The only other time I’d come to Abel’s serene, hillside home alone, without a target in the passenger seat, had been the first time. I’d received an email from an executive headhunting firm; it touted a potential managerial position for me, one which paid better than my position at DirecTV.
I hadn’t signed up with a headhunting firm, but I knew that headhunting firms also worked for employers, not just employees. And that was the case here: the email said the firm had been hired by a telecommunications company looking to expand, and that the company was impressed with my DirecTV resume and wanted to meet me.
I’d been at DirecTV for my entire professional career, and though I wasn’t a top executive, I’d moved up the food chain to vice president. But I didn’t kid myself; I was one of dozens of vice presidents, and I wasn’t going to move up the food chain any further. I had strong analytical and organizational skills, but I wasn’t tops when it came to managing personnel.
So the email interested me, and I responded. That led to three more email exchanges before the headhunting firm arranged an interview. In retrospect, it was clear that Abel had been reeling me in, testing me to see if he’d made the right choice. If I had stopped responding to the emails, or failed in some other way, he would’ve moved on to recruiting someone else.
So I had driven up to Abel’s home for the interview. I thought it a bit strange that the meeting was taking place in a private home, but I chalked it up to the company’s management style. I had looked up the company, and this fit right in with their freewheeling approach to business. What I didn’t know was that, though the company was indeed real, I wasn’t interviewing with them.
I was interviewing with Abel.
And that interview had turned out to be very brief—as were all my dealings with Abel. In fact, when he presented me with the job offer, I hesitated, because he hadn’t really given me many specifics. But all my hesitation went out the window when Abel told me the pay. It was more than triple my current salary.
*
Today, as I drove through the gates and toward the front of the house, I wondered if the garage door was going to open. Normally that was the routine, but this was no normal visit. And there was no doubt that Abel already knew that. I was sure he had a couple of ways of tracking my movements, so he would already be aware that I was showing up without a target. And that could only mean one thing: something was wrong.
The garage door didn’t open, so I parked in front of the house. My assumption that Abel was expecting me was confirmed when I saw that the front door was open and ready for my arrival.
As I got out of the car and walked up to the door, my heart was pounding even harder than it had been at the gate. I wanted to turn and run, for here on the threshold of Abel’s doorstep, I finally admitted to myself that there was another possible way for him to deal with my screw-up. An option even more chilling than Abel ordering me to murder the tutor.
What if Abel decided that I, too, had to be taken out? What if Abel decided to murder me?
But running wasn’t an option. There was no getting away from Abel.
So I stepped inside.
The house was quiet. It was always quiet. I walked across the foyer and into the living room.
Abel appeared from the back hallway. I knew he wasn’t going to speak first. It was up to me to start the conversation. Before I did, I took in the living room. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the last time I’d see it. I noticed once again how the fireplace appeared to have never been used. Its cast-iron grate, and matching poker, tong, and shovel set, were pristine, free from the ravages of flames and ash. The patio doors were open—Abel always left them open—and I admired the unique fountain beyond the patio. I’d never seen water spout from the odd-shaped fountain.
After another few seconds spent staring at the thick woods that ran up the hillside behind Abel’s house, I made my move. I crossed the living room and stopped a few yards from Abel. He always stayed on the far side of the living room, the side that wasn’t visible from outside those patio doors. Why he didn’t just get curtains and close them had always baffled me. If some thief or voyeur, lurking in the thick woods behind the house, did catch a glimpse of Abel, they’d get an eyeful.
I finally spoke up. “Someone saw me,” I said.
Abel didn’t respond. And reading emotion from the alien’s face was a lost cause. His face was as tranquil as the odd-shaped fountain that never spouted water. Still, I hoped that this one time I could gauge his reaction. I couldn’t. But I did understand he wanted more details. That was why he hadn’t responded.
“I don’t know how much this guy actually knows,” I said, “but he saw me kidnap the last target.”
“Bring him to me,” Abel said. His voice emanated from a black square—the size of a ring box—which he clutched in his right hand. The voice was synthesized and flat. It didn’t have a faux personality like the electronic voices in science fiction movies. Like Abel himself, the voice betrayed no emotion.
After Abel issued his order, he turned away from me and headed back down the hallway. This was the custom. He’d end our brief conversations by turning away, and that was my cue to exit.
He’s going to kill the tutor, I thought. Why else would he want me to bring him here? Abel wouldn’t reveal himself to the tutor unless he was planning to kill him.
I walked back through the living room to the front door, wondering whether Abel would kill the tutor himself or order me to carry out the grisly crime. When I glanced at the silent water fountain outside, I couldn’t help but think that the woods beyond it would make for a secluded burial ground. One where I’d have to bury the tutor.
I walked out the front door, and another morbid thought hit me: I might end up in that secluded burial ground too.
EDDIE
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ben called me and told me to meet him at the Starbucks at the bottom of Coldwater. He’d taken the full week to get back to me, but I hadn’t been worried. I knew he would contact me. He couldn’t ignore the threat I posed to his livelihood.
My week had been busy. Jenny had had another chemo infusion, so I’d rescheduled some of my tutoring sessions to take care of her and the kids. Jake, who’d been a terrific help to both his mom and me after the first infusion, was even more of a help after the second. For me, this only reinforced the idea that he deserved to go to the school of his choice. He was a great kid—hard working and kind.
Hannah also did her share, including refraining from confrontations with her mom. She was still feisty—she wouldn’t be Hannah if she wasn’t—but she knew when to turn it off. Crisis had brought maturity.
The entire week, I felt close to my family. Was it the urgency of our circumstance? Was it that the value of life had been brought into sharp focus? Was it that a turning point seemed close at hand?
I felt an inner strength and an alertness that I hadn’t felt in years. I was more determined than ever to earn the money my family needed to weather this storm and land securely on the other side. And I was confident that I’d found the means to do that.
To that end, while I had waited for Ben to contact me, I had researched the grand house that he’d visited the night of the kidnapping. The house had been built in the thirties, and according to the property records, the original owner, Thomas Caraway, had never sold it. This was extremely unusual. In LA, houses turned over frequently. They hardly ever remained with one owner for a decade, much less for almost a hundred years.
I searched for information on Thomas Caraway, but I found nothing other than the dates of his birth and death. That in itself didn’t raise any red flags; as a reporter, I’d researched many people of his generation, and few of them left digital footprints. Still, if you were wealthy—and Caraway must have been to have purchased that house in the thirties, during the Depression—you usually did leave a few digital footprints behind.
But I found none for Thomas Caraway.
It reminded me of my Intern
et search on Ben. Ben’s digital footprint had been much bigger in comparison, but because Ben was of my generation, his footprint was also way too small to be “normal.”
Since Caraway was dead, he obviously wasn’t the current owner of the house, despite what the property records showed. But I had learned in previous homeowner searches that it was technically possible for a house to appear as if it had not changed hands, even when the original owner had died. The house could’ve been transferred from one generation of Caraways down to the next through a quitclaim deed. Such deeds were legal ways to transfer property, but sometimes they didn’t make it into a city’s digital records.
If I wanted to dig up a hard copy of a quitclaim deed, I’d have to go to the Beverly Hills City Clerk’s office.
That had been next on my to-do list, but my week had been so busy with family that I hadn’t had time to spend in the City Clerk’s office digging through old files. And now that Ben had called, it might no longer matter anyway. It was possible that I’d be learning the answer to this mystery from the owner of the house himself, for I was fairly certain Ben had chosen the Starbucks at the bottom of Coldwater for one reason: so we could drive up to the house.
*
As I waited at Starbucks, I ran through two scenarios. One was easy to play out, more or less. If Ben arrived and told me I had the job, then I’d move forward into my new, lucrative career—though exactly what that career was, was still a mystery to me, other than the fact that I’d be wading into some kind of criminal enterprise. And there was the rub: I’d have to ignore my moral qualms about this enterprise. But how far on the other side of the law, and on the other side of morality, would this new career take me?
The second scenario was a little harder to picture. If Ben arrived and told me that I didn’t have the job, then I’d have to visit the grand house myself and personally ask whoever lived there for the job. For wasn’t the person in that house calling the shots?
But I wasn’t too keen on heading up there alone. If there was no quitclaim deed—and the house had not passed down to Caraway’s descendants—then whoever currently owned the house wanted to remain anonymous. My research had made that abundantly clear. And anyone who wanted anonymity that badly—who had had all traces of himself wiped from the Internet—might be willing to kill to keep that anonymity. Especially if he found out that someone had witnessed one of his crimes.
Hadn’t Ben warned me not to get involved?
Through the plate glass window, I saw Ben approaching. And in that same second, I realized, with the moment of truth at hand, that my confidence—for the first time in a week—was shaky.
Ben stepped into the shop, spotted me, and headed over. He didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look pleased either. If I had been forced to label the expression on his face, I would’ve said it was confusion.
He sat down at my table and skipped the small talk. “My employer wants to meet you,” he said. It came out like he was delivering bad news.
“Do I have the job?”
“I don’t know. It’s not my call.” His jaw tightened, and he stood up. “I’ll drive,” he said, and headed toward the door.
I didn’t like the way this was playing out. Not so much the part about visiting his employer—that was to be expected—but the way Ben was acting.
I followed him out of the Starbucks. He didn’t say anything as we headed toward his car. I was beginning to fear the worst. Was I willingly marching to my own death? Was I going to be executed in cold blood?
Again I thought about Ben’s warning—You do not want to get involved.
But I was involved. And therefore, I had to act. Adapt or die.
Ben pressed his key fob, and his car beeped. I watched him circle around to the driver’s side of the car, and before he got in, I spoke up.
“I have pictures of you in your car with the woman you kidnapped,” I said.
He looked over at me, more annoyed than frightened.
I went on with my ruse nonetheless. “If I don’t make it back, the pictures will be delivered to the LAPD.”
Ben stared at me for a second or two, studying me, as if he doubted me. Then he said, “So you planned ahead for the worst case scenario?”
No, not really, I thought, which was why I had to resort to this pathetic bluff. And when I saw the rest of Ben’s reaction to the bluff—he ignored it, got into his car, and fired up the engine—I knew I was in over my head.
I stood outside the passenger door and considered my next move.
But I had only one move. The security of my family was at stake.
I got in the car.
*
We drove up Coldwater in silence. There was no need for me to ask any questions; I knew they’d go unanswered. So instead, I held on to the hope that a job was waiting for me at the end of this ride. I told myself that whatever criminal activity Ben and his employer were involved in, it didn’t include murder. Murder would shine a light on them. So I was safe.
Probably.
When Ben pulled up to the wrought-iron gates, I readied myself to plead my case. That I could do whatever was asked of me, and do it well. That I’d be loyal and trustworthy. That their secrets would forever be safe with me. In return, I wanted a share of those bricks of cash.
The gates opened, and Ben drove toward the house. This was where I expected him to fill me in on the man we were about to meet.
But he said nothing. He pulled up to the house. The front door was open.
Without a word, Ben got out of the car. I followed suit.
We walked into the house. No one greeted us, which made me warier than ever. In truth, it scared me. Had Ben brought me here to execute me himself? Was that why he’d been silent on the way up?
Ben walked through the living room, toward the back hallway, but I stopped. The patio doors were open. They gave way to an old fountain and a dense patch of woods. I was frightened enough to consider taking off into those woods.
When Ben noticed I was just standing there, he barked out, “Let’s go.”
I decided not to run. If there was a job to be had, running away from it wasn’t the way to land it.
I followed Ben down the back hallway and to a door that, like the front door, had been left open in anticipation of our arrival. We stepped inside.
The room was dimly lit, and the only furniture was a large mahogany desk, which fit the grandeur of the house, and a high-backed leather chair, which faced away from us. Both sat ominously in the darkest recesses of the room. The back of a man’s head was visible above the chair’s backrest, and though it was too dark to know for sure, it looked like the man’s head was shaved.
Ben motioned for me to step closer to the desk.
I did, and I saw that, indeed, the man was bald.
“Go ahead,” Ben said to me. “Tell him what you want.”
The man still hadn’t turned around, so I began to wonder if he had some kind of rare disease. Was he hiding in the shadows because he didn’t want anyone to see how badly the disease had disfigured him? That question led to an epiphany: the kidnappings suddenly made sense. They were the only way this disfigured man could get women.
“I want to work for you,” I said.
“Why?” the man asked. His voice was synthesized, and that confirmed for me that he suffered from a terrible disorder. It had robbed him of his ability to speak, just as it had disfigured him.
“Because I need the money,” I said. Suddenly honesty seemed like the best policy.
“There are plenty of other ways to earn money,” he said. The synthetic voice was even-keeled. Emotionless.
“I need to earn a lot of money quickly.”
“What about the consequences?”
“I know it’s a risky line of work.”
“I mean the consequences of coming here. The consequences of disrupting an operation you know nothing about.”
He’s planning to kill me, I thought. But I pleaded my case. “I can keep my mouth shu
t,” I said. “Whether you hire me or not, I’ll keep your secret.”
“You had your chance to keep your mouth shut. You chose not to.”
Ben smirked—an “I told you so” smirk.
“Give me a chance to work for you,” I said. “You won’t regret it.”
“Why should I give you a chance? I don’t need you.”
“I guarantee you I’ll go beyond the call of duty.”
“You don’t listen too well, do you? I said I don’t need you.” He suddenly swiveled around in his chair—
I braced myself for whatever horror I was about to see.
But he was still hidden in the dark. I couldn’t see his face. I did see his gloved hand move swiftly from right to left in a cutting motion—like he was signaling someone. I held my breath, positive that he’d just signaled Ben to draw a weapon and gun me down.
But that wasn’t what happened.
Instead, a cone of red light—infrared?—engulfed me. I quickly looked up to the ceiling for its source, but didn’t see any. I looked down at the hardwood floor and saw nothing but a sheen of reflected red light.
What the hell was going on? Was the cone of red light a weapon? Was that how I was to die?
Panicked, I turned to run—but I hit a solid barrier. I was walled inside the cone. I didn’t know if it was a weapon, but it was certainly a cage. I struck at it, but it was solid as a rock.
“I don’t need two people to do one man’s job,” the synthetic voice said. Again, the voice was flat. Just the facts, ma’am.
So this is it, I thought. I’d be executed in a cage of red light, and there’d be no security for my family.
“No, Abel!” Ben suddenly shouted. I’d forgotten about him. But he hadn’t forgotten about me—he was trying to save me.
I looked over at him and saw that he, too, was trapped in an infrared cone. But he was trying to fight his way out, frantically throwing his body this way and that. It made no difference—and I saw that his eyes were wild with terror. Then I realized why: Ben wasn’t trying to save me.
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