The Store

by James Patterson

  “Jacob,” I heard. “Jacob. It’s just me, Maggie.”

  “Hold on,” I yelled back. “I just took a shower…er…not a shower…I just took a bath. What’s up?”

  I asked this question with a slight nervousness in my voice, all the while wrapping the towel around me and securing it as firmly as I could.

  Before I went back into the bedroom, I glanced at myself in the old mirror over the sink. I tell you—not with phony modesty—I was not a particularly handsome sight: chest hair made grayish white with talcum powder, along with my ridiculously skinny arms and equally skinny legs.

  “Almost caught me,” I said to Maggie.

  “I’m sorry. I should have waited for you to answer the door.”

  “It’s okay. We’re friends,” I said, and I’m sure I had one of those grins that’s usually called sheepish or stupid or both.

  “I brought some coffee and a little flask of orange juice.” As she spoke she gestured toward the table next to the narrow bed. Sure enough, there was a wooden tray with a delicate little cup, steam rising out of it, and a small cut-glass container of orange juice.

  “You look tired, Jacob,” Maggie said.

  “Yeah, I’m not even sure that I fell asleep. When that happens you really know you had a bad night.”

  At the foot of the bed was an undershirt. I slipped it over my head, but I then suddenly worried that by moving my arms into the armholes I’d be pulling in my waist and end up losing my towel.

  “Here,” Maggie said. “Let me help.”

  She walked toward me.

  “Hey, you used the lily of the valley stuff,” she said. “I like that so much. It reminds me of my grandmother.”

  “Great. I very often remind girls of their grandmothers.”

  She laughed, and she stretched the undershirt over my shoulders. All the while I held on to the towel knot.

  Maggie was about to pull the undershirt down over me when she brushed her hand hard against my chest. A fairly small puff of white powder erupted.

  She put her hand back on my chest. Then she spoke.

  “So whaddya think?” she said.

  For a few moments I said nothing. And for those same moments she did nothing.

  Finally it was Maggie who spoke.

  “I guess not,” she said.

  “Well…” I paused. Then I added, “I guess not.”

  She walked to the bedroom door and told me to drink my coffee and take my time. She’d be downstairs. She’d make some toast. Or did I want something else? She could make some corn muffins. No; toast was fine. Actually I never eat breakfast. Cereal, maybe. She had some old Rice Krispies. No. No, thank you…then she suddenly walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  I don’t think I breathed a sigh of relief, but I was relieved. I was also sad.

  I must have looked ridiculous: my undershirt half on, my towel coming undone. I brushed as much of her grandma-smelling powder off me as I could.

  It was my intention to sip my coffee, drink my orange juice, and take my time getting dressed.

  But that was not going to happen.

  Chapter 52

  “JACOB! GET down here! Now!”

  It took me a moment to recognize Maggie’s voice.

  Suddenly I heard sirens. Bright light poured through the bedroom window.

  “Jacob! Please! Hurry!”

  I left my peaceful view of a Goosen Valley morning. Wearing only my white undershirt and white boxers, I ran from the bedroom and shot down the stairs two at a time.

  In the small front hallway was Maggie Pine with a crowd of people, at least a dozen of them, two or three of them spilling out through the open front door. It took me only a few seconds to realize that this was neither a fire response nor police activity. These were people I actually knew: Megan, Alex, Lindsay. Surrounding my family were Sam and Bette and Bud. Holy shit. There was the neighborhood leader, Marie DiManno.

  The faces that were familiar to me but also nameless were the young man and woman who had “interviewed” us in San Francisco as well as the two thuglike men who had appropriated my laptop and private papers only a couple of nights ago in New Burg.

  “What in hell is going on?” I said—quietly, full of confusion, amazement.

  “We’re all here to help,” said Maggie.

  Oh, my God. So Maggie was in on it, too.

  “What the hell is this?” I said. My eyes and head whirled from one face to another. The faces were sad-looking, serious.

  “Help with what?” I was yelling now.

  Lindsay stepped forward and took my hand in hers. She spoke the way you might address a three-year-old who’s dropped his ice cream cone.

  “This is an intervention, Daddy.”

  I snapped my hand back from her grip. “This is bullshit!” I said.

  My anger was apparently a signal for the two thugs—the bald guy and the blond guy—to step forward and prepare to hold me back. As they moved, I could see through the door. A news truck. A sound truck. Four men and two women. Two of them wore headphones, two of them held boom mikes.

  This intervention was being filmed.

  The interview woman stepped forward and stood beside Lindsay.

  Her voice was dramatically soft and sweet. “Let’s try to stay calm. Maybe we can go somewhere to talk quietly. Is that possible, Ms. Pine?”

  “Of course. Let’s move into the dining room. I fixed it so there’d be room for everyone.”

  As the crowd moved, joined by some of the film crew, I was almost shoved bodily past the staircase and into the dining room.

  Maggie had pushed her old pine dining table against the wall and arranged the chairs—the regular dining chairs and a bunch of folding chairs—in a semicircle.

  “I’m in my goddamn underwear,” I shouted.

  Megan touched my shoulder and tried to nudge me gently into the center chair. This was the first time my wife had spoken.

  “Sweetie, don’t be so formal. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.”

  “Of course it matters,” I said angrily. “It only doesn’t matter if someone is crazy…if someone is a goddamn mental patient. All of you, get the hell out of here.”

  No one reacted. No one lost his or her temper.

  So that was it? They thought I was crazy, and they were going to treat me as a crazy person?

  Only for a moment did I think they might be right. I thought it as I looked down at my bare legs, at the filthy soles of my naked feet, at the glazed look on my children’s faces. Bette was silently mouthing words. A prayer, maybe? The two interviewers were taking notes on their handheld devices. The thugs were seated on either side of me. Just in case.

  But the thought of madness evaporated as fast as it had appeared. I was angry. I was foolish, perhaps. But I was certainly not crazy. And I suddenly knew more than ever that the manuscript had to get to Anne Gutman. And I knew just how to do that.

  Chapter 53

  “WE ARE all worried—very, very worried about you, Jacob.”

  Bud was talking.

  “You know it, Dad,” Alex said. He crossed in front of his mother and sister, stood in front of me, and, facing me, placed his hands on my shoulders. This was definitely not Alex’s style. Who the hell was this kid?

  Meanwhile the sound guy held the boom over whoever might be talking. Three cameramen moved softly around the room, one of them filming whoever was speaking, another filming “reaction shots,” the third concentrating entirely on me.

  Bette, Lindsay, and the woman interviewer from San Francisco all contributed to the intervention. They carried the theme of caring and understanding and the need for help to a nauseating level. Literally, my stomach rumbled. My chest ached with anger. Perhaps the most over-the-top piece of madness came from Lindsay.

  After she carried on tearfully about my inability to focus on my family, my wife, and my children—“the people who are here to bring you joy”—she looked squarely into my eyes and said, “I w
ant my father back.”

  I wanted to scream at my daughter, “You make me sick.” Instead I stood up and spoke in a calm, normal tone: “Please. Why don’t you all just leave me alone?” Then I yelled at the top of my lungs: “Please!”

  At that the two thugs standing behind me moved closer, just in case I needed to be subdued.

  My crazy brain was suddenly elsewhere: I needed to find a way to escape. I had to find a way. What I considered a compelling and important book a few days ago I now thought of as something way beyond a masterpiece, a book that would conquer evil and deliver freedom before it was too late. Was I just another crazy man, or was I carrying what was essentially the fifth Gospel?

  I wasn’t sure. But I had to keep fighting.

  The interview guy from San Francisco stood up and moved smack-dab in front of me. He spoke slowly and deliberately and kept inserting an especially maddening phrase into his speech: “Do you understand me, Jacob?”

  I shook with anger. My eyes filled with tears. My undershirt was drenched with sweat.

  “We are here to help you. Do you understand me, Jacob? We are going to bring you back to New Burg and enter you into a treatment and behavior renewal clinic, where you will relearn the concepts of joyful living. Do you understand me, Jacob? We all believe—your family, your friends, specialists from the psychotherapy group at the Store—that within four or five weeks you will be better and stronger and happier. Do you understand me, Jacob?”

  As he spoke, the intervention group began surrounding me. Despite their soft words and pitiful faces, they were scaring me. I felt strangely like the victim of a lynch mob.

  “We’ll be with you, Daddy,” Lindsay said.

  “I love you, sweetie,” Megan said.

  “I warned you about that book, Dad,” Alex said.

  The two thugs were on either side of my chair now.

  Bud spoke in almost a whisper.

  “It’ll be the best thing for you, Jake. Don’t be mad. Don’t be angry.”

  The tears dribbled out of my eyes. I could taste the saltiness sneaking into my mouth. I could see my naked knees shaking.

  I knew it was because of my sheer fury at their brazen intervention.

  They thought they had convinced me of the wisdom of their mission.

  My tears came harder now. I stood up. The thugs put their hands firmly around my elbows and wrists.

  “Stop it! Please stop it!” I yelled.

  I sat down, and I quietly said what I had to say.

  “I understand. I do. I thank you all. I’ll do what you want me to do.”

  Chapter 54

  IT WORKED.

  Man, I thought. If I’m still alive next year when they give out the Oscars they’ve got to give one to me. Bette and Bud and Marie dripped tears like three waterfalls. My kids and my wife hugged me and thanked me. The woman from the San Francisco interview called me a good man. The bald-headed thug called me a wise man. Maggie Pine said she hoped I’d be a forgiving man.

  “I was brought into this intervention at the very end,” she added.

  “Does our friend Anne know about all this?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Only this small intervention group knows about it,” she said. Maggie shared a knowing smile with Megan, two bitches in cahoots. The blond thug standing beside me joined in the sickening smile.

  Maggie walked off toward the kitchen. The blond guy said he needed to speak with me. This bastard who had invaded my home and stolen my things was now talking like the sweetest guy on earth.

  Megan and the kids paid very close attention as he spoke.

  “So here’s the plan, Jake.”

  Jake?

  “One of our people will drive your car back to New Burg. Now, there are a few other cars that we brought along. One will take your family to their house. So you and I and Cue Ball…”

  I stopped paying attention right there. The bald guy was called Cue Ball? Does a bald guy like being called Cue Ball? And aren’t cue balls usually white? This guy was black. And he must have a real name, a given name…

  “Mr. Brandeis, are you listening?” the blond guy asked.

  Mr. Brandeis. No more Jake. No more last name only, as it was when he stole my laptop, wrecked my office, set me off on this madness.

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  “As I said, you and I and Cue Ball will drive back to New Burg in our own car. It will have a driver and a driving assistant…”

  I spoke: “You mean a driver and a guard.”

  “No. I mean a driver and a driving assistant, should anything happen to the driver.”

  Okay, Jacob, go back to acting like the cooperative patient they want. Just keep it up. Play nice. And, most important, figure out how to escape.

  “We should get going,” the blond guy said. “Do you have anything up in your room that you absolutely need?”

  “Absolutely need? Maybe you noticed that I’m standing here in my underwear.”

  “Okay, let’s go up and put your clothes on.”

  “What are you gonna do? Zip my fly?”

  That wise-guy line put me back on his shit list.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “You need coffee,” Maggie Pine yelled. She was carrying a large tray that held a big pot of coffee and a lot of paper cups. We walked a few feet to the dining-room table.

  As she handed the blond guy a cup, she said, “Cream and sugar?”

  “Just black,” he said.

  “Me, too,” I said. “We’re going up to get my things. Then we’re leaving.”

  “I thought so,” Maggie said.

  In my best sarcastic tone of voice I said, “By the way, thanks for everything.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Just be sure to check the bathroom cabinet. Make certain you didn’t forget anything.”

  “I will,” I said.

  Chapter 55

  I SLIPPED into my jeans. I slipped into my army-green T-shirt. I slipped into my old red-and-white Nikes.

  The blond guy gave the inside of my backpack a thorough search. The most illicit thing he could find was my bottle of bourbon.

  I glanced out the window. It was full morning now, and I realized that what I had earlier thought were stars twinkling through the branches of the walnut tree were—Holy shit! Of course!—surveillance cameras.

  “I need to slap some water on my face, and I need to pee,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. I guess we were friends again. “Only leave the door open.”

  I walked into the bathroom, left the door ajar by a foot or so, turned on the faucet to a quick drip. I hoped it sounded like a guy urinating.

  When I opened the linen closet in the bathroom, I glanced from top to bottom—Martha Stewart towels, Crabtree & Evelyn soap, Caswell-Massey body lotion. Sort of what I expected. What I didn’t expect was a two-foot-tall cabinet below the lowest shelf. When I pulled open the drawer, it turned out to be a false wooden front. It fell to the floor.

  From the bedroom: “That’s the longest piss I’ve ever heard. What’d ya do, have a few Buds before bedtime?”

  I don’t know if he said anything more. By that time I had seen the window at the rear of the closet. Under the sill was an attached rope ladder as well as a small envelope. The envelope had pencil writing on the front: GOOD LUCK. MAGGIE. Inside the envelope were my car keys.

  I unrolled the rope ladder out the window and down the side of the house.

  It took me around thirty seconds to make it to the ground. It took another thirty seconds to get to Maggie’s garden. I knelt down and dug up my little red flash drive. It was wrapped in aluminum foil and was near the huge borage plant. Exactly where I had buried it yesterday morning.

  I ran to my car. A quarter of a tank of gas. I took off. No headlights on. No seat belt fastened.

  As I drove away from the house all I could say, over and over again, was “God bless Maggie Pine.”

  Chapter 56

  FEAR. CHAOS. And hell. Not necessa
rily in that order.

  Okay, I made it out of the insane intervention, but I was in a huge pile of trouble. I got an idea of how huge the minute I drove out of Maggie Pine’s mud-and-cobblestone driveway. The auto-info—the car speaker that came on automatically when the Store had an announcement that they wanted broadcast immediately—blasted out at me:

  “A person of suspicious and possibly harmful nature is at large. His last known location was the Nebraska-Iowa border. His name is Jacob Brandeis. Male, midforties, white. He is wearing red-and-white shoes. Photos and more details of subject are available on all electronic devices, electronic billboards, and electronic posters. If you see Jacob Brandeis or anyone resembling Jacob Brandeis, text STORE 134.”

  This announcement, which would be repeated every five minutes, was replaced by a Jay Z song played backwards.

  If I had any doubt that I was a crazy man on a crazy flight, less than two miles away from Maggie Pine’s house was a large electronic poster, a composite of a white male in his forties. He didn’t look harmful, but he sure as hell looked exactly like me—right down to his scruffy T-shirt and two-day growth of beard.

  The first thing I realized was that if I had even a slight chance of succeeding in this escape I had to ditch the car. By now, I was a major expert on how the Store operated, and I knew that the Store would be quickly broadcasting more information: GPS coordinates, car description, license-plate number, locations of former friends (a few) and current friends (not many). The Store would be relentless. I was a weak little rabbit being chased by the psycho equivalent of the United States Marines.

  What the hell could I do? Run through the Iowa cornfield like some asshole in a bad B movie?

  It was a small miracle that my sweaty, dirty hands could hold on to the steering wheel.

  Suddenly Jay Z was interrupted by a repeat of the previous announcement. They were going to find Jacob Brandeis. A guy who wrote a book was as big a threat as a kidnapper or a terrorist.

  When the auto-info ended, no other sound returned. The digital speedometer and engine gauges went dead. The car kept moving, but the brakes were feeling shaky. Not failing completely, but failing. The Store had, remotely, disconnected anything that could be disconnected.