“He should be in one of the reports you printed out at guest services,” Paul said. “Look there.”
Curious, Rick thumbed through the reports on his desk. He found one titled PRIVATE EVENT GUEST LIST, and quickly ran his index finger down the columns, searching the names carefully. Bob Garrison’s name was sandwiched in between Stan Fitzgerald and Clive Henderson, two long-time clients of Bent Creek. “He’s there,” Rick said, looking down the row to check the dates. “This report says he paid up this morning.”
“So we’re good then?”
“Why isn’t he in the main database?”
“I don’t know. But if the man paid for it, and Jim vouched for him, that’s good enough for me.”
Rick felt like he was on the brink of exploring uncharted territory. He wanted to ask Paul Westcott more about the private event. What exactly did these highest of the high rollers do during the four days they were here at Bent Creek? What was so special about this event that required such layers of security? Rick was on duty last year during the private event, and his initial thoughts regarding this were due to the high-ranking congressman that was in attendance and the Saudi Arabian prince that had flown in for the event. This year the congressman was back, but the prince had elected not to fly in this year. In his place was the CEO of Kaiser Development Systems, a leading Technology company that created and maintained technology for the healthcare industry. All fifteen of the guests stayed in the high-roller suites; they had access to the gym, the pool and sauna, and the grounds during the day. As far as Rick could tell, they received the same level of pampering as the other guests did during the season, with one exception: management turned the other way when it came to drugs and prostitution. Last year, Paul told him that some of these high-rollers brought in very expensive call girls during their four day visit. The call girls usually stayed on grounds, in the private suites, even during dinner. Surely the private event wasn’t entirely of the benefit for providing extra discretion for extra-marital liaisons.
“So are we good?” Paul asked.
“I guess so,” Rick said.
“Listen, don’t worry about it,” Paul continued. “I know Mr. Garrison has to be in both systems. That’s my rules, and I’ll handle that. I just didn’t have any advance warning on this one.”
“I didn’t either.”
“I’m going to talk to Wayne about this tonight. I’d like to think he knows about Mr. Garrison. I get the impression he’s seen that Jim is...well...not himself lately.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Paul sighed. “Look, Chef Munchel’s a good guy. I’ve known him for twenty years. Lately, he’s been under a lot of strain. His mom died last year, and he’s been under a lot of stress with several new restaurant openings and a guest spot on one of those Food Channel shows. He almost cancelled the private event this year, but Wayne insisted. This is Wayne’s show, after all.”
“It is? I didn’t know that.” Rick’s impression was that the private event was partly Chef Munchel’s chance to make a lot of extra money by preparing exotic and expensive dishes for his wealthy clients. He’d heard about some of the dishes he prepared at Bent Creek—stuff that sounded mouth-watering and prohibitively expensive, made with ingredients that were imported from countries with unpronounceable names.
“Don’t tell anybody I told you that,” Paul said. He chuckled slightly. “I wouldn’t have found out myself if Wayne hadn’t told me a few years ago. This little party is all his. Well, his and the other board members’.”
“Interesting.” All Rick knew about the Bent Creek board members was from their brief meetings during the season. The board was comprised of six men and two women, all who sat on various corporate boards and were involved in very high-end business dealings around the world. It was all clear to him now: he’d thought this event was Chef Munchel’s show, but the chef was working for them this week. Rick wondered how big Jim’s paycheck was for this private event.
“Get some rest,” Paul Westcott said. “I’ll see you tonight at the meeting.”
“Okay. How’s Anna King doing?”
“Sleeping like a baby in her room. As far as I’m concerned, she’s clear. My staff is still searching rooms and questioning the remaining employees.”
“Okay,” Rick said. “Give me an update tonight. I’ll talk to you later.”
After he hung up, Rick sat at his desk for a moment, looking down at the report. He thought about Chef Jim Munchel’s personal invite to Bob Garrison. Surely that invite would have had to be verified by Wayne Sanders and the board members, correct? Maybe not, especially if Wayne and the rest of the board were paying Chef Munchel for his services. It was possible Chef Munchel had come across another high-roller during the off season and simply extended the invitation to him at that time, knowing he was a man who could afford his services. Chef Munchel seemed to be pretty tight with Wayne and the rest of the board, too. He’d probably run the idea of inviting Bob Garrison by them, and Wayne had simply forgotten to tell Paul Westcott to put Garrison’s name in the system.
That’s it, he thought. Don’t worry about this shit. You just work here.
With that thought, Rick Nicholson exited his office and headed up to his room to get some much needed sleep.
CHAPTER 16
Thirteen Months Ago
When the front doorbell rang, Joe was quick on his feet to answer it. He opened the door and beckoned for the young man standing on his front porch to come in.
The young man stepped inside the entry hall tentatively. He was nervous, and with his thin stature, large framed glasses, and mussed-up hair, he gave Joe the impression of the geeky college nerd that is too smart for his own good. “I ran the check like you asked and pulled some numbers,” he said after Joe closed the front door.
“Did you find anything?” Joe asked.
The young man reached into his jacket and pulled a sheaf of papers out. He handed the papers to Joe. “That’s all of them. Everything I could get.”
Joe glanced at the papers and nodded. He placed the sheaf of papers on the credenza in the entry hall and reached into his own pocket for the white business-sized envelope. He handed the envelope to the young man. “Thank you very much.”
“No problem,” the young man said. He stood there awkwardly, looking nervous as he took a peak at the thick wad of bills in the envelope. He looked back up at Joe. “Listen, um...if you need anything else...you know where to find me?”
“Absolutely.” Joe steered the young man to the front door. “You’ll be the first person I call.”
The young man smiled. He stuffed the envelope in his front jeans pocket and stepped outside, turning briefly to Joe. “That’s great! Talk to you later.” He turned and started heading down the concrete walkway to a lime-green Toyota Tercel parked at the curb.
Joe Taylor closed and locked the front door. He picked up the sheaf of papers from the credenza on his way to his office off the entry hall and slid behind his desk. One move of the mouse and his iMac woke up from sleep. Joe opened up his FileMaker Pro database, consulted the numbers on the sheaf of papers the young man had sold to him, and began the task of cross-referencing them in his own database.
CHAPTER 17
“So when will you be back?”
Anna thought about what to tell Mark without worrying him. “Today is an off day,” she said. She was reclining on the king-sized bed in her room, still dressed in the clothes she’d been wearing earlier that morning except for her shoes, which she’d slipped off immediately upon locking the door. “I’m on breakfast duty tomorrow, then dinner service that night. I’m told that after cleanup five nights from now, I’m good to go.”
“You want me to meet you at the drop-off?” Mark asked. All Bent Creek employees had to be ferried to the grounds by a private bus that transported them through five miles of forest to the large gated complex. Those that drove their own vehicles had been allowed to park them in the employee parking lot at the
end of the long, dirt road that led to the country club. They’d had to leave the keys to their vehicles with front gate security, who made sure the vehicles were maintained in anticipation of their departure the last day of work. Mark Copper had dropped Anna off in his vehicle on her first day of employment, and had been waiting for her early this morning when she called and told him she was staying on for another five days.
“Yeah, meet me at the front gate,” Anna said, her mind racing. “I’ll take the first shuttle bus out Wednesday morning.” She assumed the same private bus company would be on hand again after the private event.
Mark was silent for a moment. Anna knew he was worried. She also knew he was trying to be careful about what to say. Cellular phone conversations could be easily intercepted. “I know you want me to come home, and I want to be home with you too,” she quickly said. “But...well, it’s a lot of money, Mark. Not only that, but if I quit now, they can sue me for all of my back wages. It’s in the contract I signed.”
“What bullshit,” Mark muttered.
“The only thing bullshit about it is their failure to give me more advance notice. Like I said, Paul and Rick seemed embarrassed and apologetic after they learned Alex never told me Chef Munchel had tapped me to work dinner service this week. And I’m sorry I gave you the impression I was coming home today. If I’d known about this earlier, I would have told you.”
Mark sighed. “Yeah, I get it.” She could tell Mark was trying to be subtle about the conversation. “So what now?”
“We get through the next five days and you’ll see me Wednesday morning.”
“I can’t wait.” The tone of anticipation in Mark’s voice was perfect.
“I can’t either. I love you.”
“Love you too. Will you call me tomorrow after dinner service?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay. Don’t work too hard.”
Anna laughed. “I won’t.”
“And don’t let those rich, smug bastards get to you.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Okay.” Beat. “Talk to you later, babe.”
“‘Bye.”
Disconnect.
Anna King sat on her rumpled bed, cell phone in hand, and thought about the five days ahead of her.
It had been hard to get to sleep earlier. Her mind was still a whirling mass of emotions—anger, fear, nervous anticipation. She’d played through the confrontation with Paul and Rick a thousand times and each playback elicited the strong notion that she had done well under the circumstances.
She’d wound up taking a Nyquil just to get to sleep.
And now it was closing in on five p.m. and she wasn’t scheduled to be back on duty until tomorrow morning for breakfast.
Anna looked around her room. It was small, with a king-sized bed, a long dresser with four drawers (now holding her clothing, which she had refilled upon arriving back in her room), a TV that rested on one side, a writing desk and chair, and a nightstand. Her suitcase was resting on the luggage rack, and she’d hung her shirts and blouses up in the closet. She’d set her laptop back up, but had not opened it. She had the rest of the day and the night to kill. A quick trip to the one remaining guest kiosk might yield reading material—the paperback rack was largely confined to New York Times Bestsellers, which was mostly fluff, but the latest F. Paul Wilson Repairman Jack novel was in stock. She hadn’t read that yet; tonight would provide ample opportunity.
Anna rose from the bed and looked in the mirror over the dresser. Despite the four hours sleep she got, she didn’t look bad at all. She grabbed her wallet and room key, then headed out the door to the guest kiosk to snag the paperback.
* * *
Brian Gaiman had been working at the bonds that held his wrists in place and was almost free.
Brian didn’t know where he was. He had no concept of how much time had passed. Time had meant nothing to him in this place. All he knew was that he’d woken up in a dark room, his back propped up against a steel wall, his wrists bound together behind his back, his ankles lashed together, a cloth gag tied around the back of his head that muffled his screams.
Brian knew screaming was useless anyway. It made his throat hurt. And it made him thirsty.
Wherever he was, it was cold. But despite that, Brian had worked up a sweat.
He used the sweat to his advantage, working his wrists through the nylon rope that held his wrists in place. The abrasions he wrought on the skin of his wrists and forearms dulled to a deep throb as he worked it. The wounds bled, then scabbed over, then were reopened again on each subsequent attempt to work his way out of the bonds. Patience was the key. A little bit of effort each time, then rest. He could feel that his tactic was making progress. Each time he worked the bonds, he felt his wrists slip out of the nylon rope a little bit more.
He was certain Carmen was worried about him. She’d probably reported to management that he was missing. Would management report his disappearance to the police? He’d like to think so. After all, he was in the work-release program. If management thought he skipped out, they’d contact the police and his parole officer. Somebody would be looking for him by now.
While he had no concept of time, he was certain he’d been held captive for more than two days. During that time, somebody had entered the room every so often to give him a sip of water. Brian didn’t know who it was, and never got a good look at him—the bright light that stabbed into the room from outside always blinded him, making the man who offered him the water seem dark, his features hidden by the shadow of his bulk. The first time the man had stepped in to give him water, Brian had thought he was coming to kill him. When he realized what was happening, he’d tried communicating to his captor by talking through his gag. The man had ignored him, insisting Brian take a few sips of water. Then, he left.
By Brian’s count, the man had come three times. Between each visit, Brian would rest for a bit, then work at freeing his wrists. Shortly after the second visit, Brian immediately guessed the man was coming every eighteen hours or so. Which meant he’d been held captive around three days.
Gritting his teeth with the pain and exertion, Brian moved his wrists in a counter-clockwise motion. He could feel the fibers of the nylon rope grinding against the recently opened wounds in his wrist as he worked them, feeling them slip through a little more now. His body was completely oiled in sweat. Brian had been working himself up into a sweat the last eight hours. Despite the coldness of the room, he’d worked up a sweat by constantly moving—rocking back and forth, flexing the muscles of his arms and legs. Despite his limited means of movement, his efforts eventually paid off. Using the sweat that beaded along his arms and wrists, he used it to lubricate the bonds, to work them over and over, using the blood that ran down his wrists to drip on the floor to further lubricate the skin so he could slip his wrists through the bonds a little more each time as the pain allowed. Time sped by as he concentrated on freeing himself—his entire focus was centered on freeing his wrists. Once his wrists were free, he could untie the ropes that bound his ankles and get out of here.
The wounds in his wrists had been opened and reopened half a dozen times during his efforts to free himself. He was just thinking that he would probably be at this for another day when he received an unexpected surprise. As his right wrist made one of its umpteenth counter-clockwise movements, he felt the nylon rope slip over his thumb, freeing most of his hand.
His heart almost stopped in his sudden surprise. He moved his right thumb, feeling elated at its new-found mobility. An excited whine of glee escaped his throat, muffled by the gag.
With this new-found excitement, he pulled his hand back. His knuckles met resistance, but with some more wriggling motions, he was able to slip his fingers through perfectly.
With racing heart, he had his right hand out and flexed his fingers. They tingled as the circulation entered and adrenaline flowed. He took a deep breath as he used the fingers of his right hand to pick at and hold the bonds
that held his left wrist. He knew the patterns of the rope his captor used to tie him—despite his right hand being free, both arms were still tied behind his back, lashed by a series of intricate knots of rope around his abdomen. Brian concentrated, grasping the complexity of the knots, and within ten minutes his left wrist was free. Two minutes later his arms were free, and he was rotating them, getting the circulation flowing into both limbs.
His eyes darted around the dark room. All his senses seemed to be on high alert, carefully attuned to everything. He could smell dampness and sweat, along with the acidic scent of his urine. The only sound was his harsh breathing—there was no sound coming from outside his prison.
Brian reached up and untied the cloth gag. Once he was ungagged, he took in a great lungful of air and silently wept. I’m free, I’m getting out of here...
But he couldn’t count on victory yet. He still had to get his ankles free, and then—
Brian leaned forward and began picking at the bonds that lashed his ankles together. His fingers flew across the knots in the darkness, and he silently thanked God that his captor used the same knots on his ankles. He knew their familiar patterns now, and within five minutes the ropes lay on the floor and he was rubbing his ankles and legs, trying to restore better circulation into them.
His legs tingled with numbness, and for a moment Brian didn’t think they’d wake up fully. As he sat on the floor, in a position more relaxing than the one he’d been stuck in for the last three days, he had a sickening thought—suppose his captor returned unexpectedly to deliver his sips of water? When was the last time he was here? Brian couldn’t remember. In his excitement, he wasn’t sure if his captor was last here yesterday or eight hours ago. And the way time seemed so elastic, it was hard to tell if an hour had passed or a day. Time was irrelevant here.
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