Jeremy looked up at his wife, reading aloud. " "Hispanic female and husband staying at residence. If violation continues, offending couple will be removed.""
"Removed," Barry repeated.
"What do you think they mean by that?"
Barry looked at him. "What do you think?"
"My God," Lupe said, and her voice was shaking. He thought she was about to cry, but when he looked up at her he saw lines of anger hardening her face. It was rage that was making her voice quiver, not fear. "Someone has to teach those racists a lesson."
"I have the will and the way," Jeremy said. He looked at Barry, the form crumpled in his fist. He dropped the paper on the floor. "Let's go. Let's pay a little visit to Mr. Jasper Calhoun."
Calhoun's house looked even more fortresslike than it had before, its intimidating size and dark gray walls contrasting sharply with a green expanse of sloping lawn--an artificial imposition on the natural landscape that the C, C, and Rs should have prohibited. As before, a cold breeze blew here, ruffling his hair, and if he had not known that it was impossible, he'd have sworn it originated from the windowless residence.
They stood for a moment on the road.
"God, that's a monstrous house," Jeremy said.
"In more ways than one."
"That, too. But I'm just shocked it's so big. If I recall correctly, there are size limitations on structures in Bonita Vista. Although maybe this thing was grandfathered in."
"Mike Stewart said that Calhoun lives alone. He has no family."
"Why does he need all that space, then? What could he possibly use it for?"
Barry didn't answer. It was a question he didn't want to think about.
They walked down the perfectly maintained path past an apple tree, past a plum tree, past a birdbath. The silver Lexus was not in the carport, so there was a good chance the president wasn't home, but they continued on anyway, | up the wooden steps of the wraparound porch to the door.: Jeremy rang the bell, and a muffled gong sounded from I somewhere deep in the house.
Barry turned his head slowly, looking around. The yard was silent, empty.
Jeremy rang the bell again, but after another minute it seemed obvious that no one was home.
The slits to either side of the door were narrow windows, and Barry cupped his hands to shield the glare, pressing his face against the one on the right, but the smoked glass was so dark he could barely see the outline of the closed mini blinds inside.
What did Calhoun need all that space for?
They walked back up the path to the street, and Barry sensed the weight of the house behind him. It felt as though he was being watched, as though the house were some sort of giant sentient creature all hunkered down and waiting to pounce, and he had to fight the urge to run back up the lawn to the street.
He did not notice until they reached the pavement that neither of them had spoken since stepping onto Calhoun's property, and he wondered if Jeremy had been as anxious as he himself had been. He felt better now that they'd reached the street, but he was sweating, as though he'd just had a particularly close encounter with some sort of predator.
They started walking back toward Barry's. Jeremy was the first to speak. "You know me," he said. "I'm not one of these touchy-feely guys. But I'm telling you that place gave me the creeps."
Barry nodded.
"You think they could be in there? Dylan? Chuck and Danna?"
"I don't think they are," Barry said, and he found that it was true.
He could easily imagine his Mends chained to the wall in some dungeon like room within that monstrosity, but it didn't feel right to him. He had no doubt that there were things within that building that were equally horrific, that he would prefer not to know about or see, but he didn't think Chuck and Danna were there, and for that he was grateful.
Where did he think they were, then?
His gut instinct was that they were gone, that they had left Bonita Vista, either on their own or via some forced evacuation, and though he had no evidence to back him up, he told Jeremy his feeling.
"I've been thinking that, too," his friend admitted. "They drove Dylan off, and they might've done the same to Chuck and Danna; although what could have happened between bedtime and morning that would make them just pack their things and go, without telling any of us, is a mystery.
I personally think it's more likely that they were kidnapped or dragged off or somehow forced to leave. But you're right. The association probably wouldn't want to keep them here. Their goal would be to get rid of them." He paused. "Get rid of us." "Maybe Lupe's right,"
Barry said. "Maybe you two should go back to California. Before something bad happens to you."
"I hate the idea of letting them run me off." Jeremy looked over at him. "Besides, we came out here to help you."
But he didn't rule out the possibility.
They walked the rest of the way home in silence, each lost in private thoughts, "I still think the best way to attack them is with lawsuits," Jeremy said as they reached the driveway. "Because even if they win, it's a nuisance. They have to hire a lawyer, have to make the effort to fight the allegations. It takes time and money and resources, and maybe it takes the pressure off the people here a little bit."
"It might also give us other ideas and help us find some chinks in the armor."
"That, too."
They were halfway to the house when Mike pulled up in his pickup. He got out of the truck, leaving the engine running, and handed Barry a large manila envelope. "I was told to give this to you." He held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I'm just the messenger here. I
don't know what's in it."
"Told by whom?" Jeremy asked.
"I'm just the messenger." He shrugged, gave Barry an apologetic look, and retreated back to his pickup. Maureen and Lupe were coming out of the house, walking down the porch steps, and before anyone could say anything more, Mike drove off without another word.
"What's that?" Maureen asked, walking up.
"I don't know."
Barry spread open the clasp and opened the envelope's flap, pulling out an eight-by-ten sheet. It was a photograph. A photograph of a dark-skinned man being tortured by unseen assailants. The picture had clearly been taken in Bonita Vista--the sweep of pines leading south to the canyon lands could be seen in the background--and had been taken fairly recently: there was the hood and front end of a new Honda Accord visible on the left half of the photo.
The man was being flayed alive.
Barry stared at the picture in horror. A section of the mans shoulder had been peeled away, and the deep flowing crimson beneath a perfectly square flap of exposed musculature contrasted horribly with the dull darkness of his skin. The man's eyes were wide and crazed, his mouth open in a twisted, agonized scream, and there was blood dripping from his lips.
All of his teeth had been knocked out.
The only signs of the individuals performing this atrocity were two pairs of gloved hands holding the victim's bare arms and the blurrily silhouetted head and shoulders of another man facing away from the camera and holding up an exceptionally long pair of shears.
Barry's salivary glands had stopped working, his mouth was cotton dry.
Both Jeremy and Lupe looked sick.
He turned the picture over. Stamped on the back in red ink was a description of the photo: "Punishment Administered for Violation of Article IV, Section 8, Paragraph D."
Lupe started crying.
Jeremy rushed to put his arms around her.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "It's just... I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Maureen reassured her. "We understand."
"I guess I'm not as tough as I thought."
"It's okay," Jeremy told her. "Don't worry." He glanced over at Barry. "Sorry, dude. The war's won. We're leaving, we're out of here, we're gone. And if you're smart, you'll do the same."
The Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions Article IV, Gene
ral Provisions, Section 8, Paragraph D:
Non-Caucasian individuals, due to their propensity for engaging in crimes against both person and property, are not allowed to reside or stay within the boundaries of Bonita Vista.
Jeremy was good.
He and Lupe had left midmorning, and by early afternoon, he was calling Barry from his cell phone on his way back to California, telling Barry to expect a visit from the FBI. While Lupe drove, he'd been making constant calls, cashing in favors, exploiting contacts, all the time filled with the white-hot rage that had become Barry's second nature and that only the homeowners' association seemed able to elicit. He'd convinced the FBI to investigate not only Dylan's, Chuck's, and Danna's disappearance but also local law enforcement's unwillingness to even look into the situation.
"Now for our ace in the hole."
Unreasonably, Barry felt a surge of hope and optimism. "What?" he asked.
"Your boy Kenny Tolkin . He wasn't talking out of his ass, he really was a player. I've learned that there was an article in the Times this morning about how he was A.W.O.L. and quite a few big-name celebrities were worried. He was apparently supposed to meet with Madonna last week but he never showed, something that was totally unlike him. Tom Cruise was stood up on Monday, and there's a quote from Tolkin's L.A.
office where they admit that they haven't heard from him and can't seem to get in touch with him. You have to read this."
"We get the Times. We still subscribe. It just comes in the mail two days late."
"Too long to wait. I'll fax it to you as soon as we get back. Suffice it to say that when someone of this stature is missing, no effort is spared to find him. The bigguns'll be coming down on Bonita Vista.
Hard."
"Good."
"I'm also going to fax you a questionnaire that I want you to fill out and, if possible, get notarized. What I'm going to do is use it as part of a packet for the law enforcement agencies working onTolkin's case. With your testimony as to probable cause, they should be able to obtain a search warrant for the open lands in Bonita Vista."
It was not like Jeremy to be so explicit over the phone. His enthusiasm was overriding his usually overcautious phone habits, and this time it was Barry who had to shoulder the paranoia. "You know this is not a secure line," he said.
"Shit! You're right, dude. I'm sorry. I just got carried away. I'll fax you the rest of my ideas along with the article. Any news at your end?"
"No."
"All right then. Expect to hear back from me in a couple of hours."
There was a pause.
"What is it?" Barry asked.
"It may be nothing, and I don't really want to worry you--"
"Not a secure line, remember."
"I know, I know. But a car almost hit us back in St. George. Maybe it was nothing, maybe coincidence, but it came right at us. An Infiniti." There was a second of silence. "We were passing a new subdivision, a gated community It sped out of the driveway, headed right for us, then sped off when Lupe slammed on the brakes."
"Oh my God."
"Draw your own conclusions. We shouldn't say more. I'll call when we get back home."
Barry turned off the phone, sat down hard on the couch. Jeremy was right, it could be a coincidence. But his mind was already racing.
What scared him the most was the idea that the association could reach all the way to other cities, maybe all the way to California in order to impose its will, to carry out its plans. In his mind, Bonita Vista had always been an isolated community, and he'd assumed that once they got away from here they'd be free from the tyranny of these local yokels. But now he imagined a network of homeowners' associations spread across the country, each doing the others' dirty work, tracking and punishing individuals who crossed them or their brethren. He hoped to God that this was all a gross overreaction and that Jeremy and Lupe's close call with the car was perfectly innocent and understandable.
But he didn't think that was the case.
And neither, he knew, did Jeremy.
"So what's he say?" Maureen asked.
Barry took a deep breath, and told her.
The FBI agent, Thorn Geddes, arrived the next morning after calling ahead an hour, then a half hour, and then fifteen minutes before. Both Barry and Maureen were pacing nervously, awaiting his arrival, and as soon as he pulled into the driveway they were unlocking the front door.
Introductions were short, formal, businesslike. The agent clearly wanted to get started on his investigation and to complete it as soon as possible. He seemed capable, competent, and above all, a legitimate representative of the United States' premier law enforcement agency, with un limited power and resources at his disposal--which gave Barry a feeling of relief and renewed hope.
Geddes looked down at the electronic notebook in his hand. "As I
understand it, Dylan Andrews, Chuck Carlin, and Danna Carlin were guests of yours. Two days ago, Mr. Andrews went missing, and Mr. and Mrs. Carlin disappeared sometime between that night and the following morning. Because of various incidents and confrontations that you have had with the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association, you suspect that this organization is behind the disappearances. Is this correct?"
Barry looked at Maureen, then nodded. "Yes, it is."
"Good. I will pay a visit to--" He looked at his notebook. "--Jasper Calhoun, and interview Mr. Calhoun about these disappearances."
Barry didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this immediate and straightforward course of action, and the blunt honesty of the agent threw him for a moment. "Can I... come with you?" he asked.
"No!" Maureen said.
"If you wish," Geddes replied, turning off his notebook.
Barry looked over at Maureen. "I need to be there."
"Like hell!"
He put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes. "They're not going to kill or kidnap an FBI agent. I'll be perfectly safe. This is my opportunity to confront that bastard."
"I just--"
"I know."
Geddes pretended to ignore them.
"I need to hear what he says," Barry told her. "I need to see his face. These are our friends. I can't just... abandon them. I have to be there."
Maureen took a deep breath, nodded. "Okay."
The agent cleared his throat. "I will be conducting the interview.
You--" He looked at Barry. "--may observe."
"Gotcha."
Maureen kissed him. "Find out where they are," she said.
He let her go, moved away, motioned toward the door. "I know where Calhoun lives," he told the agent. "I can take you there."
"I'll drive," Geddes said in a flat voice. "And we'll take my car. You can direct me to the house."
The phone rang, and Maureen answered it. Barry and the FBI agent were just about to walk outside when she shoved the phone at him. Her hand was trembling, her face pale. "It's for you," she said. "It's him"
Barry stopped, put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"
"Barry." He recognized the stentorian tones of Jasper Calhoun. "Our man at the gate told me that a federal law enforcement agent has come to visit you. I assume this is in regard to your missing friends."
No one had told Calhoun about his missing friends. How had he--?
Hitman.
"Yes," he said, keeping his voice calm. "That is correct."
"Well, the homeowners' association would like to cooperate in any way possible. I'm at the community center right now. If the agent would like to speak with me for any reason, I will be at this location for the next hour or so."
For any reason? Calhoun knew damn well why they wanted to talk to him, and Barry thought of those comic book villains who tried to play mind games with the men who were trying to capture them, who considered life some sort of elaborate chess game.
"We're on our way," Barry said shortly, and hung up. He looked from Maureen to Geddes. "He's at the community center at the bottom of the hill."
The agent n
odded. "Let's go."
Calhoun was indeed at the community center, seated in front of the hall at the same table he had occupied during the annual meeting, looking as though he had never left. The room was empty and dark, all of the chairs gone, a pasty gray light filtering in through a small square of skylight in the middle of the ceiling. The president faced the deserted clubhouse, and Barry could not for the life of him figure out why the man was here or what he could possibly be doing all alone in the building.
The lights switched on before they were halfway across the floor, and Calhoun was standing, moving out from in back of the table, stepping off the platform. He was smiling broadly, an expression of false cheer on his face, and he led with an outstretched hand. "I'm Jasper Calhoun, president of the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association."
He and Geddes shook, and once again Barry was struck by the man's odd, almost inhuman, appearance. He hoped that the agent had taken note of it as well.
As before, Geddes was all business. There was no small talk, only a few introductory remarks, and then his electronic notebook was open and he was asking questions.
Calhoun had come prepared. Barry had to give him that. After denying knowledge of everything the FBI agent asked, after accounting for his whereabouts and the whereabouts of the other board members during the disputed time periods and offering to provide surveillance videotapes to back up his claims, after effectively blunting all possible suspicions, the president picked up a series of charts and graphs from the table at which he'd been sitting and started quoting the remarkably low crime rates consistently posted by Bonita Vista.
"I'm as anxious as you are to have this situation resolved," Calhoun said earnestly. "Any crime, especially an unsolved crime, reflects badly on Bonita Vista and is a blot on our sterling record. To be perfectly frank, one of my duties as a board member is damage control, public relations, and this is a nightmare for us. As I'm sure Mr.
Welch will confirm, we are very concerned about our image and take extraordinary measures to make sure that our community is not only safe but perceived as safe by both residents and nonresidents. In fact, I believe Mr. Welch and his wife had some personal experience with the efficient way in which we deal with lawbreakers and troublemakers. Mrs. Welch was harassed by a disgruntled ex-employee, and two members of our security committee detained him until the sheriff could arrive to arrest him. The association was willing to press charges and to make sure that Mrs. Welch never had to testify in court or see the man again." He spread his hands. "This is an example of the service we provide for our residents and the extent to which we will go in order to preserve and protect our reputation."
The Association Page 34