by Ethan Cross
Without responding, the woman propped open the door and returned to the wheelchair’s handles.
Corin felt a strange sense of vertigo as they crossed the threshold. They moved from what was bare and utilitarian to something finished with expensive flare. The carpet was dark red, like old blood stains. The hallway looked as if it could have been inside an overpriced hotel, if not for the unkempt and deteriorating look of it all. Corin’s mind flashed back to a scene from some movie, creepy twin girls standing at the end of a similar hallway.
Doors marked with large consecutive numbers lined each side of the endlessly long hallway. She had no way of knowing whether the doors opened into more concrete service corridors or lavish guest suites. Trying to get a feel for the layout made the whole place seem surreal and menacing, as if each door opened into someone else’s personal hell.
Finally reaching the end of the hall, the woman in the slippers unlocked a set of double doors. The contents of the room beyond also caused Corin’s head to spin. Her mind fought to find solid ground, any anchor to orient herself with respect to where in the land of the living she could be.
The woman pushed her into a massive ballroom lined with lacquered cedar planks. She guessed the space to be a hundred feet long and fifty feet wide with cathedral ceilings reaching to at least twenty-five feet at their pinnacle. The far wall was mostly glass, containing rows of custom windows formed into a pyramid. Beyond the wall of windows, Corin saw the sandy shore of a small lake or pond, surrounded by the dense green of a forest.
She guessed by the type of trees that she was still somewhere in northern California. That was good. She knew the area. And she wasn’t in hell. At least, she didn’t imagine they had trees in hell.
Eight beds had been arranged into neat rows in the center of the ballroom. But they weren’t simple cots or mattresses on the floor. They were like something found in the bedchambers of a princess. Each intricately carved four-poster bed was wrapped in a translucent white curtain, giving the impression of individual tents. Beside each bed stood metal clothes racks, several different white garments hanging from the rods.
The woman in the slippers rolled her past the beds, toward the wall of windows, where a circle of leather couches formed a sitting area around a bearskin rug. Two other women in the same white dresses lounged on the couches, both reading old hardcover books. One girl had Asian features, and the other was a petite blonde with short hair. The Asian girl looked to be a few months pregnant.
Corin didn’t allow herself to think about the alleged baby growing inside her own stomach.
Over her shoulder, the woman said, “This is Sherry and Tia. And I’m Sonnequa. This is Corin, girls. The Master’s newest addition.”
When Corin spoke, the words exploded out breathlessly and forcefully, as though she was spitting daggers at each woman. “What the hell is going on here? Why are you all just sitting around? We need to escape? Who are you? How long have you been here? Does anyone know—”
The slap across her face silenced all her questions. Her hand reflexively went to her cheek where the warm sting still resonated over her skin. Sonnequa’s hand hung in the air, trembling.
Corin didn’t say a word. She had always found that the best defense mechanism was to keep your mouth shut and play dead.
Sonnequa’s voice shook as she whispered, “We’re not allowed to converse with each other when the Master isn’t present.”
“What? I don’t—”
“Tia,” Sonnequa said, “show Corin what happens when we don’t obey the rules.”
The Asian girl sat up, leaned closer to Corin, and opened her mouth. It took a few seconds for Corin to realize what she was seeing, what was missing from the picture.
When she understood, Corin started to shake uncontrollably. She wanted to run, but her legs were broken. She wanted to vomit, but she had nothing in her stomach. She wanted to cry, but dared not make a sound.
Tia, the pregnant Asian girl, was missing her tongue.
~~*~~
Chapter Thirty-Six
Marcus wasn’t at all surprised by the name of Eddie’s nightclub. It was just the kind of thing his former friend would come up with: both self-aggrandizing and egomaniacal. He and Maggie pulled up to The Great Caruso at ten after nine, but already the party was in full swing. All manner of Italian sport and German luxury automobiles lined the mansion’s massive parking lot.
As they reached a security gate, a muscular man in a black tuxedo and white gloves stood at attention. The guard approached the driver, said a few words, and then, approaching their descending side window, said, “Identification, please?” Marcus recognized the bulge of a pistol beneath the guard’s jacket.
Maggie held up her DOJ credentials. The guard smiled back and said, “Mr. Caruso welcomes you to the party.” The attendant bowed cordially, and the security gate parted.
The whole place made Marcus want to puke.
The guy had acted off a script and had clearly been trained to allow entry to the “party” in a very specific manner. Marcus wondered if his former friend had choreographed the employees personally on how they should speak and behave. Eddie always was a control freak, down to every last detail.
The element that disturbed Marcus most was the syntax the attendant had been instructed to use. It wasn’t “I welcome you” or “We welcome you.” It was, “Mr. Caruso welcomes you to the party.” As if Eddie had downgraded the guard from human being to robotic slave, as if the kid wasn’t even allowed to have his own identity. He was merely an extension of “The Great Caruso.”
The guard followed the limo through the gate and then up to the mansion’s porte cochère. He opened the door for them and said, “Mr. Caruso awaits you in the grand ballroom.”
As he stepped out, Marcus said, “Buddy, Mr. Caruso is a douchebag, and your life will turn out a lot better if you quit this job and get yourself a respectable one. Maybe apply at Burger King.”
The guard looked dumbfounded, as if he were searching for a scripted response to such a statement.
Marcus didn’t wait for the canned retort. He started up the marble stairs toward a pair of French doors—twelve feet tall, white with gold accents. The entrance made Marcus feel as if he was walking up to the pearly gates.
Inside was a grand foyer with a coat check and several small sitting areas around a giant rotunda. Men and women sat in some old leather chairs surrounding the periphery of the foyer. Some laughing, some kissing, others smoking cigars or fluted cigarettes.
The doors to the “Grand Ballroom” were just as large as the entry doors, but these were made of a dark mahogany. Two more men in tuxedos stood on each side, ready to allow entry farther into Eddie’s little kingdom.
It wasn’t until the doors parted that Marcus finally realized that Eddie’s club was a themed hangout. The entire show had been designed to make people feel as if they were in The Great Gatsby, or at least some cellular generation equivalent. Most of the women wore lace flapper dresses. They spun on the dance floor, their many-colored sequins glittering like a sea of rubies, emeralds, diamonds, and sapphires. The men wore tuxedos and stylish formal suits. The outfits, the decorations, the atmosphere screamed 1920s New York, but the music was some kind of bastardized amalgam of techno, hip-hop, jazz, and blues.
The pulsing beat hurt Marcus’s chest, and the lights made his world throb. But it seemed successful in pushing the wannabe gangsters and flappers to grind closer and lower.
A sprawling staircase climbed each side of the long, rectangular ballroom. Eddie Caruso was descending the closest staircase with the swagger of a film icon. And, Marcus had to admit, Eddie looked the part. He wore a simple black tuxedo and a bow tie. His hair was slicked back and looked to be professionally styled. He even had the boyish good looks, but the suave persona crumbled a bit when Eddie opened his mouth.
His voice was soft with a t
hick Brooklyn accent, but it was also low and scratchy like an old man who couldn’t catch his breath. During their sixth-grade year, Eddie’s house had burned to the ground. Eddie and his younger sister had been trapped in the fire, and Eddie came away with scarred lungs and scorched vocal cords. Marcus recalled that Eddie didn’t really mind his new voice. In fact, Eddie had used it to his own advantage, letting it add to his tough-guy reputation.
Eddie spread his arms and, in his sandpaper voice, said, “What do you think of the place?”
Marcus glanced around at the extravagance and excess for a few seconds and then said, “It reminds me of a low-budget musical at a community rec center. Do people have to pay to get in here?”
Eddie smiled and said, “So you’re still an epic prick. That’s good to know.”
“And you’re still a flaming narcissist. In my experience, when someone keeps telling you about how ‘great’ they are, that usually means the opposite is true.”
“It’s a themed club, jackass, and it makes money like we have the printing press in the basement. Whole thing was my idea. I noticed that a lot of rich kids and suburbanites were having these Gatsby-themed parties. It started as a tax write-off, but apparently there was something to it, and The Great Caruso was born. But it’s all for show.”
“If it’s just a show, then why not make it legitimately ‘Gatsby’ themed and hire someone to play Gatsby instead of inserting yourself into the role.”
“Then we’d have to pay for the rights. As it stands, our theme is just the 1920s, and using my real name adds to the mystique.”
“Or you just like to stroke your own ego.”
Eddie smiled. “I have people lined up to stroke it for me, Old Sport.”
Maggie intervened, saying, “Mr. Caruso, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with us. Your place here really is something. Isn’t that right, Marcus?”
“Sure, it’s beautiful, Eddie, and not creepy at all. Just like if Robert Redford had a baby with Lady Gaga.”
Eddie laughed, but his eyes showed his annoyance. “Don’t hold back, Marcus. Tell me what you really think.”
Maggie said, “Do you have somewhere private that we can talk, Mr. Caruso?”
“Of course, come on up to my office. And beautiful women call me Eddie. And you, Marcus, I’d prefer you call me Mr. Caruso.”
~~*~~
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The past…
Once Eddie and Junior were out of sight, Marcus took off in a full sprint down the massive, marble-floored hallways. He flew down the stairs, rounded the corner, and followed the sounds of voices. The party was out back on the patio. The kids’ parents had gone all out on the festivities, with bounce houses, ball pits, and magic shows. The place reminded Marcus of Coney Island. More than once, he considered just staying down there and stuffing his face with cake. But whatever it was Eddie and Junior didn’t want him to see was too good to miss.
He rushed over to the cake table, secured three pieces, and made his way to the kitchen. He explained to one of the caterers about the cake, and she was glad to help. She took the three pieces and said she would wrap them up and leave them on the counter. With a rushed thank you, he hurried back to the stairs, the second floor, and back to the hallway where his supposed friend had betrayed him and called him a fat freak.
Marcus stopped, breathing hard and heart pounding. He sucked in a few gasps and forced his lungs to calm. He listened. The sounds of the party, the air-conditioning, waiters in the kitchen, children giggling and playing in the backyard, the hum of fluorescent lighting, the rush of water flowing through pipes, and there, somewhere beneath it all, the muffled voices of Junior and Eddie.
Marcus followed the sound down the hall and to the point where green became red, public versus restricted, safe versus dangerous. He hesitated at the boundary, knowing that he should turn around. As he stepped across the threshold into the red area, he could’ve sworn that the air grew colder and the light dimmer.
He followed the sound of their voices, needing to know the very thing they didn’t want him to. The murmurs originated from a bedroom on his left, but Marcus waited in the hallway and listened. He knew Eddie would just tell him to get lost again.
Marcus arrived just in time to hear the phrase: “secret passageways.” Junior continued, “My Grandpa Angelo was a real nut job.”
“I thought you said he was the greatest man to ever live?”
“No, he was looney toons. I just told little boy blue that to shut him up. During Grandpa A’s younger years they called him the Butcher; during his older years, they called him the Mad King. He built this place in his older years. My pop had all the entrances to the secret passageways boarded up. But I re-opened this one, so I can sneak around the house.”
Eddie said, “That is so awesome.”
Marcus peeked around the corner and saw Junior opening a secret passageway by twisting a piece of trim and pulling it off the wall. Then he pushed against a portion of the wall, which clicked open to reveal the hidden entrance.
As he grabbed a flashlight from a nearby bookshelf, Junior said, “Come on. Let’s do some exploring. But once we get in there, you stick right by me.”
“Why? What’s in there?”
“Don’t be a baby. Nothing’s in there. It’s just that some of the passageways have been sealed off, others are dead ends. It’s easy to get lost. I thought I was gonna have to spend the night in there one time. Before I got the hang of it. So stick with me, okay?”
“Like glue,” Eddie whispered.
Marcus, although concealed outside the doorway, could still picture Eddie’s face. That moment where his stiff bravado cracked and the scared little boy beneath shined through. Marcus had seen that look on Eddie’s face several times before. It had once been an endearing quality, and somehow, knowing that it was all a cover made it easier to put up with Eddie’s egomania.
He waited for the other boys to leave the room and then gave them a moment to travel down the secret passageway before working up enough nerve to pursue.
Repeating Junior’s procedure, Marcus followed the other boys into the bowels of the Mad King’s castle.
~~*~~
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Stefan Granger didn’t ascend the last set of stairs up to the small-time pimp’s own version of the Oval Office. Instead, he kicked into one of the rooms on the southern wall and headed toward a fire escape, which he had already scoped out earlier. Most buildings had changed over to inner stairwells rather than external fire escapes, but there were always a few preservation holdouts and those too poor to update.
Granger followed the metal stairs up to the penthouse, but he made sure to stay out of sight. With a quick glance through the window, he saw the pimp dressed in nothing but a pink bathrobe. Faraz held a scantily clad woman out in front of him, his arm tight around her neck, her eyes bulging. His other hand held a gold 9-mm Beretta.
He assumed the woman to be Samantha Campbell. She was needed alive. Granger took aim with the Mac 10, but there wasn’t enough separation between Faraz and Sammy. Even though he was accustomed to the weapon and could control the bursts, his instrument of choice for this assignment simply wasn’t designed for pinpoint accuracy.
The antiviral mask hindered his ability to spit, and so he growled instead. He knew a variety of different attacks, both physical and mental, but he didn’t have time for subterfuge. The police were already en route. Still, he saw no other open moves with his current resources.
Quickly analyzing the situation, Granger stepped behind the bricks beside the window. Then he reached down and knocked. As he had expected, the pimp whirled toward him and opened fire. The window shattered, but Granger was relatively protected behind the wall from a 9 mm. There was a slight chance of a bullet ricocheting off the metal framework of the fire escape. But random instances such as that were also
why Stefan Granger had all his clothes lined with a carbon nanotube composite—a revolutionary new material that was pliable under normal conditions but hardened like steel with any impact.
After Faraz finished his tantrum, Granger leaned forward and said, “I’m just here to talk.”
“You seem to let your machine gun do the talking!”
“It was your guys who drew on me. I just needed a word. And they must’ve taken one look at me and decided to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“You lie!” Faraz yelled.
“Think about it. I could’ve killed you just now. I had the drop on you. I could’ve taken you down, but I didn’t. Instead, I knocked on the window to get your attention. I’m only here to talk. Now, can I come out without you trying to shoot me.”
“You go ahead and come in real slow, but if I don’t like any twitch, I take you down.”
“Fair enough,” Granger said as he climbed inside, the Mac 10 still in his hand but his arms raised up in surrender and the weapon’s barrel pointed at the ceiling.
Which was, in reality, an attack position.
With a flick of his wrist, he could direct his fire back to the pimp, but most people without a law enforcement or military background didn’t recognize such a threat.
Faraz said, “So talk. And part of what you want to talk about better give me good reason not to kill you.”
Sammy wailed and cried as Faraz loosened his grip enough to allow her to breathe. With the woman now facing him, Granger could see that she wore a crotch-less Wonder Woman costume. He said, “It’s okay, Ms. Campbell, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
Her response was only more blubbering, but she did look up and make eye contact. In that moment, he saw confusion, and he realized his mistake.
The room was only lit by candle, but with the low-light glasses, Granger could plainly see that this woman was not Samantha Campbell.