The Blue Ridge Project: A Dark Suspense Novel (The Project Book 1) (8 page)

Robert rolled over in his bed, the morning light attacking his eyes and forcing him fully awake. His headache was mild enough until he sat up, and fresh knives of pain jabbed into his brain. Hunched over, he held his head in his hands until he felt he could stand without falling over or dropping dead. He saw the empty bottle on the dresser, and figured that he must have brought the dregs of the whiskey to bed with him although he didn't remember doing it. That was a habit he thought he had kicked, one of the little rules and regulations that he negotiated with himself every time he woke up feeling like a nail bomb had gone off inside his head. He filed away the self-recriminations for later, storing them with all the others and staggered to the bathroom.

As he washed his hands in the sink, he watched the water pass through the long black hairs that coiled up in the drain. Before he met Eliza, Robert had always laughed at people who used the term 'jet black' to describe someone's hair. Now he could see what they meant. Even separated from her and taken individually, they were incredibly dark and thick.

He stood in the doorway of the bathroom looking at the tangled sheets on the bed, wondering when Eliza had left that morning. They were seeing so little of each other now that her career was taking off. Going to bed blackout drunk a few nights a week, it was like he saw her even less. He sighed and moved to the living room.

He switched on his laptop and scanned the day's news feed. There were a few pieces about a proposed inter-city police training program back in Beacon. It was being hailed as a success by the backslappers who had proposed it before it even began. A few pundits were already calling the elections, waxing on about the bipartisan virtue of Senator Charles Frey. A few pages later, he saw his latest article, a piece on the unorthodox financial activity of a few select politicians. Some people had commented, the usual fringe lunatics and die-hard conservatives battling it out with misspelled words and blatant fallacies, but mostly it flew under the radar. That was the price he paid for skirting the edges, unwilling to write anything that would pander to anyone and unable to get the in-depth access necessary for a truly groundbreaking story.

He was reading a short article by investigative journalist Bill Greene about the future of neurological research and some interesting studies that were taking place behind closed doors when an email notification popped up. The sender was listed as unknown, and the message only contained a couple of short paragraphs.

“Looking for a real story? I have something that should interest you.” The rest of the email included instructions for installing software that would allow him to communicate anonymously and details for how the sender could be contacted.

Robert sat back in his torn leather office chair and looked up at the maroon walls of his small apartment. Providence was not something Robert believed in, but he did subscribe to the notion of letting opportunity in when it knocked, often without looking too hard through the peephole. He massaged his temples as he thought it over, then sat forward and began downloading. Something requiring layers of secrecy like this surely had to be worth a look.

A couple of hours and three cups of coffee later, he was ready, and sent out his first message. It was addressed to a string of random letters and numbers, and the software supposedly encrypted the message on both ends. All messages would self-delete after a set amount of time.

“I'm interested. What next?”

After a few minutes, he got a response.

“We'll meet. Go to the following address at the specified time. No cellphones, no cameras. Make sure you're not followed. You probably won't be, but it's a good habit to get into.” The sender signed off as 'Line' and gave the address and meeting time underneath.

Robert chewed his bottom lip as he looked at the message. His feet tapped on the floor, and his fingers drummed on the faux wood desk.

“Fuck it,” he said, and went to take a shower.

*****

Robert arrived just on time to the place, a shitty dive bar on the corner of a rough street in a part of town that hadn't turned entirely bad yet. He went inside and sat at one of the many empty booths, facing the door. When the waitress eventually came over, he asked for a beer and a whiskey. She banged them down on the table, spilling most of the beer, and sauntered back to her spot behind the bar.

The place smelled of sweat, long dried beer, leather and old cigarette smoke. Dark scratched wood met flaking yellow wallpaper around the walls. Faded black leather benches faced each other in a dozen booths along a back wall. The light was low, and there was some generic biker rock coming from the small cheap speakers in the ceiling. The windows were frosted glass, and bright reds, greens and yellows from the street bled into each other, punctuated by the occasional blue of a passing police car or ambulance. There were only two other people there, a pair of older men. Both were bald and had long yellowing beards, and were dressed in similar leather jackets, leaning forward and grunting their way through an inaudible conversation. To Robert the men looked interchangeable.

A few minutes after he had finished his beer, a man appeared in the doorway and made straight for Robert's table. He was dressed in a dirty tan coat, gray trousers and brown shoes. A cigarette hung from his lips, and he had a plain black baseball cap pulled down so his eyes were in shadow. He sat across from Robert, wordless and smoking.

“Line?” Robert asked in a shaky voice.

There was a sigh from behind the cloud of smoke that had already built up. “What’s the codeword we agreed on?”

“Shit. Sorry. Albatross.”

“The third one will do,” Line said. “Now, were you followed? You checked, like I told you?” The man's voice was raspy yet clear, and he spoke at a low volume.

Robert nodded and said, “Yes. Nobody followed. I doubled back on the route and everything. It’s just us.”

A short silence followed by a deep exhalation of smoke. The stink of the cigarette reminded him of the brand he used to smoke in school, hiding behind the science building and jumping every time he heard a footstep.

“All right then,” Line said, “we can work something out. I’ve followed your publication, Robert. Interesting angle you have; I’m sure your apparent honesty doesn’t get you many friends.”

“Not a whole lot, no. I don’t mind so much, most dishonest people aren’t that great anyway. Kind of the point of a lot of my articles.”

“I’ve noticed. And I’m not the only one, but that’s neither here nor there. Tell me, Robert, what do you know about Charles Frey?”

Robert thought for a moment. “Former mayor-turned-senator, good old boy. Old family, some political history, some business, well connected. Enough money to go far, but mostly liked by the lower and middle classes. Clean, or so the story goes. I guess you’re going to tell me something different.”

Another pause, and the cloud of smoke grew. It hung at eye-level in the dead air of the bar. “He’s well connected, all right. But not just in the way you think. He’s into some shit that very few people know about. So before we go any further down this little rabbit hole to hell, I’m going to give you one chance to back out. Save yourself the shitstorm, you and Ms. Rush.”

Robert didn’t say anything, surprise stealing his voice.

“Oh, yes,” Line continued, “I know about Eliza, too. Personal information is out there, just waiting to be plucked out of the ether. And if I can get it, so can they. Now tell me, are you in? Because this shit is deep and black, and you know what they say about that.”

Robert took ten seconds to make his decision. “Yes, I’m in. I want to know.”

“Good. Or not. We’ll find out, I guess.” A raspy chuckle brought hairs standing up on Robert’s arms.

“So what is he into?”

“You’ll have to do a good bit of the digging,” Line said, “there’s only so much I can give you. I’ve gotten you in the door, so to speak, but you’ll have to make your own way to the bedroom. There’s an envelope in the front left wheel well of a blue car outside. You can grab it after I leave.”

“I guess the million dollar question before we go any further is, why me? I'm not that well connected. I don't have a lot of readers. Why not somebody more influential?”

Line sucked the last few drags from his cigarette, and seconds after he extinguished it he lit another. “Because you're hungry. You write shit about politicians but you don't wag your finger. You tread water, not interested in going back to the shore, and you're aware of your limits so you don't dive too deep. Until today, that is.”

Robert sat back, his mind reeling with how quickly and accurately his approach to his wor
k―
to his
life
―
had been summarized by this stranger. When he got hold of himself, he leaned forward again, humbled.

“All right, what’s in the envelope?”

“An incriminating picture. Some transcripts, phone records, and a bank statement. Also some information on someone who can give you some insight into the situation, someone that used to be involved in the shipping and logistics. You’ll want to verify the veracity of the photo, I’m sure, but believe me, it’s real. It would be enough to hang Frey, if you managed to get it out there in a credible manner, but it’s only the tip of a nasty iceberg. And it’s the iceberg you’ll want to take care with, if you want to survive after the story comes out. Frey is only part of a larger problem.”

Robert waited for Line to elaborate, but there was no more to be said, apparently. “Why don’t you leak this stuff yourself? I’m sure you could find an audience, with your talents.”

“Not my department. I’m a ‘live to fight another day’ kind of guy. This would bring attention on me that would impede my line of work. By the by, I shouldn’t have to mention this, but I don’t want you claiming you didn't read the small print. If any of this falls back on me because you felt like letting the authorities know about me, I won’t hesitate to burn you.” He coughed, a harsh sound from the back of his throat. “There’ll be so much child porn and whatever other twisted shit I can get my hands on transferred to your computer, you’ll be hanging by your balls in some federal dungeon for the rest of your short and miserable life by the end of the same day. Harsh, I know, but I have to protect myself.”

Robert whistled. “Yeah, I get it. Christ, man. That's fucking rough.” He drained the last of his whiskey and looked up. A realization came that the bartender probably hadn't even looked over in their direction the whole time. She was engrossed in the game showing on a TV set that looked like it was made around the time Robert learned to walk.
Couldn't get noticed here if we tried
.

“Bobby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” He leaned in and whispered. “I'm talking human trafficking. Fucked up rituals that are part of inductions into secret organizations.  Deep fucking connections, you understand?”

Robert nodded, speechless.

“Right. I'm going to leave. Stay here, have another drink, then you can leave. Don't forget the envelope.” Before Robert could reply, he was up and on his way out the door.

Robert finally got the bartender to serve him another whiskey and he sat over it for ten minutes, organizing his jumbled thoughts. It felt like trying to grab flies on a windy day. A presidential candidate involved in human trafficking? Secret rituals? Some hacker activist reaching out to him of all people, a drunk, low-level freelance journalist?

When he finished his drink, he dropped some change on the table and left. The bald men didn't even look up as he passed them on his way out. Across the street, there was an old blue mini, the type with the domed wheel well. Robert looked around and saw no-one on the street. All the windows above him were dark, shuttered or bricked shut, and the bar he had just left was the only place open, its weak yellow light spilling out onto the dirty pavement and stretching his shadow out towards the car.

He jogged across the road, his heart thudding, his pulse beating a quick rhythm in his ears. He crouched and felt underneath the dome that covered the top half of the wheel, snatching glances of the empty street. After the first few seconds, he felt nothing, and he felt a little wave of relief wash over him, in spite of his curiosity.

Then his hands touched a small paper package, and his heart-rate jumped. He pulled it out and turned it over in his hands. A brown envelope, with what felt like a few paper sheets inside and a harder one. Like a photograph.

He looked around one last time, stuffed the envelope into his jacket and walked briskly back to his car around the corner, almost jogging by the time he reached it.

The Mortimer family home stood on a piece of land that had once been known as End Hill. It was three stories high, with massive bay windows that caught both the morning and afternoon sun. The roof was a rusty clay red, sloping down to a dozen hanging flower baskets around the house that hung from the gutters. The walls were a dirty cream color, the rough stone surface seeming smoother in the sunshine than it actually was. The grounds were well kept, a few acres of pristine lawn in all directions from the house, which occupied the central position on the land. Tamed wild flowers had been planted at regular intervals surrounding the gravel that acted as the divide between the house and the garden. There was ample parking space in front of the place and all the way down the long driveway, which was sheltered by overhanging trees on both sides. In a certain light they looked like elongated spiders, hanging dead over the path, blocking out the sun.

On this day, three black cars of the same make and model were parked outside the main entrance door. The drivers stood beside their respective vehicles in sunglasses and suits. All of them smoked, but none of them talked to each other.

Inside, in one of the numerous lounges, four men and one woman sat around a hand-carved table that had been cut to look like a coiled snake with a flat table top on it. There were drinks on the table, and two of the men smoked.

The woman was Sandra Mortimer, wife of Trevor Mortimer, the man who sat on her left. To her right were Gabe and Frank Senior, Trevor’s cousin and brother, respectively. At the end of the table was Sandra and Trevor’s son Francis R. Mortimer, or Frankie Junior, or Frank, which he preferred.

“I think it’s a wonderful opportunity, Frankie. You should take your uncle up on his offer. Shouldn’t he, Trevor?” Sandra asked, tapping her husband on the elbow.

“I think it’s up to the boy to decide. First, though, he has to be sure he can do it, whichever he chooses. Can you do it, boy?” Trevor looked at Frank Junior, his dark gaze trapping his son’s.

Frank Junior opened his mouth to reply, unsure of what was going to come out, but Frank Senior interrupted.

“Of course he can! He’s got pure Mortimer blood in those veins. Look at that hair! He can do anything, with the right motivation.” Frank Senior, he himself edging his way into baldness headfirst, leaned over and ruffled Frank Junior’s hair, messing up the hairdo he had spent ten minutes getting in place after his shower.

Frank Junior didn’t pull away. He had learned the hard way not to flinch from Frank Senior a long time ago.

Gabe grunted agreement, and excused himself to go to the bathroom.

Frank let his mind wander and thought about the stories he had overheard about him. Gabe came from what Sandra liked to call the “broken” side of the Mortimer family. They had money and power, like everyone else with the family name, but according to her, there were far too many incidents of eccentricity and in some cases outright lunacy than could be considered statistically normal.

One of the stories was about when Gabe was a boy. Gabe’s aunts, two sisters, had been committed to mental asylums in their teens on the testimony of their mother. She claimed they were “grossly indecent,” and later claims were made of light arson and criminal damage. The fact that it had been the mother herself who had set the fires—she had held the belief that her new neighbors were agents of a dark presence and was setting fires to protect herself—did not stop her from locking up her daughters in a madhouse for ten years. The place where they were treated for their maladies was a throwback to early psychiatric wards, with electroshock therapy and other dangerous practices used regularly. The sisters emerged from the hospital as quasi mutes, and had been cloistered up in the top two rooms of their house until they were found dead in each other’s arms one afternoon by a housekeeper. The meals that had been sent up by dumbwaiter were piled up in one corner of the room, the stench of the rotten food almost overpowering the smell of the dead sisters.

Another story that was rehashed at family gatherings, late at night when only a few of the older relatives remained, was the woeful end of Gabe’s father Samuel. Sam Mortimer had not been the smartest of the Mortimer clan, but he had possessed a sharp eye for opportunity. He saw such an opportunity with a certain market crash, and plowed his share of the family fortune into businesses that he was sure would prosper when the markets stabilized. When they never recovered, the value of the stock continued to plummet and Sam had to sell out every piece of the company, as well as his own assets.

“Right down to the jewelry on his fingers,” the person telling the story would say. His wife left him for another woman, and his son and daughter refused to have anything to do with him. Sam drank himself into oblivion, and used up every welcome he had with the remainder of the family who still dealt with him. Alone, ostracized, penniless, and hopelessly poison-drunk, he took a revolver that he had stolen from one of his brother’s houses—he couldn’t remember which one, the drink having pickled that part of his brain—and checked into a motel room. He sat on the edge of the bed, cried miserably for a few minutes and then caught a bullet in his mouth. He wasn’t found until the morning, the night receptionist having been listening to music on his headphones when the gun went off. His blood had dried on the wall, as well as the small pieces of brain and bone that stuck to it.

In both cases, money had been spread around to the right people, and things were kept out of the arena of public opinion. No small feat considering the eager hunt for scandal that dominated the tabloids.

While Gabe relieved himself in one of the upstairs toilets, fumbling with the lock before he sat down, Frank Junior considered his options as they had been presented to him. Join this strange Project and be part of their experimental new program, or start work in one of his father’s businesses as an executive. Thinking of the prospect of working for his father, it felt like his stomach had been caught on the edge of a black hole. It was an odd feeling, the anticipation of fatal boredom. No number of comely secretaries and co-workers would make up for the tedium of it all.

“—and if it doesn’t work out, you can come and work for me,” his father was saying as he turned his attention back to the conversation.

“What’s that? I drifted away there,” Frankie said.

“Head in the clouds? You’re not filling us with confidence, boy. The program will put right to that, that’s for sure. Won’t it, Trevor?” Frank Senior said, guffawing and tapping Trevor on his arm, almost spilling his drink.

“I’m sure it will, Dad. That’s why I’ve decided to enroll,” Frankie said, leaning forward to grab his glass, soda and lime. “To the future,” he toasted.

The rest of them raised their glasses and clinked them together. “How wonderful,” Sandra said. “We’ll have to organize a party. A celebration! When will you be starting?”

Frank Senior finished his drink and put the empty glass above the snake’s head, almost knocking the glass to the floor. “I can have him started as soon as possible. I just have to grease a few palms.” He cackled.

“Sounds like a solid decision. Make us proud, boy.” Trevor raised his glass again to Frankie, who lifted his in return.

Gabe stumbled back in the room, sat back down and picked up his glass.

“Uncle Gabe, I’m going to start in the Blue Ridge program,” Frankie said.

Gabe grunted and polished off the rest of his drink. “G’luck,” he muttered over the rim of the glass.

*****

“He’s a strange boy,” Trevor said later that night when only he and Sandra remained awake. “There’s always been something off about him.”

Sandra sighed. They were still in the living room, and now she reached across to grab a long cigarette from a box on the table with the snake underneath. “He’s just awkward, Trevor. He’s not a very social person, never was. I’m sure what your brother has arranged will be good for him. Did Frank tell you any more about it?”

Trevor shook his head. “Only that it’s to do with the Blue Ridge Institute and their research. Expensive stuff, but profitable ventures usually are. If the results end up sold to the military, the payout will be well worth it. A government teat rarely dries up.” He reached across her and squeezed her breast for a second before she slapped his hand away.

“Speaking of government teats, how goes it with our golden calf in the Senate?”

“He’s completely on board. Even if he decides to change his mind somewhere down the line, which I doubt, we have him cornered. It won’t come to that, though. He’s hungry and ambitious, so as long as we keep pushing him up the hill he’ll do whatever we suggest. For the good of the city and the country as a whole, of course.”

“Of course,” Sandra said, and sniffed. She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke up to the ceiling, where it hung in a slight cloud around the chandelier. “I must say, it was a genius idea. Supplementing the police force with outside help while convincing the participating cities to pay half, while we pay the rest with federal grants. No wonder he listens to us. The city council must have got down on their knees and started pulling at his belt when he showed them that proposal and the money it would save them.”

Trevor chuckled. “Yes, I was rather proud of that one. The obvious choice really, when you look at the numbers.”

Sandra looked into Trevor’s eyes and smiled. For a moment Trevor was taken back to when he first met her, her arm hooked through the arm of a former district attorney. Her eyes had been the same then, bright and deep with sharp awareness.

“Not the obvious choice for everyone, darling,” she said. “That’s why we are where we are, and everybody else is where they are.”

“Very true.” Trevor’s heart began to speed up. “Now tell me, do you remember what we did the night we met, at that awful party so long ago?”

Her smile turned into a feline grin. “Indeed, I do. Do you think you still have what it takes?”

Trevor smiled back at her and took her cigarette and put it out on the ivory ashtray on the table. Then he took her hands and led her upstairs.