Story #326 - Money Pit

Money Pit

“So, uh…yeah,” the young man sitting in front of him stammered. “Give me the money.”

Chale McNabb sighed and put one hand to his forehead. He’d been sure making the offer had been worthwhile two months ago but the more fools that opened their mouths the lower his spirits sank.

“Why?” He said, meeting the slack-jawed fellow’s eyes. “You haven’t given me a reason, only demands.”

“Er…” the man hesitated, then held out a hand. “I need it. Just give me the money like you promised.”

“I made no such guarantee,” Chale said as he stood. “I offered five million dollars to anyone who could demonstrate that they needed it – required it for some greater purpose. All you’ve done is come looking for a handout!”

Huddled in his shabby coat, the man’s eyes darted around the room. A moment of frantic searching revealed no guards, no cameras and so he stood as well, pulling a small knife from his belt.

“Damn right I have, gramps,” he grated, stepping forward to come flush with the oak desk that separated benefactor and supplicant. At that distance the knife-arm had no chance to reach flesh and Chale smiled, then leaned forward to smack the fool firmly across the face.

“Men!” Chale called, and both doors to the study burst open, three of the private security force he’d personally selected filing into the room. In moments the greedy young man was down on the ground, a string of curses flying from his lips.

“You don’t get what you want just because you say so,” Chale said as he stepped around the desk. “If you’d been able to prove your need you could have walked out of here a rich man – instead, you’re going to visit a very private room in my estate in the company of these fine gentlemen.” He smiled as the floor-bound man cringed; the guards wouldn’t really hurt him, just rough up his pride and hopefully give him a few regrets about such a greedy notion. More curses shot out as he was pulled from the room.

“Master Chale,” a thin voice called from behind him and he turned to see Sebor slipping through the secret study door, an ever-present sheaf of paper in his hands. “Perhaps that should conclude your interviews for today. I am loath to see you injured.”

Chale snorted – Sebor was a superb assistant, but only because he was paid so well. If something happened to Chale the little man’s position would dry up, as would his source of income.

“Your concern for my well-being is touching, Sebor, but I’m hardly so frail. Send in the next supplicant.”


“Very well.” It was clear his assistant wanted to argue, but knew better than to try when Chale’s mind was set. He was going to rid himself of five million dollars, no matter what it took – but the terms of his own agreement for wealth meant it had to be passed to a worthy individual or consequences would follow.

He sat back down and took a moment to compose himself. The supple leather of his chair and dark tones of his study always relaxed him, and he needed every scrap of peace he could find. None of those in the city who applied had proven worthy of any monetary boon, and so far those from farther afield were just as greedy and selfish.

“Pardon me?” A small voice came from the study door, and Chale looked up. A thin young woman in her early thirties stood framed by hallway light, pale blonde hair tied back from her face to show an angular jaw and high cheekbones. She was attractive without being sexy, and seemed demure without being shy. Interesting – but Chale had seen as much before.

“Please,” he said softly, “come in.”

She stepped softly into the room but didn’t approach the desk, stopping instead in the middle of a deep, woven rug.

“My name is Shyla,” she said quietly, “and I believe I have a cause worthy of your donation.”

“Really?” Chale said with a raised eyebrow. He’d heard the story before.

“I know you’ve heard the story before,” Shyla echoed his thoughts, “but my need is greater than the others you’ve seen – such as the young man who just pulled a knife on you.”

Chale felt irritation rise; Sebor should know better than to speak out of turn.

“It wasn’t your assistant speaking out of turn,” the young woman went on, “I can read your mind – all minds, actually.” She said it so flatly that Chale found himself nodding for a moment, then shook his head – such a thing was impossible! “I assure you I am telling the truth, Chale McNabb. As a small example, let me remind you of the words spoken to your benefactor, of your promise to ‘honor the covenant’ that was made.”

“You cannot know that!” He blustered – no one had been present at that meeting, no one living save Chale.

“I can,” Shyla met his furious gaze with calm blue eyes, “and I do. Every mind in this home is mine for the looking, should I so choose, but I have a problem.”


“Oh?” Chale tried to regain a measure of his composure, take back a sliver of control. “And what is that?”

“There is a mind I can sense, each day and in every moment. It haunts me. It knows no thought but to kill, and promises my death at every turn. I must find it – I must know why it hates me so. I need your wealth to discover the truth.”

He nodded. Her claims might still be the stuff of con-men and dreams, but she was by far the most interesting supplicant he had seen in the last three weeks. That she had quoted words of the Other only firmed the reasoning for his choice.

“I also require your help – I know of your background and you will assist me in designing what I need.” Her manner had changed since she entered, a confident bearing replacing that of appeasal. It suited her.

“You will not be successful,” a familiar voice grated from nowhere, from each corner of the room, “she will die, Chale.”

“That isn’t decided!” He bellowed, and Shyla took a step forward, eyes wide. They had a common friend, it appeared, and a common enemy.


- D