The Surrender Gate: A Desire Exchange Novel

by Christopher Rice

  “Y’all don’t want to hear what I’m thinking right now,” she says.

  “Try us,” Marcus responds.

  “Fine,” she says. “I’m thinking that I can’t stand the thought of you, any of you, even you, Frank—”

  “It’s nice to be included,” Dupuy answers.

  “I can’t stand the thought of you thinking I want to do this just to get Arthur’s money.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t blame you,” Jonathan says. “It’s a lot of goddamn money.”

  “Be serious, Jonathan,” Marcus says.

  “I’m being very serious, Marcus. We’re talking about fund eighteen scholarships money. We’re talking about building schools all over New Orleans money. Arthur’s an amazing businessman, but he’s no Emily.”

  “Is that a compliment?” she asks.

  “Yes,” he says, eyes ablaze with conviction. “Yes, it is. I know you love the man, Em, but he’s been a citizen of Magnolia Gate, not New Orleans. And if you had his money you would change the city for the better. I know you would.”

  “I may be the odd man out here,” Dupuy says. “But I know Arthur well enough to know he’d still leave you his money even if you didn’t find his son.”

  “Yeah, but she wouldn’t be able to accept it,” Jonathan says.

  “And that’s exactly what Arthur is counting on,” Marcus adds.

  Another long silence falls. Emily is surprised to hear herself break it.

  “He was going to take me out of school,” she says.

  “Who?” Jonathan asks. “Arthur?”

  “No, my father. After he got hounded out of the department, he was going to have to take me out of school. He was broke. The cops he ratted on, they made trouble for him all over town. He couldn’t get a job doing anything he was qualified for. He didn't want to just throw me in some random public school in the middle of the year, so the best-case scenario was wait and see if I could get into a magnet. His brother had a farm in Hammond. He was even talking us going there and maybe home schooling me. But, the point is, I was thirteen years old and he was going to have to take me out of school. And then he met Arthur and…I got to stay in school.”

  “I didn’t know you guys were that close to the line,” Jonathan says.

  “We didn’t want you to know. We didn’t want anyone to know.”

  This revelation has brought the room to a halt, she can tell.

  After a while, Jonathan gets to his feet.

  “Alright,’ he says brusquely. “Time for the nuclear option.”

  “The what?” Marcus asks.

  “Just everyone be quiet until I tell you to speak,” Jonathan says. “We have a phone call to make.”

  20

  After a minute of canned-sounding rings, George Dugas answers, his voice tinny-sounding through the speaker on Leonard Miller’s brand new, barely used phablet. “Well, Mr. Miller. Did we pass our test?”

  “Good evening, George,” Jonathan says. “How are you?”

  “Uh oh. You don’t sound so good. Oh, no. Tell me you didn't fail! A man of your talents? I can't believe it. Now Little Miss Sunshine, on the other hand. I wouldn’t be surprised if a little eleventh-hour uptightness caused her to—”

  “We both passed,” Jonathan says. “But thank you for your concern.”

  “Okay, then. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

  “We have some more questions.”

  “Well, that’s a shame because I don’t have many more answers for you. I feel I’ve been quite generous so far.”

  “And you’re sure you’ve told us everything we need to know about these people?”

  Dugas practically chokes with laughter. “I’ve told you everything I need to tell you about these people, you silly boy. How’s that?” His tone drips such condescension, Emily wouldn’t be surprised to see it pooling on top of the dresser where the phone sits. “Am I on the clock right now, Jonathan? Because I might not have answered if I’d known. I’m a wealthy man, but I’m not liquid enough to afford the inconvenience of you in the long run.”

  “No, you’re not on the clock, George.”

  Emily searches Jonathan’s face for signs that these insults have wounded him. But there’s no evidence of it. Still, Jonathan has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve. He covers his emotional wounds in humor and sarcasm, only to have them erupt in unexpected crying jags or furious tantrums.

  “But I am on speakerphone, apparently,” George says. “So who else am I speaking with?”

  “Well, there’s me and then there’s Emily, and then there’s two of the guys who are going to hunt you down and break every bone in your body if it turns out you sent us into a dangerous situation without warning us.”

  Marcus and Dupuy exchange a look, as if they’re each assessing whether the other is capable of carrying out the threat Jonathan just made. From their mutual shrug, Emily figures both men believe themselves to be up to the task.

  “Oh, my,” Dugas says. “I must say I remember being far more relaxed the day after my honey test.”

  “Is that what it’s called?”

  “It’s my little nickname for it. But apparently, more than one is required to fully soothe the frayed nerve endings of a whore.”

  “Oh, trust me, George. I’m very relaxed. You want to know why? I have excellent people around me now.”

  Marcus pulls his SIG from its holster, then cocks and releases it right above the phone. Apparently he’s angrier at Dugas for calling Jonathan a whore than Jonathan is.

  The answer from the other end is a long, stilted silence.

  “Still there, George?”

  “This is a remarkably hostile phone call given all I’ve done for you.”

  “We can discuss unpaid debts later, once we’ve contacted Ryan Benoit and we’re all home safely and in one piece.”

  “What do you want, Jonathan?”

  “There are some things about these people that don’t make sense.”

  “Like what?”

  “We have surveillance footage of one of them vanishing into thin air, it looks like, and those candles they left behind. Did you get one?”

  “That’s only the beginning. Trust me.”

  It’s such a far cry from the response they were all expecting, Jonathan takes a moment to swallow and look around the room.

  “Well, I don’t trust you, George. You’re a client, not my uncle. So tell us what to expect.”

  “I can’t tell you what to expect because I don’t know what’s in your hearts, either of you. And that’s the only thing you’ll have to fear while you’re there. My advice to you both? Make peace with the fantasy you wrote down in that book of theirs because you’re about to experience it in all of its dimensions. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “That’s not good enough,” Marcus says.

  “And who might this be?” Dugas asks.

  “The guy you’re gonna see when you least expect it if something bad happens to either of these two.”

  “Well, why don’t I make this easier on everyone then?” Dugas says. “Why don’t I call my friends at The Exchange and tell them they’re being deceived? Then I’ll spare you all the dangers of living out your fantasies, and I’ll also extricate myself from what in retrospect appears to have been a misguided act of charity on my part. What do you say? Sound like a plan?”

  “Sure,” Jonathan says. “It’s a great plan. And I’ll just send NOLA.com that video footage I have of you riding me like a Shetland pony around your pool house. What do you say?” In the shocked silence that follows, Jonathan turns to all of them and says, “Yes, folks, and just in case you’re wondering, it’s not a figure of speech, he really did dress me up like a Shetland pony and ride me around his pool house. Oh, it was a fine time, yessiree bob, and I bet it’ll go over huge with that construction project you’ve got going in Dallas. It’s a megachurch, right? Those guys love Shetland ponies.”

  “I must say I underestimated you, Jonathan,
” Dugas says, and he sounds so winded and hurt Emily almost feels sorry for the man.

  “The hell you did,” Jonathan mutters. “You saw a kindred spirit.”

  “Maybe there’s more truth there than I thought.”

  “What are they, George?” Jonathan asks.

  The silence stretches on for so long, Emily starts to wonder if they’ve been hung up on.

  “I don’t know,” George finally answers. “And I don’t want to know. I only know what they do and what they do is magical. And if you surrender and go with it, you will come out the other side a changed person, a better person. Maybe a person with enough self-awareness to know that this phone call was to punish me for the fact that you chose to sell your body to the highest bidder, Jonathan Claiborne. Goodnight, all. Enjoy The Desire Exchange!”

  Once it becomes clear Dugas terminated the call, Jonathan crosses to the phone and clicks END. Then he returns to the foot of the bed, takes a seat next to Emily. The four of them spend the next few minutes in such a deep, reflective silence; it starts to sound as if their breaths are almost in synch.

  “Did you really make a tape of him…” Emily starts, but she can’t finish the sentence.

  “No,” Jonathan says. “But he did really dress me up like a Shetland pony and ride me around his pool house”

  “That was a dangerous threat, Jonathan,” Marcus says. “Especially if you’ve got nothing to back it up with.”

  “Good thing I have you guys to protect me,” Jonathan offers with a weak smile.

  “And now he’s got an incentive to blow your covers,” Marcus continues.

  “Which he’s not gonna do because then he’ll have to explain why he referred us. And also, why is he the only person in New Orleans who’s met our alter egos? And also, how come no one else can remember us attending those parties where we supposedly had our pictures taken with him? Please. He’s in this as deep as we are and he knows it.”

  “Then why did he agree to help in the first place?” Marcus asks.

  “He’s telling the truth,” Emily answers, startling all three men. “He had some kind of spiritual experience there and like all of the converted, he wants to share the message. When we started talking about it the first time, we barely had to force anything out of him. He was offering to set us up with references and recommendations…like some church member trying to get people to join their congregation.”

  Jonathan says, “I had an appointment with him the next night. I didn’t expect him to pay, given what he’d agreed to do for us. I didn’t even ask him to pay. But he did anyway.”

  “Fine,” Marcus says. “But he doesn’t know what they are. I mean, that’s what he said. ‘What are they?’ That’s what Jonathan asked him, and George didn’t say. ‘Are you crazy? They’re people, they’re magicians, they’re acrobats.’ He didn’t say any of those things. We asked him what these people actually are and he said, ‘I don’t know.’ Are we gonna stop a minute to consider what that means?”

  “No,” Emily says, rising to her feet. “We’re not. Arthur is lying in Ochsner Hospital with a breathing tube down his throat and this may be our last shot at finding his son before he’s gone. Lord knows we’ve all got plenty of reasons not to do this and if we stay here all night we could think of them all. But the only thing that’s going to get this done is getting it done. And so help me God, if I have to go back to Arthur’s hospital room and tell him I blew this because I was afraid of some screwy camera footage and some weird candles…”

  Marcus nods, but he drops his gaze from hers for a minute or two, as if the cheap carpet between their feet will give him the strength to continue. Jonathan seems stricken by her assertiveness, but there’s also an admiring look in his eyes.

  “Well, alright then, Miss Blaine,” Marcus finally says. “I’ll be behind you every step of the way”

  “Do y’all want some time alone?” Jonathan asks.

  Dupuy clears his throat and chucks Jonathan on the shoulder. “They can have all the time they want right now. Come on, buster. We need to move if we’re going to get you in position.”

  Jonathan stands, takes Emily by the shoulders and plants a long kiss on her forehead. “See you on the other side, Miss Blaine.”

  “You said that last time and we’re not on the other side yet.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re closer, right?” Jonathan turns to face Marcus, and then gives him a stiff salute. “Special Ops.”

  “Mr. Shetland,” Marcus answers.

  Jonathan cackles and drops his saluting arm to his side.

  “I’d say take good care of her but tonight, I hope you’ll be watching out for both of us,” Jonathan says, and it’s clear the sudden sincerity has disarmed the former Navy SEAL standing a few feet away from him.

  “You can count on it,” Marcus answers.

  From three feet behind Jonathan, Dupuy says, “Apparently he has more faith in your abilities than mine, Dylan.”

  “That’s correct,” Jonathan says. He claps Dupuy on one shoulder and pushes past the guy out the door.

  The older man turns to face Emily and Marcus, shaking his head in dismay. “Love this gig,” he whispers. “Love it!”

  21

  “So! What college did you attend, Miss Conran?”

  “University of Mississippi, Class of 2004.”

  There’s a blush of sunlight on the western horizon, but the cypress-flanked highway is already blanketed in night shadows. In another few minutes, the GPS will route her onto a rutted swamp road that makes up the final leg of her route. The map they studied back at the motel suggested she’ll have to walk for another few minutes after she parks the car. That final, lonely stroll through swamp darkness is the part of this evening she’s dreading the most, for now, at least.

  The Navigator is so far behind her she can only glimpse a flash of its headlights every now and then, but Marcus’s voice comes through the earpiece clear as a bell. The microphone and tracking device taped to her scalp don’t itch, but they’re bringing out her OCD. Every few minutes or so, she gives into temptation and checks the rearview mirror to make sure they’re not visible through her hair.

  “I see, and did you attend a lot of Tomahawks games while you were at Miss U?”

  “While I was at Ole Miss, I attended many Rebels games because that’s actually the name of their football team.”

  “Good catch, Miss Conran.”

  “Seriously? Come on, Special Ops. Nobody in their right mind would nickname a college Miss U,” Emily says. “Shoot me some tough ones.”

  “As soon as you stop calling me Special Ops.”

  “Why? I thought that was your new nickname.”

  “Only for people who want to annoy me. Come up with your own. I want you to have your own. For me, I mean.”

  “Okay. So like Stud Muffin?”

  “Close.”

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Warm.”

  “Knight in Shining Armor.”

  “Barf. Too old school.”

  “Man of my dreams,” she offers.

  “Really?”

  “We’ll see. I mean, it’s just a nickname, and most of the time nicknames are the opposite of what people really are, right? You know, like, how mob guys will call some enormous guy Tiny.”

  “Let’s get back to your pop quiz before you charm the pants off me.”

  “Okay. Try some hard ones this time.”

  “Alright, well, since you were obviously a football fan during your time at Miss State—”

  “Ole Miss.”

  “How’d you celebrate when your team trounced LSU in November of oh-three to secure its first ever SEC West title?”

  “Well, given that the stellar defense exhibited by LSU prevented Ole Miss from securing its first ever SEC title that day, I’d have to say we didn’t do much celebrating but we did drown our troubles at The Library.”

  “You went to study drunk after your team lost?”

  “Nope. The Library also hap
pens to be the name of one of the most popular sports bars in Hattiesburg.”

  “Oxford,” Marcus says.

  “What?”

  “Ole Miss and The Library are both in Oxford, Mississippi. Not Hattiesburg.”

  “Oh, lord. Why couldn’t he have had her go to Tulane? I went to Tulane. I can answer anything about Tulane. And LSU! I dated three guys who went to LSU. I could tell you anything about LSU too. But no, Lily Conran had to go to the one Southern university where I never got wasted.”

  “I wouldn’t sweat it. I don’t think there’s going to be much football talk where you’re going anyway.”

  The GPS flashes a warning, and a second later, the blink-and-you-might-miss-it dirt road appears through the dense canopy of trees. She slows to make the turn and suddenly the Aston Martin’s penetrating headlights illuminate a narrow tunnel of low hanging-branches and uneven, oyster shell roadway. The knowledge that Marcus is no longer following her bathes the pit of her stomach in something icy; he’s turned off just shy of this isolated road where he’ll board some kind of special motorboat with a whisper-quiet engine that’s been tied up about five hundred yards from the rendezvous point.

  Zebotec, she remembers. That’s what the boat’s called. Lithium-ion batteries power them, and there are three more on the Atchafalaya tonight; one carries Frank Dupuy, and the other two carry the four members of the strike team she doesn’t want to talk about because just the idea that they’re out there somewhere scares her to death.

  According to the car’s GPS, she’s practically at the water’s edge. But Marcus gave her a handheld GPS monitor so she can pinpoint the rendezvous point exactly; it’s map is far more detailed, and it tells her she’s got some walking to do. She steps out of the car.

  “Alright, so there won’t be any football talk. But what do you think is going to happen where I’m going?” she asks

  “Based on what Dugas said, I’m guessing it’ll have something to do with whatever fantasy you wrote in their notebook last night.”

  “So, like, a fantasy room or something? Are those a thing in sex clubs?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been to a sex club.”