by Taylor Kole
Many in the crowd cheered at that, spiking Peter’s excitement. “Here’s a little inside information to sensationalize: the forthcoming evidence will supports my words.” And even louder, “This fraudulent charade is almost at an end, and the Lobby will be reopened within days.” Big applause, followed by an uproar as he screamed, “You have my word.” A nearby reporter, caught in the excitement, withdrew her microphone and clapped.
Alex grinned halfheartedly as he flipped back to Inside Today’s channel.
He craved Rebecca’s show, yes, but he didn’t ignore other news programs. He couldn’t get enough of the lunacy. Some theories the media hypothesized were so diabolical and ridiculous that he pitied the reporters, knowing they had missed their true callings as paranormal fiction authors.
The most common conspiracy stated Alex had been silencing men before they went public about an unspecified danger the Lobby posed.
With fluctuating lines of conjecture, every few hours some tech blogger nailed the truth.
When that happened, Alex switched the channel or muted the television and at oreos. Hence, his bloated abdomen.
The potential drama of tonight’s episode had his blood racing. He leaned forward, grabbed the glass of whole milk and downed a two milligram Ativan that Roy’s doctor had prescribed him on the fly.
He had been medicated for almost three days, and was disappointed it took him this long to add pills to his diet. And, despite the doctor’s advice, he’d been taking nips of booze, too. That really took his troubles away.
Inside Today’s soundtrack blared. A montage of Rebecca reporting in various dramatic sceneries started each program: a barrier village in Nairobi, an overcrowded US prison, the war-torn streets of Gaza.
Even though he judged through a camera lens, Alex put her at an average height. Her strawberry-blond hair, angled jaw line, and firm body were as much a trademark as her strong diction.
During the program, he often believed she spoke directly to him. After nearly every episode, he considered calling her to schedule an interview. As if also detecting Rebecca’s subliminal missives the previous night, Tara had texted him and suggested he give an interview.
This morning, his attorney vehemently condemned the idea, and reminded Alex to relax. Peter had everything under control.
Per the norm, Rebecca reviewed the night’s topics and, as expected, they were all Lobby related.
“Pardon me,” Victor said, his voice overtaking the program.“ A commotion upstairs has drawn the attention of your security staff.”
Commotion? Alex popped a cheese cube into his mouth. Luke’s team treated every oddity like an invasion, but no one was allowed upstairs.
The two sheriff’s deputies who had been patrolling his property were now walking through the house ever since Charles death. But even they respected his bedroom, and the upstairs in general. Besides, they had just finished their rounds.
Rosa was still at the beach house. Glen worked until ten. Arnel should be clocking out soon. Since none of those people ventured onto the second floor without permission, and with a commercial playing, Alex prodded. “What sort of commotion?”
A tickle of worry caused him to sit up, wedge his feet into slippers, and snag an Oreo. He hoped whatever constituted “commotion” didn’t cause him to miss any of Inside Today.
“Glen Daniels is attempting to access the Lobby.”
He dropped the cookie and jumped up, knocking his knee on the edge of the coffee table. Limping out of the library, he rubbed at the pain. There had to be some mistake. Glen had specific instructions to avoid Alex’s room.
“What’s he doing up there? I told you no ones is allowed upstairs.”
“Glen was cleaning, per his assigned duties. I granted him authorization on that pretense. He proceeded to interact with the control panel. I alerted security, and now you.”
What was that kid thinking? Alex increased his pace. He had given Glen the control panel password, Eridu873Simon, months ago, instructing him to visit the Lobby at his leisure.
Obviously, that amenity ended when the Lobby was banned. Unless some grand excuse presented itself, Glen was at risk of being suspended, possibly fired.
Alex hurried into the back hall near the kitchen at a jogger’s pace. One thing about a home encased in thick glass, acoustics traveled great distances. He heard one of his security personnel enter the front door and run up. Alex heard him say, “be on site in seconds.”
Despite the narcotic coagulant Ativan provided, Alex’s heart thumped. His throat burned as if he breathed arctic winter air.
Rounding the stairs, he saw a security officer charge into his room. With the thick glass door left open, letting out the sound. Alex abandoned hope of a simple misunderstanding.
Urgent shouts from multiple men rooted him in indecision at the base of the stairs. Sweat beaded his chest and lower back. A train delivering a mental break chugged closer. Hating himself for having thoughts of closing his eyes, covering his ears, and returning to the library, he steeled himself. If the issue orbited around Glen, his rapport with the teenager might help disarm the situation. He attacked the steps two at a time.
Entering the master suite hitched his breath, and increased his heartbeat even more. The room’s generous length elongated, as if viewed through a fun-house mirror.
A security officer in the standard black-and-gray polo shirt stood half in the access room doorway, another tense member was poised at his six o’clock. Both had weapons pointed inside.
Alex noticed the second man held a stun gun, but the first man’s grip disappeared into the access room. Hopefully, he held a Taser as well.
“Put it down!” The first man yelled into the access room.
Put what down? Alex thought as he felt pulled forward, as if drawn by the gravity of an unseen mass. What could Glen lift in the access room?
“It’s going to be alright,” the first officer said. “Just put it down, and let me see your hands.”
“Go to hell, moron.”
Stopping, Alex tried to reconcile the angry voice. It sounded like Glen, but he’d always been so quiet, so passive. As confirmation that was Glen settled, a frost pebbled Alex’s skin. Had Rosa’s suspicions been warranted? was Glen dangerous?
Pushing past the officer blocking the door, Alex stepped into a dense atmosphere. Sound ceased. He smelled sweat, and the room’s lavender air-freshener.
Glen half-sat in the middle access chair. One foot hung over the leather, the other touched the floor.
Rage was evident on his face. The situation’s danger heightened by the Kyocera carving knife held against his far wrist. Its presence was the alien in the room. Those ceramic blades had the sharpest edge in the industry. Cutting metal was no problem. Slicing through flesh and arteries offered resistance equivalent to a cold breath.
Blood trickled from a nick in his wrist. Not the spewing torrent of a severed artery, but Alex knew that to blast a geyser of red, Glen only needed to apply pressure.
“You stay back!” Glen yelled at the security officer.
“Glen, it’s Alex.” A glance, and brief eye contact. “Calm down, man.” Alex said as he inspected the control panel. The counter ticked down. Fifty-two seconds remained. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Finding Alex, the kid’s eyes narrowed to dark slits. “I know. So cut the bullshit, Mr. Cutler. I know. If you die while connected to the Lobby, you live there forever. I know that’s what happened to Roy, and it’s why Charles followed him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Alex said without much conviction.
One of the security members behind Alex mumbled something to the other. Alex wiped his brow.
“You think I’m going to stay in this bullshit world, with assholes like you, when I have options?”
Alex pushed aside the inaccurate moniker of asshole—something he’d been called twice in twenty-four hours—and considered refuting the Lobby claim. Instead, he stayed quiet, and checked the load-in timer
. They had thirty-five seconds to move Glen the necessary fifteen feet away from the chair.
“What’s going on in here?” a new voice barked.
Alex almost identified the voice. If only he paid more attention to his staff—like Rosa, who sent them birthday cards each year, mailed their children presents—he would know the personalities of the men around him, how to utilize each. Concentrating, he felt the connection nearing, and then it registered.
The doctor! Yes, that had been the voice of a bona-fide doctor. He had even heard the wheels of the cart as it arrived.
With a doctor on board, if Glen splayed his wrist open with a foot-long razor, his life could be saved. Meaning, they could either drag him away before he entered the Lobby, or keep him alive and welcome him back to the real world when his vacation ended.
That had to work. Alex wouldn’t survive the scrutiny of a teenager committing suicide in his home. Not death number three. It would be the domino that toppled his existence.
“I gotta do it, Mr. Cutler. You know I do,” Glen said. “Once people know the truth, they will close the Lobby forever.”
“Just relax, for one second.” Alex stepped aside to allow a clean line of sight for the first officer. He checked the timer—eighteen seconds. He locked eyes with the nearest officer. “Stun him. Do it now. Shoot him.”
“What?” The guard stepped forward, pushed the weapon out father, but didn’t fire.
Glen looked at the clock. “Don’t do it.” He pressed the blade’s edge into his arm. The trickle of blood became a stream. Fear danced in his eyes, boosting Alex’s confidence.
“Someone tase him.” Alex shouted, furious they hadn’t listened the first time. “There is a doctor here. Even if he gets in the Lobby, we can keep him alive.”
As soon as he said it, Alex realized the folly in disclosing the logic in front of Glen. He should have let the kid cut himself, allowed him to drop into the Lobby, and then relied on the top-notch medical professional to keep him alive.
With Alex giving away his strategy, the script flipped.
In a blur of hand movements, Glen adjusted his grip to hold the knife with two hands, pivoting the blade’s tip until it touched his sternum.
“Don’t do it, kid.” Alex launched forward.
The Kyocera pointed upward at a forty-five-degree angle, primed to slip under the chest plate, sink directly into the heart.
From the corner of his eye, Alex saw the timer: eight seconds. He hoped an officer realized no medic could save an impaled heart.
Alex’s first foot planted.
One Mississippi.
He prayed the kid lacked the conviction, and would enter the Lobby healthy.
Two Mississippi.
Alex heard the stun gun pop. Victory coursed in him. When the prongs connected, the current would follow; and they’d both survive the ordeal.
Glen must have heard the shot as well, for his eyes hardened, and his forearm bulged as he pulled the blade inward. The sharp point glided through shirt and flesh as if the two layers were its natural sheath.
A dark glob oozed around the blade.
Alex saw Glen twitch as the stun gun’s prongs connected and the current kicked in.
Blood belched from Glen’s mouth as he convulsed.
Alex checked the timer.
Two Mississippi.
Glen’s trembling hands slipped from the handle, as his eyelids drooped.
Zero Mississippi.
The image of an impaled young man seared into Alex’s mind, to linger forever.
Alex’s hands connected with the kid’s ankles, yet before he yanked, Glen’s eyes bulged to grotesque proportions, and his body went limp—the signs of a successful transfer to the Lobby.
The officer grabbed the blade handle, and the doctor yelled, “Don’t touch it!”
The pooling pattern of blood widened.
Alex heard a slow exhale escape Glen’s bloodied lips. The copper heat of it wafted over his senses. He released the ankle.
Allowing himself to be pushed to the side, Alex fought a growing fatigue.
The doctor rushed past him.
Alex glanced around for a place to sit.
They were too late.
Glen had entered the Lobby alive, and was now dead.
All the money in the world couldn’t stop this from going viral.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Reverend Billy Graham once said, “Through perseverance, the snail reached the ark.” As Agent Andrews listened to an irrelevant underling voice his opinion, he reminisced on his crawl through the years, on his determined path to expose Broumgard. Hundreds of his fantasies involved courtroom battles, where his rational debate would win the nation’s hearts and minds. A favorite action scenario involved Alex Cutler snatching a hostage in a chokehold and aiming a pistol at the captive’s head. While being broadcast live, Agent Andrews would disarm the man with moves learned in training, and shoot Alex with his own firearm as the psychotic billionaire reached for a backup weapon.
Agent Andrews always knew heading the LOC would be a brilliant career move. In a show of support and unity—or better yet, praise— the powers that be offered him an office on the fifth floor of the Federal building in Los Angeles. His title granted him authority equal to Deputy Director John Willis. This meant thirty-five thousand agents at his disposal.
The first day of reaming Alex Cutler’s snarky attorney and watching Alex squirm had been so mercurial that within twenty minutes, Andrews had excused himself from the room and strolled to the bathroom. Once alone, he’d swung his arms spastically as if fighting off spirits, while grunting his elation.
When he returned to the meeting, he felt like a saint holding a flaming sword. This day brought equal satisfaction.
Beginning tomorrow, his legal team would search for precedent for seizing both the hardware and software that allowed Mr. Cutler to access the Lobby at home.
“Given a favorable judge, that seems our best chance.” The underling said. By the trailing of his voice, Andrews knew he had finished. Whatever he said involved his own ego, and meant nothing. From this day forward, words mattered little. They had an objective—actions would rule.
“Thank you, Domorsky,” Agent Andrews said.
The man looked around.“My name is Wright. Allen Wright.”
Agent Andrews frowned.
Before starting his final address, a woman spoke. “Domorsky went home hours ago.”
“Does it matter?” Agent Andrews said. “No. Now focus. We stand on the frontline of America’s defense. The Lobby has distorted all of our values. It has supplanted American pastimes with induced delirium. Education and healthy socializing have almost vanished in a matter of years. You men, and women, are the Nameless Special Forces. Our mission is the most vital—”
The elevator doors dinged with a new arrival.
Since it was almost nine at night, and the floor was vacant except those Andrews asked to stay late, he surged with indignation, almost choked with disgust that some fat janitor had interrupted his flow. He cleared his throat and searched for his last words.
The Man in Gray stepped off the elevator.
Shorter than anyone in authority should be, his eyes were locked on Agent Andrews’s as if he’d been watching from inside the elevator, which obviously he hadn’t. Agent Andrews ran a finger inside his shirt collar.
“Who’s that?” an agent asked another.
“Some spook,” said the woman who’d previously mentioned Domorsky’s departure.
“He’s no one,” Agent Andrews blurted. “Our mission is vital. People are addicted and spellbound. They need liberators, and we are that source. Let’s get to it.” He frowned. With swiveling heads all around the table, he expedited their dismissal by shooing them out with both arms.
Agent Andrews dropped into the nearest chair and checked on the interloper, who continued to stare. Andrews looked away. Little shit is trying to intimidate me. That won’t happen.
/> “Agent Andrews,” the last man to exit said.
“What, dammit?”
“I was just … Have a good night, Sir.”
“Brown-nosing will get you nowhere with me, Agent Wright.”
“Okay then.” Agent Wright pivoted on a heel and trailed the herd to the elevator.
Agent Andrews felt the short man still staring, but he didn’t take the bait by looking up. He daydreamed about how special it would feel to seize Alex Cutler’s property. Regardless of orders, Agent Andrews would explore the highly touted, patent-protected macroservers that preserved the Lobby. He had to see the hardware, and examine the software.
The federal government should just take the dangerous components by force. What would happen if, by some long odds, his legal team failed to compile the necessary arguments and in win? Or if one lone judge overruled them? Would they allow Broumgard to keep destroying the world?
Personally, he’d continue to fight. With clear evidence pointing to the Lobby’s evil, he’d eventually destroy the machine.
Agent Andrews heard the small man’s soft, padding steps bring him near.
Looking up made Agent Andrews start. The Man in Gray waited at the end of the abandoned aisle, well out of range Agent Andrews expected from the footfalls. He stool like a serial killer.
How had he imagined hearing steps so close? Was he experiencing a psychosomatic effect, some mind trick used to scare?
Besides, who just stands like that, glaring at someone?
Agent Andrews rose to his full six one and stared back.
The Man in Gray had introduced himself as Mr. Johnson on their first meeting.