Melvin Fortun’s house was easy to find. Very easy to find. There were photos of the mansion all over the Internet, especially the infinity pool. There had been many photo ops and interviews outside on the front steps of the massive house, which looked a little like an upside-down egg carton made of glass and wood.
The street boasted some of the most expensive mansions in Los Angeles. The homes were elegant and massive—old school—set like jewels on broad lawns facing onto broad avenues. Apparently Melvin Fortun didn’t get the memo, because his brand-new egg-carton house on Oak Knoll was completely out of touch with the neighborhood’s sensibilities. Landry imagined he was hated by his neighbors.
He wondered how the good reverend had gotten around the zoning restrictions.
Melvin Fortun ranked number eight on the Forbes list, so it was entirely possible he’d managed an end run by sheer bribery and promises, with a little strong-arming thrown in.
Landry spent two days and nights surveilling the reverend’s compound. It might seem like an inordinate amount of time to someone not familiar with his profession, but it was always better to be safe than sorry. He could watch the comings and goings, see what the security was like, get an idea of Melvin’s habits.
Which were lax.
But Landry always played it safe. There were still security cameras and a security guard or three. A little before four a.m. was the best time for a raid. Four a.m. was the optimum time for any raid. The target was more likely to be in the deepest part of the sleep cycle at that time. Landry knew that the good reverend’s wife lived in a suite of rooms on the opposite side of the compound. There was virtually no interaction between them. (Landry had picked this up and other bits of information about the family from the tabloids on the Internet. He took everything with a grain of salt, but he knew that tabloid claims were usually pretty close to the truth. They used their own investigators, and that kind of focus generally paid off.) Fortun’s children were grown, and only one lived on the compound. Jacob Fortun: twenty-eight, unmarried, and an avid mountain climber. It was quite possible that Jacob wasn’t on the property at all, since he traveled a great deal and had a home in France.
Fortun had bodyguards. Landry had seen them. But from what he’d gleaned, the bodyguards stayed away from his personal apartment, remaining closer to the perimeter.
Landry was quiet. He came up behind the first guard, clasped his hand over the man’s mouth, and jabbed a needle full of triptascoline into his neck.
The man fell in a heap. Silent, like the proverbial tree in the forest. In this case, a giant redwood.
Triptascoline for the second guard, too.
It was as easy as picking ladybugs off a screen. He needed to make sure he didn’t let it go to his head.
And Landry had plenty of triptascoline, a hallucinogenic drug derived from scopolamine. It was his favorite drug of choice—three times the strength of scopolamine. Over the years, he had used triptascoline many times. He had found the exact strength of the drug he needed. Too much, and it would knock you out for hours. Too little, and you’d hallucinate a good deal. Side effect: you’d get silly. In this case he’d gone full bore. He’d given enough to the guards that they would be out for probably five or six hours. He’d overdosed them so they would be knocked out completely.
Landry had other plans for the good reverend.
He made his way up the grandiose stairway. When Landry was a kid, he watched lots of reruns on the old TV set in their trailer off the racetrack. One of them was The Beverly Hillbillies. Their taste and the good reverend’s were similar. Ostentatious and vulgar. Bling on a grand scale. He checked the hallway, the other rooms, all of which were empty. Finally, he focused on the master bedroom—a massive suite. The bed took center stage in the room—massive. Landry moved quietly but quickly to the bed. Aware of their even breathing.
Both of them were naked, the sheets pushed down to the foot of the bed. Landry stood there for just a moment, trying to figure out what kind of animal Reverend Fortun resembled. A stoat, he decided. A fat stoat.
The woman was attractive—at least her body was. She had the largest breasts he’d ever seen. Like balloons. Perfect, round balloons.
They slept as far apart as possible.
Landry wondered if she was paid for or if she was his mistress.
The reverend lay on his back, snoring like a gas generator.
Usually, he’d take out the biggest threat first—almost always the male. But he needed to be careful how much triptascoline to give him. He didn’t want to knock him out. He didn’t want to give him too little, either. It was a lot like the Goldilocks fable. The strength of the drug had to be just right, and that took precision.
He administered a shot of triptascoline to the woman. Her eyes fluttered open, and she started with a tiny gasp.
He put his finger to his lips. His lips that were distorted by cotton balls, his now-blond hair shorn close to his skull. He also wore wire-rimmed glasses, and there was a large mole near his mouth. He wore a dark business suit, shirt, and tie. A Secret Service earpiece to complete the look.
In the muted amber glow of the night-light, her eyes shined with fear. He gently patted her arm, keeping his finger to his lips. She seemed to take comfort from that and relaxed.
Then she was out.
Fortun stirred. Even in sleep, he must have sensed something. Landry was already at his side of the bed, and administered the triptascoline to him.
“What—”
Landry hadn’t given him a lot. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’m Agent Johnson with the Secret Service. There’s a plot to kill you, and we have to get you out of here.”
“The president’s Secret Service?”
“No talking. We have to get out now. Move.”
The man just stared at him, his mouth open like a Mars crater—reddish and crumbly in the light from the hallway.
Landry prodded him. “Move.”
Naked as a jaybird, the reverend waddled toward the doorway. He didn’t spare a glance for the woman on the bed. She could be dead for all he knew, but it didn’t affect him.
He didn’t look too well.
Actually, he was already starting to sweat.
“What’s going on? Is someone out to kill me? I know those fucking heathens want me dead! Is the president involved? Tell me he’s okay.”
“He’s fine. It’s you we’re worried about.”
Suddenly he sagged in Landry’s grip and sat down hard on the floor. Gripped his head in his hands, and crossed his legs, Indian-style.
It was not a pretty picture.
Landry touched his ear. “We have to go, sir,” he said. He hunkered down before the man, who was now visibly agitated. Even in the semidarkness, in the light thrown from the bathroom night-light, Landry could see the man’s face had turned beet red. His eyes were red, too. He looked lost. Lost and scared.
There would be paranoia.
And hallucinations.
And an irregular heartbeat.
Dilated pupils—Landry shined his light in the eyes and they were very dilated.
“What’s that?” Fortun asked.
“Just checking to see if they drugged you, sir.”
“Drugged!”
“It’s the Juggalos, sir. They’re coming for us.”
“They’re coming for us?” He grabbed at his chest.
“Could be an incipient heart attack, sir,” Landry said. “We have to move. Get you to an ambulance. They’re coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
“The Juggalos, sir. There’s a plot to kill you.”
“Kill me? Oh, God, no!” He grabbed at Landry and missed. “Juggalos? Where have I heard that name?”
Landry pulled a magazine photo out of the inside pocket of his suit. “The plot is to kill you.” He spread the photo out on the flo
or. Melvin Fortun looked like a bilious Buddha cross-legged on the floor. He leaned forward, squinting, and fell over sideways.
Landry set him back upright and held the torn magazine picture under the reverend’s eyes.
“Clowns! Oh, dear God!”
“They know you’re going to picket the funeral.”
“Funeral?”
Confused. Apparently, he was having trouble thinking.
“Devin Patel’s funeral.”
Fortun licked his lips. “Oh.” He looked at Landry. “He was a clown, wasn’t he?”
And then he threw up.
The sun was a ball of fire in the eastern sky beyond the tall trees of the minister’s estate. There was a rushing sound of traffic on the 110. Landry loaded Fortun into his black late-model Suburban with tinted windows. Landry had dressed him in a pair of gray velour sweats he’d found in a chest of drawers. Didn’t bother with the underwear, just the sweats and some flip-flops. Like a prisoner. And he was a prisoner of sorts. Landry’s captive was scared, and restless, moving around in the seat, continually swallowing.
Occasionally, Landry had to point a gun at him.
He drove Fortun around for three and a half hours, buying time until the protest, mostly driving the freeways. Every once in a while he’d force the man to drink from a bottle of water—didn’t want him too dehydrated. They needed to put on a show.
Finally it was time.
Landry stopped on a quiet side street and administered more of the triptascoline. This dose—if it didn’t kill the man outright—would send him into orbit.
He would be highly impressionable. He would believe anything Landry had to say. This was good for control, and it was also ideal for what Landry had in mind.
When he reached the campus, Landry drove in through the open gates, between imposing stone walls made to look old. The sun slanted across the mowed green grass along with the shadows.
The protestors were already beginning to gather outside the admin building on campus, and a news truck was already there. A slim woman in a dark pantsuit stood outside the van, someone touching up her hair. Landry recognized her as one of the local newscasters. A satellite truck from another station was driving in, followed by more cars. Pretty soon it wasn’t just the local news affiliates. Pretty soon, the CNN bus cruised in.
This was big. There would be a huge show of force.
Landry noticed some of the men in the crowd were older—and armed. Armed to the teeth. Dressed in camo. He wondered how many of them ever wore camo in the real world. Signs were everywhere. Some were printed up by the church. Others looked like they’d been painted in first grade. “FAGGOT” was the most used word, followed by “HELL,” and the ever-popular “YOU WILL BURN IN HELL.”
Landry could feel the Christian spirit from here.
It would take them time to get going. There was quite a crowd. Landry continued on. He had the fright wig and a rubber clown mask, under the seat. He drove around three or four times, just another black Chevy Suburban SUV in a crowd of them. The procession through the narrow college lanes reminded him of a president’s motorcade.
At the moment, his companion was curled up into a little ball, whimpering. “My eyes. They hurt. They’re bleeding! My eyes are bleeding!”
“You’ll be all right,” Landry said. “Once you hit the ground running.”
“What?”
“S’okay. You don’t want to miss the demonstration, do you?”
“No! No! I have to be there.”
“You will be,” Landry said, and drove on.
Landry decided to make a delayed entrance. The rally should have started at 9:00 on the dot. He and his passenger rolled in around 9:05.
He pulled up to the area where the forest of microphones was set up. They bristled in the sunshine.
Landry said to Fortun, “This is your big moment.”
The man’s face lit up like a Christmas tree when he saw the adoring crowd. “I’ve got to lead my flock!” Added, “But I’m so thirsty.”
“You’ll be all right.” Landry reached across the reverend, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. Fortun squirmed his way along the seat. Dry and dehydrated, but raring to go.
“Just one thing,” Landry said.
Fortun turned to look at him—and blanched.
Landry regarded him through the eyeholes of the clown mask he’d just pulled on. “Boo.”
Fortun backed up hard against the seat. “What are you—”
“We’re going to get you,” he said. “Be afraid of us. Very afraid.”
Fortun grabbed at his chest and backed up even harder against the door frame. His eyes bugged out. Landry had rarely seen eyes bug out, but this was one of those times.
Remember, the man is highly susceptible to suggestion.
“Something else,” Landry said, glancing at Fortun’s lap. “Your clothes are on fire.”
“What?”
“Your clothes are on fire! Run!”
Fortun looked down and slapped at his clothes, high little barks coming from his throat before he launched into full-fledged screams. Landry had to plug his ears. The reverend managed to open the door of the SUV, at the same time divesting himself of his sweatpants. Wearing only flip-flops, he ran toward the cameras screaming. Slapping at his legs, his hair, his backside.
His naked backside.
Zigzagging across the grass.
Screaming, howling, sobbing, jabbering, yipping—in front of the two hundred people gathered there.
In front of a whole lot more on television.
Hundreds of phones popped up in the crowd.
“Clowns! Juggalos!” he screamed. “They’re going to kill us all!”
Landry reached over, pulled the door closed, and drove away.
He doubted anyone saw him leave.
All eyes were on the good reverend.
CHAPTER 29
From Mount Loyal Independent Christian College, Landry drove to Arcadia for Devin Patel’s funeral at Saint Clare of Rimini Catholic Church.
Today he had one of the vans, the newer model. A white-panel van—a worker’s van. Inside was a change of clothing and the Harley. Just so he had options.
He parked up the street at a strip mall outside a 99-cent store and walked in, late enough that most people had already gone into the church. The church itself was inner-city modest by Catholic church standards—sixties-era, a mellow gold-colored brick, fronted by tall Italian cypress trees.
Landry had changed out of his “Secret Service” agent suit. Now he was dressed casually but respectfully: dark blond hair, clip-on ponytail, and wire-rimmed rectangular shades. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and a tie, but paired them with jeans. He looked like a youngish professor or teacher who had taken time off for the funeral—the kind of guy that kids in college would call “Professor Dan,” instead of his full name and title.
A few people remained outside, including some of Devin’s Juggalo friends. Eezil and Brian did not leave Willow’s side. Willow looked better than she had when he’d last met her. In fact, she was ethereally beautiful.
Landry said a silent prayer for her and for her two Juggalo guard dogs. They’d even given it their best shot, dressing up for the funeral in what looked like borrowed suits. Sure, there was Brian’s new look—a bright orange Mohawk—and the lip studs and the eyebrow studs and the tattoos crawling up their necks. But at least they’d made the effort.
Landry spotted a white Hyundai Tucson Fuel Cell. His wife and daughter were already here. They had to be inside already.
He felt a hitch in his chest.
Their SUV was parked in between two other SUVs. Landry walked over to the Armada parked on the passenger side of his wife’s car, and paused to light up a cigarette. He hated smoking, but it came in handy on rare occasions, and this was one of them. He
dropped what passed for the lighter but was actually a GPS tracker—a seventy-five-dollar “Slap and Track.” It worked, so why spend more? He leaned down as if to pick it up and affixed the magnet side to the inside of the rear right-side wheel well of Cindi’s Tucson. Straightening, he tucked his hand in his pocket, then worked his way over to the church steps and brushed past the ragged group of protestors—the ones who hadn’t gotten the memo. Four, to be exact. Kids holding signs at their sides, scanning the street anxiously, waiting for backup that would never come. A sad little bunch—a body without a head. As he walked past them he said, “The reverend’s not coming. Look it up on Gawker—you’ll be glad you did.”
Then he was past them, up the steps of the church, and in at the back.
Place was crowded.
He scanned the pews. Didn’t see them at first. But license plates don’t lie. Landry could feel the carnival-ride dip in his stomach. He’d faced a gun barrel shoved against his cheek, right under his eye. He’d fought for air when his larynx had been squeezed off in a death grip. But it paled in comparison to the moment he saw his wife and daughter.
They looked the same.
He remained at the back of the church. People praying, kneeling, standing up, sitting down, hymnbooks open.
A pall of sadness over the whole affair.
Cindi sitting strong and upright, smaller than their daughter, Kristal. Kristal’s head bowed in grief.
He wanted to reach out, to touch them, to embrace them, to comfort them.
He left early, parked on the side street to the church. Watched his girls come outside. Cindi beautiful in navy, her long blond hair curling down her back. Dark stockings even on this warm day, heels. Kristal in a dress, too—which surprised him. It was a short dress that showed her legs. Bordering on disrespectful, but what were you going to do? Kids today.
He felt a pang. A mixture of sorrow, regret, and hope. Thought about walking up to them now. He couldn’t make himself do it. This was not the time. At least Todd wasn’t with them. He was hard at work at his comptroller job in Torrent Valley, no doubt.
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