by Ian Bull
“When episode three drops, we’ll reach half a billion.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Yet, you have reservations?”
Carlos serves the first course. Delicious grilled cuttlefish with lemon and olive oil on a bed of arugula and tomatoes. It gives me time to dodge the question.
“Where’s Rebecca?” I ask. “I expected her to be serving us, not the bosun.”
“She needs a day off, and Carlos can do it all. And Min, Ismael, and Eliot are glued to their computers, following your exact instructions.”
I wonder what she does on her day off. Is she on Ustica? Or is she still on the ship, maybe leaving more of her perfume on Devon?
Douglas leans close. “Tell me.”
I bite into a piece of cuttlefish. “I don’t like it when Julia and Steven go off script.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Quintana fought back, and we shocked him, and then when Julia Travers shouted those lines from that Greek play. I don’t want to include that in the episode.”
Douglas sips. “Why not? It’s real. It’s the premise of the game, and why people buy the app. Act or die: The Danger Game.”
“They’re too compelling.”
“It’s classic over-the-top Julia Travers, howling at the moon. People love it.”
“I prefer the silly cartoon scenes. When she speaks as herself, she gains power.”
“We kidnapped a movie star for a reason, my love. She grabs eyeballs and makes us money. And we’re still destroying them. You, yourself, picked the scene in which he chokes her unconscious. It looks great. And there are twenty scenes of pain after that.”
I can’t admit it to him, but torturing Julia bothered me. It reminded me of my stepfather’s violence toward my mother and his abuse of my sister. And when Julia goes off script and fights back, she shows courage, which my mother and sister lacked. Julia Travers, that little performing monkey, makes me feel something with her acting. I resent that her talent is powerful enough to get inside my head.
“Just take out the lines where she’s ad-libbing.”
“Darling, that ship has sailed. The episode is ready.”
“It’s risky.”
“Not anymore. Your second episode was such well-produced comic book foolishness that fickle Hollywood considers The Danger Game a trifle. No one believes they’ve been kidnapped. Because of you, we’re safe to make easy money, and the more money we make, the more freedom we will enjoy. Savor this.”
Carlos removes our appetizer plates and brings us grilled lamb and couscous next, my favorite, which Douglas remembered. I saw off a piece and taste the meat. It’s rare, seasoned with salt, pepper, and a hint of honey and tarragon. I want to savor this moment. But am I really free? Like Douglas?
“What will you do with total freedom, my love?”
He swallows his lamb and closes his eyes. “We will invent new identities. We will travel the world and mix with artists, scientists, and world leaders. And we will use our wealth and power to make a difference.”
“In what way?”
“There are more people alive right now than in all of human history. We have a population crisis, a food crisis, a water crisis, and an education crisis.”
“I’ve never heard you talk this way.”
“Our survival requires finding a needle in a haystack. We need another Einstein, another Darwin, another Curie to find solutions. People like us.”
“You think you can find those people?”
“I think we can find more than one. If Einstein is one in a billion, there are six or seven Einsteins alive right now.”
“Devon could be one of them.”
“I believe that already. How is he doing, by the way?”
“He’s still frustrated.”
“I’ll get him on a jet ski. Going fifty miles an hour on the water will give him a thrill.”
“Sounds dangerous.” I sip my prosecco.
Douglas sips, mirroring me, which he does when he’s trying to convince me of something. “You’re worried about something else. Say it.”
“Quintana is blinking in episode three. There could be a message in there.”
“Elliot can’t see a pattern, but I’ve already farmed it out to a foreign intelligence specialist. If there’s some hidden message there, we’ll find it. And he won’t do it in this next episode. We’re going to cut him off quick.”
“I just want the game to be over.”
“When we reach a billion dollars. But I wouldn’t mind making more than a billion.” Douglas is gloating when he should be shoring up our defenses.
I touch his hand. “The attacks will come. Hollywood thinks we’re silly, but we’re popular. People will try to hack the game. Interpol, the FBI, and then the CIA may start investigating. That will definitely happen if they find Mendoza and Marsh before Sunday.”
“But they haven’t, because everything is proceeding like you planned. And for them to do any damage to us, they have to find us. And me. Do you think I would risk this?” He gestures to our feast, and our yacht in the distance, lit up by the last rays of sunset.
Trishelle Hobbs and Carl Webb are up to something.”
“Of course, they are. They’re engaged in a vain attempt to locate their friends and convince the world that Julia and Steven really were kidnapped three days ago.”
I carve my lamb into bite-size pieces but avoid eating. “I hired someone in Los Angeles to follow them.”
Douglas raises an eyebrow. “What else have you been doing behind my back?”
“My love, please understand. You shouldn’t have to micromanage every detail of the show. This is me being a good producer.”
“How have you been talking to this person?”
“Every discussion has been encrypted on secure lines.”
“What is his name?”
“Walter Lemming. He’s my dog. I know enough of his secrets to destroy him.”
“Good. And what has he learned?”
“Trishelle Hobbes and Carl Webb are holed up in Julia Travers’s beach house with the drapes closed. Two military cars drove through the gate and haven’t left. He believes three more people are inside.”
Douglas laughs. “It’s sweet that you’re worried. Carl Webb runs a security company and relies on his military connections for work. If all he can muster are three people in uniform to help him, we’re fine.” Douglas touches my short hair, giving it a tiny tug. “And I will try to forgive you for going behind my back.”
“They ruined Six Passengers, Five Parachutes. They and Julia Travers were the ones who learned my identity and tracked me down.”
Douglas kisses my cheek. “So many worries! What can I do to make it better?”
“No more episodes with so much acting and ad-libbing. Julia Travers is too good, and Quintana is too terrible. It’s better to have episodes with over-the-top scenes with computer graphics.”
“I haven’t lined up a new set of computer graphic companies. We burned out the last group doing episode two. But if you grant me one more episode with acting, I promise you nothing after that but cartoon silliness where we all laugh at their pain. Then, it’ll be a tumbling rush to the series finale.”
I nod because I can’t argue with him. I’m the series creator, but he’s the TV network.
A low throb starts. A helicopter flies over our heads and out over the water. It hovers over Reckoning, then lands on the helipad on top of the ship’s bridge. The wind from the chopper blades flutters the ship’s flags and flattens the water below.
“The captain is restocking our supplies. We’ll be at sea the next few days.”
If the helicopter is arriving with supplies now, that means Rebecca is still onboard to receive them, even on her day off, along with the captain and first mate.
I touch his face. “Thank you for this life. Devon and I are grateful.”
He kisses me. “You’re welcome.”
“Would you like to make love n
ow?”
Douglas turns to Carlos, standing ten yards away. “Would you please round the bend and make sure no one comes around those rocks for the next hour? I appreciate it.”
Carlos nods and walks down the beach. I kiss Douglas long and hard, and he more than meets me halfway. That billion dollars can’t come fast enough.
28
STEVEN QUINTANA
Kidnapped 68 hours ago
The car accelerates. Julia is in the seat next to me, yelling to drive faster. We’ve escaped, and we’re speeding down a mountain road. Suddenly, we’re on a Los Angeles street, and a truck drives in front of us. We smash—and I jolt awake.
Julia and I lie on a bare mattress in the dark. One red LED light shines high above us. A camera. Probably infrared. They’re watching, even in blackness. I close my eyes.
It’s warm, even with no covers. They gave us cotton sweatsuits to sleep in since they don’t trust us under a blanket. They want to see everything we do now.
I slept only an hour, maybe two, after ten hours of work. We’re fading.
Julia snores lightly. She needs rest. I hurt her today. Many times. I strangled her unconscious. I burned her arms with a cigarette. I cut her legs with a knife. I whipped her with a leather belt. I hate myself, which Heyman enjoys.
My guilt only lifted when they made her do the same to me. She tied me to a chair and beat me with a rubber hose across my back, hit me in the head with a phone book, and shocked me with a Taser. It felt like penance.
Her snoring stops. She reaches back with her hand and finds mine. I drape my arm over her, spooning her, and grab her hand. We sigh and go back to sleep.
Or pretend to sleep. Our hands move fast with tiny squeezes, tapping out the letters as fast as we can go. Her first line kills me.
Sorry I hurt you. I love you.
Of course, she’d worry about me first. I squeeze back. Hurt you worse. Hate them.
She squeezes. People pay to watch us. Obey them and we live. No games.
I squeeze back. Me, no game. Have plan. Trust.
Julia lies still, not responding. She’s afraid to give me control. She doubts me, which may go all the way back to that interrogation room. I must win her confidence back.
We are in Mexico.
She squeezes fast. Sure?
They wear black shoes from Tijuana. I called one coward in Mexican slang. Got mad.
Us where?
Maybe desert. Warm at night. No moisture. Heard seagull. Water close.
Must get out.
My job. You distract. Keep eyes on you.
Tell plan.
No. Be ready.
29
CARL WEBB
Wednesday, March 13, 9:00 p.m. (PST)
Trishelle and I pace the lobby of Shutters on the Beach, a posh hotel just off the boardwalk in Santa Monica. Outside the window, the crowded circus of California nuts moves past. Walkers, bikers, skateboarders, body-builders, and fitness freaks fill the walkway and the bike path, even late at night.
“I hate that we have to meet him here. It’s so public,” Trishelle says. “We hid in the backseat of Glenn’s car to escape the house, then took two rideshares to get here, and now we’re out in the open?”
“He insisted. I requested the meeting, so I don’t have much choice.”
“I hope he comes,” she says. “I hate him, but we need him.”
“He doesn’t love us either, but he loves a good story. He’ll come.”
The sofa next to us begins to speak. “I couldn’t agree more.” Larry pops his head up from behind a couch cushion. He stands to greet us. “We don’t have to like each other to help each other.”
“How long have you been there?” I ask.
“A bit. I like the highbacked sofas. Good for eavesdropping. Would you like to watch episode three of The Danger Game? I have to write a review for tomorrow’s posting.” Larry drops back onto the sofa. He takes out his smartphone and pats the cushion next to him, inviting us to join him.
I walk around the sofa and sit next to him, sinking into the plushness. Trishelle purses her lips in distaste and sits on his other side. A roaring fire blazes in front of us, warming my face. I wish I could enjoy it, but nothing is enjoyable right now. Larry hits The Danger Game app on his screen and holds his phone up so we can see it.
That dumb intro comes on again, showing infrared images of Steven and Julia being punched and kicked in the darkness. Heyman’s voice comes on: “Previously on The Danger Game…a ruthless cartel kidnapped and imprisoned Steven and Julia, with plans to torture them unless they perform for the world’s amusement. How much can they endure?” A rapid montage shows them bound and gagged, tossed into a dark room, then kicked and poked with electric prods. We hear Peter Heyman’s voice: “Act or die.” There’s a big symphonic hit as titles fill the screen: “You write the story. The Danger Game.”
Yesterday, they were battling puppets in space. Today’s episode has actual acting, with scenes set in a New York apartment. Julia is good, but Steven sucks. In the first scene, Julia shoots him for cheating, which is lame. Then, in the second scene, for no reason, Steven strangles Julia until she collapses unconscious. It looks fake.
Trishelle still gets up and paces in front of the fire, clenching her fists. She glances at me, asking me if it’s okay to come back.
I shake my head.
They want him to strangle her again, and when Steven refuses, they shock him some more. He lies on the floor as Julia holds his head. Steven blinks, fighting to stay conscious, but he mumbles nonsense.
That’s it for me. I join Trishelle at the fireplace, fighting to keep the bile down. We’re still close enough to hear the movie music mixed with human pain coming from Larry’s phone. He finally turns it off and slides it into his pocket. “I get the idea.”
“It was disgusting,” I say, sitting down again.
Trishelle joins me, but on my side. She doesn’t want to be close to Larry.
“The script was forgettable until they fought back. Then, it got interesting. Very meta. Self-aware. Au courant,” Larry says.
“Do you speak French?” Trishelle laughs. “Va te faire foutre, cul merdeux.”
“What?”
A waiter appears, dressed in his white apron, looking more like a butcher than a booze slinger. “Would any of you like a cocktail? We specialize in tequila drinks.”
“Three margaritas with salt. You can put all that on my card,” Larry says, and hands over his plastic. “And put them in cups we can take out by the pool, please.”
Trishelle leans in and whispers, “They’re not acting self-aware, Larry. It’s really happening to them.”
“Can you prove it? Maybe you coming here is just a sophisticated ploy to help Steven and Julia promote their game.”
“You act like you’re doing us a favor,” Trishelle says.
“I am. No other news outlet is writing about The Danger Game because everyone else thinks Julia is just committing career suicide. I need news.”
The waiter returns with three drinks. Larry signs fast and tips large.
“Thank you,” the waiter says, lingering.
We all stare at him until he goes.
“We have something new. Tell him, Carl.”
No one else is in the lobby bar. The waiter is with the bartender, looking at the basketball game on the TV above the bar. It feels safe. “Trishelle and I are launching our own free storytelling app: The Rescue Game. We will recruit players to watch The Danger Game, and help Julia and Steven to escape.”
Larry perks up, curious. “Your own game to challenge theirs? I can work with that.” He leans back against the couch cushion. “To play your game, I pay for their app and play their game? How does that work?”
Trishelle smiles, shifting from caustic to charming. “People watching The Danger Game are submitting story ideas about humiliation, torture, and pain. Our players will flood their platform with story ideas in which Steven and Julia will not only be given a
chance to live—they’ll also get a chance to escape.”
I chime in. “While also looking for clues that can help us find them.”
“What makes you think people want to help them escape?”
Trishelle points at his phone. “You said the best part was watching them fight back. They’re underdogs. And our stories of survival and escape are going to make Bushnell and Swig so much money that they won’t be able to resist playing along for the profit.”
Larry shrugs. “Maybe for a little while. But not forever.”
“We don’t need forever. Just long enough to find them.”
“Can you give me an example?” Larry asks.
“You’ll have to play the game and see,” Trishelle says, and winks.
Larry smiles, appreciating her coy approach. “How do I know that your game isn’t just a big promotion for their game?”
“You don’t, but you have a story either way. If Steven and Julia are masterminding everything, then Julia is a marketing genius, which makes it a story. But, if it’s real, then it’s an even bigger story, and you could be helping save two lives.”
Larry picks up his margarita. “Grab your drinks. I like eavesdropping, but I don’t like people eavesdropping on me.”
We grab our glasses and follow him out of the lobby to the second-floor pool overlooking the boardwalk and beach. The ocean is a black streak past the gray sand.
Larry leans against the wooden railing. The human parade below is still going strong. The original Muscle Beach is five hundred yards away, with pull-up bars and rings on the sand where people are still working out.
“When does The Rescue Game drop?”
“Midnight. We hope you can write an article for us like you did for their game.”
“There’s something you should know. When I spoke to Julia and Steven on Sunday, or whoever was pretending to be Steven and Julia, they offered me two hundred thousand dollars to run that article.”
“And now you want the same from us? Is this a shakedown?” I ask.