Torn (19 page)

G-Man bucks and shivers, getting nowhere. Strangled little yelps coming from deep beneath the duct tape.

“Gordon,” says the big dude. “Calm yourself. You have limited air. Just enough to keep your brain conscious, not enough for a struggle. Besides, the struggle part won’t work.”

The big dude tears off a strip of tape.

“See this? This is the final frontier. If you don’t stop squirming, I’ll tape up your last nostril and that will be that. The only remaining question, will they find your dead body before it freezes solid. G-Man, The Human Popsicle.”

Unable to control his fear, G-Man bucks and whimpers for a while. Then he stops. The stench of urine permeates the already rancid interior of the old Impala.

“It happens,” the big dude says with a shrug. “Sphincter’s next, if you don’t relax, concentrate on getting all the air you can through that one little nostril. Try it. See? Better already.”

G-Man weeps as he carefully inhales through a single, snot-encrusted nostril. It’s like sucking air through a too-small straw.

“Here’s the deal,” says the big dude, in words that fall like shards of ice. “You’re going to tell me what happened to Haley Corbin. The lady with the missing kid. The one you called. The one you set up. You’ll be giving me all the details. Every little thing.”

The big dude slips a hand around G-Man’s neck. “Are you ready? You’ll notice I have really big hands and you have a really small neck. Feel that? That’s me squeezing just a little. If you scream when I pull back the tape, I’ll squeeze a lot.”

The big dude peels back the duct tape. G-Man tries to scream.

The big dude pastes the tape back down over his gaspy little mouth, heaves a deep sigh of disappointment.

“I was hoping you weren’t a slow learner,” he says. “Oh well. We’ll just have to take our time.”

9. Did I Mention The Really Comfy Leather Seats?

“Sorry about the dog kennel,” the woman says, not even pretending to sound apologetic. “It’s all we could think to do.”

My captor is a slightly built, extremely nervous female with a tidy little mop of curly, dyed-blond hair and small, darting eyes that never seem to settle on anything. She’s crouching at the locked grill of the kennel, exuding an air of ironic detachment, like isn’t it faintly amusing that we,
two women of the world, find ourselves in this position, you inside the cage and me outside laying down the rules?

Me, I’m not feeling ironic. More like enraged and terrified and helpless and more enraged, that combination, in that order. Keenly aware of how a trapped animal must feel, caged and in motion, unable to see where its tormentors are taking it. When the bumpy acceleration first threw me to the back of the kennel, I assumed I was in a runaway van, about to smash into something at high speed—as if my captors were staging a fatal accident. Then, abruptly, we were airborne and rising rapidly, and my trip-hammer heart began to ease.

I was in a plane, probably in the cargo compartment. I had assumed it must be a commercial airliner, something big enough to have a special place to stow pets, but when Miss Ironic crawled in and turned on the lights, it became obvious that I was aboard a relatively small aircraft.

“Gulfstream G-450,” she tells me. “Owned, not leased. In this configuration we can carry six passengers, three crew. Tonight all we’ve got is me and Eldon and the one pilot, with the cockpit door sealed from the inside. So if the pilot has like a stroke or something we’re all screwed. Eldon thinks he could fly the thing, because he helped develop this flight simulator software? But really he couldn’t. And besides he can’t get through the cockpit door with the pilot down, can he? No way.”

Still not quite looking at me as she chatters away, naming various options on their aircraft, as if it were a luxury automobile. Leather seats, individual climate control, exotic hardwood trim, even “a totally amazing wine chiller that also works on champagne bottles.” Mostly
staring at her shoes as she babbles on. Blahniks, slightly scuffed, which is probably a crime in her zip code.

“Who the hell are you?” I finally demand, hooking my fingers in the cage door. Resisting the impulse to bare my teeth like some rabid canine. “Where are you taking me?”

My captor studies her nails and sighs. “Colorado. Ever been? They have these mountains, really serious mountains. Eldon likes to conquer mountains. Me, I could care less.”

Colorado.

“You’re Rulers,” I suggest.

My captor giggles nervously. “Well, duh! Where else would we get fifty million bucks to buy a little old airplane? Not that it’s old. You know what I mean.”

“Let me out of here!”

My captor runs a frail hand through her mop of curls. Looking like an elfin version of Harpo Marx. A female Harpo who can’t stop running her nervous mouth. “Yeah, well that’s what I’m here to discuss. Maybe letting you out if you’re cool with it. Eldon thinks I should negotiate, you know, girl-to-girl or whatever. Did I mention the really comfy leather seats? If you’ll promise to behave you can come into the cabin, which is way better than first class. You can even have a glass of wine if you want.”

“I promise.”

“Yeah, but you would, wouldn’t you? Promise anything to get out of this doggy thing? I know
I
would. It must suck in there, you don’t have any legroom at all. The thing is, we’re like totally on your side.”

“You’re on my side?” The woman must be deranged. They drugged me, jammed me into a dog kennel, and they’re on my side?

She nods, serious as a heart attack. “Totally. We’re trying to facilitate the situation.”

“What does that mean?”

“The whole succession thing, it’s gotten totally out of control. The whole point of being a Ruler—well, one of the points—is we don’t attract attention from government drones. Like we make tons and tons of money—Eldon made almost half a billion last year, isn’t that amazing?—but we always pay our taxes. So they leave us alone. But this,” she adds, indicating my cage, “stuff like this, they might get the wrong idea.”

I’m speechless. The wrong idea?

“Because the thing is, we’re going to help you get your son back,” she says. “That’s what you want, right?”

“Oh…my…god,” I gasp, convulsing.

“You knew he was alive, right?” she says, sounding concerned. “Oh wow, I guess maybe you didn’t know for sure. Well, he is. I haven’t seen him myself, but everybody says he’s really cute and smart and everything. Are you okay? You’re not going to puke are you? You need to like, take a breath or something.”

She unlocks my cage.

1. What Noah Knows

Evangeline stands at the leading edge of the glass atrium that juts out from the Pinnacle like the prow of a great ship. Far below, dense clouds roll in slow, majestic motion. Waiting for her loyal faction of Rulers to assemble, she sips a healing potion of rare green tea from a paper-thin porcelain cup. The tea is outrageously overpriced. Evangeline should know—she owns the company, an herbal remedy outfit that promises to cure all disease, reverse aging, and delivers, well, a cup of pretty good tea. Five thousand dollars an ounce, and legal. Why deal in illicit drugs when unregulated herbal remedies generate more revenue, without the risk? For years she has invested heavily in high-end herbal products, as well as a successful chain of luxury rejuvenation spas. She knows the market. Money flows to Evangeline, and she believes that wealth buys her health. It pays for the exotic emollients that soften the faint scar lines of her numerous cosmetic surgeries. Surgeries which make her look decades younger, as seen from a middle distance. Close-up her complexion has the quality
of a theatrical mask, an effect of which she’s keenly aware. For that and other reasons, she confines her appearances to video whenever possible. As Arthur so clearly understood, video imagery, which can be endlessly repeated and manipulated, has always been the key to indoctrination and mental dominance.

A gentle gong sounds. It is time. She glides across the atrium, enters the private studio that was originally designed for her husband. A thronelike chair with a back-screen projection of mountain peaks at dawn. A simple, powerful image inspired by the designs of Leni Riefenstahl, who knew a thing or two about the triumph of the will. Long ago, Evangeline learned how to control the lighting and cameras, enabling her to dispense with a crew and give her complete control. She positions herself in the throne, checks the resulting image in the studio monitor, and then strokes the touch-screen, activating the connection to the secure video conferencing room where her faction has gathered.

“Greetings from the Pinnacle,” she purrs. “Together we face the new day with a new mind.”

The ritual greeting, originated by Arthur Conklin, often shortened to “new day, new mind” by his followers. Evangeline prefers the complete phrase, a subtle reminder that she alone speaks for her husband. Gazing at the conference-room monitors, she names those in attendance, noting their generous contributions to the cause. Seven of the most successful Rulers, all originally recruited by Evangeline herself, and rewarded for their loyalty with key positions within the hierarchy. Four males, three females, each keenly aware that the organization is about to undergo
traumatic change. Each determined to emerge with more power, more wealth. True believers, every one of them.

“The great mind still lives,” she assures them. “We spoke not an hour ago, and once again he has made his wishes clear. First, he insists that the truth of his condition be shared with his most trusted followers.” Evangeline pauses, takes a deep breath. “Needless to say, this information must not be passed on to those at a lower level. As some of you are already aware, Arthur’s body is failing. The years of dialysis have taken their toll, as we all knew they must, and he has decided not to undergo another transplant. In my weakness I begged him—” She pauses wiping a nonexistent tear from her eye. “I begged him to live, to survive at whatever cost, but as always, Arthur knows best. He wants you all to know that he does not fear physical death. He experiences no pain, and contrary to certain malicious rumors his brilliant mind remains clear. He remains focused on the future and he believes absolutely that soon he will truly face a new day with a new mind.”

She pauses, letting her words sink in, reading the faces. Of course they already know about Arthur’s condition. Several show signs of relief, having heard the malicious rumor that the founder is virtually brain-dead. And so he is, to all intents and purposes. The true state of affairs matters not; so long as Evangeline claims otherwise, they will choose to believe her.

“I’ve called you together this morning to impart great news,” she says, her reedy voice lifting. “Like Arthur’s true condition, this information must not be shared until the time is right. Hear me and share my joy. Even as the founder and the one true Ruler fades away, his successor is amongst us.”

With a great flourish she keys the video feed from a secret, highly secure location called the Nursery. A live image appears on their screens, triggering gasps of astonishment from the faction. One of the females is seen to shriek and can barely contain her exuberance.

“You are looking at the new form of Arthur Conklin,” Evangeline informs them. “By DNA, by blood itself, the boy is two generations removed. In the primitive way of thinking, he is a grandson of our founder. But the bond is much, much closer than mere DNA. As so often happens, true genius seems to have skipped a generation. Our tests confirm the boy has Arthur’s level of intelligence, and Arthur’s amazing talent for mathematics, and many aspects of Arthur’s unique, charismatic personality. Given the correct environment, he will evolve into the One True Voice that guides us, our Ruler of Rulers.”

The live video feed reveals the boy seated at a small desk in a sunlit room. The colors are warm, soothing. The boy has been fitted with headphones and appears to be listening intently as his slim, blond-haired tutor, seated nearby, takes notes. The boy’s expression reveals little. He might be aware of the concealed cameras covering his every breath and move, he might not, hard to say. But the resemblance to boyhood photographs of his grandfather—iconic images revered by all true Rulers—is uncanny and produces exactly the effect Evangeline has anticipated.

As Arthur himself might have said, in one of his more ironic moments, there is joy in Mudville. The conference room is abuzz. Her mighty seven can barely contain themselves. They have many questions—some are shouting themselves hoarse at the muted conference microphones—
but Evangeline has decided that today’s presentation, like almost all of Arthur’s many presentations, will be strictly one-way. She speaks, they listen.

“The boy has been with us only for a short time,” she explains, “and yet already he has begun to absorb some of his grandfather’s revolutionary theories of human thought and social organization. At this very moment he is listening to Arthur’s first recorded lecture from
The Rule of One.
You may be thinking, he’s only a child, how much can he understand of this difficult text? I can tell you only this—you’d be amazed how much he comprehends. Even so, we expect the learning process to take a number of years. After all, most of us have been studying Arthur’s thoughts for a lifetime, and still we have much to learn.”

On the screen the boy seems to look directly into one of the many cameras monitoring his every movement. It is the face of a child, soft and not yet fully formed, but his eyes have an intensity rarely seen in a child of ten.

“This concludes the session,” says Evangeline with a frosty smile, using the phrase that her husband employed at the conclusion of all of his lectures. “Over the next few days I will be contacting each of you individually. There is much to do.”

Her lacquered nail strokes the touch pad and she vanishes from the screen.

In the Nursery, Noah sits quietly at his desk, pretending to listen to the annoying drone in his headphones. Mrs. Delancey says the voice is his grandfather and that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t understand at first, the words
themselves will be recorded deep inside his mind and will slowly improve his brain from the inside out.

Noah doesn’t want to have his brain improved, but he knows he must bide his time. He knows Mrs. Delancey is a big fat liar, liar with her pants on fire. He’s keenly aware that even though everybody seems very nice, and treats him as if he’s really special, they’re holding him against his will, which is the same as kidnapping. He knows all of this and one thing more: they’re lying about what happened to his mother when the school exploded. He knows in his head and his heart and his bones that Mom didn’t die there, like they said, and that someday soon she will come to get him, and when she does Mrs. Delancey and all the others will be in big, big trouble.

That’s what Noah knows.

2. The Man With The Beautiful Eyes

The thing about being afraid is that after a while it makes you tired. At first the fear is like fire in your blood, and all your senses seem enhanced. Smell, color, sound—everything is more vivid. I suppose that must be the adrenaline, keeping you wide-awake, ready for anything. And then as time passes it just gets so exhausting that all you want to do is close your eyes and go away.

Minutes after the plane lands, I’m sound asleep. No idea how long I’m out, but when I finally do wake up it’s to find myself in what at first glance looks like a dimly illuminated luxury hotel suite. Heavy drapes cloak the windows. The furniture is low, ultramodern, and for some strange reason—something to do with my dreams?—looks vaguely sinister.
The next thing I notice is that I’ve been dressed in cotton pajamas—who do
these
belong to?—and then something clicks in my head and I’m sitting bolt upright shouting, “Noah! Noah! It’s Mom!”

A moment later the woman with the flouncy mop of Harpo curls appears by the bedside, eyes almost comically wide, her mouth a pink O of surprise. “Hey!” she says, looking as panicked as me. “Hey! Calm down!”

It’s the petite little woman who let me out of the cage, who told me Noah was alive. My captor, my savior, whatever, my only direct link to him right now, and I can’t help myself.

“Where is he?” I demand, grabbing her wrists, pulling her close. “I want my son!”

Frightened by my iron grip, she cries out in a high voice, “Eldon! Eldon!” and a moment later a slightly larger male version of herself appears, looking equally startled.

The husband. I must have glimpsed him when they transferred me from the jet to the van, because he looks familiar, and not just because of the physical similarity to his wife. This is the Eldon that “made half a billion last year, isn’t that amazing?” The man behind the plan to lure me to the airport, knock me out, stuff me in a dog kennel, and whisk me away in his fancy private aircraft. My enemy, no doubt, and maybe, if his wife isn’t completely off her rocker, my friend.

“You said you had my son!” I remind them, letting go of her and focusing instead on him.

“Not us,” he responds, carefully backing his wife out of range, as if I’m a grenade.

“Who, then? Where is he?”

Eldon can’t bring himself to look me in the eye. “We think we know who took your son and why. We think we
know where they’re keeping him, okay? At least the general vicinity. At the moment we can’t do anything about it, but we’re on your side, lady, I promise.”

“Prove it!” I demand. “Take me to Noah! I want to see him with my own eyes, right now!”

Husband and wife exchange a glance.

“Not possible,” Eldon says. “How about some breakfast, you must be starved,” he suggests, in what he intends to be a soothing voice.

“I don’t want any fucking breakfast—
I want my son!
”

They exchange another mysterious glance, come to some sort of silent agreement, and then quickly withdraw from the room without another word.

The door, no surprise, is locked and solid as a bank vault. Pounding on the door gets me nothing but a sore fist. Windows! Go for the windows. If it’s not too high maybe I can jump, or scream loud enough to get somebody’s attention. But when I draw back the drapes, I discover that the windows have been covered from the outside with heavy aluminum storm shutters, blocking out light and sound.

I’m still in a cage.

Time passes, maybe an hour. Hard to tell under artificial light, without benefit of clock or watch. I’m starting to deeply regret refusing breakfast when the lock on the door clicks softly.

I’m right there, ready to bolt through the opening, but my new visitor has anticipated my eagerness and sweeps me away with a strong arm and shuts the door firmly behind him, all in one smooth move.

Thrown off balance, I fall to the carpet, landing on my butt.

“I do apologize,” says the visitor, looking down at me with what can only be described as a benevolent expression. “You’re being confined for your own protection. Your host family has asked me to explain the situation, and I shall. But first we need to get some food into you. Did you know you’re trembling and that your teeth are chattering? That’s not the air temperature. That’s because you’re hungry. Even a healthy person like yourself has to watch the blood sugar.”

His appearance is enough to stun me into silence. Standing over me, dressed in simple black like a priest devoid of collar, is perhaps the homeliest human being I’ve ever encountered. Not ugly—ugly can be scary or threatening—but painfully, exquisitely homely. The man has a hunched spine, a protuberant little belly, and no chin. His spindly neck is heavily wattled, his prominent nose looks like a fat, crooked finger, and his asymmetrical ears could be borrowed from Mr. Potato Head. To make matters worse, all of his features are slightly askew, as if he was somehow blurred at birth, and the effect is to make me want to look away. Which I would happily do, except for his eyes.

His eyes, set deep beneath a jutting, simian brow, are strangely, compellingly beautiful. Old and deeply wrinkled, but nevertheless beautiful, although I couldn’t say what color. Not blue or green exactly, but somewhere in that range.