Marin County. The bridge had opened to foot traffic two hours prior, and few pedestrians were out. The thruway, however, was a logjam of cars. He spent a few minutes watching the commuters as they went about their morning rituals—sipping coffee, talking on their cell phones, or fiddling with their radios. He burned their images into his mind and savored the voyeurism with the passion a dying man gives his last meal.

  He walked to his spot. He knew it well. It was at the 109th light pole. He would face east, toward the city. Few jumped west, as most everyone wanted their final view to be something beautiful, like the elegant curves and hilly rise of the San Francisco skyline.

  The fall, he knew, would last no more than four seconds. It was 265 feet down from where he would jump, gravity pulling him down at over seventy-five miles per hour. The water below would be as forgiving as cement. Perhaps a nanosecond of pain, then nothing. He always found it calming to know details. He was all about facts and logic. It was what made him a world-class software engineer. In preparation for the jump he had studied the stories of many of those who had gone before him. He had hundreds of sad tales to choose from. The stories were now his own. He would soon be part of the legacy of death that had been the Golden Gate Bridge since 1937, when WWI vet Harold Wobber said to a stranger, “This is as far as I go”—and then jumped.

  At his mark, Eddie hoisted himself over the four-foot security barrier and lowered his body onto a wide beam he knew from research was called “the chord.” There he paused and stared out at the seabirds catching drafts of warming air off the cool, choppy waters below and took stock of what little life he had left. Lifting his feet ever so slightly, until he was standing on his toes, Eddie began to push against the rail to hoist himself up and over the chord.

  He closed his eyes tightly. Thirty-two years of his life darted past his mind’s eye, so vivid that they felt real—vignettes played in rapid succession.

  The pony ride at his fifth birthday party. Weeping beside the graves of his parents. Seven years old, still in shock, sitting at the trial next to the sheriff who had apprehended the drunk driver. The orphanage, then the endless chain of foster homes. Studying, alone in his room, so much reading. Then college. His graduation. How he wished his parents had been there to see him. The business. A startup. The energy and hours. The first sale. The euphoria was fleeting; the sting from his partner’s betrayal would never subside.

  He took a deep breath and lifted himself even higher. A part of him, the most secret and hidden part, was awash in a terrible, heavy sadness. It was overwhelmingly disappointing to him that he hadn’t had the courage to do what needed to be done. It would be his dying regret.

  With an assuredness that seemed born of much practice, he pushed himself up and over the thin railing that ran the length of the chord. The moment his feet left the bridge, Eddie regretted the jump. He hovered for an instant in midair, as though he were suspended above the water by strings. The depth seemed infinite. Sun glinted off the rippling water, shining like thousands of tiny daggers. His eyes widened in horror. Was there still time to turn around and grab hold? He twisted his body hard to the right. And then he fell.

  The acceleration took Eddie’s breath away. The pit of his stomach knotted with a sickening combination of gravity and fear. His light wind jacket flapped with the whipping sound of a sail catching a new breeze. The instinct for self-preservation was as powerful as it was futile. His eyes closed, unwilling to bear witness to his death.

  Pitching forward, his arms flailed above his head, clawing for something to grab. His legs pumped against the air. Two seconds into the fall. Two more to go. He could no longer see color, shapes, light, or shadow. Mother, please forgive me, he thought. A barge he had seen in the distance before the jump faded from view. The sun vanished, casting everything around him into blackness. He could hear his own terrified scream, and nothing else. Time passed.

  Two … then … one …

  His body tensed as he hit, his feet connecting
first, then his backside, and last his head. The agony was greater than he had imagined it could be. The sounds of his bones cracking reverberated in his ears. He felt his organs loosen and shift about as though they had been ripped from the cartilage that held them in place. Pain exploded through him.

  For a moment he had never felt more alive.

  Water shot up his nose, cold and numbing. He gagged on it as it filled his throat. A violent cough to expel the seawater set off more jolts of agony from his broken ribs.

  Facedown, he lay motionless as he began to sink. From the blackness below something glowed brightly, shimmering in the abyss. He couldn’t see it clearly but wanted to swim to it. It rose to meet him.

  It was his parents. They smiled up at him, beaming with ghostly white eyes and beckoning for him to join them.

  Chapter 1

  Monte eased himself out of his cozy bed, stretched while yawning, then crawled from underneath the expansive oak desk and lazily made his way over to Charlie. Charlie, leash in hand, looked down at his tricolored beagle and couldn’t resist a smile.

  “Who heard me getting his leash, huh?” Charlie asked, scratching Monte in his favorite place behind his ears.

  With his tail wagging full speed, Monte looked longingly up at Charlie, his inky eyes pleading for a quick start to their morning walk. Charlie, who didn’t even own a plant before he brought Monte home from the breeder, now couldn’t imagine life without his faithful friend. Named after jazz guitar great Wes Montgomery, and in honor of his lifelong passion for the art form, Monte wouldn’t have come to be had Charlie not been such a lousy boyfriend. It was Gwen, his last in a string of short-lived relationships, who suggested that Charlie’s rigid routines and dislike of, as she put it, “messy emotions” made him a better candidate for a dog than a girlfriend. She packed up what few things she kept at his loft apartment, and on one rainy Saturday morning she was gone.

  Charlie, who had left as many girlfriends as had left him, wasn’t one to dwell on the past or wallow in self-pity. Instead, intrigued by her suggestion, Charlie spent the next several hours researching dog breeds on the Web, until he finally settled on the beagle. It was a good-size dog for an apartment, he reasoned. Short hair meant less shedding, tipping the scale away from the Labrador breed. He briefly contemplated a poodle, with its hair coat and cunning intellect, but couldn’t get the image of the groomed poodle pouf out of his mind. He found a breeder only a few miles down the road, made a quick call, and minutes later was surrounded by a litter of feisty beagle puppies, each yipping for his attention.

  Monte was an older dog and seemed to be above the attention-getting tactics of the young pups. He sat quietly in a corner of the breeder’s living room while Charlie picked up and put down puppy after puppy.

  “What about that one?” Charlie asked, pointing to the quiet dog in the corner.

  “Him?” the breeder replied, somewhat incredulous. “I rescued that little one from the pound. They warned me he liked to chew on things, but I never figured he’d gnaw enough of my shoes to fill up a Dumpster. Still, he’s been a good dog. You can tell by the eyes sometimes. The good ones, that is. We always hoped somebody would want to give him a home, but most of our clients are interested in the pups. Then again …” Her voice trailed off.

  “What?” Charlie asked.

  “Well, I’m guessing that you’re single, or you’d be here with somebody making this decision. And if you’re single, you’re probably working, maybe a lot. And I can see that you keep in shape, so I’m guessing you take good care of yourself and that takes time. Perhaps you’re not really a puppy guy, after all. I mean, they are loads of extra work.”

  Charlie nodded as he took it all in. He wore his sandy brown hair in nearly a military crop, and his ice blue eyes were framed by oval, matte silver wire-rimmed glasses. Nothing about Charlie’s appearance suggested he had the easygoing personality of a puppy man.

  “Perhaps,” was all he said.

  “And if you’re single and busy,” the breeder continued, “an older dog might actually be best. He’s only three, but that’s a good age for a beagle, long past pup. Look, if you want that dog, he’s yours. In fact, you’d be doing me a favor. He’s a good boy, just a bit unruly is all.”

  Charlie glanced over at Monte, who, as if knowing their destinies were somehow linked, rose, walked over to him, and lay quietly at Charlie’s feet. Charlie bent down to pet his new dog.

  “Seems gentle enough to me,” Charlie offered. Fifteen minutes, a modest fee, and a few signed papers later, Charlie and the soon-to-be-named Monte went outside for their first walk as guy and dog. Gwen would have been proud, impressed even, at Charlie’s capacity to love and care for something other than Charlie. Monte’s shedding turned out to be more endearing than it was annoying. It was a gentle reminder that he was sharing his life with another living being.

  If anything, Monte taught Charlie that his capacity to love was far deeper than he had known, and if Gwen were at all interested in trying again, she might find a very different and a far more fulfilling relationship. But she had moved on, and Charlie had yet to find another woman who compared.

  In the three years since adopting him, the only consistent part of Charlie’s life had been Monte. His start-up electronics company had continued to grow at a frenetic pace until, after much courting, it was finally acquired by electronics giant SoluCent. As part of the acquisition deal, Charlie became a senior director at SoluCent and was then forced to shutter his office and move all operations east.

  Both Charlie and Monte had grown accustomed to spending the workday together. As a result, Charlie was the only employee at Solu-Cent allowed to bring a dog to the office. As pets, per company policy, were prohibited on campus, those who had been vocal to HR about Charlie’s special treatment had been told only that it was part of the acquisition deal and that a special provision had been worked into Charlie’s employment contract, approved by SoluCent CEO Leon Yardley himself.

  Since it was a widely held belief that Charlie’s product and new department would be a significant boon to SoluCent’s bottom line, and would fatten an already healthy stock price, that explanation proved satisfactory for most. Charlie, who stood six foot two, and Monte, who was all of fourteen inches high, were now as much a part of SoluCent as the carpeting upon which they walked. But as familiar a pair as they were, Monte was also a symbol to others that Charlie was not really one of them. He was special. And he was treated that way.

  Eager for his morning walk, Monte let out a quiet, but excited yip a mere ten seconds before Charlie’s Tag Heuer watch alarm and meeting reminder sounded. Apparently Monte’s internal clock, Charlie marveled, had the same precision as a high-end timepiece. Charlie fixed the leash to Monte’s collar and made his way along the carpeted corridors through a maze of quiet cubicles, on his way to the front entrance of the SoluCent Omni 2 building. His team would be waiting for him there, on time as always—just as he insisted.

  Charlie had once prided himself on the anxiety and dread his Monday morning meetings inspired, mistaking fear for efficiency. Now there was not a member of his team who would deny that bringing Monte into the picture had lessened the intensity and anxiety of the Monday meetings. Lessened, though not eliminated. Not in the least. “What’s good for the heart is good for the mind and that means good for business,” Charlie had often explained to those curious about his team’s ritual Monday morning group walk. But today business wasn’t so good. No, it wasn’t good at all.

  Chapter 2

  The morning sun was high and bright in the cloudless sky. Monte made his trademark lunge for the bushes lining the front entrance walkway the moment they stepped outside. Charlie said a quick hello to his five senior managers waiting for him there. Before they were acquired, they were all VPs. But that was a smaller company. In the bloated corporate structure of SoluCent, Charlie was a director and they were senior managers. Sal, Barbara, and To m were checking e-mail on their mobiles; Harry Wessner and
Steve Campbell were stretching in the front parking lot. Everybody wore sneakers; they had grown accustomed to Charlie’s athletic pace. Charlie’s executive assistant, Nancy Lord, was there, too, giving Monte some much appreciated petting.

  There had been doubt at first, at least from some, that combining the Monday executive team meeting with Monte’s walk would be an effective use of time. To that Charlie had replied that a clear head from a brisk walk improved not only morale but decision making, too. Soon as Monte’s business in the bushes was done, the five members of Charlie’s Magellan Team set off at what Charlie believed to be about a fifteen-minute-mile pace. He’d keep accelerating that along the way. By the end of the walk they’d be closer to twelve-minute miles and they wouldn’t even know it.

  As was routine, Charlie waited until they were on the bike path, which bordered the campus, before starting the agenda. Here they were far enough from the main road to speak at a normal volume without being drowned out by the incessant traffic flow.

  “Good morning, team,” Charlie said. “I trust you all had a restful weekend and are ready for the week ahead.”

  Nancy Lord was the only one to nod. The rest were bleary-eyed and sweating out their stress. Working for Charlie meant that weekends were nothing more than days of the week. To keep pace with Charlie’s demands and lofty expectations required sacrifices many would not be able to make—time being the most precious of all. The reward for those sacrifices, however, in bonuses alone, not counting stock, put all on the Magellan Team within an eyelash distance of what most would consider to be obscenely rich.

  Monte kept the pace and walked a few yards ahead of the “pack.”

  “So,” Charlie began. “Why don’t you tell me about the Arthur Bean situation, Harry?”

  Harry quickened his stride until he was walking alongside Charlie. The others fell behind but remained within earshot. They knew what was coming and that it wasn’t going to be good for Harry. After all, Arthur Bean was his guy. He was a senior quality assurance engineer who posted source code on his blog as an invitation to his hacker friends to try and hack the InVision operating system, or OS—the “code” that made everything work. Bean remained convinced that several generations of the InVision product line had serious security loopholes that made the product susceptible to hackers. He had raised the issue to Harry, and Harry had brought it to Charlie’s attention.