He clicked on social networking, and a separate website loaded.
You must register to log on to this site.
“I bet you do.”
Click.
The registration page requested all of the usual information: name, address, telephone number, e-mail address, birth date. Jake tapped at the keyboard, and his imagination gave birth to Brian Powers, who lived on West Fourteenth Street in Manhattan. He submitted the information and waited.
This information is incorrect. Please try again.
Jake narrowed his eye at the screen. The Dreamers possessed a sophisticated database. Who the hell are these people?
He keyed HyperSpaceBook into his browser, and that website loaded. Images from popular science fiction movies and television series morphed into each other on the screen. Jake navigated reviews, news blogs, and a message board. Scanning the forum, he took note of the odd aliases used by the community members: Space Dusted, Kid Nova, Star Rapper. He searched for Martin’s name but couldn’t find it, and none of the aliases seemed like obvious possibilities.
Then he searched the site for more pertinent information, like its owner: Solar Dreams Entertainment. A quick Google search revealed that Sky Cloud Dreams owned the dummy corporation.
They use the entertainment site as bait to lure people to the primary social-networking site. Without knowing Martin’s alias, it was impossible for him to follow the exact method of contact. Clicking on “Registration,” he created an alias for himself—Soul Searcher—and posted an introductory message in a section of the forum reserved for that purpose. He identified himself as a New York sci-fi fan looking to befriend people with similar interests.
Within minutes, half a dozen HyperSpaceBookers welcomed him aboard, each asking a different question: What are your favorite books? What movies do you like? Do you TiVo any shows? What do you think about politics and religion in science fiction? How old are you? Do you like to attend conventions?
They’re probably all the same person, Jake thought, picturing one of the Dreamers sitting at a computer in a Dream Castle office. Using his trusty search engine, he located another science fiction entertainment site, ascertained that Sky Cloud Dreams didn’t own it, and drew up a list of recent science fiction movies, novels, and TV shows. He used this list to answer the questions posed to him and waited for additional responses.
It didn’t take long: Hey, you should really check out this forum. It’s great!
Jake clicked on the link posted by Star Warrior and wound up on the Sky Cloud Dreams forum. Switching back to HyperSpace-Book, he saw he had received a private message in his new mailbox.
Would you like a pass to see an advance screening of an exciting new science fiction movie? Just sign up here!
He clicked on the link and again found himself staring at the sign-up page for the Sky Cloud Dreams forum.
Martin had probably perused the entertainment website innocently enough and had then been lured to the Dreamers’ board. How long had it taken the cultists to reach him? Surely longer than it took them to contact Jake, who had offered himself as bait.
Using different search engines, he assembled dossiers on Campbell Bradley and his son, Benjamin. The senior Bradley broke into publishing by writing science fiction stories for pulp magazines in the late 1950s. In the 1960s, he wrote a trio of novellas that were ultimately packaged as a single novel, Celestial Passage. The book received positive reviews but didn’t catch on with the public until it was reprinted in 1970. Bradley capitalized on his “overnight” success by writing three sequels, which became even more popular in the early 1980s. The novels combined political commentary, psychedelic imagery, and enough action to satisfy different groups of readers.
When Hollywood came knocking on Bradley’s door, the author refused to license the film rights to his books, which eventually became best sellers. He commented in a Rolling Stone interview, “I don’t like what the ‘dream factory’ has done to wonderful books written by Ray Bradbury, Phil Dick, and Jim Herbert. Hollywood is run by accountants, and I don’t need any more money. How much dough does one person need?”
Bradley died in 1999, leaving Benjamin the sole beneficiary of his estate. Benjamin had earlier tried his hand as a novelist with no success and had worked as a real estate agent for many years. Upon settling his father’s inheritance, Benjamin sold the film rights to the four Celestial novels, attaching himself as a producer. Two films were theatrical motion pictures, followed by one TV miniseries and one direct-to-DVD sequel. Jake had heard of the films but hadn’t seen them. Benjamin licensed several of Campbell’s short stories and other novels as well, though no film adaptations had actually been made.
Unable to reignite Hollywood interest in his father’s work, Benjamin formed his own production company, Sky Cloud Dreams. The company announced a slate of features based on different Bradley stories and hired several screenwriters to adapt them, but none of the films got off” the ground. The only film produced by the company was a feature-length documentary on Campbell’s life, which did well on the film festival circuit but failed to receive theatrical distribution. Sky Cloud released the film on DVD.
When the great recession struck, Benjamin found himself in a fortunate position: he had invested the millions he had earned from the Celestial productions wisely, and when the Manhattan Building went on the auction block because its owners had failed to pay their creditors, the former real estate agent seized the opportunity to purchase the building at a fraction of its former value. He kept several floors for his own needs and rented the others. He held Celestial conventions in the building, sold DVDs of the documentary in the lobby, and started his own publishing company to keep his father’s books in print and cut out the middlemen; Sky Cloud Publications released the first e-book versions of Campbell Bradley’s work.
And then, with very little fanfare, Benjamin set himself up as the central figure in a self-help organization that tapped into the science fiction market. Although he never became a recluse, he did avoid the spotlight other than that afforded him through his own media company.
Jake cracked his neck and his knuckles. Campbell Bradley had achieved success as a novelist and had resisted the urge to make a buck off Hollywood. Benjamin could not wait to license the literary properties and had used the money he made to start his own production company and purchase Manhattan real estate. Somewhere along the line, he decided to start a religious order that would appeal to the fans of his father’s books. Had Bradley’s production company’s failure led to that decision, or had it been a front for the operation all along?
Jake returned to the sign-up page and keyed in his real information.
Hi, Jake! Thanks for visiting Sky Cloud Dreams. If you wish to participate in our exclusive forum, there is a $10.00 annual membership fee. Your membership package includes the Space Cloud Dreams handbook, access to the forum, invitations to free movie screenings, news updates, and discounts on Sky Cloud Dreams merchandise.
Jake stared at the screen. A membership fee. He tapped the middle finger of his right hand on his computer mouse. For Martin. He entered his credit card information and waited.
A prompt informed him that he had received “a special message” in his mailbox, where he found a greeting:
Dear Jake:
Thank you for becoming an Affiliate member of Sky Cloud Dreams. We invite you to visit our forum and interact with our other Affiliate, Associate, and Active members. Your membership package is on the way! In the meantime, we encourage you to click on the following link to download a preliminary version of the Sky Cloud Dreams handbook.
Your new friends,
The Sky Cloud Dreams Membership Committee
How inviting and encouraging. Jake clicked on the link, and his computer downloaded a PDF file.
Congratulations on becoming an Affiliate member of Sky Cloud Dreams! Your decision to join our group is one of the most important choices you’ll make in your life. A whole new world is about to o
pen up to you, not in the realms of science fiction or fantasy, but right here on earth—in your mind.
Jake glanced at the wall clock—2:55 p.m. He didn’t have much time; he had work to do on the Madigan case. Skimming through the PDF handbook, he searched for telltale signs of what Sky Cloud Dreams was really about. The setup was too elaborate to be a simple marketing tool. He found biographies of Campbell Bradley and Benjamin Bradley, descriptions of Campbell’s novels and the movies based on them, “A Guideline to Space Cloud Dreams Etiquette” (Smile! Always be upbeat! Show respect to your fellow Dreamers!), and invitations to free lectures held in the Dream Castle.
Finally, he came upon a short essay written by Benjamin Bradley and searched the double-talk before discovering a nugget of information:
Do you believe in a higher power but reject the dogma to which you’ve been exposed? Sky Cloud Dreams was founded on the belief system that our world was colonized by extraterrestrial beings who will one day return to earth to take believers to a better world. We call these beings the Imago. For more information, please arrange to attend one of our special seminars at Sky Cloud Dreams, exclusive and free to our members. Discover why governments and traditional religious organizations do not wish you to open your mind to the life-changing possibilities offered by the Imago.
Jake entered Imago into his browser, and two definitions appeared:
1: an insect in its final, adult, sexually mature, and typically winged state
2: an idealized mental image of another person or the self
Idealized insects, he thought as he pressed autodial on his cell.
A few rings later, Joyce answered.
“How’s Martin?”
“Sullen,” Joyce said. “He’s in his room as usual.”
“Did you search his websites like I suggested?”
“Of course. He spent all of his time on HyperSpaceBook and that site for the Dreamers. I blocked them like you told me to.”
“Good. You also need to confiscate any books written by Campbell Bradley and any of those Celestial movies on DVD. The problem is, he can download them, too. Look for any brochures or literature from Sky Cloud Dreams, and check his computer for downloaded files. You really need to monitor his computer activity. Move his computer downstairs where you can keep an eye on him.”
“He’s going to hate me.”
“He’ll resent you but he’ll get over it.”
“When?”
“One step at a time. Another thing: Martin had to pay a membership fee with a credit card to join the Dreamers. I think the fee is just a rouse to collect data on members. They know your address, and they know your phone number. If you didn’t buy that membership for him, you’d better keep a closer watch on your credit cards. Don’t let him have any visitors for the time being.”
“Thank you, Jake.”
After saying good-bye, Jake checked the time again: 3:10 p.m.
Time to go to work.
CHAPTER
4
Dressed in black beneath a gray duster, Jake stood in the crowd of uniformed police officers, media personnel, and interested citizens facing the new annex to the Central Park Police Station on Tranverse Road and West Eighty-sixth Street.
Mayor Myron Madigan stood on a platform erected for the occasion, flanked by police officials in their dress blues and his security detail, comprised of plainclothes, off duty cops. Red, white, and blue ribbons adorned the platform, and a large American flag provided a backdrop. Madigan waved to the crowd like a true politician and traded smiling remarks with the men around him. His red hair swept back from his receding hairline, his bushy eyebrows underscoring his stubby forehead.
A uniformed captain with craggy features stepped up to the microphone. “Good afternoon. I’m Captain John Collier, and I’d like to welcome you to today’s ceremony. The Central Park Police Station, headquarters of the 22nd precinct command, is the oldest police station in New York City. It was designed by Calvert Vaux and built in 1871. That’s almost a hundred and fifty years of NYPD history.”
The crowd applauded, the police showing the most enthusiasm.
In one of the quietest neighborhoods, Jake thought.
“Our new annex will provide much-needed modernization and additional space to the command that protects twenty million visitors annually, and the original building will continue to serve as a base for New York’s finest. It is my honor to introduce to you the man who made this upgrade possible, Mayor Myron Madigan.”
The crowd whooped and cheered, and Madigan came forward. Collier lowered the microphone so the mayor did not need to, sparing him embarrassment. Madigan continued to wave to the crowd, beaming.
Jake disliked the man, but his feelings went no farther than that. Madigan was a political animal with grand ambitions, but Jake had known much worse men and women. If Marla told the truth about her husband confining her to a psychiatric facility, the man in the tailored suit and camel-hair coat warranted at least a spot in Jake’s rogues gallery. But Jake still didn’t know how much of Marla’s tale to believe.
“Thank you and good afternoon,” Madigan said. “I see a lot of familiar faces here.”
Oil those wheels.
“The 22nd precinct may not have the highest crime statistics in the city, but I attribute that to the excellent performance of our uniformed men and women who serve it.”
The cheers grew louder, and Jake found his distrust of the mayor intensifying for no particular reason. Marla certainly struck him as being more sincere, but he tried not to allow his personal feelings to cloud his judgment. He had a job to do, and emotions didn’t figure into that job. He needed to be a detached observer, hoping to obtain the evidence his client desired.
“The Central Park Police Station is an important symbol in this department. It represents over a century’s worth of dedication, service, and tradition. One year ago, this city stood poised on the brink of disaster. Our economy faced total collapse, we were forced to lay off” two thousand uniformed officers, homeless people crowded our sidewalks, and Black Magic ravaged our streets.”
A tide of boos rose like a chorus, and Madigan raised both hands as if a robber had instructed him to do so at gunpoint. The placating gesture quieted the restless crowd.
“I worked tirelessly with Governor Santucci to roll back the layoffs at a critical moment in this city’s history and authorize the rehiring of those two thousand officers and an additional five hundred.”
Applause thundered.
“Under the direction of Commissioner Bryant”—Madigan gestured at a jowly man with thick white hair who nodded to the crowd—”we dismantled the ruthless gang responsible both for polluting our streets with Black Magic and for committing the notorious Machete Massacres.”
The crowd roared its approval, and Jake suppressed a smirk. He alone had stopped the drug operation run by Prince Malachai and Katrina. Both drug lords were found dead at the bottom of a construction site after tangling with him.
“We took back our streets and our neighborhoods. New York City has never been safer than it is today, thanks to the efforts of our entire police department.” Madigan waited for the cheers to reach a deafening crescendo. “Not only that, but employment is up and homelessness is down. With our economy on the rebound, we can all tell our children that we truly live in the greatest city in the world!”
The crowd roared.
I think I won this little thug a second term.
Grinning, Madigan gestured to Collier, who produced a pair of oversized scissors, and the two men walked over to a yellow ribbon strung across the entrance to the new annex. Madigan posed with the giant scissors, allowing camera flashes to create a halo around him, then cut the ribbon in two with one decisive snip. The ribbon billowed in the breeze and landed on the concrete as the crowd chanted Madigan’s first name.
Sliding his hands into the pockets of his duster, Jake made his way through the crowd and crossed the soft grass to the parking area. He spied a pair o
f black SUVs in a separate, reserved parking area: the mayor’s security detail. A single plainclothes cop stood outside the vehicles. Mayoral security was a sweet assignment, one that could lead to discretionary promotion.
Jake programmed Karlin Reichard’s address into his GPS and started out for the Henry Hudson Parkway. Forty minutes later, at the outskirts of Scarsdale in Westchester County, he followed a road that cut a swath through dense woods. Occasionally he’d spot a mansion arching up into the sky. A quarter of a mile before Reichard’s estate, he turned into a service road and parked twenty feet from the main road, the Maxima cloaked by trees.
As the sun descended, Jake changed his clothes in the backseat without much grace. Multiple shades of green camouflaged his cargo pants and army jacket, and he had painted a pair of running shoes to match. He put on a rolled-up olive-green ski mask, then circled the car to its trunk, which he popped open. Removing a compartmentalized backpack, he slid his arms through its straps. Then he pulled the ski mask over his face, closed the trunk, and locked the car with his remote.
Jake Helman, Ninja Detective.
Checking his watch, he walked between the trees, parallel to the main road. Across the street he saw a stone fence that ran the entire length of the property. He knew from the satellite photos he had studied of Reichard’s estate that he had been following the grounds even before he had pulled over. He slowed down when he spotted a parked SUV outside a gated driveway. Moving into position, he observed a manned security booth on the other side of the gate. The winding driveway led to a mansion on top of a hill surrounded by woods. The black SUV was identical to those he had seen at Central Park, the lead vehicle in the mayor’s security caravan. The man inside, either a lieutenant or a captain, had traveled to Madigan’s destination ahead of the other vehicles to ensure the location was secure, following proper protocol.
Cosmic Forces: Book Three in The Jake Helman Files Series Page 4