The last time Jacob Reid had seen the man, he had been dressed as a clown. Now, though, when Jacob sees what the man has done to his son, face bruised, lacerations like barb wire across his cheeks, lips broken and desiccated, he serves the clown the axe handle. Jacob doesn’t know what became of the axe’s head, but the handle is sturdy and firm, and with Jacob’s strong arm and rage behind it, the wood nearly cracks open the man’s skull on the first strike.
Standing at the door of the basement, Jacob’s training as a jurist lists off the various crimes he’s committed to get here: pursuit without evidence, breaking and entering, and now what’s surely going to end in murder. His son is alive: kidnapped, bound, assaulted, but alive. While his actions may result in disbarment, surely no one will find him guilty if he stops now, frees his son, calls the police.
Jacob Reid keeps hitting the man who dresses as a clown to kidnap children.
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I waited until Brick lifted the cigarette to his mouth to take a Russian-sized inhalation. At the apex of that I said, “Hey,” imitating the voice of a thousand addicts I’d heard wanting to bum a smoke. Brick twisted his neck, bringing his nearly square face around, lining him up just the way I wanted.
I gave him a strong left jab, crushing the cigarette against his face in a cloud of hot ash and sticky tobacco. Not enough to break any teeth, it just stunned him and left him momentarily blind, giving me the chance to reach into his jacket and pull the pistol out from underneath it. By the time Whip had begun to bring the car to a shuddering stop I had the pistol pointed at him and his partner pinned.
On the side of the road Whip popped his head around the headrest, hand in his own jacket. He came face-to-face with the pistol’s muzzle. I could tell this wasn’t the first time he’d had a gun pointed at him, but he stopped reaching for his own weapon. Brick alternated between rubbing his eyes and trying to slap my foot away. I held it there, keeping mostly out of his reach, but to his credit, it wasn’t easy. He was as strong as his dimensions suggested. I was glad I wasn’t having a fair fight with him in the contained space of the Mercedes.
I quickly slid a round into the chamber and took the safety off. With the demonstration that the pistol was hot any ideas of retaliation evaporated. Whip’s Adam’s apple worked and Brick stopped even the slightest of struggles.
I spared the big man a glance saying, “Good boy.” Gun still on Whip I directed, “Both hands on the wheel. Drive.”
Whip obediently put his hands and 10 and 2, then smoothly guided the Mercedes back onto the road. After a moment he asked, “Where are we going?”
“To see Mr. Mitnick.” I felt Brick’s mass tense under my foot at those words. Even with the pistol pointed at his partner’s head the possibility of putting his boss in danger was stirring up resistance.
Not wanting that I added, “Since you won’t answer my questions maybe he will.” I took my foot off Brick who angrily fussed with his shirt, but generally appeared appeased that I wasn’t going to murder anyone without provocation.
While keeping an eye on him I caught glimpses of the road out the window. We were heading east, towards the hills outside of town. Past the orange roofs and white walls of the tiny shops, pharmacies, and post offices, you could see where the winter rains were bringing the cork oaks and heather to life, carpeting the steady rise in green. At one point Whip tried to say something, but at the first Russian syllable that left his mouth I crammed the muzzle of the pistol into the base of this skull and told him to be quiet.
After a time we pulled off the main drag and onto a switchback road, climbing higher with each turn. The clouds had gone that day, so passed Brick’s glowering I could see all of town, laid out like a jewel sitting on the seaside. If it weren’t for my companions, it would have made for a lovely drive. As it was, I felt very cold in the Mediterranean sunshine.
They built the World as a study in iconography: the Mountains, the Forest, the Highway. Each place was a template any visitor could imprint their memories or preconceptions on, their ideas of it giving the barebones of the construction details and meaning.
But most important of all the templates, there was the City. A place of residence, commerce, government, densely populated with people of all different stripes, and made for each one of them. If you expected to see Red Square, take a turn and the plaza would lay itself out before you. As you crossed the river, any citizen might do so on the Galata or the Pont National. Walking there you might see Big Ben or the Petronas Towers.
Like all templates, though, it required a default state, one in which it reverted should the visitor have no expectations. And this was the one that Thomas strolled down, in the Financial District, with clean streets and signs posted vertically along the long rise of buildings, advertising everything from the restaurant inside, to the bank, to a new cellular phone bundle. He knew he could walk a few miles, or take the subway, and end up in a less savory part of town, but he had decided to start here. “It’s all so remarkable,” he wondered at it.
“You can choose to reside here or in any other residential edifice.” The voice might have belonged to any one of the people moving around Thomas, getting about their busy day as he stared up at the skyscrapers. However, it belonged to none of the passersby. “By depositing your funds in the CrossTrek bond you’ll be provided an allowance in which to live however long you wish to reside in the City.”
“I suppose it’s lucky I sold the condo before –” Thomas stopped, not wanting to think about his erstwhile home or the unfortunate family he had sold it to, both having given way to the elements not long ago.
“Yes. Nothing like that will happen here. All climate is controlled and tuned to pre-industrial standards.” A woman, neatly dressed in business suit, smiled at him as she passed. Thomas wondered if she were an occupant like he might be, or if the human gesture had been queued up by the system to accompany its reassuring words. “Of course, there will be inclement weather, but nothing like what you’ve experienced.”
Thomas thought about how so much in recent history had washed away, taking with it some of humankind’s greatest accomplishments, not the least of which were some of the cities this artifice reflected. “And my…” Thomas gestured up and down, indicating his own torso, knowing the system would understand.
“You will be safely interred in our Vault®. You’ll be able to live here and eat, drink, smoke or consume as you see fit with no ramifications for your overall health.”
Thomas thought about that: Living without consequence. Perhaps that’s all humans were fit to do.
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I nodded goodbye to Moreau as if we knew each other. Whip gestured me to the door, Brick stepping outside of it, boxing me in between them. If there had been a chance of me getting out of there without a fight it evaporated right there.
Stepping outside the two flanked me from behind, walking me to an older model four-door Mercedes. Silver going on gray with signs of corrosion from living too long near the sea, the car still spoke of a higher class of money than I had attained. Brick opened the back door on our side, gesturing for me to get in. Not wanting to get a surprise cold-cock I watched him as I stooped into the car. While his expression didn’t bely the original estimate I had made of his intelligence his impassive detachment suggested he had discipline.
The interior of the car was a wine color, turned darker by the tinted windows. A spacious back seat allowed Brick to get in beside me without us even having to touch knees. Between all that and what I’m sure was ample trunk space, the Mercedes could make for an excellent kidnap mobile. If that sort of thing was your line of business.
Whip slipped into the driver’s seat. The engine coughed and growled at his command, and we were on our way. Brick kept an eye on me, only pausing to take a red-starred cigarette pack out of his jacket pocket. I noticed it was missing the usual huge health warning that European regulations require, a sure sign that it had been smuggled in after being produced in one of the illegal factories in Madrid.
He didn’t offer me a cigarette but it did give me a chance to notice the black matte grip of the pistol is his shoulder holster. I guess he wasn’t interested in making friends.
Not wanting to caught staring I asked Whip, “So where are we going?” I didn’t bother speaking to him in French. His skill at the language was most likely as rudimentary as mine, so we probably wouldn’t get far. From what I had seen of the Russians, Georgians, and other ex-Soviet types, they didn’t bother learning the local language. They let their money do the talking for them.
Sparing me a glance through the rearview mirror he replied, “To see Mr. Mitnick.”
There hadn’t been any attempt to inform me of who Mitnick was or what he wanted with me. I could only assumed they thought I knew or they didn’t care. Betting on the latter I asked, “And who is Mr. Mitnick?”
The glances that this brought my way were filled with doubt and incredulity. This broke in a second, Whip and Brick looking at each other in silent communication, their eyes asking the other one if they were sure they had the right guy. Instead of addressing whatever misgivings flowed between them Whip just said, “He’s the boss.”
Sensing that I wouldn’t get much more of an answer than that, I switched tactics, emphasizing the first word of the next question. “Where is Mr. Mitnick?”
With a narrowing of his eyes Whip told me he had lost patience with my questions. He sent a signal back to Brick with a glance and the mongoloid began to pour on the intimidation; his stare could have set off a geiger counter. It heated my skin in a way that only wasn’t uncomfortable because of familiarity, his tactic having the opposite of its intended effect. I felt my own anger rising to meet his.
I heard Cheryl’s voice again, reminding me that I wanted to speak with Mr. Mitnick, that any kind of violence might require reprisals from him. Hell, for all I knew one of these goons was his nephew.
That worked until Whip, seeing me back down, gave me a condescending reply of, “This will be much easier for you if you stop asking questions.” What an asshole.
Why can’t I remember that final gift you gave me? I can recall the box and its wrappings perfectly, but the contents have escaped my memory, leaving only the shadow of its interior.
If I tighten my mind with effort to recall or flatten my psyche out to its furthest extent, I cannot recollect what it was. And the more I try, the more details that seem to escape me: The perfume you wore, what food we were served on our first meeting, the name of the street you lived on. Even the color of your eyes. Each of these things is drawn into the darkness of the box you left as I search my memory for its contents.
Did you give me a gift? Or leave me with a trap? Did we know each before this and you removed yourself prior to what I remember as our first meeting? How many times have we done this?
