Chapter 6: End Game

This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end

Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes...again

Can you picture what will be
So limitless and free
Desperately in need...of some...stranger's hand
In a...desperate land
---The End, The Doors

The concierge made eye-contact with Elsa, and his eyes flashed fear. "Ms. Anderson, you need to come with me right away," he came from behind the counter and clutched her arm too forcefully, escorting her briskly to a back room. The fluorescent lighting made his skin look sallow and it seemed suddenly like an interrogation scenario.
“You know why you are here, yes?”
Elsa’s tongue felt thick, her mouth stuffed full of cotton, she did not know how to respond, she felt, for the first time that she had been sandbagged.
“You are carrying a bomb on you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You activated it by flipping the switch…”
Elsa’s mind was spinning, how could this man know that she had flipped a switch, how could she have a bomb on her? How could everything fit so perfectly into place, the man with the cigarette, had he followed her all the way from Los Angeles? Who had sent him?
“Mr. Beaulieu has sent word, he knew that you would come here, to abort any attempt at contacting him… the bomb will detonate only if you come within a 1-mile radius of him… its frequency is set to his pacemaker… you’ll both be blown to smithereens.”

Elsa sat, dumbfounded… it hadn’t been him after all, it had been Margot, she had masterminded this from the beginning… It was just like a woman scorned to plot the demise of her rival, and of her captor, the destroyer of her faith, and the keeper of her bank account. The man with the cigarette must have been her driver, her confidant. Elsa began to wonder if Margot hadn’t somehow managed to convince Hans to intercept her… to incriminate her… Nothing made sense anymore…

Wait…wait…wait. This was pure crap. Elsa threw the manuscript onto her desk, blinked her eyes, stretched her shoulders. This story had had promise, she knew, but it had turned into some sort of trashy, low-brow detective, choose-your-own adventure, for the adult-entertainment crowd type thing. It was hers, yes, her story, but it was far from good literature, and she should know, after all, she was paid to make this kind of decision every day. This was absolutely un-publishable, at least by her company. The action was far too fast, there was insufficient character development, too much racy sex too early on. No, this would not do at all. Still, it pained her to file it in the circular file to her right. It was after all _her_ baby. Now that she had all the pieces, she didn’t dare throw it out… she would just hide it in her bottom drawer and maybe take it out and try to re-write it again someday. Not now. Probably never.

She leaned back, rocking in her ergonomic chair, slipping off her executive power pumps, putting her stocking covered feet up at an angle, stretching, doing her five-minute office-yoga routine. Her mistake, of course, had been to choose characters whose background was too far removed from her own experience. What the hell did she know about being a Swedish woman or a French man in Japan? No, the story would never ring true if she used such far-fetched realities. And the truth of the matter was that she hated to do the research that it would take to make her story have that air of believability, a sense of place. The radio from the neighboring office floated through the open window “This is WKYY the best of the 70’s 80’s and 90’s, and here’s another trip down memory lane for you all on this lovely, beach-worthy Thursday afternoon… (and the sultry, lip-curling, Elvis-impersonating voice) The world was on fire. No one could save me but you. Strange what desire will make foolish people do. I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you. And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you. No, I don't want to fall in love…with you…”
Elsa arched her back in feline pleasure. Yes, the problem had been that Serge wasn’t really a real person after all, he was based on a random collection of images and ideas… If she truly wanted to write a story that would unfold into something moving and true and achingly beautiful, she would need to fashion it on more than just a virtual ghost of all her past and future desires. She smiled to herself, albeit a bit ruefully. There would be other stories, this didn’t have to be the last chance. She thought happily about her drive home, that she only had fifteen minutes left until she could leave the office, that when she arrived her husband and son would be waiting expectantly with dinner on the table and hugs and kisses and love and a clean house. Yes, that would be the perfect ending to her day. It would have to..