12. The Gun
Bright sunlight shone through the floor to ceiling window, bathing the deep hardwood floors and illuminating the thin layer of dust particles in the air. Richard sat hunched in his oversized desk chair, fingers steepled to his curled lips.
His frail body dwarfed in comparison to the red leather backing of his chair. Across from him sat Charles, his new chief of staff, a tall slender man with a pencil-thin black mustache and greased-back hair.
He was the opposite of his predecessor with an all-business, no-pleasure mentality. In Charles’s lap, a folder lay open with important financial documents.
The two men sat across from each other in a silence that was thick with expectations.
“Sir, we need to review the financials and decide on your end-of-life plan. The lawyers reached out again today to complete your living will and testament,” Charles said.
Richard leaned forward to shuffle around one of the many stacks on his desk. His shaking hand knocked over a pile and Charles moved in a one quick movement to scoop the papers off the floor.
“Here, let me get that.” Charles shuffled the papers back in a neat stack and set it on top of a dusty stack of letters. All addressed to Margaret, all stamped with Return to Sender.
“Shall I discard these for you, sir?” Charles lifted the fresh stack off the letters and held them out.
“Yes, I think it’s finally time to let go of that part of my past,” Richard responded and then pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. Charles stood and dropped the letters into the fire.
“What was in the letters?” Charles asked. “If you want to share, it’s really none of my business.” Charles’s eyes widened but Richard waved his hand to calm the man.
“Each contained a check written to my late wife, Margaret.” Richard pursed his lips together. That was enough information he could share.
Even in his old age, he knew better than to divulge too much about what he had done.
How do I safely explain that I drove her away and into the arms of another? That the checks were merely reminders that she needed me.
“Speaking of Margaret, Theresa stopped by and dropped off a flower arrangement. The staff put them in the parlor for your enjoyment.”
“Hmm.” Richard stared at the fire. He thought back over his time as Richard and knew that he needed to plan his next switch.
Ideally a less complicated one this time around.
“Sir, shall I continue, or should we break for lunch?” Charles asked the question after several minutes of silence had passed. Richard shook his head from his memories and refocused on the conversation, the one that had sparked him losing his train of thought.
“No, let’s continue. I would like to have this wrapped up.”
“World War I brought in the initial military contracts that boosted your portfolio by 150%. Some of those contracts are still valid in case another war arises.” Charles continued.
“How close are we?” Richard pushed his chair away from the desk and pulled his wheelchair close. Charles watched as he shuffled out of his stationary seat and then wheeled over to look out the window.
“Close to what, sir?”
“The war,” Richard snapped, spittle flying from the confines of his mouth and landing on his chin.
“We are close. I don’t anticipate the United States will get involved thanks to all the anti-war protests happening.” Charles cleared his throat as Richard wheeled over close to where Charles was seated, and Richard outstretched his hand expectantly.
“Well, sir, your portfolio is quite diverse, and if the war actually happens, the contracts you have pending with the government will come to fruition, and you can expect to see another increase of 50% in your account.”
Charles held out the file that had charts and graphs handwritten in meticulous script. Richard looked over the documents and nodded approvingly.
“I want to take a back seat for a while, appoint a trusted replacement to oversee the business in my stead. I don’t want to sell the company.
” Richard paused, lost in thought, working out how he would be able to access the fortune he amassed.
Charles also paused writing and looked up at him expectantly.
“I want to leave it all to someone,” Richard finally said.
“Of course, sir. The lawyers will be satisfied to finally have it settled.” Charles flipped to a blank page and opened his pen. “Ready when you are, sir. What is the person’s name?”
“I don’t know their name.” Richard turned his attention back to Charles.
“I want to leave a secret message, and once I meet the right person who I want to bequeath my estate to, then I will tell them the secret message. Once they provide the correct secret message, they will have access to my estate.”
Charles’s jaw dropped open. “Sir,” he said, once he collected himself. “I don’t know how that is going to be very secure. The chances of it leaking out and people coming to claim it could cause mass hysteria.”
Richard raised his hand to stop Charles. “I understand that this is confusing. Leave the semantics and details to me.” Richard wheeled away from his mahogany desk.
“I’m hungry. Let’s have lunch.”
He had considered making a switch a few times over the last thirty-five years, but instead focused on how to grow the wealth he had already accumulated. He had found that building wealth as a man proved to be easier and quite practical.
Being a man had its positives, but deep down he was a woman, and he missed letting his true identity flow freely: the fashion, the soft skin, being taken care of rather than working all the time. It was exhausting building an empire.
World War II loomed on the horizon, and now that he had acquired wealth beyond his imagination, he wanted to come up with a new plan. In his old age, he knew his days were numbered. It was just a matter of finding the right person and executing a perfectly timed switch.
Richard sat in the back of his town car. He enjoyed his afternoon drives through town. Over the years, he had watched as the town grew into a booming metropolis. His factories were key to its success, and he was something of a local legend, a necessary evil to most.
Richard sighed. He watched as families walked together, carrying recent purchases, or strolling hand in hand while going into an ice cream store.
I wish my Lizzie could be here to see this. I would love to stroll carefree with packages in our hands as we shop in the sunshine. His heart ached as thoughts from his former life invaded his mind.
The car turned off Main Street and headed toward the park, the final destination before making the loop back to his mansion by the bay. He loved the park. The tall fir trees provided ample shade on a variety of benches.
He watched as children ran to get their colorful kites in the air. A live band with an array of instruments garnered a large crowd under the shade of the trees.
“Driver, can you please pull over?” I want to enjoy the music in the park.” Richard waited as the car found a spot to park, and the driver brought out his wheelchair.
It had been a few weeks since he had finalized all his end-of-life plans with Charles. Now he waited to find the right person.
Instead of a passcode, he had a key made. It would open the vault, and he would give it to the person who would inherit his fortune.
He had worked out part of his plan, but he needed the final details before he could get out of his old, sickly body. Once he was out of the car and settled in his chair, he pushed himself.
The grass made it difficult to push on his own. His hands began to ache as he pushed harder and suddenly the wheelchair began to glide much easier. He looked down and the ground was still the same but pushing came much easier for him.
“Allow me, sir.” A young man’s voice came from above and behind him. Richard took his hands off the wheels and looked up at a young man who couldn’t be more than twenty-years-old. Richard thought to stop him but decided to enjoy the free push towards the music.
“Can you push me over to the shadows under that large fir tree?” Richard asked, pointing to the left of the stage.
“Sure thing, sir.” The young man did as he was asked and turned the wheelchair to ensure Richard had a good view of the stage. Conveniently, it was next to a bench, and the young man sat next to him on it.
“You know this band?” he asked Richard, who responded by simply shaking his head.
“I don’t pay much attention to band names; just listen and see if the music resonates with me.” Richard said, trying to focus on the music, hoping the young man would take the hint and leave.
“My name’s Doug.” He reached his left hand out to Richard, offering it as an invitation to more conversation.
“Richard,” he said curtly. Doug dropped his hand, deflated at the rejection.
“I joined the Army today. I leave in three weeks for basic training,” Doug offered, mostly to himself.
“I didn’t want to join, but my father called me weak and immature to hide from my duty.
” He sniffed, clearly trying to hide the deep sadness that was welling up to the surface. Richard sat quietly.
What adventures this young man is about to have! He felt a twinge of jealousy as he sat in his broken body. Going to war could be interesting. Face death head on, and if needed, I can switch in a blink. Just as I had when I was injured as Ellen.
He remembered the homeless woman he had switched with before, many years ago, and how that had worked out well. Maybe he could save this young man from the pains of war by offering him what years he had left to enjoy in peace and solitude—and wealth.
Richard peered over at the young man. He pondered whether he could work out a way to convince him that he could be lavishly wealthy and, at the same time, not be able to dole out financial favors to people he knew in his former life.
The risk is great, but is the reward greater? A chance to see the world and fight against those who oppress the weak.