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backsliding. It was drying up just when their opponent had launched a massive negative campaign against them that stood out. Tomorrow Woody would record the voice track to their response, cut the spots and ship the dubs to the stations. Copies would be sent to his client so that he could show his wife and friends. But the campaign couldn’t raise enough money to play them on the air more than once or twice a day. No matter how good the finished spots might turn out, no one watching television would ever notice them. Their response to the attacks would never be played enough to be seen. And everyone involved in the campaign knew it.
    Panic had set in. Reality. Another loss.
    Woody checked his watch. It was after ten. He picked up the phone and dialed, hit an answering machine and hung up without leaving a message. He reached for his cigarettes. The pack was empty and he tossed it into the trash. Then he remembered the emergency pack Frank kept in his top desk drawer.
    He got up and stretched, glancing at the rain outside his window as he stepped into the war room. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light and he made it into Frank’s office without bumping into anything.
    He slid Frank’s drawer open, reaching for the pack. As he struck his lighter, he thought about Frank and Linda and wondered if they’d ever get back together. He hoped they would. Then he lifted the flame to the end of the cigarette, feeling a sense of relief when the nicotine hit his lungs.
    “Why are you sticking your nose into other people’s business?” a voice asked.
    Woody nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus Christ!”
    He saw someone standing in the gloom just outside Frank’s office. The figure was inching closer, his spooky face taking on detail as he stepped into the muted light from the monitor glow. Woody backed away, shaking when he spotted the gun.
    “Don’t,” he said. “Please don’t.”
    The gun flashed. Woody reached for his ear. It felt like a bee sting.
    “Are you feeling suicidal tonight?” the man asked. “Or would you rather be the victim of a failed robbery?”
    “What are you talking about?” Woody shouted.
    The expression on the man’s face was fierce and horrific. His lips were parted revealing clenched teeth. Woody couldn’t stop shaking.
    “If it’s suicide,” the man went on, “they’ll look into your past. Someone might guess.”
    “What do you want? Please. If it’s money—”
    The man cut him off. “You know what I’m looking for.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
    The gun flashed again.
    Woody grabbed his shoulder. Blood was splashing over his hand onto the carpet, his entire body shuddering now. He remembered the gun Frank kept in the bottom right drawer of his desk and wondered if it was loaded. He needed it to be loaded.
    The man waved the gun at him. “Either you’ve got a lousy memory or you’re an idiot. Maybe it’s both. Now stop wasting my time.”
    Woody gathered himself, looked at the man and took a step toward the desk. When the man didn’t protest, he took another.
    “Okay. Okay,” Woody stammered. “I know what you’re looking for. I won’t waste your time—”
    Woody went for the drawer.
    The gun flashed and knocked him against the wall. It was a gut shot. Woody reached out trying to block another. Then three more shots came right at him in terrifying succession.
    Woody took the hits, tumbled forward and bounced onto the floor. He guessed that he’d been shot in the head because of the blood flowing over his face. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight back. He saw the man check the drawer and close it, then kneel down and look him in the eye.
    “I guessed right,” the man said. “You’re an idiot.”
    Woody stared back, unable to speak. He noticed the man’s hair, the gray spikes, and thought that he seemed vaguely familiar. He watched the man get to his feet and walk out, leaving him for dead. He could see his blood rolling across the carpet